he/him | 19 | I write silly little fanfics that are usually based on my OCs or scenarios from my DRs. English is not my first language so bare with me.
This is a blog dedicated to all of my little fanfics and stuff I like.
Hiii~ You can call me Zero, I go by he/him and I'm bisexual. I am just a guy that loves to daydream and write, so that's what this is for.
I decided to start this blog because of the lack of male reader/oc stuff in the fandoms I'm in and because c.ai is shit and not great for the environment.
DNI interact if you're any kind of bigot. Hate towards anyone will be removed.
Masterlist
REQUEST ARE OPEN!
I usually write for top male reader or OC stuff, but if you request, I can manage a bottom male reader or GN reader.
What I will not write:
- Proshipper stuff
- Incest
- Adult X children stuff/pedophilia
- Heavy gore
- Fem reader (debatable)
Who I write for (since I've watched the shows/movies/played the games):
- Daredevil and Punisher
- Marvel
- Resident Evil
- Genshin
- Honkai
- Shameless
- Bnha
- K-pop?/ Celebrities?
I've probably forgotten many so you can always ask me and I'll decide if I have enough knowledge to write something.
You can also see my other fics on my profile. They're usually based on scenarios in my DRs or my OCs.
Also English is not my first language so bare with me.
I'f you use my content in any way shape or form, give proper credit.
Feel free to give advice since I am just starting out, but don't feel free to attack me :)
Just a little announcement to update you guys since I haven't really been active.
I am in uni and the work load is kind of intense and so I have less time to write :(
But don't worry, I am still writing and am getting through all the requests you guys sent me (thank you so much btw).
I'm in finals season right now, but after it I'll be pumping out fics like I'm Hamilton writing essays.
Also, if you don't receive a message from me telling you I won't write your request (which I won't do unless it's something I'm not comfortable with) it is still in the works, don't you worry.
Pairing: Roque x Sebas x Male Reader (Netflix Olympo)
Warnings: Mentions of alcohol and drugs, suggestive
Author's note: I've used archery as your sport, but i think this works with any other sport :)
Kinda linked to my other olympo fics but doesn’t really work with the timeline of the show.
Hope you like it :)
The room was filled to the brim, music blasting, lights shining, the crappy disco ball Gunter had bought online for a low price struggling to keep reflecting and glowing, and empty beer bottles crowded countertops and tables. Sebas sat on a couch, some of the other rugby guys around, some with their girls, some with girls they had met that same night. The vibe was through the roof, everyone was drinking, dancing, laughing… Sebas had tried to flirt like his teammates, but he hadn’t been that successful. He was too focused on someone else.
Roque stood there, seated on the pool table that no one ever used at hangouts like this. At his side, as usual, were Christian and Amaia, cuddled to each other like they always were, and Nunu, who was talking rather passionately about whatever to you.
For anyone who wasn’t in the car, that view could look like a normal, random group of friends, but for those in it, that group was the elite. The top of the rankings always had three names there. Amaia, the star of the artistic swimming team, Roque, captain of the rugby team and star player, MVP of every game he played, and you, the top archer in the facility, always ranking first in regional competitions.
If he was being honest, the group intimidated him, A LOT. And not because of anything specific, you were probably the least dodgy people in the CAR, perhaps because deep down you knew you were unreachable, so you didn't bother tearing others down. The only time the group was mean or aggressive was when Charlie or any of the other assholes were being annoying pricks. But that drew him in.
It was a losing battle against his feelings. He had been having a crush on Roque since he arrived. The way the captain greeted him the first day, and how he tried to include him in everything the first week before he was truly settled, made him feel good, but he didn’t let himself like it, so he started to hang out with others and started distancing himself.
And then came the day of your arrival, middle of the year, no one joined unless they had a good reason to. And you did, top 1 for the 3rd consecutive year in all rankings, recommended personally by a higher-up in Olympo. And god were you handsome. And charming. It was the subtle smirks, the winks, the way you talked to anybody. You had anyone instantly wrapped around your finger. And he was no different.
The worst of it all was when you started hanging out with Roque and his friends. Great! The hot, talented new guy starts to hang out with the already established hot, talented group in the CAR.
With Roque, he at least had training, but with you being in another discipline and getting special treatment from your coach, who allowed you to basically do anything you wanted, it was a miracle if he ever saw you alone, not hanging out with your friends or at parties. At least, the latter allowed him to eye you both the whole night because no one would notice since everyone was drunk, not even the two people being observed, Roque too drunk for his own good, and you higher than a mother fucker.
The night progressed as usual, people slowly getting more and more hammered, music blasting, people dancing, and as usual, the beermington table had been set up.
You stood at one side of the table, Nunu beside you. Fatima stood up and decided to join, instinctively gravitating towards your side of the table, always touchy with you. On the other side stood Roque, Amaia, and Christian, who was already on the brink of passing out.
“Chicos, I think we'll sit this one out. Christian is out. We're heading back.” Amaia spoke, earning a hiccupy complaint from Christian, but he didn't fight back.
“You can stay in our dorm, I'll sleep at y/n’s.” Roque said, smirking at you.
“I'm not complaining.” You said, and Fatima rolled her eyes.
Sebas saw the opportunity and got up, standing beside Roque, occupying the spot Chris and Amaia had left empty. Roque looked at him, surprised, and you smirked while eyeing him up and down. “Where's Charlie? He's not with you?” You asked.
“Nah, ehrm… he's busy at the moment.” he said, looking at the couch where his roommate was seated with a girl on his lap.
Roque scoffed, placing a hand on Sebas’s shoulder. “We’ll leave them to it then…”
He nodded, trying to appear confident despite his crush’s hand on his body and the growing heat on his face.
The game went by quickly, your aim was perfect as always, and Roque was good too, being so used to playing during the parties at Gunter’s. Afterwards, Sebas regained his spot on the now-empty couch. Had Charlie left with that girl? He couldn’t see him anywhere. He was praying they weren’t in his dorm; it was always so awkward when he arrived and the girl was still there.
The ambience had died down a little, with less drinking and more kissing and dancing. He subconsciously looked for you and Roque. He found you near the bar, grabbing another beer. The music had long been abandoned, the autoshuffle doing its best to keep the vibes high.
He noticed your hand making its way to Roque’s waist, as you leaned in to talk to him. The heat to his face was fast. The two of you moved to the laptop connected to the speakers, and you typed something before clicking on a song.
The sound of the music filled the room, everyone getting hyped up as they recognised “Me mareo” by Kidd Voodoo. Your two bodies gravitated towards each other, your fingers taking hold of Roque’s belt loops and tugging him closer. His arms curled around your neck, your faces close. Sebas saw it all, it made him… jealous? That he wasn’t the one with Roque’s arms around his neck? That he wasn’t the one being pulled closer by you? Fuck… he didn’t know.
You two moved together, curled to each other, before sharing a kiss. It made Sebas HOT. He hated that he wasn't part of it, part of anything, really.
Roque moved his face to your ear. “I think we might have a stalker…”
You hummed, guessing already who it was. “Wanna try that thing I told you about? It may be fun.”
“I’m drunk as fuck, you know I won’t say no. But don’t make me regret it tomorrow.” He said, burying his head in your neck.
“No prometo nada.”
With that, you turned Roque around, making out with him before looking right at Sebas and winking. Then, you took Roque’s hand and headed outside.
You grabbed your jackets and stepped into the chilly air of the forest, a nice contrast to the almost overwhelming heat inside the cabin.
You walked for a bit before arriving at what had become the cabin’s designated outside make-out area. No one was there, thankfully.
Sebas was left stunned after the wink. What was that supposed to be? A challenge? A warning? An invitation? He hoped it was the latter.
His body moved before he could process it, booking it towards the door and grabbing his jacket from the crowded hanger at the entrance.
He raked his mind, wondering what he was even doing there. If it was an invitation, then surely you two had gone to “the spot”.
The moonlight illuminated his journey, a path of no return. If you two were he thought you'd be, he didn't have a way out. No reason to be there other than wanting to be with you two.
When he arrived at the small forest clearing, you were there, seated on the floor, your back to the fallen tree, Roque on top of you, his fist pulling at your shirt. You were making out, illuminated by the moonlight, before you heard a twig snap under the weight of Sebas’s foot not far away. You smirked.
He stood there frozen, as if battling an inner monologue. Roque turned around, wiping the corners of his mouth. Sebas felt a shiver down his spine at the two piercing gazes directed at him.
“Looking for someone?” You spoke.
“No… I… Uhm… I thought you…” He stuttered.
“Stop playing with him. You were the one who had the idea.”
“This was… premeditated?”
You shrugged as Roque made his way to Sebas. “It's not like we didn't notice you staring us down at every party…”
“Yeah, you weren't exactly slick.” You chuckled.
“Thought you might want to… you know… join. Instead of observing from the sidelines.”
“Join?” Roque stepped behind Sebas and started kissing his neck. Sebas didn't push him away.
“Do you not want to? There’s no pressure.” You reassured.
“No, no, I… I do want to… It’s just… I’ve never done anything with a guy.”
“Don’t worry, let us take the lead.” Roque said, his hands travelling up Sebas’s torso.
“I promise it’s not that different from with a girl.” You whispered, approaching him slowly, giving him time to back out if he needed to. Seeing as he didn’t, you moved forward, approaching his face. He closed his eyes slowly, and you pressed your lips on his. A small yelp escaped him, and his hands found your waist. You smiled into the kiss at his forwardness.
When you pulled away, both panting, you looked at him. He was blushing hard, and a faint smile decorated his lips. He was enjoying it, and the hard-on he was rocking confirmed it. Roque was still relishing in feeling all over Sebas, but it wasn’t long before the latter flipped around and captured Roque’s lips in a heated kiss.
Time passed quite quickly, Sebas enjoying the new sensations he had been craving his whole life. You had moved to the fallen tree, Roque seated with Sebas on top of him, you beside them, kissing Roque’s neck while he palmed you through your jeans.
A notification on your phone pulled you from the moment: your roommate would be staying the night at a girl’s place.
“I'm getting cold. Why don't we go back to my dorm? My roommate is out for the night.” You spoke, pushing off the floor.
“Yeah, and the floor isn't exactly too comfortable.” Roque said, Sebas still on top of him.
They got off each other, Sebas helping Roque up and turning towards you. You were already lighting a cigarette while making your way towards the path that led to the dorms. The trek to your place was silent, not many words exchanged between the three of you, everyone too busy processing what had just happened.
Summary: This was wrong, everything about this was wrong. You were wrong, destroying what inner peace Matt had left, but he needed it.
CW: Religious undertones - Religious trauma - Canablism undertones - Slight angst - Internalized homophobia - Feelings of grief - Praise - Blow job - Slow sex - Anal - Bottom Matt - Top reader - FEMALES DNI - MINORS DNI
Words: 10.6k
A/N: It took little convincing to get me to write this, mostly because I couldn't get it out of my head. I also wrote this while listening to "TDOPOM" on repeat.
Religion was a divine asphyxiation. The more Matt Murdock knelt, the more the oxygen fled the nave, until the cloying sweetness of frankincense tasted like the grey lung-fulls of a burning house. It was a holy rot, creeping into the marrow of his very being, latching onto his pulse and feeding until he was nothing but a hollowed husk. His lips, scarred and weary, felt perpetually bruised by the weight of anemic prayers—shards of glass meant to buy a peace that never arrived.
Bitterness rose in him like black bile, a tide he could no longer swallow. He felt the phantom pressure of hands—ancient and calloused—clamping around his throat, a weightless thumb pressing into his windpipe as a voice whispered into the red darkness of his mind: Do not speak that which I have not written. It was a cycle of theft; a God that demanded the blood Matt spilled in the gutters of Hell’s Kitchen, drinking the sacrifice of his broken body like wine, yet offering nothing but a deafening, gilded silence in return.
How many more times would he have to offer his joints to the cold stone? How much longer must he suffocate under the architecture of his own guilt? He felt the heavy, thrumming pulse of the cathedral—the groan of the timber, the flicker of a thousand dying candles—and it felt like the belly of a beast. His lips ached with every prayer that left them, each word a fresh bruise on a soul already purpled by penance. He was a man starved, sitting at a banquet of stone, pretending that the dust on his tongue was the bread of life.
The wood of the pew groaned as he rose, his body a map of unhealed wounds and sacred secrets. He moved toward the shadows of the confessional, his footsteps echoing like a heartbeat in an empty ribcage.
“Forgive me, Father,” he whispered, the words fracturing in the gloom. “For I have sinned.”
The slide of the wooden partition was a guillotine’s drop, severing the world of the living from the world of the repentant. In the cramped shadows of the box, the air was stagnant, tasting of cedar and the stale, recycled breath of a thousand other sinners. Matt leaned his forehead against the cool wire mesh, his heightened senses mapping the priest on the other side: the slow, rhythmic click of a rosary, the faint scent of coffee, and a heartbeat that was far too calm for the darkness it was about to receive.
“It has been… a long time since my last confession,” Matt began, the words dragging like iron chains across the floor.
He didn't know where the man ended and the devil began anymore. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the red world—the radar-hollowed ghosts of the city—but here, in the house of God, the fire felt literal. He could feel the phantom blood beneath his fingernails, a stain no amount of holy water could ever truly reach.
“I have sought justice,” he whispered, his voice a jagged sliver of sound. “But I found only wrath. I have broken bodies in the name of protection, and I have felt a terrible, blackened joy in the breaking.”
The priest remained silent, a statue of flesh and bone. The weight in the box intensified, the walls closing in until Matt could feel the very timber pressing against his shoulders. It was that same divine grip again, the hands around his throat, demanding he surrender the parts of himself that made him feel alive—the anger, the defiance, the bone-deep Need.
How much more could he bleed for a city that never healed? How much more could he confess before the words themselves ran out, leaving him as silent as the God who watched him suffer?
“I am drowning, Father,” he admitted, the honesty more painful than any physical blow. “And every time I reach for the surface, I find only more water.”
Matt took a breath, a long, shuddering draw of air that felt like swallowing needles. He held it in his lungs until his chest burned, trying to anchor himself to the present, to the cold wood and the silence of the priest. But the water he had described was rising, and as he closed his eyes, he realized with a terrifying clarity that he did not fear the drowning.
He feared what waited for him above the surface. He feared the light, and he feared the truth of you.
Behind his eyelids, the red world of his vision bled into something darker, warmer—a memory that felt more like a haunting than a dream. He squeezed his eyes shut so tightly that stars fractured in the darkness, but he couldn't block out the phantom sensation of your touch. His body, a map of scars and penance, betrayed him; it remembered the weight of your hands on his thighs, the heat of your skin acting as a brand that burned through his resolve.
He could smell you even here, cutting through the scent of old cedar and dust. You were a sacrilegious bouquet: the sickly-sweet, velvet linger of caramel and the sharp, amber burn of bourbon. It was a scent that didn't belong in a cathedral, yet it filled his senses until he was intoxicated by the ghost of it.
He felt your lips again—not bruised by prayer this time, but softened by desire—as they traced the jagged geography of his naked body. He remembered the way your mouth moved over his skin like a silent benediction, finding the hollows of his throat and the ache of his ribs. When your lips finally met his, it wasn't a plea for forgiveness; it was a reclamation.
The memory surged, visceral and violent in its beauty. He felt your hands, large and certain, cradling his face with a tenderness that hurt more than any fist. He felt the rhythmic, grounding shock of your body against his as you took him—a cadence that drowned out the steady ticking of the priest’s rosary. In that moment, he hadn't been a devil or a lawyer or a martyr. He had been a man, tethered to the earth by the way you moaned his name.
You had claimed his name, spoken it into the crook of his neck like it was yours and yours alone to command—a private gospel whispered in the dark.
“I fear...” Matt’s voice was a ghost of itself, trembling as he confessed the ultimate heresy to the screen. “I fear that I have found a different kind of heaven, Father. One that doesn't require a cross. One that smells of bourbon and tastes of salt, and makes me want to stay in the dark forever.”
The priest did not speak. The silence stretched, elastic and agonizing, until Matt could hear the microscopic scrape of his own pulse against his eardrums. The ghost of your touch still lingered on his skin, a shimmering heat that made the rough wool of his suit feel like a hairshirt, a self-imposed torture. He was still vibrating from the memory of your heart beating against his—that steady, grounding rhythm that had, for a few hours, silenced the screaming chaos of the city.
He felt a hot, prickling shame crawl up his throat, yet it was entwined with a fierce, protective hunger. To confess you felt like betraying you. To name the way your hands had cradled his face—as if he were something precious rather than something broken—felt like handing over a holy relic to be desecrated.
"Is it a sin, Father?" Matt’s voice was lower now, a rough timbered growl that vibrated in the small space. "To find the only peace I’ve ever known in the arms of a man who smells of the earth and the barroom, rather than the incense and the altar?"
He thought of the way you looked at him—not as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, and not as the blind martyr of the courtroom, but simply as Matt. He remembered the taste of the bourbon on your tongue as you kissed him, a burning sweetness that had acted as a more effective anointing than any oil. He remembered the way you had moaned his name—that private, shattered sound that had felt like a more honest prayer than any he had uttered in this building.
The priest finally cleared his throat, the sound dry as parchment. "The body is a temple, Matthew. But it is also a cage. You seek to fill the void with the flesh when it can only be filled by the Spirit."
Matt’s grip tightened on the edge of the wooden bench, his knuckles turning a ghostly white. The divine asphyxiation returned with a vengeance. The walls of the confessional seemed to sigh, leaning in to crush the air from his lungs. The priest’s words were hollow; they didn't have the weight of your hands on his thighs. They didn't have the heat of your breath, caramel-thick and intoxicating, against his ear.
"I don't want the Spirit," Matt whispered, the heresy finally blooming in full, dark flower. "I want the weight of him. I want the sin of him. If the water is the only way to find him, then let me drown."
He stood abruptly, the motion jarring the small box. He didn't wait for the absolution. He didn't wait for the ten Hail Marys or the hollow promises of a distant peace. He pushed through the heavy velvet curtain, stumbling back into the nave of the church.
The air in the cathedral felt freezing now, the woodsmoke of the incense turning to ice in his lungs. He needed the roar of the city. He needed the stinging rain of the Kitchen. Most of all, he needed to find the source of the bourbon and the caramel—the only thing that made the suffocation stop.
The heavy oak doors of the cathedral groaned as Matt thrust them open, a sound like a tomb being unsealed. Outside, the sky had finally broken. The rain came down in relentless, jagged bursts, a deluge that sought to wash the city clean but only succeeded in plastering Matt’s clothes to his skin like a second, suffocating layer of penance.
He stepped into the storm, his head tilted back as the icy water collided with his face. He didn't care for the cold; he welcomed the violence of the downpour. It was more honest than the stagnant air of the confessional.
It followed him onto the sidewalk, but it was changing. The pressure in his lungs wasn't from the incense anymore—it was from the realization that everything he was taught to fear, everything he knew to be a ruinous sin, was wrapped neatly inside the soul of another man. You were the heresy he carried in his pockets. You were the impurity that had stained his white-knuckled devotion until it was a mottled, bruised purple.
He was no better than the thieves and the murderers he broke in the alleyways. How could he ask for a clean heart when his pulse only beat for a man? He had been told from the cradle that this love was a rot, a deviation from the holy path, an impurity that would turn his soul to ash. Yet, as he moved through the rain, his boots splashing through oil-slicked puddles, he realized he was no longer praying to the God above the clouds.
You had become his litany. You were his morning orison and his midnight vespers. Every thought was a bead on a rosary made of your memories; every step he took toward your door was a station of the cross he walked with a terrifying, blackened joy.
He missed the taste of you—that amber, bourbon-fire that lingered on his tongue long after you were gone. He missed the way your heart sounded, a thrumming, organic sanctuary that offered more protection than any cathedral wall. Most of all, he missed the way you said his name. When you spoke it, Matt didn't sound like a lawyer or a vigilante or a sinner. It sounded like a home he wasn't allowed to own.
Was this the death of his peace of mind? He knew, with the cold clarity of the drowning, that to love you was to forfeit the quiet life. It was a beautiful suicide of the spirit. When he was finally satisfied, when he was tangled in your sheets and drowning in your scent, would he realize that he had traded his eternal soul for a few hours of warmth?
He didn't care. The thought of it made a jagged laugh catch in his rain-soaked throat.
Let the heavens weep; let the saints turn their stone faces away.
Matt moved with a predatory focus, his radar mapping the city in shades of crimson and rain, guided by the phantom pull of your presence. He would rather his lips be bruised by the friction of your skin than by the repetition of a dead language. He would rather his mouth ooze with your name, whispered like a secret sin, than offer up one more hollow plea for a forgiveness he no longer wanted.
He wasn't going to the Kitchen to fight. He was going to you—the only altar where he felt truly seen, the only god who ever answered when he screamed into the dark.
The rain hammered against the pavement, a rhythmic, driving percussion, but all Matt could hear was the ghost of your moan, calling him back to the only heaven that had ever felt real.
The trek through the city was a pilgrimage of the damned, Matt’s boots heavy with the sludge of the Kitchen, his lungs burning with the cold, wet air of a world that refused to be quiet. When he finally reached your doorstep, he didn't knock. He simply leaned his forehead against the grain of the old oak door, the wood cool and unresponsive against his feverish skin.
He reached out with his senses, casting his perception like a net through the walls of your sanctuary, but it came back empty. No rhythmic thrum of your heart to ground him; no caramel-scented breath to still the shaking of his hands. You weren't home. The apartment was a hollow ribcage, waiting for its heart to return.
A normal man might have turned away, but Matt was a man driven by a different kind of hunger now. He moved toward the fire escape, his movements fluid yet heavy with a terrible intent. He knew the kitchen window—the one you left unlocked for him like a silent invitation, a backdoor to a garden of earthly delights. He slid it open, the screech of metal against metal sounding like a cry of mourning in the quiet alley.
As he stepped into your home, the suffocation began to lift, replaced by the intoxicating, amber ghost of your presence. He stood in the center of your kitchen, the rain dripping from his hair and suit, pooling on the floor like spilled oil.
Then, he began to strip.
He did it with a slow, agonizing deliberation, as if each piece of fabric was a layer of a lie he was finally peeling away. His fingers fumbled with his tie, the silk slipping through his wet grip like a dying snake. He was giving himself time—every heartbeat a chance to rethink this beautiful mistake, every second a moment where he could turn back toward the cold, sexless comfort of the cathedral.
But he didn't.
His jacket hit the floor with a heavy thud. Then his shirt, the buttons straining against his trembling hands before they gave way. With every inch of skin he exposed to the air of your home, the weight grew lighter, leaving behind only the raw, scarred reality of the man.
He stood there in the center of your living room, naked and shivering, the blue light of the city filtered through the rain-streaked windows. His body was a map of his failures—the jagged lines of stitches, the deep purple of half-healed bruises—all of it a testament to the violence he had endured for a silent God.
The only thing that remained was the silver cross resting against his sternum. It felt like a brand, cold and heavy, a final witness to his sacrilege. His breath hitched, a jagged sound that tore through the silence of the room. He reached up, his fingers brushing the cool metal, but he didn't take it off. He wanted it to stay. He wanted it to watch. He wanted the symbol of his faith to see the way his skin hungered for yours, to witness the moment he finally chose the flesh over the spirit.
He moved toward your bedroom, a ghost in his own life, and sat on the edge of your bed. He closed his eyes, his heightened senses soaking in the scent of your pillows—bourbon, caramel, and you. He was a man waiting at the altar of his own undoing, ready to be consumed when you finally walked through that door.
The silence of the apartment was not empty; for Matt, it was a living thing, thick with the phantom echoes of your voice and the heavy, lingering scent of your life. He sat on the edge of the mattress, the springs groaning under his weight—a sound that felt like a confession in the dark. The cold air of the room bit at his damp skin, but the heat of his shame, and the greater heat of his longing, kept him from shivering.
He was a man caught between two worlds, a soul suspended in the mercury-glow of the city lights. He reached out with his senses, feeling the architecture of your absence. Every object in the room—a discarded shirt on a chair, the amber liquid remaining in a glass on the nightstand—felt like a relic.
Then, the world shifted.
Far below, the heavy thud of the street-level door closing echoed up the stairwell. Matt’s heart didn't just beat; it lunged. He tracked the sound of your footsteps, a rhythm he could pick out from a crowd of ten thousand. They were steady, grounded, and blissfully unaware of the storm waiting behind your bedroom door.
He heard the jingle of keys—a metallic, domestic chime that sounded more sacred to him than any cathedral bell. The lock turned, the bolt sliding back with a definitive clack that signaled the end of his solitude and the beginning of his surrender.
He heard the door creak open, the rustle of your coat being shed, and then, the sudden, sharp intake of your breath as your scent—real, physical, and overwhelming—flooded the hallway. You moved through the apartment, your heartbeat quickening as you noticed the trail of wet, discarded clothes leading from the kitchen to the bedroom.
Matt didn't move. He sat in the dark, his back to the door, the silver cross against his chest catching a sliver of streetlight. He looked like a fallen monument, a creature of shadow and silver.
You stopped in the doorway. The air between you hummed with a tension so violent it felt like it might shatter the glass in the windows. Matt could hear the blood rushing through your veins, a frantic, beautiful sound that drowned out the rain still battering the roof.
“Matt?” your voice was a low vibration, thick with a mixture of concern and a sudden, sharp desire that Matt felt like a physical touch.
He finally turned his head, just enough for the light to hit the sharp line of his jaw. His eyes were closed, his lashes wet.
“I tried,” he whispered, the words sounding like they were being torn from a throat raw with screaming. “I went to the house of my Father. I knelt until my bones ached. I begged for the strength to be the man they told me I should be.”
He stood up then, rising like a ghost from the sheets. The cross swayed against his sternum, a shimmering judge of his nakedness. He faced you, his body a map of scars and hunger, his breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches.
“But the only heaven I could find was the memory of your hands,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a rough, broken growl. “I’ve traded my soul for the way you taste. I’ve thrown away the peace of my mind just to hear you say my name in the dark. So, if I am to be a sinner… if I am to be cast out…”
He took a single, staggering step toward you, his hands reaching out to find your face, his fingers trembling with the weight of his sacrilege.
“...then let me find my damnation in you.”
The space between you was no longer air; it was a living current, a static charge that made the hair on Matt’s arms stand on end. As his fingers finally connected with the heat of your skin, the world outside—the sirens of Hell’s Kitchen, the judgmental tolling of distant bells—collapsed into a singular, thrumming point of focus.
His touch was desperate, his palms cupping your face with a reverence that was terrifying in its intensity. He felt the stubble of your jaw, the pulse fluttering in your throat like a trapped bird, and the salt-sting of the rain still clinging to his own skin. He was trembling, a fine, rhythmic shudder that spoke of a man who had pushed himself to the absolute brink of his endurance.
“Speak it,” he rasped, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. The silver cross between you was trapped, pressed into the skin of his chest and your shirt, a cold reminder of the world he had left behind. “Say my name. Let me hear the only truth I have left.”
When you finally spoke—breathless, heavy with a hunger that mirrored his own—the sound hit him like a physical blow. It was the asphyxiation breaking. Suddenly, his lungs could expand; suddenly, the air wasn't woodsmoke and dust, but the intoxicating, caramel-and-bourbon scent of the man who had become his entire theology.
He didn't wait for another word. He surged forward, his mouth finding yours with a violence born of starvation. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was a collision. It tasted of the cold rain from the street and the heat of a fever that had been burning since the last time you held him. He groaned into your mouth, a low, animal sound that vibrated deep in his chest—the sound of a man finally surrendering to the tide.
His hands moved with a frantic, blind certainty, mapping the familiar lines of your body through your clothes as if he were trying to memorize you before the world ended. He needed the friction. He needed the bruise. Every touch was a nail in the coffin of his old life, and he welcomed the execution.
He pulled you toward the bed, the weight of his nakedness a stark contrast to your clothed form. As you fell back into the sheets, the mattress groaned—a wood-deep sigh that echoed the pews of the cathedral, but here, the darkness didn't feel hollow. It felt full. It felt like mercury.
He hovered over you, a ghost of silver and shadow, his blind eyes fixed on some point in the red darkness of his mind where only you existed. The cross dangled, swinging like a pendulum over your heart.
“You are the ruin of me,” he whispered against the pulse of your neck, his lips tracing the path where his teeth would soon leave marks. “You are the death of every prayer I was ever taught. And God help me… I have never felt more alive.”
He sank into you then, his body seeking yours with the desperation of a man seeking a sanctuary in a storm. There was no more "forgive me, Father." There was only the rhythmic, sacred pulse of two hearts beating in a dark room, and the name of a man whispered like the only gospel that ever mattered.
The air in the room grew heavy, thick with the scent of salt and the metallic tang of the storm. Matt felt the sudden tension in your muscles, a sharp contrast to the soft surrender of the sheets. To his heightened senses, your touch on his "hated" skin—skin he had only ever seen as a canvas for scars and penance—felt like a brand. His hip burned where your palm rested, and the heat of your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck sent a jolt of raw electricity down his spine.
When you pulled his head back, baring the vulnerable line of his throat, everything finally broke into a low, broken moan. Your lips found the hollow of his neck, and for a moment, the world of the Devil and the Law died.
“How can I hope to rival Him, Matt?” you whispered, your voice a dark velvet against his pulse. “How could I ever be more powerful than the God who demands your soul?”
Matt couldn’t answer. His breath was a jagged, ruined thing. He was terrified by the truth: that in this moment, the God of his fathers was a distant, cold memory, while you were the burning, visceral present.
You moved then, a shift in the air that Matt followed with the frantic precision of a compass. You pushed him back onto the mattress, and he went willingly, his body heavy and pliant. He felt the bed groan as you stepped away, the sudden absence of your heat feeling like a bereavement. He lay there, a fallen saint in the silver-blue light, his blind eyes fixed on the ceiling as he tracked you with his ears—the rustle of denim, the soft slide of cotton, the rhythmic, heavy thud of your heart.
He knew what you were doing. He could hear the friction of your clothes being discarded, could smell the sharpened scent of your skin as you stripped. You were a silhouette of heat in his red world, a sun rising at the foot of his bed. When you moved back to him, standing between his parted legs at the edge of the mattress, the sheer gravity of your presence made his head swim.
You reached out, your fingers closing around his hand. Your skin was hot, certain, and devastatingly human. You pulled him up until he was sitting, his naked chest heaving, his silver cross swinging in a frantic arc before settling against his skin.
Then, you sank.
Matt’s breath hitched as you settled on your knees between his thighs, a position of both supplication and absolute power. The wood of the floorboards creaked under your weight, a sound that felt more solemn than any kneeling rail in the city. Here, in the dark, you had turned this bedroom into a different kind of confessional.
“You don’t have to rival Him,” Matt rasped, his voice a ghost of itself, his fingers trembling as they reached out to find the line of your shoulders. “He wants my suffering. He wants my silence.”
He leaned forward, his forehead nearly touching yours, his radar sense overwhelmed by the proximity of your warmth and the steady, thrumming invitation of your body.
“You’re the only one who ever asked for me.”
The air in the room seemed to thicken, becoming a heavy, velvet weight that pressed against Matt’s lungs. He was caught in the gravity of your presence as you rested your cheek against the scarred heat of his thigh. To his heightened senses, the texture of your skin was a landslide—overwhelming and absolute. Your hand settled on his other thigh, grounding him, while your fingers reached up to clutch the silver cross hanging from his neck.
The metal groaned slightly as you pulled, the chain tightening around the back of his neck.
“Do not waste your breath on a God who only listens when you bleed,” you whispered, the vibration of your voice traveling through his bone. “Pray for me, Matthew. Offer your worship here.”
The air left him in a ragged hiss. He was painfully hard, his pulse a frantic, thrumming rhythm that beat against his lower abdomen, mirroring the rapid-fire strike of his heart. You let go of the cross, and the silver clinked back against his sternum, cold and mocking. Your fingers trailed a slow, burning path down the center of his chest, pausing just above his navel, while your other hand began a predatory ascent up the inside of his thigh.
You weren't kneeling for a rival; you were a living altar, and you were reclaiming what the church had tried to starve out of him. When your lips pressed against the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, Matt’s world fractured.
His hand flew to the cross, knuckles white as he gripped the icon of his faith, while his other hand clawed into the sheets, twisting the fabric until it threatened to tear. The asphyxiation had returned, but it wasn't the smoke of incense—it was the scent of you, the heat of you, the terrifying reality of his own desire.
“I want to hear you,” you hummed against his skin, your breath ghosting dangerously close to the center of his ache. Your lips traced a path of fire, a slow, agonizing crawl toward the root of him. “I want Him to hear exactly how I make you feel. Let the heavens witness every sound you’ve been holding back.”
Matt’s head fell back, his throat bared like a sacrificial offering. The room was silent save for the rain and the roar of his own blood in his ears. He was a man being unmade, his prayers dissolving into a low, guttural moan that was half-plea, half-surrender.
“Please,” he rasped, his eyes squeezed shut as the red world of his vision turned into a swirling nebula of heat. The cross felt like ice in his palm, but you—you were the fire that promised to consume everything he had ever been.
He wasn't praying for forgiveness anymore. He was praying for the end of the silence. He was praying for you to take everything that was left.
Your fingers brushed against him—a touch so light it was a cruelty—and the contact sent a violent tremor through his frame. You began to press tender, slow kisses along the length of his aching shaft, your lips a soft contrast to the rigid, agonizing tension of his body.
You did not look away. Your gaze remained fixed on his face, watching the play of silver streetlight across his features. You watched the way his knuckles turned a ghostly, bloodless white as he gripped the silver cross, the metal biting into his palm. He was breathtaking in his ruin—a man of iron and faith being dismantled by the simple, warm pressure of your mouth. He was fighting the momentum of a thousand years of dogma, and he was losing to the scent of your skin.
Your hands moved to his thighs, anchoring him. Your fingernails dug into the scarred muscle, a sharp, grounding pain that pinned him to the bed as you kissed a slow, torturous path up and down his cock. Each press of your lips was a seal on a new covenant, a wordless promise of a different kind of devotion.
When you pressed a kiss to the very tip, your tongue lolling out to lick across the weeping slit, Matt’s head thrashed against the pillow. A sound broke from him—not a prayer, but a shattered, rhythmic gasp that sounded like the tearing of silk. You began to lick from the base to the crest in long, deliberate strokes, the wet heat of your tongue a sacrilege he couldn't bring himself to stop.
The asphyxiation was absolute now. The world outside had ceased to exist; there was no Hell’s Kitchen, no courtroom, no God. There was only the friction of your tongue, the weight of your hands on his skin, and the terrifying realization that he would follow you into the dark forever if it meant feeling this for one more second.
Matt trembled with a violence that made the bed frame groan, his breath hitching and stalling in a throat that had forgotten how to speak. The cross in his hand felt like a leaden weight, a relic from a life he was shedding skin by skin. He was a man drowning in mercury, beautiful and doomed, and as your tongue traced him again, his grip on the silver finally began to slip.
The heavy, silence of the room was filled only by the sound of the rain and the wet, rhythmic slide of your worship, until the only thing Matt could hear was the frantic, uneven tolling of his own heart.
The shadows in the room seemed to deepen, drawing closer as if the very walls wanted to witness the fall of the martyr. When your lips finally surged over the head of his cock, the world—the saints, the law, the city—vanished into a singular, white-hot point of sensation. You teased the slit with your tongue, circling the sensitive crown until Matt’s spine arched off the bed, his breathless moans sounding like glass shattering in a quiet cathedral hall.
His knuckles turned a skeletal white. He did not drop the cross; instead, he gripped it with a terrifying, white-knuckled ferocity, the silver edges biting deep into the meat of his palm until he could feel the phantom sting of blood. It was his anchor and his cage.
As you took more of him into the heat of your mouth, watching him through the dark fringe of your lashes, a jagged, desperate sound broke from his throat. It wasn't your name—not yet. It was a frantic, rhythmic chanting, the ancient tongue of his ghosts.
"Pater noster, qui es in caelis..." he rasped, the Latin syllables clashing with the wet, rhythmic slide of your mouth. "Sanctificetur... nomen... tuum..."
He was trying to drown out the sensation, trying to build a wall of dead language between his soul and the fire of your touch. You hummed around him, the vibration traveling through his marrow, and his prayer fractured. You sighed, your tongue tracing the length of him, and the Latin slowed, becoming a broken, guttural groan.
"Adveniat regnum tuum..." His head thrashed against the pillow, his eyes rolled back into the red darkness of his mind where you were the only light. "Fiat voluntas tua..."
But it wasn't God’s will he was following. It was yours.
He felt the heavy, thrumming pulse of your heart between his legs, a cadence more powerful than any scripture. The cross in his hand felt like ice, but your mouth was a living hearth. He was a man being unmade in two directions at once, pulled toward the ceiling by his guilt and dragged into the earth by his hunger.
"Pray for me," you had told him, and as you bobbed your head in a slow, tidal rhythm, Matt finally reached the precipice.
The Latin died in his throat, replaced by a raw, animal sound of surrender. He didn't let go of the silver, but he used it to pull himself closer to you, his hand flying to the back of your head to anchor you there. He wasn't reciting a litany anymore; he was crying out a confession.
"I can't..." he choked out, his chest heaving as he stared into the dark. "I can't hear Him anymore. I only hear you."
The cross remained clutched in his fist, a silent witness to the way his body betrayed his spirit, a silver brand marking the man who had found his heaven in a sin he refused to release.
The air in the room was electric, thick with the scent of salt and the heavy, metallic tang of the storm that still raged against the glass. You brought your hand up, your fingers wrapping around Matt’s white-knuckled fist—the one still desperately clutching the silver cross. The contrast was devastating: his hand was cold, rigid with a lifetime of inherited guilt, while yours was a living heat, pulling him back to the undeniable reality of the present.
Your other hand slid up the hard, scarred plane of his abdomen, the muscle jumping beneath your palm. He was a man held in a state of impossible tension, his body a bowstring pulled to the snapping point. Beneath you, you could feel his core clench, his hips subconsciously bucking into the wet heat of your mouth. It was a rhythmic, primitive demand. He needed this—needed your lips around him and your hands mapping the geography of his skin—with a desperation that eclipsed his need for oxygen. Every breath he took was a jagged struggle, a gasp for air in a room filled with his own desire.
His back arched, his spine a sharp, elegant curve of silver light as he pressed himself into your touch. His cock twitched rhythmically against your tongue, the pulse of his blood echoing the frantic tolling of his heart.
Then, you pulled away.
The sudden absence of your warmth was a violent shock to his system. Matt let out a shattered, half-finished moan that died in the cold air. He lay there, exposed and trembling, his cock glistening in the low light, coated in a slick, silver sheen of your saliva and his own pre-cum. It was a mark of absolute reclamation, a liquid brand that made the silver cross in his hand look small and powerless by comparison.
You didn't move to touch him again immediately. Instead, you rose, shifting your weight until you were hovering directly over him, a silhouette of heat against the dark. You watched him with a predatory patience, soaking in the ruin you had made of the Devil.
His chest was heaving, his ribs expanding and contracting in a desperate, visible rhythm. His blind eyes were rolled back, his lashes damp with a mixture of sweat and the mist of the rain. He looked like a man who had been cast out of heaven and hadn't yet realized he was standing in a better place.
The silence between you was a living entity, heavy and Gothic, broken only by the sound of his ragged, uneven breathing and the distant, judgmental rumble of thunder. He lay there, waiting for the killing blow or the final benediction, his hand still clutched around the silver, though it looked more like he was holding onto a sinking ship than a savior.
You looked down at him, the heat of your body radiating onto his, and you knew—he was no longer a man of the cloth or the law. He was a man of the flesh, and he was yours.
You reached down, your fingers firm as they uncurled Matt’s white-knuckled grip from the silver cross. It was a slow, deliberate act of disarmament. For a heartbeat, he resisted, his muscles coiling with a lifetime of ingrained fear, but then he broke. He let the metal fall slack against his chest, and you pulled his hand away, bringing his palm to your lips.
You pressed a lingering, warm kiss into the center of his hand—the very place where he had felt the bite of the silver—before pinning both of his wrists above his head. You held them there, anchoring him to the bed, making him a stationary target for your devotion.
“You’re perfect,” you whispered, the words vibrating against his heated skin. “There is no sin in this architecture, Matthew. Only beauty.”
Matt let out a sound that was half-sob, half-gasp, his head thrashing against the pillow as you began your descent. You were no longer just a lover; you were a priest of a different order, and his body was your scripture. You began to kiss your way across the jagged geography of his chest, and with every press of your lips, you uttered a praise that cut through his guilt.
“Holy,” you murmured against the thick cord of his shoulder, your tongue tracing the edge of a faded gunshot wound.
“Sacred,” you breathed into the hollow of his ribs, where a hairline fracture from a night in the Kitchen still throbbed with a dull heat.
You did not shy away from the ruin. You sucked on the sensitive skin of his neck, leaving dark, blooming marks that would serve as your seal in the morning light. You bit playfully at the meat of his shoulder, a sharp, grounding sting that made him cry out, his voice a ruined rasp in the gloom. You licked across the raised welts on his back and the deep, purple bruises on his hips, treating each mark of violence as a station of a new, carnal cross.
For Matt, the world was a sensory explosion. He felt the wet heat of your mouth reclaiming every inch of him that he had been taught to hate. He felt the rough texture of your tongue against his scars, the soothing balm of your praise acting as a counter-litany to the Latin he had been reciting in his head.
“You are not a devil,” you whispered, your lips ghosting over the pulse in his throat. “And you are not a martyr. You are just mine.”
He was trembling with a violence that made the bed frame creak, his breath coming in shallow, desperate hitches. The red of his vision was no longer a storm of noise and pain; it was a swirling nebula of you. You were the heat, you were the sound, you were the only truth he had left.
As you worked your way lower, your teeth grazing his hip bone, Matt’s eyes rolled back, his body arching in a final, agonizing reach for the ceiling. He wasn't praying for the Father to save him anymore. He was praying for you to never stop. He was a man finally at peace with his own destruction, finding his absolution in the sting of your teeth and the warmth of your breath against his skin.
The air in the room had become a stifling, living thing, thick with the scent of ozone from the storm and the salt of Matt’s sweat. He lay beneath you, a fallen icon of muscle and memory, his wrists still pinned by your hands.
“Please,” he breathed, the word a shattered fragment of a prayer. “Take me. Consume me until there is nothing left for the silence to claim.”
His breath hitched, a sharp, jagged intake of air as your lips brushed against a particularly fresh bruise along his ribs—a gift from a lead pipe in an alleyway he couldn't even remember now. The skin there was a deep, angry plum, tender and radiating a dull heat.
You stopped. The momentum of the moment stalled, the heavy pulse of the room falling into a sudden, deafening quiet. You lifted your head, your gaze searching his face, mapping the frantic movement of his eyes beneath his lids and the way his mouth hung open, silvered with saliva. You looked at him not as a conquest, but with a sudden, aching gravity, questioning if this was truly his will or merely another form of penance he was inflicting upon himself.
You sighed, a soft sound that felt like the wind dying in the rafters of a cathedral. Slowly, you leaned down, pressing your lips to his. This wasn't the violent collision of earlier; it was a slow, tender benediction. It was a kiss that sought to heal the very cracks you had just spent minutes exposing.
Matt let out a low, guttural sound—a sob that lost its way and turned into a growl. He kissed you back with a terrifying, starved intensity, his head thrashing against the pillow as he tried to devour the very air from your lungs. He wasn't looking for tenderness; he was looking for an end. He wanted the fire.
When you finally began to pull back, seeking to look him in the eye once more, Matt wouldn't let you go. His teeth sank into your bottom lip, a sharp, desperate nip that caught the flesh and tugged, anchoring you to him. It was a claim, a violent refusal to let the light of the world back into the room.
You winced slightly, the metallic tang of blood blooming on your tongue, but you didn't pull away. You hovered a mere breath from his mouth, the heat of his respiration hot against your chin.
“Is this what you want, Matthew?” you questioned, your voice a low, steady anchor in the storm of his senses. “Is this your desire, or is this just another way to bleed? If we do this, there is no prayer that can wash it away. You will be mine, not His. Tell me you want the ruin.”
Matt’s fingers, finally freed from your grip, didn't reach for the cross. Instead, they flew to your hair, his nails scraping against your scalp as he pulled you back down to him.
“I want the ruin,” he rasped, his voice a jagged sliver of glass. “I want to be so full of you that there is no room left for a soul. Take it. Take the soul, take the breath, take everything. Just don't leave me in the quiet again.”
He was a man who had finally stopped bargaining with heaven. He was staring into the red darkness of his own heart, and for the first time in his life, he wasn't afraid of what he found there. He was looking at you.
“I won't leave you,” you murmured, the words acting as a low-frequency vibration that Matt felt in his marrow. “I won’t ever leave you to that silence again.”
You pressed a ghost of a kiss to the tip of his nose—a fleeting, human tenderness that made his throat ache—before you rose from the bed. Matt lay there, a fallen icon in the silver-blue light, his heightened senses tracking every shift in the air. He heard the whisper of fabric as you stripped away the last of your barriers, the soft friction of skin on skin, and the rhythmic, heavy thrum of your own arousal as it twitched against the heat of your stomach.
He heard the soft clink of glass. You reached for the nightstand, for the amber liquid that had been waiting like a liquid sin. The smell of bourbon—sharp, woody, and unapologetic—flooded his senses as you took a swig. When you offered the glass to him, your fingers brushed his, a spark of grounding heat.
Matt took it with a hand that shook with a violence he couldn't suppress. The bourbon burned its way down his throat, a cauterizing fire that seemed to temporarily numb the jagged edges of his guilt. As he handed the glass back, his ears caught the distinctive, sharp crinkle of foil from the bedside drawer. The sound was a definitive strike against the quiet—a clinical, modern noise that signaled the absolute end of his holy isolation.
You set the glass aside, the hollow thud on the wood sounding like a closing door. Then, you crawled back onto the bed, your weight a slow, predatory pressure that Matt welcomed with a broken moan. You moved over him, a silhouette of heat and muscle that blocked out the rest of the world.
You began to kiss him again, but the violence had been replaced by a devastating tenderness. It was a slow, thorough worship, your lips moving over his as if you were trying to breathe your own soul into his lungs. Matt felt the world begin to swirl, the jagged lines of the room softening into the warmth of your presence.
Your hands moved down his body, certain and heavy. They settled on the insides of his thighs, your fingers digging slightly into the muscle as you began to part them. Matt’s breath hitched, his spine arching as you pushed his legs upward, drawing his knees toward his chest. It was a position of total exposure, a physical unmaking that left him with nowhere to hide—no shadows to retreat into, no Latin to shield him.
He felt the silver cross beneath his back, a cold, hard reminder of the stone floor of the church, but as you loomed over him, your skin finally meeting his in the most honest way possible, the cross felt like a dead thing. You were the living truth. You were the only scripture he had left to read.
“Look at me,” you whispered, though you knew his eyes were useless. It was a command for his spirit, a call to be present in his own ruin.
Matt’s fingers tangled in the sheets, his head thrashing back as he finally gave way to the pure, terrifying oxygen of being wanted. He wasn't a devil, and he wasn't a saint. He was just a man, drowning in you, and finally, he was no longer afraid of the deep.
As you moved between his legs, the asphyxiation reached its zenith. You guided the head of your cock to the entrance of his hole. pressing slowly, firmly, into the tight, resisting ring of his muscle.
Matt’s breath didn't just hitch; it shattered. His lungs stalled as he felt the sheer, invasive stretch of you claiming the space within him—a space he had kept hollowed out for God, now filled with the hot, uncompromising reality of your flesh. To soothe the tremor racking his frame, your fingers traced idle, wandering patterns across the scarred skin of his hips, your touch a velvet anchor in the storm of his transition.
He let out a moan that was raw and stripped of all dignity, a jagged sound that vibrated against your chest as you sank deeper. You moved with a slow, agonizing deliberation, feeling the way his body fought to accommodate you until you were buried fully within him. A ghost of a smile touched your lips when his moans finally coalesced into a single, trembling word: your name.
"Fuck," you groaned, the sound torn from your throat as you felt the incredible, pulsing heat of him. He was a vice, clenching around your aching cock with a desperate, instinctive rhythm, his internal muscles shivering against you as if trying to pull you even deeper into his marrow. "Matt," you breathed, the name a heavy weight in the stagnant air.
Beneath you, Matt wasn't just feeling you; he was consuming you. In the red darkness of his mind, the line between love and hunger had finally dissolved into a terrifying, beautiful smudge. To Matt, you were no longer just a man—you were the Eucharist he had been denied his entire life. He thought of the way you tasted, of the bourbon and the salt, and he realized with a start that he didn't just want to touch you. He wanted to unmake you.
He wanted to pull you apart, rib by rib, until he could nestle himself inside the cavity of your chest. He wanted to drink the very heat from your veins, to swallow your heartbeat until it became the only rhythm his own heart knew. There was a dark edge to his devotion—a need so deep it felt like it could only be satisfied if he devoured you whole, if he took your essence and stitched it into his own scarred tissues.
He thought of your hands on his skin, and in his mind, they were teeth. He thought of your lips on his throat, and he imagined them tearing into him, a sacred violence that would finally let the light into his hollowed-out soul. To love you was to be eaten alive, and Matt Murdock, the man who had spent his life being broken for the world, found a sickening, holy peace in the thought of being consumed by you.
He clutched the sheets, his head thrashing back as he felt you move within him, and in that moment, he wasn't praying for salvation. He was praying to be a feast. He wanted to be the bread you broke; he wanted to be the wine you spilled.
"More," he rasped, his eyes squeezed shut as the red world flared into a blinding, carnal white. "Eat me up... don't leave anything for the morning. Just... devour me."
He bucked his hips upward, a frantic, rhythmic plea for more of the ruin, more of the weight, more of the terrifying, delicious death of being yours.
As you moved within him, the slow, rhythmic roll of your hips felt like the heavy tolling of a bell, marking the passage of the man he used to be. You were a tide of heat, thrusting in and out of him with a deliberate, agonizing friction that made the red world of his vision flare into a blinding, searing white.
You leaned down, the heat of your body a suffocating blanket, and sank your teeth into the scarred meat of his shoulder. It was a sharp, grounding violence—a bite that broke the skin just enough to draw the metallic tang of blood to the surface. To Matt, it was the only baptism that mattered. He didn't flinch; he arched into the sting, his fingers clawing at your back as he sought to pull your hunger deeper into his own marrow.
In his mind, the act was no longer just a physical union. It was a transubstantiation. He felt you tearing into his solitude, your teeth claiming him with a predatory possessiveness that made his soul shiver. He wanted you to consume him, to leave the marks of your ownership in his flesh so that he could never again pretend to be whole without you. He was a man being devoured, and he offered himself up like a feast of broken bread and spilled wine.
"Yes," he gasped, the word a shattered thing that died against your neck. "Break me... eat me alive..."
The slow, hydraulic pressure of your thrusts was a ritual of undoing. Every time you bottomed out against him, the silver cross beneath his back bit into his skin—a cold, forgotten ghost—but the heat of your cock inside him was the only god he could feel. He felt the rhythmic clench of his internal muscles, a desperate, starving grip that tried to hold onto the very essence of you, to keep you trapped within his walls forever.
He thought of the bourbon on your breath and the caramel in your scent, and he imagined it staining his very bones. He wanted to be saturated in you, to have your scent replace the smell of incense in his lungs until he was nothing but a living reliquary of your touch. The urge to be unmade by you, to be swallowed by the intensity of your need, surged through him like a fever.
The sound in the room was a symphony of the profane: the wet, sliding friction of skin on skin, the rhythmic groan of the bed, and the jagged, broken litany of Matt’s moans. He was no longer a martyr for a silent city; he was a sacrifice for a living man.
As you rolled your hips again, driving deep into the core of his ache, Matt’s head thrashed back, his throat bared and pulsing. He wasn't praying for the end of the pain; he was praying for the end of himself. He wanted to be lost in the feast of you, to let you take him until there was nothing left but the echo of your name on his lips.
As you increased the speed, your thrusts became a relentless, driving percussion that echoed the hammer of the rain outside. Matt’s breath was a series of broken, rhythmic hitches, his body vibrating with the intensity of being claimed so thoroughly. You didn't let go of his shoulder; you stayed latched there, your teeth grazing the bone, as if you were trying to drink the very sound of his pleasure through his skin.
Matt’s mind was a storm of crimson and heat. He could feel the way his own body was failing him—his heart hammering against his ribs like a bird in a cage, his muscles twitching with a fatigue that felt like a holy exhaustion. He felt your heat deep within him, a heavy, pulsing anchor that made him feel solid for the first time in his life.
He wasn't just being fucked; he was being hollowed out. He imagined your hands reaching inside him, not just to hold him, but to scoop out the guilt, the silence, and the loneliness, replacing it all with the dark, golden honey of your presence. He wanted to be a vessel for you. He wanted to be the cup that held your violence and your mercy.
"Don't... don't stop," he choked out, his voice barely a whisper, a ragged thread of sound in the dark. "Give it all to me. Leave nothing left."
He bucked his hips to meet you, a frantic, uncoordinated movement that spoke of a man who had lost his center and found a new one in the friction of your body. He felt the silver cross beneath him shift and slide, its chain tightening around his throat as he arched his back—a self-inflicted strangulation that only added to the terrifying, ecstatic pressure in his skull.
The scent of the room—bourbon, sweat, and the iron-scent of the small amount of blood from his shoulder—became a heady, intoxicating incense. It was the smell of the world being unmade. It was the smell of a man finally, violently, coming home.
You moved faster now, your breath hot and jagged against his neck, and Matt felt the threshold approaching. It wasn't a cliff; it was a furnace. He felt his internal muscles clenching around you in a series of rhythmic, starving spasms, trying to pull the very life from your veins.
"I'm yours," he gasped, his fingers digging into your arms, his nails leaving crescents in your skin. "I'm your bread... I'm your body... break me. Just... break me."
The world was narrowing down to the point of impact, the singular, shattering moment where the Devil would finally die so the man could live. He waited for the explosion, his eyes rolled back, his mouth open in a silent, screaming prayer to the only God who had ever bothered to touch him back.
You unlatched from his shoulder, leaving behind a dark, blooming mark of your ownership, and surged upward to capture his mouth. The kiss was thick and desperate, tasting of salt and the iron-sting of the blood you had drawn.
“I’m right there,” you rasped against his lips, your voice a jagged ruin of itself. “I’m going to lose it, Matt. I’m going to cum.”
Matt didn't just hear you; he felt the vibration in the very marrow of his bones. He let out a low, animal moan into your mouth, his body responding with a final, starving intensity. His internal muscles spasmed, clenching around the hot, pulsing length of you with a desperate, rhythmic demand that felt like it was trying to draw the very life from your veins.
“Me too,” he choked out, the words sounding like they were being torn from a throat raw with screaming. “Please—now. Now.”
The friction became sloppy, a wet, uncoordinated collision of skin and heat. Your thrusts turned into jagged, stuttering hitches. Your hips locked, your breath catching in a silent, wide-eyed moment of transition before the world finally splintered.
A breathless moan escaped you as you came, your body shuddering with a force that felt like it would crack your ribs. Beneath you, Matt was an earthquake. He let out a strangled, high-pitched moan that was more a cry of grief than pleasure, his back arching so sharply his spine seemed to creak. His own release flared white-hot against his stomach, the heat of it smearing between your pressed bodies, a slick, silver anointing that acted as the final seal on his sacrilege.
He was a man undone, a martyr who had finally found a god worth dying for. The room went silent, save for the frantic, uneven tolling of two hearts and the distant, judgmental roar of the rain. Matt lay there, his fingers still tangled in your hair, his blind eyes fixed on the ceiling as the "red world" of his vision slowly settled into a heavy, satisfied darkness.
The silver cross was still there, trapped beneath his shoulder, but it was just a piece of metal now. The weight in his chest wasn't guilt anymore; it was you. He breathed you in—the bourbon, the sweat, the scent of a man who had devoured him—and for the first time in his life, the silence wasn't a threat. It was a sanctuary.
The bathroom steam had long since dissipated, but the air in the bedroom remained heavy, a thick, post-storm stillness that felt like the quiet in a cathedral after the candles have been snuffed. You stepped into the room, your skin still humming from the heat of the shower and the friction of the towel.
Across the room, Matt lay adrift in a sea of clean, tangled sheets. He was still naked, his body a map of pale scars and dark bruises, partially draped in the fabric like a fallen statue. To anyone else, he looked vulnerable, but to you, he looked claimed. The feelings.that had followed him from the church were gone, replaced by a deep, marrow-deep exhaustion that looked like the first real peace he had known in years.
You watched him for a long moment, the blue light of the city filtering through the rain-streaked window and catching the sharp, elegant line of his jaw. You loved him this way—stripped of the suit, the mask, and the heavy silver cross that now sat forgotten on the nightstand. Here, he was just Matt, a man of flesh and blood who had finally stopped running from his own hunger.
You moved toward the bed, the floorboards groaning softly under your weight—a familiar, domestic sound that Matt tracked with a small, tired tilt of his head. You slid under the covers, the fresh cotton cool against your skin, and settled behind him.
You wrapped your arm around his stomach, pulling him back against your chest until there was no air left between you. He felt solid and warm, his heartbeat a steady, grounding thrum against your forearm. Matt let out a long, shuddering sigh, his body melting into yours with a total, unreserved surrender. He didn't reach for his guilt; he reached for your hand, his fingers interlacing with yours over his heart.
You leaned in, your lips ghosting over the shell of his ear, your breath warm against the damp hair at his temple.
“I love you,” you whispered, the words a low, steady vow that carried more weight than any prayer he had ever uttered. “I love you, Matthew Murdock.”
The silence that followed wasn't the hollow, terrifying quiet of the confessional. It was a full silence, a shared sanctuary. Matt squeezed your hand, his thumb tracing the line of your knuckles. He didn't need to speak. In the dark, in the quiet of the Kitchen, the man who had been a devil and a martyr was finally just a man who was loved.
He closed his eyes, his head falling back against your shoulder, and for the first time, he didn't listen for the sins of the city. He only listened to the sound of your breathing, the only gospel he would ever need again.
Author's note: yes, I used the fuckass overused gif everyone and their mother has used idc, suck ma dih.
Also, sorry for the delay. Second year is really kicking my ass with the workload T-T.
Not realistic at all, and sorry for Soap's accent, I used Grammarly's translation, so I apologise if it's horrendous. I used c/n as “Code name” and y/n as “your name” (duhh…)
Part 1 Part 2
A sudden sound jolted you from sleep. The door flew open, startling you and making the other man in the room jump. At the entrance stood the tall man with the mask and the infamous guy with the mullet. He was grinning from ear to ear.
"Mornin', sleepyheeds!” He said, smiling widely. “Breakfast's gonna be served in 30 minutes. An' ye're eatin' with us.” Soap finished, looking at you.
Gaz got up from the armrest where he had slept the whole night to get ready for the day, while you groaned onto your pillow before getting up to go to the bathroom. The pair that now stood at your door shared a glance while waiting for you to get ready.
You showered quickly before throwing on the last of the clean clothes you had brought. You'll have to ask for the laundry service or more clothes if they didn't want you smelling like shit.
To be frank, their system with you was weird, too much trust was placed in the fact that you wouldn't attack them during the night, or else you wouldn't be sleeping in a room with only one of their men keeping watch, or rather, sleeping on an armchair. But you didn't really feel the need to get out of there. They already seemed to value you more than your now-older company.
Speaking of which, the last time you established contact was right before getting captured, days ago, and you hadn't made it to the extraction point, so they had surely been looking for you. But they hadn't even managed to get a message to you, so you knew it meant you were considered K.I.A.. You were alone now.
When you walked out, you saw the two hadn't moved from their respective spots. Soap motioned you to follow them, and you obliged.
“So, how was yer first real night here?” Soap said, smiling.
“Am I not supposed to be a super high-value prisoner or something?”
“Your status has changed. We have a meeting after breakfast.” Ghost replied, drily.
“Hmm. Hoping I won't get punched in the face again, then.” You said, looking at Ghost, who stared forward.
“It’s standard protocol, ye know how it is. Ye answer pish, we punch. An' back and forth. Dinnae hold a grudge against him.”
You scoffed before finally arriving at the cafetería. It wasn't half as crowded as you had thought, and the food was as appealing as you'd expect in a military base, but you didn't hesitate to pack your plate; you were starving from how little you had eaten the night before.
You followed the two to an empty table at the back and sat down opposite them. They really were laid back here. You would think the SAS of all corporations would at least know to always have a prisoner at arms' reach. The tray being set beside yours pulled your eyes off your plate. Looking up, you were greeted by two familiar silhouettes. Captain Price and Gaz had finally joined the rest of the team. “How are you doing, lad? Slept like a king in that bed, I’m sure.” The older one spoke.
“Not too bad, sir. First good night's sleep I've had in a while.” Might as well play along, not like you could do anything else. He nodded before sitting down beside you, Gaz at the other side of you. Breakfast was super awkward, the tension that reigned over the cafetería the night before between you and Gaz being amplified by the presence of the rest of the team.
When you were all finished, everyone got up, disposed of their trays, and escorted you to the meeting room. No one was waiting outside. No guards, no other recruits, nothing. Price knocked on the door, and it opened, revealing an older woman with blondish hair.
You entered the room, reluctant and dreading what was to come. But once you stood inside, you froze in shock. Your file was being displayed on the wall by the projector set on the table. That file that held so much information, the file that was supposedly only accessible to your now old company.
At that moment, you felt hopeless, the feeling of losing control overpowering all your senses. They all knew everything: your strengths, your weaknesses, and, more importantly, who you were. It became clear why they had been so lenient with an alleged “high value prisoner”. It was all a set-up.
The grip on your arm tightened when you tried to move away. The skeleton glove squished your bicep in an attempt to comfort you, or so you thought, because when you glanced at him, his face was unreadable behind the mask.
“C/n.” The sudden use of your code name shocked you, and you glanced at the woman standing next to the projector screen. You noticed everyone else was already seated. Ghost and you sat down too. “Our informant got hold of your file and your whereabouts the day before your capture.” She continued.
“You're quite the merc, I'll tell you that. Although your CIA agent background would explain a lot.” Price interjected. “You were a pain in the ass to track.”
The door opened, startling you. When you looked towards the sound, you saw another soldier, wearing a Balaclava. What was it with this team and covering their faces?
“Roach! Glad you could make it.”
“I wouldn't miss this for the world, captain.” He said, taking a seat beside Gaz, who dabbed him up.
The woman spoke again, and you turned your head towards her.
“Given your background and the skills stated in your file, we think you would be a great asset to the team. Plus, we will provide protection against everyone who is looking for you.”
Integrating the team? And protection? That didn’t sound half bad. And it was the only way for you to keep your identity hidden from the outside world, people still had it out for you.
“Do I really have an option?”
Everyone else shared a look, and you scoffed, your nerves having calmed down by now. “I accept. But I have one request. That file will remain as secret as it can be. Only essential people will have access to it.”
Price and the woman shared a glance before smiling at each other. “It’s a deal then. Welcome to the team, private.” Price said, getting up and walking to you, shaking your hand. You took his hand and smiled at him. He smiled back in reply.
“Care to tell us your name, though? It’s the first time I’ve seen a file with only a code name.” Gaz said.
“Oh, right, my name… I’m y/n.”
“Well, glad to have you with us, y/n.”
Everyone exited the meeting room, except for the woman and Price, who stayed behind to finish sorting out your addition to the team. Soap swung his arm around your shoulder.
“Awright, new guy… Ye fancy a wee tour o' the base? Heard ye'll be stayin' in that room for a while… for yer safety, so ye better know how tae navigate the base from there.”
“Lead the way then.”
One thing led to another, and with the tour and casual small talk between you two, followed by a surprise shooting session he had somehow convinced you to do, dinner time rolled around. You noticed then how fast time had passed, and the fact that you had skipped lunch, not that you were hungry before, the shock from the SAS having your file had completely ended your appetite.
You returned to the now-familiar space of the canteen and followed Soap to the line after getting a tray.
“Ye're a right good shot, I'll give ye that. Price said ye were in the CIA?” Soap said, packing his tray to the brim.
You chuckled. “Yeah, I was an agent of theirs for a while. That’s long in the past now, though.”
He hummed while walking to a table and sitting down, immediately taking a bite of his plate. You sat down in front of him. You looked around, hoping to see your new team members.
“Dinnae bother tryin' tae find them; everyone’s gonnae be busy right now. Price'll be drowned in paperwork wi’ yer addition to the team, Ghost usually skips his dinner and heads tae bed early, and Gaz is definitely helpin’ Roach wi’ his paperwork for the solo mission he just got back from.” He explained.
You nodded, taking another bite of the food. Thoughts filled your mind then. Your life had changed so much in just a week. New team, abandoned by what you thought was a loyal company, and an informant who was too skilled for their own good. You had only ever met a few people with the same ability to access even the most difficult of data centers without being noticed. All in your first-ever team, back in the CIA. You’d have to get more info on their informant. If they managed to get your file, it means they were good, and they posed a threat, but they could also help you get info on your old team; maybe then you’d be able to find them.
Dinner was filled with comfortable chatter now that you didn’t feel like a prisoner, and you felt like you hadn’t felt in a long time, happy with the people surrounding you.
“Ye should probably get some sleep now, tomorrow's yer official first day. I'll come wake ye up like this mornin’, dinnae worry..”
“Your turn to babysit me, hmm?”
“Aye, I suppose so, but ye're no bad company. Ye’ve honestly surprised me, y/n..”
You chuckled while you got up and threw away your trash, Soap following close behind. He walked you to your room. Your feet stopped at the door and turned to the other man, who had his arms crossed over his chest.
Pairing: Olympo (Netflix) universe. Future poly RoqueSebas x male reader, but this one is Roque x male reader.
Warnings: smoking, smut, brief homophobia
Author's note: Sorry this took so long, I'm currently starting my second year at uni, and it has been quite hectic, so please bear with my lackluster posting schedule.
Anyway, I figured out the timeline. This is set about a year before Zoe joins the HPC, since y/n and Fernando join late, and Zoe does too.
Part one
The sun cast shimmering lights across the room when you woke up. Glancing at the alarm clock on Fatima's bedside table, the time read 6:30, half an hour before everyone started to get up and make their way to breakfast or their respective training, or so you were told by Cristian the day before. You uncovered yourself, flinging your legs over the edge of the bed and retrieving your belongings. Fatima stirred up, rubbing her eyes. “Already leaving?”
You looked at her, already putting on your clothes from the night before. “Yeah, I should probably get going. Don't want to interfere with the routine.”
She hummed in reply, rolling around and succumbing to slumber once more. The corridors were empty when you left her room, and only the sound from inside some rooms could be heard. You made your way towards your dorm, deciding to get ready for the day.
The room was dark, the only source of light coming from the almost fully closed blinds. Noticing Fernando's bed was empty, you scoffed and got in the shower. The water felt nice against your skin, slightly easing the buzz from the hangover.
Getting out of the shower, you put on some sweats and a hoodie, making sure you looked half presentable for the day, even with the purplish mark on your lower neck. The door opened as you were preparing your bag for the day, and you noticed sound coming from outside. Fernando looked happy to say the least. His hair was unkept, and the marks along his neck and exposed chest told you enough as to why he hadn’t slept in your room.
“Guess we both had a successful first night, huh?” He said, plopping down on his bed, looking at the ceiling. “So much for needing a dorm when we're sleeping in other rooms for our first day here.” He exclaimed, glancing towards your bed, still intact, just as he had seen it the day prior when he arrived.
You scoffed at his remark. “Beginners' luck, I guess.” You walked towards the door. “Hope this doesn’t earn us the reputation of players, tho.” Fernando waved his hand around, an exasperated sigh escaping his lips before he entered the bathroom.
The door closed behind you, and you walked towards the cafeteria where you had first met Roque and Cristian, which, according to the latter, was the group’s designated breakfast spot. Walking in, you spotted a group of familiar figures. “Morning, fantastic four.”
Nunu and Cristian turned around at the sound of your voice, smiling fondly at the sight of you. You greeted everyone good morning and sat with them. Even Amaia was happy with your presence, which surprised you. The only one who didn’t seem that interested in your arrival was Roque, who sat beside you. Did you do something wrong? He was just fine yesterday. You figured the dancing with him may have made him uncomfortable, and you cursed yourself for it.
You ate breakfast with them, intervening here and there, but mainly listening to them and becoming aware of their group dynamic. Fernando came in about fifteen minutes later, smiling towards your group before sitting beside some of the other rugby players. Charlie greeted him like they had been buddies since childhood, though the others only greeted him as you would a person you are not quite comfortable with. You noticed Sebas beside Charlie, just like he always seemed to be, but he wasn’t paying any mind to the arrival of your roommate. He was staring at you and Roque. You gave him a faint smile, and he lowered his gaze immediately. “What was the deal with him?” you thought, but decided not to inquire, instead deciding to dig into your scrambled eggs once more.
The routine started to become familiar, the days slowly merging together. A week had passed since your arrival, and you, surprisingly, felt right at home. Your mother had called twice, asking about your well-being. She seemed to be doing better, fortunately. And you hadn't heard from your stepfather since he drove you to the HPC, which was a blessing.
The morning had gone as usual, waking up at the crack of dawn, having breakfast with your new friends, and training. Your aim was sharp as always, so the coach had started to dismiss you earlier, encouraging you to focus more on strength training and less on your already perfect aim.
If you were being honest, the gym didn't seem like a bad place to be at right now, the wilderness outside too cold to be wandering off if not obligated. It was nearly empty, save for a cyclist still going at it on the bikes, which left the rest of the machines free to use. Half an hour passed before you heard a commotion outside.
You decided to investigate, using it as an excuse to refill your now-empty water bottle. You followed the noise to one of the locker rooms. When you stepped inside, you noticed Roque seated, but he wasn't alone. Three football players stood in front of him. Roque wasn't a little kid; he could handle himself, so you stepped back to refill your bottle at the fountain.
You almost turned your heels to go back to training when you heard one of them speak. “You think we want a faggot like you in the locker rooms with us?”. Roque spoke, but you couldn't quite hear him over the sound of your footsteps and the growing anger inside you.
A fist connected to the jaw of one of the three guys lingering over Roque, whom you assumed was the one who had spoken. He fell back, stumbling onto one of the others.“What do you think you're doing?!” He cursed under his breath.
The other two looked at their teammate, noticing the bruise on his face and the light blood that started spewing off his cheek because of your ring. They turned back to you, a glare clear in your eyes. “You need another one? I have many more where that came from, you stupid fuck.” You spat.
One of the others stepped up, ready to fight back, but they couldn't risk it. If Isabel found out they had messed with one of the new guys, and on top of that, heard of any kind of discrimination, she would surely take matters into her own hands, so they bitterly walked out without a word other than a middle finger in your direction.
You glanced at Roque, who was already looking at you. ”Are you okay? They didn't do anything to you, did they?” You said, sitting down next to him.
“I don't need your help, yn. I can handle myself, okay?” He said bluntly, turning and storming off without looking back, while you sat there, dumbfounded.
— — — —
The cool breeze felt nice against your sweating skin. You had decided to skip dinner, not wanting to cross paths with a temperamental Roque again. The old abandoned bleachers that were placed beside the shooting range building had become your designated “alone time” spot. You looked at your right hand knuckles, throbbing and red. It had been a while since you felt them like that. The last time…
“Sorry to interrupt, this spot is usually empty.” A feminine voice said, almost whispering.
You hadn’t even heard the footsteps of the person who now stood at the bottom of the bleachers. You took out of your mouth the cigarette you had bought from Gunter, thanks to Fatima telling you where they sold them, and looked at her.
“No worries, you're not interrupting anything.” She was tall, skinny, and had beautiful, slightly curly, light brown hair. You looked back at your knuckles, noting that the bruise was slowly turning purple.
“What happened to your knuckles? If it's not prying too much. I'm Renata, by the way.” She said, sitting two seats to your left.
You chuckled, glancing up at her. “I’m y/n. Punched a guy because he was picking on a friend.” You offered her the cig, which she refused with a shake of her head.
“I see… seems a bit harsh, no? Do you know where you are?” She laughed.
You scoffed. “This wasn't usual HPC banter, though. They were picking on him for being queer, I guess. I may not have been minding my own business. He didn’t take it well, though.”
She hummed in reply. “I see.”
“Sorry, I’m oversharing.” You chuckled
“No, no, it’s good to have someone to talk to. Haven't seen you around before. Are you one of the two new guys who arrived recently?”
“That’s me. I’m the archer; the other guy plays rugby. What’s your sport anyway?”
“Heptatlon.” She replied. Not a woman of many words, you noticed.
“Hmm. Explains the lean physique. Do you come here often?”
“Sometimes… It’s the most isolated place in the HPC without needing to get out of the perimeter and into the forest. I come here when I need some peace of mind.”
“That makes two of us, then. I’ll be sure not to hog the place.”
She chuckled, shaking her head. “No worries. We can share. As I said, it's good to have someone to talk with.”
Not many words were shared from that point forward; occasional comments or questions followed by a surprisingly comfortable silence. You finished a second cigarette. That’s when you got up, waved your goodbyes, and made your way back to your dorm. It was getting pretty late.
— — — —
When you entered the hallway leading to your dorm, you caught a glimpse of a figure waiting by your door. Maybe Fernando had forgotten his keys, you thought. But approaching, you realised it was Roque. He was pacing around in front of your door. You figured Fernando hadn’t come back yet if Roque was still there. When he heard footsteps, his head snapped in your direction.
“Yn! I wanted to …” He watched as you approached and walked past him towards your door, taking out your keys. You unlocked the door and motioned for him to come inside.
“Let’s have this talk in private, Roque.”
“Right.” He walked inside the room, taking off his shoes at the entrance. He noticed the stark contrast between the two sides of the room. One was a messy and typical rugby player's room, while the other was well-decorated and definitely tidier.
“First come, first served, so I took the window side bed.” You chuckled, lying down, taking off your own shoes, and placing your bag beside your bed. Seeing as Roque wasn’t speaking, you sighed and spoke up while sitting back up. “You don’t have to apologise for earlier, Roque.”
He was looking at you, eyes half lidded, almost looking like a lost puppy. He looked cute like that…
“But I do, you just wanted to help, and I lashed out without reason.”
You scoffed. “It wasn’t any of my business, tío.”
He sighed, walking towards your bed and sitting down beside you. He hesitantly placed a hand on your thigh and glanced up at you. “Maybe, but you still didn’t hesitate to step up for me. I’ve never had anyone do that in a long time…” His eyes glanced down towards his hand on your thigh. “I also wanted to apologise for last time at the cabin…” He said reluctantly. “I didn’t know how to react when you were openly flirting with me.”
“That I could tell. I thought I may have made you uncomfortable, maybe that’s why you changed your attitude towards me.”
“Quite the opposite.” He said, and you glanced up at him. “I’ve just… No guy has ever flirted with me in the HPC…”
“What?!” You exclaimed in surprise.
He chuckled at your reaction, nodding. “Yeah, every guy in here is super straight.”
“Not to add homophobic. Why were they picking on you anyway?”
He sighed. “I bumped into one of them when changing. He thought I was coming onto him.”
“Pfft. The straggots do have some audacity. What makes them think a hot guy like you would go for creatures like them?”
He smiled at the compliment. “Yeah, I'd much rather go for someone like you.”
“Someone like me? What is that supposed to mean?” you smiled. He was blushing hard.
“No sé… someone more handsome… someone more… interesting, more interested in me.”
You hummed, appreciating the compliment. You looked at his lips and licked yours. “Can I?”
He nodded, already leaning towards you. His lips found yours in a sweet and tender kiss. His lips were surprisingly soft, you thought, the faint taste of your cherry chapstick already being noticeable on his lips.
When he pulled away, gasping for air, he placed his head in the crook of your neck, leaving a trail of kisses up to your chin.
“I should leave… don't want your roommate to walk in on us.” He whispered.
“I doubt he'll be sleeping here tonight. He's usually back by 10 pm; it's 12:30. I'm guessing he stayed the night at someone else's dorm. Not that he'd care anyway.”
He chuckled. “Are you inviting me to stay the night?”
“Maybe…” You closed the distance once more; this time, the kiss was more heated than the first time. Your hands found his muscular back and traveled up to his hair, playing with the strands.
He caressed your arms, slowly moving up to cup your face. His other hand traveled down to play with the hem of your shirt, lingering dangerously close to the band of your sweats.
A small moan escaped his lips, the growing ache in his pants becoming more and more uncomfortable by the second. You pushed him back, making him lie on your bed.
He scooted up to your pillow, taking off his shirt while you locked the door. Now shirtless and isolated from the outside world, you straddled him before lowering your head and capturing his lips once more. Roque started grinding against you mindlessly, anticipation grew within you, and you couldn't help the growing erection between your legs.
He toyed with the knot of your sweats, getting it undone before flipping you both around so that you were the one lying on the bed. He fumbled with your pants, getting them down along with your boxers and doing the same himself. The rugbyman looked at you, questioning, eyes dark with lust. A smile plastered on your face, you gave him the green light.
Roque lowered his head, giving your already rock-hard cock a tentative lick, the sensation making you shudder. He took this as an invitation to take you whole into his mouth. He sucked you while stroking himself before you pushed him slightly, making him look up.
He moved so that he was now straddling you and kissed you again. You smiled. “Am I topping then?”
He trailed kisses along your jaw before looking back at you. “Any objections?”
You shook your head. “No, no. I prefer to top anyway.”
He nodded, and you reached for your bedside table, getting a condom and some lube, before looking back into his brown eyes. “You wanna do it yourself?”
“Yes, please.” He took the bottle of lube and spread some on his fingers before prepping himself. You used this time to put on the condom and started kissing his chest while he got used to his own fingers inside him. Your hands travelled to his ass, spreading his cheeks before your fingers replaced his. You massaged with practice ease, his eyes closing and head falling back, allowing you to kiss his neck. “Can I put it in now?”
He nodded, burying his head in the crook of your neck while he lined your member with his entrance. A low groan escaped you when the head made it inside. You were patient with him, moving slowly so he could get used to the sensation. A slow moan escaped him, his head dipping to your ear. “You can move…”
You started grinding, his strong body still on top of you. You moved slowly at first, not wanting to hurt him, but when the sounds of his hitched breath filled the room, you sped up your pace. One hand found his waist, guiding him up and down your member while the other wrapped around his leaking member, pumping to the rhythm of your thrusts.
Sweat lingered on your skin as you kept going. A low guttural moan escaped him, his release coating your chest. Your release came soon after. The bed creaked one last time when you pulled out, moving him to lie beside you. He chuckled, wrapping his arms around you. “Who thought this was where the night would lead us? You wore me out, man.”
You laughed.“You sure do have the stamina for someone who hasn't gotten any play in what, 2 years?”
He slapped your arm slightly, feigning offence. You laughed and got up to take some tissues and throw away the used condom. When you came back, Roque had his boxers on, his muscular frame sprawled on your bed for you only to see. His eyes were closed, his mind dangerously close to succumbing to slumber.
The bed dipped when you joined him after putting on your own briefs. Your arms curled around him, and his head found the crook of your neck once more. You kissed his temple before closing your eyes.
“Good night, Roque.”
“Good night.”
— — — —
He stirred up first, feeling a bit disoriented before he noticed the decor on the walls. He felt content, your warm body lying beside him, still asleep. He had finally found someone similar to him in a place so full of… heteronormativity. Granted, his friends were amazing, but it felt great having someone so similar to him close. The same ambitions, even if they were in different disciplines, the same drive… and the sex was an obvious bonus he couldn't really have with any of the others.
He looked at Fernando's messy side of the room. He smiled at the obvious contrast between you, too. Why would they pair you in a room anyway? It wasn't standard protocol to pair two athletes in different sports in the same dorm.
His attention was redirected to you when you started kissing his neck, caressing his torso with a feather-like touch. “Morning, Roque. Slept alright?”
“Like a baby. You're super warm, I feel like I didn't even need a blanket or anything.”
Smiling, you gave him a slight peck and turned to look at your phone, which read 7 am, then buried your face in his chest, sighing. “Fernando should be back soon. Let's get ready before he hogs the bathroom.”
He nodded, pecking your temple before getting up. He walked to the bathroom, noticing the slight soreness in his body. You walked to your closet while he did his thing, taking out your outfit for the day as well as a change of clothes for him. He could go back to his dorm before breakfast, but you thought it would be cute to lend him your clothes. When he finished using the bathroom, you did the same before getting ready to shower. “Care to join me?”
He nodded, getting under the stream after you. The warm water did a good job at finishing your half assed cleaning job from the previous night. When you got out, your hands a little pruney, you got dressed, and that's when your door finally clicked open, revealing your roommate behind it. He seemed a bit shocked at the other presence in the dorm, but only exchanged a knowing look with you before getting into the bathroom himself.
“Told you he wouldn't care.” You said, turning to Roque, now dressed in your sweats and hoodie. “Those look good on you.”
“Thanks.” He smirked before placing a peck on your lips and heading for the door. You followed him to the cafetería.
When you walked in, heads slowly turned to look at you as you passed. Not Roque, not your clothes on his body, no. Only you. A look that read disdain and jealousy. When you sat at the table after getting your breakfast, you looked at the others, confused.
“What the fuck happened. Are they all shocked I slept with Roque or…”
Cristian gave a half assed chuckle, while Nunu and Amaia shared a look, but you couldn't pinpoint what it meant.
“Uhm… no. That's not why they are looking…”
“What is it then? Did something happen?” Roque asked, sounding nervous.
“Someone claimed you were the son of some higher up at Olympo… They think that's why you got accepted into the HPC.”
Your face dropped. And if that didn’t confirm their suspicion, it did make them jump to conclusions. You immediately got up to go to ur dorm, leaving your full plate of food still on the table. Four pairs of eyes watched you leave, as everyone else glanced in your direction when you stormed out.
Pairing: Olympo (Netflix) universe. Maybe future poly RoqueSebas x male reader? Slight Roque x male reader, but this one is Fatima X male reader.
Warnings: drugs, alcohol, slight smut
Author's note: New hyper fixation unlocked, so you get a fic for Olympo. This one is set pre-canon Olympo. Maybe like a year and a half before Zoe joins the HPC. Spanish version in the works.
(Updated ver: I didn't like the pacing, so I fused parts 1 and 2; part 3 is in the works.)
Part two
The ride to the facility went by slowly, the deadly silence in the car being interrupted periodically by your stepfather answering calls. Moving from Madrid to the Pyrenees was an abrupt decision on his part. Granted, you were one of, if not the best archer in the country for your category, just like your mother when she was your age, but that didn't mean he hadn't pulled any strings to get you accepted in the HPC, working for Olympo, the ones that sponsored the athletes training in the facility.
The scenery surrounding the place was beautiful, and getting out of the car, you noticed the change in temperature from the capital. Your stepfather gave you your duffel bags and backpack from the trunk and sat back down in front of the wheel.
"Don't fuck this up." He said with the typical cold and angry tone he always used with you. You didn't answer, and he drove off.
You looked around as you made your way towards what you assumed was the main entrance. The grounds were filled with other athletes walking, running, and training. Arriving at the main door, you walked inside to the reception desk. The woman gave you a key card to get through the facility and the keys to your dorm. You thanked her and headed towards the dorm building.
Once inside your room, you placed your things on one of the beds and sat down, sighing. This was your life now... Endless training and no fun, no alcohol, no drugs, and more importantly, no smoking. Oh, how you craved a cigarette right now...
Your roommate, Fernando, was also transferred from Madrid, recommended by your father, and had joined the rugby team in the HPC. He'd be arriving later in the evening, since he still had business to take care of.
Looking around, you saw an envelope on your desk. You opened it to see your schedule and a map of the locations throughout the HPC, which you folded and placed in your back pocket. Two hours until your first practice with the coach for assessment. If you were being honest, you were dreading it.
"I'd better go grab something to eat before training." You thought before pocketing your phone and keys and heading off.
The halls were relatively empty, and the cafeteria was no different at that time. Only a group of guys at the back of the place, chatting amongst themselves. You grabbed a cookie and a coffee and sat next to a window. The view was mesmerising from up there. The vast expanse of trees and nature captured your interest. When you took a bite of the cookie, you were greeted with a taste similar to cardboard, which you washed down with a sip of coffee.
"What the fuck did they put in these?"
"Those are horrible, right?" A voice spoke from the right. You looked up to see a tall, handsome, buff man smiling at you.
"I bet cardboard tastes better." You replied, smiling.
"You new here? I'm Roque." He inquired, extending his hand.
"Yeah, I'm new. I'm y/n." You said, shaking his hand.
"Glad to meet you. What are you? You seem too buff to be an athlete but too skinny for rugby."
You gave him a once-over, noticing how his form was not that different from Fernando’s. "I do archery, I'm assuming you're a rugby guy."
He nods, smiling. "Bingo! Me and the guys over there are all from the rugby team. Want me to introduce you?" He said, motioning towards the table where the others were seated.
"Sure, why not?"
He started walking towards them, you following close behind.
"Guys, this is y/n, he's a new archer."
"A new archer? We haven't had those in a while. You must be good if you joined mid-year.” He got up from his seat and reached across the table. “I'm Cristian, pleasure."
You nodded, shaking his hand.
"I'm Charlie, this is Sebas." Another blonde guy speaks. You smile at them, sitting down on one of the chairs. The rest of the guys greet you with a slight nod.
"Don't you guys have training? Thought they were more severe in here." You could feel Sebas' eyes burning through your skull, almost as if trying to decipher you.
You pay him no mind and turn to Roque, who stood behind you, placing a hand on your shoulder. "We have training this afternoon, thought we'd hang out for a bit."
You hum in response, nodding in understanding. "My roommate is also new, a rugbyman, he'd probably join you then. I have training in like an hour, so I should probably finish this and get going."
The conversation flowed nicely while you finished your coffee. When you were done, you got up, throwing away the cup and saying your goodbyes.
Making your way back to your room, you changed and grabbed your equipment. The walk to the shooting range was relatively short, the building being adjacent to the dorms. When you got there, you took out your bow and started setting everything up before your new coach arrived.
The training went by fast, your form being perfect as always. The rumours of a new archer coming to the HPC spread like fire, and by the end of the session, despite the complaints of your coach, you had people watching you shoot.
After the final shots, the coach left, and you started getting your stuff. The people watching you had begun to dissipate, except for Cristian and Roque, who had stayed behind and approached you.
"Quite the sharpshooter you are, huh?" Christian laughed.
"I'm not in the CAR for nothing." You smile at him.
"I'm impressed, and I'm pretty sure everyone else was too." Roque exclaimed.
"Thanks, I'm glad you liked the show."
"Listen, we wanted to ask you something... Are you free tonight?" Cristian inquired.
"I just arrived here, why would I have anything to do?"
Roque chuckled. "We're inviting you to a party. We'll come pick you up at like… nine?"
"Sounds good. I'll wait for you then."
You waved goodbye and made your way to your dorm. A party, huh? Perhaps the HPC wasn't quite as much like a prison.
When you entered your room, Fernando was getting ready for rugby practice, already having unpacked his stuff. You exchanged greetings, and he left the room. The room empty, you took a shower before starting to unpack your own stuff.
The time of the party had finally arrived. You wore some wide jeans and a t-shirt, simple, but you still looked good. You reached into one of your bags and grabbed a small metal tin where you had hidden some blunts before coming. “Just in case”, you thought. As you were about to walk out, you heard a knock. You opened it to see Cristian and Roque.
"Just in time." You said while closing the door.
"Looking good, newbie." Roque spoke, smirking.
"Thanks, you guys look great too.” You turned around, following them down the hall. “So, what is this, a dorm party or..."
Cristian chuckled. "No, even better. Come on."
You guys made your way out of the dorms and into the forest. You were concerned at first, but the worry quickly went away when you started hearing music. When you finally arrived, you noticed that it was a simple cabin in the woods, but it was full of people you had seen around the center.
"Look who finally decided to show up! Cristian and Roque brought the new guy!" Charlie practically shouted as you entered.
You laughed at him and were greeted by the owner of the cabin, a short old man named Gunter, who offered you three a beer. You took it with pleasure and walked to where Roque was headed: a small group of people seated on couches. Several eyes scanned you as you approached, Cristian tailing behind you. He sat next to the star of the synchro team, Amaia. You assumed they were dating, given they were pretty touchy with each other.
“This is y/n, the new archer you’ve probably already heard about today.” He spoke.
You smiled at everyone, and a short-haired brunette interjected.
“I’m Nuria, but everyone calls me Nunu. We saw you training earlier, you were great.”
You smiled, appreciative, and were about to thank her when you felt a tap on your shoulders. You turned around to find Fernando, your roommate, who was carrying two drinks with him.
“Yo! How about we share a drink to celebrate finally making it to the HPC, y/n? My treat.”
Everyone in the group shared intrigued glances, noticing the slight tension between you two. You scoffed.
“Now you’re playing besties with me? Why the sudden change?”
He was taken aback by the attitude. “Just wanted to do something nice, as a thanks for speaking to your father. And an apology to you.”
“He’s not my father.” You said bluntly.
He pushed the drink towards you, insisting that you take it. You oblige, regretting your tone. “Thanks, Fer. Didn’t mean to be rude.”
“It’s okay, man, I’m used to it by now.” He smiled, patted your shoulder, and walked towards some other people.
You turned to the group again, who were still looking at you.
“What was that about?” Amaia laughed.
“It’s a long story.” You sighed, sitting down beside Roque, as some seats had cleared up. He glanced at you, intrigue clear on his face, but he didn’t insist, the lingering feeling of your leg against his comforting. You turned to him.
“So… is this a regular occurrence here? You know… the parties.” You inquired.
“Yeah, at least once a week.” Nunu replied, taking a sip of her beer.
You scoffed at that. Maybe the HPC wasn’t gonna be so much of a hellhole. After all, the athletes were drinking and smoking…
“But some of us come here more often than others.” You turned to the new voice behind you. A short, pretty girl with black hair. “I’m Fatima. It’s nice to finally put a face to a name.” She said while sitting seductively on the arm of the couch, right beside you. “The new archer, hmm? How about you join us for a blunt?”
You smiled at the sultry tone she was using. You glanced at the others, who either weren’t paying mind to your interaction or were smiling so as to encourage you to go, except for Roque, who had an irritated look on his face, probably because your attention wasn’t on him anymore.
“You bet! I brought my own pot too, if we need it.” You said, winking at her.
She got up and caressed your arm before taking your hand. You followed her to the back of the cabin, where a group was seated. You recognized a few faces as you approached. You took a seat next to Sebas, and Fatima sat beside you, a hand landing on your thigh. You glanced towards the man beside you and noticed he was staring at you already, but instantly moved his gaze towards Charlie, who insisted on rolling the joint without the help of Gunter.
“Is it his first time trying it?” You laugh, noting that he was having trouble and noticing the alcohol had already started working its wonders on you.
Sebas sighed. “Yeah, he and I don’t usually smoke.”
You turn your attention back to Charlie. “Want me to get that done for you?”
“Fine, man, I'm having trouble here.”
Getting up and patting Sebas on the thigh, you made your way to where Charlie was. You took his place, placing the already ground weed inside the paper before putting the filter at one of the ends and rolling with practiced ease. “And that’s how it’s done.” You turned around, showing your work while you took out your lighter.
“Didn’t expect the archer to be a pothead.” Charlie laughed, patting your back while you walked back to your place between Sebas and Fatima. The blunt now lit up, you took a long drag, the familiar smoke filling your lungs. You relaxed your head backwards and released. You took another drag before Fatima took the joint from your fingers and smoked it herself. The blunt made its way around before arriving at the man beside you.
When Sebas received the blunt, he inspected it before reluctantly placing it between his lips. He inhaled slowly and coughed before giving you the joint back.
“Don't be so greedy, Sebas. You need to take it slow.” You took another drag, Sebas carefully looking at you, noticing the way your lips curved around the joint. He'd be lying if it didn't have an effect on him. You gave it back to him, encouraging him to try again, which earned a complaint from Fatima.
Sebas took it, his fingers lingering on yours for a bit too long. He looked you in the eyes before gazing away and inhaling the smoke, this time not coughing.
“That's how you do it, man.” You pat him on the leg again before giving the blunt back to Fatima. “Don't worry, Fatima, we can smoke one the two of us alone after this.”
She smiled, caressing your leg. “I may take you up on that offer.”
The party went by slowly, alcohol being consumed and weed being smoked. People had started to move around, dancing and making out with whoever struck their fancy. When Fatima got off you to go to the bathroom with her friends, you made your way towards where Roque and the others were, but only found Roque, sitting alone.
“What's up with you? Not in the mood for dancing?”
He glanced up at you, surprised you were alone. “Don't have anyone to dance with…” Which actually meant something along the lines of “I'm not interested in any of the girls who asked to dance with me”.
You smiled at him. “Don't be stupid, I'm here. Come on.” You said, motioning towards a more open area as you took his hand and made him stand up, swaying your body to the rhythm of the music. He chuckled at your display of musicality, but ultimately joined you, moving slowly.
While you danced together, occasionally exchanging prolonged glances, your hands had managed to grasp his shoulders, caressing them slowly. He didn’t seem to be reciprocating your advances, though, since his hands lingered but never quite found their way to your hips. You could have sworn he wasn’t straight; your gaydar was hardly ever wrong. You shook your head slightly, chasing away the feeling of dread that consumed you for having tried to get with a straight guy on your first day.
Luckily, Fatima had decided to resume her advances, straying from her friends to join you. Seeing her approach, you reluctantly pulled away from Roque, who seemed almost relieved when you pulled away, his face remaining unexpressive. Fatima pulled you aside, nearly pushing you flat against one of the columns that adorned the cabin before pressing her body on you, dangerously close to your face.
You smirked down at her, the gleam in her eyes making your body hot with anticipation. She caressed your chest before placing her lips on yours, her arms finding their place around your neck. Your hands instinctively reached for her hips, pulling her closer towards you. The kiss was heated, almost desperate. When you pulled back for air, your lips found her neck, lightly kissing and biting her soft skin. She grinded on you, and that’s when you acknowledged your growing erection, uncomfortably tight in your pants. You groaned as she pulled away.
Looking around, you noticed everyone had started to dissipate, the party coming to an end. She tilted your head towards hers. “Let’s take this to my dorm; my roommate is sleeping with her boyfriend tonight.”
You nodded and followed her out, passing by Gunter, who smiled as you passed, saying his goodbyes. Making it outside, you noticed the rugby team speaking amongst themselves. You passed beside them, waving goodbye and noticing how Sebas and Roque stared as you walked away.
Fatima’s dorm was dimly lit, and you laid on her bed, her on top of you, your clothes long forgotten by the door. Your lips didn't leave hers as you fucked, your groans and her occasional gasps filled the room, along with the smell of sex. You felt her reach climax, and not long after, yours came too. You took off the condom, tying a knot and throwing it away.
You walked to her window, opened it, and lit up a cigarette you had managed to get at the party. You'd have to ask around to know if someone sold them. The familiar bitter taste filled your mouth, and you exhaled with a sigh. Two hands wrapped around your naked torso.
“I'm not looking for anything serious.” Fatima said hesitantly.
The wave of relief that washed over you was inexplicable. You chuckled lowly, almost a grumble. “I'm not looking for anything serious either, Fatima. But if you ever need to take the edge off, don't hesitate to call me.”
“I will, no doubt about it.” She let go of you and layed on her bed, you were left there, with your thoughts. For the first day, it was a success to say the least, but you still couldn't shake the feeling of uneasiness when you thought about Roque's demeanor the whole night.
You finished your cigarette and joined Fatima in bed, wandering off into dreamland.
Summary: Life at HPC has had its unexpected twists and turns for (Y/N) (L/N), but it gradually takes on unsteady, foreign waters when secrets are revealed and romance blossoms.
Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader
CW/TW for series: Typical Olympo warnings, implied/unspecified mental illnesses, implied ED and downsides to extreme athleticism, homophobia, violence, mentions doping (performance enhancing drugs)
I know nothing about sports so bear with me. While ik some of the fandom view Sebas as bi, he reads more comphet to me so I've written him as such.
~~~
At Pirineos Center of High Performance, everyone woke up just a few minutes before the sun itself peeked over the forested mountains surrounding the school like clockwork.
If you were to enter one of the dorm rooms at five in the morning, you'd find the athletes doing their morning stretches to prepare for a long day of training, showering and slipping into their sports wear or swimsuits, and stuffing whatever they needed into their bags before they headed off to eat a hearty breakfast in the cafeteria and meet up with their teammates.
(Y/N)'s mornings were rarely any different. He woke up right when the midnight blue of the early morning sky began to lighten into lighter blues and soft purples, followed by the reddish-orange hues of the sun rising. He'd take a minute or two to stare up at the tall ceiling each morning, feeling weightless and hollow, a ghost trying to come back to life.
His dormmate, Omar, would wake up right when he slipped out of the bathroom, already dressed in one of his many basketball shorts and a random jacket thrown on, usually his plain black one, or the navy blue one with the HPC logo in white across the chest.
While Omar used the bathroom, he'd do a few stretches consisting of shoulder rolls, torso twists, and arm circles before he stuffed his things into his duffel bag and swung it over his shoulder.
By the time the clock struck six-fifteen, the hallways were erupting with life from every corner, with students wandering the halls in search of their friends or hauling their gear and equipment to their designated training areas before they found their way into the cafeteria.
It was then that (Y/N) parted ways with Omar and strolled over to one of the tables occupied by familiar faces.
"My man!" Cristian greeted him with one of his typical bright, preppy smiles that made crinkles appear around the corners of his dark, hazelish green eyes.
Immediately, Cristian pressed his body into Roque's side, forcing the rugby captain to finish stuffing his cheeks full of the remainder of his breakfast burrito before he scooted further down the bench and dragged his tray along with him.
With a satisfied hum, Cristian patted the spot on the bench beside him and watched (Y/N) take up the space with a pleased smile. Roque grunted a greeting at him, his mouth too full to form proper words, and attempted to chew a little faster.
"And Amaia?" (Y/N) stuck his spoon into his bowl of greek yogurt and stirred it around, watching the sliced strawberries, honey, and bits of sticky granola mix together with the creamy yogurt. "Is she in the pool already?"
He knew the answer.
Anyone who had the pleasure of meeting Amaia Olaberria would've known the answer, because Amaia wouldn't be Amaia if she weren't spending every possible waking moment in the damn pool. She was constantly swimming, constantly practicing, constantly itching to get back in the water whenever she was out of it.
She would swim until her fingers became pruney, until her hair grew brittle from constant exposure to the chlorine, until the lights were turned off and the staff were ready to haul her to her dorm.
Nobody could take Amaia out of the water, not even her boyfriend.
Cristian's smile fell into a tight-lipped one, and he gave the little exhale of a defeated man. "You know it. I told her she should eat first, but she swore she wasn't hungry yet."
"She's like the husband who works nine to five and you're the pitiful housewife," (Y/N) said after a spoonful, his mouth curling up into a half-mocking, half-teasing smirk. Cristian lightly kicked his ankle beneath the table. "What? It's true. You're her little pet, following her around aimlessly and whining for attention. I respect your commitment to being the pathetic, pretty boy toy, Cris. I can't blame Amaia for keeping you around with that face of yours."
Cristian propped his head up on his fist and tilted his head toward him, his smile lifting slightly, and a soft chuckle escaping him. "I love you, tío." He looped his arm around (Y/N)'s shoulder and tugged him closer, hints of sandalwood from his cologne tickling (Y/N)'s nose. "Your compliments are one of a kind." He pressed a quick kiss to the top of his head before releasing him and turning to fall into conversation with Roque.
Somewhere during the previous year, Cristian Delallave had abruptly made it his mission to befriend him. (Y/N) wasn't sure if it'd been a bet made by Roque or one of his teammates, but the blonde began springing up everywhere (Y/N) went.
He showed up at the boxing gym at random hours to cheer him on, began sitting by him during breakfast and lunch (thus forcing the rest of his friends to follow) to blabber about things (Y/N) barely understood, and hovered like a pestering mosquito during parties until (Y/N) begrudgingly accepted his presence.
(Y/N) learned many things about the younger Delallave son that year. Like, how Cristian both loved and loathed his brother; for his fame, for his rugby skills, for his unbearable talent to get under Cristian's skin with a few words and cocky smirks.
He was easy to please and entertain. He was decent at rugby, but his average skills made him insecure in a team of star athletes and envious of his brother, something he freely murmured about to (Y/N) during the quiet, melancholy moments.
Cristian was a crybaby, too. He cried when he was upset, overwhelmed, angry, or panicked. His mouth would twist up into a pinky, little pout, and his eyes would flood with unstoppable tears. It was less pathetic than (Y/N) had been expecting when he'd first seen Cristian cry. It'd been more like looking at a sad, whining little puppy waiting to be picked up and coddled. Pitiful, but endearing.
Above all else, Cristian was affectionate. It came to him as naturally as breathing. He was constantly touching his friends in one way or another, whether it was an arm slung around their shoulder, or his body leaning into their side, or his arms wrapped around them from behind. Amaia was the recipient of most of his affection as his girlfriend, which meant having to sit by and watch them shove their tongues down each other's throats until they were content.
With Cristian came his group of friends, which (Y/N) quickly learned were all a package deal: Roque Pérez, the captain of the rugby team Cristian was in and his dormmate; his girlfriend, Amaia, captain of the synchro team; and Amaia's dormmate and best friend, Núria Bórges, another synchro swimmer.
While Roque and Amaia had been less forthcoming about the new friendship, Nunu adjusted with ease, and after a month of becoming the last piece to the puzzle that was their friend group, he gave dating at HPC a try for the first time in the three years he'd been there. The relationship crumbled within days, though it hadn't been for lack of trying.
(Y/N) shoved another spoonful in his mouth and scanned the cafeteria, no longer bothered or annoyed when he felt Cristian's calf press against his. Sometimes, it felt weird when Cristian wasn't all over him. It was grounding, somewhat, like he was the anchor to all their ships, keeping them from drifting too far.
There were still athletes coming and going through the doors of the cafeteria, either having finished their breakfast and wanting to get a jump start on training or having already done some mild warmups before finally stopping by to grab some food and catch up with their friends. Most athletes hung around their teammates; it was simpler that way. Your teammates were more likely to understand you than someone from a different sport.
Some sports were looked down on more than others, too, like the cyclists who huddled together that Amaia enjoyed muttering about because all they seemed to do was ride the trails, hog the exercise bikes, and act like every other sport was out to get them. (Y/N) liked bothering them. It was fun watching them get all riled up over riding a bike.
Plenty of the rugby team lingered around them, laughing and pushing and occasionally calling out to Cristian or Roque with inside jokes and terms (Y/N) couldn't understand. Charlie passed by their table with a wide grin, nodding to Cristian and Roque before extending his fist out to (Y/N) in greeting.
Behind him trailed his shadow, otherwise known as Sebas, who had the common sense to keep his arms at his side and curl his lip in a wince when (Y/N) held Charlie's gaze in a glare.
"Good morning to you, too, (Y/N)." Charlie, unfazed as always with the usual rejection, dropped his arm and took a seat at the nearby table.
Sebas remained standing, his dark eyes gliding from Charlie back to (Y/N), his lips pressing together as if he wanted to say something. (Y/N) watched him for a beat longer, waiting for something, since all Sebas seemed to do around him was stand and stare, but when arms wrapped around (Y/N)'s shoulders from behind, Sebas stepped back and took the spot beside Charlie.
"Did you guys miss me?"
Even if she hadn't spoken, (Y/N) knew that cherry and cinnamon perfume smell anywhere. He'd been the one to buy it for her as a birthday gift, and halfway a 'sorry-our-relationship-fell-apart' gift. Nunu gushed about the blush pink perfume whenever someone mentioned the smell, and she wore it with pride. (Y/N) didn't hand out gifts to just anyone.
Predictably, Cristian looked the most thrilled by Nunu's return, twisting around at the sound of her voice and extending his arms out for a tight hug that left (Y/N) smushed between their bodies. Nunu pulled back, a soft, excited squeal rushing past her lips when she went to hug Roque. She still had her backpack slung over her shoulder, the uninjured one, meaning she'd only recently arrived back at the center.
"How are you?" Roque asked, his hands gently cupping Nunu's elbows, as if she were fragile. It was humorous, the difference in size. Roque was tall, well-muscled, practically thick everywhere. Nunu looked like a child when she stood next to him, all big, wide eyes and giggly voice. "The shoulder?"
"I'm good, I'm fine," Nunu assured them with a little laugh, flicking her wrist to wave them off. She, like Cristian, never took things too seriously, even their respective sports. It grinded on Amaia's nerves. It left (Y/N) wondering how they were still at HPC. "I'm feeling better. Amaia?"
The answer came from three different, echoing voices: "Pool."
Nunu nodded, her smile a little wider with anticipation, and she swooped down to plant a kiss on (Y/N)'s temple as she walked by, her step quickening to reunite with her true soulmate. (Y/N) watched her walk away, and when he looked back at the guys, Cristian was already watching him with a grin.
Cristian loved gossip the way retired elderly women who had nothing better to do did in their big, boring suburban neighborhoods. He ate it up, gasping and giggling and eager to hear more.
"Did you two text while she was away?" He wiggled his brows, almost hopeful.
"No." Cristian's face fell into disappointment. He'd been partial to playing matchmaker and felt pretty proud when the relationship blossomed. "There are better things to worry about than a bad shoulder."
Cristian blew a raspberry, and he bumped his shoulder against (Y/N)'s. "Everyone knows you and Amaia will be the first ones to get the Olympo sponsorships. You're the best boxer Gonzalo has."
"He'll be the only boxer Gonzalo has if he keeps sending the others to the infirmary." Roque leaned around Cristian as he spoke, his brows lifting in an almost scolding way as he stretched out his hand and wiggled his fingers. "Your knuckles?"
Cristian's warm hands wrapped around (Y/N)'s, momentarily forcing him to release his spoon, and dragged his arm across the table so he and Roque could prod at the knuckle bandages he wore like rings. (Y/N) let them fuss, considering it was their favorite activity to do each morning and each evening, even while sporting bruises and sprained ankles or sore shoulders from time on the field.
They hemmed and hawed over his hand like a pair of worried parents for a couple of seconds, gently poking and muttering, while he used the other hand to finish the rest of his breakfast.
Once they were satisfied with their fussing and his lack of great injury, Cristian released his hand and gathered the trash onto his tray before stacking it on top of the other two and standing up.
Once his body rose off the bench and toward the nearest trash can, Roque took up the space by sliding across the bench and slinging one muscular arm around his shoulders. Eyes flickered toward them instantly, studying and watching intently, searching for anything vaguely romantic to gossip about. They looked away sharply when (Y/N) spotted them.
Roque and Cristian could be as affectionate as they wanted. Cristian was completely obsessed with Amaia, and women in general, so no one batted an eye when they were all over each other, hugging and clinging with dramatic words of love. It was a different story with (Y/N); the school tolerated their sexualities as long as it wasn't obvious.
People teased Roque about it more, but he took it in stride, viewing them as light-hearted jests or uneducated but well-meaning questions. They'd tried it with (Y/N) back when he casually confirmed to Cristian he was into women, men, and everyone in between, within the earshot of multiple other athletes.
Alejandro Boleo made one comment, something about who did the bending between him and Roque, and nearly vomited his lunch when (Y/N)'s fist slammed into his gut. That was the end of anyone saying anything remotely offensive to his face.
"What do you want?" (Y/N) asked with a theatrical sigh, reaching down to his duffel bag and retrieving a bottle of water that he drank until it was halfway empty.
Roque smiled at him, all teeth and laugh lines. He pulled him in the slightest bit, his head tilting toward his ear, close enough that his breath felt hot against his skin. "He's watching." He purred, thrilled excitement slipping into his voice and his arm lightly shaking (Y/N)'s shoulders. "He always gets jealous when we hang out."
(Y/N) swiped his tongue over his lips, not bothering to turn around to glance at the object of Roque's latest attraction, considering he constantly heard all about Diego Sorokov, his dazzling blue eyes, and how good he was in bed.
"Yeah, too bad he doesn't like you enough to be with you." Roque's smile fell, and his adams apple bobbed with a dry swallow. "He's ugly, anyway. He looks like those creatures from that show with dragons."
Roque guffawed. "The white walkers?!" His head tilted back with laughter, one hand slamming on the table and the other shoving his shoulder. "No, he doesn't. He's cute. His eyes-"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, blue like the sky, I know. They're penetrable." (Y/N) finished his bottle in another swing and planted his feet firmly on the floor to stand up. "They're big and bright, and he looks like the freaky elf from Harry Potter-" Roque slapped his hand over his mouth to contain his laughter. "Seriously, Roque, what do you even see in him?"
(Y/N) felt two pairs of eyes on him when he left the table and tossed the bottle in the recycling bin. There was, predictably, Diego Sorokov with his frown and his light, piercing eyes. Amaia's eyes were like diamonds, pretty and sparkling, but cold. Nunu's were blue like the deep ocean and just as calming as rolling waves.
Diego's eyes were a boring shade of blue that matched his equally plain, pale face and shitty blond buzzcut. (Y/N) wouldn't be able to pluck him from a crowd; he was that unremarkable.
Then there was Sebas and his hobby of people watching, though (Y/N) was beginning to suspect the only person Sebas actually watched was him. Roque liked to tease that maybe he made Sebas question his sexuality; Cristian thought Sebas simply idolized him and his reputation.
Sebas turned his head forward the second their eyes met, his lips pursing in the sheepish manner of someone who'd been caught, and his gaze dropped to stare at the table as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.
"(Y/N)! Get over here!"
Tearing his eyes off the rugby player, (Y/N) turned his attention to Cristian, the girls, and the new face standing by them. His eyes roved over the new girl, and she mimicked his actions, a hint defensive and a hint flirtatious.
She was slim, long-legged, and with an air of general indifference to everything around her. She wore casual clothing, with her pants slightly sagging, but nothing that could tell him what her sport was. With those legs of hers, though, he assumed something with running.
"Who's the stray?"
Nunu shot him a look. "This is Zoe. She's a heptathlete. Zoe, this is (Y/N). Don't mind him; he acts like an ass, but he's a big softie at heart."
"Encantada." Zoe leaned in, pressing both cheeks to his in greeting, her palm notably sliding along his clothed arm and feeling the muscle beneath. Her eyes flickered over his figure once more. "Let me guess," She sucked her teeth and playfully squinted, pretending to give it some thought. "Mm, my first instinct was basketball, but," She reached down to grab his hand and look over the knuckle bandages. "Either a boxer or someone who likes to fight."
A little puff of air left him in amusement, and he stepped toward Amaia when she tugged on the sleeve of his jacket. He angled his head so she could peck his cheek in greeting, and he flicked the ends of her still-wet hair in her face. She huffed at him and slumped further in Cristian's arms. "Both, actually."
"Ah, a bad boy, huh?"
"His daddy's rich, so he gets away with everything." Roque teased, his arm slipping around (Y/N)'s middle and chin coming to rest over his shoulder. (Y/N) lifted his other shoulder in an aloof half-shrug. "He could set the dorms on fire, and Isabel would find some reason not to blame him." Roque pulled him further against his sturdy chest, until they were copying Cristian and Amaia's gooey-dooey couple's embrace.
Zoe hummed, slightly bitter. "Must be nice-"
"Hey, you!" One of the cyclists called out, her eyes locked firmly on Zoe, who suddenly looked a whole lot more uncomfortable. She folded her arms over her chest and took small, slow steps toward Zoe, her hips swaying and brows lifting in mild offense. "You're not going to say hi or anything? Vale, I see you're feeling yourself because of that record."
"Jennifer." Zoe smiled, that type of smile someone only gets when they awkwardly reunite with an ex. (Y/N) exchanged an amused glance with Amaia and almost snorted at the wide-eyed intrigue on Cristian's face. "What are you doing here?"
"No, my love, the question isn't what I'm doing here." Jennifer shook her head, the ends of her bob brushing along her shoulders, and her eyes hardened once she stopped in front of Zoe. "The question is, what are you doing here?"
They stared at each other for a beat longer before Jennifer brushed past her to join her friends. Immediately, the others pounced, firing off questions about the 'record' and what it meant for Zoe. (Y/N) couldn't say he was surprised; she'd joined toward the middle of the year, which meant she had to have done something worthy of being noticed recently.
Zoe seemed more burdened than proud of whatever record she'd managed to break, her shoulders slightly sagging and her smile not quite reaching her eyes.
(Y/N) felt a hand slap his arm and turned his head, noticing Omar joining the other students hurrying down one of the corridors. "Cris, when are the three musketeers supposed to get here?" He questioned, peeling himself from Roque's chest to grab his duffel bag from the floor and sling it over his shoulder.
Roque spared no time in rushing down the corridor with everyone else on his heels, his broad frame pushing its way through the crowd of students standing on the skybridge, allowing the others to follow as if he were parting the Red Sea for them.
There was excited muttering and eager exchanges amongst those gathered to watch the three distinct cars of the Olympo recruits pull into the parking spots below, bringing with them a chance to be sponsored and reap the rewards.
There was Iker Delallave, Cristian's older brother and retired rugby player, with his shiny, long, shoulder-length brown hair he often tied back into an obnoxious manbun, stepping out of his equally shiny, bright green sports car and waving to those watching with a confident, boyish grin.
Jana Castro, the only woman amongst the three recruits, strode past him and forced his arm down without so much as a glance. (Y/N) had never seen her look remotely happy, only condescending or intrigued.
Then, lastly, Hugo Teixeira, the man who charmed girls with a smile and murmured words in a velvety voice. He wore a fine, expensive suit the color of smoke and took a look at his surroundings before raising his head toward the skybridge. Girls immediately giggled.
(Y/N) tugged his phone free from the pocket of his jacket to check the time. "Now that the three musketeers are here, Gonzalo will be on my ass if I'm late." He gave a heavy sigh, adjusting his bag over his shoulder.
Cristian spared Zoe a glance. "(Y/N) doesn't need the money or the all-expenses-paid trips or pre-bought gear when his dad can just snap his fingers and get it done for him." He grinned at (Y/N). They both knew fully well it was the same case for him with a brother like Iker, no matter how much the two grinded each other's gears. "Plus, (Y/N) thinks he's too good for Olympo."
"I'm too good for anyone." (Y/N) corrected, his mouth curling upward into that smug, so-called 'asshole' smirk that Nunu always rolled her eyes at. It allegedly reeked of superiority, but (Y/N) simply was. Zoe arched a brow at him. "I'm a luxury few can afford, sweetheart, but you guys have fun kissing ass and licking boots for the has-beens, yeah? It'll make them feel relevant again."
Roque and Cristian laughed, Nunu shook her head disapprovingly, and Amaia simply flipped him off without looking at him. Sliding his hands into the pockets of his jacket, (Y/N) leaned in toward Zoe.
"Good luck on your first day, Zoe. We'll see if you have what it takes, or if you're just another hopeless nobody who had a stroke of luck. I hope it's the former; we have far too many of the latter." Zoe looked a whole lot less amused by him.
"(Y/N)," Nunu called, her voice bordering on lecturing. She raised her brows at him, like his mother would when she caught him doing something she disliked, and he offered a flimsy look of innocence in response. "Leave her alone, and get going before Coach Gonzalo gets mad, okay?"
Cristian raised a hand to point at him. "And stay out of trouble."
The arrival of the Olympo recruits had invigorated everyone and snapped those who'd been falling behind out of their dazes. It was the encouragement many needed, especially with plenty of championships coming up that could make or break their careers if they were chosen.
(Y/N) didn't see the point in fighting for a sponsorship; plenty of HPC athletes became known internationally, and some, like his mother, even made it to the Olympics without Olympo.
But if having to deal with the recruits meant finally having some real practice, (Y/N) was more than willing to put up with them and their patronizing stares.
As the name suggested, the HPC Boxing Gym was the area designated for the boxers of the school to practice, warm up, spar, and when the time came, it served as the location for the federation to come and watch them.
Occasionally, when the main gym grew too packed or too hectic in the evenings after everyone's training wrapped up, some people would wander into the gym to use the weights, dumbbells, or jump ropes. Sometimes, if they were bored, they'd make use of the punching bags, and (Y/N) would watch in amusement when they inevitably sprained their wrists or bruised their knuckles.
Like most of the school, the gym was primarily made up of tall glass panels and off white-painted concrete walls, providing plenty of natural light and the perfect serenity to get the air suckerpunched out of your lungs in front of your peers.
HPC leaned heavily into modernism, and they were constantly on top of the latest technology that could help better their athletes. It left most of the buildings looking like eyesores amongst the nature around them.
In the center of the gym stood the largest of the boxing rings, the one Gonzalo primarily used to watch performances and decide what needed more work and who needed more one-on-one time. There were two smaller rings toward the back that others could use to practice with each other or give each other pointers, more commonly used for warm-up spars. Along the walls were rows of varying punching bags, weight machines, a water station, and a first aid station.
(Y/N) dropped his duffel bag off by one of the benches and unzipped his jacket, his attention focused on the center ring where Yaz went against one of the newer girls. It was a test, one that the new girl was unknowingly taking.
(Y/N) worked with Gonzalo long enough to pick up on his habits and predict his decision-making. Newbies were paired up with three types of athletes: the bottom of the class, the class average, and one of the best students. It was Gonzalo's way of seeing how good the newbies were, and if they were even worth HPC.
Out of all the girls, Yaz was the best. She was shorter and skinnier than the other girls, but her figure allowed her to be nimble on her feet. She could dart from one side of the ring to the next, and before her opponent could process where she was, her glove was already connecting with their face.
She was an adapter, never really holding down one particular fighting style, always adjusting to her opponent's moves. Plus, she packed a serious punch.
"The Olympo recruiters are here, Gonz," (Y/N) mentioned as he tugged the hand wraps free from his bag, his eyes flickering between his coach and Yaz as she began to quicken her punches until they were overwhelming. Her opponent blocked most of the punches, but she kept staggering backward until she tripped over her own feet. "I'm sure they'll be coming around soon enough."
"I can't wait," Gonzalo murmured sarcastically, and he raised his hand to put an end to the new girl's beatdown. "What do we think about the sponsorships? They've got everyone riled up this morning." His fingers rubbed against the graying stubble along his sharp jawline, his mouth drawn into a line, almost bored but thoughtful.
"Iker's probably going to pick a rugby player so he can have a new mini-me. Jana or Hugo might go for Amaia. She's the best synchronized swimmer, and she's worked hard enough for everyone to be mentioning her. That'll leave one sponsorship... and I don't really give a shit about that." (Y/N) flashed a grin, and Gonzalo sighed. "Adrian might get the last one. He's good, quick, been here long enough to deserve it."
Gonzalo pursed his lips. "Mm."
Gonzalo Valderas was probably one of the best coaches the school had to offer, in (Y/N)'s less-than-humble opinion. A two-time Olympic bronze medalist, he had a steady career for most of his twenties and early thirties, until a rough shoulder dislocation prompted him to retire, for his physical health and the sake of his family.
He began coaching afterward, and then after half a decade of producing champions, he was offered a job at the best center in the country. (Y/N) wanted to be him one day. He'd just be a gold medalist instead of bronze.
"Get those wraps and gloves on, (Y/N)," Gonzalo said, his attention falling away from the girls climbing out of the ring and onto the three familiar figures walking into the gym. "I want you and Adrian in the ring. Show them what you've got."
(Y/N) and Adrian entering the ring was always something of a spectacle, but not in a 'watch-and-learn' type of way. It was more like gathering around to watch a hound go after a fox. The hound was strong and fast, all snapping jaws and primal violence, but the fox was sly and swifter, weaving and dodging until the hound grew tired. It was always anyone's bet as to who would win, or if they'd tire each other out enough to call it a day.
People liked to say fighting Adrian was fighting to win, but fighting (Y/N) was fighting to survive.
The recruits remained toward the entrance of the gym, their backs against the wall and their hands in their pockets, exuding an air of indifference and casualness. It was meant to agitate, to push them into doing something impressive or trying harder to get a reaction. Adrian glanced at them, his torquise blue mouth guard briefly flashing when he adjusted it with his bottom teeth.
"Try not to kill each other."
Instinctively, (Y/N) got into position: feet apart, body at an angle, knees loose but not bent, one glove up to his jaw and the other a few inches from his face. He'd sparred with Adrian enough times to know where to strike, when to defend, what punches he usually threw, but they got stronger every day, and sometimes people liked to switch things up. (Y/N) took in a deep breath and held it until Gonzalo blew on his whistle.
Adrian went on the defensive, hoisting up his arms to block the jabs to his face, but he was too slow to step back when (Y/N) did a slip and throw, shifting his weight to one side and hitting him right in his lower body. Adrian grunted and staggered back slightly, though he wasted no time in returning the favor with a quick hook to (Y/N)'s jaw. (Y/N) took it, the pumping adrenaline overriding and dulling any pain he would've normally felt.
(Y/N) loved boxing for many reasons, but primarily because it allowed him to blow off steam and hit someone without risking trouble, and he could let his mind rely on instinct. Each punch he threw, he put more force into it, more strength, more weight, until he was hitting like he wanted to do real, long-lasting damage. It was fun. It was better than a high.
Any chatter in the room ceased, leaving only the barely audible muttering of the recruiters when they exchanged opinions or comments. The silence was otherwise filled with grunts, heaves, the sound of the gloves hitting skin, and their footsteps when they stepped back or forward.
Gonzalo watched them with that same, unreadable expression of his, but his eyes flickered to the recruiters every so often. Sponsorships weren't just for the athletes; they were a compliment to the coaches for a job well done.
If Gonzalo wanted to impress, (Y/N) would happily oblige him. Adrian was good, but mornings were his weakness. Not a morning went by that he wasn't tired from a night spent with his girlfriend or multiple bottles of beer, sometimes both. He was a little sluggish, a sluggishness that would've been gone by early afternoon, and one (Y/N) took advantage of.
He ramped up the speed of his hits until Adrian was stepping back more than usual, his elbows rising and dropping in a desperate attempt to block whilst he waited for an opening. When he stumbled, losing his footing for just a fleeting second, (Y/N) went in with a bolo punch right in his midsection.
Adrian let out a strangled grunt, nearly choking on his breath, and fell right on his ass with a cringe. He spat out his mouth guard and slumped onto his back with a tired, annoyed little pout. Adrian had always been a good sport, more focused on his shortcomings than being bitter.
(Y/N) let out a breathless laugh and immediately felt a familiar, subtle throb in his side. Bruises lasted longer with him; he never let them heal properly without first making them worse. He ignored the sting of pain and approached the ropes, ducking beneath one and hopping off the ring. He sent Gonzalo a wink, something the coach rolled his eyes at, and began peeling his gloves from his hands when he noticed the figure clad fully in white approaching.
Jana smiled at him, a tight-lipped, corners of her mouth barely up smile that didn't quite meet her rather blank eyes. "(Y/N)," She said, a sigh at the end of his name, like it was tiresome just to say it. "How's your mother, hm? I haven't seen her in what feels like forever."
"You mean since my father chose her over you?" (Y/N) cocked his head to the side, another laugh tumbling free from his mouth. Jana forced a chuckle and then sucked on her teeth. "It's funny, isn't it, Jana? She got my father, you got... whoever. She got silver, you got bronze. She's always happy, and you're always... you."
Jana's smile became ever more tight. "You are... so different from your parents, (Y/N). It's a good thing you're here, boxing. It's a shame you'll likely end up in prison in the coming years, cariño." Jana placed her hand over his sweaty forearm and immediately removed it with a crinkled nose. "Say hi to your mother for me."
(Y/N) waited until she turned around to say, "Will do. I'm sure she'll have a good laugh about it, Jana."
Jana whipped her head around to shoot him a glare, her nose all scrunched up and mouth in a downward line. She looked forward again, adjusting the coat of her suit, and left her heels to click-click-click away until she left the gym with Iker and Hugo to judge and consider another sport. All bark, no bite, his mother used to say about Jana; her friends had to do all the biting for her.
"Do you have to make an enemy out of everyone you meet?" Adrian asked, a little teasing, a little genuine, as he stuck his legs beneath the bottom rope and swung his legs a little. Bruises were beginning to form, ones that would be soothed away by the ice pack Yaz got for him. He pressed it to his midsection and winced when he breathed in. "I mean, come on, tío. You're like the neighborhood dog that keeps barking and scaring the kids."
"And nobody ever dares to come near the house." (Y/N) ghosted his finger over the sore skin above his hip. "Only those bold enough to enter are worth it."
"Inspirational. You should write poems."
(Y/N) couldn't help but chuckle, a little droplet of sweat rolling down his temple. "Fuck off." He said over his shoulder, his ears picking up the faint buzz of his phone persistently going off in his jacket. He dug through one pocket before searching the other and tapping the screen to look at the messages.
Cris
Pick up ur phone
Cris
Come to the field
Cris
Please
(Y/N) swiped his tongue over his lips and peered over his shoulder in search of Gonzalo. He found the coach correcting the stance of the new girl who'd been beaten by Yaz, demonstrating a stance better suited for her fighting style and size.
Usually, he'd ignore his phone throughout training, unless he was bored out of his mind, but Cristian never bothered him unless he deemed it important. (Y/N) dug his teeth into the inside of his cheek.
Cris had been bold enough to enter the house, despite the warning signs and barking dog. He deserved a little compassion.
Somewhat reluctantly, (Y/N) stuck his arms through the sleeves of his jacket, leaving it unzipped for the sake of his heated body. He stuffed his phone back in his pocket and approached the glass double doors, his head tilting back to spy Gonzalo from the corner of his eye.
"I'm going to the bathroom!" He called, waiting for Gonzalo to flick his wrist in acknowledgment before he slipped out of the gym.
There were a couple of sports fields on the property: one for rugby, one for track-related sports, one for fútbol, and a ballpark for baseball. (Y/N) knew the shortest route to take to get to the pitch; it'd been a route Roque and Cristian dragged him down when they wanted him to see them in their full glory. Full glory meant seeing Roque prove why he was captain, and wondering how Cristian managed to get into the school.
The rugby players were still on the field, playing and practicing, which meant it wasn't an injury emergency; otherwise, they would've looked a whole lot more tense.
Roque joined him on the climb up to the stands, his mouth tugged into a grim line. Further down the stands was a lonesome-looking Cristian with his knees close to his chest and his features scrunched up.
"What's he crying about now?"
Roque grimaced. "Javier is kicking him off the team, (Y/N). He's going to have to leave HPC."
In a sight all too familiar and common, Cristian sat on the stands with quivering lips and teary eyes, his brows together in a way that made him look more boy than man. (Y/N) stared at him, unable to do anything but slowly sit down beside him and bring a hand to his back in slow, robotic circles.
Comforting other people had never been his strong suit. Cristian and Nunu were experts at it with their soothing voices and sweet words.
Cristian sniffled, roughly rubbing at his cheeks until his skin turned a reddish pink. His head turned on a swivel as he looked between the two, obviously wishing for a distraction rather than a discussion on his failures.
"How was practice? I love this open jacket, everything on display look you've got going on, (Y/N). Did you go see Diego, Roque? Are you mad at him?" Cristian spouted question after question, and then tenderly brought his fingers to (Y/N)'s jaw to inspect the spotting there from Adrian's hit.
"Well..." Roque cleared his throat. "A little. We took a picture, and I wanted to post it, but he didn't, and... yeah, that's it. I think, uh, (Y/N)'s right about him. He doesn't like me enough to be with me. I mean, the only time I want to show off our relationship and-"
"Isn't that asshole always posting random shit?" Cristian sniffled again, more softly, and the tears in his eyes began to dry up. "In that case, no more dick for him, right?" (Y/N) snorted, and Roque's shoulders shook with a soft chuckle. "I'm just saying! It's my humble opinion."
(Y/N) leaned forward to rest his arms along the top of his knees and looked around Cristian to peer at Roque. "And the picture? What, was it you two in bed or something?"
"I mean," Roque dug into the pocket of his shorts to take out his phone. "Sort of. We, uh, hooked up in the storage room."
Roque typed in his passcode and turned the phone around to show them the screen. The picture was of him and Diego sitting on the floor of the storage room, covered in what looked like protein powder that had fallen over on them.
The picture would've looked fine, platonic even, had it not been for their bare, sweaty chests and flushed faces. (Y/N)'s eyes dropped to the post button on the corner of the screen that looked the slightest bit tempting to press.
"You guys look good together.. but doesn't it piss you off?" Cristian asked, his hand wrapping around Roque's wrist to keep it still while he studied the photo. "Hooking up with someone and having to make sure nobody finds out? Dude, I'd be going nuts."
"Hooking up in secret is fine." (Y/N) shrugged and turned his attention back out onto the field, his gaze surveying over the players doing different drills like tackling and working on their speed. "But a secret relationship? Why the hell would I be with someone who obviously doesn't want me enough to be proud of us? That's bullshit. It's not love."
"A ver, I can understand it, somewhat. For some people, the cost is a little greater, and some sports are a little behind in the times." Roque turned to look at them, his eyes jumping between them in a sort of assuring way. "I've never had problems here at HPC."
(Y/N) made a face. "Tío, that's because they'll never say it to your face. You're the captain of the rugby team."
"I can tell you you'll never see that guy-" Cristian pointed a finger at Sebas, who was down on the field repeatedly practicing his tackles with Coach Javier. He'd jog backward, get into position, then sprint forward to tackle the crimson red contact pad with a little more force each time. "-at a pride parade."
"You think?" Roque's mouth curled into a knowing smirk, and he leaned sideways to bump shoulders with Cristian, his eyes crinkling with delight as if he were about to spill a little secret. "You should know, I see things your straight-guy eyes can't... and I've seen Sebas stare at (YN) like he's in a desert and (Y/N)'s an oasis plenty of times."
Cristian's head whipped around to stare at (Y/N), wide-eyed at the revelation, but (Y/N) only hummed, vaguely disinterested. "Well, who doesn't? The girls, the guys, the teachers, they all look at me like that." Cristian groaned, his eyes rolling but lips tugging into an amused smile. "Además, Sebas is the type of guy who'll marry whichever stupid girl his daddy picks for him and pretend he enjoys his loveless marriage until he grows old and bitter."
"Oh, come on, Sebas is.. nice." (Y/N) arched an unimpressed brow at Roque's words, because anyone willing to seek out Charlie Lago's company couldn't be a nice person, let alone a smart one. He felt Cristian bump his knee against his, and found his eyes locked on Roque's phone when he glanced at him. "You should talk to him, see what's up with him. Who knows, maybe-"
Before Roque could finish his sentence, Cristian snatched his phone right from his hand and shot up from his seat. (Y/N) tucked his legs in long enough for Cristian to bolt down the stands before extending them to block Roque's path, forcing him to stumble to avoid tripping over them.
"No, no, no, guys!" Roque leaped over (Y/N)'s legs and gave chase, desperately calling out to Cristian.
(Y/N) stood up with a small laugh and walked after them, watching the struggle when Roque attempted to grab his phone and Cristian held him back with a hand to his chest until Cristian posted the picture with a large, satisfied grin. Diego was going to freak. Guys like Roque's little white walker always did. They liked to slap their chests and pretend to be big dogs, but tucked their tails between their legs when confronted with reality.
"Thanks," Roque grumbled, his thumb hovering over the delete button, but instead of deleting the post, he stuffed his phone back in his pocket and plopped down beside Cristian again, sitting down on one of the large concrete steps and patting the space between his open legs for (Y/N).
Once (Y/N) sat down, Roque curled his arms around him and sighed. "When are you leaving?" He asked gently, studying the side of Cristian's face with the hint of a frown.
Within seconds, Cristian's eyes threatened to flood with tears again. "Tomorrow." He answered, voice bordering on a whimper. "I tried to tell Amaia, but... she was nervous, you know."
(Y/N) barked out a laugh. "Nervous?"
To say that Amaia and (Y/N) were two peas in a pod was an understatement. Amia understood him better than anyone else ever had before. They operated on the same level: when they became overwhelmed and their brains refused to shut off, they turned toward distractions to help them ignore their problems. Their idea of the perfect distraction? Hooking up with the closest person they could find. Cristian's little grin merely confirmed it.
Wiping away a tear from the corner of his eye, Cristian sniffled, the grin slowly falling away. "Once she finishes training, I'll tell her. I can't take it anymore."
Cristian swallowed, his adams apple bobbing, and he took in a trembling breath, his palms rubbing back and forth over his thighs before he leaned down to rest his head over (Y/N)'s thighs. (Y/N) draped an arm around him, massaging his fingers into the side of Cristian's hip and feeling the blonde slowly melt against him. Roque unlaced his hands to toy with Cristian's strands, his head lowering to bump gently against (Y/N)'s.
Pairing: Tf141 x male reader? (not yet, but it is in the COD universe). This one is Gaz centric.
Author's note: part two of this. This one is pretty tame and I don't know how to feel about it. Maybe a bit ooc, but idc.
Not proofread.
When you woke up, you were tightly tied to a chair, the light that shone on your eyes blinding.
Figments of the ride there came back to mind. The back of a truck, surrounded by those men… and the pain in your leg.
The sting brought you back to reality, causing you to wince at the sharp sensation. Still dizzy, you glanced down and finally saw the culprit. The man with the bucket hat was before you, hunched over and finger in your wound.
“Finally awake.” He said bluntly.
You hissed at the pain. You tried to curse at him, but couldn't form a word, your mouth dry from being out for god knows how long.
He took his finger out of your now-open wound, wiping his glove on a towel nearby.
“You've been a pain in the ass to track… It doesn't look like you like being noticed.”
You didn't reply; you knew better than to play along.
“A man of few words, I see. I don't want to make this last longer than necessary. Who are you working for? Makarov? Kortac? The CIA? ”
They were asking if you were with the CIA? Good, at least you knew they had no affiliation with those assholes. Still, you didn't reply, only your glare through hooded eyes.
“Fine, you don't want to talk. I'll bring in the others…”
He got out of the room through a door to your left. You noticed the big window beside it. "The others" were watching for sure.
The door opened again, and this time, the guy with the Mohawk and the masked man who had grabbed your wrist came in.
The former sat in front of you, fixing you with his gaze.
“We'll ask nicely one more time. Who are you working for?” He was visibly irritated.
“I’m not working for anybody. I work alone.”
The masked man to the right grunted and walked up to you, swinging his fist to your left cheek. You fell to the floor, still tied to the chair.
“Don't play dumb. Who are you working for?”
“Fucks sake. I'm not working with anyone.”
The masked man grabbed you by the collar, bringing you up to his face.
“I said don't play with us.”
“I am not, you asshole. I'm a mercenary, I do vigilante work.”
Through the mask, the man scanned your face for any sign of deception. Nothing. The only thing he could see were your gorgeous eyes, tired from the pain and lack of sleep.
He released you and pushed himself away from you, getting out of the room.
“He doesn't seem too happy. If I were you, I would cooperate.”
You rolled your eyes at him. He sighed, got up, and left the room too.
A few days went by, a series of interrogation sessions passed, and the verdict came out: you were, in fact, working for no one, a mercenary of some sort.
That wasn't true at all, obviously, but they didn't need to know that. For the time being, you'd cooperate, see if you could gain their trust, and eventually work as a double agent. The team had caught your eye, and for more than one reason…
The older man with the bucket hat, whom you now knew as “Captain Price”, had ordered for you to be kept at watch while you recovered from your wounds.
The room they had given you was a small one, with a cot and a bathroom inside. You figured it was supposed to be for someone important, but never got to be used, given by the thin layer of dust that coated everything when you first walked in, followed by the black man with the cap, who everyone called Gaz.
Your backpack had been given back to you, and everything was inside, except your weapons and the phone. Luckily, they didn't find the SD card, which you had managed to hide.
Once you got inside, you sat on the bed and sighed. Gaz was standing near the doorway, watching you.
“What do you plan on doing with me?”
“I'm not allowed to disclose any information on that.”
You hummed and nodded. Of course he wouldn't be. You got up and started to look in your backpack for a fresh change of clothes, packed neatly for the following days, if the mission hadn't gone to shit.
“Am I allowed to take a shower at least?”
The other man nodded.
You got up and walked to the bathroom. Once inside, you noticed a towel had been provided.
“Talk about luxury.” You thought to yourself.
You stepped into the shower, letting the hot water trickle down your body, relaxing your muscles, and cleaning off the dirt and blood of the days prior.
Once clean, you got out and dried off, and put on your boxers.
You opened the door and walked to your new bed, where you had left your clothes. Noticing Gaz was still in the room, you couldn't help but smile at the situation.
You started getting dressed into your clothes, a simple t-shirt and cargos. Gaz’s glances didn't go unnoticed by you.
Come to think of it, the guy wasn't ugly, far from that. A pretty face, an attractive voice, and a body you could only imagine being sculpted by the gods.
Once changed, you sat back on your bed and glanced his way.
“What now?”
“When you're ready, I'll accompany you to get food. I've been assigned to watch you for today.”
You nodded, getting up.
“Lead the way.”
Gaz grinned. For a mercenary and potential enemy, you were quite cordial and cooperative.
He walked to the cafeteria and motioned for you to take whatever food struck your fancy. He did the same and sat in front of you.
“I'm guessing I'm not done for if you're treating me to food?” You inquired.
He chuckled.
“Not yet. You're on trial. A merc with your skills could prove useful to us.”
You grinned. So that's why they hadn't gotten rid of you yet…
“Is that so? You guys would probably pay better than any other work I've done so far.”
The meal went on with little to no further interaction, but the tension was palpable. Gaz's little glances didn't go unnoticed by you, and yours probably weren't unnoticed by him.
Once you were finished, Gaz walked you to your room.
“I'll be keeping watch, so don't try anything. Go and rest, you'll need it for tomorrow.”
"Are you not coming inside? I wouldn't mind the company."
That was bold of you. What were you thinking, you needed alone time to think of how to act next. But he was just so tempting...
Your forwardness caught him off guard. He choked up and you noticed the light red hue on his cheeks.
"I...uhm... I guess I could keep a better eye on you from inside."
You nodded, opened the door and got inside, followed by the other man. He sat on an armchair to the side while you entered the bathroom to get ready for bed.
You weren't gonna try anything, obviously. He was a trained soldier, not stupid enough to sleep with a potential threat, but you could still try to toy with him.
You undressed yourself, only leaving your boxers on, to sleep more comfortably. You got out of the bathroom and layed down on the bed.
"G'night" You said as you closed your eyes.
Gaz hummed in reply, noticing your almost naked body on the bed.
You'd try to get closer to the team, see if you could maybe work with them, and who knows, maybe even befriend them...or more.
Pairing: Tf141 x male reader? (not yet, but it is in the COD universe)
Warnings: Descriptions of pain and blood, I think that’s it.
Author's note: This is the backstory of my OC in the COD universe. I'm pretty sure I based this either on a fanfic or a c.ai bot (it was 2 years ago I don't remember) but obviously added my little twist. Hope you like it :)
Not proofread.
The streets bustled with activity, the merchants shouting out their best deals and the locals stopping here and there to look at what they were offering.
You were headed to a café where you would meet with your informant, this intel being valuable for your mission. The sun beamed brightly as you strolled down the dust-covered streets.
Once you made it to the appointed location, you took a seat, waiting for the other person. You looked around discreetly, trying to look out for them, but given the importance of the situation, you weren't given any descriptions, just a place and time.
“This better not take long.” You thought to yourself.
It was dangerous enough to be out during the day in a foreign country infested with potential enemies, but sitting casually in a cafe was the cherry on the cake. You couldn't even cover your face more than with some sunglasses, so as not to attract more attention.
You ordered a lemonade to make yourself less suspicious and waited for a while before the beverage got to you. You took a sip, and before placing it back on the table, an old woman sat before you.
“The void has eyes…” She said, and you smiled lightly, that was your ally's code, a way to make sure the others were on your side.
“...and it welcomes you with open arms.” You responded before shifting in your seat.
She nodded slightly. The veil that covered her hair and face made it impossible to distinguish any of her features.
She extended her hand and took the glass of lemonade, lifted her veil just enough, and took a sip. When she placed the glass back in front of you, she also placed a small piece of paper next to it.
You hummed as she got up and walked away. You took the paper and placed it in your pocket, noticing that a SD card had been stuck to the back of it.
You got up and walked away, speeding up your pace lightly. You took a sharp left, and that's when you saw it. The light of a sniper aimed right at you in that empty alley.
Your reflexes kicked in instantly, and you jumped to the side, behind a half wall, the bullet scraping your arm, but not quite hitting you.
“What the fuck.” You cursed under your breath, placing a hand on your bleeding forearm. “I need to make it back to the main street.”
It was just a few meters away, granted, but a sniper was aiming right at where you were. You took a deep breath, collecting your thoughts.
“If I don't make a run for it, I'm done for.” You shifted and got ready to sprint. “3, 2, 1…”
You booked it back to the main street, but noticed the sniper had disappeared, they had moved… fuck. You tried to blend in with the people, trying to make it back to your temporary house to inform hq of the situation.
You walked for about twenty meters when you saw a well-built man with a mohawk walking towards you with a not-so-friendly expression.
You were about to turn around when you heard the faint sound of something dropping a few meters away. It must've been an error on their part or just one of your allies that roamed the streets of the city.
Luckily, no civilians were harmed, but you, on the other hand, went flying straight into a wall. You collided and fell to the ground, but the chaos that ensued gave you the perfect window to run away.
You made it to some other random alley, but you could still hear footsteps behind you. You advanced before being met by a high fence.
“Climbable” You thought to yourself, but your attention was diverted towards the man behind you. A different one than before. He had a knife in his hand.
“You. You're coming with me.” He said.
You couldn't make it past him, and climbing was out of the question with him being so close… you'll have to fight.
You launched towards him, taking out your own knife. You both fell to the ground and rolled around trying to take each other out. In a moment of desperation, you managed to take the knife to his throat and pushed, successfully taking him out, but not before getting stabbed in the thigh.
You winced at the pain and shifted so you could have a better look at your thigh. That bastard had really gotten in there. You braced yourself for the pain when you took the knife into your hand and pulled it out.
On shaky legs, you got up and made your way to the fence and some crates stacked beside it. You got on top of the crates and started climbing. Once on top, you let yourself fall, dizzy from the loss of blood.
You kept going until you reached the old motel building where you were staying for the mission. Walking up the stairs, you tried to make as little noise as possible and tried not to dirty everything with your blood.
Once inside, you got on your bed and reached for your bag, taking the medkit out. You started sanitising the wound on your shoulder before patching it with gauze and a bandage.
You looked down at your leg and sighed, dreading the pain that would come in a moment. You grabbed the disinfectant again and tried to keep quiet at the sting. You then grabbed the needle and string and braced yourself.
You had done this before, so the pain was surprisingly tolerable. Once you were done, you popped some painkillers, wrapped your leg, and laid back down. Your mind wandered, chasing sleep, or at least some rest… Who were those men? Mercs? Bastards from the CIA?
As much as you'd have wanted to, calling it a day wasn't on the table; you needed to get out of there, out of the city, call for extraction or something. You got back up, ignoring the dizziness that came with the sudden movement, and took out a phone and ringed.
“Zero, this is base, do you copy?” The familiar voice echoed through the speaker.
“Hey. I've been noticed, don't know who they are… killed one, had to.”
“Shit… I'll call for evac. Go north until you reach the outskirts. They'll be waiting there.”
“Gotcha. I managed to at least get the intel.”
“Perfect.”
And just like that, the sound of static replaced the voice on the other side. You sighed and got up, getting everything you had brought, which wasn't much at all, and got ready to exit the room.
As you were about to open the door, you heard footsteps outside and looked through the peephole. Three men. Dressed like the one you had taken down. Fuck.
You backed up and looked around for your best escape plan. Windows were out of the question, and brute force wouldn't do in your condition. Hiding it is. You flung your backpack over your shoulders and walked as quietly as possible towards the bathroom, taking out your silenced pistol and hiding inside.
The door to your room flung open, and you could hear the sound of rummaging through the room. It wouldn't take long before they came for the bathroom. It was now or never. You slowly opened the door without them noticing, and aimed for the head of the first one you saw, and when they weren't looking, you eliminated him.
One down, two more to go. Another went to check on their comrade, since he wasn't responding, and before he could notice the body, he dropped to the ground, another clean shot through his skull.
The last one was quite easy, you opened the door and moved so that you had a clear angle of his head, and boom, third man down.
You left the room as quickly as you could in your poor condition and went down the old stairs. When you reached the bottom floor, you noticed 3 men speaking with the front desk lady… It was the same guy with the Mohawk, but this time, he wasn't alone. A black guy with a cap and an older man with a bucket hat and a beard were with him.
Better not to get noticed. You went to the back exit and approached the door. As you reached for the doorknob, your vision blurry from blood loss, a gloved hand grabbed your wrist.
“Where do you think you're going?”
As you looked up, a large man with a skull mask was towering over you. You looked at his uniform… SAS. Fuck. This couldn't be good. You tried to get him to let go, but his grip was unbelievably firm. You heard footsteps behind him. The three men from before.
“Trying to escape, eh, Lad? Call for a medic, we need him alive for this.” The older man with the hat spoke.
You collapsed then and there, the adrenaline rush coming to an end, exhaustion and pain catching up to you.
As a fellow chubby people lover, I’m going to project my taste onto these four.
This is inspired by someone who did this prompt but I can't find it anywhere to tag them T-T
Anyways…
No one can convince me that these men don't find chubbiness attractive, especially in a man. Like yes they like skinny twinks and muscly men (even though they see them everyday) but a bear or an otter, or just a chubby guy in general would make them go crazy.
Having that extra chubb to grip and love would be amazing, not having to worry about being too rough but also the other not being a hard mass of muscle but a soft pillow to go to at anytime… hard at the thought. And don't get me started on the love handles.
Like imagine them getting fucked by a chubby man and they're just touching and grabbing everything they can to ground themselves.
Or if they're fucking him, the way they would go crazy at the movement of the other’s body. The recoil on that ass…
And the tits?! Feral. Grabbing them whenever, sucking and titty fucking them would be their passion.
And if he's in 141 and has that muscular dad bod with strong arms and a nice belly? Nose bleeds immediately. Like yeah he goes to the gym and is in the military but he won't say no to pizza or beer.
Also the cuddle sessions with him would go crazy. They can all just lay besides (on top of) him and unwind from the mission they just had. Like imagine price has his head on his chest while Gaz and Soap are lying on his stomach and Simon is cozy on his thighs (you can't tell me Simon isn't a thigh guy). Also he for sure would be an amazing hugger.
Pairing: Matt Murdock X Male Reader X Frank Castle
Content: nsfw, implied established relationship, implied age gap?, oral, handjob
Author's note: Tumblr won't let me add "diet mountain dew" as a song so...
This is a 1000% self indulgent and ooc, but I don't really care, so enjoy...
The living room was filled with papers, empty glasses and cans scattered all over the floor of your apartment. The tension was palpable, the importance of this case weighted heavily on the three of you.
Matt was seated on a chair, deep in thought while Frank paced around murmuring to himself. You were seated on the floor flipping through the papers on the low table at the center of the living room.
"There must be something we're missing..." Matt whispered.
"We need more of those bastards to speak on what happened.” Frank cursed under his breath.
“Maybe if you hadn't killed them all, we wouldn't lack so much intel.” Matt objected.
Frank gritted his teeth.
“What are you insinuating, red?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
The punisher clenched his fist and was about to reply when you got up.
“Will you shut the fuck up already! If you're not going to be cooperative, you're free to leave. I'll be more productive without your bitching anyways.”
They both turned to look at you, walking towards the kitchen to get a glass of water.
“Who do you think you're talking to, kid?” Frank yelled from the other room.
Getting out of the kitchen and walking into the living room towards your room, you glanced towards the other two.
“I'm not doing this today. You're free to go.”
Frank was about to take a step when he felt Matt's hand on his chest, stopping him with a murmur of his name.
“Calm down, Frank. I'll go talk to him.”
Matt approached your door and knocked lightly before getting inside. Once in your room, he could feel the essence of the familiar space. You were seated at your desk, doing something on your laptop.
You looked up at him. He could sense how you were feeling. Sad. That's the best way to put it. He took another chair and sat beside you.
“Can we talk?”
“About what?” Your tone is dry.
“Look, I know you don't like when Frank and I fight. I'm sorry for that.”
“Yet you don't seem to stop.”
The words hit him like a truck. You had a point. They were almost always bickering, even though they knew you didn't like it.
“That's how we are, that's what we are. And you know we don't actually mean harm to each other…”
Bullshit, you thought to yourself. But you didn't say anything…
Your lack of answer made him uneasy. He took your hand in his and gave it a light kiss. You glanced up at him. You scoffed at the absurdity of the action and your reaction made him smile.
The door slowly creeped open, and Frank came in. He looked at the two of you, smiling slightly. He got behind you and placed his hands on your arms, caressing them slowly.
“I'm sorry darling. Didn't mean to raise my voice at you like that.”
Matt glanced up at him, still smiling.
“And I'm sorry, I didn't mean to start anything.” He interjected.
“It's okay, it's in the past now. Just don't let it happen again, you know I don't like when you guys fight.”
“No, no, no. We have to make it up to our pretty boy here.” Frank whispered.
“Seems fair… We've upset you, so we’ll make sure you're happy with us.”
You humm in contentment. Matt got on his knees in front of you while Frank continued to caress your arms.
“Is that so?” You asked in a sultry tone.
Matt had already started to unbutton your jeans while Frank took care of your shirt. He slowly took it off and he leaned down to give you a passionate kiss.
While this was happening, Matt didn't waste a second and got rid of your pants while he caressed your now exposed torso.
A low guttural moan left your lips, making Frank grin. Matt was now caressing your thighs and kissing your lower belly.
He slowly tugged at the hem of your boxers…
“Wow there cowboy, I'm not about to be the only one naked here.” You remarked.
Frank and Matt looked at eachother, and took of their shirts immediately. You smile at the sight.
“That's more like it.”
Matt continued getting your lower half undressed, exposing your member to the colder air of your room.
He started kissing the area while you and Frank continued making out.
Frank pulled away, lingering on your neck for a bit.
“Why don't we lay down…?”
“Attaboy.” Frank said.
Matt got up, starting to unbutton his own pants while you took care of Frank's, leaving them both in their boxers.
You laid down on your back, while they both kneeled in front of you. They started kissing, slightly rougher than they did with you… it was a sight for sore eyes.
You started stroking yourself, the two men in front of you still switching saliva with each other. The way their muscles clenched at each other’s touch was mesmerising.
Frank glanced at you and smirked. He loved having that effect on you. He slowly pulled away from Matt, and turned his attention to you. He started caressing your thighs while Matt climbed on the bed to kiss you.
God you loved it, the taste of his sweet lips on yours, caressing his toned body while he grinded mindlessly on you.
Meanwhile, Frank had started kissing closer and closer to your length, the sensation making you shiver in pleasure. He took you into his mouth and started swirling his tongue around your tip.
Funny to think he was this good given that he had only started sucking cock when he began hanging out with you.
He took you further into his mouth, going up and down repeatedly. Your low moans were being swallowed by Matt, who pulled away and started to kiss your neck leaving light red marks all over your collarbone and chest.
You were getting close, overwhelmed by the sensation, and you could feel Matt was hard as a rock. You pulled him aside and made Frank pull away, who was already stroking himself.
“How about we do THAT at the same time?” You say, raising an eyebrow.
His eyes gleamed with excitement at your proposal, so he got up and crawled on top of you and kissed you before rolling to the side to lay beside you, propped on the headboard. Matt did the same once he removed his boxers.
Seeming as they couldn't keep their hands to themselves, they started caressing your body and Frank started stroking your length while you kissed Matt.
You weren't any better than them, and the lust consuming your mind, you grabbed their members, already leaking with precum, and started moving your fists up and down.
The sensation was electric. Frank's mouth approached your neck, his grunts being drowned by the flesh of your neck while he left marks in the surrounding area.
You were nearing climax, and so were they. With a final groan from Frank, he came, and while you turned to kiss him, Matt and you did too.
You three laid there for a while, worn out. After a while, you kissed both of them before getting up and going to your bathroom for a towel. You came back and cleaned up before laying between them again.
Frank placed his head on your chest and Matt hugged you from the side. You rested quietly for a while before Frank spoke.
Before the comments get deleted. I do not have anything against the author, I JUST WANT THEM TO USE THE PROPER FUCKING TAGS!!!! NOTHING CHANGES IS YOU SAY
A/N: Don't like. Don't read. You really think I want to read something that makes me uncomfortable with my body on purpose? You are out of your own mind. I go to the tag description (which does not require me to read anything) and check is the male reader tag is there.
Many times tumblr messes up putting content for females in our space even without the "x male reader tag"
I AM NOT WHINING LIKE A BABY AS DON'T GIVE TWO SHITS ABOUT STRANGERS, I AM WHINING THAT YOU DO NOT RESPECT, ON PURPUSE, OUR ON COMMUNITY!!!
Chat have I gone too far?? Personal opinion?
(Now since I made my stance public, I'll be waiting to be obliterated by their fans. Surely at least one of em will be coming to my inbox to berate my mother😱) All I wanted was them to stop using the male reader tag
But alas.....ppl would do anything except respect boundaries
Pairing: Criminal!141 x Detective!Male!Reader (This part is Gaz centric with Price entering the scene soon)
This is Part 3 of this AU - Click here for part one or here for part two
Warnings: Crime, Deception, Gaz acting as a honey trap
-----
There’s something off about your new partner. Some freelance Private Investigator that the chief sent along with you for a low-level stakeout, the two of you wedged into the tight front seat of an unmarked sedan, eyes locked on a warehouse at the edge of town.
Or that’s where your eyes are supposed to be anyway. Ever since your last meeting with Johnny (he’d pitched such a fit the last time you called him by his last name that you’d all but given up on the professionalism) you’ve been virtually unable to tear your eyes away from the evidence on the flash drive he’d given you.
“Something interesting?” Kyle prompts after a long silence, leaning across the center console of the car to get a glimpse at the screen of your personal laptop where it was balanced on your lap.
You freeze, anxiety prickling at you - if anyone at the department found out you were investigating Shepherd and it got back to him you’d be fucked.
“Oooh,” he says, catching an eyeful of the bank statement you’d been examining. “Shepherd’s got some extracurriculars, does he? Always knew the bastard was sketchy.”
He turns those bright amber eyes on you and the car suddenly feels even smaller, but you’re not sure you mind anymore. Not with a guy who looks like him looking at you like that.
“You can’t tell anyone,” you say, words escaping you in a rush, not sure what else to do to salvage the situation.
He waves you off, like turning you in hadn’t even crossed his mind. “Oh, love, ‘course not.” He reaches over, runs a warm hand up your arm to smooth over your tense shoulders. Your skin tingles under his fingertips, like he’d left electricity crackling over it in his wake. “I wanna help,” he purrs, and between his looks and that tempting little glint in his eyes you think you might be willing to take any help he’d be willing to offer.
“Help how?” you croak, eyes threatening to roll back as his fingers trail down the side of your throat to settle against your chest, just over your heart.
He smiles at you, bright and pleased and satisfied, “I have an… associate… that may have some more information for you. Could even help fund the trial once you’re ready to expose Shepherd. I can set up a meeting?”
There’s something to the way he talks - that particular way he strings words together to reply to you without actually giving you any information to go off of that makes you think of Johnny. A too-aware glint in his eye that reminds you of the big masked fellow that Johnny had wheedled you into kissing. Something happening between the lines, just past your awareness, and you feel a bit like you’re being led into a trap but you’re not sure how to get yourself out of it.
“What do you get out of it?” you press, forcing yourself to remain cognizant in spite of the distracting way his fingers twist into the front of your shirt.
He pauses, like he hadn’t expected the resistance, “Shepherd getting what ‘e deserves, for one thing.” Kyle studies you then, bright eyes searching. He seems to find whatever he’d been looking for because he smiles at you, softer, fonder than before. “More time with you, for another.”
It sounds too good to be true, that this gorgeous man would be looking for an excuse to spend more time with you, but the reward - the sort of support you’d need to weed the corruption out of the department - is too valuable to risk.
“Okay,” you say, grip tightening on the edges of your laptop like you’re bracing for impact.
Kyle tugs you in by the front of your shirt, kisses you soft and swift, like he’s making a promise.
Movement catches your eye as he pulls back, the suspect you’d been waiting for.
“Shit,” you hiss, tossing the laptop aside and scrambling out of the car to race after the suspect. Unknowingly giving Gaz the chance he’d been waiting for.
-----
It’d been easy enough for Gaz to create false credentials and get himself onto a case with you, but he hadn’t been sure how he’d go about getting his hands on your phone or laptop.
He’d been lucky that you’d been working on the information Soap had slipped you on Shepherd, since that gave him the perfect opening to set you up to meet Price.
Even better though, you tearing off after that suspect gives him the opening to install the monitoring software onto your laptop.
As it finishes installing, he taps on the tiny earpiece he’s wearing to unmute it. “We’re online,” he says, a tiny smile tugging at his lips at the sound of Soap’s excited cheer. “You two were right,” he glances out the window and catches sight of the three figures watching on from a neighboring rooftop. His smile widens as his eyes drift back to you, where you’d apprehended your perp and were in the process of handcuffing them, “He will be fun.”
Pairings: Lip Gallagher X OC (could be read as male!reader), (implied) Ian Gallagher X Mickey Milkovich
Genre: typical best friend’s brother trope, questioning sexuality, mentions of alcohol and drugs, kissing
Author's note: This is intended for male readers. I’ve used my shameless OC, Rust Anderson, as the main character, but this can be viewed as an x Reader too (if you change Rust's name to yours lmao, I just don't like using y/n, sorry). I’ve added another OC of mine, whose name is Carina Flores… I also love changing characters' personalities, so sometimes they might be a bit OOC (sorry in advance).
This is supposed to be the night that was mentioned in this fic ;)
God fucking damnit, this took ages. I'm not a big fan of the ending, but oh well.
Gosh, he was perfect… The way he walked, the way he talked, the way his eyes wrinkled when he smiled. Everyone knew him, everyone liked him, the kid the Andersons had adopted, rumored to be the bastard child of some CEO from the north side. He had the heart of an angel, which was weird to see in the southside.
He could always be seen sitting next to his friend Carina Flores, another adopted orphan in the neighborhood. The duo was inseparable, having met in foster care before being adopted, him by the Andersons, her by the Flores, and luckily living in the same city. They hung out so much everyone assumed they were dating.
It was a normal Friday; he, Carina, and their two friends, Mandy Milkovich and Ian Gallagher, were hanging out during a break.
People loved talking about those four, an unlikely group, really. Two kids from “problematic” families, the token smart and pretty popular girl and the unbelievably nice child of the Andersons.
“I want to go home already…” Carina whined.
“Only two hours of torture left.” Ian replied.
Engrossed in their conversation, they didn’t hear some older guy approach them.
“Hey! We’re throwing a party tonight. We're inviting everyone, you guys should come.”
Rust turned around, looking up and down at the other boy.
“We’ll think about it, thanks for inviting us, tho.”
“Cool, hope to see you tonight.”
With that, the guy turned around and disappeared.
“Seems like we have something to look forward to tonight, then!” - Mandy exclaimed, shoving Carina’s arm slightly.
“Yeah, sounds like a plan.” Ian replied.
“We can meet at mine before… 6.30 sound good?”
“Yeah!” The other three exclaimed.
…
It was around 6 when the doorbell first rang. Rust ran down the stairs and opened it to see Carina, who was carrying a bag full of clothes to get ready.
“You sure do come prepared.” Rust said sarcastically.
They made their way to Rust’s room, which was neatly decorated with witchy and music stuff. Turning on some music, they started getting ready, up until about half an hour later, when the doorbell rang again.
Carina was putting on her makeup when Rust came back with Ian and Mandy behind him.
“Wow, you guys took this seriously!” Ian said while observing the mess in Rust’s room and the elaborate outfits they had picked out.
“Antes muerta que sencilla” (I prefer being dead than looking boring), Carina retorts.
Rust chuckles, taking out a bottle of vodka from under his pillow.
“Let's get this started then!” Rust wiggles the bottle while grinning.
“Fuck yeah!” - Ian exclaims.
They changed the music to something more lively to get into the party spirit and started taking shots.
The time to get to the party approached. It was 8h30, and the alcohol had already started working its effects.
They made their way to some warehouse the guy from before had given them. Rust and Karina were dancing around while Ian and Mandy were laughing together, seeing how excited their two friends were for the party.
Once they arrived, they noticed how lively the atmosphere was. A bunch of people were dancing, making out in the corners, talking… and the bar wasn't short of drinks.
“I could go for another drink.” Ian said, looking at the group.
“Mandy and I are going to go dance, we’ll join you guys later.” Carina said.
The guys waved them goodbye while they made their way to the makeshift bar the students had created. A guy from an upper grade greeted them.
“Oh shit! Another Gallagher. I’ve seen your brother around here somewhere.”
“Lip is here?” Rust exclaimed, raising an eyebrow.
“He did say he had something to do…” Ian replied.
“Ok then, what should I pour you guys?”
“I'll take a vodka soda, better to not mix alcohols.”
“Yeah, I'll take one too.”
The guy poured their drinks and handed them to the pair.
That's when they felt a hand on their shoulders. Turning to see who it is, they see Lip, cigarette between his lips.
“Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.” Rust exclaimed, smiling.
Ian rolled his eyes and turned fully to his brother.
“You didn't say you were coming.” Ian stated dryly.
“I didn't know you guys would be here. Why bother telling you.” He looked around. “Where are the girls?”
“Somewhere, dancing around. We were gonna join them.”
Lip looked up and down his brother's best friend's body, admiring how well he was dressed and how his clothes hugged his figure.
“I'll go with you guys, my friend ditched me for some chick. He won't be back anytime soon.”
Rust chuckled and Ian sighed. They made their way to the dance floor, where their two friends were already dancing. Rust immediately joined them, but the two brothers stayed a little behind, moving a bit awkwardly.
They couldn't help but chuckle at how their friends were commanding the attention, already having people join their circle while dancing.
Mandy had already started flirting with some guy, Carina was shining under the spotlight put on her, and Rust, well, let's just say he was a little touchy with a girl that he had started dancing with.
It was a weird feeling, but Lip felt a pang of jealousy… was it jealousy? He didn't really know, but what he did understand was that he wanted it to stop.
When he looked around, he found that Ian had disappeared, but he caught a glimpse of him walking out with someone… Was that Milkovich?
To be honest, he couldn't care less right now. He looked back at the other three, deciding to join them. There was nothing to lose, right?
As he was approaching, Rust grabbed his wrist and pulled him to the circle beside him.
Even though Rust was still dancing with a girl, this action made Lip’s heart skip a beat. And the way he was looking at him while still grinding on her. He knew what he was doing, right? He had to.
After a little while, Lip and Rust made their way to the bar again, where they ordered another round. Once they got their drink, Lip got up.
“I'm gonna go for a smoke.”
“I'll go with you, I need some fresh air.”
They got out via the back door and sat on some stacked crates not far away.
The weird intimacy of the moment made Lip's heart rate accelerate. It was rare for him to feel like this for anyone, let alone a guy. He sighed.
This made Rust smile.
“No luck with the ladies today, huh?”
“Hmm. Can't say the same about you. That girl was enamored. And the guy at the bar was almost drooling while looking at you.”
“Someone jealous?” Rust said jokingly.
He really didn't know, did he? The effect he had on people. The way everyone would feel welcome by his demeanor. The way he would be so enticing while dancing, the way he made Lip's heart rate speed up…
“No.” He said while exhaling the smoke. He handed it to Rust with a raised eyebrow.
“No thanks, I have enough with the edible Carina gave me.”
Lip chuckled.
“How… how did you know you were bi?”
Rust looked at him, raising an eyebrow, shocked by the sudden question. He didn't feel like joking around, so he answered truthfully Lip's question.
“Trust me, you know. A sudden crush on some guy you know, the urge to kiss him…”
Lip hummed.
“Why? Someone caught your eye?” Rust asked.
Lip sighed, looking at him. The alcohol had clouded his thoughts, and the weed wasn't helping his case. He leaned in and pressed his lips against Rust's.
Rust let out a muffled sound. He debated whether or not to pull back. But god, he had wanted this for so long.
When Lip pulled back, he looked at the other boy. He was scared, to say the least. What the fuck did he just do? Did he ruin one of the best friendships he had?
“I'm sorry, I got carried away. I…” Lip said.
“Lip…”
“It's just… I… I don't know what came over me. You just looked so good, and I wanted to kiss you… I'm sorry.”
“Lip, I didn't pull away, did I?”
He looked up, surprised by his response.
“Can I… do it again?”
“Bring it on.”
They made out for a while until they decided to go back inside since it was getting cold. They spent the remainder of the night dancing together. Luckily, people were too drunk to remember, and Ian was still somewhere with Mickey. Oh, and Carina and Mandy… they didn't care and were occupied with something, or rather, someone else.
this is short, male reader, implied bottom reader, peer pressure, readers 'innocent' in shameless terms, passing out, vomit mentions(i think), polyamory(im not fond of it, sorry if this isn't the absolute best), mickey is a switch and i will forever believe that, ians a stone top nothing changes that, i haven't watched shameless in a while
"fuck, quit stumblin' or else we can't carry you." mickeys voice was muffled in your ears, your eyes darting around the room trying to find someplace that didn't seem so blurry in your vision. "he would be able to walk straight enough if you weren't manhandling him."
your fingers gripped both of their shoulders, trying not to slip and fall on your face. "well things would go smoother if you let me carry him!" ian shushed him, a whine mumbling past your lips.
"throw up would be all over you mick," mickey scoffed, "you think i give a fuck? look at me, and tell me if you think there's any fucks i give." he didn't care if you threw up on him, worse substances have been all over him he could handle some puke.
"what i mean is i don't want him to throw up in general!—" ian stopped talking hearing you cough, the two trying to get you to the kitchen to get you some damn water.
"sorry.." you said, your body slouching down on the counter while your legs dangled off of it. "you're sorry?" ian came over to you, hands grabbing yours whilst mickey got some water and pills for when you were sober.
"what are you sorry for, hm?" it took a few hums, and choked words before you had gotten it out. "i..didn't mean to take it, it just.." they knew what happened. you weren't the type to drink, do drugs, or anything of the sort.
you just wanted to have fun, but in the end you got pressured into drinking more and more. way too much for a first timer on top of that.
"shh, don't apologize for that okay? we know." mickey handed you a glass with cold water, setting the pills beside you.
"hey, take these in the morning okay? you're gonna have one hell of a headache and it won't feel good." you nodded at his words, taking small sips of the water.
at least you knew if you drank too much that you would throw up, so you set it down. "im tired." they got you down, heading upstairs to get you to bed.
"here..alright, get him undressed and i'll get him some new clothes."
mickey lied you down getting your shirt off , the cold air making your body shiver. "mngh..mick? wactha doin'..?" mickey smiled a bit, the way you were so confused was just funny to him, though the situation wasn't something to smile about.
"ugh..you wanna have sex or something..?" mickey snorted, bursting out laughing shaking his head. "no— im tryna get you in some different clothes, not fuck you."
"his clothes off?" ian had come back, a different shirt in his hands and some long shorts that hopefully fit you all the way.
"yeah, give 'em." it took way longer to put the clothes on whether than it did to take the original ones off but they got you in bed without too much trouble.
"we'll be downstairs okay?" ian gave you a kiss on your forehead hand in your hair. "if you need anything just call us."
you nodded your head, saying goodnight to them as they turned off the light and shut the door.
