Supercap2319

Shipping two heroes from different comics is what I like best. Along with Bill Denbrough and Robert Gray. 26 year old Male. In a relationship with @JMMJK22

[supercap2319]

You and Archie can’t keep your hands off each other causing Archie’s Dad to intervene to the point he has bath you both of you so you don’t have shower sex.

Son's Keeper

The afternoon sun cast long shadows through the windows of the Andrews house as you and Archie stumbled through his bedroom door, lips locked in a hungry kiss. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him as you fumbled with the buttons of his flannel shirt.

"Archie." You gasped between kisses "Your dad..."

"He's not back for hours," Archie murmured against your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point. "We have plenty of time."

Your shirt was already halfway off when the front door downstairs slammed shut, followed by heavy footsteps on the stairs. You both froze like deer caught in headlights.

"Archie? You home?" Fred Andrews' voice called from downstairs.

"Shit." Archie whispered, quickly trying to button his shirt as you scrambled to find your discarded t-shirt.

The bedroom door swung open without warning, revealing Fred standing there with his arms crossed, an eyebrow raised at the disheveled state of both of you.

"Dad!" Archie's face flushed beet red. "I thought you were working late."

"Finished early." Fred said, his eyes moving between you and his son. "And I'm glad I did. You two need to learn some self-control."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Andrews." You mumbled, avoiding eye contact as you pulled your shirt on.

Fred sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I'm not stupid. I know what teenagers get up to. But this is my house, and you're not going to be doing... whatever this is... under my roof."

"We weren't—" Archie started, but his dad cut him off.

"Don't lie to me, son. I can see exactly what you were about to do." Fred's expression softened slightly. "I'm not mad. Just... concerned. And honestly, I don't want to walk in on that again."

You stood awkwardly, wishing the floor would swallow you whole.

Fred looked between you both again, then sighed. "Alright. Here's what's going to happen. You." He pointed at Archie. "Are going to take a shower. Alone. And you." He pointed at you. "Are going to wait here until he's done."

"But—" Archie started.

"No buts. Or I'll bathe you both myself like you're five again."

You exchanged a wide-eyed look with Archie at his dad's threat.

Fred must have seen something in your expressions because he suddenly smirked. "Actually, you know what? That's not a bad idea. Clearly you two can't be trusted alone."

Before either of you could protest, Fred was herding you both toward the bathroom. "In. Now."

The bathroom felt impossibly small with the three of you crowded inside. Fred turned on the shower, testing the temperature before turning back to you both.

"Strip." He commanded, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe.

"Dad, you can't be serious." Archie protested, his face somehow getting even redder.

"Oh, I'm dead serious. Either you take your clothes off and get in that shower, or you're not seeing each other alone again until you're thirty."

With a defeated sigh, Archie began undressing. You hesitated for a moment before following suit, trying to cover yourself as much as possible.

Fred kept his eyes respectfully averted as you both stepped into the shower, the warm water immediately cascading over your bodies. He sat on the toilet lid, still watching.

"Wash up." He said simply. "And no funny business."

You reached for the soap, but Archie was faster, his fingers brushing against yours as he took it. The brief contact sent a jolt through you, and you could see the same reaction in Archie's eyes.

"Hey." Fred's voice cut through. "I said no funny business. Focus on getting clean, not getting each other dirty again."

You both quickly separated, focusing on the task at hand. The shower felt both interminably long and ridiculously short, with Fred's presence making any intimacy impossible.

When you were both clean, Fred handed you towels without looking directly at either of you. "Get dressed. And next time you're feeling... amorous... remember this moment."

As you dressed back in Archie's room, you could hear Fred downstairs in the kitchen. Archie caught your eye, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Well." He whispered."That was the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to me."

"Me too." You admitted, though part of you couldn't help but find the situation darkly amusing.

"Still want to come over tomorrow?" Archie asked, hope in his eyes.

You laughed. "Definitely. But maybe we'll stick to the living room when your dad's home."

"Good plan." Archie agreed, leaning in for a quick kiss before pulling away. "Actually, maybe no kissing either. Just in case."

You both chuckled at the absurdity of the situation, knowing that despite the embarrassment, nothing would keep you apart for long.

[supercap2319]

Stucky is back!!!

[supercap2319]

Fuck Me? Fuck You!

The heavy oak door to the Rue Royale townhouse swung open, admitting the familiar chill of the New Orleans night and the two figures who owned the darkness within. Lestat entered first, a swirl of expensive wool and predatory grace, his golden hair catching the gaslight from the street. Louis followed, a shadow of melancholic elegance, his dark eyes already scanning the familiar confines of their home for something amiss.

It didn't take long to find it.

The sound hit them first. Not the usual symphony of the city's nightlife, but a boisterous, slightly off-key sea shanty. Dozens of voices, thick with drink and camaraderie, bellowed from the main parlor.

"Haul away, Joe! Haul away, Joe! Haul away, Joe, ya'll know we're bound for the flow!"

"Flow!" a chorus of voices roared back, followed by a crash of laughter and the clinking of glasses.

Lestat's brow furrowed, a flicker of amusement warring with irritation. Louis's face settled into its familiar mask of weary concern. They moved silently down the hallway, predators stalking an unknown intrusion in their territory, and paused in the arched doorway to the parlor.

The scene was one of pure, unadulterated chaos. Their normally tasteful, somber room was filled with men. Young men, mostly, in the crisp white uniforms of the United States Navy. Their white Dixie cup hats were askew on their heads, or held aloft like trophies. They were clustered around the liquor cabinet, which had been ransacked. Bottles of Lestat's finest brandy, bourbon, and scotch littered every available surface—marble mantelpiece, velvet chaise lounge, the polished floor. Several sailors were arm in arm, swaying to their own rhythm as they sang, while others sat on the floor, cross-legged, passing bottles back and forth. And in the center of it all, presiding over the drunken revelry like a benevolent, mad king, was Y/N.

Y/N, their fledgling, their creation. He was perched on the back of their prized settee, legs swinging, a half-empty bottle of Lestat's most expensive cognac held loosely in one hand. He was laughing, his head thrown back, his face flushed with a life it no longer possessed. He looked utterly, deliriously happy.

Louis took a sharp, unnecessary breath. "What in God's name is going on here?" His voice was low, cutting through the singing like a razor. Every head, save for Y/N's, turned. The singing died abruptly, replaced by a few nervous hiccups and the shuffle of heavy boots on the Persian rug. The sailors stared, their drunken haze slowly giving way to the primal instinct that they were in the presence of something deeply, fundamentally wrong.

Y/N finally turned, a wide, unrepentant grin spreading across his face as he saw them. "Lestat! Louis! Welcome home!" He hopped down from the settee, swaying only slightly. He gestured grandly at the stunned sailors. "Look! I've made friends. Aren't they splendid? So full of life."

Lestat's eyes glinted, a dangerous light dancing in their depths. He took a slow step into the room, his gaze sweeping over the human cattle. "Y/N." He purred, the sound a silken threat. "You have been… busy."

"Oh, absolutely!" Y/N beamed, completely missing—or ignoring—the murderous undercurrent in his maker's tone. He strode forward and threw an arm around the shoulders of the nearest sailor, a young man with a freckled nose and wide, terrified eyes. "I was just thinking about what you taught me, Lestat. Your harsh lessons of reality."

He looked directly at his maker, his grin turning sharp, almost feral. "You said we are predators. That this is our world, and they are our food. That we should take what we want, when we want it. I'm embracing that. I'm embracing your philosophy." He squeezed the sailor's shoulder, making the young man flinch. "I invited these brave men—these heroes, really—for drinks and a good time. They're on shore leave. They deserve a bit of fun before they go back to protecting our freedoms."

Louis stepped forward, his voice strained. "Y/N, this is… this is madness. This is not what he meant."

"Isn't it?" Y/N challenged, turning his brilliant, manic eyes to Louis. "Why not? They're here. They're willing. I can feel their blood, Louis. It's singing to me. It smells of cheap rum and youth and the salt of the sea. But I've been thinking… there's so much more we can do than just drink."

He let go of the sailor and spread his arms wide, a conductor addressing his orchestra of terrified humans and two ancient vampires. His voice dropped, becoming a conspiratorial, intoxicating whisper that nonetheless carried to every corner of the room.

"We can have an orgy." A collective, sharp intake of breath from the sailors. "Right here. On the Persian rugs. I can fuck them, and I can get fucked by them. I want to feel it all. The heat, the desperation, the fleeting, glorious pulse of life against my cold, dead skin."

Lestat's lips curved into a slow, appreciative smile. The irritation in his eyes had vanished, replaced by a profound, wicked pride. He had, after all, created this magnificent creature.

Y/N's gaze finally settled on Louis, his expression softening into something that looked almost like pity. "And you, my love. You can eat them." He said it with the simple, direct logic of a child suggesting a game. "While they're lost in it. While they're screaming. While I'm buried in one of them, you can bury your fangs in another. It's the perfect harmony, isn't it? The ultimate feast. Pleasure and nourishment, all in one glorious, messy act. It's what we are."

[supercap2319]

Guys, I've found another guy to obsessive over. His name is Luis Madrigal.

[supercap2319]

How's your day going? How do you feel about AMC Interview with the Vampire?

I'm doing well. Hope you're doing well too. Interview with the Vampire? It's gay. It's violent. It's dramatic. I love it!

[supercap2319]

Shut the Fuck Up

The door to the dorm room slammed open, rattling on its hinges. Jughead Jones stood in the doorway, looking like death warmed over. His hair was a mess underneath his crown beanie, his eyes were bloodshot, and he had the kind of dark circles under his eyes that suggested he hadn't slept in a week.

"Can you two please, for the love of God, keep it down?" He growled, his voice raspy with exhaustion. "Some of us are actually trying to sleep. Or study. Or exist without hearing the headboard banging against the wall for two hours straight."

Archie Andrews, who had been attempting to discreetly button his shirt, froze. A flush crept up his neck, spreading to his cheeks. "Jughead, man, I'm so sorry." He said, running a hand through his own messy red hair. "We didn't realize we were being that loud. We'll be more considerate, I promise."

From the bed, Y/N Cooper stretched languidly, the sheet pooling around his waist. He smirked, his eyes glinting with mischief as he propped himself up on his elbows. "Or…" He suggested, his voice smooth as silk, "you could just join us, Juggie. I bet you wouldn't be so grumpy in the mornings if you did."

Archie's head whipped around, his eyes widening. "Y/N! You can't say stuff like that," he hissed, his face now completely crimson. "That's... that's not appropriate."

Y/N just shrugged, completely unfazed. "Why not? I'm just being honest." He turned his attention back to Jughead, who looked like he was about to have an aneurysm. "Besides, you can't tell me you haven't thought about it. Back in Riverdale, everyone was convinced you two were the town's hottest gay couple."

Jughead sputtered, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "That—that was different! People talk, they make assumptions—"

"And they weren't entirely wrong about the chemistry." Y/N continued smoothly, cutting him off. He let his gaze drift between Archie and Jughead, a thoughtful expression on his face. "And let's be real here. Neither of you can say the other isn't incredibly sexy. I mean, look at him," he gestured toward Archie. "All-American boy next door with that perfect body and those innocent eyes. And you." He turned back to Jughead. "With that dark, brooding thing you have going on. It's hot."

Archie looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. "Y/N, please stop."He mumbled, hiding his face in his hands.

Jughead, meanwhile, seemed to be at a loss for words. He just stood there, staring between the two of them, his expression a mixture of shock, annoyance, and something else... something that looked suspiciously like consideration.

Y/N's smirk widened. "See? I told you he wouldn't be so grumpy if he joined us."

[supercap2319]

Stressing Me Out

The afternoon sun filtered through the kitchen window of the Boys' House, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis leaned against the counter, his hockey jersey discarded on a nearby chair after a grueling practice. His muscles ached, and his mind buzzed with the stress of upcoming exams and playoff preparations.

"You look like you could use some relief," Y/N said softly, approaching from behind. His hands slid around Dean's waist, fingers tracing the defined muscles of his abdomen.

Dean didn't turn, just let his head fall back slightly. "You have no idea."

Without another word, Y/N dropped to his knees, fingers deftly working at the button and zipper of Dean's jeans. This was their arrangement—Y/N's way of helping Dean decompress when the pressures of being a Briar Hawks star became too much. The other guys knew about their deal, never judging, just accepting it as part of household dynamics.

The kitchen filled with soft sounds as Y/N worked, Dean's breathing growing heavier, his hand eventually tangling in Y/N's hair. The stress began melting away with each passing moment.

"Wait." Dean murmured after a while, gently pulling Y/N back. "Not that I'm complaining, but you seem extra enthusiastic today."

Y/N looked up, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I was thinking... we've never really mixed things up. I have an idea."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "What kind of idea?"

"Something new." Y/N replied, their voice dropping lower. "I want to fuck you with a dildo."

Dean's eyes widened slightly. "Here? Now?"

"The kitchen table." Y/N suggested, nodding toward the sturdy wooden table where they often ate team meals. "Right here, right now."

A slow grin spread across Dean's face. "You're insane."

"You love it." Y/N countered, already standing and retrieving what he needed from his bag in the living room.

Dean considered it for only a moment before shrugging. "Why not?" He cleared the table with a sweep of his arm, sending napkins and a half-empty water bottle tumbling to the floor. "The guys won't be back for hours."

As Dean lay back on the table, his shirt off and jeans pushed down to his knees, Y/N retrieved the dildo he'd brought—a sleek, curved silicone toy in a deep blue color that matched Dean's eyes.

"Ready?" Y/N asked, coating it with lube.

Dean nodded, his expression a mixture of anticipation and vulnerability. "Do your worst."

The afternoon light caught the blue toy as Y/N positioned himself between Dean's legs, the kitchen table creaking slightly under Dean's weight. Y/N started slow, pressing the slick tip of the dildo against Dean's entrance. Dean tensed instinctively, his hands gripping the edge of the table above his head.

"Relax." Y/N murmured, his free hand resting on Dean's stomach, thumb stroking soothing circles. "Breathe with me."

Dean took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he consciously forced his muscles to unclench. As he did, Y/N applied gentle, steady pressure, and the toy began to slide inside. A sharp intake of breath from Dean, his eyes fluttering shut.

"Good?" Y/N asked softly.

Dean just nodded, unable to form words as the dildo pushed deeper, filling him in a way he'd never experienced. The initial discomfort was already giving way to something else—a strange, full sensation that sent sparks through his nerves.

Y/N began to move the toy, slow at first, watching Dean's face for any sign of distress. Instead, he saw his mouth fall open, his brow furrowed in concentration as his body adjusted to the new sensation. Each deliberate thrust of the toy seemed to unwind another knot of tension in Dean's body.

"Harder." Dean finally managed, his voice rough. "Don't hold back."

A grin spread across Y/N's face as he complied, increasing both the speed and depth of his movements. The kitchen filled with the sounds of skin on wood, soft gasps from Dean, and the rhythmic slap of Y/N's hand against the base of the toy.

Dean's hips began to move of their own accord, rising to meet each thrust. The stress of practice, the pressure of exams, the weight of expectations, it all faded away, replaced by this overwhelming physical sensation. His cock, already hard from earlier, now strained against his stomach, leaking precum onto his skin.

"Touch yourself." Y/N commanded, his voice husky with arousal. "I want to see you come like this."

Dean didn't hesitate, wrapping a hand around himself and stroking in time with the rhythm Y/N had established. The dual stimulation was almost too much. His body arching off the table as pleasure coiled deep in his belly.

"God, Y/N!" Dean gasped, his head thrashing against the wood. "Don't stop."

Y/N angled the toy slightly, searching for that spot he knew would send Dean over the edge. When he found it, Dean's entire body jolted, a cry tearing from his throat as his orgasm crashed through him. Stripes of white painted his stomach and chest as he pulsed in his own hand, his body trembling with the intensity of his release.

For a moment, the only sound in the kitchen was Dean's ragged breathing as he came down from his high. Y/N gently withdrew the toy, setting it aside before leaning over to press soft kisses to Dean's sweat-slicked chest.

"Well…" Dean said finally, his voice lazy and sated. "That's definitely not how I expected my afternoon to go."

"Better than studying for econ?" Y/N asked with a smirk.

Dean laughed, pulling Y/N down for a proper kiss. "Infinitely better."

As they lay tangled together on the kitchen table, neither of them heard the front door open downstairs, nor the familiar footsteps of Garrett heading toward the kitchen for a snack.

"Hey Dean, you got any—" Garrett's voice cut off as he rounded the corner and stopped dead in his tracks. "Holy shit."

Dean and Y/N scrambled to cover themselves, but it was too late. Garrett stood frozen in the doorway, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and something else—curiosity?

"Well." Garrett said after a moment, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Guess I should've knocked."

Dean groaned, covering his face with his hands. "Dude, get out!"

Garrett held up his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, no judgment here. But you might want to clean up before the others get back. Or…" He added with a wink, "Don't. I'm sure they'd love to hear about this at dinner."

As Garrett backed out of the kitchen, still grinning, Dean knew with absolute certainty that this story was going to follow him for the rest of the season. And somehow, that made it even better.

[supercap2319]

You are Veronica Lodge's brother, and Hiram is overtly protective, especially because you're gay. He smells a boy on you, bathes you very thoroughly, and smacks your butt when you complain.

FATHER KNOWS BEST

The heavy oak door of the Pembrooke clicked shut behind me, the sound swallowed by the cavernous, opulent lobby. I'd done it. I'd slipped past the doorman, past the concierge, my heart hammering against my ribs with a thrill that was equal parts terror and exhilaration. Archie's scent still clung to the collar of my jacket, a mix of his laundry detergent, the crisp autumn air, and something that was just uniquely “him.” It was a secret victory, a small rebellion in the gilded cage my father had built.

I was halfway up the grand staircase, my hand trailing along the cool, polished mahogany banister, when a voice cut through the silence like a shard of ice.

"And where do you think you're going, Y/N?"

I froze, my hand gripping the banister so tightly my knuckles turned white. I didn't need to turn around. I knew that voice. It was the same one that had dictated my schedule, chosen my friends, and looked through me as if I were a disappointing investment rather than his son. Hiram Lodge. He stood at the base of the stairs, a silhouette of impeccable tailoring and barely contained menace, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Just... out for a walk, Father." I said, forcing my voice to remain steady as I slowly turned to face him. "I needed some air."

He didn't move, but his eyes, dark and discerning, swept over me from my disheveled hair down to my scuffed sneakers. He took a step forward, then another, his expensive shoes making no sound on the thick Persian runner. He stopped directly in front of me, so close I could smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne and the overpowering aura of his control.

"Air." He repeated, his voice dangerously low. He leaned in slightly, not to hug me, but to inspect me. His nostrils flared almost imperceptibly. "You smell like the North side. You smell like cheap soap and... boy." His lip curled in a subtle sneer. "Archie Andrews, isn't it?"

My blood ran cold. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't lie to me, Y/N." he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that was far more terrifying than a shout. He straightened up, his decision made. "You're filthy. Come with me."

He didn't grab me. He didn't have to. He simply turned, and I knew I was expected to follow. The walk to his master suite felt like a perp walk. The rooms were a testament to his wealth and taste, but to me, they had always felt like the chambers of a judge, and I was always on trial.

In his opulent, marble-tiled bathroom, he pointed a finger at the floor. "Strip. Everything in the hamper. Now."

The command was absolute. My face burned with a humiliation that was becoming sickeningly familiar, but I obeyed, peeling off my jacket, my shirt, my jeans, each piece of clothing feeling like a layer of my defense being stripped away. I stood there, shivering slightly in the cool air, clad only in my boxers.

"Those too." Hiram said, gesturing with a dismissive flick of his wrist. "I want you clean."

I wanted to argue, to tell him he was insane, that I was seventeen years old, not a child. But the look in his eyes brooked no argument. I slid off my boxers and added them to the pile, my arms instinctively crossing over my chest. He turned on the water in the massive, freestanding tub, the sound of the rushing water filling the room. As it filled, he moved with a chilling efficiency, laying out a fluffy towel, a bar of his own harsh, antiseptic soap, and a rough washcloth.

"In." He commanded when the tub was full.

I stepped into the steaming water, sinking down until it covered me up to my chest. I hoped the heat would offer some comfort, some privacy, but I knew better. Hiram rolled up the sleeves of his bespoke shirt, knelt on the bathmat beside the tub, and picked up the soap and washcloth.

"This is what happens when you sneak around." He began, his voice calm and conversational as he lathered the cloth. "You get dirty. You bring filth into this house. Into my house."

He took my arm and began to scrub it with a force that made my skin tingle. He started at my shoulder and worked his way down to my fingertips, his movements methodical, almost clinical. He wasn't just washing me; he was erasing Archie, erasing the walk, erasing any trace of a life he hadn't personally sanctioned.

"Father, please." I finally choked out, pulling my arm away. "I can wash myself."

He paused, his grip on my wrist like a manacle. He looked up at me, his expression unreadable. "Can you? It seems you can't be trusted to do anything properly on your own. You can't be trusted to go for a walk without rolling around with some... backstreet boy. You can't be trusted to maintain the standards of this family." He resumed his scrubbing, moving to my other arm, then my chest, his touch firm and unyielding. "Stand up."

I hesitated for a fraction of a second, and his eyes hardened. "Stand. Up."

I obeyed, rising from the water, which sluiced off me, leaving me feeling exposed and cold. He washed my back, my legs, his touch impersonal, yet deeply invasive. He was washing away my sin, my defiance. When he was finished, he pulled the drain plug and gestured to the towel.

"Dry off." He ordered, standing up. He didn't leave as I dried myself, his eyes watching my every move.

Once I was dry, holding the towel around my waist, I finally found my voice, fueled by a surge of indignation. "You can't do this! You have no right! I'm not a prisoner!"

The words were barely out of my mouth before he moved. In one swift, fluid motion, he grabbed my arm, spun me around, and brought his other hand down in a sharp, stinging smack against my bare buttock.

The sound echoed in the tiled room. A gasp of pain and shock escaped my lips. It wasn't violent enough to truly injure, but it was humiliating. It was a gesture of ownership, of absolute dominance.

"I have every right." Hiram said, his voice cold and hard as steel. "I am your father. This is my house. And while you live under my roof, you will abide by my rules. You will be clean. You will be respectable. And you will stay away from that Andrews boy. Do you understand me?"

I could only nod, my throat tight with unshed tears and impotent rage.

"Good." He said, his tone softening slightly as if the matter was now settled. "Now go to your room. I'll have a tray sent up. You're not to leave the Pembrooke for the rest of the week."

He turned and walked out of the bathroom, leaving me standing there, the sting on my skin a burning reminder of my place. I was a Lodge. And in my father's world, that meant I was his property to be cleaned, controlled, and kept.

[supercap2319]

When Mr. Lodge is wrestling Archie, you watch with the rest of the team. Lodge strips Archie naked in front of everyone, while you and Kevin palm each other's erections.

COACH'S DEMONSTRATION

The wrestling mats in the Riverdale High gym were laid out, creating a makeshift ring for the demonstration. Mr. Lodge, surprisingly muscular in his expensive-looking athletic wear, had Archie Andrews in a firm hold. The rest of the varsity team sat cross-legged on the bleachers, a mix of boredom and forced attention on their faces. You were wedged between Kevin Keller and Chuck Clayton, the air thick with the smell of floor wax and teenage sweat.

Mr. Lodge was moving with an unnerving intensity, a predatory glint in his eye as he maneuvered Archie. "It's all about leverage, Archie." He grunted, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous room. He hooked a leg around Archie's and, with a sharp, powerful twist, sent the redhead tumbling. Before Archie could even think to get up, Lodge was on him. His movements were precise, clinical. He grabbed the hem of Archie's gray practice shirt and, in one swift, brutal pull, yanked it over Archie's head and off.

A few snickers rippled through the team. Moose just looked confused.

But Lodge wasn't done. He pinned Archie's shoulders with his knees, his weight pressing the boy into the mat. Archie struggled, his face flushing a deep, humiliating crimson. "Mr. Lodge, what the hell?!" Archie gasped, but his words were cut short as Lodge's hands went to his waistband. With a deft, practiced motion, he stripped Archie of his shorts and jockstrap, leaving him completely bare on the mat.

The snickers died. A collective, sharp intake of breath. Some guys, like Chuck, immediately looked away, their faces burning with secondhand embarrassment. Reggie Mantle, however, was staring with a wide, almost predatory grin. Archie was frozen, utterly exposed, his hands flying to cover himself as Mr. Lodge stood up, looming over him like a conqueror.

You felt a heat bloom in your own groin, a sudden, sharp arousal at the raw, public humiliation. Beside you, Kevin shifted uncomfortably. You glanced at him and saw his face was flushed, his gaze fixed on Archie's naked form. Without looking away from the scene unfolding on the mat, Kevin's hand moved, landing with a soft thud on your thigh. His fingers trembled slightly.

Your own cock was straining against the fabric of your shorts. You mirrored his movement, your hand finding his leg. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the hard ridge of his erection pressing against the seam of his pants. Your palm slid up his inner thigh, slow and deliberate, until you were cupping him through the thin material. He let out a shaky, almost silent breath, his head lolling back for a moment before he caught himself.

Kevin's hand responded in kind, his fingers tracing the outline of your own hard-on. He squeezed gently, a silent acknowledgment. You palmed him back, your thumb rubbing over his head, feeling the damp spot that had already formed. The two of you sat there, hidden in plain sight amidst the shock and snickering of your teammates, stroking each other to the sight of Archie Andrews, naked and defeated on the wrestling mat, the focus of Mr. Lodge's cold, satisfied gaze.

[supercap2319]

I'm sorry, but....these three studs needed to kiss boys and sleep with them, too.

[supercap2319]

Phone Call:

Archie's phone buzzed against the kitchen counter, the caller ID flashing: Veronica Lodge in bold letters. He hesitated, glancing down at the dark-haired man kneeling between his legs, those knowing eyes already looking up at him with mischief.

"Shit." Archie muttered, but he answered anyway. "Hey, Ronnie."

"Archiekins." Veronica's smooth voice purred through the speaker. "You're taking me to the drive-in this Friday. I already picked out what I'm wearing, and it's absolutely criminal how good I look in it."

Archie's breath hitched—not from Veronica's proposition, but from the sudden wet heat enveloping his cock as Y/N wrapped his lips around him, taking him deep with practiced ease.

"I—uh—" Archie stammered, his free hand gripping the counter's edge until his knuckles turned white. "I can't. Friday. I have... plans."

"Plans?" Veronica's voice sharpened, that Lodge entitlement cutting through the line. "What could possibly be more important than taking me out, Archie Andrews? Who are these *plans* with?"

Y/N pulled back slowly, his tongue swirling around the tip with deliberate, teasing strokes. He was still fully clothed, looking almost respectable from the waist up—if not for the obscene way his mouth was stretched around Archie's shaft, cheeks hollowed, dark eyes glittering with amusement.

"Come on, Archie." Veronica pressed. "Tell me. Who is she? Is it Betty? Cheryl? Some little townie I don't know about?"

Archie squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw working as Y/N hollowed his cheeks and sucked harder, the vibration of his suppressed chuckle sending sparks up Archie's spine. Y/N was enjoying this—enjoying the torture of watching Archie try to maintain composure while his sister interrogated him.

"N-no one you know." Archie managed, his voice cracking embarrassingly.

"Liar." Veronica accused. "You're stuttering. You're hiding something. Who is she, Archie?"

Y/N pulled off with a wet, filthy sound that Archie prayed wasn't audible through the phone. He looked up at the redhead and smiled. A slow, wicked, and utterly devastating. Then he leaned in, dragging his tongue from base to tip in one long, torturous stripe.

"Just..." Archie's head fell back, his hips bucking involuntarily toward that wicked mouth. "Just... someone..."

"Archie, you're being weird." Veronica said, suspicion heavy in her tone. "Are you with someone right now?"

Y/N took him deep again, hollowing his cheeks, working his throat in a way that made Archie's vision blur at the edges. The dark-haired man reached up, wrapping his hand around what he couldn't fit in his mouth, twisting in a rhythm that matched the obscene sounds filling the quiet kitchen.

"Ronnie, I gotta—nngh—I gotta go—"

"Don't you dare hang up on me, Archie Andrews! You tell me who she is this instant or—"

But Archie was already dropping the phone, letting it clatter to the counter as both hands found Y/N's hair, gripping tight. The younger man moaned around him, the vibration pushing Archie dangerously close to the edge.

"You're evil," Archie breathed out, looking down at the satisfied smirk on Y/N's lips. Lips that were currently stretched obscenely around his cock. "Your sister ais going to kill me."

Y/N pulled back just enough to speak, his hand never stopping its slow, torturous strokes. "Then maybe..." He said, voice rough, eyes dancing with laughter. "...You shouldn't keep her waiting on the line."

He dove back down, taking Archie to the root, and the strangled sound that tore from Archie's throat was definitely loud enough for Veronica to hear through the abandoned phone. If she was still listening.

From the counter, Veronica's voice crackled through the speaker, distant and furious: "Archie? ARCHIE!"

But Archie had stopped caring about drive-ins, or Veronica's wrath, or anything except the heat of her brother's mouth and the dangerous, knowing smile that never left Y/N's face—not even when he swallowed.

[supercap2319]

I love the way your neurons interact..😔🫶

Awe, thanks.

[supercap2319]

Have you seen the Henry Cavill bulge video?

I haven't. But it sounds hot.

[supercap2319]

Happy Father's Day to these beautiful Daddies.

[supercap2319]

Bubblegum Bitch

The ceiling fan spins lazy circles overhead, doing fuck-all to cut the humidity. The place is a dump — peeling wallpaper, rust stains in the sink, a mattress in the corner that probably has its own ecosystem. But it's central. Every escape route off this godforsaken island converges here like spokes on a wheel.

Sid stands at the folding table, studying blueprints of the hotel, his shoulders filling out his  vacation shirt in ways that should be illegal. Bronco's sprawled on a lawn chair that looked ready to collapse, mindlessly flipping through a playgirl magazine he bought at the market today with practiced ease, his eyes tracking Sid's movements with the kind of familiarity that comes from sharing beds with your “husband” in hotels.

You lean against the doorframe, chewing your bubble gum loud enough to make Bronco's lip twitch. Cherry chapstick. You reapply it slow, let them watch.

"Rachel's walking into the lion's den tomorrow." Sid says without looking up. His voice is gravel and authority — Captain Superman, you call him in your head, all square jaw and impossible standards. "Salazar's got the local police in his pocket and a small army of contractors. We need her out of that suite before he realizes she's not there to negotiate."

"Need a distraction." Bronco adds, snapping his magazine back into place. Brokeback Mountain, you called him in secret, though you'd never say it to his face without expecting a broken rib. "Something that keeps eyes off the extraction point."

You blow a bubble. Let it pop.

"How can you help us, kid?" Sid finally looks at you, those blue eyes pinning you like a butterfly to a board.

You smile. Push off the doorframe. Cross the room with a sway in your hips that you've perfected.

"I can suck dick good." You say, casual as commenting on the weather. "Is that a useful skill on this mission?"

The silence stretches. Bronco's mouth quirks. Just a hint.

Sid sets down his pen. "That so?"

"Mm." You stop between them, close enough to smell Sid's aftershave and Bronco's cologne. You work the gum around, let your tongue flash pink against your lips. "You'd be surprised what a guy can get away with when he's constantly got something filling his mouth." You drop your eyes, then your posture, sinking to your knees on the dirty floorboards like it's a throne. "And when he's down here... people underestimate him. They stop watching their backs. Stop watching their doors."

You look up at them through your lashes, the picture of innocence corrupted. "Salazar's got an ego. Men with egos like to feel powerful. Like to have pretty things on their knees."

Bronco leans forward, elbows on his knees. The lawn chair creaks a warning. "You're proposing we send you in to blow Salazar's security detail."

"Blowing is what I do." You wink, shifting your weight so your t-shirt rides up. "And while I'm keeping Salazar's attention occupied — and maybe a few of his lieutenants — you two ghosts can slip Rachel out the service entrance. By the time he realizes he's been played, you'll be halfway to the airstrip or boats."

Sid's jaw works. You can see the calculation happening — the risk assessment, the protective instinct warring with tactical necessity. You can also see the way his eyes keep dropping to your mouth.

"Cheeky little shit." Bronco murmurs, but there's affection in it. He looks at Sid. "He's got a point. About the distraction."

"And if something goes wrong?" Sid asks, though you know he's already accepting it. You can see it in the set of his shoulders.

You blow another bubble. Let it linger, translucent and pink, before sucking it back in with a wet pop. "Then Captain Superman and Brokeback Mountain come save me." You say, grinning around your gum. "Isn't that what you do best? Riding to the rescue? Or just riding in general?"

Bronco actually laughs,  a short, surprised bark. Sid shakes his head, but there's the ghost of a smile there too. That partnership, that thing between them, buzzing like electricity, and for a moment you're invited into the circuit.

"Fine." Sid says, turning back to the blueprints. But his hand finds your shoulder, squeezes once — rough, warm, grounding. "But you're wearing a wire. And if we say pull out—"

"When you say pull out, I'll have them pull it out. So to speak." You interrupt, batting your lashes. "I'll be ready.”

“Good.” Sid smiles.

The mission starts now.

[supercap2319]

I can see Max got his good looks from his grandfather:

[supercap2319]

I don't make the rules. I just follow em: