worst spider-man ever

Nueva York (Earth-2099)

Rarely did Miguel ever find the time to enjoy the sound of a thunderstorm in Nueva York. between his job at Alchemax, being Spider-Man in his universe, and leading the Spider Society, and all the responsibilities that came with each job, he rarely found the time to simply brood and enjoy the ambience. It had always been a comforting thing to him, the sound of raindrops pittering against the windows, the light rumble of thunder in the distance, mixing nicely with the sounds of his great city. 

Tonight was a rare treat. He had allowed himself to leave the Spider HQ far earlier than he usually did, something Jess had given him a curious look for, one that he decided to politely ignore. Most would spend this early leave relaxing, perhaps taking the opportunity to do their ‘self-care’ routine, but Miguel used it to overlook some projects and reports.

Well, that was his initial plan. Somewhere between the fourth report and the next, his thoughts had drifted away, latching onto nothing in particular. He blamed it on the rain. 

Mostly.

His brain had been itching for the next interesting thing, apparently, as he had easily snapped out of his thoughtless musing when light bloomed in his peripheral vision. Warm gold and elegant violet colors washed over him as a holographic project flickered to life before him. It startles Miguel, caught off guard, his eyes fully focusing on the projection as it solidified into something more discernable. 

Before him stands the holographic projection of T’Challa, the ruler of a Wakanda that now stretches from the Gulf of Guinea to the Indian Ocean. 

Ever since Miguel had figured out how to travel across dimensions, he learned certain things. For one, canon interactions are.. flexible. Canonically, he should’ve never met T’Challa, or anyone outside of the Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse… and yet.

When Miguel had first been learning how to properly travel between dimensions, he had accidentally ended up in T'Challa's universe. It had been quite a learning curve, something embarrassing on Miguel’s end and amusement on the Black Panther's end, who had been receptive to helping him learn. 

It… had also evolved into something more intimate. Who knew Miguel had a taste for older men who were patient but also firm with him? A taste for older men who had more experience than he did in nearly every aspect of life?

Miguel didn’t.

Until he, y’know, met T’Challa.

Miguel snapped out of his thoughts when the projection of T’Challa spoke in real time. His voice alone commanded Miguel's absolute attention.

"You've been difficult to reach, Spider-Man," T'Challa said, his voice sending shivers down Miguel’s spine. It wasn't unpleasant, far from it. It was deep and grounded, each word spoke from the patience of a leader who had learned to wield it like a weapon. It was the voice of a man who demanded absolute respect and received it without questions.

The Wakanda leader wore a tunic made of black vibranium silk, open at the collar. It made Miguel's dry, something akin to heat pooling in his belly. His thoughts betrayed him, and a traitorous voice inside his head told him T’Challa would look better naked.

Against his own thoughts, Miguel silently agreed.

Miguel exhaled through his nose. His eyes flicked away from the projection and back onto his screens, playing the role of indifference.

“I've been ignoring you on purpose, Your Majesty. No offense.” Though Miguel wasn't looking at the projection, T’Challa’s lips twitched, however subtle, with the slightest sliver of amusement at his behavior. “I don't do.. the whole ‘royal’ thing. Not kingdoms, not courts, not… well, whatever you are.” 

Miguel’s eyes flicked over, narrowing. “I take care of the multiverse on my own terms.”

T’Challa had the patience of a saint. He took no offense to Miguel's words, perhaps used to this behavior from other men who believed themselves to be on the same level as him. Instead, T’Challa calmly responded.

“Which is precisely why I called,” He said, giving a small tilt of his head as a faint smile tugged upon his handsome face. Something glittered in his darkly colored eyes when Miguel looked briefly confused. “I don't need a diplomat, O’Hara, I need a predator.”

A beat.

“And I'm told you're the best.”

Miguel had never been an easy man to deal with, long before he had ever had his DNA spliced, long after he established himself as Spider-Man. Now it was no different. Now, in fact, was the perfect time to play into it.

His hands moved to sit on his hips. The heat in his belly grew when he caught T’Challa’s eyes following the movement.

Miguel's nostrils flared, raising his chin. “Flattering.” He said, his tone flat and dry. “Still not interested.”

T'Challa's eyes shifted. The warmth in them don't vanish, but they solidify into something much, much hotter. Not rage, Miguel is all too familiar with that. Rather, his eyes become… intimate. 

It makes Miguel's heart quicken.

"You haven't heard my full offer, Miguel. You haven't seen what I'm offering to protect." The other man said, his tone unwavering, persistent.

Miguel sighed. He gave a small tilt of his head, beckoning him to continue. T’Challa seemed pleased by this.

“I am aware of what you're seeking to do, O’Hara. I am aware that you wish to…serve black men, to devote yourself to being a pleasure tool for men such as myself.”

Miguel's head reared back as if slapped, his eyes widening for a brief moment in sheer shock. He's too stunned to speak, something akin to embarrassment and fluster rushing to his cheeks, where his skin darkens.

The other man's next words, however, startle this embarrassment out of him.

“I am pleased to tell you that I am rather interested.”

Miguel was quiet. His eyes searched T’Challa's face, looking for any sign of deceit. He found none. Instead, his eyes tracked the other man's defined facial structure: the sharp cheekbones, the scar over one brow, the absolute stillness of a man who has skilled with his bare hands and slept soundly at night.

Miguel swallowed as his cock twitched in his suit. 

Spider-Man finally nodded. “Fine,” He said, trying not to drool. “One meeting. Just one.”

T’Challa was in for a surprise when, instead of using the multidimensional traveling watch, Miguel swiped his claws through the projection. He lost connection for a moment, but not a few heartbeats afterwards, a portal tore through T’Challa’s room.

Reality tore apart before his very eyes, making room for a portal. Hexagonal fractures burst outward from the slash point like cracks spreading through a mirror, geometric shapes layering over one another, spinning and multiplying in an array of orange, gold, and purple, folding inward. 

Miguel stepped forward, and how dramatic was it that his very own watch sat on his wrist. He could've traveled through without the need for such a dramatic entrance, and yet.

An impatient T’Challa greeted him, standing beside another guest that made Miguel do a double take: Eric Brooks, the vampire slayer known as Blade.

Miguel froze, blinking rapidly, as if he couldn't believe the situation at hand. “What the hell is this?” He demanded, bristling with defense, feeling as if he had been tricked.

T’Challa, perhaps sensing the beginning telltale of Miguel's defensive energy, held out a placating hand. His presence was grounded and steady. Amusement sat on his expression, yes, but it wasn't cruel nor the amusement of someone who had tricked somebody else. The heat still glittered in his dark eyes, the hunger to feel Miguel's skin on his mouth, his hands on his perfectly sculpted body.

“Calm yourself, O’Hara.” T’Challa said, and something in his voice—not cruel, never cruel—made Miguel swallow and lower his bristling shoulders. “This is the other half of my offer. You told me you wished to fulfill your fantasies with me, correct?”

Miguel kept his mouth close for a moment. His tongue traced his teeth, his eyes shifting between the Black Panther and Blade. The silence dragged on for a moment. 

Miguel’s cock decided for him.

“That's correct.” He huffed.

Blade uncrossed his arms and, from where he had been sitting, rose in one fluid motion. Miguel warily watched him, his heart beating against his chest, the heat in his belly a fire. 

The vampire looked tougher up close. He looked like someone who's been thrown off buildings and got right back up.

"Name's Blade," He said, his voice a purr that sent shivers down Miguel's spine. "And before you ask — yes, I'm exactly what I look like."

He let his eyes drag down Miguel's frame, slow and deliberate, then back up. Miguel watched him, his eyes narrowing as he fought the urge to preen.

“Happy birthday to me,” Blade adds with a chuckle, a handsome and cocky grin on his face. “T’Challa promised me something pretty. He didn't say it'd come through a hole in reality wearing a suit that tight.”

‘That’ was emphasized with another pointed stare of Blade's eyes, his eyes falling over Miguel's waist and the cup of his groin, traveling back to his narrow hips and the peach sitting behind it.

Miguel felt something warm and hot flare to his cheeks and ears. His claws twitched.

T'Challa’s laugh echoes through the chamber, always a grounded presence. “Gentlemen, please. I trust you'll find a way to… work together.”

Somehow and someway Miguel will pester him for later, the portal snaps shut behind him.

‘I’m trapped.’ Miguel realized with a strange glee. He's surrounded by vibranium, standing three feet from a mercenary who looks at him like a cake worth eating in one sitting.

Miguel watches the Daywalker move, moving like a true predator—quiet, predatory, scanning the room for every tiny detail. 

It makes Miguel want to bite into him.

T’Challa waits for them at the far end of the chamber. He's not on a throne, but rather, he stands at the center of a raised circular dais, his arms relaxed at his sides. He's dressed in a simple black tunic, a vibranium pendant at his chest. He wears no crown, but he doesn't need one to prove a hierarchy in the room.

Miguel already knows where he stands between the two men.

Behind T’Challa, a map of the world sits projecting against the far wall in a gold light; it reminds Miguel of the same color he uses for LYLA, only, this color is more… sophisticated. And though the map showcases the world, Miguel’s brain realizes it's not the current world, no. Rather, it's a map of the future world order. Africa sits at the center, Wakanda on the axis, and every continent connected by threads of light.

T'Challa smiles. It spreads slowly upon his handsome, regal face, warm, the smile of a man who knows he has already won without having to lift a single finger.

“I have vampire problems. I have human problems.” T'Challa said, his voice warm and steady, baritone in a way that pulls Miguel’s attention without much effort. “I have problems of fear, of hesitation, of people who have forgotten what power looks like when it walks among them.”

The monarch steps down from the raised platform, his walk steady, elegant and graceful without effort.

“The people these days,” T’Challa continued, his voice dropping an octave, slipping into something more intimate and commanding. “They don't react the same. Protests don't move them, speeches don't move them—wealth, they've learned to distrust.”

He stopped directly in front of Miguel. Spider-Man of 2099 easily towered over them, both of them, and yet, he felt like shrinking, like submitting. T’Challa's slowly turned his head to include Blade.

“The most effective method for my world order—for the good of my people—is to show them the pure power of their king.” Conviction laced the Black Panther’s tone, his eyes glittering. “Where their lineage back to this land shows them that they, too, can obtain such power.

T'Challa reached out. Not to touch, but to gesture, opened palm, towards the map behind him.

“Allow me to indulge in your fantasies,” He said, his eyes cutting back to Miguel, then to Blade, with an intensity that made both men feel something. The air felt heavier, and T'Challa wasn't done speaking.

“And allow me to show my people the strength their cocks can wield.”

Silence so profoundly quiet greeted T'Challa's words.

Miguel blinked. He swallowed without realizing it, daring to glance at Blade. The other man's expression hadn't changed much, but Miguel watched his broad shoulders drop half an inch, the only indication that he was relaxing.

Miguel looked back at the king. 

"You want us to be... what? Symbols?" Miguel incredulously asked, quirking a thick brow.

T’Challa shook his head once. “No,” He said, and took another step closer.

Up close, Miguel could smell his scent, could feel his heat. He smelled like shea butter and something musky, the scent of a well-respected man. It made his mouth water, his teeth tingling and aching to bite. 

“I want you to be seen,” T'Challa quietly said. His eyes were dark and mesmerizing; Miguel found himself unable to look away. “With me, at my side.”

He glanced between them. “Not as soldiers,” He clarified. “But as proof. Proof that power answers to no one's permission. Proof that desire—even the desires men are afraid to name—is just another form of strength… when wielded correctly, that is.”

T'challa turned his gaze at Blade now, focusing on him. 

“You've spent centuries hiding in shadows, hunting creatures that fear the light.” He said, keeping Blade's attention trained on him. “What if I told you… the light doesn't have to be your enemy? What if I told you, you could walk into any room on this planet, right beside me, and no one would dare call you a monster?”

Miguel watched the way Blade's jaw tightened, watched how he didn't look away from the only king in the room.

Spider-Man exhaled, tearing his eyes away for a moment. He ran hand through his dark hair.

God help me, Miguel thought to himself. They're making sense. 

“Okay, then.” Miguel finally said, lowering his arm and trying to relax as he looked at the other men. His dark eyes glanced between them. 

T'Challa's smile returned, wider this time, triumphantly.

"Then let's begin." 

He turned, gesturing towards a door at the far end of the chamber. It wasn't visible before, but now the edges glow in a soft purple light. 

For a moment, Miguel is briefly amused that a royal palace, assumingly, reminds me of the LED lights sex clubs back in his homeworld would use. He had never been in one before, he wouldn't dare to, but he had seen plenty whenever he was out on Spider-Man duty.

He's snapped out of his thoughts by T'Challa's next words, his attention diverting from his thoughts and back into reality.

“The city is watching. They've been told their king returns with allies.” The king’s eyes glint and glitter. “Let's not disappoint them.”

T'Challa, despite the newfound atmosphere settling over them and the scene they're entering, looks at Miguel with dark eyes, eyes hungry and heated, but not uncruel nor unkind. He beckons Miguel onto the floor, a silent command. 

Miguel forces himself to breathe evenly despite the sudden racing of his heart as he slowly sunk down to his knees. Even through his suit, the cold floor seeps through his knees. It's a miniscule thing, however, when it's overshadowed by the overwhelming heat radiating from the two men standing over them.

He looks up at them, his dark eyes glinting a dull red, a telltale sign of his own arousal. 

Ever since becoming Spider-Man and gaining the sudden growth in both height and bulk, Miguel had always been the tallest in any room—for the most part. Even now, he's the biggest in the room. But now it feels… different. A good kind of different that makes his cock throb and ache in the cup of his suit, that makes his hole clench around nothing.

The sudden position that Miguel found himself in makes him more vulnerable than he would ever be, and so the next words that slip out of his mouth feels all the more intimate.

“I've always loved black men,” Miguel admitted, his voice a murmur, laced with heavy honesty. “The strength, the presence…”

He glanced up, his eyes round with desire and reverence. 

“It's intoxicating.”

He reached out for Blade first. Miguel's ears catch the way the Daywalker’s breath hitches as his hands find their way to his belt. With a practiced motion, nimble fingers so sure of themselves, Miguel frees him. 

Fuck, Miguel thinks, as Blade's cock throbs right in his face. Miguel licked his lips and took his cock in.

His tongue traced his cockhead, getting the first taste of the Daywalker. It's musky, a little salty, and absolutely delicious. He closed his lips around the thick cockhead, plush lips wrapping around it, and gave a gentle suckle. Blade moaned, low and guttural, his hand coming up to rest on the back of Miguel’s head. He didn't push or grip his head, but it was a silent ask for more.

He let him, if only to busy himself as his other hand snaked up T'Challa's leg. His large hand snaked from his ankle and up, gently but firmly squeezing him. He could feel the muscles in his leg, the sheer strength behind them, growing thicker and firmer as he paused near his thigh.

Blade let Miguel bob his head on his cock, his jaw going slack as Blade thrusted his cock deeper. His hand briefly massages T'Challa's thigh, appreciating the thickness, the muscle in such a limb. Then, he moved his hand up, palming at T'Challa's clothed groin.

Miguel moaned around Blade's cock when he felt T'Challa's erection, the print visible through his clothes. Without pulling away from where Blade had him swallowing his cock whole, Miguel fished T'Challa out of his confinements… and was pleasantly surprised to feel that he wasn't wearing anything underneath his tunic.

The King of Wakanda stood motionless, his expression a mask of calm authority. His eyes burned with a hungry, lustful intensity as he watched Miguel pull away from Blade's cock.

Spider-Man’s lips were spit-slick and swollen, panting as he delivered a parting kiss to Blade's cock that made him groan from above. Miguel moved his head to face T'Challa's cock.

His pretty brown eyes glanced up, making eye contact with the king as his lips blindly found T'Challa's swollen cockhead. His own cock, still trapped in the cup of his suit, leaked with precum when T'Challa's breath hitched. His hand found Miguel's shoulder, fingers digging into the strong muscle.

“You have a way of making a man forget his duties,” T'Challa whispered, his voice a low rumble. It vibrated through Miguel's entire body, sending pleasant shivers down his spine.

Miguel worked them both, losing himself in the sea of pleasure. His movements were fluid and eager, like a natural born slut quickly figuring out where he stood between such men. Their scents combined together, something metallic, earthy, and musky mixing into one. It made him dizzy and drunk in the best way possible, as if he didn't need oxygen and only their combined scents.

He's never felt this way before, this overwhelming need to pleasure such men, to surrender himself to the two most powerful men he's had the honor of knowing.

Blade's breath comes in ragged bursts. His body tensed as Miguel's lips and tongue did their work, the pleasure like no other. Even the King of Wakanda isn't immune to such pleasure. His head is tilted back, a look of raw, unadulterated pleasure crossing his face. 

For a moment, the weight of the world and the fate of Wakanda are forgotten. There's only the overwhelming feeling of their combined body heat and the sound of their shared pleasure.

T'Challa caught Blade's eyes, and the Daywalker yielded as a silent conversation passed between them. Blade pulled Miguel off his cock, twitching as Miguel tried to cling on. Spider-Man wordlessly groaned, his eyes a glowing red, panting and drooling.

Miguel gives no protest or struggle as both men firmly and roughly push him into a certain position. He's pushed onto his hands and knees, his ass sticking out on instinct—it’s hard not too when he's given such a body.

He let out a small moan when Blade, who had moved behind him, pressed his cock against his ass. Miguel bit his lips, fangs threatening to pierce his own flesh, and bowed his head. He panted, feeling overheated, as Blade grinded his cock against him.

Blade swallowed as his cock slid between Miguel's luscious ass, only emphasized by the skin tight suit of his. His hand slid over his ass, appreciating just how round and lush it felt. 

Wordlessly, the skin dissolved under their very eyes, revealing the compression suit underneath. It hugged his ass nicely, the muscles underneath it, hard and reflexing under bronze skin and dark compressions. 

Blade slowly slid his cock, enjoying how his precum leaked onto the darkly colored compressions. It was a stark contrast that made his cock leak even more.

Miguel raised his head, kissing T'Challa's thighs when T'Challa lifted his tunic. He licked the flesh there, letting his teeth graze without piercing the skin. He enjoyed how the king gave a small jolt of surprise.

Miguel gave a slow sway of his hips, pushing back against the thick, heavy cock resting on his ass. He tilted his head and kissed up to T'Challa's sacks. He sniffed them, then licked them. The king groaned, his hand settling on Miguel's head, gently but firmly pushing him closer.

He responded by opening his mouth and plopping a sack into his mouth, gently sucking on it and slicking it up. The groan that followed afterwards made Miguel want to preen in delight. Instead, he dissolved his compression—futuristic technology figured that one out—and enjoyed the way Blade's cock twitched against his ass.

“Did you… prep yourself?” Blade's voice struggled to hide the surprise. Miguel didn't respond, too busy sucking and adoring T'Challa's balls. Instead, Miguel spread his legs, letting his cock drop between them.

It hung heavy and erected, leaking at the tip with precum, dripping onto the cool floor. He blindly reached behind him and spread his ass open, his toes curling, as he beckoned Blade inside.

The Daywalker groaned, loud and appreciatively. He gripped his cock, stroking it, his other hand tightly gripping Miguel's hip as he pushed his cock inside.

Miguel groaned against T'Challa's sack, the vibration making the king groan as well. Blade gave no mercy as he slid all the way in—and what a true slut Spider-Man 2099 was, stretching and working himself up so thoroughly that there was no resistance to be found as Blade bottomed out, his own sack smacking against Miguel's peach ass with a lewd plap!

Miguel tightened around the girthy cock in his hole, dropping his mouth from T'Challa's royal balls as. He bowed his head, openly panting as he adjusted to the cock in his hole. His cock twitched between his legs, his balls throbbing. He arched his back, his claws digging furrows into the floor.

T’Challa took his jaw in one hand, his hand warm and large. He tilted his chin up, waiting until Miguel’s crimson eyes focused on him. Miguel licked his bottom lip. The king watched him with equal reverence.

A thumb swept across Miguel’s bottom lip, and Miguel opened his mouth. They maintained eye contact as T'Challa fed him his cock. 

The taste of the king flooded his senses. Something primal and made of ancient earth and lightning storms flooded his senses. Miguel moaned as he slowly bobbed his head, swallowing around his cock, his lips stretching around such girth. The vibration sent through T'Challa's cock made him sharply exhale from above.

“Look at me,” T'Challa commanded nonetheless, his fingers tightening just enough to pinch. Miguel obeyed, opening his eyes from where he had unintentionally closed them. He struggled, however, to maintain the connection, between T'Challa's cock buried down his throat and Blade fucking him from behind. 

The stretch burns despite Miguel's earlier prep. It's white hot, it aches, and it's perfect. Blade's hips snap against him with a predator's patience—no wasted motion, only a devastating precision.

The rhythm finds them naturally not long after. When Blade fills him with a deep, rough thrust, T'Challa pulls out to let him breathe and drool. When the king pushes back into his throat, Blade withdraws to let his hole try to suck him back in. They use him like an instrument, finding notes of pleasure in his choked whimpers and muted groans. Sweat slicks to all of them, dotting their eyebrows and hair, rolling down their dark skins. Drool, especially, trickles down his chin where T'Challa is roughly and thoroughly claiming him.

Blade leans down, inadvertently digging deep into Miguel's hole. It makes Spider-Man moan around the cock in his throat, his toes curling and claws digging deeper. He could feel Blade in his guts.

The Daywalker's fangs graze Miguel's shoulder without breaking skin. It is a promise as much as it is a threat.

“Still think you're the scariest thing in the world?” Blade growls, his hot breath puffing against Miguel's shoulder blade. But it's hard to differentiate from where the heat is coming from—is it his breath puffing against his skin, his body heat seeping through? Or perhaps the burning arousal that had raised the temperature? 

Miguel can't answer.

Your eyes swept over your screen as you looked at your OnlyFans dashboard. You told yourself you weren't the type to spend money on models, but one definitely stood out to you. AlphaAce was a gay pornstar who you had been following closely for the last couple of years. He was Latino with gorgeous tan skin with a hung cock to match. You'd been a loyal follower since your senior year in high school, which was a secret you'd take to the grave.

Years of predictable uploads had trained you to expect the usual. A new set, a new co-star, the same high-end polish. Today however, his newest post stopped you dead in your tracks.

“To celebrate reaching the top 0.01% of all OnlyFans creators, I will be hosting my first ever ‘Fuck My Fans!’ sweepstakes!  One of you lucky ducks is going to have a chance to film an exclusive video with yours truly! No scam, this is just your favorite daddy giving back to everyone who gives so much love and support to me <3”

You reread the post over and over again, and immediately followed the instructions to apply. You were thinking with your dick instead of your brain as you filled out all the questions. You looked at the confirmation slip that was emailed to you.

Weeks bled into months with no update or confirmation on the event. It felt scummy, even for the porn industry, and you’d spent the last few weeks nursing a bitter sort of resentment; you felt like an idiot for thinking that a popular gay pornstar would actually reach out.

You were back in your work office, staring at the stack of papers at your desk and the empty email you needed to write. The hum of the fluorescent lights was the only thing filling the room until the buzz in your pocket broke the rhythm. You pulled your phone out, expecting a spam call or a reminder, but the notification on the lock screen made the floor feel like it had vanished.

AlphaAce: Hey! You won the Fuck my Fans event! Are you available to fly out to LA and have some fun?

The message was quick, it was casual, unprofessional, undeniably written by Ace without proofreading or anything like that. This was 100% legit.

You struggled to reply, your dick was already starting to harden inside of your pants. You felt like a damn mess right now.

AlphaAce: Check your email for the flight info! I’ll take care of your sleeping situation too! You shouldn't have to worry about a thing. 👍🏽

You: Thanks. Still feels a bit surreal. I’ve been following the page for a long time.

AlphaAce: I know ;) I saw your joining date. You’re an OG. I’m kind of nervous tbh. I usually just work with other pros. Meeting someone real is way better. 🙌🏽

AlphaAce: Also, off the clock? It’s Leonardo. Or just Leo. 'Ace' is for the brand, but I hope we can get a little closer if you catch my drift ;)

Eventually, the notifications you received from him stopped being a source of panic and started being a shot of dopamine. You started to lean into it, realizing that behind the massive brand was a guy who actually seemed to be listening.

Leo: So what made you into my biggest fan, huh? 

Leo: like

Leo: What about me had you in high school sneaking off to the bathroom to rub one out to me? 😜

Your heart is hammering. He had actually looked at your join date and did the math. You typed, deleted, and typed again, your thumbs feeling heavy.

You: I just really like your appearance. 

Leo: Liar. Leo: It was my feet, wasn’t it? 

Leo: I can see your likes list, kid

Leo: Every time I post a close-up, you’re the first one there. 

Leo: I know I have some nice tootsies. 🦶🏽

You stared at the screen, the heat rising from your chest to your ears. There was no hiding it, he had the receipts. Before you could even think of a defense, the three dots appeared, dancing on the screen.

Leo: [Image Attachment]

It was a high-angle shot, clearly taken just seconds ago. He was sitting on the edge of a marble kitchen island, his legs stretched out. The lighting was natural, catching the arch of his foot and the tan lines from his flip-flops.

Leo: Fresh from the press. Just for my favorite fan. 💓

Leo: You still haven't answered the question. 

Leo: Is it the arch? Or the way I move them? 🦶🏽💦

You were about to type something incoherent when the next notification hit.

Leo: Actually, don't answer yet. 

Leo: Save it for LA.

Leo: I want to hear you say it when you're looking at them in person.

—

Later into the night, you received another message from Leo, and attached to it was a new video.

Leo: [Video Attachment: 0:15]

It was a vertical, shaky-cam video shot in a mirror. Leo was shirtless, his hair messy, looking less like a Greek god and more like a guy who had just woken up. He was brushing his teeth, leaning into the frame with a tired, genuine smile.

"Hey," his voice was a morning rasp, deeper and softer than it ever sounded on his videos. "Just finished a workout. Thinking about that flight tomorrow. Can’t wait to see you in person. Get some sleep, okay? See you at LAX."

He didn't end with a wink or a flex. He just waved, looked slightly embarrassed by his own video, then cut the feed.

—

The seal of the cabin broke, and the recycled air of the Spirit plane was instantly chased away by the heavy, sunbaked breath of Los Angeles. It was the golden heat that felt thick in the lungs, a tinge of ocean air and asphalt as you got up to deplane.

You had followed the stream of Disney families through the glass walled Labyrinth of Terminal 5, the hoodie that you had worn to your home airport already feeling like an extra layer of skin you needed to shed like yesterday. After three wrong turns and a dizzying descent down a crowded escalator, you saw him. He stuck out like a sore thumb to you.

Leo was leaning against a concrete pillar near the sliding doors. He was wearing a simple dark Navy tee that hung just right, fitted just enough to show the broad line of his shoulders without looking like he bought a size too small. He looked comfortable, anchored in the middle of the airport chaos, and when your eyes caught each, the image of Ace vanished behind a grin that was all warmth.

He opened his arms for you to come into, you did. His body had a clean citrus scent that was from a shower that morning. “Come on, man. Let’s get you out of those layers before you melt onto the sidewalk.”

He led you towards the parking structure, where his car was parked under the harsh white lights. A clean looking silver 2026 Lexus NX, basically a Toyota RAV4 that takes premium gas. It had that heavy prestige grill gleaming like it had just been detailed.

The moment he hit the key fob and the doors unlocked, the illusion of perfection dissolved as you climbed in. You noticed a stray protein shaker in the cup holder and the light dusting of sand on floor mats. It was a high-end machine but it was definitely Leo’s.

“Sorry about the mess,” he said, tossing a rogue gym towel into the back seat as the engine roared to life. The A/C began hitting your face with a blessed icy chill. “I didn't have a lot of time to clean it this morning.”

Leo backed out of the space and sped off. You shared a comfortable silence as the local radio blared La Chona through the speakers.

You kept your head turned, eyes locked on the window. Los Angeles looked like a fever dream in wide-screen. The sky was a breathtaking blue, a sharp contrast to the gray skies back home you left that morning. The car passed by rows of palm trees that helped make the place feel like a giant resort.

Every few feet there was something new. A shop, a splash of neon, a crowded sidewalk cafe where people stood outside for hours for a matcha latte that had an ugly label on it. There was a sense of infinite life out here, a salty promise of the beach tucked somewhere behind the smog and the glitter in the air.

"First time in LA?" Leo asked.

His voice was different than it was on the screen, deeper, but still carrying that smooth, professional edge. He didn't look at you as he spoke; his eyes were hidden behind Ray Ban glasses, focused on the busy traffic of the 405 northbound.

"Yeah," you said. Your voice sounded thin, even to you. "It’s... a lot of trees."

Leo let out a short, dry sound, a grunt of amusement. "They’re mostly fakes. Half of them aren't even native. Just here for the aesthetic."

He shifted lanes, the silver Lexus gliding effortlessly between a beat-up sedan and a tourist bus. You gripped the armrest a little tighter. You didn't know this man. You knew how big his dick was, his favorite camera angles, and the sound he made when he was cumming inside a guy that looked kind of like yourself… but you didn't really know the guy sitting next to you.

"You're remarkably quiet," he noted, his tone neutral. "Most people usually start asking about the house or the videos by now. You like staring at the palm trees?"

"I’m just trying to make sure this is real," You admitted. You risked a glance at him. He looked like one of those guys on Instagram who sold you a $200 course on bodybuilding. 

"And.. that you aren't going to drop me off in the middle of the desert and leave me for snake food."

Leo finally cut a look towards your direction, the corner of his mouth twitching upward for a fraction of a second. It wasn't a friendly smile; it was the look of someone who knew exactly how much power he held in the moment.

"The desert is a two-hour drive from here," he said, turning the wheel as we hit the off-ramp toward the hills. "Too much gas. Besides, you're the big winner. It’d be bad for my brand if you went missing on day one."

The joke felt cold, calculated in a way that made your stomach drop.

Leo began driving on an incline, winding through streets that felt less like a neighborhood and more like a private botanical garden. You kept your eyes facing the window, expecting to see another tour bus, or a guy selling maps to Hollywood Boulevard.

“Isn't that… wait,  isn't that the place from that one sitcom?”  you asked, pointing at a sprawling white estate tucked behind a wall of perfectly cared for hedges.

Leo just grinned, his hand draped casually over the top of the steering wheel. “Probably. Everything around here has been in a movie at some point.”

You were busy trying to spot a celebrity through a gate across the street when you felt the car slow down. Leo pulled into a driveway that felt more like a gallery entrance. It was a sharp, aggressive piece of modern architecture. The garage door hummed open, revealing a space so clean it felt like a laboratory.

Leo shifted into park and pressed the ignition button. The dashboard lights dimmed, the AC gave one final puff, leaving you in silence.

You sat there for a second, your hand still on the door handle. “ Wait, are we just stopping for a view or..?”

Leo unbuckled his seatbelt and reached for his gym bag in the back. He looked over at you, that same, unbothered expression on his face.

“We're here, dude.” He said

He didn't wait for a reaction. He just hopped out, leaving you staring at the reflection of Los Angeles. He didn't just know people here. He lived here.

You walked inside, half-expecting it to look like a front page for Architectures Digest, with that perfect resale value, white walls, and plants.

In reality, you almost tripped over a foam roller.

The house itself was incredible, a wide open floor plan with a view of the canyon that probably cost more than anything you could dream of. But the prestige ended with the architecture. Before you stood a massive marble kitchen island, which was now the resting place for about 10 stray Fairlife drinks and those weird blueberry protein sodas Costco sells.

Over in the corner sat a desk and computer setup, the keyboard buried under a stack of unread mail. Over a couple grand invested into the computer, with giant monitors in what is most likely the “editing corner,” surrounded by a literal knot of tangled thick black cables.

Leo tossed his keys onto a side table that looked like it belonged in a museum, but it was currently holding a half eaten bag of Quest Chips.

“Sorry about the.. everything.” He muttered, waving a hand at the pile of laundry sitting on a designer chair. He didn’t look remotely embarrassed; it was just the state of things. “Lupe doesn’t come until tomorrow. She’s basically the only reason this place hasn’t been reclaimed by the HOA yet.”

He headed towards the kitchen, his heavy footsteps echoing on the polished concrete. “You want water or a beer? I think there's some of both in the fridge.”

Seeing a discarded gym towel draped over a glass railing that overlooked a million dollar view brought him right back to earth. He was a regular guy with a really.. nice landlord it seems.

Leo led you down a hallway that felt more like a gallery… if that gallery were currently being used to store Amazon boxes. He paused at a closed door on the right. Through the crack at the bottom you could see the glow of a professional LED panel.

"That’s the 'office,'" He said, his voice dropping just a fraction. He didn't elaborate, and he didn't open the door. You knew enough to know that was the money-maker; the room where the lighting was always perfect, the sheets were always crisp, and the version of Leo that the world paid to see lived and breathed. It was probably the only spot in the house without a stray chip bag on the floor.

He stopped at the next door and gave the handle a purposeful turn.

"And this," he said, with a slightly hopeful exhale, "is you."

It was a decent-sized room, and you could tell he’d made an effort. The bed was made, the hospital corners weren't perfect, but they were there, and there was a brand-new candle on the nightstand that hadn't been lit yet.

"I moved most of my extra gear out of here so you’d have some breathing room," he said, gesturing vaguely toward the wardrobe.

You walked over and tried to hang up your sweater. The closet door resisted at first, then gave way with a muffled thump of something heavy shifting inside. It was packed to the ceiling with "pornstar overflow", extra ring light stands, boxes of supplements, and what looked like a discarded velvet curtain.

A faint, unmistakable scent wafted out, a mix of cedarwood, laundry detergent, and that slightly stale "closed-off room" smell.

"Don't open that too fast or you’ll lose a toe," Leo joked from the doorway, leaning against the frame. He looked at the room, then back at you, his eyes searching for a sign that he’d done okay. "It’s not the Four Seasons, but the pillows are fluffy. I checked."

You ended up in the room, a perfectly made black bed with nothing but the view of the hollywood hills and a computer behind the 3 cameras.

Leo looked at you, leaning against the frame with that practiced, predatory smirk.

“So, about that video...” he started, his voice a low, practiced rumble. “I know you’re a virgin and all, but are you still up for it?”

The question felt like a lead weight. You felt your heart start to rush, your stomach dropping at the prospect, Leo’s kindness to fly you out to Los Angeles and show you who he was behind the videos. You felt like a fraud for even being there.

"I... I'm frankly really scared to do this. I'm actually a virgin, and I just don't think I can film this," You admitted.

You opened an eye, you saw his expression drop but not in disappointment or resentment but relief. Relief washed over his handsome features as if he’d been waiting for an excuse to stop acting, his broad shoulders slumping from their rigid posture.

“Then we don't have to. At least, not this time.” He comforted, moving his hand to rest on your shoulder.

“Tell you what, how about.. since you clearly are having doubts..” You felt your face heat up as he trailed his gaze to the tent you pitched in your pants. 

“We can try some fun tonight with no cameras. You just enjoy yourself here with no pressure. Then later this week, we can see if you wanna film, deal?” he grinned, holding his free hand for a firm handshake.

You look down at his tattooed hand, then back up at his face, and firmly shook it. His palm was warm and inviting, putting you at ease.

“Deal,” You whispered.

He took your hand mid-handshake and walked you up the stairs and down the hallway, away from the sterile fuckroom and into a warmer area of the house.

You stumbled into his personal bedroom, your heart raced with a mixture of excitement and nervousness. 

It was a spacious room with black accent walls and a gorgeous view of the Beverly Hills sprawl outside. The silhouettes of palm trees marked the deep blue of the night sky. A queen sized bed in the middle of the room. The clean gray sheets fitted onto the mattress, clearly made in order to impress you

Leo looked up at you with a charming smile, his eyes meeting yours. 

He guided you to sit on the edge of the bed, “Good, you’re all mine then.” Leo purred, his voice smooth like velvet. "I'm so glad you won the chance to be with me today.”

Leo chuckled, it wasn’t that predatory kind you’d see when he was fucking a twink on cam, it was relief. He didn’t let go of your hand; instead, he used the grip to pull you into a tight falling hug that resulted in you resting on top of him. His guard was fully down as he leaned close to your neck, his stubble tickling your ear.

“Good,” He murmured, looking up at you with that smolder that you’d seen on camera a thousand times—except this time, it was just for you.

“Listen, you’re like.. In the best hands possible,” He said, his hand coming up to caress your cheek. “I’m like.. a sex expert. A Sexpert! It’s what I do and know best. Tonight, I want you to just enjoy yourself and let me handle everything else. Again, no pressure.”

He broke your gaze, looking behind him and toward the corners of his bedroom. “Look around. Do you see any cameras? This, dude, is just for us, ‘kay?”

He waited for that tension in your shoulders to finally melt. When you gave him a small breathless nod, he let out a low hum of approval. He reached out with his other hand, his fingers skimming the hem of your hoodie.

“You're bundled up like you’re going to the Arctic or something,” He teased, chuckling as he held eye contact. “Let’s just get comfortable, yeah?”

He moved slowly, deliberately, giving you every second you needed if you wanted to change your mind. His warm hands moved up your torso removing your shirt and hoodie in one motion. The cool air made your skin goosebump under his touch.

“You’re adorable, kid. So much potential for some macho muscles like these babies.” He shifted, flexing his bicep in a way where it was obvious he clearly wanted to impress you and you alone. His other hand moved down to your thigh, passing by your impossibly hard bulge.

“Is this how much you like me? You wanna show me more?” He smiled, looking up at you as you awkwardly started taking off your pants as he requested, including your underwear.

Your dick was out in the open, in front of your biggest porn crush of all time.

Leo chuckled, not in a degrading way, his voice was warm, inviting, and soft. He was looking at his most devoted fan’s proof of membership.

“Heh, hung as a horse, just like me,” He bragged, pulling down his pants to tease that cock you’d seen on camera so many times. In real life, with your very own two eyes, it looked like a giant fucking dildo was stuffed in his pants. He was definitely being humble, saying you were as big as him.

He watched your eyes widen at him and smiled. Fueled by your reaction, he rapidly shed the few remaining layers of clothing on him. His legs were decorated with muscles you didn’t even know existed. His thighs looked strong enough to crush a watermelon between them, an idea you kept in the back of your mind for next time. As you saw earlier, his shoulders were broad and his chest huge, his abs peeking from underneath his belly.

He reached out, giving you a hug while you two were now fully exposed for each other, skin to skin. He gave you a possessive squeeze, leaning in until his breath hitched in your ear.

"You have a thing for feet, right, chamaco?” His right hand trailed down to your thigh. “There's nothing wrong with that. In fact, I think we can work with that."

You nodded, feeling your cheeks flush hotter. "Yeah, yours are great."

Leo chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. "Well, how about I give you a little treat then?"

Leo pulled back, his warmth lingered on your skin. He adjusted your position, so you were down at your knees in front of him.

“Get on your knees for me, baby.” Leo commanded, watching you fall and look up at him.

“You’re so cute, open up.” He whispered. He lifted his foot, bringing it closer to your face. The scent of his skin, clean and masculine, filled your nostrils, your dick was twitching and leaking onto the floor.

 You leaned in, placing a soft kiss on his big toe, your tongue darting out to taste his skin.

Leo let out a soft groan, his cock twitching in his pants. "Fuck, that's hot. You're a natural, kid."

He guided your head up until your nose was nestled in the soft, pillow hair of his bush. You inhaled deeply, the musky scent of his arousal filling your lungs. Your lips parted and you placed a trail of kisses along his hardening shaft, your tongue flicking out to lap at the leaking precum.

"Ohhh fuck, that's it," Leo grunted, his hips bucking slightly. "Suck my dick, baby. Show me how much you want it."

You hesitated, taking in the sheer size and sight of his cock in your hands. Leo was uncut, his cock was much darker than the rest of him, and his cockhead was a healthy deep shade of pink. His cock was hot in your hands. You needed both to cover his entire length, which he’d brag on video about it being 8 inches and thick.

You fianlly took him into your mouth, your lips stretching around his thick girth. He was bigger than you had imagined, his cock pulsing and throbbing against your tongue.

You bobbed your head, taking him deeper with every inch that passed your lips, your throat constricting around his sensitive flesh. His foreskin pulled back, the taste a rich flavor of musk and salty precum.

Leo tangled his fingers in your hair, guiding your movements. "That's it, baby. Take my dick like the good little boy you are. Fuck, your mouth feels incredible."

After several minutes of slurping and sucking, Leo gently pulled you off his spit-slicked shaft. "As much as I love your mouth, I want to taste the rest of you."

He pushed you onto your stomach, his large frame looming over you. His hands slid up between your asscheeks, pulling them apart and keeping them spread with his calloused hands as he leaned in. You felt his hot breath on your moist asshole, and your body shuddered and puckered in anticipation.

"Fuck, you smell amazing," Leo murmured, his voice vibrating against your skin. "I bet you taste even better."

He leaned in, his tongue parting your hole and delving deep inside. You cried out, your ass pushing against his tongue as he ate you out with enthusiasm, his tongue swirling and flicking against your sensitive skin.

"Oh god, Leo!" You moaned, your hands clawing onto the bed sheets, "Don't stop, please don't stop!"

He continued his sensual assault, bringing you closer and closer to the edge. Just as you were about to tumble over into ecstasy, he pulled his tongue back, a wicked grin on his face.

"As much as I love eating this sweet hole, I need to be inside you. I need to feel your tight little hole squeezing my dick."

He reached for a bottle of lube, slicking up his thick, 8-inch shaft. He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock kissing your fluttering hole.

"Tell me if it's too much, okay? I don't want to hurt you," he said softly, his eyes filled with genuine concern.

With a gentle thrust of his hips, he pushed forward, the head of his cock popping inside you. You gasped at the sudden intrusion, your body instinctively clenching around the thick intrusion.

"Oh fuck, you're so tight," Leo grunted, his hips rocking slowly, working more and more of his length inside you. "Fuck, baby, you feel incredible."

He slowly bottomed out, his pelvis pressed against your ass, his heavy balls resting against your taint. He stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust to the feeling of being so utterly filled.

Then, he started to move, his hips rolling in a slow, sensual rhythm. His thick cock dragged along your insides, each thrust sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body. Leo's cock was hitting your prostate, making friends with it, knowing it inside and out.

"Oh god, Leo, yes!" You cried out, your nails digging into the sheets. "Fuck me harder, please!"

He obliged, his thrusts becoming more forceful, more demanding. The room filled with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin, punctuated by your moans and his deep, guttural groans.

"Fuck, I'm getting close," Leo panted, his hips never faltering in their relentless rhythm. "I want to fill this tight little ass with my cum. I want you to feel it dripping out of you for days."

With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself deep inside you, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he found his release. You could feel the heat of his cum flooding your insides, marking you, claiming you as his own.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress. He peppered your face and neck with soft kisses, his hand stroking your hair tenderly.

"That was incredible," he whispered, his voice filled with awe and wonder. "You did so well, chamaco. I'm so proud of you."

He held you close, your bodies entwined, basking in the afterglow of your lovemaking. In that moment, you knew that this was an experience you would never forget, a memory you would cherish for the rest of your life.

It was all thanks to Leo, who had taken the time to make your first time special and unforgettable.

The sun was dropping behind the Santa Monica mountains, turning the hazy LA skyline into a bruised purple and gold. Leo handed you a cold Modelo, the glass bottle already sweating in the lingering heat. You two leaned against the glass railing, the type that made you feel like you were floating over the city.

For a long time, neither of you said anything. The hum of the city far below was just a vibration in the air.

"My parents are old-school Mexican Catholic," Leo said suddenly, his voice scraping against the quiet. His eyes resting on the lights of the city, "Burbank. We almost lost the house when I was seventeen. My dad was out of work, and my mom was praying every day, but that didn't bring cash fast enough."

He took a long pull of his beer and let out a dry, sharp laugh.

"I found this gay site. I knew what people wanted. I applied to make a countdown video. 'Barely Legal’ shit. It was messed up, I know. Some guy with a 10 incher coming onto me like 2 seconds after I turned 18, but I’m not gonna lie to you, dude, I liked the attention. I came so fucking hard, and I liked the two thousand dollars I made in two hours even more."

He gripped the railing, his knuckles standing out. The "aesthetic" physique you admired earlier suddenly looked like armor he’d built to keep the world at bay.

"I gave the money to my mom. Told her I’d been working double shifts at a warehouse. I got addicted to that feeling, being the one who could fix things. I kept doing it. More videos, more money. The house was safe. Everyone was safe because of me."

He finally turned to look at me, his expression unreadable in the shadows.

"Then they found out. They didn't care about the house anymore. They didn't care that I’d saved them. They heard 'gay' and they saw the 'sin' and they kicked me out that same night. I spent three months sleeping in a 2010 Corolla in a North Hollywood parking lot."

He gestured vaguely at the sprawling modern house behind us, the glowing "content room" just visible through the glass.

"Consistency and pure, dumb stubbornness. That’s how I ended up here. A stroke of luck, maybe. But I never stopped filming. I figured if the world was gonna judge and hate me anyway, I might as well own the view."