Supercap2319

The soft afternoon light filtered through the blinds of your apartment, casting golden stripes across the hardwood floor. You sat on your plush armchair, sketchbook resting on your lap, pencil poised as you surveyed the scene before you.

"Alright, boys." You said with a playful grin. "Let's get into position."

Three of Gotham's finest heroes stood before you in various states of undress. Jason Todd, Dick Grayson, and Tim Drake—all yours—had agreed to model for your private art collection. And you'd chosen a rather... revealing theme.

Jason, ever the brooding one, adjusted the red jockstrap that barely contained his impressive package. The vibrant color contrasted beautifully against his pale skin and the network of scars that crisscrossed his torso. He crossed his arms, trying to maintain his tough demeanor despite the slight blush creeping up his neck.

"Don't look so grumpy, Jay." You teased, earning a glare from him.

Dick moved with effortless grace, stretching his limbs like the natural performer he was. The blue jockstrap hugged his hips perfectly, emphasizing his athletic build and the toned muscles of his thighs. He caught your eye and winked, already comfortable with the attention.

"You know, I've done less modeling for the cameras at Gotham Gazette." Dick said with a laugh, striking a pose that made his muscles ripple.

Tim, ever the analytical one, stood somewhat awkwardly as he adjusted the green jockstrap. His lean frame carried it well, though he seemed more focused on the physics of how it stayed in place rather than the aesthetics. His face was flushed, but there was determination in his eyes.

"Are you sure this is anatomically correct for drawing reference?" Tim asked, pushing his glasses up his nose.

You laughed, setting down your pencil. "It's perfect, Tim. Now, Jason—relax your shoulders a bit. Dick, maybe something a little less... acrobatic? And Tim, just stand naturally."

They shifted positions, and you began to sketch, capturing the way the different colors complemented each man's unique physique. Jason's rugged strength in red, Dick's fluid grace in blue, and Tim's lean intelligence in green.

As you worked, the atmosphere in the room shifted from playful to something more intimate. The air grew thick with desire as their eyes followed your movements across the page.

"You're staring." Jason noted, his voice lower now.

"Can you blame me?" You replied without looking up from your sketchbook. "I have three masterpieces right in front of me."

Dick chuckled, moving closer to you. "Speaking of masterpieces..." He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your neck as his hand slid down your chest.

Tim hesitated for a moment before joining, his fingers tracing patterns on your back as Jason watched with darkening eyes.

"Art time's over." Jason growled, closing the distance between you.

Your sketchbook fell to the floor as all three of them descended upon you, their hands exploring, their mouths claiming. The colors of their jockstraps blurred together as they removed your clothes, their contrasting styles merging into a single, overwhelming sensation of pleasure.

TWD-Rick Grimes x male reader

Heated rivalry poly-Scott x male reader x Kip

Red, White, and Royal Blue- Henry x male reader x Alex

Fellow Travelers-Tim x male reader x Hawk

Queer (film)-Lee x male reader x Eugene

Dead Boy Detectives-Charles x male reader x Edwin

911 lone stars- Carlos x male reader x TK

OLYMPO- Sebas x male reader x Roque

My Policeman- Tom x male reader x Patrick

Or non poly oneshots

BOOTS- Sgt. Sullivan x male reader

BOOTS-Nicholas Slovacek x male reader

School Spirits- Wally x male reader

Meet The Halliwells

The doorbell chimed at Halliwell Manor, and Piper rushed to answer it, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Behind her, Phoebe and Paige were gathered in the living room, waiting to meet their brother's new boyfriend.

"Hey!" Y/N stood on the porch, a nervous smile on his face. "Come on in, Stefan."

A tall, handsome man with light brown hair and piercing green eyes stepped forward, but hesitated at the threshold. "I'd love to, but could you... invite me in?"

The sisters exchanged confused glances. Piper's brow furrowed slightly. "Uh, sure. Please come in, Stefan."

As he crossed the threshold, a strange chill seemed to pass through the room, though no one mentioned it.

"Everyone, this is Stefan Salvatore." Y/N announced, his voice filled with pride. "Stefan, these are my sisters—Piper, Phoebe, and Paige."

Paige stepped forward with a smirk. "So you're the one who's managed to keep our brother occupied for weeks. We were starting to think he'd joined a monastery."

Stefan smiled politely. "Not quite. Though your brother has been showing me all around San Francisco."

Piper extended her hand. "It's nice to finally meet you, Stefan. Y/N's been... surprisingly tight-lipped about you."

"I wanted to make sure you all approved before I shared too much." Y/N replied.

Phoebe watched him with narrowed eyes, her empath senses tingling. There was something... off about him. Something dark and heavy beneath his charming exterior.

"So, Stefan." Piper said as they settled in the living room, "Y/N mentioned you're from Virginia originally. What brought you all the way to San Francisco?"

Stefan's smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "I needed a change of scenery. A fresh start."

Paige leaned forward, her sarcastic charm on full display. "Fresh start from what? Did you burn down your ex-girlfriend's house or something?"

Stefan's laugh was hollow. "Nothing so dramatic. Just... complications."

"Do you have any family back in Virginia?" Phoebe asked, watching his reactions carefully.

"A brother." Stefan said shortly. "We're not close."

The atmosphere grew tense as Phoebe's powers kicked in. Suddenly, she was overwhelmed by waves of guilt—deep, crushing guilt that made her gasp aloud.

"Phoebe?" Y/N asked, concerned. "Are you okay?"

She shook her head, trying to clear the emotions that weren't hers. "I'm fine. Just... a headache." But she wasn't fine. Stefan's guilt was suffocating—a darkness so profound it felt ancient. It was tied to death, to blood, to centuries of something unspeakable.

Paige, oblivious to the emotional undercurrent, continued her banter. "Well, as long as you're not secretly married or wanted by the FBI, I guess we can keep you."

Stefan's eyes flickered with something dangerous—red and predatory—for just a moment. "I can assure you, nothing like that."

Phoebe stood abruptly. "I think I need some air." She rushed to the kitchen, her mind reeling from the intensity of Stefan's emotions.

As she leaned against the counter, trying to compose herself, Piper appeared in the doorway.

"Are you alright?" She asked.

"No, not really, Piper. I just felt this overwhelming feeling of guilt coming from Stefan. It was so dark and suffocating. I haven't anything like that since Cole."

Piper knitted her eyebrows together. “So what are you saying exactly? That our brother's new boyfriend is a demon?”

“Well, wouldn't be the first time that someone in this household would fall for the dark charms of demons.” Phoebe said. 

“What do you suggest we do? I freeze the room while you come up with a spell to vanquish him?”

“I think it'd be best if we wait to see how this places out. I'd hate to ruin something for Y/N because of my powers are wrong.” Phoebe said, picking up a nearby apple and examining it.

Piper tucked a string of her behind her ear. “And what if you're right and Stefan's really a demon?”

“Then we deal with a hysterical baby brother because we had to vanquish his sexy boyfriend.” Phoebe said.

While this conversation was happening in the kitchen, back in the dining room, Stefan's smiling face morphed into a frown as his vampire senses heard everything that Piper and Phoebe had just talked about.

“Stef? You alright?”

The sound of Y/N's voice pulled him out of his thoughts as he offered the younger male a fake smile. “Yeah, of course. Everything's fine.”

I Like The Fire In Your Eyes

The neon sign of "The Velvet Orchid" flickered against the brick wall of a nondescript warehouse just outside downtown Nashville. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of expensive cologne and whiskey. Blue Bennings pushed through the heavy black curtain, his 6'3" frame instantly drawing eyes. He'd been dragged here by some of the boys from the station after a long shift, told it was a "different kind of" entertainment venue.

"What in the hell..." Blue muttered, his voice thick with confusion as he took in the stage. The dancers weren't women at all, but men dressed in elaborate lingerie and makeup, moving with a grace that defied their masculine frames.

"First time here, sugar?" A slender figure with platinum blonde hair and ruby-red lips approached him. The femboy wore a black lace bodysuit that left little to imagination, his movements fluid as a cat's.

Blue shifted uncomfortably, adjusting his jean jacket. "Uh, yeah. Ain't never seen nothin' quite like this before."

The femboy laughed, a high-pitched melodic sound. "Well then, you're in for a treat." He took Blue's large calloused hand. "Name's Y/N. And you look like you could use a real show."

Before Blue could protest, Y/N was leading him to a private booth in the back. The lights dimmed as music started - some slow, sultry blues number that vibrated through the floor.

Y/N moved to the pole in the center of the small stage, his body twisting and climbing with impossible strength and flexibility. Blue found himself leaning forward despite himself, watching as Y/N spun and dropped, his muscles tensing beneath smooth skin. There was something mesmerizing about it - the combination of masculine power and feminine presentation.

When Y/N slid from the pole into Blue's lap, the firefighter tensed up. "Whoa there, darlin'." Blue started, but Y/N silenced him with a finger to his lips.

"Relax, big guy." Jinx whispered, his accent a strange mix of Southern charm and something more refined. "Just here to show you a good time."

As Y/N moved against him, Blue felt a heat spreading through his body that had nothing to do with embarrassment. There was something about this performer - the confidence, the skill, the way those dark eyes seemed to see right through him.

"You know." Y/N murmured, his breath warm against Blue's ear, "I can tell you've got some fire in you. Bet you're real good at puttin' out fires... and startin' 'em too."

Blue swallowed hard, his hands resting awkwardly on Y/N's hips. "Used to dance myself." He admitted quietly. "But nothin' like this."

Y/N grinned, grinding down slightly. "Oh, I know exactly what you used to do, Blue Bennings. Word travels fast in this town." He leaned closer, his lips brushing against Blue's jaw. "But tonight... you're not the one performin'."

As the song reached its climax, Y/N moved with an intensity that left Blue breathless. When it was over, the femboy stood up with a final wink, leaving Blue sitting there speechless, his heart racing and his body responding in ways he hadn't expected.

"Come back anytime, firefighter." Y/N called over his shoulder as he disappeared behind the curtain. "I've got moves I haven't even shown you yet."

The hallway at Riverdale High buzzed with typical afternoon chatter as Cheryl Blossom stormed through the crowd, her red hair bouncing with each determined step. She spotted Y/N Lodge at his locker and marched right up to him, slamming her hand against the metal beside his head.

"Well, well, well." Cheryl said, her voice dripping with sweet venom. "I just heard the most ridiculous rumor. You, a boy, running for prom queen? That's adorable, but utterly delusional. I assume it was a mistake that will correct itself by noon."

Y/N calmly closed his locker and turned to face her, unimpressed. "And why exactly can't I run for prom queen, Cheryl?"

"Because you have a penis, in case you haven't noticed." Cheryl sneered, crossing her arms. "Prom queen is for girls. It's tradition. It's proper."

Y/N leaned against the lockers, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Well, I hate to burst your bubble, Cheryl, but I'm not dropping out. In fact, I'm going to win."

Cheryl let out an incredulous laugh. "You? Win prom queen? Over me? That's the funniest thing I've heard all year."

"See, that's where you're wrong." Y/N said, pushing off the lockers and stepping closer to her. "My boyfriend Archie Andrews is going to win prom king, and I'll be damned if I let anyone take my place by his side on stage. Not even little whores like you."

Cheryl's jaw dropped, her perfectly painted lips parting in shock. For once, the Queen Bee of Riverdale High was speechless, her eyes widening as she processed what Y/N had just said to her face.

"You..." She finally managed, her voice barely above a whisper. "You did not just call me that."

"I believe I did." Y/N replied with a smirk. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a campaign to run. And a crown to win. I'm thinking red tux because I make red look good. See you, Cheryl. "

Heated Showers

The steam from the shower filled the locker room at Station 113, fogging up the mirrors and leaving droplets on the metal lockers. Inside, Blue Bennings stood with his back pressed against the tiled wall, water cascading down his muscular frame. His dark brown hair was plastered to his forehead, and his dark eyes were fixed on the shorter man opposite him.

"Ah swear, Ryan, y'all act like Ah'm some kinda plague 'round here." Blue said, his voice thick with frustration. "Ah've been workin' mah tail off to prove mahself."

Ryan, shorter but no less built, crossed his arms over his chest. His blonde hair was darkened by the water, and his blue eyes held a storm of conflicting emotions. "Provin' yourself? Blue, you showed up outta nowhere expectin' a handout 'cause you're the captain's bastard son. My dad. That ain't how it works in the real world."

The words hit their mark, and Blue's jaw tightened. "Bastard? That's rich comin' from Mr. Perfect who never had to struggle for nothin' in his life. And he's my dad too, Ry."

"At least Ah earned mah position." Ryan shot back, stepping closer until they were nearly chest to the top Ryan's head. It was comical how much shorter Ryan was than his baby bro. "Didn't strip mah way into it. Shakin’ mah ass like a goddamn rattlesnake."

Before Blue could respond, the shower door creaked open. Y/N stood there, his eyes taking in the scene before him – two half-brothers, both naked and tense, water glistening on their skin.

"Well now, what do we have here?" Y/N drawled, his voice smooth as bourbon. "Two fine firefighters wastin' all this steam when they could be puttin' it to better use."

Both brothers turned, their bodies tensing further at the interruption. Y/N didn't wait for an invitation, stepping into the shower and closing the door behind him. His eyes roamed over Blue's tall frame and Ryan's compact build, appreciating the view.

"Y/N, this ain't the time," Ryan started, but his protest died as Y/N's fingers trailed down his chest, brushing against his nipple, causing the blonde to gasp. Ryan hadn't been getting any sex from Sam lately. Not since they found out Sam was pregnant after their weekend trip to Knoxville.

"Seems like the perfect time to me." Y/N murmured, his other hand finding Blue's hip. "All this tension... y'all just need some relief."

Blue watched as Y/N's hand moved lower, wrapping around Ryan's half-hard cock. A soft groan escaped Ryan's lips despite himself. Blue felt a surge of something – jealousy? desire? – as he watched his brother's reaction. He and Taylor were in a weird spot at the moment. Nothing but shared kisses between them.

"See?" Y/N whispered, turning his attention to Blue. His fingers danced across Blue's abs before finding his growing erection. "Your brother knows what's good."

Blue's head fell back against the tile as Y/N began to stroke him, his touch firm and knowing. When Y/N leaned in to kiss him, Blue met him halfway, their mouths parting eagerly.

Ryan watched, his breathing growing heavier as Y/N worked them both with practiced hands. The anger between them seemed to melt away, replaced by something primal and urgent.

"Ah always knew there was more between y'all than just anger," Y/N said between kisses. "All that fire... just needed someone to light the fuse." He dropped to his knees, looking up at both brothers. "Now, why don't y'all let me help y'all work through this... tension?"

Blue and Ryan exchanged a look, something unspoken passing between them. In that moment, they weren't half-brothers or rivals – just two men in need of release, with Y/N more than willing to provide it.

Sore Loser

The steam billowed around the tiled walls of the locker room showers, the hiss of hot water drowning out the distant sounds of celebration and commiseration from the game. Beacon Hills had lost. Again. Brett Talbot, still riding the high of Devenford Prep's  decisive victory, pushed open the shower door, his lacrosse stick slung over one shoulder, his powerful frame glistening with a sheen of sweat and victory. He'd already stripped off his jersey, shorts, and pads, leaving only his blue jock clinging to his muscular thighs.

He spotted Y/N instantly, standing under a spray of water, head bowed, the defeat practically radiating off him in waves. A slow, predatory grin spread across Brett's face. He dropped his stick with a clatter by the bench and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his jockstrap, shoving it down and kicking it aside. He strode into the shower area, his bare feet slapping wetly on the tile.

"Rough day, Y/N?" Brett's voice was a low, confident rumble, cutting through the steam. He didn't wait for an answer, stepping directly under the spray next to him, his shoulder brushing against Y/N's. "Told you your team didn't stand a chance. We owned that field. Beacon Hills played like a bunch of damn pussies."

Y/N tensed, turning his head slightly. "Fuck off, Brett."

Brett just laughed, a rich, arrogant sound that echoed off the walls. He tipped his head back, letting the water cascade over his short, light brown hair, plastering it to his forehead. He ran a hand over his chest, the water tracing the defined lines of his abs. "Aw, don't be like that. Can't be a sore loser forever." He turned, his bright blue eyes, sharp and intense, locking onto Y/N's. There was no mockery in them now, just a bold, unapologetic appraisal. "Besides." He added, his voice dropping an octave, "A good hard game always gets my blood pumping. Figure you could use a distraction from the loss."

Before Y/N could retort, Brett closed the small distance between them. He crowded Y/N against the cool tile wall, one hand planting beside his head. The heat from Brett's body was a stark contrast to the wall behind him. He leaned in, his face inches away, the water streaming down both their bodies.

"You know." Brett murmured, his gaze flicking from Y/N's eyes down to his lips and back again, "I've been watching you all game. You've got fire. Pity it's wasted on a losing team." He didn't give Y/N a chance to respond to the taunt. Instead, he closed the final gap and captured Y/N's lips in a kiss that was as aggressive and confident as his play on the field. It wasn't gentle; it was a claiming, a testament to his victory, all teeth and tongue and unapologetic want. He tasted like mint and the metallic tang of exertion.

Y/N's initial resistance crumbled under the sheer force of Brett's assault. His hands, which had been braced against the wall, came up to grip Brett's biceps, feeling the hard, corded muscle beneath his wet skin. Brett took the lack of pushing away as an invitation. His free hand slid down Y/N's side, tracing the line of his hip before moving lower to grip his ass, pulling their bodies flush together. The friction of their skin, slick with water, sent a jolt through Y/N. Brett was already hard, his cock pressing insistently against Y/N's thigh.

Brett broke the kiss, panting slightly, his blue eyes dark with lust. "Yeah." He growled, his voice husky. "That's more like it." He captured Y/N's mouth again, this time with a bit more finesse, his tongue delving deep, exploring and claiming. He ground his hips against Y/N, a slow, deliberate rhythm that was impossible to ignore. He broke away again, trailing his lips along Y/N's jawline, nipping at the sensitive skin just below his ear.

"Turn around." Brett commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. He gave Y/N's ass a firm squeeze. "Let's see if you can take a hit off the field as well as you think you can on it."

Y/N, caught between anger at the taunt and a surge of undeniable arousal, hesitated for only a second before complying. He placed his palms flat against the tiled wall, bracing himself. Brett let out a low hum of approval, his hands running appreciatively over Y/N's back and down to his hips.

"Good boy." Brett murmured, positioning himself behind him. He spat into his hand, stroking his own erection a few times before lining himself up. "Relax, Y/N. Gonna make you forget all about losing." With one powerful, deliberate thrust, he pushed inside, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth motion. Y/N gasped at the sudden, full stretch, his body arching involuntarily.

Brett didn't give him long to adjust. He set a punishing pace from the start, his hips snapping forward, driving deep with each stroke. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh joined the hiss of the shower. Brett's hands gripped Y/N's hips hard enough to leave bruises, pulling him back to meet every thrust. He leaned over Y/N's back, his chest pressed against him, his mouth right next to his ear.

"Fuck, you're tight." Brett grunted, his breath hot against Y/N's neck. "Taking my cock so well. Bet you wish you played for Devenford now, huh? We know how to celebrate a win properly." He punctuated the words with a particularly hard thrust that hit Y/N's prostate, making him cry out.

Y/N could only moan in response, his mind blanking under the onslaught of sensation. The anger, the humiliation of the loss, it all melted away, replaced by the overwhelming reality of Brett Talbot fucking him against the shower wall. He pushed back, meeting Brett's rhythm, the need for more overriding his pride.

Brett could smell the change in his response and laughed again, a triumphant sound. "That's it. Take it. Take my fucking cock." He reached around, wrapping a hand around Y/N's own erection, which was now painfully hard. He stroked him in time with his thrusts, his grip firm and sure. "Gonna make you come, Y/N. Gonna make you come so hard you won't even remember what team you play for."

The dual stimulation was too much. Y/N's body tensed, his muscles clamping down around Brett's cock as his orgasm ripped through him. He spilled himself over Brett's hand and the tiled wall, a hoarse cry torn from his throat. Brett rode out his climax, his thrusts becoming erratic before he buried himself deep one last time with a guttural groan, his own release pulsing into Y/N.

For a moment, they stayed like that, both breathing heavily, the water washing away the evidence of their encounter. Brett slowly pulled out, giving Y/N's ass a final, possessive pat before turning him around. He backed him against the wall again, but this time his kiss was slower, almost lazy. It was a kiss of a victor, savoring his spoils.

He pulled back, a smug, satisfied smirk on his handsome face. "Now that…" He said, his voice low and confident, "Was a much better way to end the game. Maybe next time, your team will actually put up a fight." He winked, then turned and walked away, leaving Y/N leaning against the wall, spent and bewildered, the water cascading over him as Brett grabbed his towel and headed back to the locker room without a backward glance.

The late afternoon sun filtered through the curtains of Archie's bedroom, casting long shadows across the floor. Y/N knelt between Archie's spread thighs, the rough denim of Archie's jeans brushing against his legs. The room smelled of teenage boy—sweat, mint, and something uniquely Archie that made Y/N's mouth water.

"Fuck." Archie groaned, his fingers tangling in Y/N's hair as he took Archie deeper. His hips bucked upward, seeking more friction, more heat. "Just like that."

Y/N hummed around him, the vibration making Archie's toes curl. He could feel Archie getting close. The way his thighs tensed, the breathless little gasps that escaped his lips, the way his grip on Y/N's hair tightened almost painfully.

"Y/N." Archie breathed, his voice ragged. "I'm gonna—"

Y/N pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes dark with desire. "Come for me, Arch."

That was all it took. With a guttural moan, Archie spilled into Y/N's mouth, his body trembling with the force of his release. Y/N swallowed every drop, licking him clean before pulling away with a satisfied smirk.

Archie collapsed against his pillows, chest heaving. After a moment, he reached for Y/N, pulling him up for a messy kiss. "That was... wow." His hands roamed down Y/N's back, cupping his ass. "Now I want to fuck you."

Y/N chuckled against his lips, gently pushing his hands away. "Not so fast, Andrews." He sat up, stretching languidly. "You can fuck me later."

Archie pouted, that ridiculous puppy dog look that usually got him whatever he wanted. "Why not now?"

"Because you haven't earned it yet." Y/N grinned, leaning in to whisper in Archie's ear. "If you want to be inside me tonight, you'll need to feed me first. I'm starving."

Archie's eyes widened with understanding. "You want me to go to Pop's?"

"I want a cheeseburger, extra fries, and a chocolate shake." Y/N kissed the corner of Archie's mouth. "And if you're really good, maybe I'll let you choose what position we start with later."

Archie was already scrambling out of bed, pulling on his jeans. "I'll be back in twenty minutes." He promised, already halfway out the door. "Don't go anywhere."

Pose For Me

The afternoon light filtered through the large windows of Archie's bedroom, casting long shadows across the easels and half-finished canvases. Archie Andrews stood on the small wooden platform in the center of the room, a nervous but determined expression on his face. He was completely naked, his red hair slightly disheveled, his athletic frame on display for the sole audience member in the room.

Y/N sat on a stool several feet away, charcoal pencil in hand, studying Archie's form with an artist's intense focus. The pose was supposed to be casual—Archie leaning against a prop column, one leg bent, arms crossed loosely over his chest—but the tension in his shoulders betrayed his discomfort.

"Is this okay?" Archie asked, his voice a little unsteady. "I've never... done this before."

"It's perfect." Y/N replied without looking up from the sketchbook. "You have great lines. The way your muscles tense when you're nervous actually adds to the composition."

Archie let out a nervous laugh. "So my anxiety is artistically valuable?"

"Extremely." Y/N said with a small smile, finally glancing up. "Just try to relax a bit more. Let your shoulders drop."

Archie took a deep breath and tried to follow the instruction, shifting slightly on the platform. The cool air of the room raised goosebumps on his skin, and he fought the urge to cover himself. This was for art, he reminded himself. For a grade. For Y/N, who had been so professional about the whole thing despite the unusual circumstances.

Just as Archie was beginning to feel somewhat comfortable with the arrangement, the door creaked open.

"Archie, I thought you might be here—"

Fred Andrews stopped mid-sentence, his eyes widening as he took in the scene: his son standing completely naked on a platform, and Y/N with a sketchbook looking up at him with wide eyes.

There was a moment of stunned silence before Fred found his voice again. "Well. This is... unexpected."

Archie practically jumped off the platform, grabbing his jeans from where they lay folded nearby. "Dad! What are you doing here?"

Fred held up his hands in a gesture of peace, though his eyes kept darting between his partially dressed son and the sketchbook in Y/N's hands. "I came to see if you wanted to grab lunch. I didn't realize you were... modeling."

"It's for art class." Archie mumbled, pulling on his jeans quickly. "We're doing figure studies."

"Right." Fred said, nodding slowly. He walked closer to Y/N, who had closed the sketchbook instinctively. "May I?"

Y/N hesitated before passing over the book. Fred flipped through the pages, his expression shifting from surprise to genuine interest.

"These are quite good." He said, studying the charcoal drawings. "You've captured the tension in Archie's shoulders well. Though..." He tilted his head. "The shading here could use more depth. The light source is coming from the windows, so there should be more contrast on the shadowed side."

Archie stared at his father in disbelief. "Dad, you're critiquing my naked portrait?"

Fred looked up, a slight flush on his cheeks. "Just trying to be helpful. I did take a few art classes in college." He closed the sketchbook and handed it back to Y/N. "You have talent. But maybe next time, give a father some warning before he walks in on his son's... artistic endeavors."

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Andrews." Y/N said, cheeks burning. "We should have put a sign on the door."

"No harm done," Fred said with a sigh. "Though I might need a few minutes to unsee some things." He clapped Archie on the shoulder. "Are we still on for lunch? Or do you have more posing to do?"

Archie glanced at Y/N, who was studiously avoiding eye contact. "I think we're done for today. The project's due Friday anyway."

"Good." Fred said, already heading for the door. "I'll be in the truck. Give me five minutes to process... all of this."

As the door closed behind his father, Archie let out a groan of embarrassment. "I am so sorry about that. My dad has no boundaries sometimes."

"It's okay." Y/N said with a small laugh. "Though I have to admit, his notes weren't bad. He was right about the shading."

If you're okay with it

Y/N knelt before them, his hands moving with purpose as he worked both Shane and Ilya to full attention. His gaze flickered between them, a smirk playing on his lips as he took in their reactions.

He leaned forward, taking Shane into his mouth first, his tongue swirling around the tip before sinking deeper. Shane's hands tangled in Y/N's hair, hips jerking forward instinctively. Y/N pulled back, a string of saliva connecting them before turning his attention to Ilya.

"You're not getting neglected." Y/N murmured against Ilya's length before taking him in completely. Ilya groaned, head falling back as Y/N worked him with practiced expertise, one hand still stroking Shane rhythmically.

After a few minutes, Y/N pulled away, positioning himself on all fours between them. "One of you in my mouth, one of you behind me." He commanded, looking over his shoulder. "And don't hold back."

Shane moved behind him first, gripping Y/N's hips as he entered with a smooth thrust that made Y/N gasp. Ilya positioned himself in front, guiding himself into Y/N's waiting mouth as Shane began to move.

The rhythm built between them, Y/N pushing back against Shane while taking Ilya deeper with each forward motion. The room filled with sounds of skin against skin and muffled moans as Y/N worked them both, his own arousal evident in the way he moved between them.

"Switch." Y/N demanded after several minutes, pulling away briefly before Ilya took his place behind him while Shane moved to the front. The new position sent sparks through Y/N's body as Ilya's different angle hit new spots inside him.

Y/N's control began to fray as they continued, his movements becoming more desperate. "Harder," he managed around Shane, pushing back against Ilya. "Both of you, harder."

The neon sign of "The Gilded Cage" flickered, promising pleasures Soldier Boy felt he'd earned. The bass thumped through the floor, a primal rhythm that matched the hunger in his gut. Ben strode through the haze of cheap perfume and cigar smoke, his jaw tight. He'd spent the last four decades being a science experiment for a bunch of commie pricks, and now he was back. He deserved this. Deserved a warm, willing body to sink into, to remind himself who the fuck he was. The King.

He tossed a wad of cash on the counter. "Send me your best girl. Someone who knows how to treat a real hero."

The manager, a greasy-looking man in a cheap suit, just nodded and snapped his fingers, pointing towards a private room in the back. "Whatever you say, big guy. She's all yours."

Ben pushed the heavy velvet curtain aside and stepped inside. The room was dimly lit, with a plush red couch and a small stage. He sat down, spreading his legs and resting his arms on the back of the couch, the picture of arrogant expectation. The music started, a slow, grinding beat, and the curtain on the small stage parted.

Out stepped a guy.

Not just any guy. A young man, probably in his early twenties, with a lithe, toned body glistening with oil. He wore nothing but a tight pair of black briefs and a confident smirk. He moved with a liquid grace, his hips rolling to the music as he approached the couch.

Ben's blood ran cold. He shot to his feet, his hands clenching into fists. "What the fuck is this?" He snarled, his voice a low growl. "I ain't some fucking faggot. Get this cocksucker outta here!"

The young man didn't flinch. He just stopped in front of Ben, his smirk never wavering. "Hey, hey, big guy. Relax. Just a dance. A little appreciation for the man, the myth, the legend." His voice was smooth, like honeyed whiskey. "Heard all about you. Soldier Boy. The real deal."

Ben's anger was a hot, volatile thing, but there was something in the kid's eyes—a genuine, almost worshipful awe—that gave him pause. "You heard about me, huh?"

"Who hasn't?" The stripper purred, closing the small distance between them. He ran a single finger down the front of Ben's tactical vest, a feather-light touch that sent an unexpected jolt straight to Ben's groin. "A true American hero. Strong. Powerful." He leaned in, his lips brushing against Ben's ear. "I bet you can handle anything."

Ben stood frozen, a war raging inside him. Every instinct screamed at him to throw the little punk through the wall, to reassert his dominance in the most violent way possible. But the kid's scent, clean and masculine, and his warm breath on his neck, were doing things to him he hadn't felt in a long, long time. Decades, in fact.

The dancer, sensing his hesitation, grew bolder. He dropped to his knees, his hands sliding up Ben's powerful thighs. "Let me show you how a real hero gets treated." He whispered, looking up at Ben from under his long lashes.

Ben's breath hitched. He should stop this. He should. But the kid's hands were so close, so promising. And fuck, it had been so long. He let out a shaky breath, a silent surrender.

The stripper smiled, a triumphant, knowing glint in his eyes. He didn't waste any more time. With practiced ease, he undid Ben's belt and pants, freeing the hardened length of him. Ben gritted his teeth, a wave of shame and arousal washing over him. He looked down at the top of the kid's head, at the hair that was starting to get damp with sweat.

And then the stripper took him in his mouth.

It was nothing like he'd ever experienced. The kid was skilled, his tongue and lips working in tandem, driving Ben to the edge with a speed that was both infuriating and exhilarating. He tangled his fingers in the kid's hair, his hips bucking involuntarily. The stripper moaned around him, the vibrations sending him over the edge.

Ben came with a strangled cry, his body shuddering with the force of his release. He slumped back against the couch, his chest heaving, his mind a blank, buzzing haze of pleasure and disbelief. The kid had made him cum untouched, just with his mouth and his hands and his goddamn words.

The stripper pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked up at Ben, a smug, satisfied smile on his face. "Told you I could handle a hero."

Ben stared at him, his mind reeling. He felt raw, exposed, and a terrifying new kind of satisfied. "You're... good." He managed, his voice hoarse.

The kid chuckled, getting to his feet. "I know." He stretched, his muscles rippling under the dim light. "Next time, you can fuck me."

Ben's eyes widened. "Is that... allowed?"

The stripper just laughed, a deep, throaty sound. "I can do whatever the fuck I want, Sugar." He leaned down, giving Ben a final, lingering look. "And so can you."

Bombsight stood in the doorway of his living room, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. The leather of his jacket creaked softly with the tension in his posture. There, on his expensive Italian sofa—his sofa—were two figures tangled together in a passionate embrace. Jetstreak, with his ridiculous brown curls and the smug confidence of youth, had Y/N pinned against the cushions, their mouths locked in a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. The wet sounds filled the quiet room, grating on Bombsight's nerves.

He cleared his throat, the sound sharp and deliberate. "Having fun?" He asked, his voice flat and cold.

Jetstreak broke the kiss, turning his head with an annoyed smirk. "Don't you have a museum exhibit to go to, grandpa? Or maybe a nap?" He sneered, pushing a stray curl from his eyes. "Someone's a jealous old man."

Y/N, breathless and flushed, pushed himself up on his elbows. His gaze swept over Bombsight, taking in the athletic build that defied his age, the piercing blue eyes, and the blonde hair that still looked as golden as it had in the fifties. A slow smile spread across his face. "Jealous, maybe." He said, his voice a low purr. "But a very hot, but young looking old man."

Bombsight's expression didn't change, but his eyes narrowed. He watched as Jetstreak rolled his eyes and leaned back in to capture Y/N's lips again, his hand sliding down Y/N's chest. The sight of their bodies pressed together, the easy intimacy, the sheer life of them... it was a bitter pill. Decades of loneliness, of watching everyone he ever knew age and die, and here was this punk, this child, living the life he'd always craved.

Blue Bennings leaned against the kitchen counter in the firehouse, arms crossed over his chest as he watched Y/N getting ready. The sound of a belt buckle clinking echoed in the otherwise quiet station.

"You're really goin' through with it?" Blue asked, his voice thick with disapproval.

Y/N adjusted his collar in the reflection of the microwave door. "Goin' through with what? Goin' on a date like normal folks do?"

Ryan Hart appeared in the doorway, wiping grease from his hands with a rag. "Don't start this again, Blue." He looked at Y/N, his expression softer but still concerned. "Where you meet this girl anyway?"

"At that coffee shop downtown," Y/N replied, turning to face them both. "The one with the good biscuits. Her name's Emily."

Blue pushed off the counter, stepping closer. "And what exactly you plannin' to tell this Emily? That you got two fellas waitin' for you at home?"

Y/N threw his hands up in frustration. "Well now, that's rich comin' from you, Blue Bennings. Wasn't it just yesterday I saw you and Taylor gigglin' like schoolgirls in the locker room? Practically sittin' in her lap."

Ryan cleared his throat, looking away. "Now, that's different..."

"Different how?" Y/N challenged, turning to Ryan. "And don't think I haven't noticed you still meetin' up with Sam every other week. 'Just for coffee' my ass."

"That's not the same," Ryan insisted, but his voice lacked conviction.

Y/N laughed humorlessly. "So you two can have your little distractions, but I'm supposed to just sit here waitin' for y'all? That don't hardly seem fair."

Blue and Ryan exchanged a look. Before Y/N could say more, Blue had crossed the remaining distance between them, grabbing Y/N's face in his calloused hands.

"You ain't goin' anywhere." Blue said, his voice low as he crashed his lips against Y/N's.

Y/N stumbled back against the counter, but Blue followed, deepening the kiss until Y/N was breathless. When Blue finally pulled back, Ryan was there to take his place, his hands tangling in Y/N's hair as he kissed him with equal intensity.

"Ryan..." Y/N managed to gasp between kisses. "Y'all... stop..."

"Stop what?" Blue murmured against his neck, his hands roaming under Y/N's shirt. "Stop remindin' you who you belong to?"

Ryan's lips found his again, hungry and demanding. Y/N felt dizzy, overwhelmed by their combined attention. His lips were already swelling, tender from their assault.

"Look at me." Blue commanded, tilting Y/N's chin up. "You really want some girl when you got us?"

Ryan's thumb traced Y/N's swollen lower lip. "We ain't sharin' you with nobody, darlin'. You hear?"

Y/N's resistance was melting away under their touch, their kisses, their possessive words. He was surrounded by them, trapped in the best possible way.

"Cancel your date," Blue whispered against his ear. "Or we'll cancel it for you."

Y/N nodded weakly, his mind foggy with desire. "Okay." He breathed out. "Okay, I'll call her."

Ryan grinned, claiming his lips once more in a gentler kiss. "Good boy."

Blue's hands were already working on the buttons of Y/N's shirt. "Now, how about we remind you exactly why you don't need no coffee shop girl?"

Y/N: Yeah.

Tony: Why?

Y/N: Because I forgot my dildo in my locker.

The humid air of the Riverdale High locker room clung to everything—metal lockers, damp towels, and the exhausted bodies of the wrestling team. The sharp, metallic clang of a locker door shutting echoed as Chuck Clayton, already showered and changed, leaned against the row of benches, toweling his hair.

"Damn, Andrews, another practice, another victory." Reggie Mantle called out from across the room, pulling his varsity jacket over his broad shoulders. His voice dripped with its usual cocky charm. "Though I think the real winner today is whoever gets to peel those shorts off your boy."

A low chuckle rumbled from Moose Mason, who was meticulously taping his wrists. "Can't argue with that, Reggie. That's a view I wouldn't mind seeing more often."

The chatter died down almost instantly as the locker room door swung open. There you were, leaning against the doorframe with an easy confidence that made the lingering post-practice tension feel insignificant. Your shorts, a simple dark athletic pair, did indeed hug every curve with an unapologetic precision, drawing the eyes of every guy in the room. You paid them no mind, your gaze finding Archie instantly.

He was still in his singlet, sweat glistening on his chest and arms, his red hair damp and pushed back from his forehead. A tired but genuine smile lit up his face the moment he saw you. You pushed off the doorframe and walked toward him, the sound of your sneakers on the concrete floor the only noise in the suddenly quiet room.

In your hand was his blue and gold letterman's jacket, looking a little worse for wear after a day in his locker. You stopped right in front of him, the scent of your clean soap a welcome contrast to the locker room's musky air.

"Thought you might want this back." You said, your voice low and meant only for him as you held out the jacket. "Didn't want you freezing on your way home."

Archie took it, his fingers brushing deliberately against yours. "Thanks, Y/N. You're a lifesaver."

Before he could say more, you leaned in, your lips just barely grazing his ear. "I'll see you tonight." You whispered, the promise in your voice clear.

With one last, lingering look at Archie, you turned and walked out, leaving a charged silence in your wake. Reggie let out a low whistle.

"Okay, I take it back." He muttered, shaking his head with a grudging respect. "Andrews, you lucky son of a bitch."

The door to your modest home splintered inward, ripped from its hinges by a force you knew all too well. Ikaris stood in the frame, his powerful silhouette framed by the fading afternoon light. His blue armor, gleaming with golden accents, seemed to absorb the light around him, and the gray streak in his dark hair was stark against the fury in his piercing blue eyes.

"Y/N." He said, his voice a low growl with the thick lilt of the Scottish Highlands you'd heard a thousand times before. But this time, it held no warmth, only a chilling finality. "We need to talk."

You stood your ground, crossing your arms. "I think you've done enough talking for all of us, Ikaris. I've heard what you're telling the others. About Tiamut. About letting this world burn."

His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching as he stepped inside, the door groaning where it hung by a single hinge. "It is our purpose. It is the Emergence. It is the way of things."

"It's madness." You shot back, your own voice rising. "We've spent millennia protecting these people! Ajak is dead because of this 'purpose'. Sersi is trying to stop it, and she's right. We're not mindless instruments, we're their protectors!"

Ikaris laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Protectors? We're gardeners, Y/N. We prune the branch so the tree can grow. This planet is just a seedbed for something greater. I came here hoping you of all of them would understand. To stand with me."

"And if I don't?" You challenged, stepping closer until you were almost chest to chest. The heat radiating off his cosmic energy was palpable. "What then, Ikaris? Will you prune me too?"

The air crackled between you. His blue eyes, usually so full of righteous certainty, now held a storm of conflict. "Don't make me." He whispered, his accent softening the threat. "I don't want to hurt you. But I will do what I must. The Emergence will happen. With or without your blessing. Stand aside, or be swept away with the rest of this mudball."

You saw it then, not just the fanatic, but the pain beneath. The centuries of hiding his true mission, the weight of his secret. You grabbed the front of his armor, your knuckles white. "You're a fool, Ikaris. A blind, arrogant fool."

His hand shot up, wrapping around your wrist, his grip like iron. "And you're a sentimental child, clinging to a toy you'll have to break eventually." He pulled you closer, his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin. "I gave you a choice."

"I'm giving you one." You snarled back. "Fight me."

For a moment, you thought he would. His eyes blazed with cosmic energy. But then, something shifted. The fury in his gaze melted into something else, something raw and ancient. His grip on your wrist loosened, but he didn't let go. Instead, his other hand came up to cup the back of your neck.

"Damn you." He breathed, and then his lips were crashing against yours.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't like the kisses he had shared with Sersi. It was a battle, a clash of teeth and tongues, all the anger and millennia of buried frustration pouring into a brutal, desperate kiss. You kissed him back with equal ferocity, your hands abandoning his armor to tangle in his dark hair, pulling him closer. You bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, and he groaned, a sound that was part pain, part pleasure.

He shoved you back against the wall, his body pinning yours. The golden accents of his armor dug into your skin, but you barely felt it. His hands were everywhere, tearing at your clothes, his mouth never leaving yours except to gasp for air. "This is insanity." He muttered against your throat, his accent thick with lust.

"I know." You rasped back, fumbling with the clasps of his armor. They fell away with a series of metallic clicks, and you ran your hands over the bare, hairy skin of his chest, feeling the thrum of his immense power under your palms.

He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the nearest flat surface—your dining table. He swept the contents onto the floor with a crash of pottery and wood, laying you down amidst the wreckage. He stood over you for a moment, his chest heaving, his blue eyes dark with desire and something that looked terrifyingly like love.

"Last chance." He panted, his hands braced on either side of your head. "Tell me you're with me. Tell me you understand."

You reached up, tracing the line of his jaw, your thumb brushing over his lips. "I understand that you're about to fuck me, Ikaris. That's all I understand right now."

He gave a broken laugh, and then he was on you again. There was no more time for words. He tore away the last of your clothes, his touch rough and demanding. He entered you in a single, powerful thrust that stole your breath, filling you completely. It was a claiming, a possession, a desperate attempt to bridge the chasm that had opened between you.

You moved together in a frantic rhythm, the table groaning beneath you. His thrusts were hard and deep, each one a punctuation to the unspoken argument still raging between you. You met him stroke for stroke, your nails digging into his back, your legs locked around his waist, pulling him deeper. The sounds that filled the room were primal—grunts, gasps, the slap of skin on skin, the splintering of wood.

"Look at me." He commanded, his voice rough as he gripped your chin, forcing your eyes to meet his. "See me, Y/N."

You did. You saw the torment in his soul, the loneliness of his long vigil, the desperate hope that you might understand. And you saw your own reflection in his eyes—just as lost, just as desperate, just as caught between duty and desire.

"I see you." You whispered, and then you were coming, your body arching off the table, a cry tearing from your throat as waves of pleasure crashed over you. He followed you over the edge with a hoarse shout of your name, his body shuddering as he found his release, his eyes released optical blasts of cosmic energy, cracking the plaster on your kitchen walls.

For a long moment, you lay tangled together on the broken table, the only sound the ragged sound of your breathing. He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed.

"I still have to stop you." You said quietly, your voice hoarse.