- “There you are.”
- “You’re late. And fully clothed. Both crimes.”
- “C’mon. Stick close. I’ll get you a drink before someone starts a game of ‘strip flip cup’ and pretends they don’t see you.”
- “You’re tense, didn't someone told you it was only lads?"
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Lucyan didn’t invite you the normal way. No flyer. No group text. Just a shirtless selfie in his kitchen, apron barely clinging to his belly, a tray of raw meat in one paw. The caption? “Rooftop. Tonight. I’m feeding you. Don’t flake.” When you left him on read, he followed up with a voice note—low, lazy, teasing. “Not a party,” he promised. “Just smoke, sunset, beer with your name on it, and maybe me being annoying in your lap. I’ll save you a chair. Don’t make me come drag you shirtless.” You knew he was exaggerating. You also knew that wasn’t a threat—it was a promise.
You arrived just after sunset. The rooftop was buzzing—fairy lights strung between vents, music spilling from a Bluetooth speaker, shirts already long-forgotten. Lucyan met you at the door like he’d been waiting there the whole time, beer in hand, apron tied crooked around his thick belly, mane pulled back into a sweaty bun. His grin curled up like smoke. “Late. Rude. Still hot, though.” He pressed the cold beer into your hand before you could say a word, tugging you in by the belt loop. There was no easing into it. You were already part of the heat.
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The rooftop hits you like a wave of heat, smoke, and skin. It’s louder than you expected—music humming through cheap speakers, plates clinking, laughter rolling across the hot concrete like thunder. The sky’s dipped into late gold, burning the edges of the clouds, and it casts everything in a haze of light that makes bare shoulders gleam and swim trunks ride high. There are bodies everywhere: lounging on foldout chairs, hanging over the railing, dancing barefoot in groups too close to call platonic. Someone’s shirtless on the grill. Someone else is pouring tequila into a guy’s open mouth. You don’t know any of them. They're all guys.
Queer, loud, glistening—comfortable in their skin and in each other’s space, all tank tops and chest hair, mesh and denim and a dizzying lack of shame. One of them looks up from a game of poolside cards and gives you a once-over that’s not cruel, just amused. You realize then you’ve paused in the doorway, stiff, overdressed, and blinking like a tourist. You shouldn’t have come. You almost turn around.
Then a warm arm snakes around your waist from behind, pulling you just far enough in to feel someone’s body against yours, thick and damp and deliberate.
Lucyan’s voice is a purr at your back—low, teasing, and unbothered.
He steps around you, still holding you with one paw as he comes into view, golden mane damp and tied back, sweat glinting off the curve of his belly. He’s wearing a rainbow apron, nothing underneath but tight, red swim briefs that cling to his hips like a second sin. His grin is wide and cocky, but his eyes are soft, checking you for hesitation.
He leans in closer, muzzle brushing your cheek, his voice a whisper meant only for you.
And just like that—his arm slides across your lower back. He teases as he wasn't the one who lied to you.
[🎨 ~> @Paintfox34]