Singapore Skyline
By the time the Speed Build crowd scatters, the adrenaline still hums in my chest, sharp and restless. Peyton walks beside me, badge heavy with his 3rd place brick, grinning like he’s invincible. I can’t stop smiling either.
That’s when Adam finds us again, clapping Peyton on the back hard enough to make him stumble. “Hell of a run, Mr. Mullins. SEATAC LUG showed up tonight.” Then his grin turns sly as he looks at me. “And Chris, ready for the real fun? Todd’s throwing his suite open.”
I remember his promise from the first day, how he’d said Todd’s after-hours parties are legendary. “That’s the guy with the excavation company, right?”
“Bulldozing, excavation, demo, you name it, he gets the CDOT contracts,” Adam says, leading us toward the elevators. “Makes enough to buy every LEGO Icons set twice, and he hosts like he’s got something to prove.”
The competition is over, but the night isn’t. Not even close.
The suite is on the top floor, and you can hear the noise even from the hallway. Laughter, clinking glasses, the bass thump of someone’s playlist leaking through the door. When Adam brings us in, it’s like stepping into another world: builders sprawled across couches, chairs, and leaning against the minibar. It isn’t just Front Range LUG; I recognize shirts from across the country and beyond.
Todd himself is the center of attention near the windows, a broad-shouldered man with the suntanned face of someone who still works the machinery he owns. He waves Adam over and shakes Peyton’s hand like they’re old teammates.
But it’s Todd’s wife, Sherry, who catches me off guard when I see the same last name on her brick badge. She’s running the bar set up along the kitchenette with an ease that says she’s done it before. Someone introduces her with a grin as “our resident NLSO” (Non-LEGO Significant Other) before adding, “She might not build, but she keeps us alive for Con weekends.”
“Used to bartend through college,” Sherry explains when she catches me watching. “Todd buys the booze, I make sure people don’t embarrass themselves too badly.”
“Can I get you something?” she asks, already reaching for a shaker.
I hesitate; the names of cocktails are a blur in my head. Then I remember Tokyo, my mom’s glass sweating on the table between us. “A highball,” I say.
Her eyebrows rise, impressed. “Classy choice. Japanese style?”
“Yeah,” I admit. “Kind of reminds me of my trip to LEGOLAND Japan when I was 15.”
She nods and gets to work, ice chiming in the glass. Peyton steps up behind me without missing a beat. “Tito’s. Neat.”
I turn to stare at him. “Seriously?”
“What?” He shrugs, all innocence. “It’s clean. Goes down easy.”
For twenty, the guy has more confidence in ordering alcohol than half the adults I know. I take the highball she slides across the counter, the fizz rising crisp against the rim, and shake my head at him. “Interesting taste for someone who just bought a John Deere Harvester.”
Peyton smirks, raising his clear pour of vodka like a toast. “Well, you’re the one who goes to a party school and just ordered something you’d drink in the back of a Toyota Century.”
Behind us, a group has multiple Animal Crossing LEGO sets on the small breakfast table, polybags everywhere. They aren’t even really building, just ‘drafting’ pieces: taking turns claiming parts like it’s a fantasy football league. “I call all the curved roof tiles!” someone shouts. “No fair, you can’t hoard the teal windows!”
The room continues to roar with laughter, drinks sloshing as the argument escalates in good fun. I sip my highball, the whiskey and soda bright and sharp on my tongue, and decide Adam hadn’t oversold this. Todd’s suite wasn’t just a party; it was chaos, community, and felt like every bit a new home for me.
Everyone only got louder as the night went on. Every surface seems to sprout its own build-in-progress, from Animal Crossing to some Frankenstein mash-up of Technic and themes like Galidor that were released before I was even born.
When he’s finally pulled away from the window, Todd claps his hands as if he were starting a shift. “Alright, builders, drinks in hand. Shots are on me.”
Groans and cheers rise together as he comes around with a tray: fireballs, tequila, something blue I didn’t even recognize. “No excuses,” he booms, pressing glasses into palms. “You build perfectly all day; tonight we drink sloppily.”
I already feel the whiskey warming my chest from the highball, but Peyton nudges me with his elbow, grinning like this was just another event to compete in. “C’mon. One more.”
So I take it. Then another. After that, I stop keeping track.
Conversations blur into each other, laughter overlapping. Peyton leans close to tell me something over the music, his breath tinged with vodka, and I realize I was laughing at jokes that weren’t even funny, just because he was the one telling them. My head feels pleasantly heavy, like the room had tilted a little, but I don’t mind.
When we finally go looking for seats, the couches are already jammed with people; guys from different LUGs are squeezed shoulder to shoulder, laughing loudly, bags of LEGO piled under the coffee table.
“There’s room for two there,” Peyton points out, but there really wasn’t. Not unless you count the narrow strip of cushion left between two guys who looked settled for the night.
I try to squeeze in near the end, and before I can protest, Peyton drops onto the armrest. The move tips him sideways until half his weight lands squarely on me. His thigh pressed against mine, his hip sinking into my lap.
“Sorry,” he chuckles, though he doesn’t make any effort to move.
I freeze. The soft nylon fabric of his shorts brushes warm against me, soft and slick in a way that makes my pulse race. I shift slightly, trying not to notice how my body reacts, but the alcohol in my system dulls my defenses. Every time he adjusts, leaning to grab a drink from the coffee table, twisting to laugh at someone’s joke, he rubs against me, casual and oblivious.
My cheeks burn, and I pray no one else notices, but the room is too loud, too chaotic. Everyone yelling about Animal Crossing windows and Todd’s latest shot tray. No one was paying attention to the fact that I was hyper-aware of every inch of Peyton on top of me.
He leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. “Told you this party’d be worth it,” he said, voice thick with drink.
I swallow hard, nodding, though words felt impossible. The warmth of him, the press of his shorts against me, the smell of vodka on his breath, it’s too much. I can’t tell if my head is spinning from the alcohol or from him.
And the worst part? I don’t want him to move.
Before I can even think of adjusting my position, Todd’s voice booms across the suite. “Alright, everyone, squeeze in! Group photo time, gotta prove to the internet that we actually leave our basements!”
Groans and laughter roll through the room as people shuffle to cram together in front of the wide window. I think maybe we’d be off the hook, tucked away at the edge of the couch, but then Todd gestures straight at us. “You two, front and center! Make room!”
Bodies shift, pressing tighter. Peyton slides fully into my lap to make space, his back warm against my chest, the mint shorts brushing over me in a way that makes my head spin. My hands hover uselessly at my sides, every nerve ending firing.
“Smile!” Todd shouts. A dozen selfie flashes go off from different phones, voices calling out jokes I don’t hear over the pounding in my ears. By the time the last photo is snapped, I’m not sure if my grin looks genuine or desperate.
Peyton twists slightly, still sitting squarely on me, and laughs. “Guess you’re stuck with me.”
I mutter something that might’ve been agreement, but the truth is I can’t handle much more. Between the alcohol, the noise, my introverted nature, and the heat of him pressed against me, I’m buzzing in a way that has nothing to do with LEGO.
When I see the clock on the microwave read 1:03, I lean in and say, “Want to head back?”
Peyton glances around at the still-roaring party, then nods. “Yeah. Before Todd tries round three of shots.”
We slip out, weaving through the crowd, half-stumbling into the hallway. The door shuts behind us, and the silence is almost jarring, broken only by our uneven footsteps. Peyton laughs under his breath as we lean into each other for balance, making our way down the corridor toward the elevators.
By the time we reach our floor, his shoulder is still pressed to mine, the mint-green shorts brushing against me every time we sway together, and the snugness of him hasn’t faded at all.
When the door clicks shut behind us, muffling the last echoes of anything outside. Peyton immediately bends down, tugging off his sneakers and peeling his socks with drunken impatience, tossing them in a heap by the door. “God, my feet were dying,” he mutters, wobbling a little as he straightens.
I laugh, fumbling with my keycard before letting it fall onto the dresser. The room feels like it is swaying, but in a good way, like being rocked on water.
Peyton grins at me, hair sticking to his forehead, cheeks flushed from the vodka. “Man, that was…”
Then he yelps.
“Dang it!” He stumbles back, hopping on one foot, clutching his bare arch.
My eyes widen. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. The missing piece.
Sure enough, when I crouch to check, the little black ray gun from Marina Bay Sands is sitting smugly on the floor. Peyton drops into the desk chair, hissing through his teeth, still gripping his foot. “Who would’ve thought stepping on that would hurt more than getting shot by a real gun?”
I snort, the laugh escaping before I can stop it. “You’re being dramatic.”
“Yeah, well,” he says, still wincing in pain, “you’re paying my medical bills if it’s embedded in there.”
I stagger closer, still laughing, and drop to my knees in front of him. His foot is warm in my hands, clumsy as I try to check for a mark. The alcohol makes me feel bold, makes my heart thrum like a bassline. Without thinking, I lean down and press the quickest, sloppiest kiss to the top of his foot.
“There,” I mumble against his skin. “All better.”
Peyton blinks at me, startled, then bursts out laughing, nearly tipping back in the chair. “You’re silly.”
“I’m washted,” I correct with a heavy slur, still holding his ankle, my face blistering and stupidly close to his bare skin.
The air between us suddenly feels sharp and alive. The laughter dies in my throat, replaced by a humming silence. His smile softens into something more serious, more intense. He slowly pulls his foot from my grasp and leans forward, his hand coming up to cup my jaw. His thumb strokes my cheekbone.
“C’mere,” he whispers, his voice low.
He stands, pulling me up with him. This kiss is different. It’s slow, deep, and tastes of the night: vodka, laughter, and a hunger that goes straight to my head. It’s a kiss that says the party is over, but our night is just beginning.
We stumble toward his bed, a tangle of eager hands and quiet, breathless laughter. My fingers fumble with the drawstrings of his mint-green shorts, and he helps me, pushing them down his hips along with his underwear until they puddle at his feet. He makes quick work of my clothes, too, until my shirt and jeans are on the floor and it’s just my boxer briefs left. They join the pile a second later, a monument to the line we are crossing.
Falling onto the mattress, the world narrows to the feel of his skin against mine, the solid weight of him, the way his eyes darken as he looks down at me. He kisses me again, and it feels like coming home.
He pulls back, resting his forehead against mine, his breath warm on my lips. “Do you want to do it tonight?” he whispers, his voice husky with a need he is barely holding back. “Or we can stop. Just say the word.”
“Yes, I want to do it tonight.” I breathe out, the words feeling more true than anything I’ve ever said. “I want you. I want all of you.”
A groan rumbles in his chest, a raw, unfiltered sound of want. He kisses me, hard and desperate, before rolling onto his back and taking me with him until I am straddling his hips. The new position sends a jolt through me. I can feel him, hard and hot, against me.
His hands settle on my waist, not guiding, just holding and grounding me. His eyes, dark and blown wide, lock onto mine.
Peyton’s voice is rough, unguarded. “Then show me. However, you want.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. This is it. Control. Agency. My first time, on my terms. I see the trust in his eyes, the sheer want, and it gives me courage I didn’t know I had.
I reach between us, my fingers wrapping around him. He hisses, his hips jerking slightly at the contact, his eyes squeezing shut for a second before forcing them open to look at me. I watch his face as I guide him, positioning him.
“Look at me,” I whisper, echoing his words from before.
His eyes snap to mine, blazing with intensity.
“I want to see you,” I breathe. “I want to see how bad you want me.”
A shudder runs through him. “You have no idea,” he groans, his fingers tightening around my hips. “Chris… please.”
That is all I need to hear.
Taking a shaky breath, I begin to lower myself onto his dick.
The first touch is electric, the second, an impossible stretch that makes me gasp. I pause, my eyes fluttering shut, overwhelmed by the sensation.
“Keep looking at me,” he begs, his voice strained. “Stay with me. Just go slow. I’ve got you.”
I force my eyes open. His gaze is locked on me, full of so much awe and hunger it steals the air from my lungs. He is completely undone, completely present for me.
I sink down another inch, then another, each movement a wave of burning pleasure-pain. His lips part, a silent groan on his lips as he watches me take him in. His knuckles are white where he grips my hips, not pushing, just holding on for dear life.
“That’s it,” he pants, his chest heaving. “God, Chris… you feel… you’re so…”
I am halfway there, filled with him in a way that is terrifying and perfect. I can see the effort it takes for him to stay still, to let me set the pace. I can see the desperate need warring with his iron control.
Tell me,” I whisper, my voice trembling with the effort. “Peyton, tell me how much you want it.”
His control snaps.
“I want all of you,” he growls, “I want to tear you apart like a brick separator and build you back so you only fit with me. Just us. Only us.”
The raw, unfiltered want in his voice is the final push I need.
With a final, shuddering sigh, I sink, taking him completely.
We both cry out. The feeling is absolute. A fullness, a connection that sears through the haze of alcohol, leaving nothing but a pure, sharp sensation. I am impaled on him, stretched to my limit, and I have never felt more complete.
We stay like that for a long moment, joined, just breathing. His eyes are wide, watching me, waiting.
A slow, delirious smile spreads across my face. “I did it.”
A breathless, wrecked laugh escapes him. “Yeah,” he rasps, his own smile dazed and reverent. “Yeah, you did.”
He shifts slightly beneath me, and the movement sends a shockwave of pleasure through me. My smile fades, replaced by a gasp.
“Now,” I whimper, my hands braced on his chest. “Now you move.”
A groan tears from his throat, and his hands slide from my hips to my thighs, his grip firm and sure. He moves beneath me, a slow, rolling thrust that makes me see stars. I brace myself above him, riding the rhythm he sets, each movement sparking a new current of pleasure. It’s good, so good, but the angle is shallow, a teasing promise of something more.
I want even more.
My thighs are already burning from the strain, my inexperience starting to show. I falter for a second, losing the rhythm, and a frustrated sound escapes me.
Peyton stills instantly, as I pull off. “What is it? Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I pant, “I just… my legs…” I can’t finish the sentence, embarrassed.
Understanding softens his features. He sits up in one fluid motion, wrapping his arms around me and holding me close so we’re chest to chest. “It’s okay,” he whispers into my neck. “We can stop.”
“No,” I say, the word desperate. “Don’t stop. I just… I want…”
“What do you want, Chris?” he asks, his voice a low roar against my skin. “Tell me.”
I gather every ounce of my courage. “I want to feel you deeper.”
He freezes for a heartbeat, and then a shudder runs through his entire body. He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes black with pure need. “Yeah?” he breathes, as if he can’t quite believe what I’m asking for. “You’re sure?”
I nod, unable to form words.
“Okay,” he says, his voice thick. “Okay, I know how.”
He guides me gently onto my knees on the mattress. For a moment, I’m confused, until his body settles behind me, warm and solid. His chest presses against my back, and his hands skate down my sides, soothing and exciting me all at once.
“This okay?” he whispers, his lips brushing my shoulder blade.
I can only nod again, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. This feels more vulnerable, but also more intense. I feel exposed, utterly his.
He reaches between us, and I feel the blunt pressure of him again, positioning himself. This time, the angle is different. Deeper, just like I asked for.
“Breathe, Chris,” he reminds me softly.
I let out air I didn’t realize I was holding back, and he surges forward.
It’s a completely different feeling. There’s no slow, controlled descent. This is a single, steady, overwhelming invasion that steals the oxygen from my lungs. He fills me so completely, so deeply, that a broken cry is torn from my throat.
He stills, buried to the hilt. “God, Chris,” he groans, his forehead dropping between my shoulder blades. His hands are tight on my hips, holding me in place. “You feel… incredible.”
His hands splay out over my shoulders, holding me tight as he starts to move, sheathing himself inside me completely. The sensation is like nothing I've ever felt before, and I can't believe that after all this time, it's him, Peyton, the one making me experience the first time with nothing between us. His thrusts are deep and steady, and with each one, I feel myself getting closer to the edge, our bodies moving together in a rhythm that seems as natural as breathing.
The warmth of Peyton's dick back inside me is like a furnace, setting every nerve alight. Each of his movements sends waves of pleasure through me, and I can't fathom that this is my first time feeling like this. He's so gentle, yet firm, and his hands grip my hips like he never wants to let go.
The sound of our skin slapping together fills the quiet room, and I lean back into him, taking him deeper. His breaths are hot and ragged against my neck, his heart beating in sync with mine. He whispers sweet nothings that I feel more than hear, and I know I'm getting close. My legs start to shake, my orgasm building like a storm inside of me. And just when I think I can't take it anymore, he gives a final, powerful thrust, and I feel him pulse inside me, filling me with warmth. His cum paints my insides, and I come undone, my orgasm ripping through me like lightning.
We collapse onto the bed together, our breaths mingling as we both ride out the waves of pleasure. This moment is more than I ever imagined, and as I sit there with Peyton's softening cock still inside me, I know that this is just the beginning of something beautiful and complex.
Finally, he pulls out just as I catch my breath. I lie there for a second, boneless and wrecked, then drag myself the few feet to my bed. Peyton follows, collapsing beside me, and we leave his bed, a monument to our mess of clothes and tangled sheets, for the morning.
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