His head lolls back, a wrecked smile painted across his lips, eyes slipping shut again.
“You undress all your rookies, Cap?” he slurs.
I pause. My jaw ticks. Then I lean down, thumb tracing his jaw until his head tips back toward me. “Only the ones who belong to me.”
That shuts him up. For half a second, his breath hitches, chest stuttering under my hand. Then he melts again, lips parting around another half-delirious laugh.
“Yessir.”
Water steams high. I test it, then brace him upright, steady. He’s weak, pliant, still giggling faint under his breath. And I know—he won’t remember every word of this. But he’ll remember enough.
I lower him into the tub, slow, careful. He sighs, head tipping back against porcelain, lashes fluttering. A sound slips out—low, wrecked, a moan disguised as a sigh. His whole body relaxes under the heat.
And I crouch beside him, sleeves pushed up, watching steam curl over his wrecked little frame.
My pup.
The steam fogs the mirror, curls soft around the edges of the tub. Elias sinks deeper into the water, head tipped back, lips parted like he’s in some fever dream.
I kneel beside him, roll my sleeves higher, and reach for the washcloth. Dip, wring, smooth. Slow. Deliberate.
He makes a noise—half sigh, half moan—when I run the cloth down his chest. His lashes flutter, his mouth crooks into that stupid, wrecked grin. “M’gettin’ theroyal treatment,huh? Captain bath service. Fancy.”
I grunt. Don’t answer. My hand drags the cloth lower, across bruised ribs, over muscle that trembles even now. He flinches, gasps, then laughs breathlessly.
“You do this for all the boys, Cap? Gonna start a…a bubble bath rotation?” He snickers, delirious and half-slurred. “Viktor’s first, right? Big guy, lotta soap.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, but my hand keeps steady, dragging the cloth over his arm, down to his wrist.
He lifts his head clumsily, grinning sharp through his haze. “What about Cole, huh? Bet he’d ask for…rose petals. Champagne. A camera crew—”
I dip the cloth again, wring it, press it over his mouth just long enough that he squeaks against it, muffled. His eyes go wide, then brighter, grin splitting wider even as water drips down his cheeks.
“You’remean,” he says when I pull it back. His voice cracks into another laugh. “Sadist. World’s scariest babysitter. Bet the team thinks you—fuck—think you—” His head lolls, curls dripping, chest heaving. “Think you fold me like a napkin.”
My jaw ticks. My hand moves steady, dragging the cloth slow over his throat, his shoulders, down across his stomach.
“Do you?” I ask, low.
He blinks at me, sloppy grin tugging his mouth sideways. “Do I what?”
“Love it.” My thumb presses under his chin, tilting his head up until his eyes fight to focus. “Being folded. Being mine.”
His laugh is wrecked, broken. “God, yes. Love it. Love it so bad.” His voice drops, slurring into something filthy. “Cap folds me up, puts me away, pulls me back out again. Love it. Always—sir—always.”
The sound he makes after is more whimper than laugh, too drunk on exhaustion to know the difference. His body melts further into the water, trusting me to hold him there, trusting me to keep him upright.
I wash him slow. Methodical. Every inch of him claimed by my hand, by the drag of the cloth, by the low murmur of my voice when I tell him, “Breathe.” And he does.
His head tips forward when I push his curls back, eyes hazy and heavy-lidded. Steam beads against his lashes, mouth curved sloppy, wrecked. I let my knuckles drag once down his jaw before I ask, calm, steady:
“Do you want sleep, or do you want food and then sleep, after bath?”
He blinks at me. Once. Twice. Then grins crooked, words spilling out drunk and shameless.
“I want cock…then food…then sleep.”
A sound rumbles low in my chest before I can stop it. Not a growl this time. A snort. The kind of laugh I don’t give anyone.
