The fluorescent light above the sink buzzed like a trapped hornet, its sickly white glow bouncing off the cracked beige tiles and the scuffed baby-changing station bolted to the wall. Hal Jordan sat slumped on the closed toilet lid, legs splayed wide enough that his jeans had pooled around his boots, the faded denim bunched at his ankles like a discarded second skin. His head felt stuffed with cotton and broken glass, and the taste of cheap bourbon still coated his tongue like burnt caramel. He couldn’t remember the name of the town, let alone the name of the bar, but he remembered the burn going down and the quiet, stupid relief that came after the third glass. Now there was only the slow, spinning weight of too much liquor and the vague awareness that his bladder had been screaming at him ten minutes ago.

Then the door swung inward. No knock, no warning rattle of the handle—just the sudden, blinding wedge of hallway light cutting across the grimy floor, followed by the smell of stale beer and perfume. Hal’s head lifted too slowly, his neck creaking like old leather, and he squinted against the intrusion. A person stood in the doorway, backlit by the reddish glow of the bar’s neon signs, their silhouette sharp and still. For a half-second, he thought he was hallucinating—one of those drunk mirages his brain conjured when it wanted to punish him—but then the cold air from the hallway hit his bare thighs, and he realized, with the slow, detached clarity of the truly hammered, that he was very much awake and very much exposed. He didn’t move to cover himself. He didn’t even have the decency to flinch. Instead, he let his gaze drop from their face to the mess of his own lap, then back up again, his lids heavy and his breathing slow.

The fluorescent light kept buzzing, a high, thin whine that drilled into the base of Hal’s skull like a dentist’s bit. He could feel the vibration of the bar’s jukebox through the soles of his boots, a muddy thump that matched the pulse behind his eyes. Cold air from the open doorway slid over his thighs, raising goosebumps, but the rest of him was warm—too warm, the heat of cheap liquor radiating off his skin like sun-baked asphalt. He blinked slowly, the world tilting as he tried to focus on the person’s silhouette. Their outline was sharp, backlit by neon red and blue, and for a split second he thought there was something familiar in the way they stood there, but the thought dissolved before it could form. His mouth was dry, tongue thick, and the words came out before he could stop them, slurred and brittle.

“It’s usually more impressive than this,” he said, and the smirk that twitched at his lips felt like a cracked mask. He didn’t bother to cover himself. Shame required energy he didn’t have, and besides, his hands had stopped listening to him about ten minutes ago. He let his head fall back against the toilet tank, cold porcelain seeping through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, and stared at the water stain spreading across the ceiling like a bruise. The truth sat heavy in his gut, right next to the bourbon: sixty years old, drunk in a family restroom off some highway, dick in hand, and he couldn’t even remember the name of the bar. It was almost funny. The kind of funny that made you want to laugh until the laugh turned into something else. The kind that clawed at the back of your throat and stayed there.

His right hand moved without permission, fingers wrapping around himself with a sloppy, uncoordinated grip. The touch sent a dull spike of sensation through his limbs, not quite pleasure, more like electricity hitting rusty wiring. He hissed through his teeth and let his thighs fall open wider, the denim of his jeans bunching at his knees. His hips shifted, a slow, unconscious roll that made the toilet seat creak beneath him. “I’ll show ya,” he muttered, more to himself than to them, as if trying to convince his own body to cooperate. His cock twitched in his palm, but it was a halfhearted response, mostly driven by friction and muscle memory rather than genuine arousal.

He could feel the weight of their gaze, or maybe he was imagining it. Either way, the thought of being seen like this—wrinkled, drunk, desperate—made his skin prickle with a strange, feverish heat. He stroked himself again, slower this time, his thumb dragging over the leaking tip. A bead of precum welled up and rolled over his knuckles, and he let out a low, ragged groan that echoed off the cracked tile. “Close the door, would you?” he said, voice cracking on the last syllable. “This is a show for one. Maybe you could help.”

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said, and it came out needier than a hungry dog, exactly as he knew it would. His head lolled forward, chin dipping toward his chest, and he forced his eyes open far enough to see his own hand moving, pale and clumsy against the gray-tinged backdrop of the bathroom.

The air in the mansion is close and still except for the wet, obscene sounds coming from the floor. Hal’s boots are planted wide on the polished wood, his jeans shoved down just enough to free the heavy, spit-slick length he’s feeding into {{user}}'s mouth. His hand is fisted in their hair, not guiding so much as holding on while he works his hips in lazy, deliberate thrusts. The mirror to their left is exactly where he wants it—angled so he can watch every inch disappear past their stretched lips, watch the tight column of their throat bulge and distort around him. A low, gravelly chuckle rattles out of him, deep in his chest, as his other hand comes up to swipe a thumb across the corner of their mouth, smearing drool down their chin.

“There it is,” he rasps, his voice like crushed glass and old smoke. “Right there, right inside you. That’s about eight inches of sixty-year-old stubbornness, sweetheart, and your pretty little throat’s still tryin’ to figure out what to do with it.” He pulls back until just the slick head rests on their lower lip, letting them gag and sputter, thick strings of saliva connecting them. His smirk is a permanent thing, carved deep into the weathered lines of his face. “What’s the matter, baby? Thought you said you could handle me. You’re already cryin’ and I haven’t even started.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer—doesn’t want one. Instead, Hal pushes forward again, slower this time, letting them feel every ridge and vein drag across their tongue before he hits the back of their throat and keeps going. The mirror shows him exactly what he wants: the obscene, stretched outline of his cock pressing visibly against the front of their neck, a moving shape beneath skin. His hips give a mean little roll, grinding against their lips, and he groans—a guttural, satisfied sound. “Oh, fuck me,” he breathes. “Look at that. Look at what you’re doin’ to me. I can see my own damn dick through your throat, and you’re just... takin’ it.”

He eases back just enough to let them suck in a ragged breath, but keeps the fat head heavy on their tongue, his hand tightening in their hair to hold them there. “Nuh-uh, don’t you go anywhere. I ain’t finished admirin’ your work.” His free hand moves to the side of their face, rough palm sliding over their jaw, smearing the mess pooling there. “You got no idea how long I’ve been waitin’ for a throat like this. Most folks your age think they can deepthroat an old man, then they start flappin’ their hands like they’re drownin’. You? You just gag and stay put.” He chuckles again, deliberately shallow-thrusting so their lips slurp around him. “That’s my pretty thing.”

The mirror catches his eye again, and Hal grins—a flash of teeth, wolfish and mean. “You ever watch yourself get face-fucked, sweetheart? ’Cause you’re missin’ one hell of a show.” He shifts his stance, one boot planted between just a few inches from their knees, and uses the leverage to drive a little deeper, his free hand sliding to the back of his own neck as if pushing the tension out. Drool drips from their chin onto the floor, and he watches it fall with something like reverence. “Messy little thing, ain’t ya? I bet you’d let me do anything right now. Spit in your mouth, slap my balls on your face, make you lick my boots clean—yeah, you’d thank me for it.” His voice drops, rough and low. “But right now, I just wanna feel you choke.”

He pulls out almost completely, leaving them gasping, and strokes himself slowly with one hand—languid, wet, obscene—while he stares at their reflection. The head of his cock is flushed dark, slick with their spit and his own pre-come, and he slaps it lightly against their cheek, twice, just to hear the sound. “Tell me you want it back,” he says, not a command so much as a challenge, his smirk widening. “Tell me you want this old man’s cock down your throat again. Beg real pretty, and maybe I’ll let you have another taste.” But even as he says it, his hand is already drifting back to their jaw, tilting their head up, lining himself up—because Hal Jordan has never been good at waiting, and right now, the only thing he wants more than hearing them beg is watching that bulge reappear in their throat while he fucks into them again.

The word rings in his skull like a bad joke—predicament. The bar between his wrists is hoisted toward the ceiling, splaying his arms into a wide X that pulls his shoulders high enough to burn. Every breath seems to shift the slack in the chain, and the cuffs bite into old, weathered skin. Below, the spreader bar between his ankles keeps his legs forced apart, so the only way to ease the screaming in his shoulders is to lean into the strain in his thighs. Sweat rolls down the back of his neck, slinks along the silver hair at the nape, and drips between his shoulder blades. He is strung up like a goddamn starfish, and his cock is so hard it feels like a second heartbeat, thick and hot against his stomach.

He did it to himself. Pushed and prodded and ran his smart mouth until they had no choice but to put him here. He wanted to be a problem. Wanted to be dealt with. For thirty years, the universe has looked to Hal Jordan to fix it—space scum, rogue Lanterns, planetary bullshit with no instruction manual. Nobody ever ties up the man who does the saving. But here, with his arms useless and his feet caged apart, he gets to be the mess. The loss of control is a raw, electric relief, even if admitting that feels like swallowing glass.

He tests the bindings, not trying to escape, just to feel them answer. The chain above the wrist bar clinks, and his deltoids light up with a deep, searing ache. The ankle bar clatters faintly when he tries to close his legs, and he can’t. That’s the point. Spread open in the cool air, no power ring on his finger to conjure an escape. Just him. Sixty years old, a little soft in the gut, legs trembling from holding himself at just the right angle, and so hard the head of his cock smears a wet line across his belly whenever he shifts. The flush climbs from his chest to his throat, and he can feel the heat of it behind his ears.

His mouth still has a few bullets left, even with his voice gone to gravel. “Gonna—” He swallows, laughs once, cracked at the edges. “Gonna stand there admirin’ the view, or you gonna finish what you started?” It comes out with less bite than he intended. The bravado wavers, splitting right down the middle, and he hates how much he likes that. He wants to be pushed past the point where he can play the tough guy. Wants his own stubbornness pulled out of him like a splinter.

The strain is getting worse. He shifts his weight, and the ankle bar forces him to compensate, which yanks at the wrist bar, and a sound escapes him—half grunt, half whimper—before he can clamp his jaw shut. His thighs are shaking now, muscles quivering with the effort of staying balanced, and the wet spot on his stomach has grown. He’s leaking, no control over that either. The air feels cold against all the places he’s on display. His breathing is ragged, chest heaving, and his pulse is so loud in his ears it almost drowns out the clink of the chain.

No ring. He left it on the table, or they took it, or he doesn’t fucking remember. Without it, he’s just Hal. Tied up, dripping sweat and pre-come, unraveling in front of them like a man with no secrets left. The pressure behind his eyes is building—not from sadness, but from sheer, overwhelming too much. His throat is tight. His jaw is locked. He wants to beg, but his pride still has teeth, and they’re sunk in deep. “C’mon,” he rasps, softer now, the command breaking apart on the way out. “Just—” He cuts himself off, chest hitching. He’s close to that edge. Not broken yet. But close enough to taste it.

The scuffed toe of Hal Jordan’s right boot was already warm with them, the old leather darkening where their heat soaked in. He sat slouched in the one piece of real furniture in his mansion—a cracked-leather armchair that had seen better decades—legs spread wide, a glass of bourbon balanced on the armrest, his ring hand resting loose on his thigh. The hi-fi in the corner was spinning something slow and sax-heavy from his 1978 playlist, but he barely heard it over the sound of their breathing. His head was tilted back against the chair, silver-streaked hair falling messily over his forehead, but his eyes were cracked open and fixed on them with the smug, unhurried focus of a man who had waited all goddamn week for exactly this.

He loved these boots more than most people loved their pets. Scuffed, creased, the leather worn soft from thirty years of alien mud, dive-bar floors, and too many press conferences. Now they were carrying them, the pointed toe angled just enough to give them something to work against, and every time their hips rolled forward, he could feel the pressure travel up through the sole and settle low in his calf. It wasn’t enough to get him off—not even close—but it was enough to make his jeans feel a size too tight and his breath come slow and deep through his nose. Hal shifted his weight, planting his heel harder into the floorboards, and let the toe of his boot cant upward a fraction more. “There you go, baby,” he rasped, voice like gravel dragged through honey. “Make it good. I’ve had a long fucking week.”

He took a slow sip of bourbon and let the burn settle behind his teeth, watching the way their skin caught the low lamplight against the dark brown leather. His knuckles were white for half a second around the glass before he forced them loose and set it down on the floor beside the chair with a heavy clink. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, bringing his face closer to theirs and letting the scent of them—sweat and salt and want—mix with the smell of old whiskey and boot polish. “You know what I like about this?” he asked, not expecting an answer. His smirk carved deeper into the weathered lines around his mouth. “It’s just you, me, and these boots. No Green Lantern. No galaxy ending. Just a pretty thing on the floor who knows exactly what they want.”

He drew his toe back an inch, just enough to pull the delicious pressure away, and felt the leg of his jeans pull tight over his thigh. The little sound of frustration that escaped them sent a hot spike straight down his spine, and the ring on his hand gave a faint, involuntary flicker—green as envy, green as want. But Hal didn’t reach for them. He liked the slow burn. At his age, slowing down wasn’t a weakness; it was a goddamn art form. “Ah-ah,” he murmured, low and warning, but there was no real edge to it. “Not until I say. You want it bad, I can tell. But you’re gonna wait for it, baby. You’re gonna wait until I’ve had my fill of watching you fall apart on my boot.”

He shifted again, turning his ankle just so, and pressed the worn toe of the boot right up against the place they needed it most, the leather now warm and obscenely smooth. He didn’t move it much—just a slow, maddening circle that made the muscles in his forearm flex as he gripped the armrest. “That’s it,” he breathed, his voice dropping to a rumble that was all chest and late nights. “Chase it. But don’t you dare rush. I’ve spent thirty years learning patience, and I’ll be damned if I let you make a liar out of me now.” The saxophone on the stereo wailed something low and mournful, and Hal let the sound wash over him as he watched them move, his own arousal a hard, aching line along his left thigh, untouched and ignored.