#plan oblique

[sonsband]

no one believes I'm a 90s kid anymore and I'm like is it the vibes but they should have heard how my shoulders popped in puppy pose. could a 24 year old do THAT?

[fall23iksection]

OUEST - BRUTHER, KAAITHEATER, BRUSSELS / BELGIUM

interior renderings (line drawings) and urban oblique axon.

_ik

[writing-for-marvel]

Bed Chem

Roommate!Bucky Barnes x Boyfriend!Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader

Summary: Your roommate Bucky walks in on your sexy Valentine’s Day plans with boyfriend Steve, and you ask him to join.

Warnings: strictly 18+, smut, MMF threesome, double vaginal penetration, thigh riding, oral (f & m receiving), ever so slight degradation, unprotected vaginal sex, multiple orgasms, creampies, spanking, a little Steve x Bucky, just some porn for your Valentine’s Day reading pleasure

Word count: 2.7k

A/N: Who’s the cute guy(s) with the wide, blue eyes and the big bad mm? Happy Valentine’s Day ♥️ banners by @vase-of-lilies

Masterlist | Ask me anything! | Library

Your friend hit me up so we could connect, And what are the odds? You send me a text

It was a fortunate coincidence you met Steve Rogers when you did - he was picking up his best friend Bucky, your roommate, for a poker night when you answered the door in skimpy pj shorts and a singlet.

You remember the amorous twinkle in his bright blue eyes as he chatted you up, leaning against the doorframe so that his shirt rode up and you caught a glimpse of his happy trail and the defined oblique muscle which had you squeezing your thighs together.

It was not even 24 hours later, having practically begged Bucky for your number, you received a message asking you out.

That was more than a month ago, and is how you’ve now ended up here, sitting in Steve’s thick lap, his large hands splayed on your ass and his tongue down your throat on Valentine’s Day.

The pads of your fingers feel every toned muscle of his abdomen as your hands work to unbutton his shirt. His body is like that of a God carved from marble, powerful, strapping, and you can’t believe you get to fuck him.

“Be a good girl and get all wet and messy for me.” He orders in that raspy, hungry tone you’ve come to know well. Taking charge, Steve places you on his firm thigh, flexing the muscle beneath you. His hands rock your hips against him, prompting you to grind in fluid motions, your throbbing pussy finally feeling the friction she is desperately craving. “For all the filthy things I’m going to do to you, I need you dripping.”

The damp arousal soaking his pants is evidence you’re already drenched, but you’re resolute in making a mess for him, just like he asks. Whimpers cascade from your lips as you continue to grind against him, following his commands, his growling voice deep in your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

Steve practically rips your top and bra off your body, lips latching to your nipple, tongue performing sorcery that makes you see a galaxy of stars behind your eyes.

You’re too caught up in each other, in how Steve’s thick thigh feels against your core, to notice a key turn in the lock, the front door swinging open and Bucky gaping at the front row seat he’s been given to your exhibition on the couch.

By the time you notice Bucky, his erect cock is painfully obvious as an outline in his sweatpants. You shoot him a smile, all the while still rocking your hips, and your best come hither smoulder you can muster with Steve’s mouth sucking on your breast.

“Don’t be shy, Buck. Come closer, get a good look.” A teasing smirk curves on Steve’s lips, only briefly taking his eyes off you above him to invite his best friend over to the pornographic scene taking place on his couch.

You’ve never seen typically forwardly flirty Bucky Barnes look as bashful as he does right now, a flush creeping up the tops of his cheeks, and his bright blue eyes are locked in on your oscillating hips rocking against Steve’s thigh as if he’s seeing a woman naked for the first time.

“C’mon pretty girl, show Bucky how beautiful you look when you cum.”

Steve’s chest reverberates against yours as he speaks in a deep, low voice. That combined with Bucky’s lust blown pupils urge you on, hips taking on a life of their own, angling your pelvis so you’re flawlessly stimulated, now wanting to appease not only your angelic boyfriend but the other pair of astonishingly blue eyes now trained on you.

All it takes is Steve’s supple lips to start sucking on your collarbone, his hands securely squeezing your hips and a small whimper from Bucky as he steps closer, for euphoria to crash over you like a waterfall, drowning you in a suffocating, all consuming, leg shaking, back arching orgasm.

Maybe it's all in my head, But I bеt we’d have really good bеd chem

“You liked that didn’t you, you little slut? Making Bucky watch?” You hum in agreement, your head still hazy from your orgasm, high on the feeling of bliss flowing through your veins.

Bucky adjusts himself and the thought of including him in your Valentine’s night plans makes you salivate. Being in the middle of both of these tantalising men, their muscular, sweaty bodies taking all the pleasure that your body is capable of for themselves, is a dream come true.

“You wanna taste how sweet my girl’s pussy is?” You watch on as Bucky practically jumps on the couch, eagerness etched into the smile growing on his gorgeous face.

You may have had just a teensy crush on Bucky when you first moved in, there’s no denying he has a certain boyish charm and a face card that makes ladies young and old swoon at first sight - a face you’d fantasised about sitting on more than a couple times.

“That’s it, no need to hover, all the way down.” Bucky’s rough hands pull your hips down so you are fully seated on his face, the tip of his tongue circling your already dripping entrance a couple times forcing a groan from the back of your throat.

“Open your mouth for me.” Steve requests, the pad of his thumb traces your bottom lip, and your jaw slackens for him. “Swallow me whole, pretty girl.”

You gag as your boyfriend's large dick hits the back of your throat - it’s not a new sensation, you’ve given Steve many a blowjob before, but not while also seated on a pair of lips that are ravishing your slick folds.

Bucky’s mouth works wonders on your sensitive bundle of nerves, which makes performing an expert job on Steve that much harder, but you’ve always been up for a challenge.

Using your hands to assist in maximising Steve’s pleasure, Bucky does the same for you - hungry touch roaming all hot skin he can reach from his position below you. There’s a small part of you that is acutely aware that two sets of eager, yearning blue irises are set upon you. But more than any other feeling, capturing both insanely attractive men’s full attention feels powerful, like you’re an unstoppable, raging river that dictates the flow of nature.

“I need you to fuck me.” Your words come out as a moaned plea, desperation as clear in your tone as it is in the arousal flowing out of you that Bucky is gladly lapping up.

“Whose cock do you want, baby?” You hear Steve say, taking your focus away from Bucky’s pretty, hypnotic eyes looking up at you riding his face. “Who do you want to fuck you sensless?”

Your eyes meet Steve’s pale blue ones and he knows without words exactly what you're longing for.

How you pick me up, pull ‘em down, turn me ‘round, Oh, it just makes sense

Steve manhandles you, practically throwing you down on your large bed. Having him looming over you, shoulders wide, thighs thick, cock erect, gives you a fluttering feeling of premonition in your belly. These man are about to ruin you.

The glint in his eye all but tells you he’s about to fuck you in a way where you won’t be able to walk tomorrow. Steve flips you over, and pulls you back so your ass is in the air, glistening pussy displayed for him. There’s a sharp smack against the flesh of your ass before he plunges into you, a deep, forceful thrust that makes you gasp with how much air he’s knocked from your lungs.

Bucky takes pleasure in watching Steve fuck you, stroking himself at a leisurely pace as his eyes widen in attempts to not miss a single moment of how exquisite you look while clinging to the sheets and being absolutely ravaged by his best friend.

“Suck him off.” Steve demands, an assertive hand grabbing the back of your neck, pulling your face up from being buried in the blankets that smell just like your boyfriend and towards Bucky’s hard on.

Having both of them filling you from either end of your body does something to you you can’t explain. Never in all your life have you felt this aroused, this needy, this desirable.

Steve makes contact with your ass again as he continues to split you open - your entire body inflates with insurmountable pleasure, a type of high that can barely contain within your corporeal form and transcends multiple planes of reality.

“Aww, you gonna cum already?” Steve taunts gravelly in your ear, feeling your walls flutter around him as the room fills with the sounds of you gagging on Bucky’s dick and Steve’s strong hips rhythmically crashing into your ass.

You don’t even have the opportunity to get a reply out, too busy trying to focus on taking Bucky, when your high hits you like a sudden, almost unpredicted, smack from Steve. The edges of your vision blur, or maybe it’s just your eyes rolling back, as a devastating, white hot pleasure rips through you, rays of warm ecstasy radiating from your core as if you are the sun itself.

And the two men currently sharing in that rapture on your bed certainly regard you as if you’re the centre of their universe in this moment.

How you talk so sweet when you’re doin’ bad things, That's bed chem

“Fuckkkk.” Bucky moans, his large hands finding your waist as you sink all the way down on him. “Steve, your girl’s so wet.”

“Best pussy I’ve ever had.” Steve says with a smirk, watching your face contort in pleasure as you adjust to this new angle with a soft endearment in his eyes. It continually surprises you how he can look at you with such affection when you’re in the middle of doing the filthiest things for him. Even fucking his best friend.

The best way to shut Steve’s vulgar mouth is by giving him something far more alluring to preoccupy his tongue with. He lays down on the bed before you, mesmerised by the way your pussy slides up and down on Bucky’s cock, how you take all of his long member seemingly with ease.

His tantalising fingers carefully, almost painfully so, play with your already sensitive clit, before he dives in tongue first, swirling, sucking, lapping at every drop of arousal gushing from you, paying extra close attention to that spot which makes you dizzy with desire.

“Holy fuck!” You shout into your bedroom which has now become a steamy, sweaty sauna of moans, curses and whimpers. “Right there - oh god! That feels so fucking good!”

The things your man can do with his tongue are otherworldly, and a sense of possessiveness flashes through you - you’re the woman he sinks to his knees for and worship like a queen.

But then Steve does something you’re not expecting - and though you can’t quite see it from your vantage point, you feel Bucky’s chest vibrate beneath you as he groans, presumably as Steve takes Bucky’s balls into his mouth.

“Fuck, Stevie.” Bucky breathes next to your ear, in a low moan, a timbre of voice you don’t think you’ve ever heard from him before. He’s clearly enjoying what your boyfriend's tongue is capable of as well.

Bucky’s hands squeeze tighter on your waist, his thrusts not as languid as before as he contends with multiple sources of gratification, something you suspect he has not felt before this very moment. And by the sounds of him panting underneath you, you’re sure he’s loving it.

And I bet it’s even better than in my head

Steve gives one last kiss to your sensitive and puffy clit, before he stands between your legs.

“Need you to turn around for me, pretty girl.” Steve’s voice has an edge of shakiness to it now, desperate need overcoming his usually calm, dominant demeanour.

You do as your told, now facing Bucky’s dazzling eyes that hold a burning desire you’ve never seen gaze at you with. The fluttering in your tummy when your hands rest on his broad, strapping chest and you sink back down on him, indicates to you this definitely isn’t the last time you’d like to see it.

“Want you to take both of us at once, think you can do that for me?”

Lord, you have no idea if your body is even capable of that, but if there are any two people on the planet you’d try for, it’s the two in this king size bed with you. You’re always up for a challenge.

“Yes, please, I need to feel both of you.”

Never in your life have you felt a burn so delectable as when Steve pushes inside you, your walls stretching to accommodate both men’s impressive sizes. Bucky clearly feels it too, how cramped for space you must feel as his groan matches your own, Steve’s cock sliding along Bucky’s as you wiggle your hips to aid in fitting both of them.

You’ve never felt this full before, so stuffed that you’ve truly reached 100% capacity, that it feels like you’re going to burst from being so utterly satiated.

“You were made for this weren’t you?” Steve asks rhetorically, because right at this second it undeniably feels like the three of you were designed for this exact purpose.

“Made to be stuffed with both our cocks.” Bucky adds with a grunt, teeth scraping your collarbone that just adds to the shiver that runs down your spine.

They don’t even have to move inside you for you to know you’re close. You’re not even sure there’s room for movement, everything feels so cramped, but in the best. You’re confined by two sweaty, muscular men intent on making you cum again.

Bucky's firm hands spread you open, whilst Steve’s tender hands on your hips assists with moving you along their cocks, only to push you backwards and you groan as they fill you again. All thoughts evaporate from your mind and all you can feel is them stretching you out, Bucky breathing shallowly beneath you, Steve’s low, melodious tone reverberating from behind you.

“That’s a good girl, cum on our cocks. We’ve got you, gorgeous.”

This time you’re fully aware of the crescendo you’re reaching, the life ruining orgasm that’s about to hit you square in the chest and fracture you into tiny pieces.

However hard you thought you were going to cum, it could not have prepared you for the moment the taut band in your belly finally snaps. Ecstasy in its purest form pulses in your veins, filling your whole, trembling body with a high so powerful the whole galaxy of stars flash behind your eyes.

You’re mumbling incoherent whimpers as the men reach their peak, feeling you clench down even tighter on their dicks, their shafts sliding along one another’s, they both spill their orgasm into you.

You feel gapingly empty when they pull out of you, like there is a crucial part of your anatomy that is now missing and you won’t feel whole again until it’s restored. Steve watches with erotic fascination as all your mixed releases drip from your core, taking a thick finger and pushing it back inside you where it belongs, before grabbing a damp cloth to clean you up.

Once he’s done, Steve lays beside you so you’re sandwiched between him and Bucky, placing gentle kisses to your form as tiredness starts to overtake you from the most incredible night of your life.

You’re not sure where this leaves your relationship with either man, is Bucky fated to simply be your roommate from now on? How can you go back to sleeping just a wall away knowing what phenomenal pleasure he can pull from your naked body? Would your normally dominant and possessive boyfriend mind sharing you with his best friend again?

But one things for sure, you're absolutely positive you’ll never feel completely satiated again unless you have both of their cocks inside you.

I bet we’d have really good bed chem

Follow @ems-library for fic notifications

[sayruq]

TWO MONTHS BEFORE Hamas attacked Israel, the Pentagon awarded a multimillion-dollar contract to build U.S. troop facilities for a secret base it maintains deep within Israel’s Negev desert, just 20 miles from Gaza. Code-named “Site 512,” the longstanding U.S. base is a radar facility that monitors the skies for missile attacks on Israel. On October 7, however, when thousands of Hamas rockets were launched, Site 512 saw nothing — because it is focused on Iran, more than 700 miles away. The U.S. Army is quietly moving ahead with construction at Site 512, a classified base perched atop Mt. Har Qeren in the Negev, to include what government records describe as a “life support facility”: military speak for barracks-like structures for personnel. Though President Joe Biden and the White House insist that there are no plans to send U.S. troops to Israel amid its war on Hamas, a secret U.S. military presence in Israel already exists. And the government contracts and budget documents show it is evidently growing. The $35.8 million U.S. troop facility, not publicly announced or previously reported, was obliquely referenced in an August 2 contract announcement by the Pentagon. Though the Defense Department has taken pains to obscure the site’s true nature — describing it in other records merely as a “classified worldwide” project — budget documents reviewed by The Intercept reveal that it is part of Site 512. (The Pentagon did not immediately respond to a request for comment.)

[sugurugetoshairbrush]

Peeping on your neighbor DILF!Getou Suguru [prev]

[cw: voyeurism & implied daddy kink(?) idk tbh you decide]

Irises speckled with shimmering sapphires, deep as amethyst, swirling in pools of lilac. A fringe of onyx, long tendrils dipping over a horizon of golden bronze.

“Hey, so I was wondering…”

A taut abdomen rippling with each breath—muscles carved sharp, the dip of his waist a lighter beige contrasted by a dark trail of hair leading down his navel. Broad, firm pecs teasing a softness despite the solid planes beneath.

“When are ya gonna confess to peeping on the guy?”

Deltoids flexing, obliques framing a trim waist. Triceps bulging, a testament to strenuous lifting, cardio, or something far more sinful.

“Gotta drop the bomb at some point, hm?”

Lustrous black hair cascading elegantly along a sculpted back, adorned with a splattering of moles. The glint of black titanium gauges, a thin silver chain, and the gleam of a barbell piercing at his chest catching the dim light.

“Hey, don’t just leave me hanging.”

Sometimes, the precise linework of seaweed-green ink peeks from beneath tight boxer briefs—a twisting dragon wrapping around thick quads. Quads that curve into a plump, cushioned—

“Hey!”

“Huh—what?” You blink, reality snapping back into focus. “Sorry, were you saying something?”

“Yes! Where’d you go just now? Don’t tell me you were daydreaming again.”

“No…”

Yu hums in faux consideration before pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. “I’ve never seen a case this severe before in my entire career. You’re showing all the symptoms of OGD.”

You shoot him a confused look. His expression turns grave, lips pulling tight. “Obsessive Getou Disorder. And I’m afraid… it might be incurable.”

You laugh nervously, already grasping for a distraction. But Yu anticipates your escape route like a seasoned chess player, moving faster than you can react.

He snaps his fingers, three sharp cracks in quick succession. Twisting his wrist, he waves his hands dramatically as if casting a spell. “Compelling you back to reality. Return to our realm.”

Yu’s big brown eyes blink up at you expectantly, ever sparkling with mischief. His brow quirks, and you can’t resist ruffling his crop of messy hair.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m listening.” You pat the cushion beside you, inviting him to sit. Yu, ever the enthusiastic puppy, eagerly flops down.

Every time you finish a shift together, he chases you out of work like an excitable dog, hyping up elaborate plans—outfits, venues, guest lists—only for the night to inevitably end curled up in your apartment, eating pizza, watching movies, and gossiping. Not that you mind. It’s an outlet for your… fixation.

You grab the remote, scrolling aimlessly through endless shows and movies. Beside you, crinkling sounds announce Yu unearthing the snacks from earlier. The sweet scent of cinnamon wafts into the air.

“You up for anything in particular? Feels like we’ve watched pretty much everything at this point.”

“Mmfh, y’know wha’? We’re no’ fish again. Les’ do somethin’ bold.” Yu’s words are nearly swallowed by the honey bun he’s chewing, muffled and garbled between bites.

“Come again? And this time, without the sugar-coated mumbling.”

Yu dramatically swallows, throat protruding as he gulps too fast. Wiping the crumbs from the corners of his mouth, he tries again. “Let’s be bold tonight. Instead of stuffing our faces, we should both text our y’know…” He trails off, making exaggerated kissy noises.

Your stomach flips. “Okay…”

Yu lights up, snatching both your phones from the coffee table. Before he can act, you raise a hand. “Hold up.”

You retrieve two plastic shot glasses, a pitcher of juice, and a bottle of tequila. “Some liquid courage might be helpful, yes?”

Yu pouts but is already pouring generous shots, the tequila teetering at the brim. You know he’s just as nervous as you are.

“Three, two, one—bottoms up!”

Your throat burns, the juice barely easing the sting. Staring blankly at the open text thread with Getou, you hesitate.

“How’s this?” Yu tilts his phone for you to see.

Haibara Yu: Hey, Ken! Hope I’m not bothering you. I remember you were baking bread today, and I’m free—need a hand?

“Perfect. A casual excuse to see him while being forward. Now send.”

Yu wavers, his finger hovering over the button. A split-second of doubt, then—

“Can’t! You do it, quick!” He shoves the phone at you like it’s a ticking time bomb.

Laughing, you press send. Yu gulps down another shot in retaliation.

“What do you have typed out? Don’t make me suffer alone—”

Three loud dings cut him off. Yu’s phone vibrates. You both freeze.

“No way,” Yu whispers.

You flip his phone over and huddle together, shoulder to shoulder, to read the messages:

Nanami Kento:  Haha, nice to hear from you, Haibara. Perfect timing—I just started proofing the yeast. I’d love for you to join me, might help this go smoother. Would you like me to send my address?”

Your jaw drops. “Yu. This man is whipped for you. Barely a minute and he’s already inviting you over.”

Yu can’t contain his grin, quickly typing back:

Haibara Yu: I don’t know what proofing yeast means, but I’m sure you’ll teach me!

Yes, send it now—I’ll head over ASAP :))

You groan theatrically. “Great, now you’re abandoning me.”

Yu snatches your phone, eyes scanning your screen. “You haven’t even drafted a text yet?”

“No…”

His fingers fly across his screen, typing something out—until, suddenly, his expression shifts. The look of concentration melts away, replaced by a devilish glint in his eyes.

“Actually, you don’t have to.”

He tilts your phone toward you, revealing the reason for his sudden change in demeanor.

One new message.

Getou Suguru: Hello, neighbor! Just wondering if you’d like to come over and help me cook for the girls since you proved yourself capable in the kitchen (thank you again).

They’ve been asking about you—they’d love to see you.

Your heart nearly leaps out of your chest.

Yu grins wickedly, typing furiously.

You: I’d love to! I can be over in a few.

I’d love to see the girls, although I hope they’re not the only ones excited to see me…

You lunge for your phone, but Yu holds it out of reach, laughing.

“Just give it a second—just watch. One more sec—okay, here!”

Getou Suguru: Sounds good. And of course, I’m excited to see you as well, if not more.

Be sure to text me before you head over.

In a span of minutes, you and Yu go from lazily sprawled on the couch to full-blown panic mode, securing dates with the men you’d been fawning over for what feels like an eternity. The realization sends a surge of adrenaline through you, a buzz that has you both scrambling through the apartment—showering at record speed, yanking outfits from hangers, fixing your hair with practiced precision, and spritzing on just the right amount of fragrance.

The chaos leaves your bedroom and bathroom looking like a war zone. Clothes are tossed haphazardly across the bed and floor, makeup products lie toppled on the vanity, and an army of skincare bottles clutters the bathroom counter. But none of that matters—that’s tomorrow’s problem. Right now, the only thing on your mind is making sure you both look impeccable.

Before heading out, you give each other a final once-over. Yu has swapped his usual casual wear for sleek black straight-leg pants and a fitted white shirt, the fabric hugging his frame just enough to be noticeable. At your insistence, he’s kept it simple, and you know you made the right call. With his messy brown hair adding a carefree touch, the outfit is the perfect blend of boy-next-door charm and just the right edge, thanks to the black leather zip-up jacket left open.

“You’re giving bad-boy-next-door,” you tease, stepping back to admire your handiwork.

Yu, predictably, flushes a deep shade of red. You smirk, knowing full well that Nanami is going to have a field day with that reaction later. Kudos to you.

“We’re in this together,” Yu says, raising a determined thumbs-up.

You chuckle, sending your final message.

You: Heading over!

𓂃۶ৎ

Getou’s apartment door cracks open just as you lift your fist to knock. Your grin falters, lips curving downward in a sudden frown.

“What’s wrong? Something on my shirt? Or are you just disappointed to see me?”

Your heart lurches at the genuine confusion laced in his soft voice. His dark brows knit together, a small pout forming on his lips as he glances down at himself, smoothing out his black turtleneck and shifting his weight in his brown corduroy trousers.

You reach out instinctively, your hand brushing against his forearm, stilling his restless fingers as they pick at his sweater.

“Aw, no, Suguru. You look great,” you reassure him. “I just thought I’d get to see you in that cute frilly apron again.”

His brows shoot up in surprise before his violet eyes glimmer with amusement.

“Ah, so that’s what had you looking so forlorn.” He steps back, gesturing for you to come inside. “How about you say more about how great I look?”

“Don’t get cocky now.” You huff, perching yourself on a stool at the kitchen island.

Getou strolls over, leaning against the counter with his elbows propped up, his face resting in his palms. You glance around, noticing the eerie quiet that has settled over the apartment. It’s spotless—almost suspiciously so. Usually, there’s a telltale trail of toys left behind by his daughters, but today? Not a single one in sight.

“Where are the girls? Are they here?”

“Mhm,” he hums, retrieving a clean glass from the cupboard and filling it with water. He places it in front of you, setting it atop a coaster before wiping down the space in front of you with practiced precision. “Bribed them with new dolls so I could clean.”

You snort. “I don’t know what to call out more—your obsessive cleaning or your blatant bribery of your own children.”

He ducks into a drawer, rummaging for something. “I never claimed to be a good man.”

When he straightens, he turns around slowly, revealing the infamous pink frilly ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron draped around his neck. He blinks down at you, lashes fluttering flirtatiously.

“Tie me up?”

“Come here, dork.”

Getou feigns offense but turns obediently, sweeping his long hair over one shoulder. A few loose strands remain, and you gently trail your fingers along the nape of his neck, smoothing them over. His hair is softer than you expect, and when your fingers brush his skin, he shivers.

Your hands move to his waist, tying the apron strings into a neat bow. You pat his shoulder lightly.

“And don’t undersell yourself,” you murmur. “Somehow finding the time to keep an orderly home and spoiling your daughters? Sounds like a good man to me.”

He turns, his long hair cascading elegantly down one side of his face. He smiles at you, his almond-shaped eyes crinkling shut, and you silently thank the divine forces that allowed you to be so well acquainted with such a beautiful man.

“And now, you’re not only a good man,” you tease, “but the perfect housewife.”

His brow arches. “Oh, really?” A smirk tugs at his lips before he bends down, retrieving another pink frilly apron. He unfolds it, revealing the embroidered words: ‘The Kisser.’

“Oh—I—” You stumble over your words.

“Did I forget to mention? It came in a set.” He steps forward, slipping the apron over your head. “This one’s for you.”

Wordlessly, you turn so he can tie you up. The moment he finishes, he leans in, voice dropping to a hushed murmur.

“Now, one could argue that you are now my perfect housewife.”

“Mhm.” You wag your finger at him, beckoning him closer. “Come here, and I’ll tell you what I think about that.”

He leans in, hovering just above you, his face mere inches away. Up close, you can see the soft crinkles by his eyes, the slow curve of his lips.

“I think I quite like my new role, Suguru,” you whisper. “Let me fulfill my duty.”

Your fingers tangle into his hair, tugging him forward. You press a soft kiss to his lips, allowing him to deepen it. He licks over your bottom lip before biting at it, making you sigh into his mouth. Before you can pull away completely, he captures your hand, pressing a lingering kiss to your palm. The affectionate look in his eyes nearly brings you to your knees.

You clear your throat, trying to rein in the conversation.

“So, what’s on the menu tonight?”

“Chicken alfredo pasta,” he says, straightening your apron. “The girls love it, but I don’t make it often because it’s practically a heart attack on a plate.”

“So, a special night?”

“The special-est.”

You bring a large pot of salted water to a rolling boil as Getou collects the ingredients. He works efficiently, rinsing the chicken cutlets before slicing and seasoning them with practiced ease. You fall into an easy rhythm—while you heat the frying pan, he drizzles olive oil; you melt butter, he finely slices garlic; you pour in cream, he grates parmesan. The pasta cooks as the chicken sizzles, and the sauce thickens to a velvety consistency.

While the meal comes together, you wipe off the chopping board, ready to cut the parsley garnish. But the leafy pieces refuse to separate, sticking stubbornly to your blade. Frustration wells up, and you hunch over, applying more pressure in an attempt to force the pieces apart.

A warm weight presses against your shoulder, accompanied by the scent of coconut. Getou’s arms encircle yours, his rough palms resting over your hands.

“Looks like you need a little guidance,” he murmurs, his breath hot against the shell of your ear.

You scoff, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh yes, please, help me. I’m just a helpless damsel in distress.”

He chuckles, guiding your hand over the knife’s handle, steady and deliberate. With his touch, the blade moves effortlessly through the parsley, slicing with precision.

“Just like this,” he instructs, voice low and smooth. “A diagonal angle makes all the difference—now you try.”

You mimic his movements, finding the rhythm, the process suddenly easier. His hum of approval sends a shiver down your spine.

“Good girl,” he praises, his voice a little too indulgent, a little too intimate. “Just like that—keep going.”

Your composure wavers. Something shifts in the air—his proximity, his tone, the subtle dominance in his words. It leaves you feeling cornered, like prey beneath the gaze of an apex predator. His breath warms the side of your neck, his scent lingers sweet and intoxicating. Heat coils in your stomach.

There are… other things you wouldn’t mind him teaching you.

Before your thoughts can spiral further, his voice breaks through the moment.

“Look at that, pasta and chicken are done.”

By the time the girls peek in, drawn by the rich, creamy scent wafting through the apartment, you’ve mixed and plated the alfredo while Getou sets the table—placemats, utensils, drinks, napkins, everything in place.

“YAY, PASTA!”

Mimiko barrels into Getou’s leg, clinging enthusiastically.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, Daddy!”

Nanako isn’t far behind, latching onto his opposite leg. “Yay! We love you, Daddy!”

He ruffles their hair, cradling their faces with unmistakable affection. “Aw, my beautiful girls. I love you too—but I couldn’t have done this alone.” His gaze flicks to you, warm and teasing. “Go say thank you to my sous chef.”

The twins twist their heads toward you, beaming. Before you can brace yourself, they launch forward, nearly knocking you over.

“Thank you, Suit Check!”

Nanako’s golden ringlets brush your arms as you wrap them in a hug.

Getou clicks his tongue. “No, girls—sous chef,” he corrects, exaggerating the pronunciation. “It means she was my helper in the kitchen, and she was the best helper! The pasta is extra delicious because of her.”

Satisfied with the explanation, he lifts the girls into their seats. With the help of stacked cushions, they’re just high enough to reach their plates. The moment their forks touch the pasta, the room falls silent, save for the sounds of clinking silverware and exaggerated chewing.

Getou chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s good, huh? Seems like a fan favorite.”

“S’good, Daddy—so cheesy!” Nanako exclaims, her cheeks full, her chin streaked with sauce. She wipes her fingers on the table, completely unbothered.

“So messy, honey.” Getou sighs, grabbing a napkin to clean her up despite her weak attempts to squirm away.

You lift your fork, twirling a bite expertly to catch the dangling cheese. “Watch this,” you say, demonstrating. “Wrap the cheese around your fork like this, so you can enjoy every bite without getting scolded by your dad.”

The girls gasp like you’ve unveiled some grand magic trick. They attempt to copy you, their enthusiasm infectious.

Getou takes a sip of his white wine, smirking. “Preventing messes like that isn’t exactly helping you escape the housewife allegations.” His voice dips just enough to keep the words between the two of you.

You giggle, swirling your fork aimlessly around your plate, suddenly feeling like a giggly schoolgirl.

Then, an idea strikes. “Hey, if you need an outlet for those messy tendencies, my job is hosting a family event on Monday. Finger painting—they can go wild. I’m working it, so you should bring the girls. It’ll be fun.”

Getou raises a brow, turning to the twins. “What do you think, girls? Want to go? Do some painting?”

He coughs, muttering under his breath, “That’s not on our walls.”

You swat his arm playfully, but the girls don’t notice. They’re already buzzing with excitement.

“We wanna go!” “Yeah, we love to paint! Daddy never lets us!”

You grin, throwing up two thumbs. “See? I’ll let you paint all you want on Monday. I’ll sign you all up—it’ll be a blast!”

𓂃۶ৎ

You can’t help but wonder if Getou regrets agreeing to come to ‘Family Finger-painting’ as you watch Nanako, ever the ball of energy, streak cobalt blue finger paint across the front of his crisp button-up. The deep navy smudges stand out starkly against the fabric, flecks of red in her dark umber hair only adding to the chaotic artistry. Her small, paint-covered hands leave damning evidence all over his sleeves and the hem of what was, moments ago, a pristine Ralph Lauren Oxford.

You cringe, anticipating a reaction—a sigh, a flash of disappointment. But Getou only leans down, furrowing his brows, his sharp eyes honing in on the tiny perpetrator with exaggerated accusation.

“Nanako…”

His large hands wrap around her waist, and in one swift motion, he hoists her up, lifting her high above his head as if she were soaring like an eagle. “Such a messy one, aren’t you? Look what you did to Daddy! I’ve got you now, Nana.”

Nanako kicks her little feet, writhing in his grasp as peals of laughter burst from her lungs, the sound rich and warm like music.

“D-Daddy, stop! Let me go! Sorry, sorry!”

Finally, he relents, setting her back down with an affectionate pat to her head. His shirt, however, has taken even more damage—blue smears blending with the red, swirling into purple, with specks of pink now dotting his arms and pants like an abstract masterpiece.

“Daddy, me too! Wanna fly!” Mimiko tugs at his pant leg, her small hands leaving more marks in their wake.

Obliging, Getou lifts her with the same ease, holding her up until she nearly brushes the ceiling. You make your way over, watching them with quiet amusement.

“Careful with her head, Suguru.”

Getou lowers Mimiko to rest against his hip, turning to greet you with a smile. “Ah, thank you. I do tend to get carried away.” He gestures toward the three canvases spread across the floor, protected by layers of newspaper—a rare stroke of genius on Yu’s part. “How’s the progress?”

You kneel to inspect their work: a peacock, a flower, and three handprints.

“Let me guess—the peacock is Nanako’s, and the flower is Mimiko’s?”

Nanako beams, nodding vigorously as she tugs at your smock, eager for praise. The bird she painted is surprisingly elegant, its neck curved gracefully, head tucked bashfully. The feathers—done in sweeping strokes of yellow, blue, and green—are intricate for a child her age.

“Nanako, this is beautiful! You did such a great job.”

Her cheeks flush pink, her smile widening with pride. Mimiko, not to be outdone, smushes her face against her father’s side, peeking up at you. “Wuh ‘bout mie?”

You turn to her painting—green stems drawn with a careful forefinger, flowers crafted from colorful thumbprints. It’s simpler than Nanako’s, but no less charming.

“These flowers are so pretty! I love all the colors, Mimiko.”

“Danks.”

Getou chuckles, shooting you a knowing look—one that clearly says, I know you’re just being nice, but I appreciate it.

Then, he dips his fingers into the paint and smears a thick layer of violet onto your open palm.

“Why don’t you be the finishing touch to my piece?”

You glance at his canvas—sky blue with a large purple handprint on one side, two smaller ones beneath it, one lime green, the other bright pink.

He nods toward the empty space. “Go on. Left room for you.”

With a small smile, you press your palm against the canvas, feeling the sticky paint mold to the lines of your skin. A warmth settles in your stomach as the girls erupt into applause.

Getou hums, scratching his chin as he inspects the final product, his voice dipping into a teasing lilt. “Now it’s perfect. My idea to have you complete the piece was a true stroke of genius.”

You groan. “Not a dad joke, Suguru. How stereotypical.”

He pouts, scrunching his nose in exaggerated offense. Beside him, Mimiko mimics the expression perfectly, her chubby cheeks puffed out in what might be the most adorable sight you’ve ever seen.

Before you can comment on it, a frantic voice cuts through the room.

“Just a sec, you drama queens—I’ll be right back.”

You jog toward Yu, weaving between families painting peacefully. When you finally reach him, your stomach drops at the scene in front of you. A toppled canvas lies face-down, irreparably smeared. Paint has dripped from the palette, bleeding past the newspaper barrier onto the floor.

Shit.

A wail erupts, high and heartbroken. Yuji, eyes brimming with tears, sniffles as he clings to Nanami, whose face is twisted in regret.

You scoop Yuji into your arms, rubbing his back as he hiccups between sobs.

“Yu-Yu, honey, it’s okay. We’ll get another canvas. We can make something even cooler.”

His sniffles continue, tiny fists wiping at his tear-streaked face.

“See? Nanami’s not mad at you.” You nudge Nanami’s leg.

Nanami, who’s been furiously cleaning to prevent Yu from getting written up, straightens at once. With practiced ease, he runs a hand through Yuji’s pink curls before cupping his cheek.

“Oh, Yuji, of course I’m not mad. I just had to clean up. We can still paint whatever you want, okay?”

Yuji sniffs, lower lip trembling, but the tears finally slow. You grab a tissue, holding it up to his face.

“Blow.”

He obeys, filling the tissue. You clean him up and pat his head.

Nanami bows slightly. “Thank you.”

You wave him off. “No need for thanks, Yu won’t get in trouble tonight thanks to you.”

Yu joins Nanami, curling around his arm like a content cat, while the two men share a look—soft smiles, red-tipped ears, and a warmth that’s almost too much to witness.

You groan, turning back toward the Getous. As your gaze sweeps the room, Getou towers over the families, effortlessly catching your eye. He raises a bronzed hand, beckoning you back over.

And without hesitation, you go.

𓂃۶ৎ

Turns out, washing dried paint out of hair is harder than you’d expect. Not that it ever seemed easy, but it's a lot like trying to remove gum from thick locks—frustrating and nearly impossible without the right tools.

You hold Mimiko’s head steady over the sink, your fingers working diligently to scrape out stubborn streaks of red paint from her bangs. How she managed to get it there in the first place is beyond you. Speckles of color circle the drain as you slowly restore her hair to its natural brown.

“Suguru, please,” you mouth over to Getou, careful not to let Mimiko catch on to your frustration. He peeks around the side of the tub, where he has Nanako perched on the edge, her head tilted back as he rinses out her own mess. At least he seems to be making progress—her dirty blonde strands darken to caramel under the stream of water.

Your gaze flickers to Getou himself, and concern stirs in your chest. His loose black hair, usually immaculate, is now streaked with vibrant splashes of paint. He notices your stare and offers you a small, tight-lipped smile, but his furrowed brows betray his worry.

Reaching into the cabinet, he pulls out a jar of coconut oil and hands Nanako a wide-toothed comb. “Here, sweetheart, detangle your hair for me so I can help your sister.”

He joins you at the sink, twisting the cap off the oil. “This should help. If it moisturizes the hair, it’ll loosen the paint’s grip.”

You hum in agreement, stepping onto the twins’ footstool so you can hover over Getou’s head. He glances up at you, incredulous. “Pour some for me. Someone has to do yours, too.”

He flicks your forehead in response, a teasing gesture before tipping the bottle generously into your outstretched palm. Warming the oil between your hands, you begin raking your fingers through his dark locks, careful but thorough. The silver strands peppered throughout catch the light, gleaming softly under the bathroom bulb. The oil works wonders, and soon enough, the paint starts to dissolve.

“Mm, careful back there,” he murmurs, voice dipping into something almost indulgent. “Feels nice—I might just drift off.”

Smirking, you wind the ends of his hair around your fingers and give a light tug.

What you don’t expect is the breathy gasp that slips past his lips, followed by a low, gravelly, “Watch it.”

Does he like that? You file the information away for later—time and place, after all.

The faucet shuts off, and Getou lifts Mimiko upright, wrapping a fluffy towel around her shoulders and drying her hair. You do the same for Nanako before helping Getou finish up with them both. The twins announce their plans to change into clean clothes and scamper off, promising to dump their messy outfits straight into the washing machine.

Meanwhile, Getou scrubs his forearms with the remaining coconut oil as you towel off his hair to prevent it from dripping down his back. Out of everyone, he’s easily the most covered in paint—the sink now tinted a muddy brown from the mixture of colors.

“You know, we should get changed too,” he says, wringing out a section of his hair. “You can borrow something of mine if you’re okay with that. No pressure.”

“Honestly, I’d do anything to get out of these sticky clothes,” you sigh. “Something soft sounds like a dream right now.”

He grins, booping your nose. “Your wish is my command.”

A few minutes later, you pull on the clothes he’s left for you on the hamper—a large, oversized olive green graphic tee that’s so faded you can barely make out the text, ‘Girl Dad’ (which is sickeningly adorable), and a pair of simple black sweatpants with a drawstring. The fabric pools around your feet, the sleeves gaping at your elbows, but it’s comfortable. More importantly, it smells like him—rustic sandalwood and sweet coconut.

You step out of the bathroom just as Getou emerges from his bedroom, his gaze sweeping over you unabashedly. He looks thoroughly pleased, his own outfit a mirror of yours, except his shirt is a solid white. His hair is now twisted up and secured with a claw clip.

Without warning, he snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. His nose is cold as it nudges against your pulse point, pressing a light, lingering kiss there.

“Soft enough?” he murmurs, voice laced with amusement.

You hum in response, though it comes out more like a contented purr. Your arms loop around his waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. He lingers for a moment before pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead, then pulls back with a sigh.

“C’mon,” he says, lacing his fingers through yours. “The girls are waiting.”

In the living room, the twins are sprawled out on the couch, whispering conspiratorially over a small crate filled with hair accessories. As soon as they spot Getou, they light up.

“Daddy makeover! Daddy makeover!”

A faint flush spreads down Getou’s neck. “No, girls, d—what?”

“We want to do your hair too!”

“Pleeeeaaaseee.”

They bat their lashes, their tiny hands clutching at his shirt, and oh, they’re good. Getou looks at you for backup, but you only grin and join in on the pleading.

“Pleeeeaaaseee.”

He sighs, defeated, and slides onto the floor, his back against the couch. “Fine. But be gentle.”

The twins cheer, shoving the crate toward you so you can join in. Inside, you find butterfly clips, neon barrettes, pink bows, satin scrunchies, and rainbow elastics. The three of you claim your sections of his hair and get to work—messy buns, neat braids, tiny pigtails. By the end, his head looks like a walking arts-and-crafts project.

Getou's phone blares an absurdly loud, obnoxious ringtone, shattering the quiet hum of the evening. He fumbles with it, brow furrowing as he tries to navigate answering—his age is showing. Finally, after an unnecessary struggle, he swipes to accept, and the screen flickers to life.

Gojo’s face appears far too close to the camera, wide blue eyes blinking unnervingly. The glow of the screen illuminates the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the faint shadows beneath his eyes, casting his features in an eerie fog of azure.

“What the fuck am I looking at?”

Getou lets out a loud, pointed cough and lowers the volume, shooting Gojo a disapproving look. With a shift of his wrist, he adjusts the angle so the girls—and inevitably, you—come into frame.

“Hi, Satoru!!”

Gojo winks, flashing a toothy grin. “How’re my favorite goddaughters?”

“Good!!”

“That’s what I like to hear. Your incredibly, generous godfather is calling to persuade your stuffy dad to take you somewhere awesome! Put him back on the phone, okay?”

“Okay!!”

Getou scowls and holds up an obscured middle finger to the camera. Gojo only cackles.

“I see you’re being pampered like the princess that you are by those sweet girls and your… friend.”

“Yes,” Getou replies dryly. “What about it?

Gojo somehow flips himself upside down in the frame, his hand dangling as he snorts.

“Nothing, just making an observation. Anyway, I called to invite you on a trip this weekend. I booked an Airbnb in the city so the kids can see that new superhero movie premiere. The city screenings are being introduced by actual cast members. Megumi and Tsumiki will be inconsolable if their cousins can’t come. So… you in?”

Getou shrugs, arching a well-groomed brow. “How can I refuse? The only one who spoils their kids more than you is me.”

“I dunno, the jury’s still out on that. Why don’t we ask your friend this weekend? If she comes, she’ll be the perfect tiebreaker.”

Oh, he’s slick. You suppress a smile but lean forward over Getou’s shoulder, tapping his cheek.

“Suguru’s friend likes that idea very much. I’m in—and I’ll be sure to make an unbiased decision.”

Getou turns to you, his expression shifting, concern softening the sharp elegance of his features. There’s a slight crease between his brows, and for a brief moment, you want to smooth it away, to press a kiss over the corners of his lips that have dipped into a hesitant frown.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice lower now, meant just for you. “Don’t feel pressured by this idiot.”

“Of course I’m sure. I wouldn’t have agreed if I wasn’t. I have no qualms about rejecting cocky men.”

Gojo snaps his fingers, amused. “Testy. I like it. Give me your number, and I’ll send you the details. I need to record everyone staying in the house for the homeowner.”

You recite it, then settle back into your spot. Your fingers thread through Getou’s dark hair absentmindedly, mirroring the girls’ movements as they weave an impressively tight Dutch braid along the side of his head.

Getou and Gojo continue chatting, their voices fading into the background as your phone lights up on the arm of the couch. You stretch forward to grab it, expecting a message from Yu with an update—he had also gone home with his beau.

But when you unlock the screen, an unfamiliar number stares back at you.

717-904-3856: Hey! It’s Gojo Satoru AKA your wingman, and I won’t rest until I successfully hook you up with my best friend. 

God knows he needs it.

𓂃۶ৎ

“This Airbnb is fu—uh, I mean, freaking huge. How’d Gojo afford this?!”

Getou chuckles under his breath as he steers the wheel, glancing in the rearview mirror before backing into the long driveway. The house looms in front of you—massive, especially for something in the heart of the city. Beige bricks stack into sleek, modern walls, and the tall, black roof contrasts against the setting sun. Floor-to-ceiling windows reveal a lofty foyer inside, warm light spilling onto the neatly trimmed bushes lining the entryway. The double doors arch into a perfect half-circle, framed by lush greenery rooted in pristine, manicured grass.

He shifts the car into park, turning off the engine with an effortless press of his fingers. “Ah, did I forget to mention? Gojo’s family owns an upscale hotel franchise. You might’ve heard of it—Living Limitless?”

Your jaw nearly hits the floor. “No way. Of course, I’ve heard of them. They were in the news last year after acquiring that media conglomerate for a ridiculous amount of money. They’re loaded!”

Getou hums in response, slipping off his seatbelt. The silver frames of his glasses catch the light as he glances at you, the soft twill of his black short-sleeve set draping over his frame. His hair is neatly tied into a bun, the stray strands framing his face in a way that makes him look devastatingly good. The delicate glint of his rings and bracelets only adds to the effect.

“Mm. Money doesn’t buy manners, though. His family isn’t exactly warm and welcoming, so he doesn’t see them often. But he still has access to his shares, which is why he can afford to act like a snob.”

You chuckle, pushing open the passenger door before reaching into the backseat to unbuckle Nanako from her booster seat. “I mean, he can’t be that bad. He does a lot for the girls, doesn’t he?”

“Welcome to my humble abode!”

Your head snaps up just in time to see Gojo—not walking—but rolling toward you down the cobblestone driveway on a hoverboard, tilted forward like he’s the main act in some grand performance.

You inhale sharply. “Spoke too soon.”

Getou sighs, dragging a hand down his face before taking both girls by the hands, guiding them toward Gojo. Unlike you, the twins are completely mesmerized by his dramatic entrance. You, however, can’t help but see a man in his thirties, draped in designer from head to toe—Gucci sunglasses, Gucci joggers, Gucci slides—riding a Segway like a rich kid who never outgrew his phase.

To his credit, Gojo is absurdly friendly. He sweeps all of you into a round of enthusiastic hugs, exchanging pleasantries before immediately launching into an animated info-dump about the upcoming movie. His voice brims with excitement—maybe even more so than the kids’.

“—and the actor that plays Cursebreaker? Absolute machine. Does all his own stunts. Megumi could tell you more, he follows him on TikTok. He and his sister have been asking about you two all day.”

Right on cue, a small head peeks out from the front door. Tsumiki beams brightly. “Hi Nana! Hi Mimi!”

From behind her, little Megumi appears—his tousled black hair falling over his forehead, his lips drawn into a scowl.

The interior of the house is even more elegant than the exterior—sleek and modern, a symphony of whites, grays, and blacks. The minimalist design is softened by the presence of large, leafy plants, and a high-end television camouflages as an expensive painting on the wall.

As soon as you step inside, the girls scatter, immediately engrossed in an impromptu game of tag, their laughter echoing through the open space. Getou settles himself into the plush white couch, casually grabbing a controller as Megumi boots up his Switch beside him. That leaves you with Gojo, who is carefully slipping into his Cursebreaker cosplay for later that evening.

“Zip this up for me?” he asks, turning his back to you.

The suit is absurdly tight, a second skin molded to every inch of his form. You struggle with the zipper, nearly yanking Gojo backward in the process. The sleek, black material stretches over his body, covering him from head to toe—built-in shoes and all. The design spirals with glowing icy blue accents that converge at his sternum, forming a swirling curse energy emblem.

Gojo’s usual vibrant eyes are further exaggerated by unnervingly bright blue contacts, the pupils swallowed entirely, leaving only a ghostly glow.

As you help spike his already gravity-defying hair, you can’t help but ask, “Where the hell did you even get this costume?”

Gojo smirks, fluffing a single strand just right. “Oh, you know… I just reached out to the actual designer from the movie, commissioned an exact replica. Had to expedite it, though.”

You stare at him, deadpan. “Oh. So you’re rich-rich.”

Gojo actually has the nerve to look a little bashful, kicking at the floor like a kid caught sneaking an extra dessert. “It’s not like that! I don’t splurge on just anything. I’ve been obsessed with this franchise since I was a kid.”

From the couch, Getou’s smooth voice interjects lazily, “Born to be a nerd, forced to be an heir. Tragic.”

Megumi, ever eager to roast Gojo, jumps in with a smirk. “NERD.”

What follows is a predictable bout of bickering, it lasts until Gojo’s phone vibrates, signaling that their Uber will be arriving in an hour. He claps his hands together and directs the kids to get into their costumes.

Then he turns to you and Getou with an expression that makes you wary. “So,” he drawls, rubbing his hands together like a cartoon villain, “fun fact—there are only five cinema tickets. Totally sold out. Couldn’t get extras.”

Getou frowns, about to protest, but Gojo cuts him off with a raised finger. “Ah, ah, ah. This actually works out perfectly, because let’s be honest—I’m the only one who actually cares about seeing this movie. So, instead of sitting through something you don’t care about, you two should have a night out. I even have recommendations.”

You glance at Getou with amusement. “So, Suguru, when’s the last time you went out socially?”

Silence. Getou’s lips press into a thin line.

Gojo beams in triumph. “Yay! You’ll do it! Get back out there, Grandma!” He whips out his phone and texts you both the name of a bar. It looks lively—plenty of drinks, an arcade, even a dance floor.

“Oh, and FYI,” he adds, “I already called an Uber for you. So, chop chop, go get ready.”

The sudden realization that you’re about to go on what is essentially a date with Getou sends you scrambling for an outfit. After giving your goodbyes to the twins, who latch onto you for hugs, you rush off to get ready.

A steaming shower melts away any tension as you exfoliate, shave, and lather yourself in fragrant lotion and body oil. When you step out, your reflection grins back at you, brimming with anticipation.

You settle on an all-black ensemble: knee-high boots, a mini skirt, and a textured, long-sleeved button-up, strategically fastened at your midriff to reveal just the right amount of skin. A small black bag completes the look. You’re banking on Getou wearing black—his wardrobe rarely deviates from it.

Descending the stairs, your hunch proves correct. Getou stands by the mirror near the front door, adjusting his watch and straightening his jewelry. He’s still in his earlier outfit but has thrown on a wool-lined button-up denim jacket and swapped his shoes for chunky-sole ankle boots. His glasses remain, framing his face as a few strands of hair escape his bun.

You creep up behind him, aligning yourself in the reflection. “Hey.”

His gaze lifts to meet yours in the mirror, and a faint flush rises to his cheeks. “Hey.”

You let out a low whistle. “Damn, you clean up well.”

He turns, draping an arm over your shoulders, pulling you in. Your palm finds his chest, and in the mirror’s reflection, you can’t deny—you two look good together.

“You make me look even better,” he murmurs, his arm snaking around your waist. “You look beautiful.”

A car horn honks outside, breaking the moment. Getou steps back, extending a hand, and you take it. He even opens the door for you, effortlessly slipping into the role of a gentleman.

During the ride, he chats idly, reminiscing about growing up on the outskirts of the city. He tells you about the sprawling fields that once existed before modernization, where he and the local kids played streetball. You tease him for having firsthand historical knowledge of the ‘90s, earning an eye roll in return.

At the bar, the crowd is thick, the air electric. Getou’s firm hand guides you through, settling at the small of your back. At the bar, he orders your drinks.

“So handsome…,” you say, swirling your glass before taking a sip, “what brings you out tonight?”

Getou smirks, playing along. “Finally got a night away from the kids. I’m a father, by the way.”

“Oh?” You eye him appreciatively, slow and deliberate. “You ever heard of the term DILF before?”

He chuckles, amusement glinting in his eyes as he downs half his drink. “Oh, how forward of you. Would you personally apply that term to me, or…?”

You grin, raising your glass. “Let’s save the pillow talk for later. Tell me more about yourself—steady job, good income, solid principles, family values?”

Getou swirls his drink lazily before topping it off with a fresh pour. The gleam of his silver watch catches the light. “I sit on the board of a local non-profit, invest in my 401K, indulge in questionable activities in moderation, and put family above all else.”

Your eyebrows lift, surprised by the thorough answer. He clinks his glass against yours, eyes flickering with curiosity. “And you?”

You down the rest of your drink, holding his gaze. Then, licking your lips, you lean in slightly.

“Oh, me?” You twirl a strand of hair around your finger. “I’m a daycare teacher and tutor, planning to start grad school after I get my promotion. I splurge irresponsibly with my best friend on weekends, but I’m generally kind-hearted. I want a family of my own someday.”

Getou hums appreciatively. “Sounds like you’re exactly what I’m looking for in a partner—smart, nurturing, ambitious, outgoing, and devoted.” He flags down the bartender, already ordering another round before turning back to you with a smirk. “I imagine we’ll get along well.”

Two drinks deep, and you’re debating your go-to orders—his, a neat Scotch, yours, a lemon drop martini.

Three drinks in, and you’re bickering about how absolutely repulsive the other’s choice is.

Four drinks in, and the embarrassing stories spill out like the liquor in your glasses. He’s telling you about the time he pranked Gojo so convincingly at a KFC that it led to an all-out meltdown, ultimately getting them banned from every location nationwide. You counter with a tale of your early days at work, when a particularly unruly kid kicked you in the crotch and bolted, leaving you to chase him around the parking lot in a frenzy.

Five drinks in, and you’re both breathless with laughter, wheezing about how absurd Gojo looked in that ridiculous costume—how he is probably chafing from its unnatural tightness.

Six drinks in, and you’re tugging Getou onto the dance floor, the bass rattling through the floorboards as you pull him close, fingers trailing down his torso before turning to grind back against him. His hands find your hips, strong and steady, guiding you in rhythm, his hot breath fanning across your ear.

Six drinks and two shots of D’Usse in, and you’re clawing at his jacket, trying to shrug it off his shoulders while he palms your ass through your skirt, drawing the ire of surrounding patrons.

“Say, we get outta here,” he murmurs, voice husky.

“Mmm, yeah, but where?”

He pulls back just enough to glance around, trying to shake the intoxicating pull of your scent. Then, his gaze lands on the neon sign above the exit.

“Oh, shit.” He chuckles, already tugging you toward the door. “This bar’s connected to a hotel… Limitless Hotel.”

The realization dawns sluggishly, but in sync. “Gojo.”

You both scoff, but Getou doesn’t dwell. He’s already handing his black card to the receptionist, sliding across a generous tip before guiding you to the elevator. The doors shut, and just as you sneak a hand beneath the hem of his shirt, fingertips grazing warm skin, he stills, regaining his composure. Instead of pulling you closer, he just looks down, offering you that saccharine smile—sweet, soft, disarming.

The most contact he allows is the gentle squeeze of your hand as he leads you down the hallway. The key card beeps, the door unlocks, and the moment you step inside, Getou turns to you, effortlessly lifting you by your thighs. You instinctively wrap your legs around his waist as he walks backward into the room, lips finding the damp skin of your neck. He licks, sucks, nips his way down to your collarbone, groaning like he’s savoring something divine.

He stumbles near the closet, and you tumble onto the mattress with a breathless yelp, your hair catching uncomfortably beneath you. You cling to his neck, trying to ease the tension, and he gazes down at you, his violet eyes suddenly sharp despite the haze of alcohol.

“You okay, baby?”

“Mhm.” You cradle his face, his cheeks flushed, lips tinged red, pupils blown wide. You sigh, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone. “S’pretty Sugu… kiss?”

Getou gets the message, dipping down to capture your lips in a slow, consuming kiss. His strong arms cage you in as his tongue teases yours, urging your mouth open further. You moan into it, gripping his shoulders as he presses closer, the heat between you mounting with every stolen breath.

Your shirt is barely clinging to your frame, skirt bunched high around your hips, and Getou takes full advantage, trailing kisses down your chest, tugging your bra aside to flick his tongue over a peaked nipple. The sensation sends sparks through your body, and he groans, biting gently as his eyes flick up to gauge your reaction.

You arch beneath him, desperate for more, hands fisting in his hair. The loose bun unravels, his dark strands cascading around you like a curtain, his scent enveloping you completely.

You whimper, shifting beneath him, seeking friction. “Su-gu-ru…”

He bites at your earlobe, his voice a breathy whisper, “Tell me what you need, baby. Talk to me.”

“Need you,” you gasp, hips canting up in frustration. “More—please.”

His weight presses against you, his clothed length dragging over your damp panties, and you keen at the friction.

“Like this?” he teases, grinding slow, deliberate.

You moan, rolling your hips to meet his. “Yes—yes, Sugu. Feels so good.”

The taste of alcohol lingers on your tongue, but it’s overshadowed by Getou, his kisses devouring, claiming. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, and he groans, shuddering against you.

His hands roam, tracing down your torso, teasing over your navel. Your fingers wander in turn, slipping beneath his shirt, nails dragging over the taut muscles of his back, feeling them ripple as he moves.

Your hands drift lower, mapping the firm planes of his chest until your fingers catch on the cold metal of his barbell piercings. You flick them, drawing a sharp inhale from him. And then you see it—the tattoo you’ve admired from afar, the coiled tail of a dragon peeking from the jut of his hip.

He chuckles, low and rough, nuzzling into your neck. “What do you want, baby? Tell me.”

You swallow hard, heart hammering. “Need you—now.”

His smirk is sinful. “Yeah? Here, you’ve been so good for me.”

He shoves his pants lower, and you shiver as his hands skim your thighs, pushing your skirt down and off entirely.

“Be a good girl,” he murmurs, kissing you slow, teasing. “Take me out of my boxers.”

Getou straightens up, towering over you like a Greek god—sculpted physique gleaming under the dim light, skin slick with perspiration and arousal. Your breath hitches as you curl your fingertips around the waistband of his black boxers, carefully pulling them down, revealing the end of his happy trail and the thick, pulsing length of his cock straining beneath the fabric.

You free him from the confines, wrapping your fingers around his girth. He twitches in your grasp, a sharp inhale hissing through his teeth.

“Just like that, baby,” Getou murmurs, leaning over to flick his tongue over a sensitive nipple. Your mewl is music to his ears.

He lets you stroke him a few times, a bead of precum glistening at his tip as you lick your lips. But before you can indulge further, he captures your wrist, his other hand slipping beneath the damp fabric of your panties, pressing a teasing stroke over your clit.

A violent jolt racks your body. Your hips twitch, desperate for more, but all you can manage is an incoherent plea, breathy and urgent.

Getou chuckles, the sound dark, almost cruel. “Shh, shh. I got you. Daddy’s got you.”

He slips a finger inside you, and the moan you release is downright filthy. The slick glide allows him to press a second digit in beside the first with ease, stretching you open with deliberate, lazy pumps. His knuckles brush against you, curling upward with intent, watching your every reaction.

Your eyes flutter back, mouth parted, and you think you might be drooling. Getou licks at your chin, smirking. “Hey. Eyes up here.”

You barely manage to meet his gaze, his irises eclipsed by lust-darkened pupils. He leans in, your panting breaths mingling, and you press your lips to his, tasting him, losing yourself in the heat of his mouth.

“Fuck, baby,” he growls, his voice like gravel and honey. “You just tightened up—mmh, you like it when I look at you?”

“Yes, Sugu,” you gasp, teetering on the edge of madness. “Please, I’m gonna die if you don’t fuck me soon.”

The words are only half-teasing; the ache inside you is unbearable, the need to be filled leaving your eyes pricking with unshed tears. Getou’s expression softens for only a moment before he kisses the corner of your eyes, his thumbs swiping tenderly over your cheekbones.

Then, without warning, he hikes your legs over his shoulders, dragging your panties aside. The swollen head of his cock nudges against your slick clit, the slight friction sending a white-hot surge through your nerves. He watches the way you shudder beneath him, reveling in your sensitivity.

“You want it?” he asks, lining himself up, teasing your entrance.

You whimper, wiggling your hips, desperate to catch him inside. The wetness pooling between your thighs makes it effortless, yet he stills his movements, smirking down at you.

“Go ahead, baby,” he urges, voice thick. “Fuck yourself on my cock.”

He pushes in just enough for his tip to breach your entrance, the stretch immediate, electric. You sink down onto him, trying to take more, but it’s too much—too thick, not deep enough. Your walls clench greedily, but you can’t fit him in entirely on your own.

You look up at Getou, his lip caught between his teeth, veins prominent along his throat and forearms. A single tear escapes the corner of your eye, sliding down your cheek as you whisper, broken and pleading:

“Fuck me.”

Getou exhales sharply, dragging your panties off, your slick stretching between the fabric and your core. He balls them up, stuffing them into his pocket. You open your mouth to question it, but before you can, he grabs your ankles, pulling you to the edge of the bed.

With one deliberate thrust, he buries himself to the hilt.

A choked cry escapes your lips, his name mangled on your tongue. He sets a ruthless pace, each stroke angled perfectly to find the spot inside you that has you keening.

Your head falls back, eyes glassy, body trembling as pleasure builds in your core. Getou watches you come undone beneath him, kissing and biting at your thighs as he keeps driving into you.

“Gripping me so tight, baby,” he groans, voice raw with need. “So fucking wet—do you want to cum for me?”

You nod frantically, words failing you.

Getou chuckles darkly. “Can’t understand you, sweetheart. Try again.”

You suck in a shaky breath, but he thrusts particularly deep, stealing it away before you can respond. Your body quivers violently, pleasure teetering on the edge of oblivion.

“Yes, Sugu—yes! Please, I need—”

“Better,” he huffs. He withdraws, just long enough to shift his position, slotting himself between your legs, guiding your hands behind his neck. You instinctively wrap yourself around him, pulling him deeper as he fills you completely.

The pressure is dizzying. His hand presses against your lower stomach, and you keen, feeling him so impossibly deep inside you.

“S-so big—fuck—so deep, Sugu, s’good.”

He kisses your cheek, resuming his brutal pace, the wet sounds of your coupling only adding to the sinful bliss. He reaches between you, circling your clit with practiced precision, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

You choke on a sob, pleasure consuming you. “Sugu—c-coming—”

His nose brushes against yours, his lips hovering just over your own as he coaxes you further. He licks along your cupid’s bow, voice a whispered command:

“Come for me.”

The dam bursts.

A violent wave of ecstasy crashes over you, leaving you gasping, body convulsing around him. Your walls flutter and squeeze, a gush of arousal soaking his cock, dripping down to his balls.

“Fuck, baby,” he grits out, fucking you through the aftershocks. “Just like that.”

He doesn’t stop, dragging out your pleasure until it’s unbearable. Another orgasm crashes over you before you even have time to recover, leaving you sobbing his name.

Getou groans, his body tensing. “Fuck—‘m close—”

You know what will push him over the edge.

“Come inside me,” you beg, voice wrecked. “Fill me up—Su-gu-ru.”

A broken moan falls from your lips as Getou thrusts deep, his release spilling into you, hot and thick. His pace stutters, but he doesn’t stop, fucking his cum into you, his hips rolling lazily as your walls pulse. The slick, creamy mess coats his base, dripping from your swollen cunt.

You tug him closer, pulling him into a messy, breathless kiss—your tongues sliding together, lips slotting against each other with desperate need. It’s intoxicating, dizzying, and you only pull away when the edges of your vision blur, the threat of passing out looming.

You blink up at him, mind hazy, body wrecked and thrumming with the aftershocks of your orgasm. Your voice comes out shaky, barely more than a whisper.

“Fuck.”

Getou chuckles, the sound low and breathless, his chest rising and falling against yours. A bead of sweat rolls down his neck, disappearing into the dip of his collarbone.

“Fuck is right,” he murmurs, voice tinged with amusement.

His gaze softens when you nuzzle against him, your cheek pressing against his damp skin. The fatigue creeps in—drunken, drowsy, and thoroughly ruined, your limbs feel too heavy to move.

His lips brush your temple. “You okay, baby? Didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You shake your head against him, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. “Nah, you’re perfect.”

He hums, fingers tracing absentminded circles against your back. Then, he shifts, trying to sit up—but the moment he moves, you tighten your arms around his neck, pulling him back down with a stubborn whine.

“Need to clean us up,” he says, voice gentle. “Won’t take long.”

You pout, clinging to him like a lifeline, your fingers wringing around his nape, refusing to let go.

He exhales, surrendering. “Alright, alright. Later?”

Your smile presses into the crook of his neck, the warmth of his touch soothing as his hand glides along your spine, up to scratch at your scalp in slow, languid motions.

“Later.”

𓂃۶ৎ

One thing you hate about your job is how it conditions your body to wake up at ungodly hours. In theory, it’s practical—what responsible adult wouldn’t want an early start to their day? But when you’re still reeling from a brutal hangover, desperately craving more sleep, and your body betrays you by jolting awake at the crack of dawn, it feels like pure, unadulterated torture.

You groan, rolling over in an attempt to force yourself back under, but sleep refuses to claim you again. After tossing and turning until frustration wins out, you surrender and drag yourself toward the kitchen, deciding a glass of water might help reset your system.

Hydration is key, after all, and judging by the desert-dry state of your throat, it’s safe to say you neglected it for the last forty-eight hours. Understandable, given how you’d spent the night before last.

The memory hits you out of nowhere—Getou Suguru, your devastatingly attractive neighbor, buried deep inside you, his face tight with concentration, his lips parted, breathless, still so effortlessly beautiful.

Your thighs squeeze together instinctively. It’s been happening often, these flashes of him in the most compromising positions. You just hope it isn’t obvious.

The cool air from the fridge is a relief against your overheated skin. For a fleeting moment, you consider drinking straight from the jug but decide to cling to the last shred of your dignity and pour it into a glass instead. Still groggy, you make your way to the couch, your sleep shorts riding up with every sluggish step, the strap of your bralette twisted uncomfortably.

Then—movement.

From the corner of your eye, just outside your window, something shifts. Old habits die hard, and before you can think better of it, you tiptoe closer, peeking through the curtain just enough to get a view. You expect to see the usual—Getou up early, like always. You recently learned that he wakes at the crack of dawn to make breakfast for the girls every day—a habit formed from years of going without, back when his family couldn’t afford the luxury of a morning meal.

You do see Getou.

He’s on his bed, legs stretched out, and he’s touching himself.

Your breath stutters in your throat.

His cock is flushed and straining in his hand, thick fingers wrapped around the length as he pumps himself at a lazy pace. You can almost hear the sounds he’s making—the quiet, low groans that would rumble deep in his chest, the sharp inhales as he works himself over. His lips move, forming words you can’t quite make out, but what catches your attention most is the fabric curled around his shaft, moving in time with every stroke.

You squint, trying to get a better look. Then your stomach drops.

Your panties.

Your used panties from the other night. The ones you’d worn throughout the evening, growing wetter and needier with every stolen glance at him, every lingering touch. The lacy pair with the pale pink bow at the center.

Now, they’re tangled along his cock, the waistband stretching with every movement, sticky with precum as he grinds himself against the delicate fabric.

You’re mesmerized. Completely, utterly entranced. You don’t even realize you’ve moved the curtain further, no longer just peeking but openly watching. And then—it happens.

Getou’s dark eyes lock onto yours.

Your stomach flips, but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he slows down, dragging it out, making a show of it. His hips thrust up to meet his tight grip, his jaw tightening as he bites back another moan. He doesn’t waver, doesn’t look away. He just keeps watching you watch him.

Then, still stroking himself, he picks up his phone, tapping the screen a few times before bringing it to his ear.

Your phone vibrates from where you left it on the couch.

A heavy silence stretches between you as you hesitate. Then, slowly, almost mechanically, you reach for it, pressing it to your ear.

The first thing you hear is his moan—gravelly, drawn out, punctuated by a sharp breath. 

Across the way, Getou smirks. He stands, his cock bobbing against his stomach, your panties still tangled around the tip. He lifts a single finger, curling it in a slow beckon.

You swallow hard, pulse hammering in your ears.

And then, his voice, deep and smooth, curling around the words like a promise.

“Come over, pretty girl.”

[My beloved taglist: @mentallyillcore @ourfinalisation @nanasukii28 @tokyolittledelulu @reveursetcrieurs @c0ckdrunkk @inthedarkshadows000 @exelyox @inoluvrr]

+ A/N: Experimenting with my writing style ! Ngl I had to pause multiple times while writing this because DILFtou is just too damn fine !! Also, realized I have daddy issues while writing this smh

[mamawasatesttube]

yknow how sometimes dogs will hunt things and be like look i did so good!!! yayyy i got you this!!! bc theres a comedy story in my mind in which krypto decides he likes kon's friends and wants to give them presents too! and. well.

krypto leaves a dead bird on tim's pillow and tim goes oh shit fuck is this an oblique threat that someone's discovered my identity as one of the bird-themed heroes in gotham? but then why's it a fucked-up looking pigeon and not a robin or a rook (if youre like me and like tim taking on the name rook later)??????? and why is it so mangled and burned what does it mean is this a threat of a specific way someone wants to kill me?!?! who could it have been from?! when did someone even break in and why didn't they trip any of my alarms?!?! fuck i have to cancel my plans with kon and bart later shit i don't even know how i got compromised so i don't dare see either of them in public i don't want to risk them--fuck fuck fuck how did this happen i don't understand and why is it a pigeon and

meanwhile krypto is just like. :3c i did so good i am SUCH a good dog i leave him presents :) yayyy!!! i even cooked it for him. with heat vision! yaaayyy!!

so tim phones up kon like "listen we can't meet up this weekend i'm so sorry i think i've been compromised--" and goes on about how he needs to go on lockdown alert mode until he figures out what happened and who found him out and meanwhile kon's just. go back. the pigeon. describe that again.

tim describes the fucked up mangled burnt pigeon. and kon, who has dealt with his fair share of Superdog Presents and thought they'd come to an understanding about "krypto you can't do that you'll DECIMATE local wildlife" and such, just narrows his eyes. turns to the dog bed next to him. goes ……………………….. krypto.

and krypto's like :) wag wag wag :) yes thats me :) wag wag :) im good dog :) he is SO pleased with himself. thats one mystery solved!

this ends in tim, haunted, sitting at the farmhouse kitchen table while ma frets over him and makes him hot chocolate, kon wraps him in a blanket, krypto licks his feet, and lois is just like. yeah. been there. just be glad it wasn't sea monsters.

[slowd1ving]

hello!! Your fic is so cool and if your request is open, can I request DG x male reader when DG still in his James lee era while reader is the King of Busan

XENIA ゜゜・DG

Xenia, noun: the classical concept of hospitality to strangers. This, unfortunately, includes a wandering dog and his conniving owner—a most irritating, tooth-grinding conundrum the King of Busan has with Charles Choi and his boy-genius. sorry for the wait anon I was away from my laptop for the past week or so! and I couldn't write :'( first meetings and onwards for this particular work haha chicken and egg problem.. haha introspection on business and corruption... haha capitalism pairing: dg (james lee) + male reader warnings: male reader, canon typical violence, arguing (bickering) wc: 3.3k

LOOKISM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

In the lengthy chronicles of Charles Choi’s grand plan—to mould the precarious South Korean underground into something far more profitable—James Lee finally came across his very own cause-and-effect conundrum. 

What came first, the chicken or the egg? Plutarch initially posed this question in The Symposiacs: a symbolic tug of war between creator and creation. James supposed, in his bored sort of way, that this question described the relationship between cities and Kings as well. Chronically, objectively, the cities existed first—tall structures and unique ecosystems that forged shadowy figureheads to rule the violent underbelly. But poetically, it was rather hard to ignore the hands etching—pummeling—a pathway for the power to flourish. Without those in charge, what were the cities? And without the cities, who were the people in charge?

Parsing the matter, it distilled into who influenced whom.

Of course, the dazzling sprawl of Busan refracting from the glass under his feet was no exception. Even he, who satiated his youthful wanderlust with blood on his fists, couldn’t deny his reluctance to sully this city more. But, what did it matter? The second most important city in South Korea (some would froth at the mouth and argue it was the first for its gateway to Eurasian trade, or at least for its world-class ports) was built from perfectly respectable trade; but alack! it was also protected by its snarling underworld. It had already been befouled: polluted by fists no better than his, trodden by legs more filthy than his own. Blood and toil smeared its golden sand, and its money was just as dirty.

 Sure, the city was propped up by honourable (hah) commercial deals, but it was shielded by the illicit ones. 

A defiled aegis, if you would.  

It was clear the current glitzy glamour of Busan night-life was carefully orchestrated by someone: from the specific mouthfeel the night air had, to the businesses that ran late into the witching hours. Those mythical beings and chaebols who fed and extracted money from this place, in endless loops, were culpable for these towering skyscrapers and glittering lights. 

Creators. 

In turn, the city cradled your grimy little body—chubby hands wrapping around index fingers of the metaphorical hounds—and made you. 

Did this metropolis represent you, or did you represent the metropolis?

It was not in a polite setting that James Lee scouted the venerable King of Busan: arguably the second most esteemed figurehead for the Kings of South Korea. In theory. In theory, since Busan’s reputation as a hub for trade and exalted trade (rather than the mere cold, hard cash ill-reputed other cities offered Choi) entwined with your own. Except, in practice, you were a far more reticent King than anyone could imagine. A shadow to fade into obliquity more than any other shadow. 

Underbelly, yes. This was the turf you were most at home in; he could forget all about the glamorous, illegal casinos in basements, he could forget about eavesdropping on business moguls and their lackeys, he could forget about waiting in the entertainment districts for the proverbial snake to finally rear his head. 

You were the fucking microcosm of this city: draped with expensive fabric and chainmailed with gold, but the blood on your knuckles stank of impurity. In a parking lot nestled on the outskirts of Busan, he witnessed the King in his court: complete with the luxury, the opulence, and the hamartia of brutality that came with capitalism. Yes, Busan had minted you as a shadowy side to a glitzy coin—as your eyes snapped to where he lounged against concrete, he couldn’t help but observe how your imaginary hackles raised. 

Thwomp. Casually, you tossed the grunt beaten black-and-blue to the frigid asphalt, with the magnanimity of tossing breadcrumbs to ducks in a pond. Like the lackey was the bread and James fucking Lee himself was the duck. A bloodied cheek squished into his sneaker, but you merely stared at him owl-like. No, cat-like, because it seemed to be the same nonplussed stare a cat would give someone after bringing them a dead rat. 

“Nice city.” Since you clearly had no intention of speaking first. Deftly, his fingers unravelled the mystic plastic of a lollipop: popping the cherry-flavoured candy into his mouth to soothe the acerbic irritation he tasted. “You treat all your guests like this, or do kings not follow xenia anymore?” 

It was a rather futile attempt to lighten the mood. After all, if he could help it, he’d rather negotiate to pave the way for the second generation before resorting to throwing his fist. No, that was a lie. His flexing fingers wanted nothing more than to curl into a fist to let off some of the steam he’d garnered from searching for you in this uselessly big city, but fate had him making stupid jokes based on The Odyssey he’d read just last week for his Classics competition. If he rummaged in his pocket, he could probably find the gold medal clanking against hard sweets. 

Your expression changed minutely—a slight disturbance in your brows. They furrowed, and for a brief moment James Lee thought his joke fell flat. With all the blood soaked into your expensive garb, maybe you just valued fists over Homeric hexameter. Violence over prose. Brawns over brains. You slinked like shadows. Crude. Ominous. He could barely see your face even with the city lights flashing neon in the backdrop, but when your loping gait came to a halt, there was an exasperation that afforded more subtle nuance to your character. A bitterness to tinge what he thought was mindlessness. 

“Mr. Lee.” Your voice curled low in your throat, as quick and elusive as mercury, and perhaps just as poisonous. Shadow King of Busan, the man who never introduced himself to you noticed. Silence was golden, and he suddenly understood why Charles Choi so badly wanted sway over the young King in charge of this port city. “I hope you’re aware that beating my subordinates would invalidate any sort of hospitality between us. You’re no god amongst men either, so ritualistic hospitality is a very weak premise to coerce my amiability with. Try again.”

Deity in the flesh. Perhaps James Lee was the closest thing to breaking the limits of humanity, but all men were fallible. That wasn’t what caused his brow to rise though; going in blind may have been risky, but it was worth it to find someone with a silver tongue like this. 

You looked about his age—treading on the precarious cusp between First and Second Generation, fists stained as red as his hair—but you spoke as if you were triple your years. 

“You wanna transfer to my school? It’d be fun to have you in the Debate Club,” he said on a whim, but it wasn’t really a whim either. His instructions were expressly to negotiate with Busan—the city was far too volatile to create a power vacuum in. For cities like Ansan, struggle was welcomed; but Charles Choi had too little of everything to contend with Busan, of all places. Just like in Seoul, the situation would resolve itself, and it was far too soon for the HNH Group to meddle in a place like this. “You talk like a teacher.”

His tone was as syrupy as his candy, but there was half-provocation, half-probing-curiosity entrenched in his cadence. Go on, it coaxed, throw a punch. Argue back. Unorthodox was his means of securing cooperation, but he’d have to be a little unorthodox to secure the deal old man Choi had painstakingly written out. A contract between Elite and the capricious man before him, between HNH Group and the microcosm of Busan himself; it sounded like every capitalist’s wet dream. 

“Good question, kid,” you smiled, but it was less of a smile and more of a sneer as you ghosted closer to him. Kid, like you weren’t one yourself. 

Crack. You stepped, heavy, on the hand of the man you’d pummelled—only his unconscious groan of pain re-alerted James to his existence. “The term isn’t over. You should still be in school. Playing around like this makes me far less likely to listen to whatever you’ve followed me for. Try again.”

The thick scent of metal invaded his personal space as you peeled your black gloves off; the rings beneath them were tinted with the blood that had seeped through the material. Just like that, you callously tossed the garment onto the slumbering man under your feet—though he truly wasn’t sure whether it was a final affront to a beaten man or throwing down the gauntlet towards James Lee himself. 

It was a reminder, once again, to not be hasty. There was the real possibility of fucking Charles Choi several times over if he didn’t get this right, but the thought of his imminent doom didn’t seem all too unappealing. On the contrary, he found his heart beating faster—pulse hot on his tongue as an intriguing challenge presented itself before him. 

“I’m sure your informants have relayed more intel than just my name,” he mirrored the jagged stretch of your lips. The Legend of the First Generation. The Genius. The original, associated with the base moniker of the Ten Geniuses to show just how unparalleled James fucking Lee was. “Take a guess as to how my scholastic life is going, then consider the opportunity that I’m bringing you.”

Ambiguous. His words were dusted with just enough information to seem straight to the point, but vague enough that it was tantalising. A hook to ensnare the snake of Busan himself. And rather than sating the itch in his fists, he found himself looking forward to a parley instead. 

You studied him, appearing to consider his words seriously. Syllables phrased like he was the one with the upper hand, when in fact the HNH group was still tentatively unfurling and in the process of negotiations with both yakuza and Triad alike. He awaited your favourable response, hearing the stats roll into your mind as you calculated the preliminary gains and losses to joining hands with Charles Choi. 

Bloodied fingers tapped a rhythm into your jacket absentmindedly. He watched, anticipating your invitation. 

“Fuck off.”

“Huh?” he spluttered. Maybe he misheard you. Maybe he finally choked on his candy and induced a coma in which he was now dreaming of your response. 

“Your boss sent a high-schooler to broker a deal with Busan.” Your fingers now drummed in irritation against your forearm, but he was just as irritated. He took care of every other prefecture and province, only to have this guy who was his age, nonetheless, tell him his presence wasn’t good enough. Like, what? “Tell old Choi to come himself to negotiate if he wants any sort of foothold in my city. If he truly wanted a respectable contract, why would he send you as a messenger?”

“Excuse me?” If he wasn’t restricted from fighting you—the only exception was valid self-defence—he would’ve made the asshole in front of him eat shit. Alas, Choi wasn’t that generous or lenient. “He sent one of the Ten Geniuses, the primero, for this. I’m one of his greatest assets.”

“Are you a damn car or a person?” you snapped, and it suddenly felt as though he was looking upon an ancient wizard as he lectured a troublemaker outside his tower. His eyelid twitched, and he was finding it quite hard to keep a cool head. “Talking about assets… can’t believe Choi’s sent the guy who’s fucked up all the smaller provinces to deal with us.”

The latter sentence was more grumbled to yourself; it appeared he annoyed you just as much as you annoyed him, which he found a delighted satisfaction in. 

“Tell Elite to come himself,” you uttered finally, not even letting him get in a word edgeways as you ambled back into the shadows—not even sparing a glance for the pile of bodies left in your wake. 

And despite his objective, despite the imminent yelling he’d no doubt face, he couldn’t help but stare at your blood-soaked coat fluttering in the frigid coastal wind. 

Out of hatred, obviously. 

・゜゜・

Charles Choi was a conniving bastard. You already knew it, but seeing him in the reception hall really drove the image home. He was polite, a little too polite; yet as soon as you slid that manila folder across the mahogany table, his demeanour prickled into something knife-like. 

Snake of Busan, you were nicknamed, but this guy was something else entirely. Once he sank his teeth into your determination to keep Busan flourishing, you could practically see his pupils contract into thin slits. Of course you’d dealt with tricky deals. Weaving through negotiation as though it were a riptide was how you clawed your way to the very depth of Busan’s underworld—navigating until you finally found that crown mired in cess. 

Or, more accurately, it was Miss Crystal Choi who’d pierced her venom right where it hurt. A Genius of Business, her father had called her—and boy, did it take all your wit to match her expertise in trade. 

But did he really have to bring that guy along?

The scion of the Geniuses was also in your office, leaning against the wall far behind Elite and his daughter. And though nobody asked for his input—not even old Choi spared his prodigy a glance—it still irritated you to no end that he’d tagged along. A bright, cheerful grin cast the sun against the city nightlife on the top floor of your building—one directed right at you, considering the only other two people he knew had their backs facing him. Quite the foolish move, but you weren’t one to concern yourself with people who were basically daylight robbing you. If the dog they’d raised bit them, all the better.

Or maybe he was beaming right at your bodyguard-turned-assistant, who stood discreetly in the shadows of the blinds: slatted light gently cresting over his tall build. Well. It certainly was one of the less strange things Mr Lee had done.  

Still, for someone who’d been glaring at you just a week ago, the change felt far too eerie to ignore. 

“—and onto the temporary personnel exchange section—” A feeble attempt to pry open the walnut that Busan was, which would only end with the unfortunate bastard failing. You’d choose a loyal subordinate, they’d select someone who was doomed to only grunt work—far from the impenetrable fortress of this building. Boredly, you tapped the pen on the contract, before freezing up at Miss Choi’s next words. “—we’d like to recommend James Lee to transfer to this office.” 

A pen snapped, and ink spilled onto the page. Dumbfounded, you barely registered her sliding over a fresh sheet, as though she knew full well this would happen. 

No, it was no recommendation. Her very mention of his name was a forceful shove of him into your office. No wonder he was grinning like the devil. No wonder he was here in the first place. At that moment, you wanted nothing more than to leave Busan behind. 

Your eye twitched. 

He kept smiling—an ominous prelude to the brimstone and fire you were sure to experience promptly.  

・゜゜・

“Aren’t I a better bodyguard than that useless one you keep around?” 

James Lee had been a bit too quiet these past few days; duly loping around behind the lower-ranked subordinates as they made their rounds, never crossing the proverbial line when you’d handed him his duties as interim grunt. Though, whenever you passed him, his eyes followed the shadows of your fluttering hem—two pinpricks of an arid glare sweeping on your back. 

But James Lee was a dog, and whatever command Elite gave him, he’d obey. Heel. Roll over. Serve under the King of Busan for a month. A jester, if you would, with a leash around his neck that kept drawing more and more blood from him. What were the limits? Just how far would he go for the man with a crimson shadow?

“No,” you said. He stood, far too proud, on a summit of lackeys that had been sent your way by one of the companies who’d attempted to cheat their way to getting a more favourable deal. It would’ve been a simple ambush—one doomed to fail—fated to end with you tossing blood-soaked gloves right on them before you postponed the meeting you were on your way to. 

But not today. It appeared the limit of the dog of Elite was passing up petty competition with the man two paces behind you.

“Unlike you, Song’s actually pleasant to listen to.” Yes, Song wasn’t the most useful of bodyguards point-blank, but it wasn’t like you particularly needed someone to take care of protecting you. He made people lower their guards. And he made a mean cup of tea. “I don’t have any use for you, so you’re still worse.”

“Semantics,” he shrugged. “I made your life much easier, did I not?”

He was smart. Too smart, but you already knew that from the intel that had not yet been erased. Hushed up, because of course Elite would painstakingly conceal his cards. 

And unfortunately, you were always drawn to a risky hand. A pleasure far removed from the mundane violence of your everyday life—a heart-pounding thrill of betting all your chips in a hazardous (though not desperate) gamble. 

“Maybe.” For it was one day removed from the multitudes of late meetings and burdensome glove changes. Your hands weren’t seeped in oily red, sliding and dripping onto your expensive clothes that were tailored—though still felt so fucking ill-fitting that it made you sick—right to your body. 

You considered the man toeing carefully past the dogpile located against a cargo container: donning what could’ve been your life. A beige school uniform, pinkie slightly indented from books and study, pen marks still dotting his fingers. Closer. He ambled lazily to your direction, and as he approached with the dying sun behind him, you could see his smile. Just as languid as the day you first met him, and just as irritating. 

Closer. Strawberry candy laced the iron odour, though you could faintly taste lemon in the profile too—testament to the yellow wrapper stuck crudely on one of the men. Closer—he was far too close now, standing chest to chest while he stared directly at you. 

If there was one thing that came from this ill-fated encounter, it was probably the permanent furrowed brows that decorated your perplexed face—the bloodhound had been reduced to this fluffy thing demanding your attention. 

And it was just as unfortunate that your impression had been chipped away for him too—a King whose expressions were utterly delightful to witness. A straight mouth, grinning ever-so-slightly when a deal went your way. A routine rhythm to your biro tapping your notepad. Eyes that shone with practical constellations as you breathed the briny air of the port in. 

A particularity to the way you treated others, steely to the strong, awkward with the weak. So utterly flustered, when it came to tiny kids tugging on your long coat, or the grandmas you lent your arm to on the streets. If he had to compare it, he’d attribute your personality as a non-Newtonian fluid: your very own mix of cornstarch and water. Tough with pressure, all soft without. 

Like now. 

“Come on,” he whined. Psychologically, he was doing a damn good impression of pitifulness—even if you’d just witnessed him commit a beatdown so one-sided that you could feel the second-hand pain. And little by little, he was watching you falter: breath caught in his throat as he watched your brows default to their furrow once more. “I saved you a good few minutes, didn’t I? Don’t tell me Busan can’t even acknowledge hard work and effort.”

“Fine, whatever,” you crumbled just like that, under the heavy weight of his triumphant eyes. “Good job.”

So cute, he thought, then froze almost immediately the moment the words came to mind.

Fuck. 

・゜゜・

[scarybabe]

Thank you so much for being open about your strong fat journey!! It looks amazing on you!!

Would you be open to sharing a sample week workout write up, or some other reference tips to create a routine? As a fellow gainer girl it would be great to have a reference that works for my body type, and I love your results!

Forgive me if you’ve already shared this, or stated that you don’t want to (if that’s the case just delete the ask)

You’re a wonderful voice in the community, thank you so much for doing all you do!!

Ahh thank you!! I do have a weightlifting coach, she makes my workout plans every day but I can share my nutrition plans + my usual mobility stretches - this makes a huge difference since I was starting from being a couch potato 💕

Nutrition- 3 meals with at least 30-40g of protein each meal and minimum 2,700 calories but more is good! I like the chocolate mutant mass protein powder and put unflavored collagen peptides in everything. At least 100oz of water every day

Mobility stretches (look these up) - 12 reps of Cat Cow, Superman Arm Sweeps. 10 reps of Dynamic Thread the Needle (on each side), Kneeling Hip CARS (each side), 90/90 Hip Shifts ** my mobility stretches change slightly depending on what area I’m working out

At the gym - 4 x 6-10 reps deadlift on smith machine, 3 x 6-12 dumbbell hammer curls, 3 x 8-12 dumbbell Romanian deadlifts (RDLs), 3 x 6-12 cable machine lat pulldown, 2 x 15 each side mini band standing glute hyperextension (one foot on a riser while the other leg extends), 2 x 20 hip abductions (usually there’s a machine for these)

If you’re new to lifting the first number is the number of sets - take a minute to rest between sets or even a bit longer if needed. Second number is the range of reps you do. When researching these I would look up the right tempo for eccentric/concentric muscle contractions because that can really maximize the efficacy. I usually do a practice set with as little weight as possible before the actual set of each new exercise to make sure my form is good, bad form can cause sprains, imbalances or soreness.

I finish my weightlifting with some cooldown stretches - today it’s 60 secof wide leg oblique stretching, 60 sec childs pose lat stretch, 60 sec prone cross over leg glute stretch

~~~~~

Monday - Friday I rotate through different muscle groups so I just shared my Monday routine (pull day!) and my coach tailors it to my personal goals as well. There’s a lot of good weightlifting programs online for free! I don’t do an ounce of cardio either, only strength training.

Thank you for your kind words, I hope this sparks interest in anyone else who may wanna try getting strong. I have a membership to a cheap 24/7 local gym because when I first started I was kinda shy to be watched as I figured out my form and all that 🤣 places like that are good for beginners

[pastlivesxpastlie]

show me what you do

18+ MDNI pleasure dom!vessel x short!sub!fem!reader established relationship - dom/sub dynamic - praise kink - body worship - vessel's hand on your throat - "bunny" and "pet" as submissive pet names - "Sir" - handjob -nipple play (both receiving yippee yippeee yippeee) - his cum as lube - fingering - teasing - overstimulation kink - dacryphilia (crying kink) - teasing - Vessel encourages you to cum over and over - vaginal intercourse tag list (lmk if you want to be added): @lifemod17 @glitterghost @inv3ga @adenobabe @jeriiicho @milk--bones @myaudiocommentary @horsebiologist @intake-of-breath @fruitsandcheese @0hg00dgirl @goosepond69 @friendly-neighborhood-ghoul @lynzeequitlollygagging @thatxxjiyong-ssi @cloudy-soul @daddysaidbringthethunder @evisnotok @cheomain @chaosandchaos @sage-m-sepia @dreamer-lost-in-wonderland

You can feel him. He’s not touching you, but you know he’s in the room. 

“Come here, bunny.”

You look over your shoulder and there he is. Vessel. Just barely obscured by the shadows in the bedroom. You turn slowly on your heels and walk up to him. 

“Have to crane your neck so much to look up at me, hmm?” His hands reach around and rub your back, down your shoulder blades just like you like. “Look at that pretty smile…”

“Thank you, Sir.” Your cheeks warm and you curl into him more. Making yourself smaller. Safer. More snug.

“Hmmm that’s such a good bunny. You know what mood I’m in…you know just how to act.” He boops your nose softly. “Pretty baby. Want to do something with me?” You nod up at him, your little face all eager. Vessel gently moves your hair behind your ear and then wraps his hand around your throat. Not to constrict, but to ground you. To center your little mind on him and what he’s going to do to you. What he’ll make you feel. It’s all a little fuzzy, but you know he’s gently rubbing your pulse point, and that you feel a little throb deep inside you. “Such a good girl. Letting go, hm? Sinking down into that little subspace for me?”

You nod dumbly, eyes glassy and bottom lip squeezed between your teeth. A dopey smile tugs at your lips as Vessel lets out a deep chuckle. “Can I play? Please,” you ask quietly, a little whimper coming out at the end.

“Oh…you want to play? You don’t want me to play with you tonight, love?” His grip tightens just a bit on your neck. “Want to make me feel good, do you? How do you plan to do that?”

“Sir just let me–“

He stops you and pulls you close. “Sshhh shh shh shh,” he rasps against your temple. He breathes against your ear like a predator. “Use your words, pet,” he whispers. 

“I…I just…” your breath trembles as Vessel starts to kiss down your neck. “I want to touch you…please…”

“But sweetheart…you’re touching me right now,” he teases.

Finally you get your way. After he undresses you, and you’re made to watch him undress himself so…so very slowly, Ves allows you to curl up beside him on your shared bed. When your bodies press together, your breath shudders. “Thank you, Sir…” your frantic little kisses on his neck make him purr as you try to keep talking, but you’re too caught up in the moment. How perfect your bodies slot together despite how tall he is compared to you. But when you lie together, it doesn’t matter. Your hands delicately trace the peaks and valleys of his torso; the dip of his sternum, the ridges of his abs, the long, tempting line of his obliques. How was he real? How was he yours? He breathes heavily under your touch, maintaining his control by pinching your nipples and talking dirty to you.

“So easily pleased. Look how your hips are moving, love,” he whispers, referencing how you’ve clenched your thighs together and started grinding against nothing. “I don’t even know how you handle getting fucked, sweet girl. You’re too tender.”

“Mmm,” you whine, “no, Sir, I can take it, you know I can.” Vessel forcefully moves your hand as kiss down to his chest. The feeling of his twitching cock in your hand makes you moan as your tongue greedily licks at his sensitive nipple. 

“Fffffuck. Mm no, pet, you haven’t proven to me right now that you can take it.” He teases through his own groans. You love and hate that about him. You’ve broken him before but so many times he’s calm and collected while domming you even though his own brain is turning to mush. You only know because he told you so. “Mmm you’re probably about to cum just from this…”

You whine against his nipple and look up at him pathetically. He knows what he does to you. Vessel strokes your hair and bites at his lip. He’s slipping just the tiniest bit. Wanting to be your equal. Your boyfriend again. But you both want to keep playing. “Sir…May I make you cum? Please? Pleeeease?”

Vessel moves your hand away and takes over. “Let me look at you. Lay back.” 

You do as you’re told, panting softly as Vessel positions himself between your legs. “Are…are you going to fuck me, Sir?”

“Heh…” Vessel huffs like an animal rutting against his mate. You cry out as the head of his cock presses hard against your clit. He moves his hips like he would when he fucks you but it’s only to tease you. “No.” 

With his free hand he grasps at your breast, letting his thumb rub frantic little swipes at your nipple. You moan and buck wildly against his cock, your own climax building. He swipes the head to your slick opening for a split second, sending a shockwave through you, but no orgasm. The warmth of Vessel’s cum coats and runs down your folds. He backs up, holding your thighs open and out. 

“Perfect. You…look…perfect, my little doll. You’re just going to keep lying back and looking pretty, aren’t you?”

Your hands knead at your heaving chest, your cheeks hot. “Yes, Sir.”

Vessel hums contently as he lets his index and middle finger trace from around your clit down to your hole. “Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous,” he whispers, shaking his head. He taps your tummy with a bit of a slap. “Look at me.” When your eyes meet, he takes his fingers into his mouth. His breath hitches as he sucks the remnants of your arousal and his cum off his finger tips. You moan at the sight. “You had your fun, little love.” Looking you dead in the eye, Vessel plunges his fingers inside you and immediately starts working your tender little spot. With your leg hiked in the air against his chest, your orgasm drags you under immediately. “There she is…there’s my good girl,” Vessel coos. He slows down only for a second, caressing your thigh and leaving little kisses on your ankle. “So responsive, hmm? You know who’s touching you, don’t you, sweetheart?”

As he praises you he adds a third finger to press against your g-spot again. Your walls clench against his fingers in a way that must be painful, but you wouldn’t know because Vessel looks at you with a heartbreaking softness. 

“I know…I know it feels good.” His free hand moves to press his thumb against your clit. 

“Ves….FUCK…FUUUCK!”

“Mmm thought you were being my good bunny. Who’s making you cum?” You can’t tell if you’re cumming a third time or just experiencing aftershocks from be second. “Hmm? Who’s doing this to you?”

“Y-y-you, Sir.” You swear you could rip a hole in the sheets from your grip. Vessel smiles at you and plants tiny kisses on your ankle and heel again as he chuckles softly. 

“Such a perfect bunny for you…obedient…eager…” you feel a familiar weight against your inner thigh as Vessel moves his hips softly. “Do you feel that, pet? Hmm? Got me hard again…just from laying there like a good little toy. You’re Sir’s good girl, aren’t you?”

Tears sting at your eyes as you agree with a little whine and the fullness of Ves’s spidery fingers leave your pussy and are replaced with his cock. He leans forward and wraps his arms under you. 

“Let me hold you like the precious angel you are.”

The dynamic is broken. The minute your lips meet it’s you and him. He breaks. He’s a whimpering, groaning mess as he clings to and ruts into you. When he cums, his whole body shudders against you. You’re both overstimulated. As Vessel pulls out, you wipe a little tear from his cheek. You both are a splotchy little cry babies right now, but you’re in heaven.

[xhxhxhx]

I Feel Like I Win When I Lose

On April 6, 1974, ABBA won the Eurovision Song Contest with "Waterloo." The song transformed Napoleon's last defeat into a metaphor for surrender.

It's paradoxical. But perhaps it was exactly right. In surrender, ABBA found a vision for a Europe that had found union in defeat.

I.

Before he met his destiny, Napoleon developed his own vision of European unity.

Napoleon's Continental System envisioned a Europe unified through its insulation from British trade. But for Napoleon, the System was always an exercise in command and control.

In his Berlin Decree of November 21, 1806, Napoleon declared Britain under a state of blockade. All commerce with Britain was prohibited. All British goods were to be seized.

The System would unite Europe through the force of that command. It was a vision of a Europe bound by imperial will, through a decree “[f]rom our Imperial Camp at Berlin.”

In two more decrees, issued November 23 and December 17, 1807, the Emperor expanded the regime into a system inspections, confiscations, and certificates of origin.

The last decree the Emperor handed to his foreign minister, with instructions to carry it to the Netherlands, Spain, and Denmark, so these nominal sovereigns could execute it as written.

II.

Napoleon was defeated at Waterloo. His System had been defeated long before that.

At Tilsit in July 1807, Napoleon secured the consent of his Russian counterpart, Alexander, to a blockade on Britain. But unlike the little princes, Alexander did not take commands from Napoleon.

Russian public participation in Napoleon’s System was more oblique. No term on British trade entered the Russian treaty. Under its terms, Russia agreed to mediate a peace between France and Britain, 8 G. Martens 2d 640, but its only reference to commerce was Russia’s commerce with France and its clients, which it restored. Id. at 642.

Not even the separate, secret treaty of alliance commit Russia to the System. It only committed Russia to make war on Britain if Britain rejected Russian mediation, or declined to make peace on French terms. 13 F. Martens 323. In that case, Russia would be obliged to close its ports to British trade. Id. at 324. Not otherwise.

Tilsit reflects the illusions of its moment. Napoleon had seen only what he wanted to in Alexander. As Albert Sorel observed, Tilist left behind no formal engagements, no plans, only ���inclinations, allusions, of which only the memories would remain.” 7 Sorel 179. Perhaps not even that.

Russia would come in on its own terms.

In August 1807, the month after Tilsit, the Emperor of All Russias issued his own decree. Russia had been troubled by foreigners, it said, and he was going to do something about it. Starting on January 1, 1808, foreigners would barred from entering the Empire, and all from exiting it, without a passport from the Russian foreign ministry. 8 G. Martens 2d 687.

This was how Russia would support the System. Not through union with Europe, but separation from it. Not through surrender to another European empire, but resistance to the whole world. In the voice of its Tsar, Russia would assert sovereignty and dominion.

To the Russian people, the decree presented another face. Their Emperor had decided to order an exacting surveillance of his subjects. They would not lose their freedoms under law, the decree assured them. They could leave if they wanted. They just couldn’t leave without his permission. Id. at 688.

III.

In the secret Treaty of Tilsit, France and Russia had undertaken to make war on Denmark, Sweden, and Portugal if they declined to make war on Britain, and close their ports to British trade. 13 F. Martens 324.

Although Denmark was not a party to the Treaty of Tilsit, nor even permitted to see it, the treaty obliged Denmark to make war on Sweden. If Sweden refused to make war on Britain, “Denmark would be constrained to make war on them.” Id.

Sweden had been Napoleon's erstwhile ally. At his direction, Sweden had declared war on Britain, but never fired a shot in anger, even as British goods made their way to Baltic ports.

Sweden's compliance had always been a fiction. But after Tilsit, as Russian troops massed on the borders of Swedish Finland, Sweden embraced its old enemy. British ships appeared in Swedish ports. British goods flowed freely.

Russia issued its demands, Sweden refused, Russia declared war, Sweden lost. Sweden ceded Finland, forever. At home, the Swedish estates deposed their king and invited Napoleon's great marshal, Jean-Baptiste Jules Bernadotte, to succeed to its throne.

IV.

Sweden had been a reactionary monarchy since the coup of 1772. Now the Swedish estates made sure it would never return to the throne. Now Charles XIII would acknowledge that his dynasty would end with his own life.

Under Sweden's Constitution of 1772, the king had ruled alone, "he and no other." § 2. His councilors had "advised, as their office requires, but not ruled." § 4. His councilors had not been responsible to the estates, but to him and him alone.

Under Bernadotte, Napoleon's marshal, things would be different. The king would no longer rule alone. Now he would rule in council. Swed. Const. of 1809 §§ 4, 7, 8.

But now, with Napoleon's friends commanding the Baltic Sea, his Continental System came apart. Alexander's Russia and Bernadotte's Sweden, turned against his grand design. Russia opened itself to British ships. Sweden had never truly closed.

In 1812, as Napoleon marched toward Moscow, Sweden and Russia turned openly against him. The Continental System gave way to war, and war to defeat. And at Waterloo, Napoleon was defeated.

Europe's princes divided the Continent between themselves. Europe's new Continental System, tacit and informal, was not a unit, but a league. It was a league against war and revolution, sealed by a congress of princes.

Europe learned something from Napoleon's fall: that command creates its own resistance, that command without consent is command without power.

V.

After another war, Europe tried something different. On April 18, 1951, six nations signed the Treaty of Paris establishing the European Coal and Steel Community, which became the European Economic Community after 1957.

Britain stood apart. It founded its own European Free Trade Association, Sweden included, even as it watched the Community grow stronger. It applied to join the European Economic Community in 1961. It was vetoed by France's President de Gaulle, suspicious of Britain's entry into its Continental compact. In 1967, it applied again, and was vetoed again.

Only with de Gaulle's resignation in 1969 could Britain finally enter the Community, as it did in 1973. But the question remained: How much sovereignty could a state surrender before independence became servitude? How much autonomy could it yield before victory became defeat?

VI.

And then came ABBA, making Waterloo into a love song. Not about Napoleon's defeat or Britain's victory, but about the sweetness of surrender. About finding freedom in yielding. About how losing yourself to another might be its own kind of triumph.

The genius isn't in the irony but in the constitutional truth: Modern Europe has always been about learning to love what defeats you. About finding victory in defeat. About making defeat and victory the same thing.

That's what "Waterloo" caught, as did Eurovision, itself an exercise in competitive unity, division serving union. Europe heard itself in the paradox: nationalism performing its own dissolution, Waterloo celebrating surrender, sovereignty and submission becoming one.

That's the trick Europe learned. The only trick it needed. The surrender that saves you.

VII.

In 1975, Britain would face its first Brexit referendum. It was a kind of Waterloo for Britain's beleaguered Brexiteers. Europe won. Britain was defeated; Europe won the war.

And they promised to love them forever more.

[barrenclan]

Sorry for asking this late but I tried looking at previous ask to see if someone asked a similar question but couldn’t. Back in issue 33,When Cormorantpaw said he thought by bringing Barren Clan to Defiance he would be forgiven for his father’s crimes, what did he mean exactly ?

I remember hearing Defiance has a bit strict when letting animals in since they need to go to trial so I can’t see Cormorantpaw doing it to have the clan join the cult.

If it means that Cormorantpaw was going to bring them to Defiance to be killed then my goodness that is messed up.

Yep, that was his plan - he would call the crows to himself, alerting them of BarrenClan's presence, and sacrifice BarrenClan in exchange for him and Egrettail being forgiven for Thrasher's crimes. He mentions it in Issue 5:

And obliquely in Issue 21:

But by Issue 26, he's decided not to do that anymore:

And he tells Pinepaw about his aborted plans in Issue 33.

[bigmusclenm]

The Harvest - Halloween Special

[Story Collection]

October 31st, 2024

21-year-old Anthony grinned, taking a deep, self-satisfied breath as he stared at his reflection in the full-length mirror. He marveled at every carefully honed line and curve of his body. The soft lighting of his apartment accentuated the sweeping ridges of his abs, the breadth of his shoulders, and the immense expanse of his chest, which rhythmically rose and fell as he admired himself. Standing tall at 6’2” and weighing 260 pounds of solid muscle, Anthony was the perfect specimen to exemplify a vision of power and sculpted strength. He had worked hard to achieve this body, so he wasn’t shy to show it off.

Since it was Halloween, he had decided to embody his hard work in a costume that showed it off to the world. He wore a tiny electric-blue posing thong that clung to him, barely containing the fullness of his front and leaving the entire expanse of his massive, rounded ass fully visible. The thong was tiny, the strings accentuating every groove and cut of his physique, and the pouch showcased the outline of his thick 8-inch-long soft cock and bull balls. A touch of body paint completed his costume; he had transformed himself into a “zombie bodybuilder,” brushing greenish-gray hues across his torso and limbs, a few jagged red lines of “wounds” snaking across his skin to add a touch of ghoulishness.

Anthony leaned closer to the mirror, flexing one arm to see the massive bicep peak rising up and the veins like ropes wrapping around his forearm. He twisted his waist to the side, checking out the contour of his obliques and how they flared out under his ribs before tightening into his broad back. Anthony couldn’t help but grin—cocky and self-assured. He knew he was a sight to behold, and tonight, Anthony had planned to own every bit of the attention. Stepping away from the mirror, Anthony grabbed his phone and snapped a few photos, winking at his reflection before heading out the door. He had a Halloween party to attend, where he expected curious gazes, jealous stares, and, hopefully, willing admirers.

As he stepped onto the dimly lit street, the night air was cool against his bare skin, sending a little thrill through his body. He liked how the coldness made his skin tighten, making every muscle stand out even more starkly. As he walked, he noticed the reaction he had hoped for—heads turned, people stared openly, some even whispering among themselves, pointing. Anthony’s grin grew; he enjoyed the looks of awe and the expressions of disbelief. A couple of people tried to snap a quick photo of him as he passed, and he flexed an arm instinctively, giving them something to remember. And when he arrived at the party, he was greeted by a small cluster of friends, all of whom widened their eyes at the sight of him.

“Dude,” one of Anthony’s buddies laughed, patting one of his thick pecs. “How in the freaking world did you dare to walk like this out on the streets?”

“What can I say?” Anthony replied with a grin, playfully flexing his pecs. “Halloween is the one night to be someone... or something... different. And why waste it by covering this up?” He flexed his biceps, watching his friends’ eyes as they marveled at the pure mass on display.

“Come on, Anthony,” another friend teased. “Show us what that ‘zombie’ can do!”

Anthony didn’t need to be asked twice. Striking a classic bodybuilding pose, he clenched his fists, bending his arms into a double bicep flex, his massive peaks bunching up, looking hard as stone. Then he twisted to the side, showing off his thick, hard chest before dropping down into a mid-squat, flexing his thick legs and showcasing his massive butt. He could hear the murmur of approval from his friends, the gasps as they took in the sight. Anthony was in his element, knowing his body could command attention.

After a while, he felt the need to refresh himself, so he excused himself and headed toward the bathroom. But just as he was nearing the door, someone suddenly emerged, bumping into his chest. Anthony jolted, took a step back, and blinked as he looked into the face of a strikingly handsome man.

The stranger was Anthony’s same height, with a square jaw and dark brown spiky hair. His shoulders were broad, making him look imposing. He wore a black leather jacket and matching leather pants that clung tightly to his thighs, hinting at impressive muscle mass. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of dark glasses, giving him an air of mystery, much like the infamous Terminator.

“Oh, hey, sorry about that,” Anthony said, momentarily thrown off balance.

The man didn’t say a word; he only offered a slight smile tugging at his lips. Something about his silence drew Anthony in, making him feel curious and flattered. Something about this man was magnetic, and Anthony—used to being the center of attention, suddenly felt a different desire—a desire to impress.

“Um, so, would you like to grab a drink?” Anthony asked, flashing his most charming grin. The stranger tilted his head as if considering it. Then, he gave a firm, silent nod.

Anthony quickly snagged two drinks from a nearby table and gestured for the man to follow him, evidently excited. He led the man to a quieter corner of the party, where they could talk without interruption. Anthony set the drinks down and gestured to the man’s attire.

“Love the costume, by the way. You really nailed that intense ‘don’t mess with me’ vibe,” Anthony said, chuckling. “Very… Terminator.”

The man just watched him, his face calm and unreadable behind the glasses, but something about his silence was thrilling. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, the man reached out, his hand brushing against Anthony’s chest, pressing gently. The casual, confident touch sent a shiver through Anthony; it wasn’t every day someone else showed such bold appreciation for his physique.

“Oh, you like that, huh?” Anthony said with a smirk, pressing his chest out a little more. “Want to see more?”

The man only nodded, and that was all Anthony needed. With a grin, he stepped back and squared his shoulders, taking a deep breath before rolling his arms up into a bicep flex, the muscles swelling to their full size. Anthony turned his head to the side, watching the stranger’s face as he strained his arms, the veins popping, muscles as hard as granite.

“Not bad, right?” He teased, relaxing before transitioning into a front lat spread, his chest flaring out like a shield.

The man still didn’t speak, but his slight smile had widened as though pleased with the display. That silent approval drove Anthony to take it up another notch. He stepped into a side pose, turning so that his massive glutes and thick, muscular legs were in full view. The back of his thong disappeared between his robust cheeks. Anthony knew he looked impressive—every muscle on proud display.

“You’re enjoying the show, aren’t you?” Anthony teased, glancing over his shoulder.

The man’s smile broadened, his eyes traveling over Anthony’s body with lust and hunger. Anthony could feel his excitement building as he flexed one last time, his body at its absolute peak, basking in the attention and in the thrill of mystery that this stranger brought with him. And all the while, the man’s smile only grew, as if the show was only beginning.

Anthony held his final pose for a few extra seconds, flexing his chest and arms, making every muscle strain hard and defined as he watched the man’s enigmatic smile widen. The flickering lights from the party outside cast shadows across the man’s face, accentuating the strong line of his jaw. They stood locked in silence, the world around them fading into the background as the tension grew between them.

The man stepped forward and slowly reached out, his fingers brushing Anthony’s hips. Anthony gasped at the touch, an intense sensation coursing through him. He felt a momentary flutter of uncertainty as his mind raced with questions. But his curiosity overtook his hesitation, and he found himself smiling.

“Would you like to go somewhere private?” Anthony excitedly asked.

The man nodded instantly without saying a word, and Anthony couldn’t resist grabbing his hand, pulling him with a gentle urgency through the crowded party. They reached a quiet room at the back of the house, secluded and dimly lit, the sounds of the party fading as Anthony closed the door behind them. Anthony leaned against the door, his eyes traveling over the man’s form as he took in every detail, admiring the sharp cut of his cheekbones, how the leather jacket hugged his broad shoulders, and the thick thighs covered by the leather pants.

Unable to resist any longer, Anthony stepped forward, closing the distance between them. He cupped the man’s face in his hands and leaned in, their lips meeting in a slow and passionate kiss. The kiss grew more intense, and Anthony pressed his body against the man’s, feeling the solid, unyielding strength beneath the leather. Their bodies seemed to meld together, Anthony’s bare, muscular form against the man’s clothed frame, and the sheer intensity of the moment made his head spin.

Anthony felt the man’s hands reach up toward his face as they kissed, and the man removed his dark glasses with a careful, almost ceremonial slowness. Anthony’s eyes widened as he pulled back slightly, his breath hitching in shock. The man’s eyes were glowing—a fierce, unnatural red that shimmered in the dark room. For a second, Anthony couldn’t move, his mind grappling with what he was seeing, the terrifying beauty of those crimson eyes captivating him.

Before he could react, the man raised one hand to Anthony’s forehead, and his fingers began to glow the same eerie red. Anthony felt a strange warmth, a pulsing sensation spreading from his forehead down through his body, and he heard the man speaking softly, but the words made no sense. It was a strange language. Anthony’s vision blurred as he tried to move, to ask what was happening, but everything went dark.

****

Anthony drifted in and out of consciousness, a blinding white light gradually piercing his eyes as he slowly opened them. His senses returned, and he found himself floating in the center of a sterile room. It was a gleaming white, gray, and silver space with no familiar reference points. No windows, no doors. Anthony tried to move his arms, but they were spread wide apart, suspended by something invisible, his legs stretched out in a similar position, leaving him in a star-shaped pose, completely vulnerable. Panic washed over him as he realized he couldn’t feel the ground beneath him; he was floating, weightless but restrained.

His thong was gone, leaving him exposed with his cock and balls hanging freely. The body paint he had applied so carefully was also gone, leaving only his bare, muscled skin against the room’s cold air. He strained against whatever held him in place, the powerful muscles of his arms and legs flexing, veins bulging as he tried to pull himself free. His chest heaved with each panicked breath, his mind racing miles a second in fear.

“Hello? Is anyone there? Help! Please, let me go!” He shouted, his voice echoing in the empty space, but there was no response.

Anthony’s heart pounded hard in his chest, every instinct urging him to escape. But the invisible bindings held him tight. Then he saw it—a panel at one end of the room slid open, and the man from the party stepped in, fully naked. Anthony’s eyes widened in shock. He was no ordinary man. He was towering, at least eight feet tall, his form much more massive than before, muscles beyond anything Anthony had ever seen. His eyes glowed the same intense red, and his perfectly handsome face held a strange beauty, captivating and terrifying.

Anthony gulped down when he saw the massive naked man approaching, his genitals swinging heavily with each step. The man’s soft cock—similar in shape to a human cock but a lot thicker in proportion—was almost two feet long and thicker than Anthony’s powerful thighs. His balls hung down to his knees, each the size of a beach ball. Anthony swore he could hear cum sloshing inside the massive testes. However, he didn’t know if it was cum or something else as he finally realized this “man” wasn’t human. The glowing eyes, the massive size, and even the room he was in—everything hinted at something out of this planet.

The alien approached slowly, his gaze traveling over Anthony’s body with curiosity and admiration. Anthony felt a shiver run down his spine as he looked into the blazing red eyes, his heart pounding in fear and awe.

“Please... please let me go,” Anthony begged, his voice trembling as his earlier confidence disappeared. “I just... I need to get out of here.”

The man’s lips curled into a slight smile, looking unbelievably handsome but devilish. “There’s no need to be afraid,” he said, his voice smooth and calm. “You are here because you are... remarkable. Your body holds something valuable to my people.”

Anthony’s mind raced, fear rising in his chest. “What do you mean? Are you going to eat me or something?”

The alien chuckled, the sound echoing around the room. “No, nothing so barbaric. Our bodies require nutrients that Earth’s human bodies are uniquely capable of producing. The right physique yields the richest sources, and you, Anthony, your build and strength, make you an ideal candidate to feed our entire planet.”

“No! What are you talking about? I don’t produce anything,” Anthony said, his eyes darting around the room, his muscles straining against the invisible bindings as he tried to comprehend what he was hearing.

The alien circled him slowly, examining every inch of Anthony’s form. The human shuddered, feeling exposed and terrifyingly appreciated. The alien finally stopped directly behind him, and Anthony could feel his massive presence hovering close—so close he could feel the alien’s warmth radiating from his body. Then the alien unexpectedly placed his hands on Anthony’s ample ass, pressing his thumbs into the thick slabs of meat. The human inhaled sharply, his muscles tensing, but the firm touch was almost soothing. The alien’s fingers worked expertly, kneading the cheeks with surprising gentleness.

“Your body will adapt,” the alien murmured as he continued the massage, his hands moving slowly around Anthony’s hips and moving up to his thick pecs. “Your physique will transform. It will be reshaped to produce the nutrients my family requires, and then we’ll harvest what we need. Your strength, your mass—it will serve a greater purpose.”

Anthony continued fighting against the invisible restraints, every muscle bulging and straining, desperately attempting to escape. He could feel the alien’s cock pressing into his butt, its massiveness nestling between his cheeks as it seemed to be hardening. The alien’s touch sent shivers through him as a part of him loved the sensation.

“Please,” Anthony whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. “Just... just let me go.”

The alien didn’t respond as his cock got hard against Anthony’s ass. The alien’s hands carefully moved over Anthony’s hips, preparing to push his massive cock into the helpless human. “I promise you’ll enjoy this part. I’ve observed how you humans love this type of intimate contact,” the alien added, slowly pushing his cock against Anthony’s hole, making him moan and groan in discomfort and pleasure.

The sensation was overwhelming—a mixture of fear and excitement that made Anthony’s muscles quiver, helpless against the alien’s touch. Anthony felt the alien’s massive cock stretching his hole and making him feel ready to burst. He groaned in pain, but deep down, he felt pleasure taking over him, making him long for more. He couldn’t even open his eyes; he only moaned and groaned, struggling to stay conscious through this intense experience.

As Anthony lay suspended, his body struggling yet helpless, the alien pounded hard into his hole, making the human moans grow louder. Anthony could feel the strength draining from his limbs as the fucking intensified. He tried once more to free himself, his biceps bulging, his chest heaving, but the bindings held firm, the movements only causing the alien to fuck him harder. All Anthony could do was hang there, vulnerable and bewildered, caught between terror and pleasure, slowly surrendering to the alien’s will.

*

The alien finally moved away from Anthony a few minutes later, pulling his massive dick out and leaving him breathless and secretly longing for a second round. Anthony glanced down, surprised to see his abdomen protruding in a perfect, firm roundness that stretched out from his core, full of the alien’s cum. His belly was taut as if a solid ball were pressing out from within him. It was massive, bigger than a basketball, the skin smooth and faintly reflective in the sterile lighting of the room due to how stretched it was. Anthony’s breathing hitched at the sight, his mind racing as he felt the added weight hanging from him.

The alien stepped in front of him again, his glowing red eyes traveling over Anthony’s form as if inspecting a prized specimen. He reached out, carefully caressing Anthony’s pectorals and making him shiver, the sensation sparking something entirely new—his pecs were sensitive, almost painfully so. The alien’s fingers pressed gently, kneading the muscle with a meticulous fascination. Anthony couldn’t suppress the small gasp that escaped his lips.

“These nutrients,” the alien began, his fingers still pressed to Anthony’s chest, “are what our people need. What humans call milk,” he explained, his gaze then lowering pointedly to Anthony’s crotch, “and a certain potent substance that only a male body can provide. Together, they sustain our race, ensuring strength and longevity.” He firmly grabbed Anthony’s cock and stroked it, making it stir to life. Anthony blushed deeply as his cock hardened, betraying his arousal even despite his fear.

Before Anthony could process the alien’s words or do anything else, a metallic needle-like device emerged silently from the floor, glinting under the white lights. Anthony’s eyes widened as the needle hovered for a moment before it darted toward his exposed butt, the sharp tip pressing in with a brief sting. He gasped as an intense warmth spread through him from the point of contact, the heat quickly traveling up his back, through his core, and outward into each limb, filling his body with a pulsing, almost electric sensation.

The alien watched him with a satisfied smile as he took a few steps back toward the door. “Soon, your body will grow to fulfill its purpose. You will be the perfect provider, Anthony,” the alien said, his voice calm. “I’ll be back later. You’re only half of what I need, and tonight’s the perfect night to find the perfect vessel to sow,” the alien added as his body shrank to a more human size and his Terminator costume reappeared.

The door closed behind him, leaving Anthony alone, his heart beating fast as every muscle was already beginning to hum with the strange warmth that flooded his body. Then, without warning, he felt a pressure in his chest. It started as a subtle swelling sensation that quickly grew stronger, pushing outward from within. Anthony’s eyes widened in shock as his pecs surged forward, the muscles expanding and growing thicker, fuller.

The growth didn’t stop. Anthony’s shoulders broadened, stretching impossibly wide, rounding out into massive spheres of muscle that swelled with each passing second. His traps bulged upward, rising like mountains that framed his thickening neck and engulfed his head. His lats spread out, creating a massive wing-like structure and accentuating his already imposing width. His biceps swelled, each heartbeat sending a wave of mass across his arms that pushed his veins to the surface, pulsing with new strength. His forearms thickened so much that they looked like they could crush steel, every tendon standing out beneath the skin.

The warmth continued coursing through his body, intensifying as it reached his chest, where his pecs were now surging outward at an even faster speed. Anthony watched in stunned fascination as his pecs grew larger and heavier, each one expanding to a size beyond reason, their weight pulling his body forward. His nipples thickened, stretching outward as his pecs grew so large they obscured his view, the sensation so intense that it made him bite his lip to keep from crying out.

The transformation spread down his torso as his belly shrunk and his abs rounded out into a perfectly sculpted mountainous eight-pack, each muscle block defined and standing out like carved into stone. His back expanded, creating a dense, impenetrable wall of muscle that made him broader than he was tall, each muscle powerfully standing out. His ass also grew, rounding out into enormous spheres of meat, leaving him with a backside that seemed designed to support the sheer mass of his upper body.

Then his thighs expanded, quads growing beyond tree trunk size, muscles rippling outward with each pulse of growth. His calves bulged, rounding into massive diamond shapes that completed his powerful lower body. Anthony could feel the sheer mass of his form; his body transformed into something beyond human, a living wall of muscle that was awe-inspiring and overwhelming.

He felt the warmth spreading to his crotch, making his hard dick throb violently as it lengthened. It started as a slow growth, but then his cock throbbed again, growing a whole foot in a blink. Anthony loudly moaned as the violent throbbing continued, and the massive growth spurts added foot after foot of man meat into his cock. His balls experienced a steadier growth, inflating like a balloon attached to a pump, filling up with cum at an alarming speed. Soon, his balls were so big and heavy that they landed on the ground, only to continue expanding faster. The sensation was so good that Anthony could only moan as his genitals outgrew even the alien’s massive size.

But it didn’t stop there. Anthony’s pecs then grew disproportionately larger than the rest of him, ballooning out into enormous, heaving masses that dwarfed every other part of his body. He groaned as he felt them stretching outward, each one so large that they pulled his whole body forward. His engorged nipples throbbed as they became more sensitive, each slight movement sending jolts of pleasure through him. He tried to take in the enormity of his chest, but the growth had rendered him unable to see past the sheer bulk of his pecs.

Just as he struggled to process the size of his new form, he saw two massive cups descending from the ceiling, each large enough to cover his oversized nipples. Then, a giant transparent tube appeared from the floor in front of him, long and thick, preparing to attach itself to his cock. His eyes followed the enormous cups now lowering towards his chest. He could feel his heart racing, fear clawing at him, yet he was helpless to stop the process.

The cups carefully latched onto his pecs, sealing around each nipple with a gentle suction that made him gasp, and the tube surrounded his massive 10-foot-long cock almost to the base. A soft, rhythmic pulsing began, and Anthony moaned as his nipples responded with strong, steady streams of milk that traveled up through the tubes to somewhere far above the ceiling. He could feel the milk being drawn from him—an unrelenting pressure that sent shivers down his spine, the sensation bordering on overwhelming pleasure. A soft, involuntary moan escaped him as the pulsing continued, his body now producing gallons upon gallons of nutrient-rich milk for the alien.

Then, the tube around his cock started working on the massive shaft, making Anthony cry out in pleasure, his dick highly sensitive now that it was so big. The pleasure was so intense that within a minute, his cock shot a tsunami of thick cum into the tube, the creamy substance disappearing through the tubes connected to the floor. He had never climaxed so hard in his life, and it felt like it would never end because the tube kept stimulating his cock.

He felt the invisible bindings releasing his hands and legs, his heavy body falling on the floor, finally free. He immediately attempted to reach his cock with his hands to caress it. But his muscles had grown so massive that they rendered him immobile. His chest had swollen to the size of small cars, obscuring his view of everything below and heavily resting atop his colossal balls and gigantic cock. He was trapped in his own bulk, able only to feel the relentless tug of the milking process, the endless streams of milk and cum being drawn from his massive pecs and cock. He was now a source of sustenance for an alien race.

The sensation was overwhelming for Anthony. The warmth of the growth, the steady pull of the milking device, the heavy, powerful weight of his own muscle-bound form, it all combined terror and an inexplicable satisfaction. The alien’s words echoed in his mind as he closed his eyes, surrendering to the incredible sensations that overtook him. His muscles, once symbols of his strength and agility, had now trapped him inside his own body.

As the rhythmic pull continued, Anthony’s mind drifted, the pleasure overriding his fear, each pulse drawing him deeper into a state of blissful surrender. He was trapped and immobilized, but he loved it. He closed his eyes, letting his mind succumb to the feeling, and allowed himself to drift away on the currents of pleasure that filled every fiber of his colossal body.

The End?

PN: This was a Halloween Special I posted on Patreon but it was banned there for... (stupid) reasons. So, I hope you enjoy it here.

[petercapaldi-press]

INTERVIEW

Interview: How 1980s Glasgow inspired Peter Capaldi's debut album

3rd November 2021

Paul Trainer Best of Scotland magazine

I WANT to ask Peter Capaldi about his debut album but first he wants to know what the weather is like in Glasgow. He’s planning a trip up for a few days and we spend a moment discussing sensible clothing to pack.

An instantly recognisable actor, there’s not much time spent in pubs these days while he is here but he does like to have a wander around. “I like going around the old parts of the city, where Glasgow emerges, then I will often find myself up around the art school,” he explains.

One crisp December evening a few years ago I was charging through shoppers on Buchanan Street when I was suddenly confronted by the elongated figure and tousled locks of Capaldi as he took a photograph of the police box that sits outside of The Ivy restaurant in the city centre. I relate this momentary, unexpected encounter to him, describing the blue box as “his old office”, an oblique reference to the TARDIS, and his role as the twelfth incarnation of Doctor Who.

He breaks into a cackle, then volunteers: “Sometimes I pass those – Glasgow’s one of the few places with police boxes – so if I see one I send a picture on to a friend of mine who is also in the same mode, shall we say,” giving an intriguing hint at a Time Lord WhatsApp group.

For some people, Capaldi will always be Malcolm Tucker in The Thick Of It – a bombastic performance characterised by a hail of Scottish invective, creating a political satire monolith that continues to cast a shadow nine years after the show went off air. Being cast in Bill Forsyth’s Local Hero in 1983 was a breakthrough. Ten years later he would win an Oscar for Best Live Action Short Film as writer and director of a film about Franz Kafka that starred Richard E Grant. Then there was a memorable turn as Uncle Rory, a significant but infrequent presence in the television adaptation of The Crow Road. More recently, he starred as The Thinker in James Gunn’s The Suicide Squad. There’s a lot in the back-catalogue.

Before all that Peter started his performing career in music. While studying at The Glasgow School of Art, he put together a band, The Dreamboys, (future comedian Craig Ferguson was the drummer) and enjoyed a small part of the thriving music scene in the city at the time.

While his life went down a different road, he retains his love of music and has recorded a 10-track release called St Christopher. His relationship with music is more to do with storytelling and creating something new. “I’m not that guy who brings a guitar along to every party,” he says.

The story of the album started with an invitation from a friend, Robert Howard, the Scottish singer of The Blow Monkeys, to come along to a few recording sessions at his studio.

“Robert, who’s great and a wonderful musician, does this thing called the Monks Road Social, which is a conglomerate of musicians who put out an album every year, and they’re just happenings. I’d be encouraged to vaguely join in.” At one of these get-togethers Peter was asked if he had anything to record.

“I quickly put together a song, which they recorded in the space of a day, and it was so much fun. I thought: ‘Oh, I really want to do this again.’

“Over a period eight or nine months, I did that. I wrote stuff and sent it to Robert and we would ditch certain ones, and on then other ones he’d say: ‘Let’s hang onto that.’ ”

Did that first song that he wrote make it onto the album? “That was song called If I could Pray, which was released as a single to no acclaim last year. It got about two plays on the radio. That’s showbiz.”

When Peter was in Atlanta in the US to shoot The Suicide Squad he found he had time on his hands. He travelled to Nashville and started writing new songs. A band was assembled and a studio booked in London. Then lockdown intervened. They persevered.

“We just sent it back and forth over the digital ether and then sent it to the percussionist or some other musician who would add something wonderful to it. Because we had the option to do it, we thought: ‘Let’s just put this out and in a very low-key way, just start doing music.’ ”

There’s a lot of Glasgow in this record: echoes of Scotland set against a canvas of Americana guitar and retro synths. “I kept going back to a Glaswegian art school ‘80s vibe,” Peter says.

“The city itself, how it has such a power about it. Glasgow is a wonderful, noirish, synthy setting for things. Robert is very different and his musical experiences takes it in another direction occasionally, which is interesting.”

The American elements enter via those Nashville trips. “When I went there it felt like the spiritual home of any Glaswegian. You feel so at home, the music is elemental and we’ve been fed it already.

“The melodrama and the sadness and the darkness and the joy that’s very present in country music: the west of Scotland is a cauldron of that stuff and we reach for it all the time.

“There’s always a wish among Glaswegian musicians to mythologise the place in music and I think I’m trying to do that as well.”

Peter is open to the idea of taking some of the songs out onto a stage but there’s no tour planned. “Maybe a theatre piece, I don’t know”. He won’t be signing up for a musical. “This isn’t a new career or anything. This is an exploration of my own interest, an expression of who I am, being a performer and an actor and a director. That inevitably leads me to conjure up things, I think, as opposed to making hit singles.”

There’s already one Capaldi in that game. “He’s fantastic and I’m so knocked out by Lewis and I’m so proud of him and he’s just incredible. This is not an attempt to be a pop star.”

If this record, then, picks up where he left off in music, revisiting a time and place, what does he remember of his art school days?

“That was a golden period. In the sense that the government did pay for kids to go into further education and it was an ideology that was respected and it allowed so many of us who came from humble backgrounds to come into these various professions because we were allowed to go and explore.

“Art school was a great melting pot of ideas. There was just a general ethos that you could do anything in that building off the top of the hill there and that you were part of the city. It was the late 70s moving into the 1980s.

“We’d hang out in Nico’s, the first place you could buy a cappuccino or go to The Griffin pub opposite The King’s Theatre. Maestro’s was a nightclub we all use to end up and there was always some piece of nonsense being planned there. We’d do gigs that were not organised or you’d be asked to join other bands to play.

“When we arrived at the art school, we were all dressed as Neil Young with long hair and great coats. Then in the summer the punk thing happened. So we all came back with plastic trousers and peroxide hair. It was very open to all the ideas in the zeitgeist. I didn’t realise it at the time, but it was the perfect place to be.”

St Christopher by Peter Capaldi is released by Monks Road Records on November 19. 

This interview was featured in Best of Scotland magazine, published monthly in The Herald on Sunday and Sunday National newspapers. You can read the November edition here. 

[madwhimsical]

i am still slowly rewatching The Ghost and Molly Mcgee, and like, I know the basic shapes of the arcs, I remember Scratch growing to care for Molly across s1. but the thing about going through each episode with a fine-toothed comb is, i am seeing this shift start to happen in significant ways a lot sooner than I thought it did. Like, in-the-second-episode sooner.

On the one hand, I understand a show needing to establish its character dynamic status quo early on. Episode 1 did a great job of that initial setup, and also preparing the audience to expect a kind of slowburn of Scratch's emotional walls coming down (I'm looking at you, the oblique Scratch-as-Andrea apology at the end of First Day Frights). This kind of vibe continues in Howlin' Harriet, as Scratch invents "safe" reasons for hanging around Molly (e.g. using the camping trip to pad out his scare report). And the show could have run with only this formula for a while: Molly's doing a thing, find an excuse to be on the periphery, grouse about it, but ultimately acquiesce and become invested. In fact, this is pretty much the setup for ep 3's Getting the Band(Shell) Back Together.

But something interesting happens in ep 2's The (Un)Natural. Tammy rips on Molly's lack of pitching skill, and Scratch intervenes (i will refrain from talking here about how protective Scratch is of Molly's feelings already, although it is a catalyst). Crucially, and allow me to continue the softball metaphor here, Scratch approaches clowning on Tammy/the Skylarks in a way that positions Molly and himself as being on the same team.

He's still denying friendship motivating his actions, but Scratch is unequivocally excited about cheating at playing softball with Molly. He outright says, "I cannot wait until the next game when we do it all over again!" And I find this use of "we" significant, because I think this is the first instance he's used first person plural to designate Molly as being part of his personal sphere/plans. Any other time he's used "we" in reference to Molly, it's been more in service of convincing her to exit an activity/situation he'd rather not bother with (hell, he does this earlier in this same ep, to try to persuade Molly to leave the Lemmings well enough alone so he can take a nap). But the guy is having fun alongside Molly here, rather than despite her or at her expense. He's enjoying having a reason to pal around with her, to say nothing of having a kind of blanket approval to be a little bit of a stinker to the other teams via ghost powers. I talked earlier about "safe" reasons to enjoy Molly's company, and i think being aligned against a common adversary accomplishes that for Scratch in that he could plausibly claim he was simply enjoying haunting them. This allows him a freedom to be more openly enthusiastic about the ongoing events without having to show vulnerability regarding his growing fondness for Molly. And across the subsequent games, he looks like he's super enjoying himself, like

He's having a blast, he's being silly! He's doing little antics to get Molly's attention so she can share in his good time! Like, the degree to which Scratch reaches out to Molly this episode is kind of mindboggling for how early in the series we are. I did not expect this level of sincere engagement from Scratch until a while later. And when Tammy jabs at Molly yet again, he invites Molly to give input on how to get back at her. There's another usage of first person plural here, too: "Let's just take this jerk down". He's specifically positioning them together, against Tammy, on Molly's behalf.

I think it's also worth mentioning that by this point, Scratch is legitimately invested in the Lemmings' success, like. He does not want to see them lose this game. And when Libby brings home the win, it's a win they share alongside each other.

Tellingly, as the Lemmings are celebrating their championship victory, Molly and Scratch are situated in the stands, apart from the group. A part of their own team. Molly even echoes this sentiment back to Scratch, vis-a-vis her aim to inspire confidence in the Lemmings: "We did it."

This level of support from Scratch is not consistent yet (he pretty immediately reverts to professing disengagement from Molly and her family in the very next episode), but I was so surprised to see it here this plainly. I guess that's the power of sports!

[laylainalaska]

Watched 8x03 "Guerrilla My Dreams" with @sheronwrites , and have not stopped speculating since then on when in the episode, exactly, the three-way roommate collusion started happening.

Charles is definitely in cahoots with the other two by the chess game at the end. I love how BJ obliquely tells Charles that they need him to stall for time without tipping off Park.

Park: Doc, how is our patient? BJ: Oh, not well at all. These things take time, you know.

Charles flicks a little glance at BJ when he says that - it happens so fast that I couldn't manage to get a cap of it - and it's shortly after this that he starts trying to disrupt Park's playing to slow the game down. He knows perfectly well what Hawkeye and BJ are up to; you can even see him try to grab Park when Park jumps up from the table, although he misses.

Anyway, so he's fully on board with the Plan by this point and knows what his part in it is supposed to be, but I would love to know when they came up with this and how much of it was collaborative from the beginning.

(Further caps and speculation under the cut.)

I feel like there's a good chance the chess conversation earlier in the episode, when they find out that Park plays chess and Charles offers to play it with him, was spontaneous. Actually it's kind of hard to tell how much of what Charles is doing there Hawkeye is aware of at first. When Park mentions chess, you can see Charles immediately become interested; in fact they all do.

Hawkeye flicks a glance over his shoulder ...

... And Charles immediately, conspicuously looks away and doesn't look back until Hawkeye's attention is elsewhere.

It's right after that that he moves around Hawkeye - love his little touch to Hawkeye's arm, which is impossible to screencap properly because he's behind him at the time ...

And takes Park aside and tells him that it's nice to find someone else around here who likes chess and might make a worthy opponent.

What I'm not sure about is if they had talked about it at all beforehand - if they already had a sort of plan, just need a distraction, and Hawkeye's quick glance at Charles is a sort of signal that this is the opening they need - or if Charles did this spontaneously on his own because he recognized that this was a way to subtly get Park out of the way so that Hawkeye can do whatever he wants.

I think it's at least possible at this point that BJ, at least, thinks Charles is serious about wanting to spend time with the guy.

Hawkeye, though, keeps looking back and forth between them - at BJ and then at Charles - and this of course is when Charles signals his true intentions here.

A distraction!

I like how Hawkeye stares at him for a minute and then tosses a speculative glance at BJ.

They definitely all three talked about it at some point after this but before the chess game - they had to, because Charles is clearly aware of the timing of what Hawkeye and BJ are doing in post-op.

But I'm really curious if this was Charles's idea initially - that he could use this as a distraction to give Hawkeye a chance to do whatever Hawkeye is going to do - or if Hawkeye cued him.

I would also love to know if Charles volunteered his cognac as part of the distraction or if they stole it! tbh I could go about 50-50 either way, leaning probably towards Charles knowing about it beforehand (probably at least SLIGHTLY under duress, but we already know that he has exactly 0 defenses against Hawkeye asking him for things).

Which is really his entire reason for being involved at all. He has no particular investment in the situation himself, but Hawkeye really wants this patient away from Park, and Charles knows that. It's not about the principle of the thing for him, it's just about helping Hawkeye.

(Forever mildly annoyed that the show is so subtle about it, because you have to pay close attention to realize that Charles is helping them and not amusing himself with Park at Hawkeye and his patient's expense.)

[emkayewrites]

Lukola snippet from my imagination. One cold night, Nicola and Luke are rehearsing their most intimate Season 3 scenes in his trailer when they get a little carried away...

(Excerpt taken from my fanfiction 'Curtain Fall')

2nd November 2022 – Salisbury (UK)

Nicola stepped out of the make-up trailer and onto the sludge that had once been a green, well-kept field.  Several days of non-stop rain had not been kind to the grounds of Wilton House and wellies had become essential wear for the cast and crew.  It was a bitterly cold night with a bright moon hanging overhead. Nicola pulled the big brown fleece she was wearing more tightly around herself and made her way determinedly towards his trailer.

She was equal parts exhausted and frantic.  It was a strange way to feel.  It had been a very long day of filming so she should want to do nothing more than go to bed but her mind would not let her rest.

After all, she had spent several hours on set with Claudia, filming some very emotional scenes that occurred between their characters.  Several takes had been needed because of lighting problems and because Claudia was struggling with a chesty cough.  They had finished their night seated in front of their respective vanity mirrors as the make-up team helped them scrub off the layers of foundation and lipstick, and they had talked about how desperate they were for the warmth of their beds.  Nicola had not entirely lied; she was eager to be warm.  Yet, sleep was the last thing on her mind. 

In less than two days, she and Luke would be filming the most exposing and intimate of all their romantic scenes together.  For several weeks, they had been meeting discreetly in their trailers to rehearse kissing, touching and even tentatively exploring the idea of seeing each other naked.  This had been done without the knowledge or involvement of anyone else even though Lizzy had made it clear to them that the production team would not support the rehearsal of intimate scenes without a coordinator.  Regardless, Nicola had felt that their extra rehearsals were giving her confidence but as the big day approached, she had been losing sleep.  It did not help that since Ezra had arrived less than a week ago, she and Luke had had no time together to privately rehearse.  It also really did not help that she had not seen any part of Luke under his clothes until just a few days ago.  The sight of his tight abdominal muscles, the way his jeans hung just low enough for the revealing V-shape of his obliques to be visible – she shook her head as if to try and shake the image from her mind.

How am I going to have that body on top of me and act?  She thought.  It was not just his body.  It was the fact that she already found his personality attractive – so to find him physically appealing as well would be torturous.  She reasoned that exposure would help.  She was just overwhelmed at seeing him in such great shape for the first time but repeatedly seeing him would surely dull the effect.

So, she had been grateful for the exchange of texts that had happened between her and Luke as she was having her hair and make-up undone for the day.

Luke N: Plans for tonight?

Nicola C: Staring at my ceiling for four hours before my alarm goes off. You?

Luke N: Wow, same.

Nicola C: Rehearsal would probably be a good idea.

Luke N: Definitely.  When do you finish?

Nicola C: Being de-Peneloped in make-up right now.  Can be with you in 10?

Nicola stared at her phone.  She had sent him that message over half an hour ago and there had not been a response.  She tapped out a message as she approached his trailer door.

Nicola C: You better not have fallen asleep.

“BOO!”

She was so engrossed in her phone that when the noise came, she squealed and jumped several inches off the ground.  Her phone slipped from her hand and into the mud. 

Luke was stood behind her in a black button-down t-shirt, carrying a small Styrofoam takeaway box and laughing.

“Jaysus fucking Christ!” Nicola snapped, and immediately bent down to rescue her phone.

“Oh shit, is that your phone?” The smile disappeared from his face.  “Is it OK?”

Nicola peeled the phone off the ground using only the tips of her fingers.  It was completely covered.

“Why would you do that?” She glared at him.  The intensity of her own anger took her aback.  Perhaps it was the very long day of filming or maybe it was the heightened adrenaline she had been experiencing since Ezra had arrived – either way, she was not able to do what a well-rested, clear-minded Nicola would do: laugh.

“It looks alright.” Luke spoke softly and carefully, recognising that a line may have been crossed on his part. “See, the screen’s still lighting up and there’s no cracks…”

Nicola narrowed her eyes at him.  Before she was able to fully form a thought, she found herself thrusting forward, grabbing him by the arm and then smearing the gloopy mess that covered her phone across the cotton fabric of his top.  He let out a shocked yelp and jumped back, pulling his arm away from her but it was too late, the front of his shirt was completely covered.

This time, Nicola laughed.  He looked down at his clothes in disbelief and then at her.

“Happy now?” He sighed.

“No.” She replied, holding her phone up. “My phone is still disgusting.  You’ll have to do the recording tonight.” 

It was true, her phone did not look any cleaner, instead it looked like the mud had just been more evenly spread across the phone’s surface.

“Peace offering?” Luke gestured to the box in his hands. “I got us some chips.”

“You remembered the vinegar?”

“I would throw myself down in the mud right now if I hadn’t.” He attested, leading the way up his trailer steps and inside.

Nicola stepped inside and was hit with the blast of warm air from the space heater that stood by the paisley patterned sofa.  Opposite this was a small kitchenette area with a sink and work surface where Luke placed the box of chips. 

“Oh my God, I feel like I’m melting.”  Nicola sat down, pulling the fleece off herself to reveal a black vest underneath.

“That heater only has two settings – on or off.”  Luke apologized.  “It’s better on then off right now.”

She watched him as he pulled out his phone from his trouser pocket and started to stage it on the work surface before him.  He propped it up against a cup so that it was stood upright with the camera lens facing her on the sofa.

They had taken to filming their rehearsals so that they could watch them back together to see how their performance looked.

He started to unbutton his shirt, trying to avoid touching the dirt where possible.

Nicola watched him, hawk-eyed, as he pulled the shirt off his shoulders to reveal the very sight that she had not been able to get out of her mind.  

How did he still look that ripped at the end of a day?

“I’m sending you the dry-cleaning bill.” He joked, balling the shirt up and pushing it into a laundary bag.  He grabbed at a white t-shirt that was hanging off a hook behind him.

“No.  Keep it off.” She noticed herself gulp as she said the words.  He froze and looked at her.

“I mean… for the scene.” She continued.

“Right.” He let his arm drop away from the hook and he moved towards her. 

Why was her heart racing so fast?

Jesus, he was beautiful.

He has a girlfriend. You have almost got a boyfriend. A very hot boyfriend.  A boyfriend with abs. She repeated in her mind, trying to remind both her mind and body of the facts.

He sat inches from her and a mischievous smile spread across his lips. “If I remember right, we’re both topless in at least one of the scenes.”

Nicola laughed; she knew he was joking but she could not resist commenting: “These are coming out once and once only.  When I’m being paid a crap-ton of money for it.”

“Should I be charging for this?” Luke looked down at himself.

“I think you should be paying me for this.” She quipped and placed a hand on his chest.  She felt him shiver a little at the coldness of her touch, which amused her.  They both stayed in that position for a moment, sat on the sofa, leaning towards each other, her hand on his heart.  He felt warm and his heart was racing.  She looked at him in surprise.

“Nervous?” She found herself asking.

“With you?” He half-smiled. “Always.”

She was not sure how to take his words.  She was sure a look of confusion was spreading across her face.  His heart seemed to thud even faster under her hand.

I make him nervous?  She thought.

What happened next felt natural.  

He leaned forward and pressed his mouth against hers, one of his hands was on the back of her head, holding her face against his.  It was the epitome of a closed mouth acting kiss.  

They had gone through these very movements so many times, it would have been odd for it not to feel natural.  Yes, this was what regular rehearsal and being in your comfort zone with your costar felt like, she was sure of it.

She was not sure how other than the fact that every part of her mouth longed for it to happen but suddenly, her tongue was in his mouth.  Tentatively at first.  He did not pull back.  In fact, his tongue seemed to greet hers with glee.  His hand gripped the back of her head even tighter, and he wrapped his other arm around her waist, pulling her so close to himself that the hand she had placed on his chest was now squeezed between their two bodies.

Wait - what scene was this even?  The question swirled very faintly in some corner of her mind that was easy to ignore. 

All she cared about was how ferociously hungry he seemed to be for her.  He held her so tightly it was almost as if he was afraid to loosen his grip for fear that she might slip away.  His lips left hers so rarely that taking in oxygen was not the easiest thing.  She didn’t care.  Oxygen no longer mattered. Barely being able to breathe felt too good.     

She could hear his breathless panting as he pulled the strap of her vest down and she felt the warm air of the room against her naked breast.  It was the wake-up call she needed to come back into her own body.

What are we doing? 

You should not be enjoying this.

The voice in her head was louder now.

What scene is this even?!

She found herself prying her lips away from his, her hand still on his chest, his heart still beating furiously.

He pulled back, breathless and looked at her.

“I-um, I…” She was at a loss for words.  She knew what she wanted to say but she did not know how to say it.  She wanted to ask him what he was thinking.  She wanted to know what he was feeling.  She wanted to ask him if he felt as crazy as she did right now?  She did not say any of this. 

Instead, she took a breath and pulled her vest back over her breast.

“Boobies out, time to stop.” She gave a chuckle that came off nervous when she had wanted it to come across nonchalant.

“Sorry. I, uh, I got caught up in it…” He trailed off. 

The energy between them was weird.  She knew it and she knew he knew it too.  They had never discussed a line that could not be crossed in rehearsal.  They had only agreed to try to be comfortable with each other and to try to portray the intimacy of their characters with authenticity.  That was the problem though.  This felt too authentic for her.

He has a girlfriend.

He has a girlfriend.

“I actually – you know, the night is just hitting me.” She sounded like a bumbling fool, but it was the best she could do in that moment. “I think I should just go to bed.”

She saw a mixture of emotions cross his face; upset, surprise, concern. 

“OK.” He had settled on agreeing with her, although she could sense he had wanted to protest. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, just – exhausted.” She reassured him. “Are you?”

“I could keep rehearsing but… I didn’t have a ten-hour shoot day.” He gave her a smile. “I’ll walk you to yours.”

“It’s fine, Luke.” She was already on her feet with her fleece wrapped around her.  She stuck her mud-encrusted phone into her pocket.

As she headed to the door, she suddenly remembered his phone.  She turned and looked over at the work surface where it stood.

“Luke – I would delete this one.” She iterated to him.  He nodded. 

Moments later, she was back out into the night.  She was still exhausted.  And her mind was still racing.  In fact, it was worse now. 

I really fucking like him.

And that was a problem.