Things That Make Me Throb And Twitch

Peter Parker swung through the alleys of Queens with the familiar rush of web fluid shooting from his wrists. It was just another night for the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. He had gotten a tip from one of his usual informants about some weird glowing lights coming from an old warehouse down by the docks. Nothing too crazy. Probably some low level crook trying to move stolen tech. Peter landed lightly on the roof and slipped inside through a broken skylight. His spider sense was quiet for now but he stayed alert. He was eighteen years old, a senior at Midtown High, and he had learned the hard way that even the smallest jobs could turn into something big.

In the center of the warehouse a man stood waiting. He wore a long black robe embroidered with strange silver symbols that seemed to shift and writhe on their own. His face was pale and sharp with a thin beard and eyes that glowed faintly purple. Peter dropped down in front of him and struck a casual pose, hands on his hips. "All right, buddy, the party's over. Time to pack it up and head to jail. You got a name or should I just call you Robe Guy?"

The man smiled slowly, a cold smile that did not reach his eyes. "I am Grimwald, Peter Parker. And I have been waiting for you."

Peter froze. How did this guy know his real name? His spider sense suddenly screamed at him but it was too late. Grimwald raised one hand and a bolt of crackling violet energy shot forward, wrapping around Peter's body like chains of lightning. Peter tried to leap away but the magic held him in place. His suit felt like it was burning against his skin.

"What the-- What is this?" Peter gasped, struggling against the invisible bonds. His heart pounded hard in his chest.

Grimwald stepped closer, his voice low and mocking. "You have wasted your gifts on heroism, boy. Saving the weak. Protecting the city. It sickens me. Tonight I rewrite you completely. Body. Mind. Soul. You will become what you were always meant to be. A real man. A predator. My gift to this city will be its new king and you will thank me for it."

Peter tried to fire a web but the strands dissolved into sparks before they could leave his wrists. The magic sank deeper into him like icy fingers digging through his veins. He felt the first changes start in his chest. A deep warm pressure built behind his ribs. His pectoral muscles twitched then began to swell outward, pushing against the tight red and blue fabric of his suit. Peter looked down in horror as his once lean chest ballooned into two thick slabs of muscle. The suit stretched then tore straight down the middle with a loud rip, exposing smooth tanned skin that had never been there before.

"No! Stop this!" Peter shouted but his voice cracked and deepened on the last word, turning into a rougher growl.

The growth spread fast. His shoulders broadened with loud pops as bone and muscle expanded. Traps rose up thick and powerful on either side of his neck. His biceps ballooned outward, straining the remaining sleeves of his costume until the fabric shredded away completely. Veins stood out like ropes across the new peaks of muscle. Peter could feel his forearms thickening too, his wrists becoming solid and heavy. He tried to clench his fists but they felt bigger, stronger, like they could crush steel without any effort.

His abs tightened next. The flat stomach he had always been proud of for its quiet definition exploded into a ridged eight pack that looked carved from stone. Each ridge deepened and hardened as the magic poured through him. His waist stayed narrow but the V shape of his obliques cut sharp and dramatic, leading down toward his hips. The suit was hanging off him in tatters now, barely covering anything.

Peter staggered as his legs began to change. His quads swelled outward, ripping the blue leggings apart in long tears. The muscle packed on thick and heavy, making his thighs rub together with every small shift of weight. His calves ballooned into diamond shapes and his feet stretched longer, wider, snapping the boots right off. He grew taller too, inch by inch, until he stood at a solid six foot four, towering over the spot where he had been moments ago.

Grimwald watched with satisfaction, his purple eyes gleaming. "Feel it, boy. Feel your body become worthy of true power. No more scrawny little nerd hiding behind a mask. You are becoming a god among men."

Peter tried to fight the sensations but they felt too good. The warmth turned into a rush of pure strength flooding every fiber. His back widened into a thick V shape, lats flaring out like wings. His ass tightened and lifted, rounding into two powerful glutes that strained against the last scraps of his suit. Even his cock was changing, thickening and lengthening inside the torn remains of his underwear until it sat heavy and full against his thigh. A low groan escaped his lips, deeper and cockier than anything Peter had ever sounded like before.

His face was next. Peter reached up with his massive new hands and felt his jawline sharpen, squaring off into a strong masculine cut. His cheekbones lifted higher. His nose straightened into a perfect arrogant ridge. His lips grew fuller and his eyebrows thickened into a permanent cocky arch. His messy brown hair shortened on the sides and styled itself into a neat fade on top with just enough length to look effortlessly cool. A light stubble appeared along his jaw, giving him a rugged edge that screamed trouble.

Inside his mind the changes hit even harder. Peter tried to hold on to who he was. He thought of Uncle Ben. He thought of Aunt May. He thought of MJ and Ned and all the times he had risked everything to do the right thing. But those memories were sliding away like water down a drain.

New thoughts pushed in, replacing them. Flashes of shoving kids into lockers back at school. Of laughing while teachers yelled at him because they knew they could not touch him. Of eyeing every hot girl in the hallway like she already belonged to him. He felt his grades slipping in his head, math and science blurring into nothing while memories of football practice and weight room sessions took their place. He was never the smart one anymore. He was the guy everyone feared and wanted to be.

"Why am I even thinking about that nerd stuff?" Peter muttered, his voice now a deep confident baritone. "That crap is for losers."

Grimwald laughed softly. "Yes. Let it go. You were never meant to be a hero. Heroes are weak. You are going to take what you want. You are going to rule this city the way it deserves to be ruled."

Peter (no, that name already felt wrong somehow...) tried to protest, but the words simply would not come. His old heroic streak was crumbling. In its place rose a cruel, selfish arrogance that felt natural and right. He wanted girls on his arm. He wanted respect through fear. He wanted power, not to protect people but to make them bow. The idea of being Spider-Man now seemed pathetic. Webs? What kind of lame power was that anyway? He did not need them. He had strength. Real strength. And his senses were sharper than ever, the spider sense still tingling but now it only warned him about threats to his own dominance.

The last of the Spider-Man suit dissolved into purple mist, leaving him standing there in nothing but a pair of tight black boxer briefs that had somehow appeared during the change. Grimwald waved his hand again and new clothes materialized around the massive body. A black tee stretched tight across his enormous chest, the fabric thin enough to show every ridge of muscle. A pair of dark blue jeans hugged his thick thighs and powerful ass. Heavy black sneakers appeared on his feet. A gold chain settled around his thick neck, completing the look of a total jock king.

Peter flexed one arm, watching the bicep peak high and hard. A dumb, cocky grin spread across his face. "Damn, I look good," he growled in appreciation. The cockiness radiated off of him.

Even his name was changing too. Peter Parker felt distant and lame. The new man inside him settled on... Pete Powers. Yeah. That sounded right. Pete Powers. The biggest, meanest bastard in New York. A thug, a bully, a king.

Grimwald stepped forward, offering a hand: "You are ready now. My perfect creation. Go out there and show this city what real power looks like. Become the villain they all fear. The most powerful man in New York."

Pete looked at the sorcerer for a long moment. Something in his dim new mind clicked. Why should he take orders from this guy? He was the strongest now. He did not need partners. He did not need anyone.

With a sudden surge of super strength Pete grabbed Grimwald by the front of his robe and lifted him clean off the ground like he weighed nothing. "Listen up, robe dude. I ain't your creation. I ain't nobody's anything but my own. You gave me this body, sure, and I appreciate it. But from now on I run the show. You get in my way and I crush you. Got it?" Grimwald's eyes widened in surprise but there was a hint of pride there too. He nodded once and Pete dropped him. "Good choice."

Pete turned and walked out of the warehouse, his heavy steps echoing. The night air felt cool against his thick arms but inside he burned with new purpose. He was done with saving people. Done with hiding. Tomorrow at school he would start by putting every nerd in his place.

Then he would move on to bigger things. Banks. Politicians. The whole damn city! He would have his way with every girl who caught his eye and laugh while their cuck boyfriends cried about it. He would become the super villain New York never saw coming. The most powerful man alive.

As he stepped into the street lights Pete Powers flexed both arms and let out a deep booming laugh that echoed off the buildings. His spider sense tingled faintly, warning him about nothing because nothing could touch him now. He was unstoppable. He was cruel. He was everything he was always meant to be.

The morning sun streamed through the window of the small bedroom in the Parker apartment, but the boy who woke up in it was no longer Peter Parker in any way that mattered. Pete Powers stretched his massive arms overhead, the white tank top from the night before riding up to expose the deep ridges of his eight-pack abs. His body felt incredible, every muscle thick and pumped like he had spent hours in the gym instead of sleeping.

He swung his heavy legs over the side of the bed and stood up to his full six-foot-four height, the floor creaking under his weight. A quick glance in the mirror showed the same cocky face he had seen last night: square jaw, high cheekbones, full lips curled in a permanent smirk, and that perfect fade haircut with just enough stubble to look like he did not care but knew he looked killer.

"Man, this is the life," Pete muttered to himself, his deep baritone voice filling the room. He flexed one bicep in the mirror, watching the peak rise high and hard, veins popping across it. No more skinny little nerd arms. These guns could bench a car if he wanted. His spider sense gave a faint tingle, but it was nothing, just background noise now. He did not need warnings. He was the danger.

Aunt May called from the kitchen, her voice sounding the same as always, but Pete barely registered it. "Breakfast is ready, Peter!"

He snorted. Peter? That name felt like it belonged to some loser from a bad dream. "Coming, May," he called back, but there was no warmth in it, just the bare minimum to keep her off his back. He pulled on a tight black T-shirt that stretched across his broad chest and traps, then stepped into a pair of jeans that hugged his massive quads and powerful ass like they were painted on. Heavy sneakers completed the look. He grabbed the gold chain from the nightstand and slung it around his thick neck. Perfect. Time to own that pathetic school.

By the time Pete strolled through the front doors of Midtown High, heads were already turning. Whispers rippled through the hallway like a wave. Students who had known Peter Parker as the quiet, lanky kid with the camera and the bad luck stared in open shock at the towering jock who now filled the corridor. His shoulders brushed both sides of the locker row as he walked, his steps heavy and deliberate. Girls giggled and bit their lips, eyes tracing the way his biceps strained the sleeves of his shirt and how his chest pushed the fabric tight enough to show every ridge. Pete caught a few stares and shot back a wink, his full lips curling into a smug grin.

"Like what you see, ladies?" he said loudly, not caring who heard. A couple of cheerleaders blushed and whispered to each other, but one bolder girl, Liz Allan, stepped a little closer as he passed. Pete did not break stride. He reached out with one massive hand and gave her ass a firm squeeze, pulling her in for a second. "You and me after school, babe. My car. Don't keep me waiting." She let out a surprised laugh but did not pull away, and Pete released her with a cocky chuckle, already moving on. Womanizing came natural now. Why settle for one when the whole school was his playground?

He spotted Flash Thompson first. The star athlete and bully of Midtown High was standing by his locker, laughing with a couple of his football buddies like he still owned the place. Flash had always been the big man on campus, the one who shoved Peter into lockers and called him names. But that was before. Pete's spider sense tingled lightly, picking up the faint scent of Flash's cologne and the nervous energy under his bravado, but Pete ignored it. He was bigger now. Stronger. Meaner.

Flash glanced up and did a double take. "Parker? What the hell happened to you, man? You look like you ate a whole gym."

Pete stopped right in front of him, towering over Flash by a good four inches. He reached out and planted one huge palm flat against Flash's chest, shoving him back against the lockers with casual super-strength. The metal dented slightly under the impact, and Flash's eyes widened in shock.

"Name's Pete Powers now, Thompson," Pete growled, his voice low and threatening but loud enough for the growing crowd to hear. "And you? You're done playing big shot. This school's got a new king, and it ain't some washed-up jock who peaked in sophomore year. That starting QB spot? It's mine now." He leaned in closer, his thick traps and shoulders blocking out the light. "You give me any lip, and I'll crush you like the bug you are. Got it?"

Flash tried to push back, but Pete's hand did not budge. It was like trying to move a brick wall. The football buddies shifted uncomfortably, not sure what to do. One of them muttered something, but Pete shot them a glare that shut them up fast.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, Park-- uh, Powers," Flash finally mumbled, looking away. His face was red with embarrassment. The big jock was truly humbled. Nothing more than a beta cuck bitch exposed by a true alpha!

Pete laughed, a deep booming sound that echoed down the hall, prompting even more heads to turn towards them. Everybody was in awe. He gave Flash one last hard shove before stepping back. "That's what I thought, loser."

The crowd parted as Pete kept swaggering through, his chest puffed out with arrogant pride. He was just getting started. Next up on his list of people to confront was Ned Leeds, the guy who used to be his best friend in that other life he barely remembered.

Ned was at his locker, fiddling with some science project model, oblivious as always. Pete's dim mind flashed with a quick memory of building Lego Death Stars or whatever nerd crap they used to do, but it felt stupid now. Weak. He strode over and slammed Ned's locker door shut with one hand, the metal banging loud.

Ned jumped, spinning around. "Whoa, what the—Peter? Is that you? Dude, you look… huge! What happened?"

Pete smirked down at him, crossing his massive arms over his chest so the biceps bulged even bigger. "Peter's gone, Leeds. Call me Pete. Pete Powers. And you? You're still the same pathetic little sidekick, huh? Playing with toys while the real men run things." He reached down and snatched the science model out of Ned's hands, holding it high like it was a worthless piece of junk. With a casual flex of his super-strength, he squeezed, and the model cracked and crumpled in his fist. Pieces fell to the floor as Ned stared in horror. "Hey! That took me weeks to build!"

Pete tossed the wreckage over his shoulder and stepped closer, backing Ned against the lockers. "Weeks on something dumb like that? Pathetic. You and your nerd friends are done hiding in the shadows. From now on, you stay out of my way, or I'll make sure you regret it every single day. Maybe I'll start by stuffing you in your own locker. How's that sound?"

Ned's face paled, but he tried to stand his ground. "This isn't you, man. Whatever happened, we can fix—"

"Shut it," Pete cut him off, jabbing a thick finger into Ned's chest hard enough to make him wince. "I don't need fixing. I need respect. And you're going to give it to me, starting right now. Bow down, nerd." He did not wait for an answer. He just turned and walked away, leaving Ned slumped against the lockers, the whole hallway watching in stunned silence.

By the time the bell rang for first period, Pete was already owning the school. He slouched in the back of every class, his long legs stretched out, ignoring the teachers who shot him dirty looks. They knew better than to push him now. His mind wandered during the boring lectures, the dim-witted haze making math and history blur into nothing.

Instead, he thought bigger. School was just the beginning. With this body and these powers, he could take the whole city. No more sneaking around like some masked clown. He would hit the banks first, use his super-strength to rip open vaults and super-senses to dodge any alarms or guards. Maybe he would find some other low-level villains and force them to work for him, or crush them if they got in his way.

Even better: Grimwald had given him a taste of real magic last night. He could use that! Pete smirked to himself. He would track that robe-wearing freak down soon enough and squeeze more power out of him. No partners. No equals. Just him on top.

During lunch he held court at the biggest table in the cafeteria, surrounded by the football team who now looked at him with a mix of fear and awe. Girls flocked around him like moths to a flame, laughing at his crude jokes and hanging on his thick arms. One - Flash's girlfriend, he was pretty sure - sat on his lap, her hand tracing the hard lines of his pecs through his shirt, and Pete grinned, pulling her closer for a deep kiss right there in front of everyone. Flash watched from across the room, fuming but silent. Ned ate alone in the corner, avoiding eye contact.

"This is just the start," Pete thought, his hand sliding down the girl's back as he flexed subtly for the crowd. "By the end of the week, this whole school district's mine. Then the streets. Then the whole damn city. Pete Powers is gonna be the most powerful man in New York, and anybody who stands in my way gets crushed." His spider sense stayed quiet, no threats, only opportunity. He laughed again, loud and cruel, and the sound carried through the cafeteria like a promise of the chaos to come. The night before had been the birth of something new. Today was the first day of his reign. And it felt damn good.

You stumble out of the glass doors of the corporate tower, the midday sun doing nothing to warm the ice in your gut. Another interview, another fucking disaster.

You're thirty years old with a freshly printed PhD in English Literature and the job prospects of a houseplant. Your shoulders slump, making you feel even taller and scrawnier than you already are. A lanky, six-foot-two frame with no muscle to fill it out, just a collection of awkward angles and limbs you never know what to do with.

The elevator dings behind you. You don't look back, just shuffle forward, mumbling under your breath, a pathetic mantra for the pathetic. "God, I just... just... would love to be a bit more confident and dishinibhited I feel like I need to take my life in a new path"

You bump into something solid. A wall of muscle in a red polo shirt and ridiculously tight red shorts. A devil logo is stitched over the heart. The guy—a delivery man, you guess—grunts, a low sound of annoyance. He smells like sweat and cheap cologne. You mumble an apology and scurry away, not seeing him pull a tarnished silver coin from his pocket, not seeing him flick it into the air with a practiced thumb.

TAILS.

The world doesn't just tilt on its axis; it fucking snaps. A white-hot spike, pure and sharp as a shard of glass, drives itself directly into the center of your brain. You don't just stumble; you collapse, your shoulder slamming against the cold brick of the office building as a guttural sound rips from your throat. "Fucccccck!" I

t's not a word, it's a noise, a primal expulsion of pure agony. This is a migraine born in the deepest, most sadistic circle of hell, a symphony of pain with every instrument set to "eardrum-splitting." Bile, hot and acidic, surges up your esophagus, and you gag, the sour taste filling your mouth. You squeeze your eyes shut so hard you see stars, but it's no use. The inside of your skull is an inferno, and you are the kindling.

And then the memories start to burn. Not fade, not drift away like a forgotten dream. They burn. The acrid smell of old comic book paper, the specific thrill of finding a mint-condition first issue, the careful, loving hours spent stitching your cosplay for Comic Con—they curl at the edges, blacken, and disintegrate into worthless ash

In their place, new memories erupt, raw and violent and utterly foreign. The sharp, punishing sting of a frozen football hitting your bare hands in the pouring rain. The deafening, animalistic roar of a stadium crowd. Your father's rough, calloused hand clapping your shoulder, his voice a gravelly command that feels like a physical blow:

"Hit harder, son. Stop being a pussy." The suffocating, soul-crushing boredom of a Sunday morning church service, the pastor's booming words about sin and damnation and the evils of the flesh echoing in your ears, not as metaphor, but as law.

"Fucccccck," you groan again, a pathetic, broken sound as you clutch your head, trying to physically hold it together.

It starts in your arms, a slow, deep, terrifying tightening. You force your eyes open and look down, your vision swimming, and see the skin of your forearms stretching like canvas over a new frame. Veins, thick and blue and angry, push to the surface, a roadmap of raw power you've never possessed. Your biceps swell, not with the soft bulk of a gym-goer, but with a dense, coiled strength that feels utterly alien, like you've been injected with concrete.

Your shoulders roll back on their own accord, your spine cracking and straightening, forcing you into a posture of aggression you didn't know you had. Your chest expands, pecs firming up and pushing outward, the fabric of your cheap dress shirt groaning in protest. A deep, pulling sensation rips through your core as your stomach clenches, soft flesh dissolving into a hard, braced slab of abs that feels like it's been carved from granite.

Panic, cold and sharp, cuts through the fog. No. This is wrong. This isn't me. 

You try to grab onto the old you, the real you. You remember shy, fumbling kisses with guys behind the stage curtain in high school, the giddy thrill of a first date with a boy from your lit class, late-night study sessions fueled by coffee and intellectual passion, the profound, soul-deep pride of defending your dissertation. You reach out, your hand clawing at the empty air, trying to physically hold onto the fragments of a life that's being stolen.

But then you see your arm. As you flex it, trying to grasp a memory that's already turning to smoke, you notice the way the bicep peaks, the solid, undeniable thickness of it. A flicker of something else cuts through the panic, something dark and seductive. Pride. Damn. I look fucking good. It's more than confidence. It's cockiness. An arrogant smirk tugs at your lips before you can stop it, a facial expression that feels as natural as breathing now.

New memories slam into place, hard and ugly, like fists to the face. You remember being nominated for Prom King. You remember losing. You remember, with crystal clarity, exactly who won. Some fag.

Some prissy, swishy theatre queen with painted nails and a voice that scraped your nerves raw. The word feels good in your mouth, powerful and right. 

 He didn't deserve that crown. You were the one who busted your ass on the field, the one who bled for that school, the one everyone should have been looking at. You were always trying so fucking hard, pushing, yelling, being the loudest, most obnoxious one in the room just so someone, anyone, would notice you. Would praise you. Would want to fuck you, not some lousy, limp-wristed faggot.

Your mind crumbles. Hate, thick and black and viscous, pours into the cracks. Bigotry, sexism, a casual, vicious homophobia that feels as natural as breathing now. But a tiny, dying ember of the old you screams. You fucking hate faggots.

But you know why you do it, don't you? A new, horrible voice whispers in your head, a voice that sounds like your father's. Because you are one. A fucking pathetic faggot.

NO.

The closet door slams shut with the force of a guillotine. The rage doesn't just boil over; it detonates. Fucking faggots. Ruining everything. The insecurity doesn't vanish; it curdles, twisting into a dark, possessive confidence.

You're not cocky because you believe in yourself. You're cocky because you're fucking terrified. Terrified someone will see the truth, see the cocksucker you are, see the weakness lurking underneath. You have to make them believe you're straight. You have to be the most toxic, masculine asshole in any room you enter.

Your clothes feel wrong now, tight in all the right places. The shirt stretches across your chest and arms, no longer hiding you but advertising the new muscle. You catch your reflection in a darkened office window and your breath hitches. T

he face staring back is yours, but it's not. The jaw is harder, squarer. The eyes are colder, a permanent, arrogant smirk etched onto your lips. Your hair, once a messy, nerdy flop, now looks intentionally styled, messy-but-controlled.

The world spins again, a sickening, nauseating lurch. The street, the sky, the city—it all dissolves. You're not on the street anymore. You're in a room. A dorm room. It smells like cheap air freshener and cum and stale beer. No, no, this can't be happening.

You look around in disgust. Posters of half-naked women on the walls. A stack of weights in the corner. This isn't your room. But then you feel it. A wet, insistent, incredible heat on your dick. You look down. Some eighteen-year-old twink is on his knees in front of you, swishy brown hair falling into his eyes, a tight little bubble butt that you currently have a thick, meaty hand clamped onto. He's sucking your cock like his life depends on it.

And as he sucks, you feel it shrinking.

Inches melting away. Not just your cock, but your whole body. The world seems to grow around you as you dwindle, the powerful muscle compacting, your height dropping, dropping, dropping until you're a 5'4" runt. A fucking idiot with a Napoleon complex and a three-inch dick. The rage intensifies, a burning, all-consuming fire. You hate him. You hate how he looks. You hate how much you want him. You hate yourself for wanting him.

"Fucking... take it," you hear yourself growl, the voice a low, gravelly snarl. "You little bitch."

The twink moans around your shaft, and the vibration sends a jolt through you. New thoughts, ugly and toxic, flood your mind. This is what they're for. All these fags, walking around like they own the place. They just need a real man to put them in their place. Make America Great Again. Fucking snowflakes and libtards, letting this shit happen. Back in my day... But when was your day? The thoughts feel implanted, downloaded, a script for a role you never auditioned for.

You feel the last of your old life—your PhD, your name, your identity, the memory of your mother's gentle smile—get sucked out of you along with a massive flood of cum that erupts from your shrunken cock and shoots down the twink's throat. It's a violation and a release all at once. He pulls off, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and looks up at you with a smirk.

"Damn, Kyle," he says, his voice thick and condescending. "You always cum so much for such a little guy."

Your new name. Kyle.

You scream, but the sound that comes out is a guttural roar of pain and fury. You're twenty years old again, back at some shitty state school on a football scholarship. You're a loud, obnoxious, disgusting closet case. Straight-acting trade. A straight dude trapped in a faggot's body, a killer football body and as dumb as a bag of hammers.

Every textbook in your dorm room now looks like it's written in a foreign language, a jumble of symbols that makes your head ache with the effort of trying to understand. The pain recedes, leaving a hollow, roaring emptiness, and in that emptiness, only one thing remains. The lie.

"Get the fuck out," you snarl, your voice a low, dangerous growl that doesn't sound like it belongs to you. You shove the twink, hard. He stumbles back, landing on his ass with a surprised yelp, his eyes wide. He looks at you not with fear, but with a pathetic, wounded-puppy look that makes your skin crawl. You hate that look. It's weak. It's everything you're fighting against.

"Fucking faggot," you scream. The question is, are you talking about, the twink, or the pathetic, short, angry man standing there.

You don't have an answer. You just know you hate all of them. You grab your gym bag. You need to lift. You need to hit something. You need to feel the burn in your muscles, the pain that drowns out the noise in your head. You need to become someone else, someone harder, someone who doesn't feel this. Someone who can't be broken.

Something different lol. No gay to straight or lib to con to this but its the corruption of a hero to villain so still fits the theme of my blog. Bad guys win, after all! ;)

The air in the transformation chamber was heavy, saturated with the acrid tang of ozone and the faint, sickly sweet scent of Sith alchemy. Crimson light pulsed from the walls, casting long shadows that danced like specters across the durasteel floor. Obi-Wan Kenobi, once a beacon of Jedi resilience, lay sprawled across a frigid, unyielding table. His wrists and ankles were bound by restraints that hummed with a low, menacing energy, their warmth pressing into his skin in a way that was both confining and disturbingly intimate. His capture had been swift—a trap sprung on a desolate Outer Rim moon, where Imperial forces overwhelmed him with numbers and treachery. Now, stripped of his robes and dignity, he was little more than a specimen, his body bruised and trembling from exhaustion.

Above him loomed Emperor Palpatine, his hooded silhouette a monument to malevolence. His yellow eyes glinted with a predatory lust—not merely for power, but for the act of breaking a soul so pure. "You were a fine instrument, Kenobi," he rasped, his voice a serpentine whisper that coiled around Obi-Wan’s senses. "But even the finest tools can be reshaped, refined… perfected."

With a flick of his gnarled hand, Palpatine summoned the machine to life. It was a grotesque fusion of Imperial technology and ancient Sith sorcery, a hulking apparatus of gleaming metal and dark energy. Needles, long and slender, their tips glistening with a faint phosphorescent sheen, descended from the machine’s underbelly. They hovered momentarily above Obi-Wan’s flesh—his temples, his chest, the tender insides of his thighs—before plunging deep. A raw, guttural scream ripped from his throat as the needles pierced him, their entry a violation that sent fire racing through his veins.

The pain was immediate, a searing inferno that consumed every nerve. Yet, woven into this agony was a thread of something else—something perverse and inescapable. The serums flooding his bloodstream were laced with potent aphrodisiacs, engineered to awaken his senses and meld suffering with ecstasy. As the needles vibrated, their rhythm a cruel mimicry of a lover’s touch, Obi-Wan’s body betrayed him. His muscles clenched and released in waves, a shuddering dance of torment and pleasure. Heat bloomed where the needles kissed his skin, radiating outward until his entire being thrummed with an unwanted, intoxicating sensation.

Palpatine’s voice slithered into his mind, a constant presence amidst the chaos. "Feel it, Kenobi. The pain, the pleasure—they are one. Resist, and you prolong your suffering. Surrender, and you will be reborn."

The machine’s dark tendrils unfurled, their energy crackling as they coiled around him. They were invasive, their touch both punishing and seductive, sliding across his chest, teasing the edges of his scars, and dipping lower to graze the sensitive hollows of his body. Each contact sent jolts of sensation through him, blurring the boundaries between agony and arousal. His mind, already fracturing under the assault, was probed by Palpatine’s sorcery. Memories—of Anakin’s bright smile, the quiet halls of the Jedi Temple, the weight of his lightsaber—flickered and faded, dissolving into a haze of static and forgotten echoes.

In their place, new images surged forth, vivid and intoxicating. He saw himself clad in sleek, black Stormtrooper armor, his form commanding and statuesque, leading legions with an iron will. Each vision was accompanied by a rush of narcotic bliss, his body arching against the restraints as a moan escaped his lips. The machine amplified this, its tendrils tightening around him, their warmth pressing harder, coaxing his surrender. Palpatine’s words burrowed deeper: "You are no longer a relic of a dead order. You are TK-1138, a commander forged in the Emperor’s will."

The conditioning was relentless. Obi-Wan’s humility, once a cornerstone of his being, was burned away, replaced by a swelling narcissism. He was the Empire’s masterpiece, a being of unparalleled strength and beauty. The machine rewarded this acceptance, stimulating neural pathways tied to pleasure whenever he embraced his new identity. His screams softened into gasps, his resistance crumbling as the lines between self and creation blurred.

But Palpatine’s artistry was not content with mere loyalty. The serums and sorcery wove a darker thread into his psyche—a perverse craving for submission and humiliation. "You will find ecstasy in serving," the Emperor purred, his voice a velvet lash. "In offering yourself to those greater than you, you will know your purpose."

The machine reinforced this with imagined scenarios, vivid and relentless. In his mind’s eye, he knelt before Darth Vader, his armor discarded, his body bare and trembling as the Dark Lord’s gloved hand seized his throat. He saw himself prostrate before Grand Moff Tarkin, pleading for commands, his skin flushed with desire. Most intoxicating of all was Palpatine himself, his withered fingers tracing Obi-Wan’s flesh, each touch a promise of degradation and bliss. The tendrils mirrored these fantasies, their caresses growing bolder, stroking and teasing until his body responded with a fervor he could no longer deny.

Physically, the transformation was a sensual reconstruction. The serums sculpted his body, erasing the lean austerity of a Jedi for the chiseled power of a warrior. His chest broadened, muscles rippling beneath taut, sweat-slicked skin. His abs tightened into a grid of strength, each breath accentuating their definition. His once-auburn hair was shorn to a severe military crop, framing a face now sharp and predatory, his eyes glinting with a hunger that was both commanding and submissive. The scars from the needles—faint lines across his temples, chest, and thighs—were a map of his rebirth, their faint pain a constant aphrodisiac.

The restraints were instruments of conditioning, their heat pulsing against his wrists and thighs, tightening in a rhythm that mimicked a lover’s grip. Palpatine’s withered hands would linger on these scars during the process, tracing them with a grotesque tenderness that sent shudders of pleasure through Obi-Wan’s body. The serums heightened his libido, his erection throbbing even through the pain, his body betraying him as it responded to the machine’s invasive caresses. By the end, TK-1138 was a physical ideal—beautiful, powerful, and hypersensitive, his body a canvas for conquest and submission.

Ideologically, TK-1138 was reborn as a zealot of the Empire. The machine implanted a doctrine of supremacy, each session reinforcing his belief that the galaxy belonged to the strong, and he was their instrument. “The Empire is order, purpose, perfection,” he would murmur, his voice fervent as the machine rewarded his loyalty with waves of pleasure. His Jedi principles of compassion were replaced with a ruthless devotion to control, his narcissism a cornerstone of his new ideology. He saw himself as the Empire’s chosen, a commander destined to crush rebellion and enforce the Emperor’s will. Yet, Palpatine’s sorcery wove a darker thread: true loyalty was proven through submission, his greatness measured by his willingness to serve his masters in every way. This duality—dominance over the galaxy, submission to his superiors—became his core, each act of cruelty mirrored by his private hunger for degradation.

When TK-1138 emerged, clad in sleek black Stormtrooper commander armor, he was a stranger to himself, unaware of the Jedi he once was. His reflection in the polished durasteel was a shrine to his narcissism, his chiseled jaw and piercing gaze a testament to his perfection. “I am the Empire’s blade,” he declared, his voice rich with conviction, “born to serve its glory.” Beneath this arrogance burned a secret fire—a need to kneel, to be used, to be defiled by the Empire’s elite, his body and mind a perfect vessel for their desires.

On the scorched plains of Dathomir, TK-1138 stood as a dark deity, his black armor gleaming under the blood-red sky. His battalion of Stormtroopers, a thousand white-armored drones, knelt in reverence, their loyalty feeding his narcissistic pride. The Nightsister clans had defied the Empire, and he was their executioner. “Burn their groves,” he commanded, his voice a cold lash. Turbolasers obliterated sacred sites, the screams of Nightsisters a perverse music to his ears. He strode through the carnage, his blaster cutting down warriors with lethal grace. 

His cruelty was a calculated art, designed to shatter spirits and cement terror. On Kashyyyk, he enslaved Wookiee clans, his laughter a blade as he watched families torn apart, their roars of anguish a testament to his dominance. “The Empire brings order to chaos,” he proclaimed to his troops, his voice fervent. “We are its strength, its destiny.” On Ryloth, he orchestrated public executions, their screams broadcast to break resistance. “To serve the Empire is to live with purpose,” he declared, his eyes glinting with zeal. His Stormtroopers worshipped him, their adoration fueling his narcissism, his campaigns a relentless march of Imperial terror across the galaxy.

Aboard the Executor, TK-1138 was summoned to Vader’s private chamber, a cavern of shadow and steel where the air thrummed with the rhythm of the dark lord’s mechanical breathing. Vader stood by the viewport, his imposing frame a monolith against the stars. The sound of his respirator quickened TK-1138’s pulse, each exhale a command that tugged at his core.

“You have served competently, Commander,” Vader rumbled, his voice a seismic force that vibrated through the floor. “But competence is a low bar.”

TK-1138 advanced, his boots clicking with purpose. He sank to one knee, his posture a blend of military precision and unspoken invitation. “My lord,” he said, his tone low and thick with yearning, “I live to serve the Empire… and you.”

Vader turned, his mask an impenetrable void. “Is that so?” he replied, a thread of dark amusement weaving through his words. “Then demonstrate your devotion.”

TK-1138’s breath caught, his hands moving to the clasps of his armor with deliberate slowness. Plate by plate, he shed his shell, revealing a body honed by war and marked by the chamber’s cruel artistry. His erection stood proud, a testament to his need. He knelt again, his gaze fixed on Vader’s mask. “Command me, my lord. Shape me to your will.”

Vader’s gloved hand seized his chin, forcing his head upward with bruising strength. “You are nothing,” he growled, his grip tightening. “A tool to be wielded and cast aside.”

The words were a lash that thrilled him, his body trembling with delight. “Yes, my lord,” he whispered, his voice raw. “Wield me. Shatter me.”

Vader released him, stepping back. “Strip fully,” he ordered.

TK-1138 obeyed, peeling away the last of his garments until he stood bare, his skin prickling under the weight of Vader’s unseen stare. “Kneel,” Vader commanded, and the loyal Empire soldier dropped to his knees, his head bowed in reverence. Vader circled him, a predator savoring its prey. “You were once more than this,” he mused, his tone a cryptic taunt. “Now, you are mine.”

The vague allusion stirred something in TK-1138, a flicker he couldn’t grasp, but it only deepened his arousal. He leaned forward, pressing his lips to Vader’s boots, his tongue tracing the leather in worship. Vader’s hand tangled in his hair, yanking him up to his knees. “Look at me,” he demanded.

TK-1138 met the mask’s gaze, his eyes alight with lust and adoration. Vader’s fingers brushed his lips, then pressed inside, the leather cool against his tongue. He sucked eagerly, his own arousal pulsing as he surrendered to the act.

“You are a fine creation,” Vader said, his voice a low growl. “And I will use you as I please.”

Vader withdrew, positioning himself behind TK-1138. He forced the commander onto all fours, his hands roaming with possessive intent. Slick fingers teased his entrance, drawing a whimper from his throat. “Beg,” Vader commanded.

“Please, Lord Vader,” TK-1138 gasped, his voice breaking with desperate need. “Take me. Claim me.”

Vader entered him with a single, brutal thrust, the fusion of pain and pleasure wrenching a cry from TK-1138’s lips. The dark lord’s rhythm was merciless, each movement driving him deeper into submission. It wasn’t long before his climax tore through him, his body shuddering as he spilled onto the deck, left as nothing more than a slave to Vader’s will.

TK-1138’s transformation (and the ultimate destruction of the man who had once been Obi-Wan Kenobi, a respected Jedi Master and member of the Jedi High Council) was complete, his former self left as nothing more than a forgotten shadow. He stood at the forefront of the Empire’s crusade, a relentless hunter of the Rebellion and the scattered Jedi who dared to defy the new order. He led a purge of rebel cells, his blaster cutting down insurgents with merciless precision. 

“The Rebellion is a cancer,” he spat, his voice thick with hatred as he complied with Darth Vader’s order to execute a captured Jedi. “The Jedi are relics, unworthy of the Empire’s vision. I am its enforcer, its truth.” The stormtroopers under TK-1138’s command cheered, their adoration a balm to his narcissistic soul, but his true ecstasy lay in the shadows of power.

In private, TK-1138 offered himself to the Empire’s elite, his body a willing sacrifice to their desires. Aboard the Executor, he knelt before Darth Vader, his naked form trembling with anticipation. “My lord,” he whispered, his voice thick with lust, “use me. The Empire is my purpose, and serving you is my joy.” Vader used the Force to choke TK-1138, a reminder of his place, until the Stormtrooper commander reached climax. In Tarkin’s office, he crawled, begging to be broken, his moans echoing as the Grand Moff took him with cold precision. “The Empire is order,” he gasped, his body shuddering in release.

Even lesser officers—admirals, generals—found him pliant, his submission a testament to his devotion. “Any man of the Empire may claim me,” he murmured, his eyes alight with fervor, “for serving you is my life’s meaning.”

In the throne room, Palpatine’s touch was his ultimate reward. “The Rebellion will fall, the Jedi will burn,” TK-1138 vowed, his body arching under the Emperor’s cruel ministrations. “I am yours, Master, forever.” His climax was a prayer, his submission absolute.

TK-1138’s hatred for the Rebellion and Jedi was a fire that burned brighter with each victory. He hunted them with a zealot’s fervor, each kill a tribute to the Empire’s glory. “They are nothing,” he sneered, standing over a fallen rebel, his blaster still smoking. “The Empire is all.” In his quarters, he bound himself, imagining Vader’s grip, Tarkin’s commands, Palpatine’s lightning, his body shuddering in ecstasy as he whispered, “Serving the Empire is my purpose, my salvation.” 

Unaware of the Jedi he once was, TK-1138 was wholly the Empire’s creation—a blade of cruelty and desire, his every act a testament to Palpatine’s unholy artistry, his submission to Vader and the Empire’s elite the truest expression of his eternal devotion.

I've had my fair share of crappy work uniforms. When I worked at the corndog stand at the mall, they made me wear a lame striped shirt with a matching dorky hat. My last job as a server, they made everyone wear a giant sparkly name tag that lit up in bright letters. And the worst of them all was when I had to dress up as the giant dancing rat as a pizza place's mascot to entertain the customers. But unlike all of those, I very much enjoy my new job's uniform. Honestly its the best part of the job.

When I got hired at Alphalete, I didn't think I'd really fit into the culture. The gym was full of heavily muscled bros who looked like they work out for a living. Not only were the customers all jacked, but the employees themselves were an army of Spartan soldiers, looking ready for combat with their chiseled bodies. Honestly, while I was being interviewed, I had to put all my focus on the job ahead to not get distracted by the interviewer's massive set pecs poking from his collared shirt. So much more different than my more slender, untoned body. Compared to them, I was a stick with no muscles that could break with the slightest push. Even though I was sure I bombed it, the next day I got the call and the job was mine.

Going in on my first day, I had no idea what was in store. They told me to wear 'casual clothing' cause a uniform would be provided. When I arrived, a man similar to my physiche was there waiting for me. His messy brown hair and the way it looked like the shirt he was wearing was two sizes too large gave me a breath of relief; not everyone who worked here was some muscled adonis. He greeted me like we had met, but I had never seen his face before. Still, he asked me to follow him to the back, where he would show me my uniform.

"Today, we have you on a probationary period as you get used to the training and services we offer. Your job is to give simple guidance to the folks here, offer spotting, and familiarize yourself with the facilities." As he led me through the area accessible only to employees, I pondered how I would be able to help anyone lifting weights that were probably heavier than me. We finally arrived at a door labeled uniforms, and as I followed him inside, I was shocked to find walls of racks, hang upon them were what looked like naked heavy-set muscled bodies.

I was about to run away in terror when the guy next to me smiled, "No need to fret, they are not real people or anything! These are just the company-issued uniforms." It took me a moment to calm down and hear him out. Apparently, the secret of this gym is that not all the trainers and instructors who work here are strong in the traditional sense. As a motivator for the customers to reach their goals, all the employees wore these high-tech silicone bodysuits built with strength enhancers. That way, the gym can hire anyone regardless of body limitations, and the customers are more motivated to return. As he was saying that, the person demonstrated slipping on the suit and accompanying handsome mask, turning into the buff interviewer I had met before! His shirt now fit his new body, hugging the chest with his pepperoni-nipples poking through the fabric.

He pointed towards someone sitting passively on a chair. From his blank stare at the wall and lack of movement, I concluded that this was another uniform. "Here, this suit has just come in, just like you! Standard issue trainer body. Should allow you to perform all the tasks you need for your first day."

As I stared at the handsome man waiting for me to arrive, the red 'Alphalete' shirt and Under Armour compression pants barely containing the shredded muscles underneath, I couldn't help but smile hungrily. This, for sure, would be the Best Work Uniform I've ever gotten to wear.

The words echo in your mind the same way they did the first time Qifrey spoke them, low and steady, that gentle smile never quite reaching the sharp edge in his eye. Back then you’d been an outsider who’d glimpsed too much, heart hammering as magic spilled across your skin like spilled ink. Now the atelier is quiet, the other apprentices long asleep, and you’re alone with him again.

You remember nodding. Swearing. Promising.

Qifrey’s fingers brush your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. The same calm, scholarly tone he uses when teaching glyphwork slips into something darker, hungrier. “Good girl. You’ve been so careful… but I need to be certain you understand what that promise truly means.”

His hand slides down without hesitation, palm warm through the thin fabric of your clothes before he pushes beneath the waistband. Long, ink stained fingers dip into your pants, cupping the heat between your thighs. The heel of his hand presses firm against your cunt while two fingertips part your folds, stroking the slick skin he finds there in a way that feels anything but innocent.

A soft, shaky exhale leaves you. His thumb circles your clit once, twice, lazy.

“Shh,” he murmurs when your hips twitch and your hand grips his forearm, soothing mentor voice now hungry, predatory. “Not a sound. Not to anyone. This secret stays between us… just like the rest.”

He sinks one long finger inside you without warning, curling it deep while his palm grinds against your clit. The stretch is perfect, practiced, and you bite you lip to keep from moaning. His other hand stays at the nape of your neck, thumb stroking the pulse point there, gentle pressure that reminds you how easily he could tighten it.

“Wet already,” Qifrey observes quietly, almost fondly, pumping his finger in a slow rhythm that makes your knees threaten to buckle.

He adds a second finger, scissoring them open, stretching you while his breath ghosts warm against your ear. The atelier’s candlelight flickers across his silver hair and the sharp line of his jaw; the gentle, trustworthy teacher facade is still there, but the hunger underneath is unmistakable for the man who bends rules, who keeps dangerous secrets of his own, and who has decided you are one more secret he intends to claim completely.

“Tell me,” he whispers, curling his fingers against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes, “can you stay silent for me if I give you something more? Something bigger?”

You barely manage to breath, teeth nearly breaking the flesh of your lip as his fingers drag again and again. Your thighs clench around his hand, slick sounds barely muffled by the heavy fabric of your clothes and the quiet of the atelier. Still you squeeze your eyes shut and nod.

Qifrey’s smile curves, slow and satisfied. “That’s my good girl.”

He withdraws his fingers, leaving you clenching around nothing, aching. You watch, pulse roaring in your ears, as he brings those glistening digits to his lips and licks them clean with a low, appreciative hum. Then his hands are on your hips, turning you, guiding you forward until your palms brace against the sturdy wooden table where he so often corrects your spellwork during the day.

The cool night air kisses your skin as he tugs your pants down pooling around your ankles. You hear the soft rustle of his own robes parting, the quiet click of his belt. His cock presses against you a moment later, thicker than his fingers had prepared you for. The head nudges your slick entrance, teasing, coating himself in your wetness while his chest molds to your back.

“Remember,” he murmurs right against your ear, one hand sliding up to cover your mouth firmly, the other gripping your hip hard enough to pepper it in fingertip sized bruises. “Not a sound. Secrets this sweet must stay ours alone.”

He pushes in, cock atretching you open until your eyes water, choked whimper muffling against his palm. Qifrey groans softly, the only sound he allows himself, burying himself to the base, the soft scratch of his curls pressed against your ass, holding still for a long torturous beat, feeling every inch of him, cunt so full you struggle to gulp down air.

Then he moves.

Slow at first, savoring the tight heat of your cunt squeezing around him, each drag pulling a fresh rush of slick down your thighs, dripping. His hand over your mouth muffles the desperate noises you can’t quite suppress as he picks up pace, hips snapping harder, deeper. The table creaks faintly beneath your braced arms, candlelight dances across the scattered pens and half drawn glyphs.

“Perfect,” he pants against your neck, teeth grazing the skin there. “So perfect or me…” His free hand slips between your legs again, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts and your eyes roll.

The pressure builds fast, his cock pounding into you, the wet slap of skin on skin barely concealed, his fingers working your clit until your legs shake. Qifrey’s breath grows ragged against your ear, his usual composure cracking just enough for you to feel the raw hunger underneath.

Your climax crashes over you without permission, white hot, walls fluttering and clenching around his cock, biting down on his palm to stay quiet. He fucks you through it, drawing it out until you’re trembling and oversensitive, tears leaking free as your hands scrabble at the table, deep grooves forming in the grain.

“-ifrey!”

When your composure breaks, he buries himself to the hilt with a low, stifled moan, cock pulses inside you as he spills deep, flooding your cunt while his hand stays sealed over your mouth, keeping you both silent in the aftershocks.

He doesn’t pull out right away. Instead he stays pressed against you, breathing steady once more.

He moves through the world like he was never meant to be perceived. Six-foot-four of solid weight, and still he makes no sound- boots on concrete, boots on hardwood, boots on the shitty carpet and there’s no creak, no scuff. Just the occasional low grunt when he’s forced to answer a question, and even then it’s the bare minimum.

Until he’s inside you.

The second the blunt, flushed head of his cock presses against your cunt and starts to push in, something in him fractures. The stretch is obscene, always is. He’s thick enough that your body has to work for it, plush walls yielding inch by inch while your thighs tremble around his hips. And that’s when the first sound rips out of him.

A whimper, low and broken, like it hurts to feel this good.

His hands are braced on either side of your head, arms shaking with the effort of going slow, ragged drag of breath through clenched teeth as he sinks deeper, deeper, until his hips are flush against the soft give of your ass and he’s buried to the hilt in the tight, wet heat of you.

“Fuck- !”

It’s barely a word. More a punched out groan. His forehead drops to yours, burning against your skin for half a second before he turns his face into your neck and the he moves.

And Simon Riley- quiet, deadly, minimum words Simon Riley- babbles.

Every thrust causes a low, desperate moan when you clench around him. A sharp, bitten off whimper when the head of his cock drags over that spot inside you that makes your vision white out. His hips roll in deep, grinding strokes at first, like he’s trying to savor it, make it last, but the second you hook your ankles behind his back and pull him closer, the control shatters.

“Christ- fuckin’ hell, loveie- ” His voice is thick and slurring. “So good- s’fuckin’ good- can’t- can’t think- ”

One hand slides down between your bodies, palm spreading wide over the soft meat of your thigh, fingers sinking in hard, holding you open so he can watch the way your cunt stretches around his cock on every thrust. The wet, filthy sound of it fills the room, skin on skin, punctuated by the broken noises falling from his mouth.

He doesn’t hold back, knows you can take him, the brutal pace, the way his heavy balls slap against you with every snap of his hips. Your body yields so perfectly under the weight of him, soft and warm and real, and it undoes him completely.

“Love this- love how you feel- fuckin’ love it- ” The words tumble out between ragged moans, half coherent, desperate. “So soft- gonna fuck you proper- Christ, you just take it- ”

Your walls flutter around him and he whines, high and needy, the sound muffled against your throat. His rhythm stutters, then picks up, fucking you harder, deeper, the bedframe knocking against the wall in time with his thrusts. You can feel every shaky exhale, every broken whimper vibrating through his chest where it’s crushed to yours.

“Gonna- fuck- gonna come if you keep- ah- keep doin’ that- ” He’s babbling now, voice cracking, hips driving into you. “Feels too good- too fuckin’ good- can’t- can’t stop- don’t want to stop- “

When he finally breaks, it’s with a ragged, drawn out moan, massive frame seizing up, hips grinding deep as he spills inside you in thick, pulsing waves. Stays buried, shaking, letting out these soft, helpless whimpers every time your cunt squeezes around him through the aftershocks.

Only when the last tremor passes does the silence creep back in.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just presses his face into the crook of your neck, breathing hard, one big hand stroking slow and soothing over your hip, body trembling, cock twitching inside you with every tiny aftershock.

Simon felt guilty for taking so long to trust his boyfriend with intimacy, only a few months ago did he start wanting to kiss or sleep in the same bed.. it was heavenly now that he was comfortable, he wakes up wanting kisses, and a good morning cuddle while pressing his face against his boyfriends neck.

He sat in front of Reader silently, he called him into their bedroom and they've been sitting in silence, he got choked up after trying to ask.

"Love, you don't have to be scared.. whatever's bothering you, I want to help.."

Reader spoke in a soft tone that melts away at Simons fear.

"I want.."

Simon starts, feeling ashamed n embarrassed for being so scared. He trusted Reader with his life for gods sake!

" I want to have sex."

Simon cursed himself internally for blurting it out like a desperate teenager.

Reader stared at him, stunned for a moment too long for Simons liking.

"Oh.. love, is this why you're so nervous?"

Reader took Simons hand and kissed his knuckles with a light chuckle

"I promise I'll take care of you my love. We'll take it slow.."

Simons legs tremble as he lay on their bed, back flat against the sheets knees up legs spread open, he feels exposed.

He feels Readers soft kisses on his thighs, his hands shake as he watches with wide eyes, pupils blown from the feelings rushing through his veins, his cock aching to be touched laying against his stomach, twitching with every kiss that Reader lays across his scarred skin.

Simons breath hitches when Reader slowly drags his tongue up his cock, whining pathetically, trying to keep his eyes on his Fiancés face as Reader licks n kisses up his cock to the head

"Feels good love?"

Reader loves seeing how flushed Simon was, how his eyes go watery as he bites at his lips to keep quiet.

"Mnh.."

Simon nods weakly, Watching Reader wrap his lips around the head of his cock

"Ahhgnn!"

Simon didn't know he could make such a pathetic sound. it ripped from his throat as his cock twitches against Readers tongue.

Maybe there's something to be said about his ability to identify you solely by your hands, the subtle and unique marks on them. Your hands wrapped around a silicone toy.

You. His fucking secretary. Advertising a new video on your private page, criminally undercharged if you ask him. Price glances at his locked office door, then back to the page on his phone. It's dark out, no one on base besides him and a handful of others who won't cross paths.

...he shouldn't.

It's irresponsible, immoral, and bound to get him in trouble when not if laswell finds out. But then you show off the squirting mechanism of the dildo and fuck it, price is too old to worry about consequences.

He pays for the full access, tells himself he's just supporting you when he scrolls to your latest video.

"Fuck! Mmhhh– ah!" Your moans fill the room, rough and ragged as you bounce on the toy. It's too easy to imagine his own cock sliding into you, making you gasp and groan on top of him.

You always use the same shampoo, a subtle scent he imagines now. The feeling of your palms against his chest, weight rocking him into the mattress.

Price cums embarrassingly fast, far sooner than he expected. He watches the rest of the video, of course, absently groping himself in the afterglow.

The sight of you popping off the toy and spilling an obscene amount if fake-cum has price clubbing up all over again. Christ, what he wouldn't do to be the one to fill you up. To touch you, to have you like that.

Synopsis: Ryland wants to kiss you really badly. It's embarrassing-- but what sucks more than waiting for something is once he does get it, he doesn't have it for long without interruption. You're too good to pass up, though, so he'll take it with at least a little grace.

WC: 5k.

AN: Wrote this in one sitting... yes it took me all day... yes my brain is fried... yes I will do it again tomorrow.

No pronouns mentioned, but, like usual, it was written with Male reader in mind.

Synopsis: When observing a new plant species of Erid's goes awry, both you and Ryland get spores spewed all over you-- and they certainly have an… effect. AKA: Ryland's fib gets both you and himself covered in what has the same effect of sex-pollen.

WC: 5.3k.

AN: Baby's first time writing smut... I got carried away, can you tell? Hah. I also wrote this in one sitting-- sorry, everyone, I'm a repeat offender. Sue me.

Not proofread, we die like Commander Yao.

Male Reader!