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just-jordie-things · 9 months

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[part twelve] to build a home - gojo satoru

word count: 5.1k warnings: !!manga spoilers!! swearing, jjk-verse style fighting series summary: when (y/n) (y/l/n) catches wind that the notorious sorcerer killer, toji fushiguro, has children, she makes it her personal mission to find them. the catch being she couldn't tell a soul about them- the risk of the zen'in clan learning about them was too great. keeping the secret isn't the hard part, it's lying to her friends, shoko ieiri, geto suguru, and of course gojo satoru, that she struggles with. especially when satoru has suddenly become so keen on keeping an eye on her lately.

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[part twelve] : “Those Who Regret, Those Who Deflect, and Those Who Defect” ___

Today was Wednesday.

(y/n’s) fingers drummed against the surface of her desk as she stared at the notebook before her. Today the entire page was filled with notes, but she hadn’t heard a word Yaga spoke as he blathered on with his lesson. The notes, dates, and ideas she’d written today were to help clear her overworking mind of the mess she’d gotten herself in.

Bus tickets? She wrote in small letters in a clear space in the corner of her page. She could probably afford two, at the least. But could she really send two kids off to who knows where?

She quickly crossed out the idea, hoping to forget it completely. There was nowhere she could send Megumi and Tsumiki that the Zen’in Clan couldn’t find them.

Her eyes flicked up to the front of the class, feigning attention. There was only twenty minutes of class, if she could just make it that long without getting called out for her lack of participation, then she could bolt out of there and work somewhere in private for the rest of the day.

Fake deaths? She wondered briefly how difficult it would be to fake a death. If we set fire to the house and flee the country, could that buy some time, at least?

She made a mental note to do a deep dive on how to get away with arson.

To her luck, Yaga had always been more of a lecturer of a teacher than one who encouraged participation. So as he droned on, it was easy to act as though she were diligently taking notes. But he was the only one in that classroom that hadn’t noticed (y/n’s) odd behavior. Or appearance, for that matter.

When she’d arrived, Shoko had already been in her seat, and her quiet greeting died in her throat as she eyed her friend up and down in pure concern. She’d never seen (y/n) so disheveled.

Her uniform was wrinkled, and the top few buttons of her collar weren’t even fastened. Not to mention her hair was clearly unwashed, thrown up with a clip secured at the back of her head- and she didn’t even seem to have the energy to do that properly. Some strands stuck out awkwardly, and some weren’t even scooped up by the plastic claws of the accessory.

Shoko hadn’t commented on it as she watched (y/n) take her seat and instantly pull out a notebook and pen, as though she had a massive workload to catch up on. The brown eyed girl chalked it all up to her mission. She wasn’t even supposed to be back to class today, so she must have been wiped out from the assignment, right?

Even though Shoko decided this must have been the case, she still gnawed on the inside of her cheek with anxiety every time she cast a glance (y/n’s) way during class. Something in Shoko’s gut told her she wasn’t trying to focus on her studies with the way she scribbled away in fervor.

Satoru had also noticed the storm cloud over (y/n’s) head as soon as he’d shown up to class. By the time he’d strolled in, his usual whole minute late, she’d already been hard to work in that notebook of hers. (y/n) wasn’t exactly a stickler for a perfect uniform and appearance, but she was never… messy.

His eyes trailed from the disheveled girl, to Shoko, who was already looking at him with a worried expression. It clearly told him something was wrong.

Sure, he knew that, he could see that, clear as day. (y/n) obviously wasn’t trying to hide it. And sure, seeing her in such a disheveled state was alarming enough to make his sour heart weaken for her. But when he sat in his seat and noticed Shoko still staring at him, as though asking him to do something, he shrugged his shoulders lamely, and avoided glancing in either of their directions for the rest of the day.

He had other troubles on his mind today, with his best friend being MIA.

It wasn’t surprising to Satoru in the slightest when (y/n) was out of the classroom as soon as Yaga had wrapped up his lesson for the day.

Satoru was next to rush for the door, but was stopped by a short statured Shoko, holding her books to her chest, and staring up at him expectantly, as if she wasn’t the one that got in his way.

He just sighs, and waits for her to speak her piece.

“This is crazy,” She gives in. “I can’t take all of this anymore. I mean, with Suguru, with (y/n), I’m going to lose my head” The admission comes out in a sardonic tone, but the look on her face tells him she’s about to cry.

“Shoko, I really don’t want to talk about the rumors. They’re just rumors” He tells her, and attempts to walk around her, but she’s quick to slide into his way again.

“Fine. Then let’s talk about (y/n),” She says, placing her hands on her hips.

Satoru fights the urge to groan and throw his head back. This was the last thing he wanted to do, but if he blew off Shoko he’d only upset her, and he was quickly running out of friends. So instead of pushing around her- which he could do with ease- he stays put and gives into the uncomfortable conversation.

“Look, she finally talked to me and… and I get it, okay?” Shoko’s voice turns soft with empathy. “I get that you’re upset, and just so you know, I do not support this either. I don’t know how she got caught up with the Zen’ins or why but-”

“Woah, backtrack,” Satoru held up his hand, which was enough to silence a now confused Shoko. His eyes are wide, and every feature of his face unmoving. Hearing the Zen’in name be brought up in a conversation regarding (y/n) made his blood run cold before freezing altogether. His mouth dried, cementing in the sour taste of bile. A minute passes, the two of them standing there staring at each other, each as shocked as the other, and neither knowing what to say now. “You didn’t just say Zen’ins, right?”

Blinking, her mouth opened to confirm, but as Satoru’s eye twitched with blossoming irritability, Shoko opted to nod her head instead as she fumbled to explain.

“Yeah… I thought… you didn’t know?” She failed to form much of a question at all, her brows furrowing.

��You thought I knew what she was up to!?”

His voice raises, not in anger with the girl in front of him, but with the one that had hidden some seriously detrimental information from him. Shoko’s flustering in front of him, having believed his fight with (y/n) was about the Zen’ins. Apparently, her best friend had finally picked up a knack for lying. Or maybe Shoko really wanted to believe that this time, it was the truth. Before she gets the chance to start over and explain the whole thing, Satoru’s ranting.

“Hell, Zen’ins?” He mutters, shoving his sunglasses into his hair as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “What fucking business does she have with them? And why wouldn’t she just come to me for help? God, she’s the most infuriating person, I swear when I find her-”

“Wait, Satoru,” Shoko’s shaking her head, her eyes blown wide in fear.

And also an unease that pumped straight from her heart and through her veins, realizing she now had to break to him.

“She’s not in trouble,” She says, only furthering Satoru’s confusion.

With his brows drawn together and his lips parted in disgusted confusion, he couldn’t think of a single explanation for how she couldn’t be in trouble. Business with the Zen’in Clan was certain trouble, that much was common sense.

“She’s…” Shoko starts, but trails off, too upset to be the bearer of bad news.

“She’s what?” Satoru nearly snaps at her, but fights the instinct to do so.

Shoko chews on her lip, wishing now that she’d never approached Satoru.

“She… she told me that this is what your fight was about,” She admits instead. “And it made sense, I’m so sorry, Satoru, I thought you knew. I thought she told you”

“Told me what?” He’s not usually one to beg, but he’s ready to get on his knees and plead with Shoko to spit it out already.

His eyes are piercing into hers with an intensity she’d rarely gotten to see up close, and she had to admit, the usual pretty cerulean was intimidating. Even to her.

“She’s seeing one of them”

It’s a whisper, as though she still couldn’t believe the news, even after almost a week of it keeping her up at night.

Satoru’s so still, she’s not sure he’s even heard her. He doesn’t so much as blink. He just stares at her.

Unsurely, and uncomfortably, Shoko clarifies.

“They’re courting her, I suppose,” She says, trying to speak louder, more clearly, but her voice refuses to rise above a whisper. “I guess for the last couple months-”

“No”

It’s the only thing Satoru says, and it seems he’s under the same curse, as it comes out under his breath. He shakes his head in a small motion of disbelief.

He’s reminded of the way it had felt when (y/n) had removed her hex from him, that small but distinct buzz of her cursed energy vanishing at her will. He remembered feeling empty once it was gone. As though it had nestled into a spot in his soul, and when she’d removed it, it left not a mark, but a hole. He’d lied about the sensation, as not to hurt her feelings. He wonders now if she’d offered the same pleasantry to him, lying so as not to hurt his feelings. If only she hadn’t been such a shitty liar.

Shoko’s eyes fill with tears as she watches in real time as he processes this information. Her heart breaks for him. Her heart breaks with his.

“I’m- I’m so sorry,” She stammers over her apology as tears burn in her throat and eyes. “I didn’t want to tell you like this- I- I really didn’t know that you-”

“Don’t be sorry,” Satoru cuts her off, his hand grabbing her elbow reassuringly, so that she knew he wasn’t upset with her.

She knows he means it, but the emotions swirling in his eyes were so bitter, she can’t help but frown. He’s taken on more bad news than he should have to bear, and she knows he’s strong, the strongest, but even the strongest could only carry so much. And besides, did being the strongest mean he deserved to take on all of this suffering? Did being the strongest mean he had to take on all of this pain?

“You didn’t know,” He says. “Thank you, for telling me”

With blurred vision, Shoko nods at him, before hastily wiping the tears from her eyes.

“We got in a fight because she didn’t want to take the Brazil assignment,” He finally confesses. “She didn’t have a good reason, and (y/n’s) always been a shit liar, so I figured it had to do with, well, that, I guess,” He mutters towards the end, but shakes his head again and keeps going. “She completely lost it. I’ve never seen her so mad, and I- I guess I didn’t help, but… but I just…” He sighs, taking the sunglasses off his head so he could run a hand through his hair.

“I know,” Shoko chimed in softly. “I was worried too”

“Why… why couldn’t she just tell me?” He asked, knowing there wasn’t an answer. Not one Shoko could give him anyways.

“I mean… it’s not like we’re taking this well” She half-jokes, but even the chuckle she attempts dies in her throat with an awkward croak.

“No, I’m upset, I’m… I’m pissed,” He admits. “But.. but if way back then she would have just said something…”

“I still would’ve been pissed,” Shoko says with confidence. “I don’t know who it is she’s seeing, I don’t know any details at all but I don’t need to,” She shrugs her shoulders limply. “I know she can’t possibly be in love with the guy, I mean-”

Before she can finish her thought, Shoko shuts her mouth immediately. Satoru didn’t need to hear her opinion on who was or wasn’t right for (y/n). It wasn’t important now, since she’d made her choice.

And it was almost as if she could see the heartbreak, the disappointment, and the jealousy in his eyes, mixing into a dangerously depressing cocktail.

“Sorry,” She mumbles sheepishly. “But… just so you know, I was rooting for you guys,”

Satoru blinks, his expression going blank with perfect precision of his microexpressions. Shoko and Suguru had spent a lot of time teasing him for the way he spoke about (y/n), or treated her, and sometimes even the way he looked at her. But he’d never actually admitted the way he’d felt about her, not out loud.

Clearly no matter how much he’d brushed off their comments with an eye roll or a joke, Shoko had seen through the act.

Or maybe she was only saying this now because she could see the way this news was hitting him directly in the heart. Had he really become so vulnerable, that he would be that easy to read? Was he really becoming this weak?

Shoko’s eyes are sad as she’s the one to reach out to him now, placing a hand on his shoulder and offering the tiniest of smiles.

“I really thought that you were growing into each other… you know?” She tells him gently. “She cared- cares,” She corrects herself quickly, and pauses to make sure she doesn’t make a mistake like that again. “She cares about you a lot, she needs you, you know”

There was a time when hearing this, Satoru might have gotten a little lovesick. Maybe he would have even done something about it, too. He could have sworn, somewhere between the playful banter, the nights he spent in her room, the alone time they had started sharing more and more, that she had felt the same way. He could have sworn. It couldn’t have all been in his head, it couldn’t have been fabricated, because she was there.

She was there when he took her to breakfast, and they strolled through the shops in Tokyo all day, laughing, chatting, and maybe even flirting. She was there when he’d wake her from her nightmares, holding her, comforting her, cooing to her until she’d fall back asleep. She was there for all the banter that ended with a gleam in her eye, for all of the times that he’d peek over to her only to find her eyes already locked on him. Whether or not she harbored the same feelings for him that he had for her, almost didn’t matter, because when those feelings of his would arise, she was there for it, so she had to feel it on some level, right?

Was it really all just a trick? None of it had been real?

“That’s not what she told me when she told me to fuck off,” He finally grumbles in bitterness. “I think it’s pretty fuckin’ clear just how much she-”

“Talk to her again” Shoko cut him off, her words quiet, but encouraging.

His brows furrow at her, silently asking her if she’s crazy.

“She doesn’t-”

“Try,” Shoko speaks over him again, pleading now. “Please, try. I can’t lose any more friends, Satoru. I can’t have you two fall apart, it can’t be like this forever,”

A tear slips down her cheek, and Satoru watches as it catches on her jaw and slides to her chin. By the time it drops, more tears are spilling from her eyes.

“I need us to be okay, I need us to stick together,” She admits, her whimpering voice cracking, but she doesn’t care about keeping her composure anymore.

All she could think about was how this choice (y/n) had made seemed to affect every single one of them, even though she’d chosen to keep it private. How much it had hurt her, and how much it was hurting Satoru now. If Suguru were here, Shoko was sure he would be upset about this predicament as well. The privacy, the lies, it only made things worse. Shoko didn't know where she stood with her anymore.

“We’re best friends,” Shoko mumbles. “Right?”

Satoru nods, and pulls her hand from his shoulder, only to reach his arms out and hug her tightly. Shoko wrapped her own arms around him in the same motion, clinging onto him and hoping he could feel every ounce of comfort and kindness she could possibly pour into the hug.

They don’t say anything. ___

As soon as (y/n) was in the privacy of her dorm, where she could lock her door and put the outside world on hold for a minute, she made her way to her desk.

Pulling open a drawer and lifting the mess of papers to reach underneath, she sighs as she pulls out the hidden envelope. There wasn’t much of a reason to be digging for it now, seeing as it’s contents were seared into her memory like a white hot brand, but something drove her to opening it once more.

The wax seal with the Zen’ins’ crest stamped into the fold of the envelope was still intact, but no longer keeping it glued shut. Any stickiness it once had was now worn away from overuse.

(y/n’s) fingers worked on muscle memory, her eyes shut as she pulled out the letter inside, unfolding it and smoothing the creases between the pads of her fingers. When her eyes opened, the same message was before her.

No matter how much she hoped it would change, it hadn’t. No matter how many times she's read it, it still held all the same letters, all the same punctuation, all the same slant of the crosses through the t's. Still, she wished it hadn't. She’d rather accept schizophrenic delusions than what this letter contained.

The sigh she let out racked through her whole body, bringing her into a slump over her desk.

Like clockwork, she scanned through the words. Hoping to catch something she hadn’t seen before, even though she’d given up sleep to read and re-read this letter, until her morning alarm had shocked her from her stupor.

Still, it remained the same.

It’s come to our attention that the child of Fushiguro Toji is being harbored at this household. If the boy has developed his cursed technique, he is to be returned to his proper place with the Zen’in Clan at once. Failure to do so will be treated as an act of defiance- and anyone involved will be punished to the fullest extent of Jujutsu Sorcerer Code. We expect him returned and in good health by three days.

Otherwise, we will take the matter into our own hands- and we will collect him.

- Naobito Zen’in

The amount of times her eyes have burned the image of his words into her mind is unknown to her, but after a few minutes she folds it back up neatly at it’s creases, tucks it back into it’s envelope, and carefully places it in it’s hiding spot at the bottom of her desk drawer.

It dawns on her that no amount of plotting and running would ever work. The Zen’ins were smarter than any plan she could come up with, no matter how thought out, no matter how perfect, they would always catch up to her. She alone wasn’t enough to outsmart them.

And even if she did, where did that put her? On the lamb with two kids that she could barely afford to support- who weren’t even hers, which was a whole other load of risks- and she’d have to say goodbye to being a jujutsu sorcerer. Best case scenario she works two jobs to pay bills, put food on the table, all while having to keep an eye over her shoulder for any sign of threat. This was all assuming the Fushiguro kids would even want her to do this.

It reminded her that she still had to decide what she was going to tell them about this letter- or if she was going to tell them about this letter. They weren’t nearly old enough for the whole truth, and if (y/n) was honest with herself, she wasn’t ready to tell them the whole truth.

Hell, I couldn’t even tell them their Dad was dead. They had to come to assume that on their own. Not that this news seemed to shock them, or bother them in the slightest.

Leaning over her desk and grabbing fistfuls of her hair, she tried to focus on one thought at a time. But with a mountain of issues and only three days to figure out how to get out of them, the anxiety was beginning to consume her more than ever before.

Running away wasn’t an option. She couldn’t win if she ran away. And besides, it wasn’t her style, she was never one to run from a fight.

This secret of yours, is it worth your life?

When Suguru had asked her this, she didn’t have an answer. When she’d returned to the Fushiguro household after her overseas assignment and had been overcome with relief that they had been safe in her absence, she was certain she’d do anything to protect them.

Now that this letter had found it’s way to her, she had her answer in mind. Crystal clear. In a void of anxiety, rage, and paranoia, it was a certainty she could anchor herself to.

This was worth her life. Megumi and Tsumiki, they were worth her life. She didn’t know it three months ago when she’d found them, that they would become such an important part of her life. She didn’t know it when she’d overheard the Sorcerer Killer briefly mention something about children- that she would be their sole provider and that she would step into the shoes he left at the door when he’d abandoned them. She never knew that deep down, there was a part of her that knew Tsumiki and Megumi were hers now.

(y/n) didn’t know that when she’d begun her search for them, eight months ago, that it had come with a vow to protect the both of them as if they were her own, and now it was time for her to keep her word, and do she had to in order to protect them.

Her feet moved on their own accord, it seemed, as she flew through the corridors and sidewalks of Jujutsu Tech’s campus towards the gym, concerning the few scattered underclassmen who hung around in the courtyard during their freetime.

The run was winding, but it was only a warm up compared to the rigorous training she was going to have to put herself through if she had even a chance of taking on the Zen’in Clan. ___

The swords strapped to (y/n’s) back never felt heavier.

In fact, until now, she’s not sure she’s ever noted their weight on her back. Maybe when she had first started practicing with them as a First Year. But it felt like ever since she’d first picked them up, she’d never felt a desire to put them down. With her cursed technique being difficult to master and not always reliable on an assignment, her weapons were her greatest strength, and she wielded them with a tremendous amount of comfort and confidence.

They were an extension of her. Like an extra set of limbs, her swords were something she could control on muscle memory, with no real though, no second guess, they swung through the air on their own accord. The moment she’d picked them up during her first year, they’d been her most prized possession.

Now, as she walked back to her dorm from her rough training session, she was all too aware of their weight.

Her hair that had been neatly tied up at the beginning of her workout was starting to come undone, messy strands falling around her face, a few sticking to the sheen of sweat that covered her forehead. No matter how many times she’d pushed them back, they’d fall again. Eventually, she gave into the minor annoyance and let the loose strands stick to her face. She was heading straight for the shower in her dorm, anyway.

Despite her heaving chest and aching muscles, it was a good session. Her assignment in Brazil had humbled her, reminded her that she had been avoiding training, instead spending most of her free time sneaking into town, and the rest of her free time trying to convince everyone around her that she wasn’t up to anything shady. That had been exhausting enough. Now she was going to throw her substantial and detailed training routine back into the mix.

With a groan, (y/n) rolled her shoulder, hoping she hadn’t actually pulled a muscle, but had just overworked one that hadn’t been properly used in a while. She brought her hand up to the junction between her arm and shoulder, feeling around as she stretched and rolled the tired limb, trying to gauge for herself if she’d need heat, or ice first.

It was a familiar holler of her name that pulled her from her internal debate, and she glanced toward the voice to see Yaga across the yard with his arm raised to get her attention.

Beside him, leaning against the wall of the building of now empty classrooms, was Satoru.

Both of them had their usual sunglasses perched on their noses, but only one of them seemed to be looking her way.

Puzzled, she slowly made her way over to them, wondering what business Yaga could have that involved the both of them. Satoru only went on solo missions these days, and there was no chance her teacher was shoving another assignment on her plate when she hadn’t scrubbed away the eye bags from the last one.

(Sure, she hadn’t done herself any favors, but he didn’t have to know that)

“I’m glad I caught you,” Yaga greeted when (y/n) was in earshot. Her eyes briefly shot from her teacher, to Satoru, who still wasn’t paying her any attention, and then back to Yaga. “Although I’m sorry to say it’s not great news I have for you two”

(y/n’s) brow furrowed in the slightest, at a loss with guessing what this could be about.

“Bad news?” She mumbled, more to herself than to either of the people beside her.

Yaga speaks, and (y/n) hears him. She takes in the words he says, follows the movement of his mouth and the microexpressions of his face as he speaks. There’s no background noise that he has to speak over, and his tone isn’t quiet. It’s clear, and certain. There’s no reason she shouldn’t register every word he says.

But he stops, and her ears are ringing, and her heart is beating so hard, so loud in her chest, that she finds herself mumbling, “what?”

“Don’t make me say it again,” Yaga sighs, and it doesn’t sound harsh like the words might imply. He sounds defeated. (y/n) can see in his face that he truly doesn’t want to repeat himself. With every fiber of his being, he doesn’t want to speak it into existence, thus acknowledging what he was saying was true.

Again, when he speaks, (y/n’s) expression remains frozen. Her eyes are wide, her jaw is dropped open, and at her sides, her hands are curling into fists. Any thought of her swords being heavy on her back have left her mind, as there is no physical weight greater than learning of the horrors someone you once loved was capable of comitting. It’s as though the rest of the world is disappearing little by little, and it’s just the three of them here, experiencing the same earth shattering revelation.

“Suguru fled after killing everyone in the village,”

(y/n) wants to turn to Satoru, maybe to gauge his reaction, maybe to reach out and offer some semblance of comfort, she’s not sure. It doesn’t matter, as she’s unable to move in the slightest. Her feet are glued, her arms are stiff, and the only movement on her entire body is a slight twitch at the corner of her left eye.

“Suguru’s parents’ home is vacant as well,” Yaga continues, and it’s clear that he’s doing everything in his power to keep his voice even. “However, from the bloodstains and the residuals… it seems he might have done the same to his parents”

He pauses, the heavy words hang in the air between the three like a poisonous gas. It’s thick, suffocating, and a devastating slice of reality that just couldn’t be true.

(y/n) had just talked to Suguru. It’s the first thought that skitters across her darkening mind. It’s just as quickly replaced with a drop in her gut, which could only be her heart plummeting to it’s untimely end.

Everything he’d told her that day replayed in her memories. And suddenly, all the odd things he’d said appeared to her as red flags. The unsettling feeling that had crept down her spine that day now came back in a full body shiver.

It’s the first noticeable movement she’s made since Yaga had broken the news. Satoru’s eyes land on her due to this, and they remain on her as their teacher continues to explain the situation. Although it seems he doesn’t have much more information.

“Satoru… (y/n)...” The man sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in a desperate attempt to keep his composure in front of his students. “I also… have no idea what is going on”

There’s not much more for him to say. He apologizes to them both afterwards. But he can’t stand there and watch as tears gather in (y/n’s) eyes and rage begins to seep into Satoru’s facial features. So he tells them the higher ups will do the best they can, and then leaves them.

Logically, (y/n) knows she should be having a panic attack right about now. Not just from the news alone, but the guilt that had crashed over her and was now pumping through her bloodstream. Suguru had laid out what he’d been going through right in front of her, and she hadn’t been able to pick up on the obvious signs because she’d been so focused on her own issues.

With a shaky hand, she covered her mouth, afraid that she might break into a sob if she didn’t physically stop herself.

She hadn’t turned to Satoru yet, hadn’t noticed the way he was carefully watching every moment of her grief processing. If she had, she might have seen the way his hand was inching forward, his body having a mind of its own when it came to her.

Even if he had reached out to her- taken her hand or pulled her into his body and never ever letting go- Satoru doesn’t think it’s a good idea. With the bomb that had been dropped on them both, he couldn’t possibly try to calculate how such an action would cause (y/n) to react.

The last time he’d watched grief strike her, she had barely been consolable for days. He couldn’t have her shutting down, not right away, anyways.

Her phone rings, the sudden break in the heavy atmosphere causing both of them to flinch, just a little bit.

Instinct tells her to decline it, but seeing it’s Shoko, (y/n) swipes right to answer and she has the phone to her ear in seconds.

“Shoko, thank god, listen, I need to-”

“(y/n),” The girl on the other line cuts her off, and the grave tone in which she says her name is enough for (y/n) to shut her mouth. “You need to find Satoru, and you need to come meet with me. Right. Now”

They don’t exchange more than the location in town that Shoko had been, the lack of context filling itself between the gaps.

(y/n’s) hands tremble as she secures her phone in her pocket and turns to Satoru. He notices her jaw is also trembling, in the slightest anxious movement. She doesn’t have to explain the escalating situation, he’d been right there, he’d heard the whole thing, but still, she finds herself stammering over her words as she tries anyway.

“Shoko- she’s- I think she’s with him- at- somewhere in town- um- outside-”

Satoru steps forward, closing a significant amount of space between them. (y/n) stops talking immediately, and doesn’t try to explain herself again.

For a brief moment, but finally, they look at one another.

Her eyes are full of tears, but somehow she’d kept herself from actually letting herself cry in front of him. Her lip wobbles and she looks like she desperately wants to say something, but the words just don’t come out. He holds her gaze, and every bone in his body is screaming at him to comfort her. To say something to do something just to make sure she won’t cry.

But he’s just as lost as she is, and he knows all too well that there were no words that could put her at ease in this moment.

Instead, he reaches out and takes both of her hands in his, holding on tightly as what comes next wasn’t exactly pleasant for the person he brought with him.

Teleporting alone was as easy as breathing, almost second nature. Being a sort of carry-on to someone else who was teleporting always seemed to bring on a wave of motion sickness.

(y/n’s) hands squeeze his to prepare herself for the oncoming discomfort. Even though what came after the dizziness would be much, much more sickening.

“I’m taking us right now” Satoru tells her. ___

a/n: no suguru don’t defect ur so sexyyy ur prolly thinking right about now that i only want to see my readers suffer. and ur right. i do. :3

taglist: @whats-humanity-lol @malinq-ashida @mor-pheus@bekahtaylorgriggs@pookiea@megumimind@thealchemical@pearlstiare@niallerhere@96jnie @purpleguk @peqch-pie@yukinemaroop@makis-girl@sadtoru @kamikokii @nerdiel-has-no-braincells @googlesheetshoe @vzleria

xoxo ~ jordie

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todayontumblr · 11 months

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Wednesday June 14.

Tumblr's Tuesday Explainer: Italy.

Ayyee! Mamma mia!! Wassamaddawiyo! ?

What is the matter with us, indeed. Well, we held out as long as we could, but like a Dolmio advert sent into this online ether, we lasted all of about two seconds before lapsing flamboyantly into offensive Italian stereotypes. Our grandmothers would have been ashamed!! Well, we hope we can make it up to our collective grandmothers with this exploration, and indeed celebration, of the colorful, complex nation that is #italy. It is a nation with food, landscapes, and architecture as beautiful as any on Earth. Its social and political history is a little uglier, to say the least. But why waste time and energy that could be spent making our grandmother's famous tagliatelle al ragù when we could leave the educating of Italy's murky past up to the intellectual powerhouse that is #philomena cunk?

Ahh, #italy. A magnificent, complex nation. We hope you have enjoyed our first deep dive into this European powerhouse, and if you did, don't thank us. Thank the one-woman renaissance herself, #philomena cunk.

Ciao, for now x

#today on tumblr #italy #ragu #yum #italian #dolmio #europe #mediterraneo #adriatic sea #travel

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galwednesday · 4 months

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This week's deep dive rec is Wall Street Journal reporter John Carreyrou's investigation into infamously fraudulent biotech start-up Theranos and its founder and CEO, Elizabeth Holmes, which conveniently comes in both book and podcast format. Podcast summary:

She was once the world's youngest self-made female billionaire. Now Elizabeth Holmes, founder of the blood-testing startup Theranos, stands accused of leading a massive fraud, and lying to investors, doctors, and patients about the capabilities of her technology. If convicted, she faces up to 20 years in prison. But Elizabeth may be able to sway a jury with her charisma, highly unusual defense strategy and the fact that key evidence has gone missing. John Carreyrou broke the Theranos scandal. Now he’ll take you into the courtroom as he examines Silicon Valley’s fake it-til-you-make it culture, and the case against Holmes.

Episodes 8 and 9 are particularly interesting looks into how Theranos secured funding and partnerships using faked demos, and how this strategy fell apart when potential clients pressed for more technical details. Episode 8 summary:

Elizabeth Holmes wowed investors, board members and journalists with live, in-person demonstrations that made it seem like her blood-testing machine worked. But most of these demos were faked. Behind the scenes, the blood samples were tested either manually or on third-party lab equipment. It's an astoundingly bold deception that was enabled by a software application Sunny Balwani wrote.

Episode 9 excerpt:

NARRATOR: The DOD contingent pressed for more information on how the black box that looked like a big desktop computer tower even worked. Holmes and Edlund refused to answer. That was a trade secret, they repeated. Frustrated, one member of the DOD delegation blurted out, "I'm starting to believe the device is just a box of Palo Alto air." Sensing that they were fast losing credibility, Holmes and Edlund made a small concession. They agreed to pass around the white rectangular cartridge containing the blood sample that slotted into the front of the device. Wagar asked what was inside the cartridge beside the blood sample. WAGAR: And they're like, we're not going to tell you. And so when I got to me, I reached into my pocket and pulled my Swiss army knife out and I started to try and cut it apart because you know, I'm curious and that really wigged them out. Um, I think they kind of jumped over the table to take it back from me. And I laughed at them and I said, you know, you realize that if you actually let this thing out into the wild, the first cartridge, people are going to tear it apart to see how it works. You know, you can't nondisclosure the entire Department of Defense.

#wednesday deep dives #Bad Blood #Theranos

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snaccpopstudios · 9 months

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Hi everyone! We're here with the long awaited post on our newest bachelor, Simoun. We know you've all been abuzz with questions about him so we hope to answer some of that in this deep dive into his creation. This post is in lieu of our usual Wednesday devlogs as we've been writing this over the span of several weeks, and was co-authored, edited, and reviewed by Tobias, Jude, ToyboxToonz, Primarvelous, and Sauce. The above image was drawn by @toyboxtoonz.

You can read the full post for free on Patreon, or click the readmore to see it all!

Personally speaking, some of my concerns since Simoun's debut are thoughts like "Do people think I'm making SnaccPop Studios push an agenda?" and "Do people think I'm going through a checklist while making new characters?" It's made it difficult for us to write this quickly because this is quite personal to myself and the rest of the sensitivity consultation team on the DachaBo team.

Concept to Creation

The story of DachaBo begins way before SnaccPop Studios itself was even a concept (that's Sauce's story to tell though). Early Patreon art of Simoun exists from November 2022, back before I was signed on to manage the Patreon and any other projects besides Sunny Day Jack. Sauce had some ideas laying around for several other characters in the DachaBo universe that didn't make it into the proof-of-concept demo:

I dug up an old draft for the DachaBo cat character we teased and it featured a story concept where the cat character was originally a female DachaBo character, referencing the original female design. And overtime he got tired of how he was being treated and decided to change his own self to reflect who he wanted to be, not the sycophants who collected the toys and whatnot ... It was shelved because I didnt have the means to sensitivity check it The designs are half cooked is all but he was supposed to be Indian ethnicity coded for no other reason than I've never seen a character like that

One thing that's important to note is that there definitely are Indian folks who are gender diverse (see Hijra on Wikipedia for a quick primer on one of the traditionally recognized nonbinary genders in South Asia) so it's not a novel concept by any means, but it's also not very common in media whatsoever.

Why The Long Wait?

One of the other contributing reasons as to why Sauce wasn't able to do much with the concept at the time is because we didn't have a VA for him confirmed yet, as I explained in May:

One thing that's rather unique to SnaccPop Studios in all of my experience as a game developer is the fact that all of our series involve coordinating with Voice Actors from the start, which means we need to take the VAs themselves into account when making characters. Adding another layer of complexity in hiring is the fact that SnaccPop Studios is a strictly Erotic Adult brand focusing on masculine love interests, and even if we focus more on the softcore, there's still the unfortunate stigma that any 18+ work has when attached to your name. All of these contributing factors make the potential talent pool that much smaller. This isn't to make excuses: I know SnaccPop Studios can do better on this front. While we can't make changes to some of the existing series' main cast (we don't want to put people out of a role they've been promised), we will do better moving forward to incorporate more diverse characters into our future titles, and that's a pledge

In the field of voice acting, it's best practice to cast actors with similar backgrounds to the character they're voicing, particularly for characters from marginalized populations (ethnicity, culture, gender, etc.), because it's a recurring issue in all professions where marginalized folks are regularly turned down for employment or career opportunities. You don't have to look far for instances where other voice directors failed to cast the proper talent for a character, even in the AAA sphere where they ought to have the resources to be able to find the proper talent; at SnaccPop, we wanted to avoid that situation at all costs.

Finding Simoun's Voice

So we had to confirm a VA first before we could do anything. Sauce, Reece, and I all tried to put private ads out for a trans masc POC (any ethnicity with dark skin) actor for a R18 game, which was largely met with silence at first, then responded to by folks who didn't fit the role in a full capacity (many only hit one or two of the criteria we laid out, some of them none at all). And it's not hard to imagine why: it's common knowledge that the majority of erotic works often fetishize marginalized people who are otherwise underrepresented in mainstream media. Things such as skin color, body type, hair color, age, etc. are treated as traits to be objectified, and on the off chance that queer folks or people of color might see themselves in porn… it's usually not for the most flattering or empowering of reasons. How could we, an exclusively Adults-only studio, convince someone who isn't familiar with us that we wanted to make something for people like them rather than something that turns them into mere masturbating material?

We were almost about to give up on the Catboy until I decided to take a chance on contacting a VA whom I hadn't had any formal and proper interactions with before. I'd been a fan of his work and knew him from an audition he sent in from a previous game I had worked on, but he knew me solely by name at best since we were following each other on Twitter. Still, it was a lead, and after chewing my nails for half a day, I shot off a message to Soren Viloria.

And what do you know? He said he'd give it a shot as his first NSFW role.

Naming the Lad

Soren is a Filipino VA, and despite the fact that I myself seem to be mistaken as Filipino by other Asians quite regularly, I'm actually not as well-versed in that culture as I ought to be.

There's actually a reason why we were so secretive with Simoun's name for a while: he didn't have one yet, so internally we just kept calling him "the Catboy." We wanted to pick a culture-appropriate name for him, something that was meaningful: Soren initially suggested "Siopao" as it was a common cat name (it's a type of Filipino Steamed Bun, so think of how many pets you've seen who have names like Cupcake or Nacho Supreme), but that didn't seem serious enough for a tsundere catboy like him. A few days later, Soren did a little research on a few well-known characters from Philippine media/culture that fit the bill a bit better:

Elías from the Philippine Revolution novel Noli Me Tángere (a required reading in the Philippines). Cat may like his radical tendencies for revolution and his deep, devoted connections.

Simoun from Noli's sequel, El filibusterismo. Holds revolutionary values similar to Elías, but far less noble and more of a loner. Violent at times, and will do what it takes to get his way.

Panday/Flavio, a very popular hero. Part of his charm is that he doesn't have special powers, but took matters into his own hands and forged a magical blade. Has been portrayed in both 'cool' and comedic ways.

Ricardo "Cardo" from the Philippines' longest-running TV drama Ang Probinsyano. Just a cool action hero dude who cares about family, but is also very ambitious and angy.

Seeing as how we already had an Elias Gallagher, Simoun seemed to be the perfect fit, and the name stuck pretty easily.

Simoun's Boundaries

Now that Simoun had a name, we were able to talk about him more seriously beyond the simple "tsundere cat" tropes. You've all already met Gil Finnegan, who we originally brought into SnaccPop Studios to handle the narrative design for DachaBo but was then onboarded to help with Sunny Day Jack, and those of you in the Patreon Discord server are familiar with our mods Tobias and Jude; along with me and Soren Viloria, that brought the grand total of openly trans masculine members on the team.

We all talked about our personal experiences as trans masc/AFAB people, what things we rarely saw reflected in both mainstream and indie media, things we wanted to see more of. Something we all agreed that was difficult to find was trans masculine folks in sexually dominant roles in erotic media, whether that was live video, audio, writing, art, or a combination thereof; there was only a handful of series we could count on our fingers as far as sexually explicit content that featured trans masculine people in roles that weren't exclusively submissive/bottoms, and the majority of us had already seen those or at least heard of them before (ie. Gummy and the Doctor and Sasha From The Gym were prominent ones). Either discovering this content was difficult due to Search Engine Optimization favoring depictions of trans feminine folks, or it simply didn't exist.

All of this, along with the backstory that Sauce had for Simoun, led us to determine that Simoun would be adverse to submissive roles in intimate situations. Simoun isn't the type to want to be penetrated either due to previous trauma surrounding his gender. Bear in mind that this isn't meant to imply or suggest that there is only one "acceptable" sexual preference for trans masculine folks, nor is Simoun meant to represent all of trans masculinity; he may be our first trans masculine character but certainly isn't the last, as we hope to feature more types of characters at SnaccPop Studios.

As an aside, it should be noted that the trend of erotic trans feminine content being more readily available doesn't necessarily mean that trans women have more positive representation per se; for every kinky piece of art created by trans feminine folks out there, there could be ten more works that fetishize and objectify their bodies. We probably don't need to tell you about the common derogatory slurs that have been used to refer to them; trans feminine and trans masculine people deal with varying levels and types of transphobia as well as situations that oversexualize (or even undersexualize) them, and it's important to focus on content that doesn't strip them of their autonomy.

There actually was a period of time between the release of his concept art after Soren was onboarded where the team observed comments both on Patreon and in the Discord regarding Simoun, and we discussed how we could avoid having people try to ship Bo and Simoun together; because Simoun hasn't had bottom surgery of any kind, we wanted to ensure that tokophobia (fear of pregnancy) or dysphoria wouldn't become a thing for any of us involved in the team or for our trans masculine Patrons. It was a bit of a chicken or the egg situation, trying to keep up with the evolving comments about Simoun to try and anticipate what people might accidentally say.

Debut Day Thoughts, & Moving Forward

We were quite happy with the general reception everyone had with Simoun, and we're excited to see so many people taking a liking to Simoun after his reveal. SnaccPop Studios has always strived to provide inclusive and diverse stories for those who don't often get represented in media, much less NSFW media, and the team was quite elated to see folks who were just as happy to see Simoun.

We hope that the love and care we put into building Simoun has shone through in this post and will continue to shine as we write more of him for DachaBo, because we're just getting started.

#dachabo #character design #trans masc #transmasculine #transgender #minors dni #gamedev

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bethanythebogwitch · 29 days

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Dry Beast Monday: chinchillas

For over a year now I've been doing weekly Wet Beast Wednesday posts where I do a deep dive on some aquatic animal, and you know what? I'm tired of it! This is now a dry beast blog!* And where better to start than an animal that can literally die if it gets wet? Beasts can't get much dryer than that. So strap in for the first Dry Beast Monday... Dmonday?... Drunday? Whatever, it's the chinchilla.

(Image: a pet chinchilla in a cage, standing upright on a wood platform that has been heavily chewed. It is a rotund mammal with a similar body plan to rabbits, featuring a large head distinct from a round body. Its hind paws are larger than the forepaws and have more distinct toes. Its eyes are almost completely black and it has a flat nose with very long whiskers. The ears are large, rounded, and mostly furless. The tail is bristly hair like a squirrel's and is curled up. Most of its fur is a dark grey but the fur on its underside is white. End ID)

Chinchillas are rodents (the best mammals, fight me) that are members of the family Chinchilladae along with the viscachas. There are two living species of chinchilla: the long-tailed chinchilla (Chinchilla lanigera) and the short-tailed chinchilla (Chinchilla chinchilla, formerly Chinchilla brevicaudata). The two species can produce sterile hybrid offspring. Domesticated chinchillas are descended from the long-tailed chinchilla. All chinchillas are medium-sized rodents with powerful back legs, long whiskers, large ears, and extremely dense fur. In comparison, the short-tailed chinchilla is larger and has a shorter tail, thicker and less distinct neck and shoulders, and smaller ears. The most famous feature of chinchillas is their fur. At about 20,000 hairs per square centimeter, chinchillas have the second densest fur of any mammal, second only to sea otters. Each hair follicle grows up to 50 hairs, compared to human follicles, which only grow 1. The fur is famous for being incredibly soft, often described as velvety. If you've never felt a chinchilla its really hard to describe just how soft they are. The fur is so dense because Chinchillas live in the highlands of the Andes mountains where it gets very cold. The fur is used for insulation and even with it being so thick, chinchillas still need to bask in the sun to warm themselves up. The fur is actually the reason why chinchillas can't get wet. Their fur is so dense that wanter can't evaporate easily, instead remaining around long enough for fungus to start growing in the fur. This can lead to a lot of different skin conditions and infections that can be lethal. When chinchillas bathe, they take dust baths. By rolling around in volcanic ash, the can work the ash into their fur, where it absorbs oils, moisture, and other contaminants. This keeps the fur clean and healthy. Domestic chinchillas need specially made dust for their baths. It cannot be substituted with sand or other materials. Chinchillas can release chunks of their fur in order to escape from predators, leaving the predator holding nothing but a tuft of hair while the chinchilla runs away. This is called fur drop and in domestic chinchillas it can be a sign of mishandling or stress. Wild chinchillas have grey fur, but domestic breeds have been bread to have other colors of fur, including white and black. Chinchillas can't sweat, which isn't a problem in their natural habitat, but is for domestic chinchillas. The only way for them to cool down is to expose their ears (which are hairless and heavily vascularized) to wind. Chinchillas in temperatures at or above 26 degrees C (80 F) are at risk of having heat strokes. Daytime in the Andes can exceed those temperatures, so chinchillas hide in burrows during the day. Chinchillas are very skilled at jumping, able to leap up to 1.8 meters (6 ft). Their hind legs are longer than the forelegs and provide propulsion when walking or jumping. The toes has fleshy pads called papillae that help them grip onto surfaces. Chinchillas live in arid, rocky conditions and are skilled at leaping between rocks. The tails act like rudders, providing stability and direction when leaping. The front feet are capable of gripping and picking up objects. Females tend to be larger than the males, but there is otherwise little visual difference between the sexes. Wild short-tailed chinchillas can reach 38 cm (including tail) and 800 grams while wild long-tailed chinchillas can reach 26 cm (including tail) and 450 grams. Domestic chinchillas can get up to twice the size of their wild relatives.

(Image: a wild long-tailed chinchilla sitting under a rock. Its body plan is the same as the pet chinchilla above, but its fur is a lighter grey End ID)

(Image: a short-tailed chinchilla in captivity. It has a less distinct neck than the long-tailed chinchilla, making it look like its head merges with the body. Its tail is shorter than that of the long-tailed chinchilla, making up about 1/5th of its length as compared to the long-tailed chinchilla's 1/3rd. End ID)

Chinchillas are social animals that live in colonies called herds that can reach up to 100 members. Females dominate the herds and can be aggressive toward each other, though physical fights are rare. The herd cooperates when finding food, always having at least one member acting as a lookout to spot predators while the rest feed. They communicate vocally, with 10 types of vocalizations on record for. Social behaviors include grooming, playing, and friendly nibbling of each other's ears. Pet chinchillas should never be kept alone. They should be in same-sex groups of at least 2. Chinchillas are crepuscular, active mostly at dawn and dusk. During the day and night, they are usually found hiding in burrows or crevices between rocks, where they can avoid predators and high or low temperatures. They are primarily herbivores, but will supplement their diets with insects and other bugs. Most of their diet consists of grasses, seeds, and succulents and cacti. Wild ones almost never drink water, instead getting all of their hydration from their food. Chinchilla digestive systems are fairly specialized to their food. Domestic chinchillas need special-formulated food and can only have wooden chew toys form certain species of wood. Fresh or dried fruit is good for a treat, but should not be a regular part of their diet as they have a lot of sugar. As with all rodents, the incisors grow continuously through the animal's entire life and need to be worn down by chewing on things.

It is surprisingly hard to find good-quality images of wild chinchillas. Most of the time when you search for wild chinchilla pictures what you get are either domestic chinchillas or viscachas.

(Image: a trail-cam shot of two wild long-tailed chinchillas. The photo is i black-and-white. One is in the foreground on all fours while another is on its hind feet in the background, standing on a rock. The terrain is rocky and the chinchillas are next to a shrub. The camera's light makes their eyes appear to glow white. End ID)

(Image: a wild short-tailed chinchilla that is part of a relocation effort. Its fur is light grey with darker patches. A gloved human hand is reaching in from the right side of the image. End ID)

Male chinchillas appear to be fertile year-round, but females only enter estrus during the winter, from May to November in their natural habitat. Gestation takes around 120 days in both species and both species typically have two litters a year (a low rate for a small mammal). Offspring (called kits) are born well-developed, with fur and open eyes, and can run as soon as they are born. They nurse for 6-8 weeks before being weaned. 1-6 kits are born at a time, with 2 being the usual number. Chinchillas are monogamous, mating for life. Either partner can initiate mating, which they do so with hair-pulling. Unusually for rodents, male chinchillas do provide care for their offspring. Members of the same herd will help each other with parenting. Female chinchillas have been known to adopt the kits of other females who can't nurse due to health issues. Females are usually dominant due to their size. Chinchillas become sexually mature at around 8 months. In the wild they can live for 10 years, which is doubled in captivity.

(Image: an adult domestic chinchilla with a juvenile. The juvenile is smaller than the adult, with proportionally larger head and limbs and proportionally smaller tail. The two of them are nuzzling their snouts together. End ID)

The name chinchilla comes from the Chincha people of the Andes, who hunted chinchillas for their fur and meat. This hunting increased vastly after European colonization of South America. Between hunting and trapping, both species of chinchilla were brought to near extinction and vastly reduced their native range. Both species are now only found in Chile and have been granted legal protection. The IUCN switched their classifications between Vulnerable, Endangered, and Critically Endangered for a while. As of 2016, both species are classified as Endangered, upgraded from Critically Endangered as their populations have seen some improvement. Poaching, both for fur and capture for sale as pets, is still a large threat to wild chinchillas. Their close cousins, the viscachas, are doing much better as they were not hit as hard by the fur trade. The domestication of the long-tailed chinchilla is thanks to Mathias F. Chapman, an engineer who became fascinated with the animals after meeting a native person who was trying to sell one. He ended up getting permission from the government of Chile to capture several and import them to the USA. It took him 3 years to catch enough that he considered suitable for breeding, 11 in total. He then spend over a year gradually bringing them down from the highlands to sea level, giving them plenty of time to acclimate to the lower altitude. Once in the USA, Chapman started breeding his chinchillas in a farm in California, though he had to deal with medical problems and a thief stealing half of his stock. Eventually, though, his experiment paid off. The vast majority of all domesticated chinchillas today are descended from those original 11, brought to the states in 1923. Chinchillas today are raised in captivity for their fur, for use as laboratory animals, and as pets. While both species are raised in captivity for fur, the domesticated chinchilla is descended from the long-tailed chinchilla and short-tailed chinchillas apparently do not make as good pets.

(Image: a black-and-white photo of Mathias F. Chapman, a white man with a large nose wearing a shirt and tie. A chinchilla is standing on his leg and looking at the camera while he looks at the chinchilla. End ID)

* April Fools

#april fool's day #the animal facts are real #dry beasts #dry beast monday #wet beast wednesday #chinchilla #long tailed chinchilla #short tailed chinchilla #domesticated chinchilla #rodent #mammal #biology #ecology #zoology #animal facts #informative #fur trade

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visceral-stories · 7 months

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Inheritance

I’m back! Thank you all for staying with me during my long hiatus! I truly appreciate it and I hope you enjoy the story!

Ko-fi |Twitter

6:30 PM seemed like a rather late time for a job interview, but it had been the only option to work with Garrett Carmichael’s hectic schedule. An ambitious high school senior, his weekday afternoons were usually fully booked. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, he participated on his high school’s Quiz Bowl team and on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, he attended meetings with his math league. Unfortunately, being a productive, ambitious scholar was not a lucrative venture, save for the college scholarships he was already applying for. Garrett’s nonexistent financials were what brought him to apply for the position of a waiter at his town’s local banquet hall.

He also needed something to balance out the drag that high school had become. He didn’t mind the schoolwork or classes as much, but none of his few close friends - or acquaintances even - shared his same classes. It felt like he was just going through the motions, forced to interact with people who he didn’t care for. The absolute worst was his fourth hour in World History where a gaggle of dim-witted football jocks made the class a living hell. They weren’t physical with him by any means, but they were the type to whisper under their breaths and mock the way he talked or his answers to questions. As a result, it made him far more apprehensive to raise his hand whenever he knew the answer in class. School sucked and on the weekends, he was free. Too free. Having abundant free time was nice, but it wasn’t like he had many hobbies outside of playing videogames with his fellow math league teammates or doing deep-dives on the internet about the multitude of scientific topics that interested him. Not only did he need money, but he just wanted to get out of the house for a few hours and not watch the Saturdays and Sundays glide past him every week.

The application process had been momentarily bewildering for Garrett who had no clue how the website worked and he had to ask his mom what the digits to his social security number were. Every other high schooler his age had gotten a job already and he felt dumb for getting daunted by the simple process, but ultimately he persevered. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach as he stepped out of his car and walked to the front door.

“Wow,” Garrett said with awe as he stepped into the nicest waiting room he’d ever seen. An immaculate tessellation of white and yellow rectangles adorned the ceilings accented by bold, curving polygons painted emerald green to resemble vines. The design appeared to extend far beyond the puny waiting room he was in and across the ceilings and walls of the main banquet hall, which he could see for a long distance.

“Can I help you, sir?” croaked a male voice.

Garrett looked back in front of him to see a man sitting inside a booth in the corner labeled “COAT CHECK” - the only other fixture in this small, open space. He had broad shoulders and was wearing a fancy tuxedo, nearly filling up the whole window with his width. “I-ummm,” Garrett coughed and cleared his throat, peeved at the inopportune phlegm that had formed. “I’m here for a job interview to be a waiter here.”

A warm feeling of dread filled Garrett’s body when the coat check guy just looked at him with a puzzled look on his face. Garrett remembered the man he’d been messaging in his emails. “I’m supposed to talk to a uhh…Mr. Clifford Atkinson.”

Thankfully, the man’s stoic face lit up with recognition. “Oh yes, he should be here within the next 15 minutes. His reservation starts at 6:45.”

“Oh, okay,” Garrett replied. He adjusted his glasses and wondered why the Clifford guy needed a reservation. Didn’t he work here?

“You can take a seat over there and wait for him if you’d like,” the man offered with a faint smile.

Garrett curtly nodded and quickly sat down in one of the few dark red office chairs outside the front door. He pulled out his phone and searched for that email he’d received from Mr. Atkinson. He could’ve sworn the email he’d received yesterday had told him to arrive at 6:30, but unfortunately it was nowhere to be found no matter how hard he searched for it. Crud. He must’ve deleted it or something. Emails were weird.

The next ten minutes ticked slowly by, leaving Garrett with minimal entertainment besides a few men and women who intermittently came and went through the front door. They were dressed up in tuxedos just like the coat check guy. It was intimidating the way they moved to and fro. Their solid black jackets with stark white shirts bounced up and down with their movements, taunting Garrett with their sophistication. A layer of sweat formed around him as he realized he might’ve come to this thing underdressed. His casual attire of a light blue short-sleeved shirt, a Mandalorian Star Wars tie, and brown cargo shorts clashed heavily with the fashion here. He’d just gotten here and he’d already made a mistake. It was too late to go back home and change clothes so he decided to drown his fears by scrolling through social media. As he was catching up on IGN’s most recent game review, the door flung open. Garrett glanced up, expecting to see Mr. Atkinson, but instead, the last person he wanted to see stumbled inside.

A tall, muscular jock stepped inside, dressed in a light gray short-sleeve t-shirt tucked into a pair of blue jeans, and of course - a signature backward cap. “Hey, what’s up man?” he announced as he swaggered up to the man in the coat check booth. “I’m here for the uh…waiter position.”

Garrett’s blood ran cold. It was Devon Kearney - one of the dumbest guys alive and unfortunately, the most prolific nuisance in his fourth-hour World History class. Every day, his deep, stupid voice filled the room as he tended to share every impulsive thought he had with the other football jocks in the class. He was a real menace, rude to everyone besides his little clique or, of course, girls in the class he found attractive.

Garrett watched the employee gesture for Devon to sit in the chair next to him and a wave of fear filled his body as the jock’s face lit up.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” he boomed as he sidled over to Garrett, causing heads to turn. “You’re that kid from history class!” He snapped his fingers, trying to remember. “Carmichael, Carmichael, Carmichael. Shit, what’s the first name?” he asked aloud as if Garrett wasn’t even there.

Garrett clenched his fists. “My name is Garrett, you big-”

“Ah! That’s right, that’s right! I knew that!” Devon roared as he sat down two chairs away from his far skinnier comrade. “You look like a Garrett too,” he snickered with a cocky sneer that made Garrett want to strangle him. Devon was so fake, trying to act all cool and friendly with him as if he hadn’t spent the last three months mocking Garrett in class. Most of the time when Garrett raised his hand to answer a question, he could hear Devon or one of his stupid friends whisper to each other and giggle. Those jerks. Garrett couldn’t wait till he graduated in May and never had to interact with those bozos ever again.

“So what the hell are you doing here, man? Are you applying for a job too?” Devon asked.

Garrett sighed. He wanted to tell Devon to screw off, but that sure as hell wouldn’t go over well at school tomorrow. It wasn’t like the jocks had ever been physical, but he didn’t want to find out. “I’m applying for a job,” he said, not even bothering to continue eye contact.

“No way! What position? Dishwasher?”

Garrett held his ground as he felt the spit in the back of his throat dry up. “Waiter.”

“You? A waiter? No way, that’s the role I’m training for too!” Devon let out a boisterous laugh that made Garrett’s skin crawl. “Hey, I support it man, but no offense, I…uh….I don’t see you being super social. Being a waiter means like…talking to people a bunch and making ‘em your friends to get stacks of tip money! And at a real fancy place like this, they’re gonna have fat bank accounts! No cap!”

“Whatever,” Garrett huffed quietly, cringing at the “no cap” comment the most. He turned his phone back on and released an embittered breath.

“It is what it is, man,” Devon snarkily added. He began talking, mostly to himself, again as he pulled out his phone. “Oh man, wait till I tell the boys about who I found at the banquet hall!”

An awkward silence filled the hall once more, save for Devon’s subtly obnoxious open-mouthed breathing, but moments later, the door swung open and a middle-aged man waddled inside. Garrett caught a faint glimpse of his massive torso out of the corner of his eye. His silver-haired head looked like a snow-covered peak nestled in between the two mountains that were his massive shoulders. Even more shocking was the fact that his pecs were even larger than his bodybuilder-level deltoids. They had entered the room before he did and only drew more attention as they were thinly veiled beneath the strained white dress shirt he was wearing. The top three buttons were undone, revealing a scandalous amount of male cleavage complemented by a light dusting of silver chest hair.

Garrett noticed that even Devon was also gawking at this colossal guy as he trudged over to the coat check. He leaned over on the desk as he talked with the attendant and Garrett’s cheeks turned pink as he gazed at the man’s massive, imperious figure. Especially his round butt. The dude was absolutely caked up! The buttons of the back pockets of his blue dress pants looked ready to snap. He’d never even considered the idea that men could have butts that big.

All of a sudden, the hefty stranger spun around on his heels and made direct eye contact with the two teenagers who were obviously gawking at his size. His jaw was the size of a lantern and his eyes had a piercing sapphire coloration to them. He looked like he was plucked straight from Hollywood or something. “Ah, Gentlemen, welcome! It’s nice to see you!” he boomed, the volume of his bassy voice sending a shockwave through Garrett and Devon.

“Nice to see you too, man!” Devon replied, clearly in awe of the massive male specimen in front of him

“Sorry about the outfit, boys. These tits of mine have been fighting me to get dressed today,” Cliff said with a playful jiggle of his partially-exposed pecs. “Getting dressed up is quite the hassle isn’t it?”

“Yeah for sure!” Devon said, intentionally lowering his voice to match the other man’s volume. What a kiss-ass. Garrett didn’t even know how to react. He just watched as the other young man hopped to his feet and extended his arm out for a handshake to which the man obliged. “I’m Devon.”

“Cliff Atkinson,” the man boomed as he shook Devon’s hand. Garrett promptly hopped to his feet as the man turned to him. “And who might you be?” he asked. “Just kidding, Garrett. I know who you are. Bring it in. I’m so proud of you.”

Before Garrett could even process what was happening, the man had pulled him in for a bear hug. It was unbelievably awkward, considering he had to hunch over to get down to Garrett’s 5’6” height. As Cliff gave him a firm, tender beat hug as tight as a vice, Garrett swore he could feel his lungs compressing from the immense pressure. It wasn’t like he knew what to say anyway. He had never seen this man before and now he was talking to him so intimately. It was so weird. When Cliff released him and gave him a tender pat on the back, he was nothing short of disoriented.

Garrett was gasping for breath. Before he could voice his confusion, the mountainous man stood straight up again and clapped his dumbbell-sized hands together with a smile. “I am quite glad to see you both, but I must say both of your outfits are quite unbecoming. The guests should be showing within a half hour. Maybe even earlier.” He turned to Devon. “I’m sure you are new here so all is forgiven, but this is a high-class banquet hall and we take attire very seriously here. Not to worry though, we have some proper clothes for you! Do you know where the dressing rooms are?”

“No sir,” Devon replied. Garrett peered over and locked eyes with a very sour-faced Devon, whose eyes were still boggling wide with disbelief.

Cliff smiled. “Not a problem, I’m happy to show you.” He turned to Garrett. “Garrett can go with you too. We must get you out of those dreadful street clothes. It’s your very special day after all.”

Garrett’s throat was dry from how shocked he was, but Cliff had already started leading the way before he could ask him a question - and he certainly had many options! Like “why the hell did you say you’re proud of me?” Or “what do you mean by special day?” But just the thought of questioning this hulking beast of man seemed way too daunting, no matter how tame he seemed.

Cliff turned and led the two boys into the banquet hall, which was far more capacious than Garrett had expected. The place must’ve been at least three-thousand square feet, with every inch of it decorated with Italian Renaissance artwork similar to what was in the lobby. Intricate geometric patterns lined the walls and surrounded the various paintings around the hall, which were also complemented by beige accents around the perimeters. There also had to be around fifty or so round tables all spread out in the open area. Some of the chairs were so close together that Cliff had to walk sideways just to get his broad figure past.

��So how the hell does a guy like you know a guy like that?” Devon whispered as the two traveled through the array of round tables, his voice rife with envy.

“I have no clue,” Garrett replied - the exact same question was on his mind.

“Whatever,” Devon snarled, his tone rich with vicious envy. “I’m a better fit for the job than you anyway. You don’t even know how to talk to girls.”

Garrett coiled his fists. He wanted to retaliate, but he knew that wouldn’t end well. Imagining the five other football players targeting him would be a living hell. He decided to voice a general comment anyway. “Well Devon, it appears that we may have both gotten the job. I mean he never said otherwise.”

“Bullshit, sir,” Devon hissed before his eyes widened with confusion after a few moments. “Wait, why did I just call you, sir? I-”

Before Garrett could respond, Cliff’s roaring bass silenced the boys’ tiff. “Downstairs is the staff apparel room,” he boomed as they reached a locked door on the opposite end of the hall and twisted a key in the lock. “Devon, was it? We have freshly laundered uniforms listed by size and you can find what best correlates with your size. We will meet you back here when you are dressed.”

“Okay. Yes sir! Sounds good, sir!” Devon replied, raising his voice to feign confidence. Garrett grunted in frustration. He wanted to wipe that stupid smug grin off that suck-up’s face.

Garrett winced as he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. “You’d best follow him too,” Cliff added. “You know better than to dress like that. I’d expect that out of Devon because he’s just showing up to work, but your apparel is usually not this…pedestrian.”

Garrett’s heart leapt into his throat. Why on earth was this man commenting on his apparel of all things? He just got here! And why was he talking to him like he’d already gotten the job? Yet at the same time, Cliff was talking to him like he’d known him for years. “Oh, I uh…okay,” Garrett meekly apologized, acquiescing to the man’s strange claims. He swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to ask the man about his inappropriate hug earlier. “Say, when you said you were proud of me earlier, what did you-”

A marimba ringtone suddenly blared from Cliff’s pocket. He held up his index finger and produced an iPhone from his pocket although his meaty hands made it look like a toy.

“Sorry Garrett, it’s the caterers,” Cliff barked. “I’ll meetcha back here in 15, alright?”

“Oh um..I just-”

Cliff had already answered the phone and started walking away, revealing another glimpse at his broad backside. Garrett readjusted his big glasses and sulked. As he watched the burly stranger depart, he couldn’t help but feel some kind of attachment to him: a benevolence of sorts. It was almost eerie how overly-nice he was being, but it seemed earnest. Perhaps he could tell that Garrett was internally sweating bullets just to be here and was being accommodating. At least it appeared that he’d gotten the job without question? Both he and Devon. God, he didn’t wanna work with that doofus, but it appeared he had no choice. He also didn’t want to let Cliff down after all. The man had been generous enough to hire him on the spot.

Descending down the old, stone staircase, Garrett entered a far less decorated area of the banquet hall. It smelled ancient down here. The air had a decadent, musty odor of men’s colognes mixed with a faint hint of mildew. As he rounded the corner, he noticed Devon was already sifting through a cabinet full of what appeared to be black uniforms. This room looked quite old and was rather charmless, save for a few photos of past galas and smiling well-dressed people on the walls. Something about this place was giving Garrett the creeps, but he couldn’t quite place it.

There was something different about Devon too. Even though his back was to Garrett, his entire outfit seemed a lot more…faded somehow? Maybe the light was playing tricks on him because the jock’s light denim jeans looked much silkier…and greyer in this light for some reason. Unfortunately, the poor basement lighting could not explain the shirt collar that had materialized around the jock’s neck.

“How do they not have my size?” Devon griped, his back still to Garrett.

As Garrett walked closer to his acquaintance, a hazy feeling filled his head, as if he’d inhaled way too much of the dust down here. The ground started to feel farther away for some reason. “Wait, why are you shorter…than me?” he asked aloud.

“Shorter?” Devon snorted, now spinning around to face Garrett. “I’m not-”

The two boys stared at each other with unspoken shock as Devon’s tall figure began to squash down. He looked down in horror as the tall, muscular legs he used to score touchdowns were quickly reduced to two chubbier-looking nubs. The dramatic truncation left him at a condensed height of 5’8”, six inches shorter than before. His athletic torso appeared virtually unchanged, but his height - one of his most defining attributes - had been cruelly taken from him in an instant. “WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO ME?” Devon roared, his composure gone in a flash.

“I-I-I didn’t do this!” Garrett squeaked. If he wasn’t so terrified from Devon’s uproar, he would’ve giggled at his puny height. The jock’s muscular stature looked a lot cuter with his height condensed down - like he was a junior version of himself. “I…promise I didn’t. I don’t even-WHOA!”

Garrett’s plea was cut short as he promptly shot up like a weed. At one point he’d been eye-level with Devon, but his legs and lower torso just kept stretching taller and taller until stopping at an imposing height. He flailed his arms out for a moment as his new 6’6” body nearly toppled over. It felt like he was walking on stilts! “Whoa! What the heck is happening?” he asked as he placed a hand on his forehead. Glancing upward, the newly-minted lanky sapling of a boy realized he was now only a few inches from touching the low, old ceiling. “No, no, I c-can’t be tall,” he stuttered. From the flabbergasted look on Devon’s face, he could tell he was shocked and quite jealous. Mostly jealous.

Devon craned his neck up at Garrett and scowled with disgust. “This doesn’t even make any-DUDE, your clothes!”

“My clothes?” Garrett asked. He glimpsed down and watched as his clothes suddenly started to cascade down his body. The first thing he saw were his t-shirt sleeves gliding down from his upper arms to his elbows until they stopped at his wrists. A pair of French cuffs formed on the ends of his new flowy sleeves, accompanied by a pair of distinct “POPS!” as two golden cufflinks materialized. They were nothing short of glossy, refracting the shoddy basement lighting beautifully. Simultaneously, Garrett’s cargo shorts started shuddering all on their own. They too began to distend further and further to the floor until they rested just above his sneakers. Darkness intruded upon the brown coloration of his shorts, turning them into a maroon and then a vibrant sable. A silky fabric also enveloped the khaki of the cargo shorts, stealing away their bagginess and eradicating the oversized front pockets.

“What the hell is happening to us?” For once, Devon’s confident voice wavered, giving way to audible apprehension.

“I…I don't KNOW!” Garrett squealed as his new pair of pants was suddenly hoisted up by an invisible force. Or it wasn’t invisible, it appeared to be a pair of brown, leathery suspenders with metal clips that glistened in the light…which had magically materialized over him somehow? They locked in place and pulled Garrett’s pants up around his stomach. The movement scrunched up his t-shirt for a moment before the fabric magically levitated and gingerly tucked itself in, leaving zero wrinkles behind. “Y-you’re s-seeing this too, right?” he stuttered.

“Of course I fucking am!” Devon snarled, his face red with anger and embarrassment. Garrett’s eyes goggled incredulously as Devon’s new outfit looked even more elaborate than his. Gone forever was his grey t-shirt and blue jeans and instead he now sported a long-sleeved dress shirt fit with an array of vibrant mother-of-pearl buttons complemented by a pair of black suit pants. Devon’s new dapper attire accentuated every ripple of his body from his larger-than-average arms and legs. Most interestingly, his belly had a faint bump to it now, like he was bloated or something.

Garrett was mesmerized as he watched the jock struggle in his new, expertly-tailored clothes. Simultaneously, he couldn’t resist the urge to steal glances at himself and watch as his shirt dyed itself blue and his new dress pants dyed themselves a relaxing shade of light grey. In unison, both of their respective waterfalls of new clothing entered their final cascade. To mark its near terminus, a brand new pair of black suspenders sprung up from Devon’s dress pants. They yanked his pants up high up past his belly button. “GUH!” Devon cried in anguish as the suspenders attached around his shoulders and locked his pants in a painful-looking position. Garrett didn’t dare look for long, but he noticed that the jock’s genitals were bulged up in the pants’ fly as a result.

“This fucking hurts!” Devon cried, unable to hold in his rage “I can’t even feel my co-o--ock!”

Unlike Garrett, Devon’s clothes had a few more tricks up their sleeves. Firstly, an ocean of black stitching materialized over his pristine white dress shirt. It started at his shirt collar and promptly swallowed up his back and his pecs, until finally stopping just above his waist. Devon’s attempts to undo his tight suspenders were cruelly cut short as a brand new black suit jacket concealed his entire torso. Garrett gawked in disbelief, no longer concealing his curious glances. Devon pulled and picked at his new blazer with much ire. Three buttons appeared in the center of the boxy item of clothing and promptly fastened themselves. Devon’s abdomen and self-proclaimed “rock-hard abs” were concealed by the jacket while the top half of the blazer allowed for a triangle of view of his dress shirt. To complete his new expensive outfit, two black ribbons appeared on either side of his neck. Gracefully, they pirouetted around each other and promptly fastened a tight knot, leaving a spiffy black bowtie just under Devon’s Adam’s Apple. As a final touch, a purple strand of satin formed around the young man’s waist of all things. It wrapped around his obliques and banded over his lower back, creating a brand new indigo cumberbund and finalizing Devon’s extravagant uniform.

To finalize Garrett’s much less-invasive changes, a suit jacket of his own materialized and gently wrapped itself around his upper body. A checkerboard of green and white squares covered the illustrious, new fabric. He moved his arms around in it and was surprised to find that it felt light and breathable. Garrett’s eyes fell back onto Devon, who looked like a deer in headlights. Neither knew what to say. The strangest part was the fact that Devon’s pants were so tight - tight enough that Garrett could even see his balls all bunched up in the front. What was that called again? A camel toe? A moose-knuckle? Devon Kearney, one of the douchiest jocks in school, had an actual moose-knuckle. Before Garrett could stop himself, a small chuckle escaped his lips.

“You think this is fucking funny?” Devon snarled before immediately placing a hand on Garrett’s chest and forcefully shoving him into the wall. For a body three-quarters as tall as it once was, he still retained quite a lot of strength.

Garrett was petrified. “No, no, Devon, I-”

“This is all your fault somehow!” Devon roared, now inches from Garrett’s face. “Of course, being paired with Garrett Carmicheal of all people would result in some fucking weird nerdy black magic shit!” He tugged at his dapper uniform in disgust. The only remnant of his street clothes was the baseball cap still on his head. “I look like such a fucking dork!”

Devon was speechless. It was disturbing to see the jock’s unflappable, cocky exterior completely shattered, replaced by flagrant rage. “Devon, I-”

“Give me one reason why I shouldn't pound the shit out of you!”

“Devon, no…stop!” Garrett stuttered, overcome with fear.

Then, the strangest thing happened. Instantly, Devon obeyed the command. He released his tight grip on Garrett’s sternum and stepped back in an almost robotic fashion. “Huh?”

“My sincerest apologies, sir,” Devon replied, placing his muscular arms to his side and standing up as straight as possible. He shook his head. “Wuh, why did I…do that?”

Garrett wasn’t sure how to react. Instead, he just focused on catching his breath and peering down at his disoriented comrade. It was wild to think that Devon, the 6’4” tall linebacker who towered over Garrett in history class, had been reduced to a meager 5’8” height. Even crazier was the fact that he actually obeyed a command.

POP! POP!

It took a moment for Garrett to realize that the two sharp pings had actually been his top two shirt buttons flying loose. “My shirt…” was all he could say as he wordlessly glanced down at his now, partially-exposed chest. Instead of seeing a flat chest and distinct collar bone, he was surprised to see that his pecs were actually protruding out? And they were still inflating!

“Goodness gracious!” Devon exclaimed before putting a hand over his mouth.

The two boys could only watch helplessly while Garrett’s chest continued inflating. His pecs were a statement now - two growing muscular slabs, as sturdy as bricks, that tempted with their masculinity. Short, spindly dark chest hairs sprouted up in the center, which had now formed a small chasm. Although Garrett was enticed, he was unbelievably confused. A scrawny geek like him wasn’t supposed to have tits like this! He’d never even set foot in a gym. Or maybe he had? After all, it must’ve taken a decade’s worth of vigorous exercise to get pecs this round and supple. They were so huge that even his nipples had been pushed to the side and had puffed out, now each closely resembling the tip of a baby’s bottle. They were so sensitive too. He could imagine them tensing up every time his French cuffs grazed them or whenever he would give them loving squeezes in private. In fact, he could recall they gave him some kind of unorthodox pride - seeing them perked up in every formal picture he’d ever taken. His bros would even joke and call him Kate Upton because of it.

Garrett’s cock ascended, and noticeably tented his wool dress pants. Absent-mindedly, he ran a hand through his thick, long hair and parted it to one side - something he’d never done before. Of course, the hair didn’t stick due to the lack of product and instead, it just hung there as a gnarled mess with most of it flattened down and the other half sticking straight up like a porcupine’s quills. “God, what is happening to me,” Garrett huffed as he impulsively grabbed at his bulge.

“It appears you’re changing, sir,” Devon aptly replied, his voice sounding a lot more monotone.

“I…I really am,” Garrett replied, his voice nearly crescendoing into a moan as he gave his bulge a shake. “I look different, don’t I? More cleaned up, eh? More prim and proper. More mature, even.”

“T-that you do,” Devon confirmed, stuttering his words as he was forced to swallow a snarky rebuttal. He was losing his will to be a contrarian. Instead, his disposition was becoming far more accommodating and congenial, accompanied by an enhancing vocabulary. “Me too!” he pouted, his monotone voice once again possessing his familiar churlishness. “I hate this tux thing I’m dressed in. I don’t want to look mature! Although spectacular, my regalia is quite oleaginous, isn’t it? GAHH! What am I saying?!”

Garrett gazed back up at Devon, or rather peered down at him - the fear and frustration was evident on the other teen’s distraught face. He also appeared to have put on a few more pounds somehow. His growing arms and pec muscles took on a far more squishy shape and his tight stomach crafted by years of high school football had a much pudgier contour to it.

“GUHH!” Garrett roared, at a low register, similar to Devon’s voice, realizing the changes were far from over. Two shockwaves of blood surged through his arms, immediately filling them with volatility. A pair of massive, bodybuilder-sized biceps gradually inflated within the confines of the bespoke twill shirt. Garrett could only watch transfixed as his skinny, noodle arms - the things he’d hated the most about himself - became nothing of the sort. The muscles in his forearms followed suit as they pulled apart and tightened up with protein-laden muscle, becoming permanent, cylindrical-shaped obtrusions in every shirt he would ever wear. Around fifteen seconds later, Garrett’s barrel-sized arms were now tastefully concealed beneath the tight, stretchy fabric of his dress shirt. Mercifully, his golden cufflinks remained intact and undisturbed, their dazzling opulence a necessary accentuation of his rigid wrists. Garrett was in awe. Even his hands looked manlier - they looked more plump and more formidable somehow. His nails were perfectly manicured and his digits must’ve doubled in size, dropping their nimble slimness in favor of a more boxing glove-like shape.

A wave of growth undulated through his abdomen as it began to slowly extend forward to a similar breadth of his mighty pecs. With it came two distinct pops, but this time it came from deep within his abs. It felt like he was flexing abdominal muscles that had never made themselves known before. To confirm his suspicion, the two pops multiplied into four and then six until concluding on eight square-shaped indentations etched into his abdomen. Bespoke twill felt incredible against his brand new eight-pack. “God, I’m really filling out, huh?” Garrett smirked as an impulsive affirmation to himself.

“Yes, I am too,” Devon answered nervously.

Garrett glanced down and the first thing he noticed about Devon was the bulbous sphere that his belly had become. It wasn’t like he was obese or anything, but to call Devon a jock would be laughably inaccurate. This stomach of his had to be at least fifty pounds and it jutted straight out like a boulder. It didn’t sag low like a belly normally would, it hung high and tall, suspended by hidden, rigid muscle. Something told Garrett it would only get bigger.

“AGH!” Garrett yelped as he felt two muscles viciously tingle each of his shoulders before they began to stretch upward. A pair of glorious trapezius muscles flared out, giving him a menacing hood of muscle around his neck similar to a king cobra. Quickly, their immensity made his small, boyish head and mop of brown, unkempt bowl cut look extremely out of place. As Garrett’s trap muscles finished their transition into ones that a bodybuilder would envy, he attempted to turn his head 90 degrees, but found that to be quite a challenge. His neck too had also stretched wider to compete with the overgrown atoll of his trap muscles. Eliminating the soreness in his new muscular neck, Garrett rocked it back and forth and felt his bones and veins snap into place. The process sent a giant tear through the back of his Star Wars tie, whose lopsided Windsor knot had also fared no match for Garrett’s expanding, meaty neck and shoulder. It now hung loosely, dangling precariously over his massive tits about to plop to the ground.

“Pardon me sir, your tie is askew,” Devon piped up.

Before Garrett could react, his portly acquaintance gingerly removed the tie from his figure and was running it through his hands. He blinked and all of a sudden, Devon’s hands were concealed beneath a pair of satin white gloves. Paired with that, his hands looked larger too - like two baseball mitts.

“What is with this tie?” Devon added, staring at the Star Wars Mandalorian emblems on the tie. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Yeah, it’s my good luck tie,” Garrett replied. “I wore it for…the interview…” He trailed off for a moment as his memories of an interview grew a little hazier. They were both here for some reason, but this seemed like a strange situation for an interview. “Have you always been wearing gloves?” It was a straightforward thing for him to ask, but he genuinely was curious.

“Yeah, it’s a part of the uniform,” Devon nodded although his brow furrowed with confusion over his own comment. It was as if he didn’t know what he was going to say next.

“Okay,” Garrett replied intently, giving Devon a snide smirk. His cock bobbed in his trousers as he thought of the idea of a football player bending to his whim and being involuntarily supportive.

Devon’s face didn’t show much more emotion. Instead, he was putting his new man-hands to work some magic on the tattered tie. As he rolled up the tie, the array of Mandalorian emblems began to fade. First, the helmet’s outline faded before diffusing in all directions and melting into the navy blue coloration of the tie. In some miraculous animation, Garrett watched as the colors danced into each other before brightening until they reached a divine, subdued seafoam green. With a firm shake from Devon’s hands, the tie fattened up and lost any trace of its former self.

“What did you do?” Garrett asked, his heart sunk as his favorite tie from one of his favorite movies was gone forever.

“Hermés,” Devon said, answering a question never asked. “Mint is quite the nice touch for the outfit too.” He handed it to Garrett who just looked at it dumbly. “You know how to tie a tie don’t you?” Devon asked smugly, his voice sounding much more…posh and preppy. “We don’t want that Cliff fellow to be mad.”

“Yeah for sure,” Garrett replied as he unconsciously wrapped the tie around his collar. In only a few seconds and a few deft maneuvers, his hands nimbly created a Windsor knot.

“I taught you well,” Devon applauded, his eyebrow crooked as he dissected his statement. Still, his mouth continued its whimsical dialogue. “You can tie a tie as fast as I can tie my shoes. Or at least as fast as I used to be able to tie them.” He gestured at his bass drum of a belly and chuckled at himself.

Garrett couldn’t help but snicker too. Devon’s bubbly nature was somewhat infectious. It was kind of hot - imagining the portly ex-jock catering to his needs, but also being a genuinely nice person. That would be a nice change.

“Isn’t that better?” Devon asked. A faint panic still permeated his eyes, as if he wasn’t sure why he was asking these questions and indulging Garrett like this.

“Yeah,” Garrett smiled with a conceited grin as he ran a hand through his floppy, greasy mop of crumpled hair. The movement caused more strands to flop down successfully, causing them to be quaffed straight back as if they were drenched in gel. Garrett didn’t pay it any mind. He just enjoyed how perfectly his mint tie complemented the checkered pattern of his blazer. This nearly-gaudy attire - he wanted to hate it - but he couldn’t. It accentuated his muscles perfectly! Oh yeah. His muscles. “I feel like a million bucks!” Garrett said with an honorary flex.

“Good, good,” Devon jovially replied. In accordance with his jolliness, a new layer of fat formed around his stomach and stretched out his resplendent tuxedo even further. A wave of compassion and maturity overcame him, replacing his adolescent panic. Looking at a burgeoning young stud like Garrett made him feel…proud in a way? It made him feel oddly paternal, as if their ages were different or something? “You have to look your best for your special day,” Devon added, before grimacing at how cringe he sounded. Still, it felt eerily correct to assist Garrett with his newfound sartorial knowledge.

“My special day?” Garrett asked before smirking once more. “That’s right. It…is my special day. I just can’t remember why.”

“Me neither,” Devon admitted. His adolescent rage towards Garrett had faded completely. It was impossible to get mad a young, promising stud like him. Instead, he glared down at his new rotund body ruefully. “I look like a fucking gumdrop,” he pouted as he poked and prodded at his round belly and pecs. He craned his stubby neck to see that even his broad, hulking thighs made his dress pants look vacuum-sealed. It reminded him of wearing padded football pants. His chest was ridiculously huge too - his pecs were like two airbags resting atop a giant, protrusive boulder. Thankfully, his pecs didn’t sag like other older men’s man-boobs often did. They just hung there, taunting Devon with their undeniable stoutness. It was enthralling in a way - the idea of his cannonball-shaped stomach on display in every shirt he ever wore. That made him feel so…mature, like a father figure of sorts. His corpulence, unapologetically masculine, equally disgusted and excited him. At least his plump body looked well-dressed and concealed perfectly by this uniform. Devon could picture so many men his age, or…his father’s age, who didn’t know how to dress themselves - the type to have the undersides of their bellies exposed in public and who wore thin, ill-fitting t-shirts with visible, nasty sweat stains. Devon felt some strange pleasure in the fact that his clothes were tailored just for him. It made him feel much more…powerful that way. This well-dressed, paunchy body of his was an extension of his own masculinity.

Garrett was lost in his own self-indulgent thoughts as he inspected his own chest. He gave his nipples a tweak and winced at how sensitive they were. Rubbing the back of his meaty hand against the expensive fabric, he could feel a God, he loved being a man. A huge, hunky, muscular, young, confident man. One whose body jutted out in every direction in his formal clothes - kinda like Devon’s did, only Garrett’s were far more perky and traditionally attractive. He’d never clamored over his body like that before. It was quite the rush - a premonition of his constantly evolving virility and an extension of his own masculinity.

“Wait, do you hear that?” Garrett asked abruptly, causing Devon to return back to reality. The two of them froze and sure enough, they realized that there was now an abundance of noise emanating above them. A faint bassline and drums could be heard accompanied by a moderately-loud chatter of people conversing. “There’s people upstairs.”

Devon turned white as a ghost. “Oh no, oh shit dude, people can’t see me like…like this!” he cried, holding up his pudgy, balloon-shaped belly in rife disgust.

“Yeah, you look like a blimp,” Garrett chuckled. For a moment, he almost regretted saying it, but his fear of Devon was dissipating. They were equals now - no longer bound by archaic notions of a teenage hierarchy.

“Manners please,” Devon retorted, primping his suit. He didn’t appear to be that offended by the comment though, considering he didn't give Garrett any vicious retaliation. In fact, he seemed to be captivated by his tuxedo jacket. “My coattails. They nearly stretch to the floor!” he said with dopey astonishment, stretching his neck to inspect the way the coat draped over his pot-bellied frame. “They kinda look like a superhero’s cape. It’s quite…marvelous, isn’t it?”

“Whoa, your voice! It sounds British!” Garrett laughed. “Would you like some tea and crumpets, governor?”

Devon was not amused. “Sir, please,” he huffed, far more displeased than angry. “I don’t think it’s quite appropriate to make fun of my accent. I surely don't mock you for your deep voice.”

A twinge of guilt pulsed through Garrett. If a jerk like Devon could learn politeness, surely he could too. “Right, right, I’m sorry,” he said, completely oblivious while his voice lost its teenage squeak in favor of a commanding, baritone register. “I guess I never expected a football player to act so formal.” The voice that Garrett now had sounded like it belonged to a male country singer rather than a raspy 18 year old.

“Football?” Devon gasped. He could recall playing it for a brief moment, but the memories of it all came crashing down instantly. Like a piece of paper being incinerated to ash. A man of his rotund stature certainly wouldn’t be the greatest at the sport unless he was an offensive lineman. “I have…never played football before,” Devon said, almost in a state of shock as the words left his lips. “I wouldn’t be too fast on the field. Not with a belly like…OOOFF…like this.” Without warning, fifty more pounds were piled onto Devon’s stomach, causing him to look like even more of a portly freak. This monster gut looked ready to rip free from his uniform at any moment, but thankfully it had swiftly stretched with his beastly proportions to prevent that.

“Oh yeah, that’s right, it’s not called soccer where you’re from.”

“Huh? I…oh yes, that’s quite correct.” Devon’s head was spinning. His definition of the sport was changing. Football was nothing like it was here in the States. It was a far less violent and barbaric sport in the U.K. but most importantly, it was an excuse to get a pint with the lads and watch his favorite team whenever he went back home. Or wait, wasn’t this home? Everything was getting fuzzy.

Garrett was feeling the same way as he zoned out for a moment, gazing down at his sophisticated clothes. Or rather hunky, sophisticated body - the clothes were just an extension of himself. “Well, I think we should head upstairs and talk to that Cliff guy and maybe he can help us.”

“Ah Cliff, what a fine gentleman!” Devon perked up, like a robot coming to life. His deep, Welsh accent teeming with merriment. “Yes, let’s!”

Garrett tried his hardest not to snicker as Devon led the way. His bouncy, blubbery figure certainly didn’t move the way it once did. At first, he clearly was trying to move at the speed of a highschool quarterback, but his gait was reduced to a sluggish waddle. Something else had also changed about Devon. It was his back - which looked quite broader for some reason. Paired with his angular shoulders, his upper body was turning into quite an imposing-shaped rectangle. For a man of smaller stature, his figure was still quite imposing.

“I’m sure everyone is waiting to see you.” Devon said merrily as he reached the wooden stairs.

“Ah that’s right,” Garrett replied and a burst of dopamine suddenly hit his brain, promptly inhibiting any more questioning of their predicament. It was his special day. Being the center of attention was something he craved - people all gathered around him, listening to him talk in length - it was like adrenaline to him : a formative adrenaline. He cherished all the accolades his hulking muscles would receive. From friends, from family members, from romantic partners. After all, he’d put in years of hard work!

Garrett was aghast as he walked up the steps behind his paunchy companion. Devon already had the tight, muscle butt of a high school quarterback, but the ascent up the staircase immediately began shaping it into an enormous cushion that was impossible to ignore. With each step upward, his glutes flared outward in all directions, stretching his wool dress pants like lycra. Inflating like balloons, Devon’s mountainous asscheeks lost some of their muscled firmness. They rhymically bobbed up and down over and over, indicative of their increased fat concentration. By the time they reached the top of the stairs, two mounds the size of basketballs and as wide as pillows had replaced Devon’s former ass. He appeared to be none the wiser as he turned sideways for a moment and readjusted his cummerbund.

Garrett froze. His cock had risen to full mast and he hated it. Illuminated by a single overhead light, Devon’s mammoth figure cast a marvelous silhouette. The equal breadth of his glorious, distended stomach and protruding suited buttocks were so oddly compelling. And stupidly erotic. Then again, Garrett had been hard since the changes started…or for the past hour while he’d been getting ready. Yeah. That was right. Dressing up always got his hormones firing.

“It seems like only yesterday you had gotten into college,” Devon reminisced as he turned his stubby neck up to Garrett who climbed to the top step.

“College?” Garrett asked. He hadn’t even graduated high school. “I don’t think-”

“Look at yourself, Garrett, ” Devon boomed. The newfound sagacity in his voice sent a shiver up Garrett’s spine. “You’ve really changed from the small, precocious lad you once were. You heed advice and apply it into your own life. In university and in bodybuilding. Why, I remember when I used to be larger than you. Hah hah hah! That’s not quite the case anymore, is it?”

“Bodybuilding? College?” Garrett was dumbfounded. Two retrospections ran parallel in his brain. In one, he was a teenage misanthrope who would much rather keep to himself and his hobbies while another, more forceful side of him savored the attention of being a heartthrob, junior bodybuilder. He craved it, actually. He wanted to loathe the feeling, but he couldn’t. Everything around him was spinning out of control so beautifully, but something told him that this was a very good thing.

“Why yes,” Devon replied, “We’re all so proud of you. You have that ambition that’s going to get you very far in life.” His voice cracked a bit. “I wish I had more of that when I was a lad.”

Before Garrett could stop himself, he’d already wrapped his arms around the portly man. Given their height difference, he’d had to lean down slightly, but he didn’t even realize he’d done that. Devon quickly reciprocated and a mutual wave of growth radiated through the two of them. It was a weird burst of unbridled sympathy the two had never felt for each other once. But it was real.

Firstly, Devon’s belly gained a final thirty more pounds, swelling larger than a yoga ball and tight as a bass drum. At one point, he’d competed in bodybuilding competitions just like Garrett was…or was going to. But now, a stout aging man like Devon much preferred to possess a distended, glorious muscle gut formed from decades of hard work and newfound relaxation. His body type was truly one of a kind - he had to make his own custom clothes for it too - and nothing made him more enthusiastic that Garrett appeared to be following the same fate of growing gigantic. Finishing its inflation, Devon’s belly pressed tightly against Garrett’s abdomen, which was starting to shrink in exchange. Any remaining pudge Garrett had was trimmed away and repurposed into a lean, X-shaped of a competition-ready bodybuilder. His nonexistent butt also began to change, promptly losing its shapelessness as it inflated into two boulders. His rear was only around three-quarters the size of Devon’s, but it had equal strength. Garrett had an enormous, perky muscle butt formed by nearly a decade of strenuous squatting and consistent training. In tandem, Garrett’s slender thighs beefed up, becoming a set of poles that could effortlessly support his hulking frame. Subconsciously, he rocked back and forth on them and the new muscles tightened into pillars as thick as stone.

“Thank you,” Devon replied as the two pulled apart. His eyes were glassy and his face had a myriad of more pronounced lines on it now. He was so happy now, happier than he had ever been from his life as a football player. Being a British butler, a man of superlative etiquette, and passing eclectic style and machismo onto a man like Garrett - that was his new purpose. “You’ve become the man deep down that I knew you always could be.”

“Of course,” Garrett smiled. He felt like his heart was going to explode. While studying Devon’s new venerable face and more mature sunken eyes, he blinked and all of a sudden, his baseball cap disappeared! Not only that, Devon’s head of vibrant blonde hair had vanished too, leaving behind a faint horseshoe of hair. He pictured Devon as having a younger, boyish face in his head, but those memories were crinkling away as he looked into this new, mature man.“Your…your hat,” was all Garrett could say.

Faint wrinkles texturized themselves around Devon’s face as he smiled. “Yes, the bowler hat felt a little unfitting on a very formal occasion like this.”

“No, you were wearing a…” Garrett trailed off, immediately forgetting that a bald, astute gentleman like Devon would ever wear a baseball cap. That seemed too…juvenile for him. Whenever he did wear a hat, it was usually a top hat or something. Even more paralyzing to Garrett was the fact that this man in front of him didn’t feel like a stranger anymore. He felt like a family member. Like a mentor of sorts. It made sense. After all, he’d known Devon his entire life. A hazy memory traveled through Garrett’s brain. He could remember being young, back when Devon had a full head of hair and he’d wanted so badly to impress him. Now he had and the family butler couldn’t be more proud. Wait, family butler? That seemed correct for some reason, but it make any-

“Have a fun night, kid,” Devon smiled, uniquely giving the words a staccato affectation with his charming British accent, as he opened up the wooden door to the banquet hall.

Bright lights inundated Garrett’s corneas, like he’d stepped into heaven. When his eyes adjusted, he could make out around what appeared to be one hundred or so people occupying the previously vacant hall. Their attire was ritzy - like nothing Garrett had ever seen. Women adorned with beautiful, stylish dresses paired next to men dressed up in bespoke three-piece suits of various colors. A multitude of tuxedoed waitstaff were maneuvering in between the crowd of affluent guests. All parties involved seemed to be engrossed in pleasant, light-hearted conversation.

Seeing them all sent a tidal wave of fear through Garrett and the same teenage nerves he thought he’d banished inundated his brain. “Devon, there are so many-”

He turned, but Devon had already begun conversing with a crowd of five male waiters nearby who were dressed in identical tuxedos. He wanted to chuckle at how Devon’s cartoonishly massive butt eclipsed his view of the men he was talking to, but he couldn’t. In his peripheral vision, he could see people start noticing him. All the confidence he’d once had vanished instantly replaced by his familiar teenage nerves. He hated crowds - hated them so much. And now here he was trapped in the middle of one of the largest ones he’d ever seen.

Just as Garrett took his first step forward to try and slink towards the wall, he nearly collided with the silhouette of a huge, imposing man who nearly knocked him to his feet. Luckily, his reflexes were quick and he jumped back on his heels.

“Vince, there you are!” thundered the familiar, lofty stranger. It was Cliff - his interviewer of all people? He also looked more put together than before. His massive pecs were thinly concealed by a tight dress shirt preventing any chest hair from peeking through. At his side was a breathtaking entourage of beautiful guests, a group of men wearing flashy, velvety suits and a group of women wearing extravagant, ruched dresses. “We were wondering what was taking you so long!”

“Huh? My name’s not-” Garrett stopped. His deep voice, almost as low as Cliff’s, startled him and reminded him how manly he sounded. Before he could analyze it, two new heels abruptly shot out of Garrett’s sneakers, launching him a half-inch higher into the air - allowing him to become eye level with Cliff - the man who’d previously towered over him. He wanted to tremble, but there was something so comforting about the older man’s face. It made him feel seen. There was a broad, beaming smile on Cliff’s brick-shaped jaw, emanating the same sage-like reverence as Devon had.

“There’s the man of the hour!” another well-dressed man around three-quarters the size of Garrett exclaimed. By this point, the group of guests had swarmed all around him, rendering any chance of escape impossible. His heart felt like it was going to explode out of chest, from stress and a weird, weird sense of familiarity with these people, especially one of the men in front of him. His face was devoid of wrinkles and his forehead devoid of furrows. Must’ve been a lot of Botox. Even his hairline mirrored Garrett’s, which was impressive given he looked to be in his sixties or so. “Put ‘err there, Vince!” the dapper stranger exclaimed, extending out his hand.

Garrett acquiesced, not wanting to be rude. He didn’t realize how clammy his hands were until they were against this man’s dry ones. “Thanks, Uncle James. It’s so good to see you,” he replied before flinching at his weird, automatic response.

The man didn’t seem to care about being Garrett’s uncle. It did seem to make sense though. He looked like Cliff, only a few years older. “Look at that! He already got himself a Rolex! Lookin’ sharp, son!”

“A…what?” Garrett looked down at his right wrist and sure enough, there was a watch with a rich, emerald hue that looked nothing short of expensive. Upon further inspection, he realized it was the same green shade as his preppy checkered blazer and it had the same eye-catching shimmer of his cufflinks. Fuck. That turned him on for some reason. Luxury. Power. Being all dressed up. “Yeah, doesn’t it have a marvelous sparkle to it?” Garrett added, unable to contain his excitement. His voice sounded different now - a little more pompous. He was really holding the vowels of words in his mouth for longer now. It reminded him of the rich kids from his high school. Wait, where did he go to school again?

A lady in a lavender velvet dress holding a bubbling glass of champagne spoke next. She used big gestures to the group, as if she was showing Garrett off like a trophy. “Our son - the Yale graduate,” she declared, her voice sounding as proud as Cliff’s and as proud as Devon’s. “I can’t believe he finally did it.”

“Top of his class too!” Cliff added, sipping on a glass of scotch. “Don’t forget about that, Pauline.”

“Of course,” the woman smiled. “We never doubted our son for a second.”

“Graduated? From Yale? No, I’m…” Garrett sputtered as the final realization hit him. This was a party. All for him. And Cliff and Pauline. They were…his parents? That didn’t seem right, but Garrett had trouble recalling any other alternative. He could recall glimpses of his upbringing in opulent rooms, going to high-class events and developing a sartorial affinity. He now truly felt like an adult just like them. His parents’ positive words echoed in his head, filling him up with joy. For the first time in a long time, Garrett felt proud of himself. His memories of a recluse were fading while recollections of being a valedictorian and relaxed, sociable young athlete took their place.

“Looks like he’s been hitting the gym at the same time!” Uncle James piped in. “What’s your current weight?”

“280,” Garrett replied and instinctively performed a front lat spread to the group who all laughed pompously.

“Don’t get him started,” Pauline replied with a playful tap on Garrett’s shoulder.

Another man spoke up who looked muscular too, although not as muscular as Garrett. “Even during football, you were never half this size. You really took to bodybuilding during college! I can’t believe I’m looking at the same kid!”

Garrett beamed with pride and his posh accent swallowed up his old one completely. “Once I knew football wasn’t in the cards for me, I decided to take weightlifting more seriously and it really helped me.”

“Isn’t that great,” one of the ladies in the crowd smiled.

“He sure takes after his old man!” Cliff smiled, wrapping his arm around his equally-strapping son.

Garrett froze as he fully took in the breadth of his alleged father. For lack of a better word, he was just so manly. Even being a man in his fifties, he still had some incredible size to him. He must’ve been sixty pounds heavier than Garrett, which was nothing short of impressive. Cliff’s cerulean three-piece suit looked ready to rip off. Garrett could recall some strong feelings about that: the idea of getting to a massive size where all of his suits had to be custom-made to contain his sheer width. He could faintly recall a short, plump man measuring him with yellow tape as he crafted measurements for him.

Holy shit. That man was his family butler. The one he’d just seen earlier. What was his name again? Acrid guilt pulsed through Garrett’s head. This butler had been with his family his entire life and he couldn’t even remember his name. Even Garrett’s own name was growing harder to remember, but he knew one thing for sure. His name certainly wasn’t Vincent.

“Any refills on champagne?” chirped a familiar ebullient voice.

“Yes please, thank you Reginald,” one of the ladies chirped back as the butler filled up her tall glass.

Garrett turned and sure enough, his family butler was right there: Reginald Chapman - a 400 pound intimidating colossus who was actually a kind-hearted giant.

Garrett tried not to laugh. This whole situation was so far-fetched. It reminded him of that one Rick & Morty episode where the family in the show had gained memories of a butler who they thought had always been part of their family. But this situation was different from a silly cartoon like that. It wasn’t like Reginald lived with them although he was over at the house working full-time. Hell, he’d even gone on family vacations with the Atkinsons. He’d even brought his husband along. It had been a strange sight - seeing the family butler and his equally-large middle-aged husband on the beach, but it had been illuminating. But still, Reginald had his own life. He was simply the Atkinsons’ staff member. A lifelong, steadfast one at that. Happy to cater to Garrett’s needs whenever necessary and give him advice on life and bodybuilding. It seemed weird to have a private butler, but not for a family like the Atkinsons who were filthy rich.

For a moment, Garrett found that somewhat exciting - the idea of a massive man catering to his needs, but it wasn’t weird like that. Even with his portly figure, Reginald had been quite an inspiration for Garrett to take bodybuilding seriously. He’d wanted to grow - to get as big as one of his idols - a kind-hearted Englishman who was like his second father. In fact, it had been a conversation on a Bahamian beach with Reginald and his burly partner Oliver that had made Garrett realize he was bisexual - a whole separate epiphany.

“I assume the college grad over here needs a fresh glass too!” Reginald piped up, producing a clean wine glass for Garrett. He poured the perfect amount of the liquid into it and smiled. “He’s truly one of a kind isn’t he?”

The group smiled and laughed in agreement. Garrett took notice of the other patrons in the background who were also turning his way. Reginald had the volume of a foghorn after all. In the crowd, Garrett could make out a few guys and girls his age - some of the friends from college. Some of them were really attractive. This really was quite the celebration. And it was all for him.

“Dom perignon, sir,” Reginald smiled, handing Garrett the glass, his fifty-six year old face glowing with adulation.

Garrett took a sip and smiled - the expensive liquor tasted incredible. He swore he could feel the bubbles fizzing in his mouth after he swallowed.

“Raise your glasses, please!” Reginald boomed. The guests immediately obeyed, all with smiles on their faces as they stared warmly at Garrett. “To Vincent Atkinson!” Reginald thundered as the background chatter quieted down. “A young man who has changed my life as much as I hope I’ve changed his!”

There was that name again. Garrett wanted to reply, but instead a warm, compassionate feeling overcame him. He was touched by the sweetness of the family butler - a man who inspired him every day.

A cheer from all of the guests echoed through the banquet hall. They all took a sip except for Reginald who just warmly smiled. “Have a glorious night you all,” he said with a bow of his head before swiftly walking away to tend to other patrons. That’s right. Reginald was on the clock. That enthusiastic, diligent butler. Garrett watched as his plump body bounced within the confines of his long, dangling coattails as as he sidled over to another crowd.

“Vince has grown up so fast!” chimed in a male patron as the chatter started back up. “He’s sure got that Atkinson family chin!”

“Wait until he gets those Atkinson family veneers!” chimed in another who received a chastising shove from his wife.

“Family…chin?” Garrett mumbled as he felt a bubbling sensation emanating from the bottom of his face. It was the weirdest feeling, like someone was popping bubble wrap under his chin. The final piece of him was changing - his face. He didn’t know why, but he wanted to see it happen in real time. He just had to. “Excuse me, please,” Garrett said before promptly darting away before any patron could stop him. With each distinct footstep, his dress shoes grew more and more glossy, echoing throughout the opulent hall. Luckily, he located a bathroom nearby and promptly slunk inside, but not before feeling his broad shoulders scrape against the sides of the old, wooden doorframe. Garrett skulked to the mirror a panicked, breathy mess and promptly froze with disbelief at his strapping reflection.

Everything about him was huge. Unbelievably huge.

He turned to his side and ogled over his humongous chest and back jutting out in either direction. Even his biceps looked prime to rip right out of his checkered suit jacket. Lower on his body, his bulge and tight, muscle ass also jutted out from his midsection, quivering with his movements, both exuding undoubtable manliness. Now in complete privacy, Garrett’s cock rose back up to full mast. His body - it reminded him of Cliff’s - his new father - unyieldingly masculine and provocative. He was burning up under this sexy yet stifling outfit his butler had picked out.

“I’m an Atkninson,” he said to himself, eager to look like just his father - his idol.

With a distinct set of cracks, his stubby chin erupted forward, immediately doubling its width and acquiring a brand new shovel-shape. Any awkward half-grown teenage facial hair vanished with it, endowing Garrett with a clean-shaven, spotless chin accompanied by the subtle aroma of expensive aftershave. Next his lips inflated like two balloons, puffing out to an extremely kissable level. His teeth straightened and became a pure shade of white. Transfixed by his reflection, Garrett watched in wonder as his unsightly pimples and zits were eradicated from his face. In one swift blink, his eyes changed from hazel to a bright blue accompanied by a slightly thicker yet attractive nose. Propelled down by an invisible wave, Garrett’s unkempt bowl cut was finally subdued and all of the long, strands shortened to a preppy, professional length. An expertly-placed layer of gel coated the young man’s greasy brown hair, slicking it back in an instant, taking off a few inches with it.

“Mmm fuck,” Garrett huffed as he swore he felt a gust of air rush over his head. A glorious tidal wave of bright blond hair came next, swallowing up his old bushy brunette forever. He wanted to be mad at how preppy he looked, but it didn’t make sense why. This was how he’d dressed his whole life.

“I’m an Atkinson,” Garrett repeated, hard as a rock while he watched his boyish features mature ever so slightly, eradicating anyone ever mistaking him for a teenager ever again and aging him up in a man in his early 20s. That wasn’t who he was after all. Everyone was here tonight for his college graduation.

Garrett was treated to a final, illustrious animation of his altering face in the mirror as any remaining “Garrett-hood” he had was eliminated. His hairline pulled down slightly making his forehead less prominent, his eyes grew a little closer together, and his ears shrunk ever so slightly. And then as if Garrett had been staring at some magic-eye poster, it all clicked into place. His handsome face looked just like a younger version of his father. “Fuck yeah, I’m…Vincent Atkinson,” he trembled, his voice rife with anticipation.

That utterance - it sent a shockwave through Vincent. In an instant, an invisible sonic boom erupted through the room. It forced down his eyes and locked all of his handsome new attributes in place - never to be taken from him. Simultaneously, his rock-hard cock became flaccid. When Vincent reopened his eyes, he was left staring at his reflection in the mirror and there was a watery sheen over his aquamarine-shaded eyes. He was on the verge of crying for some reason? He blinked a few times and the tears only welled up further in his eyes. The lifetime of Garrett Carmicheal disappeared, replaced by a brand new handsome stud. Forever.

The instant Vincent’s mind transformed, the bathroom door flung open and in stepped a familiar, enormous man.

He flinched. His eyes were still watering. Why wouldn’t they stop? Why did he feel so sentimental all of a sudden?

Vincent’s father’s stern face immediately softened as he sidled up to his son. “Hey, hey, it’s alright to cry at these things, Vince,” he soothed his father as he wrapped his tree trunk of an arm around his son’s shoulders.

Vincent sighed and a single tear rolled down his cheek before he could stop it. The emotions were so much. He couldn’t believe what he’d been through. All of the schooling and now this - a graduation: which felt like the destruction of his youth. “I don’t even know why I’m crying,” he admitted, his voice hardly trembling. “It’s just so much. I can’t believe I’m like…like a real adult now.”

“It’s alright. Sometimes the emotions can be too much to endure. Come on, bring it in,” Vincent’s dad said, pulling his son in close for a mighty bear hug, which was immediately reciprocated. Immense strength radiated between the Atkinson men as they squeezed each other tenderly as hard as they could. The immeasurable comfort of his father - the man who had helped shape him into the confident, buff specimen he was meant to be - was so much to bear. An involuntary whimper escaped Vincent’s lips as he rested his head on top of one of his father’s strong shoulders. “I love you, kid. I’m so proud of you. We all are!” Vincent’s father added as the two released each other. He wiped a tear of his own from his own face and exhaled.

“Thanks dad,” Vincent replied before coughing and standing up straight again. He sighed and re-flattened one of his French cuffs - obsessed with the idea that his clothes were just an extension of his masculinity. Formalwear was always such a confidence-booster. Reginald had helped inspire that in him. “I think I’m alright now,” Vincent smiled. “I really needed that.”

“Anytime,” Vincent’s dad replied and the two of them headed back to the bathroom door, their two muscular butts both wider than the doorway. “How’s it feel to be a graduate?”

“Incredible,” Vincent smiled. “Like the world is at my fingertips.”

#male tf story #age progression #mental change #reality change #age progression tf #male transformation #muscle growth tf #businessman #male transformtaion #sartorial #weight gain tf #weight gain #wealthy #jock #preppy #socialite #butler

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apteryxparvus · 7 months

Text

taste you on my lips

Pairing — Diluc Ragnvindr / Female Reader

Word count — 4,109

Content warning — drinking • making out • tequila body shots • suggestive themes

Summary — In the midst of a raging storm — lightning crackling and rain pouring down — you find yourself trapped at Angel's Share. As the drinks flow, your inhibitions begin to fade, and your not-so-secret crush on your boss becomes harder to contain.

“I’ll be going now,” Charles declares, his voice carrying a hint of weariness as he finishes tidying his bar area. With a practiced finesse, he meticulously wipes down the counter, the soft fabric of the cloth gliding over the smooth surface. The bottles of syrups and liquors stand in perfect order.

Angel’s Share basks in the warm embrace of the overhead lights. The dive bar is barely occupied on the chilly Wednesday night, with only a handful of regular patrons indulging in their favorite vices, leisurely sipping on their drinks.

“Bye! Take care,” you respond, a bright smile gracing your lips as you bid farewell to your colleague. However, beneath the façade of your cheerfulness, a gnawing anxiety creeps its way into your thoughts at the prospect of being left along with your boss.

The initial nervousness of being the newest employee (with no previous experience in the industry, at that) has slowly dissolved. You’ve managed to overcome the discomfort of serving customers, even in their inebriated state, and you’ve learned to assert yourself in the face of rowdiness.

But one insurmountable obstacle remains — the watchful gaze of Diluc Ragnvindr.

Not only is he the owner of Angel’s Share, but he holds the title of the most seasoned bartender. His discerning eyes catch even the tiniest of errors, and he is swift to deliver admonishments to whoever is responsible — which, more often than not, happens to be you. The weight of his scrutiny lingers in the air, a constant reminder of your inexperience and the need to prove yourself in his eyes.

And the undeniable truth of your crush on Diluc, so painfully obvious to everyone, only further complicates your already precarious situation. Your colleagues, as well as certain regulars, take great pleasure in teasing you about it. Kaeya, Diluc's charismatic adoptive brother, playfully pokes fun at you whenever he gets the chance. Jean, the childhood best friend of the brothers, and her girlfriend Lisa, constantly offer unsolicited advice on how to break through Diluc's icy demeanor. And while their intentions are well-meaning, these conversations leave you feeling mortified, unable to meet Diluc's gaze without the vivid memories of those embarrassing discussions flooding your mind.

"Relax, don't get too wound up," Charles teases, words laced with amusement as he makes his way towards the staff room.

You shoot him a withering glare. “I won’t.”

Contrary to your attempts to remain composed, your body betrays you as soon Diluc steps behind the bar, his towering figure casting a shadow over you. Every nerve in your body tenses, heart pounding in your chest, as his presence engulfs you entirely.

"Is everything running fine here?" he inquires, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine.

"Su—sure, everything's going great, sir," you stammer, words faltering.

"No need to call me sir," he replies, his voice gruff. His calculating gaze sweeps across the dimly lit bar, taking note of the patrons still sipping on their drinks. "I'll go ask for the last round, and after that, you can start cleaning up and closing the bar."

Relief floods through you, grateful that tonight's workday will come to an end earlier than expected. You set about tidying the bar, washing and polishing the glasses scattered haphazardly.

But as you lose yourself in the rhythm of your tasks, Diluc interrupts your little reverie with his deep voice. "Here, let me help," he offers. Yet again, you become acutely aware of his imposing presence.

Startled, you nearly jump when his warm breath grazes your neck, igniting a trail of goosebumps across your skin. Your heart races as his body presses against your back, the firmness of his muscles evident even through the fabric of his tight shirt. The tension in the air is almost tangible as you struggle to maintain your composure in the face of this unexpected closeness.

"No—no, it's al—alright," you manage to squeak out, but Diluc pays no heed to your protest. He gently takes the wine glass from your hand, and you feel a slight jealousy surge within you as you watch him effortlessly reach the high shelves.

"Thanks," you mumble, your gaze fixated on the remaining glasses. Heat rises in your body, a mix of embarrassment and desire mingling together.

"I'll go restock the fridges," Diluc announces, moving away from you. A wave of relief washes over you, almost causing a sigh to escape your lips, but deep down, you secretly yearn for the warmth his closeness provided. "If you need any help, just come and ask."

You nod, your teeth grazing the tender flesh of your lower lip. There's absolutely no way you'll be asking for assistance. In fact, you're determined to finish the remaining tasks as quickly as possible, hoping to avoid any prolonged interaction with your boss.

You focus back on your tasks, diligently polishing the few remaining glasses. You wonder if he had noticed your nervousness, if he could sense the pull between you, or if it was all a figment of your overactive imagination.

Cleaning the rest of the bar becomes a welcome distraction from your swirling thoughts. You sanitize the beer taps and soda dispenser nozzles, making sure to leave no speck of dirt or residue behind. A sigh of relief escapes your lips when you are finally satisfied that every tool and glass gleams under the warm glow of the lights.

Your nimble fingers deftly untangle the stubborn knot of your apron, the fabric slipping free from your body. You place it in a small basket alongside the other soiled rags and towels.

The idea of helping Diluc refill the basement fridges passes through your mind, but the nerves and unease that have plagued you since the start of your shift intensify and make the prospect feel daunting and potentially awkward.

Lost in your thoughts, you're taken by surprise when Diluc's tall figure emerges from the basement stairs, carrying three crates filled with drinks. His commanding presence accentuates the powerful contours of his physique, leaving you breathless. You move to assist him, but he grunts in response and dismissively waves you away.

"I can manage," he grumbles, his voice slightly strained. "Go get changed. The weather report says there'll be a storm tonight."

You’re grateful for his concern, as the realization that you hadn't been aware of the impending storm, and you had arrived at work dressed in nothing more than a light hoodie and a shirt, dawns upon you. The late hour means the buses have most likely stopped running. And as much as you adore the rain and the cloudy weather, the idea of getting drenched is not appealing at all.

"Oh, thank you," you reply.

By the time you emerge from the changing room, clad in your comfortable clothes and with your backpack slung over your shoulders, Diluc has already finished refilling the bar fridges.

"Is that all for tonight, si— I mean, Diluc," you stumble over your words at the accidental slip of almost calling him "sir" again. "It’s going to be a long walk home if it does start raining."

Diluc's gaze meets yours, his eyes darkening. "You're walking home? Alone?"

"A—ah! Don't worry," you stammer, your words coming out awkwardly. "I'm used to it."

Your attempt at reassurance falls flat. "I can take you home. Mondstadt might be quiet at night, but it's still not safe for you."

You shake your head, silently protesting against the idea. The thought of being confined in a car with Diluc sends your mind into a frenzy; you’re sure your brain will short circuit with the close proximity.

"I'll go grab my keys, and then we can head out."

When Diluc returns, he's changed out of his uniform, now dressed in dark pants and a leather jacket that clings to his form. A pair of keys dangle from his hand, and he cradles a shiny, dark helmet in the other.

It takes a moment for the implications to sink in, and you immediately recoil from the idea. "No—no! Absolutely not!"

The thought of riding on a motorcycle with Diluc is too much to bear. The closeness, the need to hold him tightly, the inevitable contact between your bodies, it's all too overwhelming. The mere idea of him feeling your racing heartbeat threatens to consume you.

Diluc raises an eyebrow, his gaze piercing. "Do you not trust my skills?"

You realize the unintended implication of your outburst, and quickly backtrack. "I—I do, but I've never ridden a motorcycle, and I intend to keep it that way!"

He remains silent, his lips pressed into a thin line, as he leads the way towards the exit. Reluctantly, you follow him, steps cautious as you make your way to the staircase that leads to the front entrance of the bar.

Tonight luck is not on your side — as as soon as you swing open the large oak door, you are greeted by the most vicious storm you've witnessed in years.

The wind roars and branches to sway violently. Rain falls from the cloudy sky in fat droplets, drenching everything in its path. The streets are submerged in deep, murky water, as the sewers struggle to cope with the downpour. In the distance, a lightning strike illuminates the night, followed by a deafening thunder.

There’s no way you can navigate through his weather on foot. You bite down on your cheek, a mix of frustration and resignation flooding your senses. Turning towards Diluc, you shyly meet his gaze.

"It would be extremely unsafe to ride or walk in this weather," he comments, his voice laced with concern. "I would recommend either calling a taxi or waiting out the rain inside the bar."

"Highly doubt any taxis would be running in this weather," you respond.

He lets out a weary sigh. "Let's go inside then. We can share a drink or two while we wait for the rain to stop." He glances for a split second at the downpour. "Or at least until it slows down and it's safe to drive you back."

"I thought you didn't drink?" you question, trailing behind him as he leads you back to the underground bar.

"I don't," he answers curtly. "I'll be drinking non-alcoholic cider."

"Oh, right," you mumble.

As you make your way towards the bar counter, Diluc skillfully retrieves a bottle of cider, pouring it into a glass.

"What would you like to drink?" he asks, taking a sip of his fizzy cider. You ponder for a moment, unsure of how professional it would be to drink alcohol in front of your boss. But then again, you’re not sure you can mentally survive this encounter by being completely sober.

"Just make me a cocktail," you murmur, your voice shy and uncertain. "Whichever you prefer."

You watch attentively as Diluc prepares your cocktail. His strong hands deftly grab a bottle of whiskey from the top shelves, pouring a generous amount into a shaker. The rich aroma of the distilled spirit fills the air, mingling with the citrusy smell of lemon juice. He carefully breaks an egg, pouring only the egg white into the shaker.

Diluc vigorously shakes the mixture, his muscles flexing and straining with each movement. He adds a generous amount of ice and continues shaking. The ice clatters against the metal and fills the room with noise.

"Can you pass me a rocks glass?" Diluc's voice breaks through your mesmerized state, and you scramble to grab a glass, handing out a tall one.

"A rocks glass," he corrects you, and you can't help but feel a twinge of embarrassment at your mistake. Quickly, you put back the tall glass and retrieve a shorter one. He nods in acknowledgement, pouring the cocktail into the glass. As a finishing touch, he adds a few drops of Angostura bitters, a maraschino cherry, and a thin slice of dried orange as a garnish.

He hands you the drink, and you take a careful sip, feeling the explosion of flavors on your tongue. A moan of pleasure almost escapes your lips as the tangy embrace of the whiskey caresses your senses, the citrus juice dancing across your taste buds.

"It's freaking delicious," you announce. You take another greedy sip, savoring the taste. "What's it called?"

"Whiskey sour," Diluc answers, his lips forming a subtle smirk.

"It's not on the menu?" you inquire. Despite your extensive knowledge of the bar's menu, ranging from the tap beers and the special selections, to Dandelion wine types and the multitude of sweet and sour cocktails, you’re sure you’ve never come across this one specific drink.

"Some things are best kept as hidden gems," he muses.

As you take yet another long sip of the whiskey sour, you can’t help but wonder what other secrets lie within the depths of the man who stands behind the bar.

Diluc leads you to a booth, and you silently follow. He settles onto the plush red leather cushion, taking a sip from his own drink, his eyes never leaving you. Awkwardly, you take a seat opposite him, attempting to smile but feeling the unnaturalness of it.

The tension between you is palpable, the electricity between you both exciting and unnerving. You already feel the intoxicating effects of the alcohol coursing through your veins. Your glass is nearly empty, while Diluc's remains only halfway finished.

In a few swift gulps, you down the last remnants of your cocktail, tilting the glass to capture every drop of foam.

Diluc raises an eyebrow. “Another one?”

You answer with a timid nod, accompanied by a shy smile. “Do you think you can teach me?”

He nods, finishing his own drink in one swift motion, his crimson locks cascading around his face as he rises from his seat. You follow him, the alcohol already making you giddy as you stumble slightly.

The bar becomes your stage. Diluc’s instructions, whispered softly, guide you through the process. You follow them, carefully separating the egg white, and pouring the right amounts of juices and syrups.

You begin to shake the cocktail, feeling your muscles strain. In an attempt to steady yourself, you bite down on the inside of your cheek. Shaking cocktails has always been a challenging task for you — the amount of times you’ve forgotten to secure the lid and witnessed the mixture cascade over yourself and the bar counter serves as a haunting reminder.

A soft, almost inaudible sigh escapes Diluc's lips as he delicately takes hold of your arm. "Here, shake it like this," he instructs. His hands guide yours, his touch electrifying.

You finish shaking the cocktail, but his fingers linger over yours, and a warmth spreads through your body. He tenses, quickly withdrawing.

Snatching another rocks glass, its cool surface meeting your warm fingers, and with practiced grace, you pour the drink, watching as the foam gently touches the rim. You add the finishing touches, placing two cherries atop the foam — their vibrant hue contrasts against the pale yellow backdrop of the drink. You snatch a third cherry, savoring its succulent sweetness as you take a bite.

The whiskey sour stands before you like a work of art. With a mixture of pride and anticipation, you take a sip.

But as the liquid touches your tongue, a harsh burn fills your throat, the sourness causing you to grimace in distaste. You sputter, coughing. Desperate to mask the unpleasant taste, you reach for another cherry, but even its sweetness fails to save your tastebuds.

“Let me see,” Diluc says. The moment the cocktail touches his tongue, a fleeting wince betrays his thoughts. “It's… it’s something,” he manages to say.

You feel yourself wilt in embarrassment.

"It's alright. You don't have to drink this. I'll finish it, and I'll make you a new one," he offers.

"No—no, you don't have to," you wave your hands frantically in protest.

He remains resolute, his gaze unwavering. "I insist."

"But you said you aren't drinking any alcohol tonight," you counter.

A mischievous glint flashes in Diluc’s eyes. "I can make an exception or two."

With that, he sets to work, his movement swift and practiced — in less than a minute, he combines the ingredients, and pours the mixture. The glass is adorned with three cherries — a thoughtful gesture that does not go unnoticed by you.

He hands you the drink, and with a soft-spoken "thank you," you accept the glass, unable to muster the courage to meet his piercing gaze.

One drink blends into two, then three.

The rich amber liquid courses through your veins, as the expensive bottle of whiskey lies empty.

Diluc — his eyes glazed with a mix of intoxication and what you interpret as desire — uncapts another bottle. His nose and ears are tinged with a telltale of redness.

“How about some shots?” you ask, speech slightly slurred.

"Vodka?" he suggests, as he grabs the nearest bottle from the shelf. "Or Fireball?" he continues, presenting another bottle.

Your eyes fixate on the captivating sight of the cinnamon-infused whiskey, its intricate red dragon design beckoning you closer. You point to the Fireball bottle, and Diluc, understanding your choice, nods in agreement. He expertly pours two shots, the glasses clinking together.

Without any hesitation, you raise the glass to your lips, the fiery liquid cascading down your throat, igniting a burning sensation that travels from your core to the depths of your stomach. The intense heat warms your already flushed body.

"Another!" you exclaim, slamming down the glass. A sheepish apology escapes your lips as Diluc's gaze meets yours, a light glare mingling with a hint of amusement.

"Tequila?"

Your eyes light up at the proposition. "You know, the best way to drink tequila is through a body shot," you blurt out, your words escaping before your brain can catch up. Mortification washes over you, causing you to gasp and hastily cover your face with trembling hands.

"Or—or so I've heard from friends," you stammer, your eyes hidden behind your palms. Diluc’s soft chuckle echoes in the room, and curiosity prompts you to part your fingers slightly, stealing a glance at him through the gaps.

He runs a hand through his high ponytail. A blush spreads across his cheeks, but you're uncertain whether it’s a result of your words or the alcohol that courses through your veins.

"Perhaps we can test your friend's intel," his voice low, drips with seduction.

You freeze, your eyes widening in surprise.

“Of course, if you’re not comfortable please ignore what I’ve said.” Diluc crosses his arms, gaze fixed upon you. Silence hangs around the air, your mind racing. "But let's not pretend you haven't been staring at me and drooling since the moment you stepped into the establishment."

Diluc's hand gently cups your cheek, his thumb tracing the contours of your bottom lip. Unconsciously, you part your mouth in response, face inching closer to his.

"Please tell me to stop if I've misread the situation," he murmurs.

As an answer, you rise onto your tiptoes, sealing the unspoken agreement with a passionate kiss. Fingers curling tightly around the lapels of his leather jacket, you pull him closer, craving the press of his chiseled abs against your stomach. His calloused hands snake around your back, drawing you into an embrace.

A soft bite of your lip sends sparks of pleasure coursing through your body, encouraging you to surrender further. Your mouth opens, allowing him to deepen the kiss. Your fingertips glide across his hair, causing his perfectly styled ponytail to unravel.

Panting heavily, the two of you part from each other, lips slightly swollen and glistening under the seductive glow of the low-light lamps.

"F-fuck," Diluc breathes, his voice laden with a mix of longing and urgency. In an instant, his lips crash against yours again.

With a surge of boldness, your hand finds its way beneath his shirt, causing a shiver to run across his body.

“So, about those tequila shots,” you manage to whisper between kisses, voice laced with mischievousness.

“The tequila shots… yes.” the redhead murmurs. “Stay here,” he commands, voice deep. You comply, body rooted in place as you watch him with cautious anticipation. He strides to the bar, and returns with a bottle of tequila, salt packets, and lime slices.

“You first,” you say, reaching out and gripping the lapels of his jacket. You assist him in removing the jacket, relishing in the sensation of his warmth against your fingertips. Your gaze remains fixed on him as he tugs off his shirt, relieving the firm planes of his stomach. A tantalizing happy trail of red hair draws your attention.

With a newfound boldness you command him to lay down on the leather cushion, voice dripping with anticipation. He complies, body sprawling across the surface as you prepare the tequila shot. The enticing aroma of the liquor fills the air.

Carefully, you place the shot on his stomach, the cool glass making contact with his heated skin. Your fingers trail along his abdomen, and a shiver ripples through his body. Tearing open the salt packet, you pour a small amount near his navel, teasingly close to the zipper of his pants.

Diluc’s gaze is locked with yours, burning hot desire dancing within his eyes. He places the lime slice on his mouth, beckoning you closer. Like a moth to a flame, you lean in, lips hovering close to his navel. Tongue darting out, you capture the salt and lick the area clean.

You move towards the shot resting on his stomach, lips parting as you swiftly shoot back the burning liquid in one quick motion. Without hesitation, you shift your focus to Diluc’s waiting lips. Your mouths meet in a passionate collision, and the taste of tequila lingers.

As you remove the lime slice from your mouth, your lips reconnect, meeting in a passionate kiss. Tongues intertwine, dancing together. You reposition yourself on his lap, feeling his heat and hardness beneath you. The friction between you intensifies the pleasure, and you’re aching to seek more.

Your hands roam freely, exploring the contours of his body, tracing every curve and dip. The kiss becomes more desperate.

Diluc pulls away from the scorching kiss, his hands gripping your lower back possessively. A smirk plays upon his lips, eyes burning with raw desire.

“Your turn,” he murmurs huskily, voice laced with a seductive undertone.

A wicked smile graces his lips, as he takes charge in one swift and fluid motion — you find yourself laying on your back, the smooth leather surface pressing against you.

His hands begin to roam across the planes of your stomach, his touch alternating between gentle caresses and teasing pinches. His lips descend upon your neck, leaving a bite mark that marks you as his.

A moment later, he rises from his position, eyes gleaming with a predatory glint. He prepares another tequila shot, and grabs a packet of salt, along with a lime slice. With a gentle touch, he places the lime between your parted lips. He skilfully pushes up your shirt over your breasts, exposing your heated skin. Diluc pours the salt onto your exposed lower stomach, and places the shot glass near it.

The redhead positions himself between your legs, one knee brushing dangerously close to your womanhood. He sets his sight on the trial of salt adorning your lower stomach, and with a deliberate and slow movement, he leans in, tongue darting out to lick it.

The sensation of his warm, wet tongue against your skin sends shivers of pleasure through your whole body.

Diluc’s focus shifts to the shot glass, mouth hovering over the tequila. His mouth envelops the rim, lips forming a seal around the edge. He tilts his head back, and the fiery liquid cascades into his mouth, igniting his throat and stomach.

As he finishes the shot, he encloses your body with his, pressing against you possessively. His lips find yours once more, capturing the lime slice from your mouth in a deep, passionate kiss.

His desire grows even more intense, touch becoming bolder and more explicit. He presses a hand against your burning core, fingers applying just enough pressure to elicit a moan of pleasure from you.

“I need you,” Diluc murmurs, voice thick with desire. “Right now.”

You hesitate for a moment. “Here?” you question, seeking his affirmation, wanting to ensure that he is comfortable with continuing with your intimate escapade inside the empty bar.

“Yes,” he breathes. “I want you here , I want you now .”

Any lingering doubts are erased, and with a renewed sense of urgency, you succumb to the pleasure that awaits.

SMUT CONTINUATION ON AO3

Author's note: welp, diluc brainrot has taken over

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