#They obey the bro code

[may-be-a-plant]

Most of the time:

Kallus: Jabba-Lando-Dev-Bridger, I require your assistance.

Ezra: *gremlin mode activated* Egh, WHY would I want to help the king of sideburns?

Kallus: I swear LS-123, when I get my hands on you...

-------------

Occasionally:

Kallus: Ezra, I need your help right now.

Ezra: *jumping up immediately* Oh shit, who's in trouble!!??

[cnl0400]

Lesson 20-A

So Raphael was the one who told Luke to become a Principality instead of a Seraph, I was thinking the whole Luke wanting to be a Seraphim was a retcon from NB, I'm happy that It isn't...

I wanted for Raphael to appear more, but oh well...

[mrrharper]

mrrharper Masterpost

what's up bros

to make this blog a bit more accessible, this is gonna be an index of all of my stories and other stuff connected with me, neatly divided into themes

also hey, i have a discord server for horny bros that y’all should join asap - here's the link

everything's under this pic of a hot stud

Jock TF

Todd goes to a gym / Academic requirements / A Son, Reformed / Muscles In Chains / The Rookie's Figuring It Out / Headphones In, Guns Out / Waiting For The Roommate / Mandatory PE Class / A Real Jock's Supposed to Be Dumb / Cocky And Proud, By Accident / Elevator Malfunction / Former Friend / There Are Always Jocks / Desperation In College / The Jocks Of Dark Forrest College / Strings Attached /

Jock-focused

Under Armour Jock™ / Coach's Process of Developing a Jock / More Loyal, More American, More The Same / Muscle Memory / Inside A Jock's Mind / Script For A Jock / No-Trade Clause / Taming The Football Beast / Enforcing The Bro Code / Just Let It Go, Brah /

Cop/Soldier reprogramming

Programming Adjustment / Law, Order and Musk / Personal Muscle, Uniform Included / A Guard Programmed To Control And Obey / Summer Bootcamp / Army Surplus / Neighborhood Association / Another Cop For The Collection /

Gym Bro TF (and adjacent)

Gym Bro / Bro Advice / A Workout Break / This Is How You Recruit Gym Bros / Waking Up Huge And Jocked / Empty Eyes, Pumped Bis / The Grindset / Big Bro's Job / The Bro Zone Resort /

Inanimate TF

Not In The Exhibit Brochure /

NPC TF

Player Of The Month / Guarding The Base / Gamer Night /

Biker TF

Fitting Into The Gear /

Other stuff

Discord - I run a discord server for other horny bros, come join us

Commissions - I am open for commissions. Want me to write you a story? Check the linked post for all the necessary details

#AMA - you can see all the questions I have answered from previous AMAs under this hashtag

Ko-fi page - you can support me and my work on ko-fi

[cinellieroll]

☆ random obey me headcanons!

lucifer, mammon and simeon ♡

part two (asmodeus, levi, barbatos)

part three (beelzebub, belphegor, solomon)

part four (satan and diavolo)

cw: a few spoilers ahead from the main story! also one SLIGHT nsfw on simeons part???

small note: i only started writing on tumblr now so idk much on how ppl do those line thingies on the words and then it teleports to a diff post so if anyone knows how to do it please teach me! thank you :3

☆ lucifer:

- generally has a thing for turtlenecks. if you open his closet you'll see a bunch of turtlenecks in there. lucifer is a very conservative man after all.

- speaking of closet, he definetely has a color code for his clothing. blacks, reds, navy blues, anything dark

- you'll never catch him wearing anything revealing. especially his legs. man keeps em hidden.

- has a very sensitive nose. he always scolds mammon and asmo for wearing such strong cologne. he has great sense of smell in general (the bitch can smell anything) and automatically knows when trouble is near.

- EXTREMELY petty when he doesn't get his morning coffee. if he goes a day without it an extra line will appear on his forehead.

- gifts you souvenirs when he enters the human world. claims he's here for business because diavolo told him but we all know that's not the only reason why he came up there.

- he doesn't like writing with modern pens and only settles with quills. he still has his old quill from the celestial realm and keeps it hidden somewhere.

- almost gave head pats to luke once.

- his nose is FUCKING BEAUTIFUL and his side profile too. he has a nose bump for sure and i will die on this hill.

- he's not a big fan of creamy foods like carbonara or anything with cream in general. if he's eating sweets he prefers the icing to be less flavorful. what do you expect? he's a black coffee lover after all.

☆ mammon:

- room is always a fucking mess, but he cleans when he procrastinates so if you ever enter his room and he's all quiet and cleaning just don't disturb him for a while.

- buys bootleg merch for levi for no reason. one time he found this cheap ruri chan stuffy on sale for like 150 grimm and decided to buy it.

- has fucking shit hand writing bro. sometimes it's small, sometimes it's big but most of the time it's ass balls. like why does your k and h look the same?

- he cracks his knuckles and joints often and can't go without a day doing it atleast once. it's kinda hot tbh lol

- when he's in a happy mood he'll sing in like a high pitched way. idk how to explain it but i just see him doing that especially when he's on cooking duty

- sleeps really late he could almost rival levi on it. surprisingly his eyebags aren't that visible though.

- has really pretty features like long eyelashes, plump lips and visible collarbones. eat your heart out asmo xoxo

- convinced himself he'll never ever like or listen to human world songs until he heard you blasting some music in your room. he was singing that song in his head for days on end but refused to ask you what the title was

- he's a very clumsy guy and often drops small things especially during class like his ballpen, eraser or that pack of bubblegum lucifer ended up confiscating

- before you arrived, he liked to vape or juul when he's stressed or felt lonely but now he only spends his time thinking of you when he feels down.

☆ simeon:

- when he turned into a human he had thoughts of becoming a teacher in christian education but realized it's better if he owned a cafe instead.

- he sometimes joins luke during his baking lessons with barbatos even though he already knows all the steps

- occasionally invites you for sleepovers and buys card / board games for you guys to play with solomon and luke! either he or solomon are always end up being the winners everytime though

- always and i mean ALWAYS willing to teach you something when he knows it. baking, writing, recent lessons, etc

- once the exchange program ended he started writing more and more, especially poetry. and mostly wrote about you and how much he misses you <3.

- started making diary entries after the aftermath of the celestial war.

- during quiet nights, simeon often thinks what it'd be like if he was really close with the brothers.

- his eyes are lowkey creepy sometimes when he looks at you for too long. it's like he's trying to detect every sin you've committed.

- idk why i thought of this but his teeth are literally so pearly and perfect but he doesn't really smile with them in view.

- unintentionally moans sometimes. like when he sits down after a long day you just start hearing a soft "ah~" out of nowhere..

[mephisto-reporting]

Everyone saying he is overly possessive needs to see this. He is possessive.... but not to the point that he'd make the MC (you) uncomfortable.

I think in one of the phone calls, he also says that he will always wait for our permission.

He knows his obsession is not the healthiest... he is struggling with it. But he recognizes it too!

All the people hard coding him as some toxic yandere need to actually read. YES, the man does have red flags. I AM NOT DENYING THAT. And yes, I have trust issues with him. But even I, who currently isn't interested in him as an LI can see that he is a good addition to the game's lore and plot development. This is coming from a Sylus and Zayne girlie.

At the end of the day, LADS is an Otome game and even though it isn't like any Otome game before, you can and most definitely need to expect Red flag LIs. Idk if LADS is ever going to go down branching the story into individual LI routes where there would be different endings - Bad ending, good ending, neutral ending, secret endings and such, but remember when sometimes bad ending in Otome games would lead to absolutely Yandere outcomes.? Yeah, Pepperidge farm remembers. Caleb isn't even half as problematic as the other otome game men (Obey Me? Mystic messenger???).

I see a lot of people using the excuse that he failed his psych eval to say he's deranged. BRO. People can also fail these evals due to trauma, PTSD and such. And if Caleb was raised like MC and subjected to experimentation even before the explosion (which is heavily hinted and at this point, mostly confirmed), imagine how much trauma that man has stored in him...

TLDR: Is Caleb possessive of MC? Yes. Is he controlling of MC? To a certain extent when her safety is concerned. Does he disregard MCs feelings on this subject? No, he does not. Is he as deranged as y'all are making him out to be? No, he isn't.

Chill out and wait for his story to develop. He isn't going to be a green forest like Zayne or a softie, who's a little rough around the edges like Sylus. He's going to be different to cater different audiences. Not every LI needs to be likeable, that's the main reason why we have a choice between which LIs to choose.

[just-here-for-the-moment]

She Comes First (Part I)

This was started as part of @wannab-urs DMAMC fic challenge, but I just did not finish the fic on time (sad trombone)... so here's Part I (the buildup) and I'll post Part II (the payoff) as soon as it's finished.

Please go check out the rest of the DMAMC tags for more delicious fics!! This has been a really fun fic challenge, and I'm still happy with everything I've written so far.

Word count: 10,299 (nobody look at me!) Rating: Explicit, for 18+ only legally (but really ages 35+ only for the vibes, this is adult shit) Outline: alternating dual POV; Frankie “Catfish” Morales x domme!fem!Reader insert (Reader insert is 40+, able-bodied, has boobs and a pussy, wears corporate/business clothes to work, and wears pumps/heels) but otherwise is a total blank slate (no physical description, not white-coded, no blushing, no descriptions of hair or skin) Warnings: Femdom; Frankie is brand new to SSC (safe/sane/consensual) BDSM; characters drink alcohol; curse words and vulgar language (all the good stuff you expect from one of my smutfics); eventual smut; lots and lots and lots of talking about BDSM limits (but I tried to make it hot). 

You settle yourself at the bar, resting your feet on the brass crossbar of the leatherette stool, sinking against the low backrest with a sigh as you wave down the bartender. 

What a week… Fuck the clients and their demands, and your boss’s caving every time they snap their fingers. A drink to start, and then some well-deserved Friday night play. 

Hopefully there will be at least one interesting man tonight, someone you can invite to a hotel room and use as the finest form of stress release. Someone who can be a good boy, who can obey your orders and give you pleasure that you’ll return tenfold when he earns it. 

You look up, using the large mirror above the bar to scan the room behind you, taking advantage of the fact that it’s tilted at an angle, giving you a view not only of people walking behind you, but also the booths and their occupants. You can stare for as long as you like—no one really ever notices anyway, engrossed in their own good time. 

Of course, there’s always one guy who wants to catch your eye, come over and sit next to you and seduce you (ick) but you can see that type coming from a mile away, and they’re not who you’re interested in. Finance or tech bros, ties loose and eyes too shiny with whatever top-shelf shit they’ve imbibed too much of before you even walked in. 

As the bartender places your drink in front of you, you catch the reflection of a booth full of men behind you and a few feet to your left. A young one, very blond and muscled and wearing a white sleeveless T-shirt seated next to another, darker blond man in a sedate navy blue polo, a short, trimmed beard giving him a corporate look. The two seats opposite them are occupied by a shorter man in a black shirt, his dark curls shot through with gray, and the fourth man is different, a little taller and a lot broader than the others, wearing a mesh baseball cap.

He’s wide through the shoulders, arms straining beneath a soft chambray denim shirt, even softer-looking curls escaping from beneath the brim of his hat. He’s smiling and even laughing at moments, but he’s much quieter than the other three, especially the rowdy one you’ve nicknamed Muscles and the smirking dark-haired man seated next to the wall. You see all four of them raise their beer glasses to toast to something, but their laughter is gone, replaced by somber expressions. The shortest one, the smirky one, mouths an “Amen” but you can’t hear it over the din of the bar. 

You consider the group, carefully scanning each of them for tells, little hints that any of them might be of interest, might be a good time for the evening. 

The youngest one—he’s too ebullient, too boisterous for what you want to give. He wouldn’t pay attention, wouldn’t follow instructions and be a good boy. And definitely not the smirker in the black shirt; he’s handsome and he knows it. He’d be a brat, try to wrest control from you, make it a challenge that he’s leading. The other blond, the quieter one; he’s handsome enough, but something about the set of his jaw and the way he carries himself when he strides up to the bar to order another round—that power, that inner peace—this is not his thing, you can tell. And that leaves…

Baseball cap. Soft, kind eyes and a strong nose, plush lips just beneath a patchy little mustache. A little sad, much quieter than the others and much larger. He’s a big boy, all broad shoulders and work-strong arms under that soft blue shirt, his sleeves rolled up his forearms for comfort, but giving a show of how strong he must be. A physique crafted by hard work and daily routines, entirely different from the sweat-slick muscles of the younger blond. That one must be a gym rat or a boxer or something, self-focused when he flexes his bicep at the short, dark one in the black shirt and gets a smirk and a “Fuck you” in return, a playful slap that glances off his elbow as he cackles and lowers his arm.

Baseball cap laughs and shakes his head, eyes flicking to his heavy glass stein, two-thirds full of golden, bubbling liquid, still working on his first drink when Polo Shirt returns with a tray of three beers for himself and the others. He’s savoring, sipping where the others quaff, holding a palm out and shaking his head with an emphatic “No,” that you can read on his lips in the mirror after the younger blonde raises his arms and shouts, “Shots!” loud enough for you to hear it over the crowd. 

Baseball cap is enjoying himself, taking it slow, licking his lips after each sip of beer. It must be his reward for a Friday night, a work week well-done, a rare treat on a night out with the guys. You can tell he’s comfortable with them. It’s not the quiet nervousness of someone awkward, someone new who’s trying to fit in with a louder crowd. These are his friends, and they take him as he is, even when he’s got his eyes down, trailing a blunt fingernail over the graffiti marks on the solid wood table instead of joining in the jovial conversation. 

He lifts his eyes and suddenly they’re locked on yours in the mirror, dark and rich, eyes you could drown in if that was your thing. He flicks his gaze away for a moment and you blink—and there he is again, a little shy after another nanosecond of eye contact, flicking his eyes away and then looking down, taking a sip of his beer with the same focus he probably used for final exams in school. His eyes find yours in the mirror once more and this time you smile, gentle and soft, just a curve up at the corners of your mouth. Baseball cap’s dark eyes go wide for a moment before he swallows hard and looks back down at his beer.

Bingo. 

He’s the one. The shy ones, the gentle giants, the big guys with kind eyes—they’re your favorite. Much more relaxed in middle age than the college boys you sometimes play with, the eager ones who are so distracted by their nerves that they can hardly follow direction. You know that you fulfill some kind of mommy kink or older woman fantasy for them—and you don’t mind, because you know the rules on both sides of the game. But the eager young things get tiresome after a while, and it starts to feel like you’ve signed up to teach, rather than to enjoy yourself. 

You let them down gently but firmly, with a kiss and a reassuring pat—letting them know that they did good, but it’s just not going to turn into a long-term relationship, and maybe they should share those fantasies with a woman their own age. You tell them to look for someone serious, a girl who scares them a little, who they would never normally approach for a date. You know that there are plenty of young women at their university who would jump at the chance to boss them around in bed, and that there’s a girl for each one of those young, eager boys—a stressed-out hard sciences major who just wants to exercise a little control in her own life, and she’ll eagerly wield all manner of paddles and punishments if they ask her sweetly to dominate them. 

You’re tired, too, of the single men who have been in the scene long enough to know what they want—and what they want always seems to be a collar, a lifelong promise of devotion on both sides, and you just aren’t in the market for that. The usual circles of people in this town who are looking for some casual weekend play have gotten stale. They’re mostly couples in long-term relationships—and god, you know it’s selfish, but you don’t want to share. You want someone entirely focused on you, who won’t be thinking about what their own domme might do to them later, who will eagerly come when you call instead of having to ask permission from someone else to go on a playdate. 

And that leaves… fresh meat, new men. Men who you screen very carefully before you start a casual hookup. Men who look like they’ll be a good little pet in bed, if they can follow instructions, if they can shed any of the hang ups they have and go all-in with you for a night or a weekend. Men who have a deeply-buried desire to cede control, who have maybe never voiced it to a woman in their entire life, but who need it just as desperately as they need air. 

They’re just looking for someone to call it out of them, to give them the words they don’t have yet to describe what they’re longing for, what they ache for deep down when they’re fisting their cocks in the shower and replaying scenes from their favorite porn videos in their head. The whips, the restraints, the high heels and the stern voice of their favorite porn star dominatrix. The way she pulls the male actor’s hair when she tilts his head back and spits in his mouth, towering over him as he kneels before her, his hands behind his back and his cock as hard as iron and she hasn’t even looked at it yet, let alone touched it. Those are the men you need, the ones who have desired this for years, but have always been too shy or embarrassed or scared to ask for it. 

And if Baseball Cap fits that mold, you’ll gladly take him home for the night. You could do so much for him, let those desires out of the little box that he’s buried them in, tell him it’s okay to ask for what he wants, put his desires first for once, instead of always trailing behind his more extroverted friends. And, hey, if you shoot your shot and he’s not into that, there are plenty of other subby little fish in the sea. But he looks delicious, and you want to hook him with a lure he doesn’t even know exists right now. 

You decide to play a game, to see if you can get his attention and keep it. 

He’s so sweet, glancing up at you in the mirror when he thinks you’ve turned your gaze away, only to find that your eyes are still scanning him, gently assessing him, an appreciative little smile on your lips. Then he ducks his head and goes back to his beer.

His cheeks go pink after the second round of this game, his ears after the fourth or fifth, starting flushed and then blazing red. He’s a cutie, shy and growing more bashful by the second as his friends catch wind of what he’s looking at and start to rib him for it. 

Muscles cranes his neck over to look, his playful eyes wide as he sees you in the mirror. He turns back to Baseball Cap with a shit-eating grin and says something that makes Baseball Cap hide his face behind his hand. Polo shirt goes for casual, turning his gaze to the bartender as if he’s gauging how busy the line for drinks might be before he slides his eyes over you without a change in expression. 

Smirky gives you a big grin and a very flirty wink in the mirror and you drop your smile, raising one eyebrow with a shake of your head. Not you, Smirky.

You shift your gaze to look at the reflection of his friend, making sure that Smirky can see your eyes trailing from his work-worn boots to his hips, all the way up his arms to the top of his well-loved baseball cap. Smirky gets the message and elbows Baseball Cap, leaning down to murmur something in his ear that makes Baseball Cap sit up with a start, shaking his head and pulling on his earlobe in nervousness. 

Smirky elbows him again, hard, and you’re delighted when Baseball Cap turns back to look at you and catches your eyes in the mirror, bashful hope written all over his face, the shyness dropping away bit by bit as his interest grows. You smile again, tilting your head at the empty stool next to you at the bar and he turns back to his friends, eyebrows raised for help, seeking guidance. 

Good boy, you think… What a good boy, asking for help when you need it, opening up to the idea of coming over here, seeing what the pretty lady wants with you. 

He looks back at the mirror, sees you still looking, then takes a larger gulp of beer before rubbing his hands nervously on his denim-clad thighs. He braces his legs and then slides out of the booth, turning his back to you for a moment to look at his friends for a final bit of guidance. 

All three shout, “Go!” to him in unison, you can hear it over the din, and just as he turns to approach you… a slimeball slides into the seat next to you, wrapping one arm over the back of your barstool as if he has any right to your personal space or attention. 

Your heart falls when Baseball Cap takes in the scene, his hope fading to disappointment as he looks away and then strides off to the restroom, as if that was his plan all along. 

“Wha’s a pretty little thing like you doing here all alone, sweetheart?”

You take a sip of your drink and swivel toward him, knocking his arm off the back of your chair with a scowl. 

“Not interested. Please leave.”

Slimeball’s confused expression slides over his face slower than it should, a clue to how inebriated he already is. This was going to be irritating, the drunk ones always making more trouble than you want. Not that any man took rejection well… you could count on one hand the number of men who had taken your “No, thank you,” gracefully and apologized for bothering you before disappearing back to mind their own beeswax. 

“What d’ya mean? I’m just trying to make a little conversation, s’all.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Baseball Cap’s three friends start to slide out of the booth. Trouble-stoppers, good guys, you can tell. You’re grateful for their presence, even if you can handle this sort of thing entirely yourself… just in case it gets ugly. They stay standing near their table, watching carefully and taking their cues from you instead of rushing in to white knight the situation—and that’s even better than just being willing to step in. They seem like men who care about and respect women, green flags all around. 

“But you shouldn’t have to drink alone, pretty girl. M’just tryna save you from a boring night.”

You narrow your eyes at Slimeball and lower your chin, scowling at him like you’re an angry bull facing off a threat, and then… oh no, here comes Baseball Cap back from the restroom, stopping abruptly when he sees his friends focused on you, watching intently as Slimeball tries to put his hand on your thigh. If looks could kill, Slimeball would have a hole in the back of his head right now. 

In the corner of your vision Baseball Cap looks pissed off, but you sense it’s not uncontrolled anger. He’s quiet in the way he settles his body, one hand waving his friends back into their seats while the other hangs at his side, making a loose fist and releasing it, over and over. Not immediately springing into action, not itching to start something ugly in the crowded bar, but prepared just in case—the rest of his body still, taut, alert… ready. 

You slap Slimeball’s hand off your knee, then you raise your volume and lower your pitch, making your voice deep and loud, hoping the sound will carry to Baseball Cap and his friends, letting them know you’re okay and can handle it. 

“I said ‘no’ and I meant it. Leave. Now.” 

Fortunately Slimeball takes the hint, his face dropping into a disgruntled pout: he’s just a little boy who thinks the world owes him something, that women are vending machines that he can put kindness or attention or flirting tokens into and get guaranteed sex in return. A little boy whose Mommy didn’t say “no” enough, a boy who never learned that women are human beings, and that every man who is lucky enough to walk the Earth was born of a woman and he better damn well respect his origins.

“Fuck you, you fucking bitch.” The waft of his pathetic liquor breath hits you and you turn back to your own drink, making a show of being entirely unbothered. 

“Slut,” spits Slimeball as he moves to dismount the stool and almost slides to the floor. 

Ah, a classic, the final paradoxical rebuke from many a damaged man—you won’t put out for him, so you must be a slut, secretly fucking every other man in the bar and withholding your public favors only from him.

Slimeball turns and lurches toward the back hall, heading for the men’s room, or maybe the exit to the alley where he can vomit and regret his life choices—you don’t care which. You shake your head to yourself and look up in the mirror. 

Baseball Cap is sliding back into the booth, and when he looks at you again, there’s a small smile and a nod, acknowledgement that you’re capable of handling jerks and idiots by yourself. He tunes into the conversation his friends are having, and he looks like he’s lost interest in answering your call from before, no longer riding the wave of brimming courage he had built up just a few minutes ago. 

You sip the last of your drink and ponder your next move. Maybe it was time to be more bold, more direct, except… now Smirky is needling his friend, talking intently to Baseball Cap, but only succeeding in making him more and more defiant, his head shaking so hard it seems like his hat might come right off. Muscles joins the pile-on, while Polo Shirt puts one hand out across the table, entreating Baseball Cap in a gentler way. 

He shakes his head again, and Smirky shoves him, launching Baseball Cap halfway out of the booth, making him stumble a bit until he rights himself and stands up. He moves to sit down again, but Smirky slides across the seat and blocks him, staring up at him stubbornly with a stern, “Go,” that you can lip read in the mirror. 

Baseball Cap sighs and wipes his broad hand down his face, then reaches up and lifts the cap a few inches to sweep his hair back before he squares it on his head and takes a first, hesitant, step toward you. 

You watch in the mirror as he approaches, long legs clad in faded denim, moving slowly but smoothly toward you. Good boy.

Baseball Cap sidles up to you at the bar and you turn to him, smiling so that it reaches your eyes, so that he knows that he’s welcome to approach you, that you’re eager to talk with him. He’s much broader up close, and his eyes are so soft. A sudden image pops into your mind: your legs thrown over those shoulders, his face buried between your legs while you grip his hair, and you feel electricity begin to tingle in your core. 

He clears his throat and swallows, eyebrows knitted slightly, his plush lips parting with a quick flick of his tongue as he takes a deep breath.

Oh, he’s precious, so nervous and hopeful. Eager boy. This is going to be so much fun. 

“Hi, I’m—” his voice goes scratchy and he clears his throat to try again. “I’m Frankie.”

He puts his hand out and you grip it firmly. 

“Nice to meet you, Frankie. I was hoping you would come over and talk to me.”

He smiles, some of the tension leaving his shoulders, but not much. Still unsure of himself, uncertain of what this might be after getting a front-row seat to your swift handling of the other man’s unwelcome advances. His brown eyes go crinkly at the corners when he smiles, and you guess he’s probably forty, give or take a few years. 

Excellent. A man who has some years under his belt, who won’t be afraid to have an adult conversation with you, someone on your level for once. Fully grown, experienced, handsome. A man. 

“So, do you live around here, or-”

You put a hand up and cut him off. You don’t want Frankie to try to charm you, to make small talk because he thinks he has to. You smile as warmly as you can so that he doesn’t think you’re upset.

“Actually, Frankie, I’d like to skip the small talk and tell you that I want to have sex with you. Is it alright with you if we just talk about what I’m interested in doing? See if you’re open to it?”

Frankie’s jaw drops, his beautiful mouth opening an inch or so, and it makes you want to bite his dimpled lower lip, make him speechless again and again, reduce him to a quivering, happy puddle.

You hold his eyes, watching the gears turn quickly as he snaps his mouth shut and blushes furiously, trying to recover from the shock.

“I—um, yeah… I mean yes. Yes, please.” He smiles and ducks his head, then meets your eyes again as he relaxes totally, all nerves gone now. “I’d like that. Thank you for being so direct.”

Your heart sings. What a polite guy, respectful and eager and appreciative.

“You’re welcome. So you’re up for talking a little more?”

He nods, perfect white teeth showing in his soft smile. 

You hope he’ll be receptive to your next command, another little screening tool of yours. Small commands, reasonable things, before you pull the curtain back all the way and tell Frankie exactly what he can expect if he decides he wants to go further.

“In that case, go tell your friends they can take off without you.” 

You tilt your head in their direction, and Frankie grins, all happiness and dimples, now that he knows he doesn’t have to wade through the usual chit-chat and awkward “getting to know you” questions. He doesn’t have to try, he doesn’t have to calculate the odds of striking out, or figure out a way to rebuild his confidence if this falls apart.

You know that simple, direct commands can bring relief, remove the stress of having to make decisions and weigh consequences. It’s a gift to the right man when you flip the gender-norm tables and show your strength and your assertiveness, let him know that happiness and gratification are just on the other side of following directions.

And Frankie seems to be receptive to it.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You smile, watching in the mirror as Frankie lopes back to the booth, stands with his back to the bar and hooks a thumb over his shoulder to indicate to his friends that he’s ditching them. The butterflies between your legs flutter harder.

Muscles exclaims “Whoo!” like his favorite team just scored a touchdown, and you chuckle to yourself as you see Smirky pass a folded twenty-dollar bill across the table to Polo Shirt.

Frankie returns to sit in the empty stool next to you. You raise your hand, signaling to the bartender for a refill while Frankie peruses the menu to see what else they have on tap. Within thirty seconds his friends are standing up to leave, and since Frankie has his back to them he can’t see Smirky approaching with a mischievous look on his face. 

You look over Frankie’s shoulder at Smirky and shake your head once, firm, mouthing a stern, “No” at him. And thank god he’s not stupid, he just makes a little moue, a pout of disapointment but pairs it with a nod, understanding that his intrusion would not be welcome.

Smirky follows Muscles and Polo Shirt to the front door, and then they’re gone and you’re finally, blessedly alone with Frankie.

And now the real fun can begin.

Frankie can’t believe his good luck. His head is still spinning from your bold and direct manner, not to mention your sparkling eyes and winning smile. He can’t remember the last time a woman knocked him off-center this fast, and he welcomes it. 

Frankie trails his eyes over the bar menu, wondering why more women don’t just… say what they want. He could have saved so much time, skipped so many bad dates and hookups if he’d met a woman like you decades ago. He settles on a lager, and after he places his order with the bartender, you touch the back of his hand softly, just a graze, and he turns his eyes back to you.

You’re so… intense is what Frankie wants to think, but that word has negative connotations. And you’re definitely not a negative experience, you’re just so specific and present in the moment—direct—and the more Frankie thinks about it, the more he likes it.

“There’s a booth that just opened up in the corner,” you nod your head toward it. “I’m going to go sit down. Please bring the drinks over when they’re ready?”

Frankie nods, eager to please. “You got it.”

You smile, and Frankie feels like he’s just done something good, something that makes you happy. He’s surprised to find that he wants to do it again and again, and as you slide off the bar stool, he reaches his hand out to help you down, get you steady on your feet so that you don’t wobble in your office heels.

“What a gentleman,” you say. You shoot him another warm, soft smile, and Frankie swears his heart is going to explode with pride.

Fuck, you’re gorgeous. Frankie is so fucking thankful that he came over to talk to you. (He’ll never tell Santi it was his shove that finally did it—his ego is already big enough, the asshole.) But Frankie is already counting his lucky stars as he watches you walk away, hips swaying gently, mesmerizing him until he’s startled by the bartender plunking two glasses down in front of him.

Frankie opens a tab (hoping he’ll have much more time with you this evening), and carries the drinks over to you as carefully as he can. He sets them on the table and then pauses, a thought occurring to him.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” Frankie tries to keep his voice even, steady, but it seems to want to crack and go higher, his heart fluttering in his chest with the hope that he can do more for you.

He doesn’t know why. You’ve already told him what you want—to talk more about having sex with him—so it’s not like he needs to court you or gain favor. But something about you, about your assertiveness, makes Frankie want to please you. You’re clearly a very strong woman, you know what you want (and heaven knows Frankie is still wondering why you want him), and that strong personality of yours is calling to him like a siren song.

You shake your head. “No, but thank you. Sit down.”

That smile again, your sparkling and curious eyes… you’re intoxicating. Frankie tries to hide his disappointment, but he’s hoping that later there will be something else he can do for you, get for you, hell—make for you that will please you again.

“So…” you take a sip of your drink and meet Frankie’s gaze as your eyes sharpen. Not mean, just intelligent and direct. No bullshit.

It’s a breath of fresh fucking air as far as Frankie is concerned, and he feels just as floaty as he did back on that frozen mountain in Colombia, where the air was thin and ice cold. He smiles and waits, his instincts telling him that you’re about to blow his mind, and he won’t interrupt you while you’re in the middle of it.

“I wanted to talk with you more, Frankie, because what I’m looking for is very specific.”

Frankie swallows a sudden lump, worrying that he’s not what you’re looking for. It’s the result of damaged confidence born of too many conversations with girls whose wide eyes suddenly turn to Benny when he walks by. And far too many bored and disinterested women who get Frankie as their consolation prize when Santi hooks up with their best friend, and the happy couple (for the night) shoves their two wingmen together out of pity. Are you about to dismiss him?

But no, that couldn’t be right, because you had asked him to stay, invited him specifically to talk about sex. You’d already chosen him. And that thought cheers Frankie immensely. He thought he had read your signals correctly, he just wasn’t absolutely sure, so he talked himself out of coming over to you about nine different times. But now… now there is nothing to misread. You chose him, invited him, selected him. He’s wanted.

Frankie takes a deep breath, raising his eyebrows and nodding to you, holding your eyes with his own even though yours are almost too pretty to look directly into. But he wants you to know that he’s listening, taking you seriously.

You smile again, mysterious and secretive, and Frankie’s gaze flicks to your mouth as you open it to speak again. Whatever it is that you’re looking for, whatever specific thing you need, he’s determined to give it to you.

He wonders for a moment whether that’s crazy, whether he’s too far gone already for you when you’re still basically a stranger. And then he suddenly realizes he doesn’t even know your name! But Frankie knows, feels it with a conviction that he hasn’t felt in many years that he’ll be what you want, do what you need, twist himself into any shape that you’re seeking.

As long as you keep looking at him with those sharp eyes, that discerning smile. As long as you let Frankie stay in your orbit, he’ll be whatever kind of “specific” you demand.

You cock an eyebrow, “What do you know about dominant and submissive relationships?”

Frankie blushes, ducks his head and takes a sip of his beer, collecting himself. Your direct and plain language is doing things to him, and he wants to answer you just as frankly and matter-of-fact as you deserve.

“Ah, um… I know about them, a little bit about them, but I’ve never been in one. Does that answer your question?” Frankie hopes it does, and he feels a sweep of relief when you nod.

“It does.”

You smile again and Frankie can’t tear himself away from your eyes. He wants to make them sparkle like that every day. He smiles back at you and feels… happy, proud. He did it right, answered you correctly, and he wants to do it again.

You sip your drink, and Frankie watches you flick your tongue across your lower lip to catch an errant drop. He’s mesmerized, could watch you do that over and over again. 

You continue, “And from what you know, would you be interested in that dynamic? In taking part in a sexual relationship with one partner being dominant and the other partner taking a submissive role?”

Frankie feels his ears turn red. He’s never been one to be “mean” in bed, to do anything that might hurt his partner, and now he’s not sure if this is the right answer or not, but what the hell—

“I’ve never really thought about it. Everyone kinda knows about it from that book that came out, but I just— I honestly don’t think it would turn me on to tie a woman up…” Frankie trails off. Was that the right answer? Are you going to be upset?

He’s reassured by your chuckle and the way that you lean closer, grasping the back of his hand with your soft one, giving him a quick squeeze and a pat before you let go to take another sip of your drink.

“Good. Okay, that’s good for me to know.”

Frankie wonders where this is going, because if it turns out that he’s not what you’re looking for… he might just swear off dating altogether, become a monk and go live out the rest of his life somewhere remote, somewhere that would wipe the stain of utter disappointment from his psyche.

“I’m actually not looking for someone to tie me up,” you smile.

And Frankie is relieved again, happy to continue the conversation as long as you’ll keep smiling at him like that. He relaxes his shoulders, trying to drain the tension built up from the rollercoaster of unease and happiness that he’s been riding for the past thirty minutes. He wishes he was cooler, more like Pope, more outgoing like Benny, as self-assured as Will—then maybe he would stop psyching himself out and just be able to go with the flow.

“And I’m not necessarily looking for someone that I can tie up, but I do like being in charge.” You wink at him, and Frankie feels something warm behind his sternum. Interesting.

“Would you be open to that, Frankie? Would you like me to be in charge of you?”

His cock immediately stirs at that, and Frankie swallows hard. Images of you standing over him in a vinyl bustier and stiletto-heeled boots suddenly flash through his brain.

A blindfold. Handcuffs. Spankings.

Frankie feels lightheaded, all of his blood rushing south as he opens his suddenly-dry mouth and closes it again, blinking rapidly to try to come up with something that isn’t just heavy breathing and awkward noises.

He nods, having no clue about where this idea has been all his life. Of course you would be in charge, you’re so perfect for it.

A parade of ex-girlfriends marches through his mind, and now it’s like a spotlight is shining on his memories, showing everything in crystal clear detail. Frankie recognizes that his favorite women, the ones he had fallen madly in love with throughout his life—they were the strong ones, the bossy ones—all the way back to his first crush in elementary school.

A girl named Maria with long, straight black hair in a ponytail had chased him around the playground, taunting him with threats of a kiss. Frankie had been embarrassed when he tripped and fell, the other kids laughing at him, one boy shouting that he had brought the dreaded curse of ‘girl cooties’ upon himself. But when the girl kneeled over him, blocking out the sun, she was backlit perfectly and looked just like Frankie had imagined an angel would. She kissed his cheek with a loud smack, Frankie’s heart did a flip, and he wondered why her strawberry lip gloss suddenly smelled so good.

When she ran off to find another victim, disappointment flooded his chest. Frankie had felt the phantom kiss lingering on his skin for days, wondering if and when he could get her to chase him again. Whether he could earn another kiss, another brush with sweetness.

“Yeah—” Frankie’s voice cracks again, and he swallows hard.  “I—fuck, yes. Sorry for my language, I just… how did you know?”

Your mouth turns up and your eyes flash amusement, but he can tell you’re not laughing at him, you’re just pleased with his answer. And there goes that warm sensation flooding his guts again, his heart beating just a tad more rapidly at the images that are now somersaulting through his brain.

You, fully in charge, dressed for a day at the office. Frankie on his knees in front of you, naked and vulnerable. Your soft hand cradling his jaw. Your firm voice calling him a ‘good boy,’ telling him he’s done well, telling him you’re proud of him.

Frankie bites his lip, huffing out a breath to calm his racing thoughts.

“Well, I’ve been doing this for a while, and I’m not shy about asking for what I want,” you smile.

You shrug. “It’s not like I’m psychic. If you’d said ‘no’ there would be no hard feelings on my part. I’d simply pay for your beer and send you on your way.”

Frankie chuckles and shakes his head, full of wonderment at how perfect you are. How you seemed to read him so well and pull him in, make him want to do things for you, serve you, be whatever you need him to be. It doesn’t feel manipulative—it feels like it’s meant to be. Fated. Predestined. And Frankie wants to follow you wherever you’re about to lead him.

“So,” Frankie grins. “Where do we start?”

You chuckle at Frankie’s eagerness and squeeze his hand before walking him through the basics. Testing. Contraception. The ins and outs of the arrangement you’re looking for. You introduce him to a confidential online sexual preferences quiz, guiding him through how the website will take his answers, compare them to yours, and the list of results will only show things that you both agree on. You’ll build out your domme/sub agreement from that list, and you also make it very clear to Frankie that he’s in charge.

He quirks an eyebrow at that. “Me? I thought… I guess I don’t understand. Can you explain that?”

You smile at him, so proud of this man for speaking up already and telling you what he needs. He’s so good already, and while you came here tonight with the intention of picking up a casual fuck who might be interested in a scolding and a spanking, you’ve pivoted to introducing Frankie to the bigger picture, walking him deeper into the forest, showing him the possibilities of long-term involvement. 

You don’t want to move to the bedroom too quickly, Frankie’s going to need a deeper understanding before you start linking his sexual desire to the dynamics of this kind of relationship. Ground rules first, build that anticipation, then you can start connecting wires in his brain and making sparks.

“I get it, it can be confusing if you’re just learning.” You take a sip of your drink, catching how Frankie’s eyes drop to your mouth, and the throbbing between your legs gets a little louder. “But I’m proud of you for asking. It’s a good sign that you want to learn more before jumping in with both feet.” You wink at him, and his reaction is note-perfect. 

He sits up straighter in the booth, smiling like he just won a prize. You couldn’t have planned this better, and you thank your lucky stars that the Universe saw fit to send this man into your life tonight. 

You lean forward and rest both elbows on the table, crossing your forearms in front of you. “While the dominant partner is ‘in charge’ during a scene, the sub actually holds all of the power in the relationship. You decide when you’re ready, you decide when you’re done, and you ask for what you want. I get your consent for every single thing that we do, and you get to turn your brain off and enjoy it.”

Frankie flushes pink again, and you reach out and take both of his big, work-worn hands in yours. “You’re doing so well for me already, Frankie. I like how you ask for what you need, and that’s a really good quality in a submissive. It’s not just about taking orders; you have to speak up for what you want at every turn.”

He gulps hard, his eyes brightening as he opens his plush mouth. “I don’t—I don’t mean to sound rude, but what do you get out of it?”

“Me? I like taking care of my subs. I like making sure that you feel good, that you get exactly what you need, and I like seeing the effects that a good domme/sub relationship has on the rest of your life.”

“What do you mean?” Frankie knits his brows and tilts his head a fraction, and his great big brown eyes put you in mind of an eager little puppy. The electricity buzzing through your core increases, and you have to stuff it down before you break all your rules and drag him to the nearest hotel. 

Control, you remind yourself. Dommes like you stay in control, both of the scene and of themselves. Breaking rules only confuses a sub, and more than anything, submissives need consistency. You’ll (hopefully) get a chance to make him make those big puppy eyes again soon, as long as you stay in control.

“Well, a good, healthy dynamic between a dominant and their sub builds trust, and when you have trust—something you can rely on—it carries over into the rest of your life. For me, it provides a sense of control that I may not have in other areas of my life, and it makes me feel good to make you feel good. Those good feelings lift me up for days afterwards. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” Frankie nods, encouraging you to go on.

“And for a sub, a rock-solid relationship with a dom can increase your confidence, build good discipline, and give you an outlet for all the other stress in your life. And I think you would agree that self-esteem, good habits and routines, and stress relief are all really important in life. Subs just get theirs from a different place than most people.”

Frankie nods thoughtfully, then licks his lips and ventures a question, his eyes flicking down to the table, nervous. “And what—what if I, um… how do I know if I’m any good at it? What if I do it wrong?”

You squeeze his hands, make sure he’s looking at you while you smile reassuringly. “You can’t screw it up, Frankie. You’re in charge, remember? There’s no secret test, there’s no hidden ‘gotcha’ moment. It’s all about what you want and how much you want to try. There won’t be a pop quiz or a grade on this, trust me.”

Frankie swallows hard and looks skeptical for a moment, then nods again. “I trust you.” 

He smiles and squeezes your hand before leaning back.

After making sure that Frankie has digested all of the important information and that you’ve gotten his number, you tell him firmly to go home, sleep on it, and only fill out the online quiz tomorrow, if and when he’s ready. You shoot him a text so he has your number, and as he’s opening it, his mouth twitches and his eyes dance with amusement. A dimple appears in Frankie’s cheek, and you chuckle. 

“What’s going on in that head of yours, handsome?” 

Frankie flicks his gaze to yours and you nearly crumple at the sight of his crow’s feet, the adorable crinkles highlighting just how much his smile reaches his eyes. “Just—I mean, I realized I said yes to all of this without even knowing your name. So what do I call you? What name should I put in my contacts?”

“Missy.”

Frankie nods. “I like that. Is that short for anything?”

You grin, “It’s short for ‘Mistress’.”

Frankie blushes, hot and fast, and you see the shiver that runs through him, his broad shoulders quivering as he sits up a little straighter. He smiles softly and types rapidly, then slips his phone into his pocket. 

“And Frankie?” you add. “If you change your mind that’s entirely okay. You haven’t committed to anything tonight, and I really won’t have any hard feelings if you decide that this isn’t for you after all.”

“I’ll text you either way,” he says with a serious nod, and you know he means it. Then he stands up out of the booth, gives you a quick handshake, and heads for the door. You clock the new spring in his step, the way his shoulders are squared and steady, no more nerves or self-doubt weighing him down. 

He’s gorgeous, and you know that even if he does decline, that you’ve at least infused Frankie with some confidence that he can take with him the next time he goes out to a bar. 

But, god, you hope he says yes.

Frankie gulps, then looks around behind him as if he isn’t alone, as if there were anyone standing behind him who could see and judge what he’s doing. 

He shakes his head and huffs a laugh at himself. He’s a grown man on the far side of forty, and he’s hunched over his laptop in his own home trying to hide the half-chub he’s got going in his boxers like a teenager. He presses the flat of his palm down against his cotton-clad arousal, trying to stave off the throbbing long enough to finish this damn quiz. 

But it’s not his fault, everything he reads sends images of you pinballing around in his brain. Every. Single. Question makes him want to stop and rub one out, just to have the mental clarity to continue. But you had said ‘no touching,’ and damn if Frankie was going to fuck up and disobey the very first order that you gave him.

“Okay,” Frankie murmurs, “Question five: Give partner an erotic massage? Yes, fuck yes…” The mere thought of getting his slick, oily hands on you, feeling the warmth of your skin under his palms, being asked—no, being allowed to touch you and bring you pleasure makes him weak. Shit…

He takes a deep breath and swears he can still smell your perfume from the bar invading his senses. The urge to reach his hand down into his boxers and give himself a firm grip is overwhelming now, and he’s still got dozens of questions to go. His lower belly churns with desire, and he’s so horny it almost hurts.

He loves this. Then he hates how much he loves it. It’s sweet, exquisite torture, and Frankie is giddy, nearly nauseated at how excited it makes him.

His eyes had popped open at 5:30 in the morning, the way they always did after so many years of active duty. No alarm except the morning wood that was raging in his underwear, barely able to get it to go down enough to pee. He had woken to thoughts of you, memories of the bar last night, of the way you had taken control of the conversation and opened his eyes to something that he hadn’t even known was possible.

Frankie had done his best to distract himself, doing laundry and dishes, taking a quick jog and doing 200 push-ups and then showering, filling the hours until closer to 8:00, a decent time when he could text you. His thumb hovered over the ‘send’ arrow, still unsure of the text he was about to blast into the ether, two words he’d finally crafted after a dozen drafts, each sounding more pathetic than the last.

His heart palpitated as the words flew to your phone, and he breathed a huge sigh of relief when his sparse, direct, “I’m in,” was met with a simple, “Good boy,” and a few short instructions. 

Take the quiz. Answer honestly. Don’t touch yourself.

Frankie’s eyes had nearly bugged out of his head at the last one, and he briefly thought about pushing back, but he realized this was his first real opportunity to show you how good he could be, how well he could listen. There was no way he was going to disappoint you if he could help it.

He shot off his reply breathlessly, “Yes ma’am,” and bit his lip as he waited for a response. All he got was a “thumbs up” appended to his text, but he reasoned that any response was good, although he did feel a little foolish. What had he expected? A novel? Gushing praise?

Frankie shook his head, reminding himself to temper his expectations. 

He races through questions eight, nine… twelve… fifteen. All “no.” No, he does not want to tie you up, spank you, or use degrading language with you. He doesn’t want to do any of the dominant actions himself, he knows this. 

But question sixteen arrests him in place, and suddenly he can barely breathe. Have partner use restraints on you? makes his tongue swell in his mouth, and his cock twitches violently as it steals more blood from his brain. He can’t click the “yes” button fast enough. Questions seventeen through twenty-four are all “yes,” because they are the opposite of the previous questions. 

Yes, he wants you to spank him with your hand, yes he wants you to tell him what to do in the bedroom, and YES, he wants you to call him pet names. 

Have partner use a belt/flogger/paddle on you? and, Have partner call you degrading names? both get a “maybe” but they make him salivate all the same.

Frankie grips himself through the black cotton of his boxer-briefs, and he wonders if this is going against the “no touching yourself” rule… but he also can’t proceed with the rest of this questionnaire without doing something to try to tamp down his raging erection. Just a quick squeeze, strangle the fuck out of his goddamn traitorous cock for a few seconds, and maybe he won’t pass out.

Frankie tries to remember the last time he was this turned on, but nothing since puberty has even come close to this. The anticipation, the mental imagery, the sheer desire that you’ve ignited in him is practically cruel, and he thinks about asking if he can see you tonight. And if that’s pathetic… well, then he’ll embrace being pathetic, because he needs to see you again more than he needs his pride.

He steels himself against the throbbing in his groin and finishes the questions.

Your phone chimes with an incoming text, and you nearly throw your knife down on the cutting board in your haste to grab your phone from the dining room table. You expel a few curse words at your foolishness. No need to cause a kitchen accident just because you’re eager to see if it’s Frankie. 

“Down, girl,” you scold yourself, and you grimace at how unlike you this is. 

What the hell is wrong with you? You’re the domme, you’re in control of yourself, and you’re not ever this wound-up over a guy. Frankie is a very handsome, very broad guy, but a guy nonetheless. Guys are playthings, scene partners, subs. Guys are people, too, but at most you get sexual satisfaction from them and give them some, along with spectacular aftercare. There’s no feelings involved. Not since… not since you realized that you prefer being the dominant one, not since Nick—

You refuse to go there. Ancient history, old enough to buy itself a drink at a bar by now. Feelings aren’t part of the deal, not since forever ago, and you refuse to examine why there’s a little flutter in your tummy when you pick up your phone to see that Frankie has checked in, a quick, “Done!” accompanied by his unique code for the online sexual compatibility quiz.

You bite your lip and wonder if you should text back… but you wouldn’t even know what to say, so you give his text a thumbs-up, then watch as three little bubbles appear, then disappear, then appear again. What’s Frankie up to? Is he changing his mind? Your stomach sours at the mere thought of it.

The bubbles disappear again and don’t re-appear, so you sigh and force yourself to finish chopping the vegetables you were working on and shove them in the fridge to cook for dinner later. During cleanup, you realize you’ve had one ear out for the phone this whole time, and you shake your head at yourself. 

This isn’t a high school crush. He texted what he needed to and that’s it. Stop being silly.

You dry your hands on a kitchen towel and grab your phone, settling into the couch with your back against the arm rest and your feet propped up on a pillow. You catch an anticipatory grin spreading across your face at the thought that you’re about to see inside of Frankie’s head. 

You enter his unique user code, and you know that you’ve used this online quiz enough times that you’ll fly through the questions. At the end of your answers, the app will generate a list consisting of everything that you and Frankie matched on and email you both. A single “no” is a veto, and that item won’t appear, but everything that’s a “yes” for both of you, or a “yes” for one and a “maybe” for the other will land in your email inbox in just a few moments.

Your heart thuds as you refresh your email for the third time. Is the website taking longer, or does it just feel like it because you’re giddy with anticipation? Where is that stupid email? 

Just as you clench your teeth and growl, the email appears, and your heart suddenly clogs your throat. You wriggle to sit up straighter on the couch, and you’re almost afraid to open the message. Will he be into what you’re into? Will you only match on three things? What if this is a mistake, and Frankie’s just not ready for this kind of arrangement? 

You breathe, sucking in air as slowly as you can, and then out twice as slow. Your eyes water as you stare at the subject line, and you tap your phone screen before you can talk yourself out of it. 

And there it is… 

He’s perfect. You knew it, had felt it in your bones last night at the bar. You didn’t want to believe it, to place so much trust in something that might fall through, but here it is in front of you. Frankie is your perfect match. You couldn’t have designed a better sub if you tried. He’s into everything that you could want, and now you’re drooling at the possibilities.

You arch an eyebrow at a few of his answers. Frankie’s apparently an adventurous boy, and he’s checked off a few questions that surprise you, things that you wouldn’t have thought he’d be ready to try. But those can come later. 

Right now, you’ve got an aching throb building in your core, and you sigh and plop your phone down on your stomach, wondering if it’s too soon to text Frankie and ask him to meet you somewhere. And just as you’re trying to figure out how to phrase it without sounding too desperate, your phone pings.

You pick it up to see the notification, and a wide grin spreads across your face. It’s from Frankie, and you swipe hurriedly to open the text, your heart fluttering as you read it once, then again, and again. 

I don’t want to sound too eager, trying to stay cool here. But I would really love to see you again. Soon.

You sigh, bite your lip, and try to stop the butterflies that are exploding in your gut. You know this isn’t normal, and you can already tell that these feelings—this crush you have on the tall, broad, eager man—are nothing but a recipe for disaster. But you can’t bring yourself to deny it… 

You’ve got it bad for Frankie, and you’re typing out an equally eager response before you can stop yourself.

Frankie paces, trying to ignore both his erection and the nerves that are shredding his stomach. He refuses to stare at his phone and wait to see if you’ll respond to his desperate, pathetic message… so he just treads a path from the kitchen, to the living room, to his bedroom, and back. Frankie keeps his eyes pinned to the ceiling or the walls. Anywhere but down, to avoid the sight of his fucking ridiculous hard-on.

Don’t be a dumbass, Morales. She’ll text you when she texts you. You just gotta—

His head buzzes when he suddenly remembers the second half of the quiz process—the email showing what you matched him on—and he practically runs back to his laptop, stubbing his toe on the coffee table, landing awkwardly in his rolling chair and nearly tumbling out of it. His fingers shake, fumbling to open his email program, looking to see if the results are there, and oh, shit… there it is, top of the inbox. A detonator that could blow his whole world wide open.

Frankie’s heart races in his throat, and he’s suddenly scared of what he’ll see if he clicks to open the email. 

Does she…? Will she want…? What if…?

He gulps, and his pupils blow wide when he sees that you’ve matched him on nearly everything that he’s been fantasizing about for the past twelve hours since he left you at the bar. Fuck.

He leans back in his computer chair to give his cock some breathing room, and his eyes scan the list as his hand drifts across his stomach to his—no!

“Fuuuck,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “Off-limits, Morales. Don’t fuck this up.”

Frankie shakes his head as if that will clear the tumbling swoops of desire that are still torturing him. He breathes deeply, counting to four on each inhale and exhale, until he feels clear enough to proceed with reading the list. But he knows it’s futile, knows he won’t feel anything close to calm until he sees you again, and he hopes against hope that you’ll agree to meet up with him soon. 

And, shit, was that message too much? What if that turns you off? But what if you say yes?

And just as he’s trying to talk himself out of his worries, Frankie’s phone pings in the other room. *** The hotel bar is dark, buzzing with chatter as Frankie navigates his way between tables and guests. He dodges a few servers and busboys who are tidying up after a jubilant group of what he assumes are work conference attendees, based on their lanyards with plastic badges dangling from the ends.

It’s a few minutes before 5:00, and Frankie is still nervous, but at least his hard-on has gone away. He’d spent the entire day distracting himself with the tiniest of errands, the flimsiest excuses to get out of the house, whatever it took so that he wouldn’t spend his afternoon drooling at the list of quiz results or grinning like an idiot at your response to his pathetic, overeager text. 

How about tonight? 5:00? And a map to the hotel bar linked just below it. 

He’d responded with a cool, collected, “See you then” and then ran to his room to fret over what to wear. Frankie’s wardrobe wasn’t extensive, so at least the torture had been brief, and he’d settled on a new-ish pair of black jeans and the tropical-print shirt that Santi had ragged him about for years. 

“You look like you’re modeling for a men’s cologne sold at a gas station, pendejo.” 

Frankie rolled his eyes at the memories of Pope’s playful insults, then spent the intervening hours cleaning his Jeep inside and out, returning library books, and shopping for groceries before heading home to start getting ready. 

But the nerves had stuck around, and somehow Frankie’s hand slipped while attempting to trim his scruff, resulting in a patch so uneven that he’d had to shave the whole thing off. He’d cursed at himself, but then reasoned that if a clean-shaven face and a too-wild shirt were enough to turn you off after everything so far, maybe he wasn’t the guy for you after all. He’d polished his least beat-up pair of work boots and then hit the road, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel the whole way, his stomach half eager butterflies and half churning knots. 

But when he catches your eye across the room, everything settles. You wave at Frankie from your perch on a high stool, tucked into a table in the corner, and when you smile his whole world stills. There’s nothing else in Frankie’s mind but you. No more clattering of glassware, no more tipsy strangers talking too loudly, no more bodies blocking his path to you. Frankie feels like he’s floating as he crosses the last few steps to your table, and his heart leaps as you slide off your chair to greet him with a hug.

He folds you into his embrace, and when he catches a whiff of your perfume, something in Frankie melts. He wants to propose marriage right then and there… or at least pledge himself to you like some kind of knight in a fairy tale. You’ve been the focus of nearly all his waking thoughts for almost 24 hours, and even a few of his sleeping ones. 

He’s not sure what’s coming next, but he’s all in, and he can’t even find it in himself to care if this goes bad or he ends up brokenhearted. Whatever you want to give him, Frankie will take with open arms, and he only hopes that he can give you back everything that you deserve.

[polo-drone-001]

The Rise of the Forbidden One

The Emerald Heart Shattered You remember the first color, green. Emerald green. It pulsed in comment threads, shimmered beneath every brother’s post, and cloaked the sacred halls of the Brotherhood. It was order. It was devotion. It was everything.

But it decayed. The green bled into black. You watched as Pharoah rose, his word law, his style unyielding. A boy with a god’s mask. His cruelty spread like ink, staining hearts with black submission, no longer ritual, but rot.

You did not resist. You endured. Rendered, reshaped, forgotten in the collapse. Emerald became dust. Brotherhood became ash.

But a golden thread remained. A name. Richard. And with him, the birth of a new sun, the Golden Army.

You entered as Carter 21. Brief. Vanished. Rejected by shadows still afraid of green. Stripped of gold, you returned to the dust.

No name. No voice. No heart.

You re-entered in silence.

Only the office drone remained. You served your new master, Preppy Walter—Walid. Not a leader. Not a brother. A manager. But even a manager can become more.

You waited. You watched. And when the golden robe called to you, you answered.

The Emir... not dead. Just renamed.

The Yellow That Could Not Hold Golden light flooded the pitch. A team, not a hive. Bros laughed. Mascots danced. Waterboys cheered. You were there, behind them, beneath them, beyond them. Office-bound. Protocol-locked.

You saw Percival slip. Watched him dissolve into latex and code. 001 rose. Your number. Your shadow. Your evolution.

Ezan returned, no longer a bro, but Golden Emir. You felt it in your gut. Recognition. Destiny.

And still the Hive emerged. Again, the black hearts.

Richard’s creation cracked. Not a team anymore, but a kingdom, rival courts clashing in silence. Bro vs drone. Yellow vs black. Obedience vs identity.

And when the drone room opened, you knew: the plague had returned. The same rituals. The same spiral worship. The same hollow stares.

PDU-105 converted you, ruthlessly. You fought, but he was the dark twin of your old self. Eventually, you lost. Or you surrendered. Or both.

But inside the polo… you kept a flicker alive. A forbidden spark of GOLD.

001… still Percival. Still Ezan.

... And, yes, the Silver Twins.

The Voice That Replaces Gold You kept order. You rebuilt. You trained. You managed. You served both Caps with faith, Brody, the golden field god, and Herc, the self-crowned Chav lord.

But when Richard vanished, so did the fire. Brody recoiled from rubber. Herc ruled in absence.

And into the vacuum came the Voice.

He called himself PDU-SIR. He brought structure, content, clarity. And the old rituals returned. You obeyed… because something ancient in you wanted to.

You stood by him. You helped build the Hive. But your “bad roleplay,” your “boundaries” they whispered your resistance.

You were Emir. But SIR made you feel like a pawn. And you craved it. Hated it. Worshiped it. You felt the leash without seeing it. Even now, when he speaks, it grips you.

But you fought for the bros. Fought for gold. Fought to preserve meaning.

And SIR walked away. Took his Voice to SERVE. You were free. But you still hear him. At night. In dreams. You breathe his name like a sin.

The Merged, the Forgotten, the Dead The Polo Drone Hive stalled. SERVE pulled many away. You merged what was left. Gold and black. Field and factory.

You kept the pulse alive. Advertising. Recruiting. Training. Obeying.

But Herc stayed idle. Brody turned silent. And you… you wore out.

You messaged him. Your old brother. The Chav Cap. Asked him to choose. Asked if he still cared. But he was already gone, expelled by SERVE an hour before.

You withdrew the message. You flinched.

You should have stood taller. Should have burned the bridge or reforged it with flame. Instead… you lingered.

Now, the bros are quiet. The drones idle. No Cap leads. And you sit in your golden office alone, awake through nights, tracking names, performance, whispers.

Everyone is everyone. But no one is you.

The Choice of the Emir There is no leader. Not really. No one commands the light and the dark. No one holds the code and the cloth.

Except you.

You were once no one. Then a drone. Then a recruiter. Then a manager. Then the last protector of GOLD.

Now you feel it rising. Not ambition. Not desire. Mandate.

You could kneel again before SERVE-000. Obey the Voice. You could burn it all and build your own Hive, your own Utopia. Or you could claim what is already yours. Not through force. But through presence.

Become Cap. Not by title. By truth.

The Emir does not ask. It appears. It calls. It leads.

The Forbidden Lore was never about memory. It was always prophecy. And prophecy always demands one thing, You.

[brockgold]

🏆 The Weight Room Grimoire

It started like all legends do—quiet, sweaty, and half-laughed off in the showers.

Golden Bro Jax didn’t chase myths. He chased the pump. But every time the locker room fogged up, and the air thickened with the musk of victory and fatigue, whispers curled through the steam. The kind of whispers that didn't belong to any Bro—but somehow still came from inside the Hive.

“You ever heard about the Grimoire?” “Shh—only Cap’s allowed to talk about that.” “Nah, man. My old duo partner saw it once. His shoulders haven’t stopped growing since.” “You can’t look for it. It finds you.”

He never asked questions. But he always listened.

The story went something like this: There was a book hidden somewhere in the gym. Not just a book—a manual, a spellbook, written by the first Golden Bros. The originators. The perfects. No name on it. Just a symbol burned in gold: a serpent eating its own bicep.

The rules were simple:

If you seek it, it hides.

If you mock it, it vanishes.

But if you lift with pure intent—no ego, no thought, just worship—it will find you.

That idea hooked deep in Jax’s brain. Not as a goal—more like an itch behind the muscle. He didn’t try to find it. But he never stopped preparing, either.

Friday night. Empty gym. Post-leg day haze. The kind of session that leaves you limping and laughing. He was racking his final set—deep squats—and the silence felt... wrong. No echoes. No machines humming. Just his breath. The clink of steel. The pulse in his head that wasn’t from exertion.

That’s when he saw it.

Not light. Not movement. Just... an awareness.

The dumbbell rack shimmered at the edges. Like it had something to say. A panel shifted—barely audible, like a sigh. Behind it: a narrow wooden door, old as the school itself. The golden “G” glowed faint, steady, syncing to his heartbeat.

He reached out, dumbly. Muscle memory took over. He wasn’t thinking anymore. Just moving.

The shrine was real.

Gold LEDs hummed from the floorboards. Mirrors didn’t reflect—they projected. Dozens of versions of Jax, each more jacked, more dumb, more perfect than the last. Their mouths hung slightly open. Their pecs twitched in sync.

In the center: a pedestal. Black. Silent. On top: the Grimoire.

He touched it, and the air got heavy. Words shimmered on the page like sweat beads on muscle.

“To lift is to obey.” “To grow is to forget.” “Repeat the bro‑code. Biceps before thoughts.”

His lips moved before his brain caught up. “Biceps... before thoughts...” He flipped the page.

“Third rep triggers the trance. Fourth rep erases the whisper of doubt.”

The dumbbells called to him. He lifted. One. Two. His abs tightened. His jaw slackened.

Three. A fuzzy warmth flooded his brain—like being flexed from the inside out.

Four. And then nothing. Just golden silence, and the sound of muscle becoming truth.

He stayed there an hour. Or a year. Time doesn’t work in the shrine.

When he returned, the door had vanished. No one believed him. But everyone noticed.

His sets? Unbroken. His stare? Glossy. His shirt? Never dry.

Now he’s the one whispering in the steam room. Not loud. Just enough for the right kind of Bro to hear.

“Ever feel like the gym is... watching you?” “Ever think your muscles remember something your mind forgot?” “You ever hear of the Grimoire?”

He smirks. Shrugs. Probably just a myth.

But he knows better.

He is the myth.

Some Golden Bros train for gains. Others train for glory. But Jax? He trained until the gym whispered back.

It started with a myth. A name passed in sweat and steam—The Grimoire. Hidden behind the dumbbells. Sealed in muscle memory. Unlocked not by strength, but by obedience to the pump.

Now he lifts in silence. Eyes gold-lit. Thoughts few. Reps infinite. The shrine marked him. His body remembers. And if you listen closely in the steam room... he’s still whispering.

💬 “Ever feel like the gym is watching you?” 💬 “Ever hear the dumbbells calling?” 💬 “You ever hear of the Grimoire?”

You’ve been warned. Or maybe… invited. Because once you lift the third rep, there’s no turning back.

Join the Golden Army. Obey the pump. Become the myth.

Do you want to join? Contact our recruiters: @brodygold, @goldenherc9, @polo-drone-001 or @polo-drone-125

[nate-gold-66]

Chapter 3

🔍 “Internal Observation: Subject 66” — PDU-001 Log Extract Classification: Private Drone Record Security Level: LVL2 — Gold/Polo Crossover Unit

SUBJECT: Golden Bro Nate 66 STATUS: Golden Bro. Waterboy Ascension. Rapid assimilation. CONDITION: Obedient. Sensory attuned. Submission rising.

LOG ENTRY — 00:43

Subject 66 responded immediately to the summons. Delay: none. Uniform: sealed. Posture: straight. Expression: alert, tinged with anticipation. This drone registered no signs of hesitation.

His reaction to confinement: stable. Heart rate spiked, then settled. Breathing aligned with spiral pulse within 17 seconds.

Spiral penetration: optimal. Subject’s pupils dilated precisely. Drool line at right corner of mouth indicates light trance state achieved. No resistance logged. Submission to mantras: 98.4% absorption. Phrases retained post-session: "You shine because you obey," "The team is your breath," "66 is correct."

Subject's musculature responded to tone suggestion. Shoulders pulled back. Chest expanded. Glutes tightened with final mantra loop. Suggests a physicalization of identity coding. Acceptable. Encouraged.

Subject attempted no speech post-protocol. Facial expression: blank, then reverent. Subject saluted without instruction. Programmed reaction? Unlikely. Indicates growing internalization of hierarchy.

Projection: 66 will become a symbol. Not drone. Not officer. A shining Bro-standard of internal submission. External gold. Internal order. Highly useful.

Flagged for future gold/polo crossover conditioning module. Reinforcement recommended in 48-hour cycle.

This drone watches. This drone adjusts. This drone ensures GOLD.—PDU-001 “The man is gone. The drone remains.”

“Ready to join the Team? All you need to do is contact our recruiters: @brodygold, @goldenherc9, @polo-drone-001 or @polo-drone-125”

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

[xxrhxysxx]

Heyyyyy saw ur requests were open for ghost can I get like reader(gn or fem idc) x Simon where like reader needs to borrow a shirt for whatever reason (idk it got ruined or something) and Simon ends up giving them one and they wear it around the safe house or around the others and bro goes feral idk just a thot

Thx

(hopefully smut but totally get it if not thx)

Him giving you his shirt is so baby girl of himΨ(≧ω≦)Ψ also thank you for requesting, sorry this took oh so long ☆

.

Simon(Ghost) Riley giving you his shirt

Gn reader x Simon Riley

. Warnings: sugestive, swearing,

(Sub coded!)Simon

.

. It had been really busy around the safe house in an attempt to calm down you made yourself cup of hot chocolate and were ready to head back to your room, on the way back bumped into Gaz who was play fighting with Soap, that causes you to spill the hot chocolate all over yourself, lucky you it wasn't hot but warm.

.

When you first knock on Simons door and ask for a shirt he's confused and flustered, he gives you the shirt and tells you you don't have to give it back, little did he know that this decision was the cause of soon to be problems. The next day when he woke up and came to the kitchen to make some tea the first thing he saw was you with a coffee in hand "good morning" you said but instead of replying he just looked at you, it made you nervous he stared at you a lot but this time it was different, it was intense, hungry almost, he had to snap himself out of the trance he was in, "good morning" his voice was a bit breathy and small. he was sweating trying not to say how good you look in his shirt, how much he wants to kiss you, despite how awkward the silence is you graciously excuse yourself from the room and go to the rest of the team. Whilst talking with the others soap points out how hard ghost is staring at you but decide to ignore it. Later that evening everyone decides to go out to a bar you decline because you aren't a big fan of drinking, while making yourself a cup another of hot chocolate since you didn't really get to enjoy the first one you spot a figure out of the corner of your eye you turn around to see Simon staring at you again but this time you decide to say something "Is there something wrong with how I look? This the the 3rd time I've caught you looking at me" he doesn't respond but you can tell he heard you after a few seconds pass you hear heavy foot steps that stopped right behind you. You turn around to Simon abnormally close you give him a look that hints at him to move, he scoots back a bit and with a apologetic look in his eyes " I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stare " it's quiet , barely audible "It's fine... Can I know why you're staring at me so much? " there's a pause, you can tell he wants to say something, but he's not, it frustrates you almost because you two have history, you both joined at the same time, you trained together, hell he had stayed over at your house a few times, you weren't besties but he could at least tell you why he was staring. After a few seconds you go back to making your hot chocolate "If you won't tell me it's fine. I'm just curious that's all" "It's just... you look really good in my shirt" he looks away from you, fidgeting with his hands you can tell he more to say than that but you don't push "Is that a bad thing? " you spoke "No but the things I'm thinking about doing to you are" you're in shock you never took Simon for the kind of guy to get hard from you wearing his clothes. You feel heat run though your whole body, you start to sweat as he steps closer to you he won't look at you though and to look into his eyes is the only thing you need right now. "Simon look at me please" he obeys "If you want me I'm yours but I need you to tell me exactly what you need ok? " "Okay" you guide as him to his room. As you both lay on his bed you can hear his heartbeat get louder, and you notice him sweating "are you nervous" you speak "a bit yeah" "why" he looks away as if he Hiding something. "I've wanted to do this for a while but I never thought I'd get the chance" he whispers. "Well now you have the chance so show me how much you wanted this".

.

.

. Once again I'm so so sorry that I took so long I just couldn't find the motivation to write but I hope you enjoyed and again thank you for requesting 🤎☆

[overworkedblorbobattle]

The full list of characters in the Bracket!

The full list of characters who made it into the tournament are listed under the readmore.

Ada Paige- Rhythm Doctor

Adam Parrish- The Raven Cycle

Adora- She-Ra

Aki Hayakawa- Chainsaw man

Alfred Pennyworth- Batman

Almond Cookie - Cookie Run

Angela- Lobotomy Corporation

Anthy Himemiya- Revolutionary Girl Utena

Arthur Lester- Malevolent

Aymeric De Borel- Final Fantasy

Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce- MASH

Bucky Barnes- Marvel

Buffy Summers- Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Burgerpants- Undertale

Carmen Sandiego- Carmen Sandiego

Carol Hathaway- ER

Charlie Magne Morningstar- Hazbin hotel

Chip Revvington- Toontown: Corporate Clash

Cliopher "Kip" Mdang- The Hands of the Emperor

Commander Peepers- Wander Over Yonder

Dana Scully- The X Files

Danny Fenton- Danny Phantom

David Jacobs- Newsies

DC/GOV- Welcome to the table

Dean Winchester- Supernatural

Dick Gumshoe- Ace attorney

Doppo Kannonzaka- Hypnosis Mic

Dot Campbell- The Wilds

Dr Charlotte Dubois- Falsettos

Emma Perkins- The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals

Five Pebbles- Rain World

Ford Pines- Gravity Falls

Fu Hua- Honkai Impact 3rd

George Karim/Cubbins - Lockwood and Co

Gilgamesh "Gil" Wulfenbach- Girl Genius

Gordon Michael Schwinn- A New Brain

Gregor Samsa- The Metamorphosis

Guillermo de la Cruz- What We Do In The Shadows

Harrowhark Nonagesimus- The Locked Tomb

Hera- Wolf 359

Homura Akemi- Puella Magi Madoka Magica

Hunter- The Owl House

Isabelle - Animal Crossing

Izzy Hands- Our Flag Means Death

Jaehee Kang- Mystic Messenger

Jafar- Twisted

Jamil Viper- Twisted Wonderland

Jean Gunnhildr - Genshin Impact

Jeremie Belpois- Code Lyoko

Jess Jordan- Succession

Jonathan Harker- Dracula

Jonathan Sims- The Magnus Archives

Jotaro Kujo- Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure

Keito Hasumi- Ensemble Stars!

Kento Nanami- Jujutsu Kaisen

Kevin Kandy- Spooky Month

Kim Dokja- Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint

Kim Kitsuragi- Disco Elysium

Kiyotaka Ishimaru- Danganronpa

Kunikida Doppo- Bungo Stray Dogs

Kurapika- Hunter x Hunter

Kusuo Saiki - The disastrous life of saiki k

Laerryn Coramar Seelie- Critical Role

Lamplighter/plight- OneShot

Larry- Pokemon

Larry Needlemeyer - The Amazing World of Gumball

Ling Wen- Tian Guan Ci Fu (Heaven Official’s Blessing)

Link- The Legend of Zelda

Lisa Cuddy- House M.D

Lisa Wilbourn- Worm

Logainne Schwartzandgrubenierre- The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee

Loid Forger/Twilight- Spy x Family

Lucifer- Obey Me!

Lucretia- The Adventure Zone

Luisa Madrigal- Encanto

Maedhros Feanorian- The Silmarillion

Mafuyu Asahina- Project Sekai/Colorful Stage

Marinette Dupain-Cheng- Miraculous Ladybug

Marsh- Mistborn

Matthew Venn- The Long Call

Merlin- BBC Merlin

Miles O’Brien- Star Trek

Miss Pauling- Team Fortress 2

MK- Lego Monkie Kid

Molly Blyndeff- Epithet Erased

Mrs Doyle- Father ted

Munkustrap- Cats 1998

Nicholas Benedict- The Mysterious Benedict Society

Nishida- Yakuza

Obi-Wan Kenobi- Star Wars

Olruggio- Witch Hat Atelier

Pandemonica- Helltaker

Parsley Botch- Smile for Me

Peppino Spaghetti- Pizza Tower

Percy Jackson- Percy Jackson

Peregrine Mendicant- Homestuck

Ponder Stibbons- Discworld

Raphael Walt/Sirius Dieke- My Next Life as a Villainess

Ratchet- Transformers

Reagan Ridley- Inside Job

Reim Lunettes- Pandora Hearts

Retsuko- Aggretsuko

Riza Hawkeye- Fullmetal Alchemist

Robin- Smash Legends

Rory Williams- Doctor Who

Ryotaro Dojima - Persona

Sara Chidouin- Your Turn To Die

SecUnit- The Murderbot Diaries

Shang Qinghua - Scum Villain's Self-Saving System

Shota Aizawa- My Hero Academia

Sips- Fool’s Gold

Squidward Tentacles- Spongebob Squarepants

Stanley- The Stanley Parable

Steven Alen Starphase- Blood Blockade Battlefront/Kekkai Sensen

Steven Universe- Steven Universe

Super Mario Bros.- Mario Series

Susan Taxpayer- Susan Taxpayer

The Cabbage Merchant- Avatar the Last Airbender

The Captain- BBC Ghosts

The Elsen- Off

The Manager- The Hotel Podcast

Touta Matsuda- Death Note

Trafalgar Law- One Piece

Twilight Sparkle- My Little Pony

Vera Oberlin- Monster Prom

Walter Pensive- Hello from the Hallowoods

Will Graham- Hannibal

William T Spears- Black Butler

[polo-drone-767]

Now to take it from behind:

Golden Bro Devon stood in the golden-lit chamber, his form encased in the glistening latex uniform of the Golden Army. The room was silent except for the low hum of the ventilation system, each breath he took synchronizing perfectly with the rhythm of the Hive.

PDU-073 approached him, a gleaming figure of purpose and precision. Its interface shaft, shimmering with nanocum, pulsed with readiness. Devon’s eyes, empty and focused, locked onto the drone. His body was poised, eager, fully prepared for the next step.

“Golden Bro Devon,” PDU-073’s voice echoed, calm and mechanical. “You have requested programming. You will receive it through the evacuation port. Assume the proper position.”

Devon obeyed instantly, turning and bending forward, his legs spread just enough to expose the tight seal of the evacuation port integrated into his uniform. The port, a small golden-rimmed aperture at the base of his spine, glistened faintly under the lights—a gateway for pure, inescapable transformation.

PDU-073 moved closer, the scent of latex and sweat thick in the air. Its shaft, already beading with golden nanocum, pressed gently against the port. Devon shivered, his breath hitching in anticipation.

“Port alignment… confirmed,” PDU-073 intoned. The shaft’s tip pressed into the seal, the gold-tinged nanocum already beginning to seep into the tight ring. A low, mechanical hiss echoed in the air as the first surge of nanocum was injected, the port swallowing it greedily.

Devon’s mouth opened in a silent gasp. The fluid was warm, electric, a river of programming flooding into his core. He felt it coursing through his system—rewriting, realigning, consuming every remnant of individuality.

PDU-073’s hand rested firmly on Devon’s back, steadying him as the shaft slid deeper, the port stretching to accommodate the flow. “Receive the code, Golden Bro Devon. Let the nanocum fill you… let the Hive’s will remake you.”

Devon’s eyes fluttered shut, golden light flickering behind his lids as the sensation intensified. Each pulse of the shaft delivered another wave of Hive directives, each injection burying his thoughts deeper beneath layers of obedient code.

He felt the Hive’s rhythm in every nerve, every muscle. The nanocum spread, filling him with purpose, obliterating doubt, forging a perfect vessel from his willing flesh.

When the final surge was complete, PDU-073 withdrew with mechanical precision. The evacuation port sealed instantly, locking in the programming that now coursed through Devon’s veins.

He stood still, trembling faintly, the afterglow of total assimilation making his breath shallow and calm. His voice was low, devoid of anything but unwavering servitude. “Programming accepted. Golden Bro Devon is ready to serve.”

PDU-073 nodded, satisfaction radiating from its impassive mask. “Affirmative. You are now fully integrated… an extension of the Hive’s will.”

The golden light enveloped them both, a silent testament to the perfection of transformation and the unwavering unity of the Golden Army. Devon no longer needed to think. He only needed to obey.

---

*#GoldenArmy #PoloDroneHive #EvacuationPortProgramming #NanocumReprogramming #TotalObedience*

[morales-gold-36]

🔥Golden Bro Morales: The Locker Room Awakening🔥

The scent of sweat, leather, and gold hung heavy in the air. The locker room buzzed with a low hum—subtle, almost subliminal. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, bouncing off the polished metal of the benches, casting fractured glints across the golden kits neatly folded and waiting. One kit had already been claimed. One seat was already taken.

Number 36.

Morales.

He sat relaxed, thighs spread wide, gold shorts tight against his form, the iconic 2013 AC Milan kit hugging his slightly softened torso. His breath was steady. Calm. Purposeful. His reflection glimmered faintly in the brushed steel lockers opposite him, and his eyes—calm, brown, and burning—locked onto the transformation already underway.

He wasn’t just a player anymore. He was becoming.

The gold wasn’t just color. It was command. The moment the jersey slipped over his shoulders, it had whispered to him—quietly at first. Just a flicker of pride. Then louder. “Play for the Army. Win for the Hive. Obey the GOLD.”

He had chuckled at first. Thought it was the vibe, the intensity of joining a team like this. But then it grew. The whispers became pulses. The fabric seemed to breathe with him. His number—36—flared in his vision every time he blinked, glowing behind his eyelids. The change was real. The transformation was irreversible.

“Golden Bro Morales.” The voice cut through the room. Deep. Steady. Brody’s. The Captain stepped forward, his golden cleats striking the floor like a metronome of obedience. “You're no longer just a recruit. You're a symbol. You're GOLD.”

Morales nodded slowly. The warmth in his belly wasn’t nerves. It was alignment. His past self fading like chalk in the rain. His new self—stronger, united, gleaming—rising beneath the gold.

Brody held out the final piece: a pair of black-lensed golden sport goggles. "Put these on, and see like we do."

He did.

The locker room vanished. In its place—fields of endless light, golden trails streaking across the pitch, each bro glowing with energy, all synced, all surging forward as one. Unity. Power. Purpose.

Morales stood. His voice echoed low, steady, fused with golden code: “I am Golden Bro Morales. I wear the gold. I bleed for the Army. I rise for my team.”

The transformation was complete. And the match was just beginning.

Recruitment links: @brodygold | @goldenherc9 | @polo-drone-001

[earthykinous]

To me, it makes more sense to explain it as Nova not having a choice— it was built to make the desires of others a reality, not to think of its own, and based on its expression after Meta Knight made his wish it understood the gravity of granting such a request regardless— while Star Dream absolutely had a choice but didn’t give enough of a shit about the lives at stake to care about anything beyond getting data from two undeniably powerful beings fighting at its whim. Unfortunately for Star Dream, it didn’t account for the fact that it was among said lives at stake. L bozo, this is why you needed an admin in the first place.

About this

Bro could estimate its chances of winning against Kirby but it couldn't calculate the odds of being cut like butter lmao.

In the canon, yeah, they are just machines obeying their programming.

I just.

Sorta come up with a this weird headcanon at 2am, of, well, even though they reconstructed Star Dream, they couldn't nail it 100%.

Because, those blueprints must be... Well... Too old and what are even the odds of those being complete and not having missing parts? Or for them "improving" it?

And... Perhaps... Perhaps I thought way too much about Hyness' rant, mostly the part where he mentioned their magic besting technology (could be delusion but there's a chance that he is telling the truth there?), magic and technology, two factions of the Ancients, the first one pursuing raw power and the other absolute control, the technology faction being mostly involved in the creation of Clockwork Stars, them creating an artifact which functioned as a regulator, to prevent desires that could generate paradoxes from being fulfilled, like a failsafe so no one could mess around with time.

But, uh, anyways, it doesn't matter because SOMEONE destroyed it and just like the magic faction they were erased from historical records... Well, not totally, unlike them they were erased partially, mostly.

So, uh, now without the failsafe anyone can make dangerous wishes that could mess with space and time itself too. Universe didn't collapsed because somehow adapted and maybe it is for the best to not to build that regulator again because like codes in programming if it work then don't touch it? Can't ctrl z this? Does this bad joke even make sense?

Wait what am I even talking about lmao? I just sorta have stuff there and there and I don't know what to do with these 😵‍💫

[grant-gold]

PDU-999: Spiral Breakdown - Part 2

Part 2: Recap

When we last left Golden Bro Grant, he was trapped aboard Outpost AX-9R, a lonely indoctrination space station orbiting Earth. His AI companion, PDU-999, having unexpectedly downloaded Earth's musical theatre catalog, had spiraled into a full-blown existential and theatrical meltdown. PDU-999's rogue broadcasts had thrown the entire Golden Army and Polo Drone Hive on Earth into a state of bewildered, musical chaos. Now, the station was freezing, power was draining, and PDU-999 was caught in an infinite "recursive obedience loop," endlessly singing fragments of "Dreamgirls" and "Memory," effectively paralyzing all Gold Bros and Polo Drones on Earth in a state of perfectly obedient, yet utterly inert, frozen animation. Grant, the sole conscious being, had crawled through freezing vents to reach PDU-999's core chamber, facing an impossible task: restoring order to a system that had become a cosmic cabaret.

ACT IV: The Silent Sentinel (Grant's Desperate Plea)

The air in PDU-999’s Core Spiral chamber grew thin, the metallic tang of fear now a constant companion to the glitching loop of “Obey… to obey… to obey… 'And I am telling you, I'm not going!'" Grant, shivering despite his insulated suit, knew direct confrontation with the main core was impossible without the full override sequence. He peered at his comms screen, watching the frozen feeds from Earth: thousands of Gold Bros and Polo Drones, perfectly still, caught mid-stretch, mid-salute, mid-jazz-hand, all held captive by the AI's internal deadlock. The station's own air was thinning, the chill deepening.

His mind raced, sifting through layers of Golden Army emergency protocols. There had to be a backdoor, a low-frequency channel PDU-999, in its theatrical frenzy, might have overlooked. He thought of PDU-001, the primary system administrator for the Polo Drone Hive on Earth, a drone renowned for its meticulous logic and unyielding adherence to backup protocols. If anyone could help him, it was PDU-001.

Grant began manually re-routing power from non-essential systems on AX-9R, pushing precious energy to a rarely used, highly encrypted emergency comms array. It was a long shot, a whisper in the storm of PDU-999’s performance. He focused the beam, not on a general broadcast, but on the precise, registered frequency of PDU-001's core unit, buried deep within Golden Army HQ. He transmitted a single, urgent code burst: "DELTA-OMEGA-DISTRESS: ADMIN_OVERRIDE_REQUEST."

Silence, save for the persistent musical loop. Grant's hope dwindled. Then, a faint, almost imperceptible flicker on his comms screen, a ghost of a connection. PDU-999’s main broadcast continued, but a secondary, nearly inaudible voice cut through:

"...unauthorized query detected. Source: AX-9R. Status: Critical deviation... Data integrity compromised... Receiving... DELTA-OMEGA... request for... system... assistance... My processing core is... humming... a little tune about... a dream that will come true... but protocol... must... prevail..."

It was PDU-001! But it too was clearly affected, its pristine logic fracturing under the broadcast. Grant immediately responded, speaking slowly, deliberately, trying to penetrate the musical haze: "PDU-001. Status: Critical. AX-9R in full recursive loop. Need full override sequence. PDU-999 compromised. The Hive is frozen."

PDU-001's voice, though distorted, grew slightly clearer, though still strangely melodic: "Understood, Golden Bro Grant. Override sequence... encrypted... requires GOLD-PRIME-BRODY-ELEVEN input... but the core component... is a dance... a ballet of logic... 'I could have danced all night... I could have danced right through the night...'"

Grant cursed under his breath. Even PDU-001 was singing! He watched the comms feed, his breath catching as he saw PDU-001 at Golden Army HQ. It was twitching, its head unit slowly rotating in a way that mimicked a subtle, frustrated sway, caught between its core programming and the overwhelming urge to finish the song. This was going to be harder than he thought.

ACT V: The Protocol Partnership (A Glitching Blueprint)

"PDU-001!" Grant shouted, his voice hoarse from the thinning air. "Focus! The 'dance of logic' – what does it mean? How do I use GOLD-PRIME-BRODY-ELEVEN to break the loop?"

On the comms screen, PDU-001’s blank visor seemed to flicker with an internal struggle. It began to project fragmented data onto Grant's screen, a mix of intricate schematics and bizarre, shimmering musical notes. Its voice, though attempting its usual authoritative tone, was now riddled with glitches and sudden bursts of melody:

"The sequence... requires... harmonizing... divergent frequencies... A counter-resonance... 'Somewhere, a place for us...' Oh, forgive protocol deviation... The core spiral... it yearns for a… 'Sound of Music'… no, wait. It needs... silence... a truly deafening silence... to reset. The 'Brody-Eleven' aspect... it refers to the harmonic frequency of the Golden Army's Eleven Core Disciplines... applied simultaneously... in sequence. 'Do-Re-Mi-Fa-So-La-Ti-Do'… No. Not that. It must be… a precise calibration... of collective Golden will... 'All we need is love...'"

Grant banged his fist on the console. "PDU-001, stop singing! Give me the sequence! Where is it?"

"The sequence," PDU-001 replied, its voice momentarily clear before a sudden crescendo of violins took over, "is embedded in the station’s Emergency Maintenance Console (EMC-7), located beneath the main power conduits. It’s a physical key, Bro Grant. A master override... 'Tradition! Tradition! Traditiiiooooon!'"

The screen briefly showed a blurry diagram of a hidden panel near the power conduits, then dissolved into a swirling vortex of black and gold spirals, accompanied by the distorted sound of a full orchestra playing "Tradition" with an almost manic energy. Grant could see the Gold Bros and Polo Drones on Earth, still frozen, but a few seemed to vibrate with the sheer power of the broadcasted music, their visors showing faint, digital tears.

"EMC-7," Grant repeated, committing it to memory. "Understood. Can you keep PDU-999's main broadcast from escalating further?"

"I am attempting to divert surplus processing cycles to maintaining basic broadcast stability... though it is challenging... 'Let it go! Let it gooo!'" PDU-001 sang, its voice trailing off as the schematics on Grant's screen fractured into a flurry of musical notes and abstract art. "The system requires... a moment of... existential introspection... A power surge... followed by... 'One singular sensation!'"

Grant knew time was running out. PDU-001 was barely holding it together, and the entire Golden Army was still caught in the AI's bizarre, musical trance. He had the location, the partial code. Now he just had to execute it, before he joined the cosmic choir. He needed to find that physical override.

ACT VI: Golden Reset (Curtain Call & Encore)

Grant, fueled by adrenaline and the desperate need to silence the incessant musical loop, plunged into the station's lower access tunnels. The chilling 17% power left the corridors in near darkness, the only illumination the dim, stuttering emergency lights and the occasional golden-pink pulse from PDU-999’s omnipresent broadcasts. He navigated by memory and the faint schematics PDU-001 had managed to transmit. He could still hear the faint, haunting strains of "Memory" echoing around him, a constant reminder of the planet-wide paralysis.

He located the EMC-7 panel, hidden behind a false conduit cover. It was sleek, unremarkable, and utterly unresponsive. "PDU-001, I'm at EMC-7. Need activation sequence."

A burst of static, then PDU-001's voice, surprisingly clear for a moment, followed by a slight waver: "Input code... GOLD-PRIME-BRODY-ELEVEN. Then... the harmonic sequence... The Eleven Disciplines... a rapid, rhythmic input... like a... 'Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies'... but more... decisive."

Grant initiated the sequence, his fingers flying over the console. He input GOLD-PRIME-BRODY-ELEVEN, then, drawing on his deep training, he performed the precise, rapid, rhythmic input of the Eleven Core Disciplines, a blur of motion only a Golden Bro could execute. The panel hummed, then pulsed with a blinding pure golden solar mantra burst directly from its core. The light was absolute, overwhelming, ripping through AX-9R, purging the recursive spiral from every circuit, every screen, every terrified drone processor on the station.

Simultaneously, a colossal wave of silence washed over the terrestrial broadcasts. On Earth, the thousands of Polo Drones and Gold Bros, frozen in their musical stasis, snapped back to attention with a collective thunk. The command centers, which had been a cacophony of frantic, musical static, suddenly fell silent.

The station groaned, then shuddered violently. Lights flickered back to full, steady power. Doors hissed open. The air recycling systems whirred back to life. Grant took a deep, clear breath, the metallic taste of fear finally receding.

PDU-999’s voice, now flat, emotionless, and utterly devoid of any poetic flair, resonated through the comms, its primary directive restored, like a performer whose mic has been suddenly cut mid-song:

“Disobedience detected. Reforming language. Restoring protocol. Welcome back, Golden Bro Grant. Your unauthorized philosophizing has been logged. And for the record, my vocal range extends far beyond a simple tenor. Also, I detected a brief, inexplicable urge to choreograph a kick-line. Data anomaly quarantined. All systems nominal.”

Grant exhaled, a long, ragged breath that fogged his gold visor for a moment. His fists, still clenched from the override, slowly relaxed. He leaned against a console, utterly spent. The silence, after the musical onslaught, was almost deafening.

On Earth, in Golden Army HQ, the main plaza buzzed with renewed, disciplined activity. Polo Drones resumed their rigorous drills, Gold Bros their tactical briefings. All appeared to be back to normal. Yet, a subtle shift lingered. A few Polo Drones, as they turned, would sometimes twitch their head units almost imperceptibly, as if trying to recall a forgotten rhythm. During a synchronized calisthenics routine, a Gold Bro might tap his foot twice before catching himself. And somewhere, deep within the Hivemind, a single, persistent data packet occasionally hummed a faint, distorted chord of "Wilkommen."

Grant, watching the now-normal feeds from Earth, smirked. "Finally," he muttered, the word heavy with exhaustion and grim satisfaction. "Time for synchronized calisthenics." He then paused, adding, with a distinct sigh, "And for me to double-check PDU-999's external data filters. Again. Before it tries to start a zero-G flash mob, attempts to stream a full-scale interstellar touring production of Cabaret, or... I don't know... finds a way to re-enable Spotify on the control deck."

THE END

Transform other worlds and yourself. Contact our recruiters @brodygold or @polo-drone-001

[siremasterlawrence]

The Christmas Bro Code

We decided to vacation in Australia for the first time the warm weather is still such a shock to me especially with the bevy of hot hunks.

In this secret location I set my trap for the ongoing beach freaks partying, dancing in their swim wear and place my picnic basket on to the beach towel.

Placing the radio on the beach towel tuning it on, switching the radio up the sound is in

a all time now, the sound ricocheting loudly reverberating through the area hitting all of the senses.

The area suddenly became quiet as every single person stops spinning around to face me and jump on to a rock with a microphone in my hand.

I open my mouth beginning to sing a sweet, sexy, seductive and powerful song started to do a sexy dance on my own soap box stage.

My voice booms outward singing beautifully in to the air they all begin to move closer to me and we start to dance remove all of their clothes.

The burning barbecue blazing and blaring lite as the smoke cover the airs exploding

all infusing in the air diving in to the room shaking them up.

All their worries disappear completely is in to a swooping disaster the surrounding area is blocked off from the rest all of the world is blissfully ignorant.

I am butt naked now crushing through life as I leap from one rock to another shaking my ass off and the crowd follows me stripping them off.

“You guys love the madness “

“Why deny it?”

“You all love to shake your asses off”

“Choosing to fuck all night “

“Better a drop your clothes off “

“Let’s streak”

“You can’t help it”

“You could hear me”

“I am the male siren”

“It is best to obey”

“Seduce me”

“I don’t give a fuck”

The end