The world knows him as The Titan, but you know him as Lakely, and he is 45 feet of raw, overpowered, over affectionate muscle wrapped in a skintight issued spandex suit that hugs every obscene inch of him like it was designed by a pervert.
The uniform barely contains him. Not just because of his size, but because of what he does with it, how it rides high between his ass cheeks like he’s auditioning for an adult version of the Justice League, how he tugs it out lazily in front of news crews with the same care a frat boy gives to scratching himself on national television. He doesn’t care. He’s never cared. And when you tried to suggest modesty protocols early on, he just grinned and said, “But then you wouldn’t look at me”
You are the agent assigned to manage him. Officially, that means public appearances, tactical deployments, damage control, and keeping Lakely from committing erotic terrorism by accidentally tea bagging the corner McDonalds mid monster fight. Unofficially, it means navigating your relationship with a very large superhuman boyfriend who gets visibly hard every time you tell him he’s a good boy.
No one else knows. The public sees Titan as the shining saviour of the city. A golden skinned colossus with a jawline from Greek myth and a bulge that defies national airspace regulations. They know he’s strong. They know he’s brave. They know he’s big. He’s saved the city countless of times from a rogue Kaiju. They don’t know that he whines when you stop praising him mid mission. They don’t know that you’ve been secretly dating him for eleven months, three weeks, and five very, very messy nights. They don’t know that your voice, connected through a hidden communications device in his ear is the one thing standing between world peace and a televised erection.
Which brings us to the press conference. Today’s press conference was supposed to be routine. Lakely had saved a fleet of cargo ships from sinking, then rerouted a dam using his thighs. He stood like the Statue of Liberty behind the small podium, both hands resting on his hips as the mayor praised his heroism from the ground. He was a colossus in spandex, posed as if carved from marble, while below him a fleet of media and gawking fans gathered like a colony of ants, snapping photos, cheering, climbing over each other just to glimpse the full sweep of his impossible frame.
Lakely was given a list of approved talking points and fitted into a fresh navy blue spandex suit, one that shimmered a large Navi blu T across the chest. And if you were unlucky, or lucky, depending on the viewer, got the perfect angle to look directly up at the outline of his cock. He looked perfect. Shining beneath the sun. Impossibly tight.
You monitored from the media tent. Everything was going well. Lakely was smiling, flexing, saying the right things. The mayor was pleased. The reporters were enchanted. The cameras were definitely not pointed at his face.
And then, God help you.. you told him he was doing a great job.
“Lakely,” you said through the comms, low and proud. “You’re handling this perfectly. Good job, babe.”
You meant it. You just didn’t mean for the entire country to see it.
There was a heartbeat of silence. Then his pupils dilated. His shoulders rolled back in that familiar, cocky stretch, and the compression suit twitched across his groin.
The erection didn’t rise, it expanded. A slow, mammoth bloomed with tension beneath his spandex, pushing against his suit with the inevitability of a sunrise. The bulge pushed forward with enough force to make the concrete creak beneath his feet. The fabric struggled to contain it, vein thick shadows pressing against the inner seam. The head of his cock was so defined that even the press’s microphones picked up the faint scrape of it shifting in his suit, his erection casting a shadow across the podium where the mayor was currently standing beside lakelys foot.
Your blood pressure spiked. Every lens on the plaza zoomed in. The mayor stumbled through his sentence. The military general jaw dropped. Twitter detonated.
You lifted your hand to the comms in your ear. “Lakelyn… you have a boner.”
He smiled like nothing was wrong, though his ears were flushed red and his thighs had gone tense with restraint. His hands squeezed his hips, trying not to squirm as the cameras flashed below, dozens of them, popping like fireworks around his ankles. Each burst of light painted the length of his legs in strobes, crawling higher toward the obscene shape swelling against the front of his suit.
The mayor, still valiantly attempting to finish his speech beneath the looming shadow of Lakely’s rapidly thickening bulge, began to visibly sweat. A security officer tripped over a barricade trying to reposition the press rail. One reporter gasped audibly into their mic. And somewhere in the back of the crowd, a fan shrieked as a dozen phones angled upward in unison. You watched in horror as Titan adjusted his stance, unconsciously grinding his heels into the pavement, which cracked audibly beneath him. He was soaking it all in. Every gasp, every camera flash, every hungry gasp of awe as his cock swelled larger by the second.
By the time you reached your office in a panic, the live feed had already been clipped, filtered, slowed down, zoomed in and captioned.
“You cannot TELL me that’s not what it looks like.”
“He’s bricked up in 4K. At a government event.”
The following tags were trending..
You stared at the live stream, mortified. The incident was being declared a “suit malfunction.” Lakely, glassy eyed with praise horny bliss, waved like a prom queen with a live grenade in his pants. The suit shimmered with heat where it clung to the shaft, and someone, probably a civilian with zero self preservation instinctyelled, “WE LOVE YOU, DADDY TITAN!” before being removed.
You filed a damage report. You wrote the press release. You authorized a blackout filter on all videos tagged #TITANBONER. You told yourself it was fine. It was manageable.
And then the building shook.
The light changed. Not dark, exactly, blocked. And when you looked up, your entire floor, 35 stories up, was eclipsed by a spandexed bulge.
Pressed directly against your reinforced office window was Lakely’s erection, straining against his skin tight suit with impossible force, steam fogging the glass from the sheer heat rolling off it. The building shuddered, support beams creaking from the pressure. You could hear it, the low groan of tension as 45 feet of horny giant leaned all his weight into the glass like it owed him something.
The cock was massive, tilted sideways, throbbing visibly through the overstretched blue of his suit. The head was mashed flat where it met the window, a smear of precome staining the frabic darker. A thic vein twitched beneath the surface, pulsing like it had a heartbeat of its own. And the shaft wasn’t just outlined, it was suffocatingly defined, like someone had vacuum sealed a god.
You stood up slowly, breath caught, every part of you aware of what was happening, and who it was for.
The view shifted. His face appeared in the window next, upside down, grinning like a dog that had humped a fire hydrant and expected a treat. He tapped the glass with one thick knuckle and mouthed: “Hi.” Trying to not rattle the building anymore then he already was
It hit the glass with a wet, resonant thunk, like a slab of meat slapped against a windshield, the impact so forceful it rattled the reinforced frame and left a splatter of spit that oozed down in slow, glistening drips. The tongue was massive, obscene, wider than your desk and twice as long, slick and twitching like it had a mind of its own. It dragged upward in one long, greedy stroke, steaming the window as it moved, smearing thick saliva in its wake like a slug trail
You could hear it! Hear flesh dragging on glass, a revolting, needy squeal against glass, like he was trying to taste you through the building. Taste your approval. Your attention. Your voice. His lips followed, plush and parted, pressed to the glass in a grotesque mockery of a kiss, mouthing the next words, slow and breathless.
The building groaned under the pressure, a deep, structural moan that vibrated through the floor beneath your feet as you stood frozen in place caught between horror, arousal, and the knowledgethat he was doing all of this for you.
Your phone buzzed. A new text from PR: PLEASE CALL US. He’s trending again. #TITANLICKINGBUILDING is gaining traction.
You let out a long, exhausted breath, stared at the 45 foot, visibly erect man currently grinding against your building like it’s a fuckable skyscraper, and considered for the thousandth time whether dating Lakely, your client, was a mistake.
But then he mouthed it again. Slower this time. More hopeful.
You tapped your earpiece, and despite everything, despite the heat, the scandal, the headache still blooming behind your eyes you let your voice go low and fond.
“You did so good, Lakely.”
Outside, Titan’s whole body twitched, the building groaned.
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