I just NEED more centralization on the kicking of pregnancy, the pressure, the feeling of your belly being overtaken by the little bulges of the life inside maybe getting cut off mid protest by the sheer force of a kick. Them getting antsy just feeling their other parent’s presence. Weirdly specific part of the fetish jbut feeling your belly grow a little bit each kick. A solid thud against your belly and suddenly a little jerk as your belly groans a few centimetres??? Idk it’s just so good
Oh my god I love the thought of pregnancy movement soooo much too nonnie. Just the fact that's its undeniable activity/proof that there's something alive inside your stretched out middle is so attractive. Already stretched skin undulating with life as the babs/litter inside you perpetually squirm. Being able to feel every shift of movement inside you as they writhe. Just knowing you're carrying something alive? And then not knowing how many you've got crammed in your overstuffed pregnant belly. And all you can do is wonder as more and more different sources of movement start making your belly more misshapen.
AND WAIT, I just registered the belly growing every time you feel a kick prompt!!!
Genuinely, I haven't heard that one before, but it's doing something to me. Rapid pregnancy is slow but still rapid. Maybe it takes a few hours for me to look 4 months. But I'm there so slow- than the first bit of movement happens. It doesn't even register as movement maybe- its just tiny little fluttering feeling. And it goes away after- plus I'm busy at my desk so I don't really notice my belly bloating out a notciable bit more after the feeling. Then it happens again a bit stronger and I think maybe it's gas. My belly starts growing again in reponse- it was more like a quick jump in growth than the slow, steady progression I was undergoing.
It happens again and it's like a light muscle spasm. I sigh and finally roll my chair out and I get to watch as in time with the first bulge of life press on my stomach- only for my shirt to strain as my belly jumps in another size in reponse. I gasp, and my hand flies onto my now very pregnant belly. Another kick and clear signs of whatever I was pregnant with being fussy makes a small ball in my shirt before disappearing when my shirt threatens to rip under the sudden amount of girth it was forced to try and contain. My poor stomach groans loudly in protest as if I could somehow stop the sudden strain much like my shirt it was being forced to too take too-
I have to quickly peel my shirt up towards my chest, and it's just in time for another now larger bulge slam right into the center of my stomach. Forcing it to jut more outwards. Only the skin doesn't come back down as the rest of my belly surges forward to meet it-! So I watch in time as my belly button pops out fat on my now heavily overdue pregnant belly. I gasp and pant the heavy weight of the baby in me, only growing every sign of life it shows. I still jerk in my chair when, this time, two separate bulges force my skin to bump outwards.
My belly groans and gurgles with a loud slosh followed by the sound of my belt snapping so hard the metal smacks into the wall with an audible sound. My belly no longer being supported falls even heavier in between my spread thighs. "Oh no no no-" I can feel the movement start fluttering and I know what's about to happen again with me not being able to do much but sit there and try not to cum my own brains out than and there watching myself only get more and more pregnant-
A squirm happens and- oh no.
I realize why it keeps happening so often.
There's more than one in there-!
The at least two different sources of movement start squirming more- my skin undulating softly as the twins now growing in me tried to get comfortable. Two more kicks turns to three at the same time and I groan loud when my gut rumbles and surges forward again. Belly thwaping against the edge of my desk and forcing my thighs apart so very wide to make room for the absurd amount of space my brats were set on making for themselves. My belly groans in protest yet again unhappy by the development it was forced to undertake. But my pregnant belly only rumbles again, followed by a more reserved glug. Like it had settled again after yet another insane growth spurt...
Only for my eyes snap wide open as a third source of movement starts squirming inside of me.
And I end up cumming the hardest I ever have when my belly groans and jumps into the fattest heaviest triplet belly I've ever seen. My own orgasm and clenching of my womb only makes my overactive now steadily growing litter even more active... a vicious cycle 💕
Mama I’m from nyc watching the Knicks play atm, and was wondering if we could get an athlete au with Sukuna or anyone else 👀?
omg hope you have a fantastic time!!! here's a bunch of athlete x reader aus starring the jjk men <3
hockey
hockey captain toji by @nanamisbbygirl
on thin ice starring gojo by @madamechrissy
king of the rink starring gojo by @fireladylisa
hockey captain toji by @tojipie
heated starring sukuna + toji by @epicderpface
she's crazy but she's mine starring toji by @reignpage
pent up after practice starring toji by @frostedpinkdoll
misc.
friday night lights starring sukuna by @epicderpface
tennis player gojo by @daughterhouse
basketball player geto by @orbitingdesire
rugby player sukuna by @rambld
rugby player sukuna by @ssukidoll
pro swimmer geto by @soov
buzzer beater starring gojo by @silentscrying
pleaser starring gojo + geto by @tacitoru
slam dunk starring gojo by @tonycries
footballer sukuna + choso by @siennayaps
soccer boyfriend gojo by @fanvyy
tennis satosugu by @chososprettygirl
if anyone else has any extra athlete jjk recs or wrote one they want me to add, pls lemme know!!! (also there was one i was looking for that was tennis related with nanami and gojo and i could NOT find it so if any of you know wtf i'm talking about pls send it my way)
You can't prove it, but someone has been in your apartment
Stalker/Serial Killer!Simon x Reader.
You can't breathe.
The rain is preventing it, filling the space between your mouth and the sky so that every breath you drag in is half air and half water, and your lungs are working at a deficit, pulling overtime.
You're running. You've been running. And it feels the way running feels in dreams, the legs churning, the ground stretching, the distance between you and anywhere safe expanding with every stride like the earth is being fed through on a belt beneath you, and no matter how hard you push it is not enough. It has never been enough.
The rain has soaked through everything. Your shirt is a second skin, plastered to the curve of your spine, dragging at your shoulders, heavy and sodden, pulling at the hem. Your joggers are worse. Waterlogged from the thighs down, clinging to the backs of your knees, catching with every stride so that each step is between momentum and drag.
You're still in your slippers- your fucking slippers- because you didn't have time for shoes, didn't have time for anything except the door and the stairs and the rain, and the soles are tearing apart against the wet ground. Every stone and root and divot rips through what's left of them. The cold stopped being pain a while ago. Now it's just absence. Your feet belong to someone else.
The field behind your apartment building is open and dark and the grass is slick and knee high in places, whipping against your shins as you crash through it, and somewhere behind you something is moving at a pace that doesn't match yours.
You're sprinting. The thing behind you is not. The thing behind you is covering the same ground at a walk, maybe a jog, the unhurried gait of something that understands the end of the pursuit better than you do: that your speed is borrowed from adrenaline and adrenaline has a half life and the distance between you is a loan you're taking out against a body that will come to collect.
The tree line. You can see it in the lightning, ragged dark mass, oak and ash and whatever else grows in the scrubby, unloved patch of urban woodland the city council hasn't developed yet. You've walked past it. You've never been inside it.
The dark between those trees is absolute and unknowable and you are running toward it anyway because the open field is killing you. Open means visible. Visible means found.
You hit the trees and the world changes.
The rain doesn't stop but it fractures, breaking against the canopy and reaching you in fat, cold drops that fall from leaves instead of sky, landing on the back of your neck.
The ground goes soft. Mud swallowing your foot to the ankle on the first step, the earth making a sound around your slipper that is wet and when you wrench free the shoe stays behind. You keep going. Barefoot on one side, the mud pressing between your toes.
You can't see. The canopy hides the lightning. What was blue white and blinding in the field becomes a dim, grey flicker in here, enough to show you shapes, trunk and branch, before the dark closes back over.
You navigate by collision. Bark under your palms as you bounce off trees you don't see until you're hitting them. Your shoulder clips an oak hard and something tears and you catch yourself on a low branch and the bark strips the skin from your palm in a hot, wet line, blood bubbling between fingers, and you keep moving.
Behind you, a branch breaks.
Something heavy stepping on something small, and the crack travels through the trees with a clarity that cuts through the rain and the thunder and lands in the base of your skull like a nail. You don't turn around. Turning around means slowing down.
A root catches your foot- the bare one, the one with no slipper- and you go down hands first, and the mud is cold and deep and your fingers sink into it to the second knuckle and the impact jars through your wrists and into your shoulders and your chin catches a root knuckle and the pain is bright, a flare of white behind your eyes, a copper bloom across your tongue where your teeth meet the inside of your cheek. You're on your hands and knees in the mud and the rain is hammering the canopy above you and the thunder rolls through the ground beneath your palms.
You push yourself up. Your hands slip. The mud gives and doesn't give back and your arms are shaking, not fear, not just fear, but the muscles beginning to fail, the glycogen stores emptying, the body starting to make panicked desperations your brain won't: how much farther, at what cost, for how long.
You get up. You run.
The woods thicken. The trees are closer together now and you're weaving between them with a gait that's barely controlled, pinballing off bark with your forearms raised to protect your face, and the branches catch you everywhere else, across the collarbone, the bicep, the soft skin at the inside of your wrist, leaving lines of heat that surface as welts, thin red marks that swell and sting in the rain.
Your bare foot finds something sharp. Glass, maybe, or a stone with an edge, and the pain blooms upward from the arch and you feel the skin open and the heat of blood mixing with the cold of mud and you don't stop. You can't stop.
The trees thin. You stumble out of the dense growth and into a gap in the canopy where a tree came down years ago. Rain returns full and direct, hammering the crown of your skull and running into your eyes. The ground is more leaf litter than mud. Your feet find traction for the first time in minutes.
You stop.
Not because you decide to. Because your body stops. The quadriceps seize, the calves lock, and you stand in the centre of the clearing bent double with your hands on your knees and your mouth open and the rain pouring down your face and into your gasping mouth, and the sound of your own breathing is the loudest thing in the world, ragged, wet, the desperate bellow pump of lungs operating past their margin.
You listen.
Rain on leaves. Thunder, further now, rolling east. Wind in the upper canopy, moving through the branches with a long, low hiss. The drip of water from a broken trunk to your left, rhythmic, metronomic, almost soothing.
No footsteps. No branches breaking. No displacement of air or weight behind you. The woods are empty. The dark between the trees is just dark. You turn, slowly, a full rotation, and every shadow is a shadow and every shape is a tree and the clearing is a clearing and you are alone in it.
The seconds pass. Ten. Twenty. The thunder moves further east and the lightning becomes occasional, distant, a flicker on the horizon rather than a detonation overhead. The rain eases from hammering to steady.
The breath comes out of you.
Not a sigh. Something deeper, something that originates in the locked down muscles of your lower back and travels upward through the ribs and the shoulders and the clenched, aching vice of your jaw. Your hands unclench and the tendons in your fingers straighten with the slow, creaking reluctance of something that's been locked too long, and your shoulders drop a quarter inch, and the shaking changes, less adrenaline, more cold, the tremor shifting from survival to exposure, and you straighten up and push the wet hair off your face and you breathe. In. Out. The rain is cold and clean and tastes like nothing and you stand in it and let it hit you.
You're out. You're alone. Whatever was behind you is gone, lost in the trees and the dark and the rain, and you're going to find the edge of the wood and a road and a light and-
The hand comes from behind you.
It covers your mouth and nose in a single motion, a seal, the palm wide enough to close over the entire lower half of your face with no gap, no sliver of clean air, and the cloth against your skin is wet and cold and sweet in a way that is immediately, viscerally wrong. The other arm locks around your waist, and your back meets his chest and the air leaves your lungs in a scream that doesn't make it past the cloth.
His cock is hard. Pressed against the base of your spine, unmistakable, the obscenity of it, that this is arousal, that the chase and the catching and the feel of your soaked body pinned against his is doing something to him. His breathing doesn't change. That's the worst part. The breathing stays steady, metered, controlled, even as the evidence of what this is doing to him presses against you with a bluntness that is almost conversational, almost casual, like a fact stated without shame: this is what you do to me. This is what catching you does to me.
His arm around your waist tightens, a fractional shift of pressure that brings your hips flush against his, and the adjustment is small and deliberate and possessive in a way that has nothing to do with strategy and everything to do with the specific, private, unhurried pleasure of a man pressing a caught thing closer because he can.
The cloth stays where it is. The chemical is sweet and heavy and it's in every breath now, saturating the fibres, filling your sinuses, coating the back of your throat with a taste like overripe fruit left in a closed room.
Your hands are on his forearm, both of them, gripping, pulling, nails digging into skin that doesn't give, and the strength in the arm is not reactive, not straining, just there. Your feet are sliding in the mud and you're pushing backward, trying to use his weight against him, but his weight doesn't move and your weight is leaving you, draining out through the soles of your feet.
Your knees soften, the tension that holds you upright dissolving. The chemical is fast. Faster than it should be, which means the concentration is high, which means the dosage was calculated, which means someone did the math on your body with an accuracy that implies knowledge of measurements you've never shared with anyone.
Your arms drop, fingers uncurling from his forearm one by one like petals off a dead flower, and your hands hang at your sides and your weight shifts backward into him and he takes it. He takes all of it. The arm around your waist becomes the only thing left in your body, the single point that keeps you vertical while everything else goes soft and dark and far away.
The rain is still falling but it sounds like it's happening to someone else, in a room you've already left. The thunder is just vibration. His chest behind you is just warmth. The cloth is just cloth and the chemical is just a taste now, fading, everything fading, the clearing going grey at the edges and then dark and then nothing, and the last sensory information your brain processes before the dark takes the rest is not the storm or the cold or the pain in your foot or the blood on your chin.
It's the smell of cigarette smoke. Old, stale, ground into the skin of the hand over your mouth- the same smoke that you swore you could smell inside your flat for weeks. And underneath it, faint, almost imagined: your own shampoo. On his skin. In the creases of fingers that have been inside your home, your bathroom, your bedroom, opening and closing around objects that belong to you with the slow, ritualistic patience of a man cataloguing a collection he hasn't finished building.
The dark doesn't fall. It rises. Up from the ground, up through your feet, up through the muscles and the bones and the blood, filling you from the bottom like a vessel being submerged, and the last thing you feel is his mouth against the crown of your head and then the vessel fills and the dark closes over the top and there is nothing left of you that is yours.
Simon Riley lifts you out of the mud.
The storm covers the sound.
No one sees him leave.
***
Several weeks ago…
Finding your address takes Simon Riley eleven minutes.
You don’t exactly do anything to hide your social media presence after all. Two photographs from your public account, backgrounds cross referenced. A corner shop's CCTV feed he shouldn't have access to and does and he has everything he needs. The flat number. The floor. Which windows are yours.
He parks the truck across the street one evening and doesn't move it for three nights. Doesn't need to. Does it anyway. Watches your lights. Learns the routine of your evenings- when you eat, when you shower, when the last light goes out. Flies it all away, memorized completely, until it's as indistinguishable from the air.
He waits until he sees you leave for your shift. Watches the way you pull the door, checks the handle twice, a thing you probably don't know you do. Watches until you round the corner and are gone.
Then he crosses the street.
The lock takes nine seconds.
(Wet ground. Gravel digging into a bleeding back. A sky the colour of poured concrete, no depth, no distance, just grey pressing down. The sound his own breathing made when the next one becomes a question of ‘if’ not ‘when’.)
The flat smells like vanilla lotion and laundry still holding warmth from the dryer and coffee that brewed hours ago and hasn't fully left the air. He stands in the doorway for a moment longer than he needs to. Just breathing it. Then he closes the door behind him, cock twitching, heat pooling low, infatuated hunger.
He moves through the living room slowly. No urgency. Your place is small, everything in reach of the sofa, everything angled towards comfort for a person who comes home tired and wants to stop. An empty mug on the coffee table, lipstick on the rim. He picks it up. Holds it for a moment, turns it in his hands, brings the stained edge to his face and runs his tongue across the porcelain.
Sets it back in the ring of condensation it left.
(Pressure. Hands. Small, delicate. Pressing down. Warm against his skin.)
The bookshelf. He runs a finger along the spines without pulling anything until he finds the one with the broken spine, the cracked glue of a book read too many times in the same place. He opens to the bookmarked page. Reads filthy words about a man taking what he wanted. Hums when he imagines you touching yourself, fingers sinking into your cunt while you fantasize about strong hands pinning you down.
Every room feeds the obsession and he’s rock hard by the time he reaches your bedroom, the air thicker here, soaked in your scent. The bed is unmade on one side only, the pillow still holding the impression of your head, the duvet pushed back, the small evidence of a morning abandoned to the alarm. He stands beside it and looks at it for what is probably too long and then he steps inside.
(You hadn't spoken to him the way people speak to someone who might be dying. No performance of calm. No hollow reassurance. Just looked down at him like his death was just a minor inconvenience in your day.)
He finds the vibrator tucked inside your nightstand, still faintly sticky. A low, guttural groan rumbles in his chest. Naughty thing, fucking yourself after a long day. He turns it on for a second, the quiet buzz making his cock strain against his pants, before switching it off and returning it as if he was never there.
He opens the hamper, his own little treasure chest, and finds a worn pair of your panties- soft cotton, crotch still damp and stained with your slick, makes his mouth water. He brings them to his nose and huffs deeply, eyes rolling back.
(Stay with me. Maybe you said it. Maybe he built it later. Memory at the margins of consciousness is unreliable, the brain filling negative space with what it needs. But the hands he would know. Would know the specific weight and purpose of them anywhere.)
“Fuck…,” he mutters, voice rough and depraved, takes a step backwards, then another, another, until he’s sitting on your unmade bed. He lays down, presses his face into your pillow, grinds hips until he’s rutting against your bedsheets, imagining you beneath him.
Pulls out his thick drooling cock, veins pulsing on the underside, and fucks your pillow hard enough that the headboard taps onto your wall. Imagines your face right there, flushed and needy, lips pulled wide around the head of it, so pretty under him, taking every inch down your throat every night. Pre smears across the fabric and his breath comes heavier, more animalistic, huffing your panties again, again as he chases the high.
(You hadn’t looked scared of him. He remembers that specifically. Whatever you’d seen when you found him- the mask, the gun, the scars- you’d moved past it in about a second and a half. Inconvenient details. Not your problem.)
The pressure builds fast. He grabs the bottle of lotion from your night stand, the one you slather on your soft skin every night- He wants his teeth in that skin. Wants to bite down to the bone and hold on- and unscrews the cap with shaking hands.
At the last second he pulls his cock off your pillows, presses the swollen head onto the bottle and cums, ropes spurting heavy. He milks every drop, stroking himself through the aftershocks, watches his cum mix with the bottle you’ll use later, rub onto your skin without even knowing, carry him with you.
(The way you'd sighed through your nose. Not fear. Not shock. Just the exhale of a person whose evening had just become more complicated and who was already calculating the cost.)
He straightens up.
Tucks his dick away. Buttons his trousers. Stands in the centre of your bedroom for a moment, just looking- the pillow, the nightstand, the lotion bottle returned to its exact position- and something in his chest settles.
He checks the room once. Twice. Leaves nothing out of place. Tucks your panties in his pocket and leaves.
(Civilian hands. No calluses in the right places, no muscle memory of this. Tearing fabric without being asked to. Figuring it out as you went.)
He lets himself out. Pulls the door closed behind him until the latch clicks soft. Stands in the corridor for a moment, existing in spaces he was never invited into.
Lights a cigarette on the way down the stairs.
He doesn't smoke it inside.
He's not a fucking animal afterall.
***
The man outside the pub doesn’t know Simon Riley exists.
That’s fine. That’s usually how it goes.
He's been watching him long enough to understand what kind of man he is. The type. Broad in the shoulders and soft in the middle, who moves through the world with the loose, unexamined confidence of someone who had never once been made to feel small. The kind who followed women to their cars and called it a compliment. Who'd saw you existing after a late shift and had decided that constituted an introduction.
Simon had watched him outside the chippy a week ago. Had watched you clock him from twenty feet out, the way your pace adjusted, fractional, barely perceptible (How loud. How fast. How much trouble.) Had watched the man's hand close around your wrist for just a moment, fingers wrapping with the casual presumption of someone who had done this before and found it went fine, before you'd pulled free and he called you a fat bitch in response.
(The torch in your teeth while both hands worked. The angle of your head. Completely absorbed. He'd been a problem to be solved and you were solving him and the indignity of it had been the most alive he'd felt in years.)
You hadn't reported it. Simon had waited three days to be sure, watching for the signs of someone who had- the variation in route, the hypervigilance, the particular flattened stillness of a person who has filed a thing and is waiting to see what happens to it. Nothing. You'd absorbed it and kept moving.
He understood that too, in a way he couldn't have put language to, couldn’t have articulated.
He follows the man from the pub at closing. Last out, loud with his friends until he isn't, splitting off at the corner with the bac slapping ease of men who don't think about walking home alone at night because they never have to. He navigates with the rolling gait of someone three pints past sensible, loose in the joints, nodding to himself about something, unbothered.
The night is cold and damp, the pavement still wet from earlier rain, the street lamps doing that particular thing they do where they light the ground directly under them but not the spaces between.
The man doesn't look up. Doesn't look behind him.
(You'd told him to stay still in the tone of someone who expected to be listened to. He had- god he had- a soldier through and through.)
The man makes a sound, at the end. They usually do. Something small and bewildered, the realization a person makes when they understand all at once that the night has a different direction than they thought it would go. Simon holds on until the understanding passes.
Then he steps back.
(The quality of your silence. Not frightened silence. Not careful silence. Just… you had nothing to say, so you said nothing. He hadn't known what to do with that for weeks.)
The van is parked at the alley's far end. Simon had left it there this afternoon. He'd known, by then, how the evening would go.
The man is breathing when Simon puts him in the back. Zip ties at the wrists, tape across the mouth, a canvas hood that smells like other jobs in the city. Simon closes the doors without urgency.
He drives for forty minutes.
The lockup is on an industrial estate that stopped being used for anything legitimate around 2019, the kind of place that gets planning notices taped to the fence for months before anyone acts on them. Simon has used it several times before. It has a drain in the floor and the walls are thick enough.
(At some point you’d sat back on your heels and just waited. Watched the wound. Your breathing had been even throughout. His hadn’t.)
The man is awake by the time Simon drags him out of the van. Awake and making sounds behind the tape. His eyes above the tape are blown wide. Simon looks at them for a moment.
Finds he has nothing in particular to say as he drags him inside and straps him down.
It's quiet work. It always is.
(Afterwards, you wiped your hands on the back of your jeans, methodical. Then you’d stood up and that had been that.)
Checks his hands. His jacket. Rolls his neck once, the vertebrae popping in a slow sequence from the base up. His breathing hasn't changed. It never does, the body learned a long time ago that this doesn't warrant elevation, settled it into the same category as any other task completed, any other problem resolved.
He looks at what’s left of the man for a moment; eyes above the tape still blown, chest still instead of panicked, a body now and not a person.
And finds he has no particular feelings about it.
(Left without waiting to see if he'd be alright. He'd watched you go from the ground. Decided something then that he hadn't put words to until later.
Hadn't needed to.)
***
Present…
The first thing that comes back is smell.
Cold metal. Old damp. Something chemical underneath it, industrial cleaner, thick and lives in the back of the throat and doesn't leave when you swallow.
The second thing is the surface beneath you.
Not soft. Not a bed. Something hard and flat and slightly raised at the edges, the metal seams pressing into your shoulder blades and the backs of your thighs through your wet clothes, and the cold of it has been working its way into you long enough that you can't feel the distinction between the table and your own skin anymore. Just cold. Just hard. Just the weight of a body that hasn't been moved in a long time.
You open your eyes.
The ceiling is wrong.
High. Concrete. A single bulb on a wire, the light it throws pooling down onto you in a jaundiced circle and leaving everything past its edge in deep, pressurised dark. Something hangs from the rafters. You blink. Focus.
Chains. Heavy gauge, looped through iron rings bolted into the beam above you, hanging in loose coils, some ending in hooks, some ending in nothing. Just chain. They catch the light in segments. They don't move.
You sit up.
Too fast. The room tilts, the chemical still moving through your blood in slow pulls, your vision lagging behind your head by a half second, and you put both palms flat on the table and look at your hands and think: table. You're on a table.
You look down at it.
Metal. Stainless steel, or close enough. Dull with use and age. A drain at one end and channels running toward it, worn smooth, the edges of them a colour the rest of the surface isn't.
The walls.
You make yourself look at the walls.
Covered. Arranged, and that's the thing that takes a moment to process, that it isn't chaos, that there is a system here and someone maintains it. Metal implements on pegboard hooks. Shapes you have names for and shapes you don't. Coils of rope hung in neat loops. A length of heavy plastic sheeting folded into a rectangle with creased edges. Zip ties in three sizes on three separate hooks.
Your brain moves through it. Moves past it. Files it somewhere it isn't going to open right now.
You get off the table.
Your bare foot touches the concrete floor and the cold shoots upward through your ankle and you remember the wood and the root and the skin opening on the arch and you look down. Someone has wrapped it. Gauze, tight and clean. You stare at it for a moment longer than makes sense.
You wrap your arms around yourself. Your clothes are still damp, stiffening now as they dry wrong against your skin, and the cold is bone deep and total.
Somewhere behind you, a door opens.
You turn.
He's bigger than the room should allow for. That's the first coherent thought- not fear, or not only fear, but the lizard brain focusing on the right thing or the wrong thing or the only thing that matters in that half second delay. Tall. Broad. The balaclava still on, the eyes above it catching the yellow light. He's not moving fast. He's not moving with urgency at all. He steps inside and closes the door behind him and stands there for a moment, looking at you.
You say nothing.
He says nothing.
The chains hang in the space between you. The drain sits at the edge of your vision. The table presses cold against the backs of your thighs and you are standing in the middle of all of it in stiff damp clothes with a wrapped foot and a mouth that tastes like chemicals and copper and your heart in your chest is doing something loud and relentless that you are not going to think about right now.
He takes a step toward you.
You take one back and your hip catches the edge of the table and you stop, your hands coming up not quite in front of you, not a fighting stance, just the instinctive, trying to make yourself account for the space it needs.
He stops. Looks at your hands. Looks at your face. Something in the set of his shoulders changes, a small adjustment, a fraction of something releasing that you couldn't have explained if asked.
"Sat up on your own." His voice is low. Manchester flat, the vowels worn down, consonants that don't waste themselves. The voice of someone for whom speaking is a tool and not a pastime. "Good."
You stare at him.
"Where am I." Not a question. The grammar of a question with the punctuation of a statement, because some part of you has already decided that the answer is less important than the act of speaking, of making the room contain your voice as well as his.
He looks around the space briefly. Back at you.
"Somewhere no one's lookin’ fer you."
"That's not an answer." The chains catch a draft from somewhere and shift, a soft metallic sound, barely there. You don't look at them. You keep your eyes on him and your hands where they are and your back against the cold edge of the table and you breathe.
In. Out.
"No," he agrees. He says it without apology, without particular interest in your objection. Just a fact acknowledged and set aside.
The rain outside hammers the corrugated roof in waves, loud then quiet then loud again, and the single bulb swings a half inch in the draft and the shadows move and then settle.
He takes another step toward you.
You don't move this time.
"You wrapped my foot," you say.
He says nothing.
"Why."
He looks at you for a long moment. The pale eyes move over your face with the same unhurried attention he brought to the room, to the door, to everything. Like assessment is just how he exists in the world. Like everything he looks at is being filed.
"Didn't need it gettin’ infected."
"You chloroformed me in the woods."
"Mmm."
The flatness of it. Not defensive. Not guilty. Just the confirmation of a man who sees no contradiction between the two facts and isn't going to pretend otherwise.
Your hands are still between you. You lower them slowly. Not because you've decided anything. Just because holding them up is starting to feel like a performance for an audience that isn't here.
"What do you want," you say.
He takes another step. You stay where you are this time, hip against the table, and he stops close enough that the space between you is no longer large. Close enough that you can see the pale of his eyes properly now, the way they haven't moved off your face since he came through the door.
"You know what I want," he says.
Your heart does the loud thing again.
"I don't," you say. "I don't know you."
Something moves across his expression. Not quite a smile. The ghost of something that might have been one in different circumstances, on a different face.
"You've known fer months."
The rain. The chains. The single bulb throwing its yellow circle down onto both of you now, the shadows pressed back to the edges of the room.
You look at him.
He looks at you.
The table is cold against the backs of your thighs and the gauze on your foot is tight and professionally done and the room smells like metal and old damp and somewhere underneath all of it, faint and almost imagined, cigarette smoke.
You don't say anything.
Neither does he.
The silence stretches, thick and charged, until the air between you feels like it might snap. The single bulb sways overhead, dragging yellow light across the sharp cut of his jaw beneath the balaclava, across those pale eyes that haven’t left your face once. Heat rolls off his massive frame in waves, bleeding into the cold of the room, into the cold of your soaked clothes, until your skin prickles with it.
Your heart slams against your ribs like it wants to crawl out and hand itself over. The metal table bites into the backs of your thighs, the gauze on your foot is tight pressure, but none of that matters when he finally moves.
One big hand curls around your wrist, rough calluses scraping over your racing pulse. His thumb strokes once, like he’s tasting the fear and the want underneath it and then he lifts you like you weigh nothing and slams your back down onto the table.
The impact jars through your spine, cold steel shocking against your skin as your soaked shirt rides up and your joggers bunch at your hips. He’s on you in the next breath, caging you completely, the thick, heavy ridge of his cock grinding hard against your cunt through the wet fabric.
You gasp- half protest, half broken moan and his mouth crashes down on yours, claiming, devouring. The balaclava is shoved higher now, just enough for his lips and teeth and tongue to bite through your skin, blooming blood against your tongue. He tastes like stale tobacco and rain, and he kisses like he’s starving, tongue fucking into your mouth in time with the harsh, obscene roll of his hips.
His cock is massive even through his trousers- thick, burning hot, the fat head already leaking and smearing precum against the soaked seam of your joggers.
One massive hand shoves under your shirt, palm rough and scalding as it palms your breast, callused thumb dragging over your nipple until it’s aching and peaked. He pinches hard, twisting just enough to make you arch and whimper into his mouth, tears splashing down your cheeks and then he’s yanking your joggers down your thighs, wet fabric catching at your knees; he doesn’t bother pulling them off all the way. Just rips them down far enough to bare your dripping cunt to the cold air.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look. Two thick fingers drag through your folds, spreading the slick mess, circling your swollen clit until your hips jerk helplessly. “Soakin’ already. Knew you’d be a greedy lil thing fer me.”
He frees his cock with his other hand, the thick, veined length springing out heavy and flushed dark, the head glistening with precum, a fat drop beading at the slit.
It’s obscene how big he is, how it throbs in his fist as he strokes himself once, twice, smearing the wetness. Then he’s lining up, the blunt head nudging against your entrance, stretching you open before he even pushes in.
Your eyes widen, panicked. “Wait-!”
He drives in, bottoming out in a single stroke that punches the air from your lungs in a high pitched whine. The stretch is vicious, burning, your walls forced wide around the thick girth of him until you feel every vein, every ridge dragging against your insides. A broken cry tears from your throat as he bottoms out, tears spilling, balls heavy and tight against your ass, the head of his cock kissing so deep you swear you feel it in your throat.
“Christ, tha’s it,” he groans, hips grinding deep, holding himself there so you can feel every inch of him pulsing inside you. “Takin’ every fuckin’ inch. Been dreaming about this tight cunt swallowin’ me whole.”
He starts to move slow at first, dragging out until just the fat head is stretching your entrance, then slamming back in so hard the table creaks beneath you.
Every thrust is wet and filthy, slap of skin on skin echoing off concrete walls, your arousal coating his cock and dripping down to soak the metal beneath you. His hips snap harder, faster, the thick head battering that spot inside you that makes white hot sparks explode behind your eyes.
Your hands fist in his jacket, nails digging in as he pounds into you. One of his hands pins your wrists above your head, the other grips your thigh, yanking it higher so he can drive even deeper. His mouth finds your throat, teeth sinking in.
Your orgasm crashes over you, walls clamping down around his cock so hard he snarls. Your back arches off the table, cunt gushing around him, soaking his balls and the metal beneath you as wave after wave rips through you.
You’re crying out, shaking, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes, and he fucks you through it, chasing his own release.
“Fuck- good girl, squeezing me so fuckin’ perfect- ” His rhythm stutters, turns sloppy and desperate. He buries himself one last time, grinding deep as his cock pulses and throbs inside you. Thick, hot ropes of cum flood your cunt, spilling deep, so much it leaks out around his shaft and drips messily down your thighs onto the table.
He stays buried inside you, heavy and twitching, one hand sliding up to cup your tear streaked cheek almost tenderly. His thumb brushes the wetness away as his breathing slowly evens out.
The chains overhead sway softly in the draft, clinking like they’re keeping count.
***
Several weeks ago…
You can’t prove it, but someone has been in your apartment.
You stand in the doorway of your own flat for a long moment. Coat still on. Keys in your hand.
Then you step inside and close the door behind you, and you don't change anything about your face.
You notice the mug first.
Not displaced… that would be too obvious, and whoever came through your door is not obvious. It's the ring. The condensation ring on the coffee table is wrong, slightly, the way a thing is wrong when it's been lifted and replaced by someone who understood the importance of replacing it but didn't account for the fact that you always set it down on the same quarter inch of worn lacquer, the same groove. You've been setting it there for two years. The ring is two millimetres off.
Your shampoo. The bottle on the shower shelf that you could swear was turned slightly. And underneath all of it, you stop in the middle of your bathroom and just stand there, breathing in something like cigarette smoke. Old. Ground into skin.
You are not scared. That's the thing you keep examining, turning over, looking at from different angles. You have every reason to be scared and the feeling that surfaces instead is something more like… recognition. The specific recognition of something that has been true for a while finally making itself legible. Someone has been watching you and the part of you that should be running is instead sitting very still and watching back.
You think about what kind of person does this as a matter of course.
You think about this more than you should.
(And then you stop thinking about it altogether when your landlord- the one with the master key and the habit of using it “accidentally” when you’re showering or laying on the couch with your vibrator between your legs- goes missing on a Wednesday and turns up dead in a Birmingham car park on a Friday, and the police use words like opportunistic and random and you use no words at all, just stand at your kitchen window with your mug and watch the street below and breathe. And then the man from HR who cornered you in the stairwell stops showing up to work, and a week later someone finds him in a canal in Leeds with his wallet still in his pocket. And you stop thinking about it when the pervert who harasses women on the way to work and who rubbed himself against your ass for seven stops isn’t on the bus one morning and doesn’t get on it the morning after that either. You think “huh” and stop looking for the stories in the local paper after that)
You put this information somewhere quiet inside yourself and you close the door on it.
Then you make decisions.
The next morning you put on lipstick before your coffee. Not the lipstick you wear to work, the dark one you only put on when you're going somewhere worth the effort, a rich, specific red that leaves a clean mark on porcelain. You drink slowly. You set the mug down in its groove. You leave it on the table when you go. (Smeared now when you come back)
You buy a new book. Cracked the spine yourself, deliberately, over the place you wanted him to open to. Bookmarked the right page. (And the book mark is not exactly where you measured it when you put it in the pages, tucked down three millimeters more.)
The panties took more consideration. You stood in front of your drawer for a long moment, the particular cold logic of the thing settling through you. Then you put on the soft cotton ones, the worn pair, and you wore them for a full day, and you touched yourself in them until the gusset was soaked, and you left them near the top of the hamper. (Gone when you change out of your work clothes and go to throw them in the dirty laundry)
Rewards, you were beginning to think of them as, for the ledger that someone was keeping on your behalf, without your asking, without your knowledge of the specific terms, but not, you were becoming increasingly certain, without your participation.
You hadn't asked for any of it.
You hadn't not asked for any of it either.
This is the part you sit with. The part you turn over in the small hours when the flat is quiet and the street below has gone still and the cigarette smell has faded but not entirely left.
You are not innocent. You are not sure you want to be. You put on the lipstick and you left the mug and you walked close to the city drunk long enough that the message was legible, and three days later he ceased to be a problem.
The ledger exists. You are on it. The question you haven't answered- the question you keep not answering, keep setting aside- is whether you are the subject of it or the cause.
The night you saved his life is the night the ledger tips.
You don't think of it that way at the time. At the time it is simply a matter of logistics: a man bleeding out in the alley behind the Tesco Metro, the specific dark of blood, a wound that is going to kill him in four minutes if someone doesn't intervene, and you are there with your hands and your knowledge and the particular absence of panic that your colleagues have always found slightly unsettling in you.
You don't think about the balaclava. You don't think about the gun- empty, or he'd have used it- that you'd stepped over to get to him. You think about the wound and the pressure and the count.
Stay with me.
He lives. That's the metric.
Afterwards when the sirens got close and radio chatter from the paramedics were nearby, you stood up and wiped your hands on the back of your jeans and the calculation is already running somewhere below the level of words: he owes you something now. Not gratitude… you don't want gratitude, gratitude is soft and symmetric and what exists between you is neither. What exists is something that runs deeper than the ledger of your landlord and the others, something that reorganises the terms entirely and you’ll take advantage of it for as long as he’ll allow you and you’ll reward him for it for as long as he does.
He watched you go.
You knew he was watching.
You didn't look back.
(And you do not let yourself think about what happens when crumbs stop being enough. When the man who has been living on the edges of your life decides the edges are no longer satisfying and wants th full thing, everything you can give to a man like him.)
The storm comes on a Thursday. You've been watching the weather for two days, the way the pressure dropped, the way the air went close and electric and tasted faintly of iron- meteorological preconditions for a power cut in this part of the city, the grid unreliable, the substation two streets over that goes out whenever the rainfall hits a certain rate.
You go to bed with your phone charged.
The lights go out at half past eleven.
The thunder is already overhead, close enough that the flash and the crack arrive almost together, and you sit up in the dark and breathe and wait for the backup on the hall light to kick in the way it usually does and it doesn't kick in this time, and the flat is completely dark, and then lightning fills the window for a single white second-
-and there is a shape in your bedroom that is not furniture.
The thought arrives lie lightning does: total, white, gone before you can hold it. Whether your name was always on the ledger too. Whether you were ever the one keeping it.
Your body moves off the bed, through the door, navigating your flat entirely by memory because the dark is total and the thunder swallows the sound of your feet and somewhere behind you something large and patient shifts its weight and doesn't rush, and that is the worst of it, the not rushing, because it means he already knows how this ends-
You hit the stairs. You hit the rain. Your slippers begin to fray.
You can’t breathe.
artwork for this piece by the lovely @auberghyn I’m crying it looks so pretty. The woman is actually me! I sent the artist pictures of myself and everything. It should not be used to indicate Reader’s race though! Go view her post for the uncensored version. :]
hucows 😵💫 it’d be so hot to keep a pregnant ftm girl tied up on all fours with pumps attached to her heavy, swollen, engorged tits to suck the milk out of her long, puffy nipples. a third pump attached to her hard, erect clitoris, only making it more engorged. a large butt plug shoved in her asshole to keep it stretched and loose. a fuck machine placed behind her to aggressively pound into her fertile, dripping cunt, to keep it nice and wet. and to force intense orgasms out of her, training her brain to make her cum whenever she gets milked. finishing everything off by cumming inside of her after each session to make sure she stays constantly full and impregnated.
Do you all actually irl cross your arms at everything, roll your eyes at everything as well, smirk 24/7, make quips at every comment, clench your jaw and ball your fists, blush so hard your face turns burning red, stomp away, use people's last names when casually talking to them in English (this one I can understand most but I mean in the way y/n says them in fanfics), and act like a rude bitch towards people who like you? Or is this just a y/n thing?
“Yes, hello. Umm, you know the crazy knife-wielding guy that’s been all over the news?”
“Yes, Sir? Do you have information for us?”
“Uh… yeah. Last seen about a block away from the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. He’s about 5’11, wearing all black clothes, but his hoodie has a red circle in the middle, kinda smells like moldy cheese, and his weapon is actually a six-inch serrated knife.”
The dispatcher on the other line paused. “Sir.” She said gently, her words soft and slow. “How do you know this? Are you okay?”
Dennis pauses and takes a moment to answer. “Oh… he got me.”
“He… got you?” Furious typing on her end. “Sir, does that mean you’ve been stabbed?”
Dennis nodded before remembering this was a phone call, and she couldn’t see him. “Yup. Twice cause I wouldn’t go down after the first one. No biggie. Ha.” He immediately regrets trying to make a joke and laugh, his side burning in a way he’s never felt before.
As he shuffles through the alleyway, his foot accidentally hits a metal trash can, causing a loud bang that reverberates painfully through his skull.
“A-are you moving? Please try to stay in place if you’re in a safe area! And-“
“Put pressure on the wound, I know, I’m a doctor.” Whitaker interrupted, wincing slightly from not only the debilitating pain but from how egotistical that sentence sounded.
“Sir-“
“Don’t worry, I actually work in the ER, so I’m just gonna walk myself over there.” Dennis tries to reassure the lady, taking a moment to pause and lean against the side of a building. All the movement he was doing was really increasing the burn; it didn't help that he had to put himself in more pain by putting pressure on the wounds.
“It’s funny cause I just got out of work and the only reason I’m walking is cause my roommate has a date and couldn’t drive me. My roommate also works with me, by the way… I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“Sir, please wait until I call an ambulance for you-“
“Oh no, thank you!” Dennis quickly said. “I can barely afford new clothes, an ambulance would put me under way faster than my stab wounds.”
That was kinda funny, even if it was the truth.
“Okay… I can see the ER, so I’m gonna hang up now. Umm, thank you for…” Dennis grunted, his words slurred slightly. He was too tired to continue speaking, his vision starting to blur around the edges, and his entire body was buzzing unnaturally.
He hung up his phone, his ears ringing too loudly to understand what the dispatcher was shouting from the other side, and stumbled through the ambulance bay.
It was an honest miracle that Dennis managed to stumble his way to the Hub, a trail of blood following his every stumbling step. His side no longer hurt, but his hand was getting numb from trying to press on two separate stab wounds.
Oh, looks like Robby was still doing the handoff to Jack. His boyfriends' looked so cute talking to each other, even if he couldn’t really make out their faces, and their bodies looked wiggly. And Dana was also there? It was getting hard to tell the different-sized blobs apart.
It looked like the day shift was still there, which made sense. Dennis did make sure to leave a little earlier for his walk home.
Suddenly, a blob that suspiciously sounded like Trinity but was underwater rushed toward him just as his body was giving out.
“Sorry… got… stabbed.” Dennis groaned, blood suddenly bubbling up past his lips. Shit, an injury to his lung. That was not ideal in the slightest.
“Hey, Whit, stay with me, man.” Dennis blinked, surprised by the sudden appearance of Langdon right before him. He could’ve sworn it was only Trinity around him. Now there are so many familiar blobs.
Mel, Mohan, Donnie, McKay, and even Victoria happened to be there. Which was weird cause he was only 23% sure night shift would have already started. Or maybe not. Time was slipping away from him.
He blinked again, and suddenly Dana was holding his hand, gently cupping his cheek and looking down at him with a strained smile. He could feel his body moving, so he must’ve been on a gurney.
Another blink.
Robby and Jack never looked good when they worried; it was his least favorite expression from them. He gurgled, wanting to reach out to them, but his body wasn’t responding.
“Shh, baby.” Jack turns and immediately comes to his side, Robby following seconds later. “You’re gonna be okay. Everyone’s gonna take great care of you. You've got some pretty hefty damage going on.”
“We’re gonna have to intubate you, love.” Robby’s voice sounded rough, as if he were doing the best he could to stop himself from crying. “You’re gonna be okay, you’re our fighter, Den.”
“I’m so sorry, Dennis.” Oh. Trinity was also there. Why was she crying? She hates crying.
“I-I should’ve just driven you. Fuck-! I’m so sorry. You better fucking wake up after this, you hear me? I’ll never fucking forgive myself if you don’t.” Dennis could feel light pressure on his hand; maybe Trinity was squeezing it, and he did his best to squeeze back.
Trinity let out a soft, wet laugh, feeling the light flutter of his hand trying to reciprocate, before looking up at the two attendings and nodding.
Dennis felt a small prick before exhaustion took over. Anesthesia before intubation. He was going under. He was getting put on oxygen because one of his stab wounds, or maybe both, pierced his lung and caused damage. He was going to have intensive surgery.
Fuck, he really hoped he would wake up.
He had just found a place where he was starting to feel like he belonged. He couldn’t lose it already. He just couldn’t.
Dennis who has significant hearing loss after a farm accident as a kid.
Dennis who can’t afford working hearing aids, so makes do with a pair he found on Facebook marketplace.
Dennis who favours one side significantly, to the point of being convinced that everyone knows (they don’t), and they all must hate him for being useless (they don’t know).
Dennis who uses these janky hearing aids despite constantly giving him a migraine, because he can’t let anything compromise his chances of being a doctor.
Dennis who completely understands that Abbott needs a break from his prosthetic, and is often the first to volunteer to cover his charting in the middle of the shift.
Dennis who cannot give himself allowances, because he’s not properly disabled; not like Abbot is anyway.
Dennis whose hearing loss is “self inflicted” and therefore needs to deal with the consequences of his actions (he was six).
Dennis who absolutely will not let himself have hearing breaks in the middle of a shift, no matter how much pain his ears are in.
Dennis who can’t take his aids out at night because he sleeps in shelters, and his hearing is the first line of defence against an attack.
Dennis who recognises the symptoms of an ear infection, but can’t afford antibiotics and the hospital cracked down on “borrowing” medicine.
Dennis who collapses mid shift after a particularly bad bout of vertigo.
Dennis who doesn’t really remember much after this because the floor was suddenly very, very close, and he was suddenly very, very cold.
…
Robby who sees Dennis pass out on shift.
Robby who curses these damn med students for drinking too much caffeine and not eating enough food.
Robby who walks over to Dennis and tries to rouse him.
Robby who thinks Dennis looks a little too out of it for it to just be low blood sugar.
Robby who touches Dennis and notices he’s ice cold.
Robby who holds Dennis as he starts seizing.
Robby who catches a glimpse of white in his ear, surrounded by red, angry tissue.
Robby who swears loudly and violently when he realises “god-fucking-dammit he’s deaf”.
Robby who curses every god he knows the name of (and he knows a lot) for putting Dennis in this situation.
…
Dennis who wakes up with a very stressed Robby next to him, saying words like “septic shock” and “septic encephalopathy” and “infection spread” and “potential brain damage”.
Robby who raises his voice in frustration, and Dennis who flinches imperceptibly.
Robby who drags Dennis to audiologist appointments and forces him to pick multiple different types of aids so he’ll be comfortable wherever.
Robby who pays for the new aids, but lets Dennis think insurance covers them.
Abbot who forces Dennis to take hearing breaks whenever he takes leg breaks because he’s “bored” and “needs company”.
Abbott who, for the first time in Dennis’ life, sits him down and teaches him the ASL he learnt from his vet friends.
Dennis, who when he formally attends ASL lessons, realises he’s been taught to swear like a sailor, and his vernacular is entirely comprised of military slang.
Dennis who doesn’t understand why Robby and Abbott are being so nice about being deaf, and explains all about how it was his fault that he lost his hearing (he was six).
Abbot who gives Robby a look, and signs him up for therapy the next day.
Dennis, who comes to the realisation that the factors surrounding his hearing loss are heavily consistent with signs of child abuse.
Robby, who can only hug Dennis as he breaks down, mourning the childhood he thought he had.
Abbot, who makes him hot cocoa when he wakes up from nightmares and rocks him back to sleep,
And Dennis.
Who finally feels, for the first time in his life, he is not just tolerated, but wanted too.
[CW: Gainer fiction, magical weight gain, extreme weight gain, little bit of non-con weight gain, straight to gay]
If you like my, writing why not support https://ko-fi.com/bigboycreative
Daniel opened the door to his room in the frat house and froze. Sid, his roommate, was laid out flat on his been naked and fat, like really fat. Sid wasn’t fat when Daniel left for class this morning, he was a typical jock, lean cut muscle, chiseled jaw, absolute lady killer, the works. Now Sid was the north side of 400lbs with a massive belly that pooled around his tree trunk thighs. He was moaning as he tried to reach passed his enormous belly.
Daniel was aw struck by what he saw. He has a secret, well a few secrets. First, he was gay, and never told anyone, second, he liked his men fat and loved watching men get fat, third he had imagined what Sid and the other frat brothers would look like super fat. It was safe to say Daniel had a massive boner at the sight of his dream come true. Another minute of Daniel standing in the doorway went by before Sid noticed.
“Yo Dan, help a brother out and blow me. I can’t reach and hmmm I’m so horny.” Sid said.
He rocked back and forth trying to reach. His new fat jiggled and bounced as he did. Daniel stifled a moan. This was all he ever wanted. As he stepped into the room and closed the door a thought occurred to him. What if this was a prank? There are super convincing fat suits in the movies, and the frat was legendary for their prank wars. Could one of his frat brothers have found out that he had a thing for fat guys? Now scared he could be walking into a trap; Daniel slowly made his way over. God, Sid looked so big up close. His new form covered most of the bed, and Daniel could hear the bed creak and groan as Sid shifted around. If this was a prank it was a real convincing one.
“What happened to you, Sid? Why are you so fat?” Daniel said.
He figured if he played confused and slightly grossed out that the prank wouldn’t be as incriminating. Sid just looked at him confused and so horny.
“What do you mean? I’ve always been one of the fatties of the house. That’s why Noel dropped off a huge supply of her doughnuts, so the fatties and the jocks could both get some.” Sid said.
Sid wasn’t an actor; he actually used to bully the theater kids in high school. Daniel knew something was up. Noel, the head cheer leader, and Matthew, the quarter back for the football team, had been dating up until a week ago. They had some massive fight over some other girl that Matthew also found attractive. Daniel thought Noel was nice, but also knew she could easily become jealous. He was convinced she ran a bakery out of her sorority just to make the other girls a little bit fat. He also knew she was into astrology and witchy stuff, maybe she put a spell in the doughnuts, made as much sense as Sid becoming fat and gay.
Daniel had to check on these doughnuts. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but he felt like he had to do something. He didn’t want everyone in the house to become massively obese… Ok maybe he wouldn’t be against that idea, but this felt wrong. It felt petty and unnatural. What would Sid’s girlfriend think? How many people are going to get caught up in Noel’s petty little revenge scheme. As righteous as his intentions felt a part of him really hoped Matthew at least had one of the doughnuts. He couldn’t imagine the 6’ 2” 200lbs of solid muscle jock with an ounce of fat on him, but he’d like to see it.
*
He didn’t know what he was expecting, but Daniel was kind of liking what he was seeing. Several of his frat brothers had ballooned well passed Sid and they were just as horny. Cody and Adam were spread across the couch as two other brothers Daniel couldn’t identify where buried underneath their bellies giving head. Daniel was wishing he could hide his boner, but part of him felt like his brothers wouldn’t mind. He didn’t see Matthew or the rest of his brothers, maybe it wasn’t too late to stop this.
Daniel found a stack of doughnuts set on a beautiful display in the kitchen. Over 20 doughnuts were left on the display with a visible dent where the others took some. He picked one up to see if it was filled or weird in any way, but they seemed normal. The only off thing was he had a stronger desire to eat it while holding it. He quickly put it down. Daniel couldn’t afford growing absolutely massive before figuring out what was going on, no matter how tempting that sounded. Attempting to find out if there was anything else weird about the display he felt around the bottom, finding nothing he removed the rest of the doughnuts and put them on a plate. A pink envelope marked ‘for that cheating asshole’ sat underneath all the doughnuts. Definitely Noel’s handwriting. Daniel wasn’t sure what to do. Part of him wanted to open the letter and get to the bottom of it all, another part wanted to just give that letter to Matthew and make him deal with it, and an ever-growing horny part of him wanted to hide the letter and make sure his brothers ate the doughnuts. Before he could decide he heard Matthew’s bedroom door open. Matthew’s room was on the other side of the kitchen away from the common area, he’d have no idea what happened to Cody and Adam. Matthew walked in to the kitchen. He looked like he had slept through class and was a little puffy around the eyes. Was he crying? Despite this he greeted Daniel with is normal energy.
“Danny boy! How’s it going? Who brought in these doughnuts?” Matthew said.
Daniel would never be certain if his failure to stop what happened next was because of his shock of seeing Matthew disheveled or if he was too horny and wanted the jock fat. As quick as lightning Matthew grabbed a doughnut and shoveled it into his mouth. He barely chewed the thing, just inhaled it. Daniel attempted to hide the letter, but it was too late. Matthew cocked an eyebrow.
“Oh? Does one of Noele’s sisters have a crush on you?” Matthew said.
Daniel started to sputter and answer, but Matthew didn’t seem interested and just kept talking.
“Man, I really fucked up,” Matthew said as he grabbed another doughnut. “Noele was such a perfect girlfriend and I fucking blew it. All for boring Bethany.”
Matthew held his head in his right hand as he stuffed the doughnut in with his left.
“I mean, it’s not like we had sex or anything. Just some casual flirting. I’m such an idiot, I thought she was trying to get my help to hook her up with Cody, but no. She wanted to sleep with me. I of course told Noele everything, but she just lost it. Told me it was ‘so over’ and that I’d never score with a woman again. I mean a bunch of nonsense, but I know she meant it.”
Matthew paused and looked Daniel up and down.
“Yo, Danny Boy have you been working out? You look pretty good.”
Daniel could see Matthew’s dick starting to harden.
“Damn, whatever girl got you all this is lucky. I bet you are pretty good with the ladies.”
Matthew was starting to get drunk off of how horny he was, Daniel was doing the same. Without thinking he said.
“The ladies? No, I prefer men.”
There was a long pause after Daniel said it. He didn’t know how accepting the frat was, but he was hoping the doughnuts had a quick effect. In a flash Matthew was on him. Daniel expected a fight, but was shocked when Matthew’s lips locked onto his. They shared a long and passionate kiss, before they began making out. Daniel took the opportunity to feel up Matthew’s body. Matthew had sculpted the perfect jock body over years of exercise. Perfect washboard abs, chiseled jaw, biceps as thick as his head. Daniel had spent many nights imagining how good it would feel to be pressed against all that muscle. His dick sprung to full mast when he felt the first signs of softness on Matthew. He had eaten two doughnuts. Daniel didn’t know how many Sid had, but he hoped it was one. Watching Matthew blow up would be the highlight of Daniel’s year.
Matthew let out a soft moan as Daniel grabbed his new belly. The changes were coming fast. Before their make out session stopped Matthew had a belly that hung over his waistband. His boxershorts where reduced to shreds as his new fat thunder thighs exploded out. Matthew’s shirt rode up is stomach before it became a makeshift bra. As soon as their kiss broke Daniel buried his face into Matthew’s neck. Deep moans rolled from Matthew as Daniel frantically marked up his neck. Daniel was overjoyed when he had to lift his partner’s belly to get at his dick, and even more aroused to find a thick layer of fat had already reduced said dick in size. Daniel was like a rabid animal. He just wanted to experience every inch of the new Matthew. He moved down from the neck to Matthew’s chest and massive moobs. He latched on, teasing them with all his might. Matthew just moaned, his mind mush from all the stimulation. Feeling his grip on Matthew’s dick loosen, Daniel abandoned the moob he was sucking on, dropped to his knees, lifted the belly and dug for the dick. There wasn’t much left, just about the head was the only thing peeking out. Daniel’s tongue danced, sparking even deeper moans from Matthew. Not too long after Matthew flooded Daniel’s mouth.
Daniel stood and appraised the new Matthew. He had to have been almost 800lbs. Truly a whale of a man, his belly hung low covering most of his legs, his moobs would put many women to shame and made his arms jut our far away from his body, his perfect jawline was gone replaced with rings of fat. Daniel continued to play with Matthews moobs, teasing them with his fingers.
“Th-Thank you,” Matthew said, breathlessly “That was the best head I’ve ever had.”
Daniel kissed him again, letting his rock-hard dick grind into his soft belly. When the kiss broke Matthew could only say one thing.
“Fuck me, fuck me please.”
Daniel guided Matthew back to Matthew’s room. As much as Daniel wanted to show Matthew’s new size to Sid, he knew the big boy could no longer handle stairs.
In the bedroom Daniel explored every inch of the new Matthew. He kissed every roll, soothed every stretch mark. Daniel imagined Matthew was probably normally dominate in bed. He has imagined letting Matthew having his way with Daniel’s body, but now the roles were reversed. New Matthew, fat Matthew, seemed timid, even a little submissive. Daniel ordered Matthew onto the bed, doggy style. As much as he’d love to see Matthew’s face while he mounted him, he didn’t think the big guy could keep his legs up long enough. Matthew eagerly crawled onto his bed. The bed creaked and groaned, almost at the verge of breaking. Daniel knew he wasn’t going to stop until it did.
Daniel mounted and pounded into Matthew. Matthew’s whole body rippled, every ounce of fat sloshing into each other. Matthew let out a deep moan that almost made Daniel cum then and there. Thew two road a wave of pure pleasure and indulgence before crashing down as the bed buckled underneath.
It wasn’t a long fall. Just a few inches as the bed frame gave out. Even so it caused all of Matthew’s fat to jiggled and shake for a good few seconds. Daniel came, and came, and came. It was better than he could have ever dreamt. All Matthew could do was moan and sit there as his new fat body was flooded with pleasure. The two collapsed together and laid there for a moment enraptured in extasy. The moment was broken when Matthew’s tummy growled.
“Hungry big guy?” Daniel said.
Matthew nodded.
“I’ll see if there are any more of those donuts left.”
Daniel got up and grabbed Matthew’s phone before he left. There was no way he was going to pass up the opportunity to make the whole frat fat. He unlocked the phone, Matthew didn’t believe in passwords, and sent a message into the fraternity’s group chat. “Yo dogs, Noele made these amazing donuts for the house. Everyone absolutely HAS to try them or its 10 laps before keg night”.
Daniel smiled to himself as he imagined his brother’s fatter and Matthew the fattest of them all. He’s had to thank Noele the next time he saw her.
