#oblivious

[crazygnomenclature]

"Phobe pt. 2/8"

Welp, the truth finally comes out....

Read previous strips: PART 1

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[transformheaven]

The things we do for love - a Chronivac story

Dorian was on his way home from work with a pit in his stomach. Unfortunately, there weren't any traffic jams, so it seemed Dorian would have to face his boyfriend without delay.

Dorian and Patrick loved each other more than anything, but somewhere along the way, the sexual spark had started to fade. To Dorian, this was fine, but Patrick's libido was much higher. Dorian agreed to an open relationship, but Patrick always said he wanted Dorian more than anyone else. To try and reignite the spark, they made Wednesdays their sex day — and ever since, Dorian dreaded going home on Wednesdays.

As expected, Dorian got home right on time. As he opened the door, the usual smells from the kitchen were already missing. Patrick always made the most delicious meals for them both. Today, no noise came from the kitchen.

As Dorian walked towards the kitchen, he heard some murmuring from upstairs. When he arrived in their bedroom, Dorian saw a behemoth of a man standing next to their bed.

"Who the fuck are you, and where is Patrick?" Dorian wanted to yell, as he realised that he did in fact know the man in front of him. It was his boyfriend. Now that he thought about it, for the last hour or so, he memorized to versions of Patrick. The nerdy one that he knew was the "original", because Patrick and Dorian were like twins. Since this afternoon, another version appeared: the one Dorian saw in front of him right now.

As the man turned around, Dorian noticed how absolutely jacked the man was. His back arched out into a V-shape that Dorian never dreamed of seeing in real life. It was only when Dorian saw the man's pecs that protruded from his tight 8-pack abs that he realised that the man who was standing there was completely naked.

"Hey, bro, how are you? Look what finally came today!" the new Patrick said as he waved something that looked like a phone in the air.

The second Dorian saw the phone, he remembered that weeks ago Patrick had been going on a tangent about this reality-changing programme. Dorian had zoned out occasionally, so the details were fuzzy. He started to get dizzy as the version of his boyfriend that worked out daily fought for memory space with the memory of his nerdy boyfriend.

"Seems like that reality-changing thing works!" Dorian said.

"Okay, you zoned out again when I spoke about it, didn't you, bro? Anyway, now I am absolutely your type!" Patrick, his calm and collected Patrick, was jumping up and down like a little kid.

"Oh honey, you know it was never about your looks. I love you for who you are, in fact I fear that this Chronivac-thing is changing your personality. This whole bro-type personality? It's not you, you know?" Dorian looked his boyfriend directly in the eyes and felt sad that he made the man he loved look for such radical solutions to his lack of libido.

"I didn't want to change myself for you, bro. I just hoped that, with a higher libido, I wouldn't mind our relationship being open as much. You know?"

"Also, not a fan that you can change all of reality, and I wouldn't even know. So from now on, the phone will always stay near me, and we can only use it when the other person is looking as well."

"Ugh, why don't you trust me, bro? It's not like I'd make you into anything you wouldn't like." Patrick whined.

"I just don't want anything about me changed for now, babe. We don't know what else is altered without us knowing."

"Babe", Patrick finally called him babe again, "it's not like Chronivac would lie to us, it's not a genie in a lamp situation. I just feel more...relaxed? Also, kinda turns me on to talk like a jock." Patrick smirked.

After Patrick got dressed (a tight shirt and shorts), both he and Dorian made a simple meal together, ate it and settled on the couch. The Chronivac was with them in the kitchen, on the dinner table and at the table near the couch. Dorian watched over it like a hawk, checking every few minutes whether the thing was still there. It was followed by a quick glance over at Patrick.

"Okay babe, not liking the lack of trust you have in me." Patrick blurted out frustrated. He stretched his hands towards Dorian. "I thought tonight was still datenight?" He made his pecs bounce under the tight shirt he was wearing.

"Sorry, honey, I have to trust you." Dorian pulled back from Patrick's grasp. "Sorry, today has been much. You understand, right?" Dorian turned his attention back to the TV.

"To be fair, babe, I don't understand. Sorry, I need a minute, and sorry for what I'm going to do," Patrick said while storming off to the bathroom. The last part of the sentence kind of lost on Dorian, who was getting his phone out of his pocket to text his best friend, Lisa.

"Okay, wow, sooo Patrick got this reality-changing device. It's cool, but scary."

Dorian pressed send and looked to the place where the Chronivac was just a few minutes ago: empty.

"Patrick, what are you doing?" Dorian cried out in panic before his whole world seemed to be turning upside down.

Several seconds later, Patrick arrived back in the living room. "Sorry, bro. I had to do this."

"You can always go to the toilet, silly", Dorian said as he straightened the strings of his jockstrap and turned his ass in the air. "What's that phone you got there?"

"Oh that's my chronivac..." the rest that Patrick said was sort of blocked out for Dorian as he got distracted by the growing bulge in his stud boyfriend's sweatpants.

After the best sex for the couple in ages, the pair went to bed and Dorian checked his phone one final time to make sure his alarm for work was set. His boyfriend was toying with that special phone again.

"OMG, you have to tell me more!" A text from Lisa popped up, but Dorian couldn't remember texting her. When he read about the reality-changing programme, a killer headache formed. Suddenly, he remembered what Patrick promised and what happened earlier tonight. He could feel his consciousness slip. Dorian mustered all his power to reply to Lisa.

"I think Patrick is abusing it. Come help me, please." Dorian barely sent the message before letting his phone slip from his hands. This drew Patrick's attention. Dorian saw how his boyfriend picked up the phone and saw the message.

"Again, honey, I'm sorry. This cock won't be taking care of it self, and I am so f'ing horny. I can't let you find out again" Dorian panicked and wondered what was going to happen as he got swallowed in seas of darkness.

Dorian awoke startled, as if just woken up from a scary dream. Light pierced through the curtains already.

"Fuck bro, I missed my alarm", he said while yawning.

Dorian lazily grabbed at his morning wood and fully woke up in shock.

"how large is my...." was the last thought he had before his mind was flooded with new memories that immediately weren't new to Dorian.

D, as he often refferred to himself now, thought back to the hot sex last night as he let his naked foot-long cock flop free from the blankets.

D flexed his football-sized biceps as his cock hardened. Like every morning, he winked at the camera that livestreamed his bed 24/7. He had to please the audience, Patrick always said.

D got up from the bed and immediately saw himself in the full-length mirror directly in front of the bed.

He knew he saw this every morning, but as if he saw it for the first time, Dorian was blown away by his physique. First of all, his beautiful young face that made him look boy-ish, with blue eyes that swallowed every top as he looked up while sucking on a dick.

His baby face could be misleading if it weren't for the bullneck that followed straight underneath it. Every muscle group stood out in its own marvellous way. His bowling-ball-sized shoulders made him look like a tank, while their curves made way for arms that were larger than most people's legs. His python arms were raised to his sides because of a back that could make some planes jealous.

D admired and flexed every muscle, but he knew what his audience was waiting for.

"Are you guys ready to see the root of my popularity?" D said with his back turned to the camera, seemingly forgetting that his audience could see everything because of all the other mirrors.

"Ladies and gents, but mostly gents. Here is my root!" D laughed as he turned around, moving his hips back and forth in such a way that the top of his dick slammed into his pec shelf.

As he was wanking off, D talked to the camera about all the times he had to skip a class because his dick was simply to hard. That his mind clouded over because he got too horny and had to hold himself in.

"Now, I hardly ever have to leave the house. We even have a pool since we moved to Patrick's mansion! He even told me that's because of you guys I can just lounge around naked or in my jockstrap all day now."

Thinking about his jockstrap pushed D over the edge. He moaned a lot and yelled, "I love my life!" before he jizzed over the mirrors and his own hair.

After he came to, D turned to the camera again.

"Thank you guys, I'll be leaving the camera view now, but I promise you can see tons of content on my OF-page today, tomorrow, every day!" He giggled and jumped around for a few more seconds and then left the room.

D had just started showering when Patrick came into the bathroom.

"Honey, Lisa is here and wants to talk to you. I will let her in, so take your time. It doesn't seem too urgent anyway."

Patrick left the bathroom, and D thought he could hear him mumble something about twinks. It didn't matter, as thinking of Lisa gave D, no Dorian, a headache again. Why had he asked Lisa for help again?

To be continued

[ecixo]

Can you make a fic where luke is pining for reader and like making her smores ,getting her chocolate on her period giving her spaaring lessons vand being gentler w her than others and shes completely oblivious to it but everyone else sees it

. ݁₊ ✶. ݁ ˖ˎˊ˗⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ luke castellan x reader

the blind leading itself... ✶⋆.˚

I HAD SO MUCH FUN DOING THIS!!!!!! also MY FIRST ASKK TYSM!!!!!

requests open!!!

divider from: @enchanthings

[feedybot]

You Haven’t Gained That Much

I watch her waddle into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from her eyes and yawning, oblivious to the way her belly jiggles with each step. She’s wearing my old college hoodie, stretched tight over her curves, riding up just enough to reveal the soft underbelly that wasn’t there a year ago. She’s bigger—much bigger—but she still acts like she’s the same size she’s always been.

And I love it.

“Morning,” she mumbles, shuffling to the fridge. I follow her with my eyes, biting back a grin. The fridge door opens, and she immediately starts pulling out leftovers from last night’s dinner. I made too much on purpose—again.

She heaps pasta onto a plate and tosses it in the microwave. “Ugh, I’m starving. I feel like I haven’t eaten in days.”

I lean on the counter, chin in hand. “That’s probably because you skipped your midnight snack.”

She shrugs, arms jiggling as she leans in to get the food. “I’m trying not to overdo it.”

I almost laugh. Trying not to overdo it? The scale in the bathroom groaned last time she stepped on it. She’s passed the point where her clothes don’t fit—now she’s just cycling through mine. But the best part? She has no idea.

“Babe,” she says, between mouthfuls, “do you think I’ve gained weight?”

The question catches me off guard, but I’ve been here before.

I tilt my head, giving her the same practiced, innocent look. “Not really. Maybe a few pounds? Honestly, you look the same to me.”

She sighs in relief and takes another massive bite, completely trusting me. She wants so badly to believe she hasn’t changed. That the way her thighs spread across the chair, the extra time it takes her to catch her breath after climbing stairs, the way her belly now rests in her lap—it’s all just… temporary. Nothing serious.

“I thought maybe I was imagining things,” she continues. “Like, my jeans are tight, but they were probably in the dryer too long.”

I nod. “That must be it.”

And just like that, she relaxes again, letting herself enjoy every creamy, cheesy bite of pasta like it’s her reward for staying “the same.” Her metabolism, she claims, has always been fast. That’s what she tells herself. What she tells me.

But I know the truth.

And I’m not stopping.

She’s finishing the pasta like she hasn’t eaten in days, completely unaware—or unwilling to admit—how much she’s changed. I can see it from every angle: the way her upper arms fill the sleeves of my hoodie to their limits, how the fabric strains around her shoulders. She’s outgrown all of her own clothes, but she still hasn’t made peace with that.

She sets the empty plate down with a satisfied sigh, stretching slightly. The hoodie rises even higher, exposing the full curve of her belly resting in her lap. I watch her tug it back down, annoyed.

“This stupid thing keeps riding up,” she mutters, tugging harder.

I play innocent. “Dryer must’ve shrunk it too.”

She pouts, running a hand over her stomach, as if the tightness is the fault of the fabric and not the pounds she’s steadily packed on. “Maybe. But I swear everything’s been feeling tighter lately.”

She stands up—and that’s when it happens.

A loud, sharp rip slices through the silence.

She freezes. I try not to smirk.

“Oh my god,” she gasps, twisting around. There it is: a fresh tear right along the seam of the hoodie under her arm, where the fabric just couldn’t take the strain anymore.

She looks horrified.

I, on the other hand, am quietly thrilled.

“I loved this hoodie,” she whines, poking a finger through the hole. “Why is everything falling apart lately?”

I step closer, brushing a hand over the tear like I’m checking the damage. “It’s old,” I say softly. “You’ve worn it so much. Don’t worry—I’ve got plenty more you can borrow.”

She sighs, and I can practically see her trying to convince herself. “Yeah… it’s just the clothes. Not me.”

I nod reassuringly. “Of course. You haven’t gained that much.”

And she smiles—relieved—like she really believes it.

But I know what the scale said last week, the one she avoided looking at. I know how many buttons she’s popped, how many pairs of jeans she’s left folded on the floor, abandoned mid-struggle. I see the little expressions she makes when she sits down too fast and her belly sloshes forward, or when she has to shift awkwardly to get off the couch. But she won’t say it out loud. She won’t even ask the real question.

Not yet.

And I’ll keep feeding her. I’ll keep pretending. I’ll keep telling her it’s just the clothes. Just the dryer. Just bad luck.

Because she wants to believe.

And I want her to keep growing.

It’s a few days later when I find her in the bedroom, surrounded by clothes. Piles of them. Jeans, leggings, stretched-out tees, a few bras she hasn’t worn in months. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, red-faced and frustrated, struggling to tug a pair of jeans over her hips.

I pause in the doorway, watching. She hasn’t noticed me yet.

She grunts and wiggles, rocking side to side as she pulls with all her strength. Her belly bounces with each movement, soft and uncooperative. The denim catches just below her navel, refusing to budge any further. I see the button straining like it’s in a hostage situation. Her thighs are stuffed into the legs like sausages, seams visibly tugging for mercy.

Finally, with one last heave, she yanks the waistband together and manages to fasten the button.

But the zipper’s another story.

It won’t go up. Not even halfway.

She slumps back on the bed with an exasperated huff. “Ugh, what the hell.”

That’s my cue. I step into the room casually. “Everything okay?”

She jumps, startled. “God, don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Didn’t mean to.” I glance around at the mess. “Looks like a fashion show exploded in here.”

“I’m just… trying to figure out what still fits,” she mutters, sitting up straighter, the jeans cutting into her middle now that she’s no longer standing. A thick roll of belly spills over the waistband, plush and pink from the pressure.

I walk over and sit beside her. “Those jeans look tight.”

“They used to be loose,” she groans, pulling at the zipper again in vain. “I don’t get it. I haven’t gained that much.”

She says it like a prayer. Desperate. Hollow.

I nod slowly, like I’m thinking it through. “Maybe they shrunk.”

“They’re stretch denim.”

“Maybe you’ve just… filled out a little?” I offer it carefully, planting just enough truth to keep her spinning.

She gives me a skeptical look. “You said the other day I looked the same.”

I smile. “You do. Just… a curvier version.”

She makes a face, tugging at the waistband again. “I don’t want to buy all new clothes.”

“You don’t have to,” I say. “Just keep borrowing mine.”

She sighs, defeated. “But yours are starting to feel tight too.”

Bingo.

“I could go shopping with you,” I offer casually. “If you want to find some comfy stuff that fits right. You’ll feel better.”

“I guess,” she says. Then, as if remembering her reflection, she groans and tries to stand up—but the jeans make it difficult. Her movements are sluggish, heavy. The waistband digs in deeper as she leans forward and braces herself on the nightstand.

“Jesus,” she mutters under her breath.

She manages to stand, but the second she straightens up, the button gives up.

POP.

The sharp little noise rings through the room as the button flies off and hits the floor with a faint clatter. Her belly surges forward with nothing holding it back, and she stares down at the open jeans in stunned silence.

I don’t move. I just watch, slowly licking my lips.

“Did that just—?”

“Yup,” I say, voice low. “That just happened.”

She stares down at herself, hands resting on the sides of her exposed stomach like she’s not sure whether to laugh or cry.

“I guess… maybe I’ve gained a little.”

I hum thoughtfully, walking over and brushing my fingers along her sides. “Just enough to grow out of your old life,” I whisper. “Nothing wrong with that.”

She closes her eyes, chewing her lip. Still trying to believe the lie. Still trying to pretend this is a phase. That it’s just the jeans, just bad sizing, just a bloated day.

I reach down and gently tug the ruined denim down her thighs, letting them pool at her feet. “You don’t have to fight it,” I say softly. “Just let go.”

She looks at me for a long time. Not denying it anymore—but not fully accepting it either.

Somewhere in between.

And that’s the sweet spot. That’s where I want her.

I guide her toward the mirror. She hesitates but follows, half-dressed and vulnerable, belly soft and heavy in the reflection. She stares at herself like she’s seeing someone else.

But I’m right behind her, arms wrapping around that growing middle, resting my chin on her shoulder.

“You look amazing,” I whisper. “Don’t change a thing.”

Her eyes flick to mine in the mirror. Searching. Wanting to believe.

And for now, she does.

She stands there in front of the mirror, wide-eyed and quiet, wrapped up in my arms with her jeans around her ankles and her belly spilling out in soft, pale rolls. She hasn’t moved in a full minute, just staring at her reflection like she’s trying to understand where the girl she used to be went.

I feel her shifting in my hold, uncomfortable. Embarrassed.

And now? That’s when I push.

“You know,” I murmur against her neck, “it’s kind of impressive.”

She frowns. “What is?”

“How far you’ve let yourself go.”

Her whole body stiffens. I feel her breath hitch, her arms twitch like she’s about to cover herself—but she doesn’t. Maybe because my grip tightens a little. Or maybe because she’s too shocked to move.

“I mean,” I continue, voice calm and low, “when we met, I could fit both hands around your waist. Now look at you.”

She flushes, red creeping up her cheeks as her eyes drop to her middle. I glide my hands down her sides, fingers sinking into the doughy softness that didn’t used to be there.

“This wasn’t here before,” I say, giving her love handles a little squeeze. “Or this.” I drag my hand over the lower curve of her belly, where it’s started to hang—just slightly—past her hips.

She exhales, a mix of embarrassment and arousal. She doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t deny it.

“You outgrew three bras in six months,” I go on, my voice just a touch colder now. “I watched you struggle with every clasp, every time pretending they were shrinking.”

“I didn’t—” she starts, weakly.

“You did,” I cut in, softly but firmly. “And you broke two chairs. You think I didn’t notice?”

Her silence is answer enough. She presses her thighs together instinctively. I can see her mind racing—humiliated, but clinging to some thread of denial, some excuse to explain it all away.

“You can’t even see your feet unless you lean over,” I say, almost conversationally. “And even then, your belly gets in the way.”

She flinches, a soft gasp leaving her lips. She knows I’m right. I see her eyes flick to the mirror again—then away. It’s too much.

“You really haven’t noticed how fat you’re getting?” I whisper, one hand gliding back up to cup the underside of her belly. It fills my palm and then some.

She makes a choked sound—half protest, half moan.

“Or do you just like pretending?” I murmur. “Like playing dumb so you can keep stuffing your face without the guilt?”

She doesn’t answer.

“You’re bursting out of every stitch of clothing you own, waddling around the house like you don’t feel how heavy you’ve gotten… And you believed me when I said it was just the dryer.”

I chuckle, low and cruel.

She bites her lip so hard I think she might cry. Or kiss me. Or both.

“You said you didn’t want to buy new clothes,” I go on, brushing a hand over her shelf of a belly. “But sweetie… you don’t have clothes anymore. You have fabric clinging to the fantasy that you’re still small.”

Her thighs tremble. She’s shaking now.

“You have gained that much. And more. And you’re still pretending you haven’t. That’s the hottest part.”

I pause, letting the silence settle.

She looks back at me in the mirror. Her cheeks are flushed, her chest rising and falling fast. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to.

Because the way she leans into me—lets me hold all that extra weight she’s carrying—tells me everything I need to know.

She’s embarrassed.

She’s humiliated.

And she’s loving it.

[futilereality]

[rosiejunie]

James thinks everyone who talks to him is flirting with him all the time, EXCEPT for Regulus who is actually flirting with him all the time. It’s so painfully obvious and James is catastrophically oblivious.

[maybe-frog]

someone, flirting: that dress looks pretty cute on you 😏😏

Me: THANKS IT HAS POCKETS