Go there and Take a look at my NSFW stories with NSFW imagery, since who knows when tumblr kicks me out for the 4th time hahahah
https://www.deviantart.com/menos125
https://www.deviantart.com/menos125
cherry valley forever
todays bird
we're not kids anymore.

祝日 / Permanent Vacation

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Stranger Things

⁂

shark vs the universe
🪼
$LAYYYTER
styofa doing anything

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Keni
trying on a metaphor
Show & Tell
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year

pixel skylines
Jules of Nature

JVL

blake kathryn
seen from Türkiye

seen from United States
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seen from Malaysia
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seen from United States
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seen from United States
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seen from Malaysia
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seen from United States
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seen from United States

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@vorecaptions4
Go there and Take a look at my NSFW stories with NSFW imagery, since who knows when tumblr kicks me out for the 4th time hahahah
https://www.deviantart.com/menos125
https://www.deviantart.com/menos125
"Bet you twenty bucks I can hold my breath longer than you," Carlos said, shaking water from his hair as he hauled himself onto the pool deck. The chlorine smell hung thick in the air, mixing with the sharp tang of competition.
Deshawn smirked, peeling off his swim cap with a snap. "Man, you really woke up today choosing failure." He stretched his arms overhead, muscles flexing. "But sure, let’s take your money."
The locker room’s flickering lights didn’t do Deshawn any favors—his cock was unfairly impressive even in the shitty lighting, thick and heavy against his thigh. Carlos hated how his mouth went dry every time Deshawn pulled this stunt, which was approximately every other Tuesday.
They'd been doing this since freshman year—racing, diving, timing each other, always ending up dead even. It drove Carlos nuts. He could out-swim anyone else on the team, but Deshawn? Every damn time, it was a tie.
The locker room afterward was their usual battleground. Deshawn toweled off lazily, grinning like he’d already won. "Y’know, even when we tie, I still come out on top," he said, nodding toward his towel-clad hips with exaggerated pride.
Carlos rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t stick that way permanently. "Oh, here we go—King Dickhead’s daily sermon," he muttered, wringing out his swim trunks with more force than necessary.
Deshawn’s grin only widened as he let his towel drop with theatrical slowness, the fabric pooling at his feet. "See, this right here?" He gestured lazily at himself, thick thighs shifting as he turned slightly to give Carlos the full view. "This is what they call a biological advantage. Ain’t no tie when it comes to this leaderboard, my guy."
Carlos snorted, pretending to inspect his own nails. "Wow, congrats. You hit the genetic lottery for being a walking, talking dildo. Meanwhile, I actually had to work for these abs." He flexed, just to be obnoxious, but his gaze flicked downward despite himself. Damn it.
Deshawn caught him looking and arched an eyebrow. "Admit it. You’re jealous." He took a step closer, the scent of chlorine and cheap body wash clinging to his skin. "Girls talk, Carlos. They say shit like—" He dropped his voice into a breathy falsetto. "Oh my God, Deshawn, it’s like you’re rearranging my insides—"
Carlos scoffed, but his pulse kicked up when Deshawn stepped into his space, all warm skin and smug confidence. "Yeah, yeah, we get it—you’re God’s gift to coochie," he said, forcing his eyes to stay locked on Deshawn’s face. A losing battle. "Congrats on being born with a third leg. You want a trophy? Or just another excuse to wave it around like a fucking parade float?"
Deshawn’s laugh was low, rolling through the locker room like he owned the air between them. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his briefs and tugged them down just enough to make Carlos’ throat go tight. "Nah, just giving the people what they want," he said, nodding toward the undeniable thickness pushing against the fabric. "You’re people, right?"
Carlos swallowed hard. The bastard wasn’t wrong—Deshawn’s cock was a fucking event, thick and dark against his hip, the head already flushed from the heat of their shower. The way it curved slightly down for how massive it is was stupidly distracting. Carlos hated to admit that.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "You’re a piece of shit. Why the fuck you have to show your cock every chance you get?"
Deshawn’s grin was all teeth. "And yet here you are," he said, leaning in until Carlos could smell the mint of his gum, "still looking."
Carlos’ fingers twitched at his sides, the damp locker room air suddenly too thick. "Please. You think just because you got lucky in the dick department, you know how to use it?" He forced a laugh, rough at the edges. "Bet I could handle that monster better than you if it was mine."
Deshawn’s grin turned predatory. He stepped closer, the heat of his body pressing into Carlos’ space. "Oh yeah?" His voice dropped, rough with amusement. "You volunteering for a field test, mexico boy?" Before Carlos could retort, Deshawn grabbed his hand and pressed it against the leaking head of his cock, smearing precum across his knuckles.
The sensation hit Carlos like a live wire—hot, slick, and so fucking real. His breath stuttered. Deshawn’s chuckle was dark against his ear. "See? Already got you hooked." He dragged Carlos’ hand down the thick length, the friction making his own cock twitch in his speedo. "Talk shit all you want, but you want a taste of this big black cock. Everyone wants some of mine, even dudes like you."
Oh dude, if you only knew what I would do to have a bit of you into me.
"Fuck you," Carlos muttered, but his grip tightened instinctively, thumb brushing the swollen ridge just beneath the head. The black cock throbbed, fattening even more, this time Carlos was taken aback at how he couldn't close his hand around it.
I deserve to have a superior dick like this, not this asshole.
Deshawn’s hand slid down Carlos’ back with a possessiveness that shouldn’t have felt as natural as it did, fingers digging into the firm swell of his glutes. Carlos barely had time to grit out a "the hell—" before those fingers twisted, rough and sudden, and a single digit pressed insistently past resistance. The gasp that tore from Carlos’ throat was half shock, half something far messier, his body arching before he could stop himself. Deshawn’s chuckle was a dark rumble against his ear, his middle finger working deeper with obscene ease, the stretch burning in a way that made Carlos’ toes curl against the damp tile. "Fuck—fuck—get off—" Carlos snarled, but his hips jerked back instinctively, driving Deshawn’s finger to the knuckle.
The hand on his ass tightened, Deshawn’s other hand still smearing precum down the length of Carlos’ trapped erection through the thin fabric of his speedo. "Nah, nah, you asked for this," Deshawn murmured, lips grazing the shell of Carlos’ ear. "Talkin’ all that shit ‘bout handling my dick better’n me—mira, now you got it." His teeth scraped Carlos’ neck, the sting sharp and bright, and then—Carlos felt it. A pull, deep and impossible, like his ribs were collapsing inward, Deshawn’s chest melting against his own.
Carlos’ breath hitched as Deshawn’s body lurched forward with a grunt, his pecs sinking into Carlos’ skin as if sucked into quicksand. Deshawn’s eyes widened, his cock twitching against Carlos’ thigh as he tried to wrench backward—but Carlos’ hands were already moving, one tangling in Deshawn’s neck to yank his face flush against his collarbone, the other clamping around his bicep to hold him still. "The fuck—?!" Deshawn’s voice was muffled against Carlos’ skin, his legs kicking uselessly as his hips dissolved next, thick thighs merging into Carlos’ own with a wet, hungry sound.
Pleasure crackled up Carlos’ spine like lightning, his muscles bulging unnaturally as Deshawn’s mass redistributed beneath his skin. His veins rose, thick and dark, spiderwebbing across his biceps as his shoulders broadened, his spine popping with the force of his body accommodating the sheer bulk of the man disappearing into him. Carlos groaned, head falling back as his hips jerked forward, his cock pulsing in his speedos—then tearing through the fabric as it thickened, lengthened, the weight of it dragging low and heavy between his legs.
Deshawn’s scream was guttural when his cock entered Carlos—not in the way either of them expected, but assimilating, the thick shaft fusing into Carlos’ own as it darkened to a deep, glistening ebony. The stretch was maddening, his balls swelling to cradle the new weight, and Carlos laughed, breathless and wild, as Deshawn’s final shuddering gasp vibrated through his ribs. The last of him—his smirk, his swagger, his heat—dissolved into Carlos’ marrow with a final, wet pop.
The locker room air was thick with the scent of sweat and something darker, muskier, as Carlos flexed his hands—their hands—feeling the power coiled in every tendon. His reflection in the foggy mirror was wrong: taller, broader, his skin a rich bronze where Deshawn’s darkness had seeped into his own, his cock obscene against his thigh, soft and still fat, the head glistening. Carlos grinned, running a thumb over the swollen ridge just beneath it, and shuddered. "Mierda," he breathed, voice rougher, deeper, laced with Deshawn’s cadence. "Shoulda devoured you sooner."
Carlos' fingers traced the obscene new weight between his thighs—hot, heavy, throbbing with every pulse of his heartbeat. The transformation wasn’t just absorption; it was upgrade. Deshawn’s cock had fused with his own, reshaping it into something monstrously thick, the shaft now a deep, veined ebony that stood in stark contrast to his bronze skin. The head had swollen into a ruddy, glistening crown, the ridge beneath it pronounced enough to make his breath hitch when he brushed it. "Holy shit," Carlos muttered, but the words came out wrong—deeper, richer, laced with Deshawn’s smug cadence.
The locker room mirror confirmed it: his reflection was a better version of them, his shoulders broader, his waist thicker, his skin tinged with Deshawn’s darkness where their bodies had merged. But the real masterpiece was his cock—their cock—curving proudly against his stomach, the sheer girth of it making his thighs tremble.
His hips jerked forward instinctively, the new weight dragging deliciously against his abs. The sensation was insane—every movement sent ripples of pleasure through him, the thick veins along the shaft pulsing as if Deshawn’s essence was still alive in there, fighting to be felt. Carlos bit his lip, thumbing the slick head, and a strangled groan escaped him when his own cock—no, theirs—twitched violently in response. "Fuck," he breathed, the word thick with two voices. "You’re still in there, huh?" He tightened his grip, stroking slowly, and the answering throb was unmistakable.
Carlos grinned, palming the heavy length, and a shiver ran through him as precum beaded at the tip. "Told you," he murmured, voice layered with Deshawn’s phantom chuckle. "Looks way better on me."
Maxwell dipped his brush into the murky water for the third time, watching the pigment swirl away into nothing.
"You're pacing out again," Eli said, nudging him with a knee from where he lounged on the drafting table. His shirt rode up just enough to reveal a sliver of toned stomach—a new development, one that hadn’t been there a month ago.
Maxwell shrugged, flicking excess water off his brush. "Just thinking about proportions." It wasn’t entirely a lie. The sketchpad in front of him held half-finished studies of the football team’s captain—broad shoulders, the slope of his neck, the way his thighs strained against his uniform. But Maxwell wasn’t just doing a random anatomy study.
Across the room, Mateo and Joon were hunched over their own work, pencils scratching in rhythm. Neither of them looked like the scrawny kids who’d joined the art club at the start of the semester. Joon’s arms flexed as he erased a line, his biceps pressing against his rolled-up sleeves. Mateo’s jawline had sharpened.
The clock above the door ticked past midnight when the art room door finally creaked open. Darren—captain of the varsity team, pride of the college, and currently swaying on his feet—stumbled in with Eli’s arm hooked around his waist. His jersey was rumpled, his cheeks flushed from whatever cheap beer Eli had plied him with at the party.
"Man, your clubhouse is fucking creepy," Darren slurred, blinking at the dim glow of the drafting lamps. His gaze landed on Maxwell and he grinned, loose and easy. "Hey, you’re that quiet kid who draws all the time. You draw me yet?"
Maxwell’s fingers twitched toward the sketchpad. "Not quite," he said. The lie tasted sweet. Behind Darren, Eli shot him a look—part warning, part hunger—before nudging Darren toward the center of the room where the ritual circle lay hidden beneath a drop cloth.
"Alright, hotshot," Eli said, steering Darren with deceptive gentleness. "Let’s get you sitting down before you faceplant."
Darren collapsed onto the stool with a drunken chuckle, his thighs spreading wide enough to strain the seams of his football pants. The overhead light caught the sweat at his throat, the pulse jumping there like a trapped animal. Maxwell exhaled slowly through his nose—sharp citrus, stale beer, something muskier underneath.
"You gonna draw me like one of your French girls?" Darren grinned, reaching for the hem of his jersey. His movements were loose, uncoordinated, but the muscle beneath his skin rolled with unconscious power. Eli's fingers dug into Maxwell's shoulder—a silent warning.
"Something like that," Maxwell murmured. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. The sketchpad trembled in his grip as he flipped it open to reveal the completed portrait—Darren mid-tackle, every tendon rendered in perfect, hungry detail.
Darren whistled low. "Damn. That's me?" His fingers fumbled at his belt buckle. "Shoulda signed the release forms, huh?" The joke fell flat as his pants slid down his hips, pooling around his ankles. The black jockstrap beneath clung to the swell of his thighs, the fabric stretched taut.
Darren’s laughter echoed off the art room walls, hollow and too loud, as he kicked his pants aside. The jockstrap left little to the imagination—the thick outline of him straining against the fabric, the sweat-damp waistband digging into his hips. Maxwell’s throat tightened. The portrait on his sketchpad seemed to vibrate under his fingertips, the lines pulsing faintly gold where they mapped Darren’s body.
"You’re not gonna—uh—draw me like this, right?" Darren chuckled, rubbing his stomach absently. His fingers left streaks of sweat on his skin. "Coach would kill me." His words slurred at the edges, his eyelids drooping. Eli’s hand settled on Darren’s shoulder, pressing him down onto the stool with deliberate gentleness.
"Relax," Eli murmured, his voice honey-thick. "Just sit still." His gaze flicked to Maxwell, a silent signal. The air between them crackled with something old and hungry.
Maxwell set the sketchpad aside and reached for the vial tucked in his apron pocket. The liquid inside shimmered, catching the lamplight—ground charcoal and stolen sweat, crushed petals from the football field’s bleachers, a drop of his own blood. He dipped his brush into it, the bristles soaking up the mixture like a parched tongue.
The brush hovered over Darren's collarbone, its tip trembling with anticipation. Maxwell inhaled sharply—the scent of Darren's skin, salt and heat and something indefinably masculine, filled his lungs. The first stroke landed just above Darren's heartbeat, black ink seeping into his pores like ink into blotting paper. Darren twitched, a half-formed protest dying on his lips as Eli's fingers tightened on his shoulders.
"That tickles," Darren mumbled, his eyelids fluttering. His breath hitched when Maxwell dragged the brush lower, tracing the path of his sternum with deliberate precision. The ink didn't smear—it sank, vanishing beneath Darren's skin as if his body were drinking it in. Beneath Maxwell's fingertips, Darren's pulse stuttered, then steadied into a slower, heavier rhythm.
Mateo and Joon moved in unison, circling behind Darren like planets pulled into orbit. Their shadows stretched long across the floor, merging with the outlines Maxwell had chalked earlier—hidden beneath the drop cloth, but pulsing now with a faint, phosphorescent glow. Joon's hand settled on Darren's thigh, his thumb pressing into the muscle there just hard enough to leave a pale imprint. Darren exhaled, long and slow, his head lolling back against Eli's stomach.
"Good boy," Eli murmured, his free hand carding through Darren's sweat-damp hair. The words were syrupy with false comfort. Darren's lips parted—whether to speak or gasp, Maxwell couldn't tell—but no sound emerged. His throat worked helplessly as Maxwell's brush dipped lower, skating over the taut plane of his abdomen. The ink swirled where it touched, forming intricate patterns that pulsed once, twice, before dissolving into Darren's skin.
The brush reached Darren’s navel, and Maxwell paused. His own breath came quicker now, shallow and uneven. Beneath his fingers, Darren’s skin had taken on an almost feverish heat, radiating outward in waves. The scent of him—ripe with exertion and youth—thickened the air, pressing against Maxwell’s tongue like a physical weight. He swallowed hard, tasting salt and something darker, metallic.
“Almost done,” Maxwell murmured, though the words weren’t for Darren. Eli’s fingers tightened in silent acknowledgment, his nails biting crescents into Darren’s shoulders. The captain’s eyelids fluttered, his pupils blown wide and glassy. A thin line of drool trailed from the corner of his slack mouth. Maxwell’s stomach clenched with hunger.
The final stroke landed just above the waistband of Darren’s jockstrap. The ink sizzled as it touched skin, tendrils of smoke curling upward in lazy spirals. Darren jerked, his spine arching off the stool like a live wire had been shoved down his throat. A strangled noise tore from his lips—half-groan, half-whimper—before Eli clamped a hand over his mouth, muffling the sound into something wet and broken.
Maxwell’s vision swam. The golden lines of the sketch pulsed brighter, then brighter still, until the paper itself seemed to glow with vitality. Darren’s body followed suit—his veins standing out in stark relief beneath his skin, luminescent gold racing through them like liquid fire. His muscles twitched and bulged, straining against invisible bonds as his essence was siphoned away strand by glimmering strand.
Darren's body convulsed once, violently, his heels drumming against the floorboards. The jockstrap strained obscenely as his cock twitched to full hardness—a final, futile protest of his body's dying instincts. Maxwell leaned in, his lips parting inches from Darren's heaving chest. The first tendril of golden energy seeped from Darren's parted lips, curling upward like smoke seeking air. Maxwell inhaled sharply, and the essence coiled into his mouth, thick as honey and twice as sweet.
The taste exploded across his tongue—sun-warmed leather, adrenaline, the iron tang of blood after a hard tackle. Maxwell groaned, his own body responding instantly. His shoulders broadened beneath his threadbare shirt, the fabric stretching taut over now defined pecs. Heat pooled low in his belly, his cock swelling against his jeans as Darren's vital energy surged through him. Across the room, Joon and Mateo shuddered in unison, their hands gripping Darren's thrashing thighs as secondary streams of energy spiraled into their nostrils. Eli's breath came in ragged gasps, his fingers white-knuckled where they pinned Darren's wrists.
Darren's golden glow flickered. His skin dulled, the vibrant flush leaching away like watercolor in rain. His biceps—once thick as tree trunks—quivered, then sagged. Maxwell drank deeper, his teeth gritted as Darren's essence flooded his veins. His sketch trembled on the table, the paper vibrating as the lines of Darren's rendered body darkened to obsidian. The real Darren made a wet, guttural noise, his hips jerking in a pathetic mimicry of his former athletic prowess. A wet spot bloomed across the front of his jockstrap—the last, humiliating spasm of a body robbed of its vigor.
Maxwell straightened, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His reflection in the darkened windows showed a stranger—broader jaw, thicker neck, the faintest shadow of stubble that hadn't been there an hour ago. Darren slumped forward, his spine curling like a dying leaf. His once-bronzed skin had gone ashen, the hollows beneath his eyes deepening into pits. When Eli released his grip, Darren's arms flopped limply at his sides, his fingers twitching in useless little spasms.
The golden energy thickened in Maxwell’s throat, molten and heady, as Darren’s body began to crumble at the edges. His fingers—once thick and calloused from years of gripping footballs— like dried petals. Maxwell exhaled through his nose, watching as Darren’s collarbones sharpened grotesquely beneath his skin, the flesh sinking inward as if sucked by an invisible straw.
Eli’s grip on Darren’s shoulders loosened, his breath ragged with shared euphoria. “God, look at him,” he whispered, staring at Maxwell’s swelling biceps as they strained against his sleeves. The seams split with a soft *pop*, threads unraveling to reveal skin that glowed faintly under the lamplight—a healthy, golden hue that hadn’t been there before.
Darren’s mouth gaped soundlessly, his tongue desiccating mid-pant. His jockstrap sagged as his thighs withered, the once-firm muscle collapsing into itself like a deflated balloon. The last thread of golden energy spiraled from his gaping mouth, and Maxwell swallowed it greedily, shuddering as it settled hot and heavy in his gut. His jeans tightened unbearably, the denim biting into his thickened thighs.
A dry, papery sound filled the room as Darren’s skin split along his cheekbones, fissures spiderwebbing outward like cracks in desert soil. His entire body dissolving into fine ash. Joon let out a shaky laugh, flexing his hands as the tiny bits Darren’s stolen life he got merged into his sinews. “Holy shit,” he breathed, watching the veins rise along his forearms like riverbanks after a storm.
Eli was the first to move, his fingers trailing down Maxwell’s newly corded forearm. "Jesus," he breathed, thumb pressing into the divot of muscle where Darren’s quarterback grip had once lived. "You’re *hot*." The words hung in the air, charged and clumsy. Maxwell flexed, watching the way his own tendons now mapped his wrists like cables. His reflection in the window was a stranger—broader, *better*, the sharp cut of his jawline shadowed with stubble that hadn’t existed an hour ago.
Mateo kicked at the pile of dust that had been Darren, sending up a lazy cloud. "Think anyone’ll notice?" he asked, toeing the abandoned jersey with its proud varsity letter. Joon snorted, rolling his shoulders with a crackle of popping joints. "Notice what? That some drunk jock wandered off after a party?" He grinned, all white teeth and predatory glee. "Happens all the time."
Maxwell’s reflection in the art room window wasn’t his own anymore. The broad shoulders, the thick column of his neck, the way his jawline could’ve cut glass—it was Darren’s physique layered over his own, but sharper, *better*, like a master sculptor had taken the jock’s raw material and refined it into something godlike. Eli’s breath hitched when Maxwell turned, the lamplight catching the sweat-slick planes of his chest where his torn shirt hung open.
"Fuck," Mateo whispered, staring openly at the obscene bulge straining against Maxwell’s jeans. The denim groaned at the seams, the zipper teeth stretched to their limit. Maxwell flexed his hands—bigger now, the knuckles pronounced—and grabbed Joon by the collar, yanking him forward with a strength that hadn’t existed an hour ago.
Joon gasped as his back hit the drafting table, pencils scattering. Maxwell didn’t bother with preamble; he ripped Joon’s pants down with a single vicious tug, the fabric splitting like tissue paper. Joon’s cock sprang free, already half-hard from the residual energy thrumming between them, but it looked almost comically small next to Maxwell’s newly monstrous size. Maxwell spat into his palm, slicked himself with a few rough strokes, and shoved into Joon with a snarl.
The table rocked with each thrust, Joon’s knees knocking against Maxwell’s ribs as he took it. His mouth fell open in a silent scream, his body stretching to accommodate the thickness that had once belonged to Darren—only now it was *more*, the stolen vitality amplifying everything. Eli watched, biting his lip bloody, as Maxwell fucked into Joon with the same single-minded hunger he’d used to drain Darren dry.
"Feel that?" Maxwell growled, his voice deeper, richer, the vibration of it thrumming through Joon’s spine. He pistoned harder, the drafting table screeching across the floor. "That’s what *power* feels like." Joon could only nod, his fingers scrabbling at Maxwell’s biceps as they swelled even larger mid-thrust, the stolen energy still settling into muscle memory.
Mateo dropped to his knees beside them, his hands shaking as he reached for Maxwell’s balls. They were heavy as ripe fruit, the skin taut with stolen potency. When he leaned in to lick the sweat from them, Maxwell groaned and fucked deeper, his cockhead brushing something inside Joon that made his vision white out. Golden energy sparked where their bodies joined, leaking from Joon’s stretched rim like honey.
Eli couldn’t take it anymore. He climbed onto the table beside Joon, his own cock dripping onto the scattered sketches. Maxwell didn’t hesitate; he grabbed Eli by the throat and dragged him down, sealing their mouths together in a messy, biting kiss. Eli whimpered as Maxwell’s tongue—thicker now, more *invasive*—pushed past his teeth. He could taste Darren in Maxwell’s mouth, the ghost of gridiron grit and cheap beer transmuted into something darker, sweeter.
The air smelled like sex and ozone, the overhead lights flickering as Maxwell’s stolen energy destabilized the voltage. Joon came untouched, his back arching off the table as his cock pulsed between them. Maxwell didn’t slow—if anything, he fucked harder, using Joon’s oversensitive body to chase his own climax. When he finally came, it was with a roar that rattled the windows, his cum flooding Joon’s guts in thick, scalding spurts.
For a suspended moment, the room held its breath. Then Maxwell pulled out, his cock glistening and *still* hard, twitching against his thigh. Joon lay boneless, his hole gaping, golden-tinted cum leaking onto the ruined sketches below. Eli licked his lips, staring at the mess with something like reverence.
Mateo was the first to speak. "Holy *shit*," he breathed, reaching out to touch Maxwell’s abs—now carved like marble, the skin hot to the touch, but nothing compared to the titanic meat between his legs. "You’re—fuck, you’re *huge*."
"Like I fucking deserve to be." Maxwell said as he to was enamored by the size he got from devouring Darren.
The team went so bad this season Coach decides they are better used as fuel to rejuvenate himself than waste all that vital energy chasing pussy and impregnating the 11th random bitch (or who knows the number its already on) they get their young dick inside. Its fucking amazing being filled with all their potential, all their future filling his muscles and making his flesh back into his prime.
"Damn, no wonder they only thought with their dick, with this much testosteroe running my veins all I can think is about spreading my genes around."
For fuck sake, I cant take it anymore, I am starving here. I have spent enough time and money on you, dude. You'll give me back all I invested on making you appetizing. No more gym sessions, calculated meals, roids, paid college and shit like that, you've become a perfect meal for me to feed. Fucking give me your life force, give me your mass. Shit, give me some of your brains too, I am gonna suck you dry of anything you're worth, you're nothing more than a bag of nutrients walking around that I had to expend a fortune to have enough value for me to drain. FUCK YEAH, GIVE ME EVERYTHING YOU ARE, MAKE ME MORE!!!
You looked so hot, buddy, hehe. The truth is, I didn't want to devour you, but seeing you with that toned physique yet so vulnerable at the same time, just triggered my instincts. You didn't have anyone to admire that muscular body, and you knew full well you were wasting it. I'm doing you a favor.
You have no idea how hot that whole moment was sneaking up behind you without you noticing, waiting for you to take off that sweaty shirt so I could catch you off guard, devouring your head first while your vision went dark inside my mouth, not knowing what to do, trying to fight back but knowing it’s useless because once I start, there’s no turning back.
The more you move, the more my mouth changes size to adapt to you and swallow you down to your toned abdomen; your head slides down my tight throat, making any attempt to escape futile, then I proceed to keep swallowing you whole; your penis passes through my throat, I can feel that this moment is hot for you too because it’s hard as a rock, I also feel your big, delicious buttocks against the walls of my throat.
With just a little left, I keep savoring your thick thighs and toned legs, leaving only your feet exposed, sticking out of my mouth, before I swallow them, I tickle you a little, and I feel you squirm inside me, but your struggle is futile, so I use my hands to push them in and swallow the only thing left of you, causing my mouth to return to its normal shape and sealing your fate inside me.
I can feel you struggling, but you know it’s useless, you’re wasting your energy.
Do you feel that constant sensation, like waves crashing? It’s my stomach speeding up the digestion process. I hope you like it, buddy.
My body will begin to dissolve you to absorb your nutrients, and your muscles will merge with mine to make me bigger.
As a token of gratitude for your sacrifice, I’ll let your consciousness coexist with mine.
You won’t be able to control any part of my body, but you’ll always be conscious. You’ll watch as I win my tournaments, fuck other men, and absorb them too. Don’t worry, the others won’t have the privilege you have now.
What a blessing you have received, my brother...
I know it may be getting annoying but cant stop doing this muscle theft scenarios hahahah
Cosplay vore
The convention center foodcourt smelled like industrial cleaner and fastfood, which was somehow worse than just the industrial cleaner alone. Josh adjusted the neon-green wig in the mirroed on his phone, making sure his stupid bunny ears—floppy, oversized, and sewn onto a headband—weren’t sagging. The costume was tight in all the right (and wrong) places, hugging his thighs, squeezing his chest, and doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he’d skipped leg day exactly never.
"Nice cosplay, man," someone said behind him, voice lilting like they were halfway between genuine compliment and teasing. Josh turned just enough to catch the guy in the —tall, scrawny, dressed as some bland tv show protagonist. The guy’s eyes flicked down, then back up, slow enough to be deliberate. "You, uh. You do a lot of gym stuff?"
Josh smirked already annoyed. "Nah, just good genetics I got yesterday." He flexed an arm without thinking, watching the fabric strain. The guy’s throat bobbed and ignored the weird reply.
Then came the hand.
The touch landed high on his swollen pecs, fingers pressing just shy of the seam where fabric met skin. Josh inhaled sharply—not from surprise, but from the familiar heat already pooling low in his gut. The guy’s palm slid higher, thumb brushing the outline of Josh’s cock through the spandex. "Oh, that's bad" he thought. Most convention creeps went straight for his biceps or chest, all grabby hands and slack-jawed stares. This one had aim.
“Dude,” Josh growled, but his hips jerked forward anyway, betraying him and smothering the guy's hand on his package. The guy—what was he even cosplaying, some low budget Supernatural knockoff?—smirked and squeezed, fingers caressing Josh’s fat balls.
Josh’s fist clenched. "This always happens", he thought of how every damn time someone would sexually harass him out of the blue and how his body would DEMAND to fuck him stupid until he fried the perv's brain.
Josh’s fingers dug into the guy’s nape, pulling him close enough that their foreheads nearly touched. The scent of cheap body spray and convention sweat filled the space between them, but beneath it, something darker, muskier—the primal tang of pheromones thickening the air. The guy’s smirk faltered when Josh didn’t shove him away, when instead, his other hand clamped down on the wrist still pressed against his crotch. "You’re really bad at reading the room," Josh muttered, voice rough with arousal, deeper than the cute character he was cosplaying as.
The guy’s breath hitched as Josh twisted his wrist just enough to hurt—not enough to stop him. "Thought you liked it," he managed, fingers flexing against Josh’s cock like he was testing his luck.
Josh laughed, sharp and humorless. "Yeah. That’s the problem."
Then he yanked him into the nearest empty restroom stall he could find, the door slamming shut behind them with a metallic clang. The guy stumbled, knees hitting the toilet seat, and Josh crowded in behind him, one broad hand splayed across his back to keep him bent forward. The costume fabric stretched taut over Josh’s thighs as he kicked the guy’s legs wider apart, the bunny ears on his headband bouncing absurdly with the movement.
The stall was cramped, the air thick with the mingled scents of sweat and Josh’s own musk, which only grew heavier as his pulse thudded in his ears. The guy—*Sam knockoff*, Josh’s brain supplied unhelpfully—twisted under his grip, not to escape, but to press his ass back against Josh’s thighs. The friction was delicious, maddening, and Josh’s cock throbbed against the confines of his costume. He could feel every ragged breath the guy took, the way his shoulders tensed when Josh’s fingers slid down the back of his cheap cosplay shirt, nails scraping skin.
“You don’t get it,” Josh growled, his free hand tugging at the guy’s waistband, the elastic snapping against his hips. “This isn’t consent. This is—” His voice hitched as the guy arched his back, presenting himself like some eager, stupid animal. Josh’s teeth gritted. His body burned with the contradiction—anger coiled tight in his chest, arousal pulsing hot between his legs. He hated this. Hated how his body betrayed him every fucking time.
The stall door rattled as someone bumped into it outside, laughter muffled through the thin metal. Josh froze, his grip tightening on the guy’s shirt. For a second, the absurdity of it all crashed over him—the neon wig, the bunny ears, the fact that he was about to wreck some idiot in a convention center bathroom like this was his damn job. Then the guy whimpered, grinding back against him, and Josh’s patience snapped.
He didn’t bother with subtlety. The costume fabric tore easily under his hands, the sound loud in the cramped space. The guy gasped, but it dissolved into a moan as Josh shoved him chest-first against the stall wall, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of his thighs. “You wanna play?” Josh hissed, his breath hot against the guy’s ear. “Fine. But I decide how this ends.”
The guy’s response was cut off as Josh’s cock pressed against his tight pucker. He bucked instinctively, his hips stuttering forward.
The guy’s back arched like a bithc on heat. Josh didn’t give him time to adjust—couldn’t, even if he wanted to. His hips snapped forward, burying his thick fucking cock to the hilt in one brutal thrust. The guy’s knees slammed against the toilet seat, his fingers scrambling for purchase on the graffitied metal wallm he woukd have screamed if Josh's hand wasnt squeezing so hard at his throat, his face strained red. Josh watched, mesmerized, as his pheromones made this straight guy's brain into mush, he was getting his insides ruined by an oversized cock, getting strangled and despite that his much smaller dick was hard and leaking all over the toilet.
Josh’s grip on the guy’s throat loosened just enough to let him gasp, but not enough to let him speak. The sound was ragged, wet—half-choked pleasure, half-pain. His hips stuttered backward instinctively, but Josh’s free hand clamped down on his waist, holding him in place. "Nuh-uh," Josh growled, his voice thick with arousal. "You wanted this, remember? Gonna take it all now."
The guy’s body trembled, his cock twitching pathetically against the porcelain as Josh pulled out slowly, torturously, then slammed back in with enough force to make the stall walls shake. The noise that tore from the guy’s throat was muffled by Josh’s palm, but the way his legs shook betrayed him. Josh leaned forward, his bunny ears brushing the back of the guy’s neck as he snarled into his ear, "Bet you thought you were so fucking clever, huh? Touching me like I’m some—*shit*—some convention center slut."
Outside, footsteps passed by the restroom, voices laughing about some panel they’d just left. The guy tensed, his hole clenching around Josh’s cock like he was terrified someone would hear. Josh grinned, rolling his hips in slow, deliberate circles just to feel him squirm. "Relax," he muttered, though his own breathing was uneven. "Nobody’s gonna save you."
The guy’s fingers scrabbled against the stall wall, his knuckles whitening as Josh picked up the pace, each thrust driving him harder into the metal divider. The scent of sweat and precum filled the cramped space, mingling with the sharp tang of Josh’s pheromones—thick enough now that the guy’s pupils were blown wide, his body pliant even as Josh fucked him raw.
Josh's breath came in ragged bursts against the back of the guy’s neck, his bunny ears tickling the damp skin there as his hips pistoned forward, relentless. The stall door rattled with each thrust, the metallic clangs blending with the guy’s muffled whimpers. Josh could feel him unraveling—muscles tensing, hole fluttering around his cock, that pathetic little dick of his dribbling onto the toilet seat. The scent of submission thickened the air, and Josh’s nostrils flared as his own pheromones cranked higher, turning the guy’s brain into putty.
Then it happened—the guy’s body went rigid, his back arching like a bowstring as his cock twitched violently, untouched. A wet, choked noise escaped his throat as he came, his orgasm ripped from him without mercy. Josh didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow. He fucked him straight through it, his grip on the guy’s throat tightening just enough to make his vision swim. "That’s it," Josh growled, voice rough with satisfaction. "Take it. All of it."
The guy’s knees buckled, his weight sagging against Josh’s hold, but Josh didn’t let him collapse. He hauled him upright with one arm, his other hand sliding down to grip the guy’s hipbone hard enough to bruise. The angle changed, and the guy’s breath hitched as Josh’s cock dragged against his prostate with every brutal thrust. His oversensitive body jerked, his hole clenching desperately, but Josh only smirked, his bunny ears bobbing with the rhythm. "Too much?" he taunted, lips brushing the shell of the guy’s ear. "Should’ve thought about that before you touched me."
Outside, the convention bustled on, oblivious. A group of cosplayers chattered by the sinks, their laughter echoing off the tiles. The guy shuddered, his face pressed against the stall wall, tears streaking his cheeks as Josh’s thrusts grew erratic, his own climax coiling tight in his gut. He could feel it—the guy’s body wasn’t just yielding anymore. It was changing. His muscles softened under Josh’s hands, his skin growing warm, pliant, like clay waiting to be molded. Josh’s cock twitched, his balls drawing up tight as the guy’s form blurred at the edges, his silhouette wavering like a mirage.
Josh’s vision swam as the guy’s body melted under his touch, the solid press of muscle turning to liquid warmth between his fingers. The scent of the guy’s sweat morphed into something richer, headier—like raw energy distilled into scent. Josh’s cock throbbed impossibly harder as the guy’s compression, his body compacting inward, limbs folding like wet paper, his skin shimmering with an unnatural, almost metallic sheen. The guy’s mouth opened in a silent scream, his face contorted in a mix of pleasure and horror as his body collapsed inward, collapsing into a dense, writhing mass that clung to Josh’s skin like oil.
The stall door rattled again, louder this time, followed by a sharp knock. "Yo, you good in there?" A stranger’s voice, laced with amusement. Josh gritted his teeth, his hips stuttering as the guy’s essence seeped into his pores, his muscles swelling with the absorbed mass. The sensation was electric—like chugging a gallon of caffeine while being electrocuted. His pecs bulged, the seams of his costume creaking ominously, and his cock twitched violently as the last of the guy’s form dissolved into him. Josh’s breath came in ragged, wet gasps, his head tipping back against the stall wall as his body shuddered through the absorption. His bunny ears slipped askew, dangling precariously over one eye.
The knocking came again, more insistent. "Seriously, dude, you’re hogging the stall."
Josh flexed his newly swollen arms, watching the fabric strain until the sleeves split at the seams with a muted rip. He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as the last of the tingling heat faded. The guy was gone—no, not gone. Part of him now. Josh’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, tasting the phantom tang of the guy’s fear on his own breath. His reflection in the scratched metal door was distorted, but even then, he could see the difference—broader shoulders, thicker neck, the way his pecs now strained against the ruined costume like overstuffed pillows.
Josh stared at his reflection—or what passed for it in the dented stall door—and flexed again, watching the way his biceps swelled beyond the shredded sleeves. The fabric gave another protesting rip as he rolled his shoulders. A chuckle rumbled in his chest, low and humorless. "Guess I’m upgrading costumes," he muttered to no one. The bunny ears sat crookedly atop his head, one flopped over his eye like some drunken afterthought. He adjusted them absently, fingers brushing the damp sweat at his temples.
Outside, the convention hummed on, oblivious. The knocking had stopped, replaced by the muffled chatter of cosplayers swapping stories by the sinks. Josh inhaled deeply, the air thick with antiseptic and the lingering musk of what—or who—he’d just absorbed. His cock, still half-hard, twitched traitorously at the memory. He grimaced. "Fuck’s wrong with me," he muttered, tugging at the ruined spandex stretched over his newly thickened thighs. The seams groaned in protest.
A FORCED DONATION
The shower was running again—third time today. Jake could hear the water hissing through the thin dorm walls, the sound punctuated by occasional thumps as his roommate fumbled with soap or shampoo. He stretched out on his bed, bare chested, abs flexing as he arched his back. The mirror across from him caught the movement, and he smirked at his own reflection. Not bad. Not bad at all.
The bathroom door creaked open, steam rolling out in a thick cloud. Out stepped Elliot, toweling off his dripping hair, glasses already fogged from the humidity. He was skinny in a way that suggested too many late nights hunched over textbooks and not enough time in the gym. Jake’s eyes flicked down—just boxers, same as him. The nerd had legs like twigs.
"Calculus final’s tomorrow," Jake said abruptly, rolling onto his side. "You’re acing that shit, right?"
Elliot paused, adjusting his glasses with one hand. "I mean, yeah, probably. You?"
Jake grinned, slow and easy. "Not yet."
Elliot barely had time to process the predatory shift in Jake's grin before the larger man lunged off the bed. A yelp escaped Elliot's throat as Jake's arm—corded with muscle that had no business being that defined—hooked around his neck, dragging him backward into a crushing headlock. The towel slipped from Elliot's grip, pooling at their feet.
"Relax, nerd," Jake murmured, his breath hot against Elliot's ear. The scent of cheap body wash and something darker—like ozone before a storm—clung to him. "Just need a little... Donation."
Elliot thrashed, elbows flailing uselessly against Jake's ribs, but the jock might as well have been made of stone. Then he felt it: the unmistakable press of Jake's fat cock against the small of his back, half-hard and insistent even through the thin fabric of their boxers. A strangled noise caught in Elliot's throat.
Elliot's pulse hammered against Jake's forearm like a trapped bird. His vision blurred at the edges—part panic, part something else he couldn't name—as Jake's grip tightened. The golden light spilling from his lips tasted like static, like the buzz of a fluorescent bulb seconds before it burns out.
"Easy," Jake rumbled, his voice vibrating through Elliot's spine. "Just breathe out."
Elliot couldn't. Not when Jake's other hand slid down his ribs, calloused fingers splaying over his stomach, pressing in like he was searching for something beneath the skin. The light coiled thicker now, twisting in the air between them, and Jake inhaled sharply—a deep, greedy pull that made Elliot's knees buckle.
Knowledge unspooled in his head like a frayed wire—formulas, theorems, the precise angle of a tangent line—only to be siphoned away mid-thought. Jake groaned, low and satisfied, as the stolen concepts settled behind his eyes. Elliot could *feel* them slotting into place inside the jock's skull, repurposed, rewritten.
"Fuck," Jake breathed, nuzzling into Elliot's damp hair. "You're *packed* in there."
Elliot's knees hit the floor with a dull thud, but Jake's grip kept him upright—barely. The golden light didn't just stream from Elliot's lips now; it pulsed in thick, viscous strands, like honey pulled from a comb. Jake's groan vibrated against Elliot's back, his hips rutting forward in shallow, involuntary thrusts. The heat of Jake's cock burned through the damp fabric of their boxers, leaving Elliot trapped between the unbearable pressure of the headlock and the insistent grind of Jake's arousal.
"God—*fuck*—" Jake's voice cracked as another surge of stolen knowledge slammed into him. Elliot's memories flickered behind his own eyelids—midnight cram sessions, the weight of a pencil between his teeth, the precise click of a calculator button—all of it dissolving into Jake's consciousness like sugar in hot tea. Jake's breath came in ragged bursts, his free hand clawing at Elliot's hip as if he could peel back skin and muscle to reach deeper, *take more*.
Elliot's vision swam. His thoughts—once sharp, orderly—now scattered like leaves in a storm. He could *feel* Jake inside his head, not just siphoning but *rearranging on him*, carving out chunks of his intellect to consume and leaving hollow spaces in their place. A whimper escaped him, weak and thready, but Jake only tightened his hold, his teeth grazing Elliot's cheek in a way that wasn't quite a bite but promised one.
"Shit, you're—" Jake's voice dropped to a growl, his hips jerking forward again.
Elliot's body arched sharply when he felt the blunt pressure against him—too dry, too sudden, the stretch burning in a way that made his vision whiten at the edges. Jake didn't pause, didn't ask, just *pushed*, his thick cockhead slick with precum but not enough, *never* enough, as it breached Elliot in one brutal shove. The golden light pouring from Elliot's lips stuttered into frantic, flickering bursts, his gasp dissolving into a choked whine as Jake bottomed out inside him with a groan that rattled through both their chests.
"Fuck, *fuck*—" Jake's voice was wrecked, his forehead pressed between Elliot's shoulder blades as he rocked deeper, adjusting to the clench of Elliot's body around him. The headlock loosened just enough for Jake to snake his other hand down Elliot's front, fingers splaying over his stomach as if he could feel the intrusion from the outside. "Knew you'd be tight. Knew you'd—*shit*—take it so good."
The golden light thickened again, surging from Elliot's mouth in a continuous stream now, Jake's lips sealing over it with obscene hunger. Every ragged breath Elliot tried to take only fed the transfer—his knowledge, his memories, even the weak flex of his underused muscles unraveling strand by strand into Jake's waiting mouth. Jake's hips jerked shallowly, the drag of his cock inside Elliot pulling another broken noise from him, the pain blurring into something hotter, sharper, as his body betrayed him and began to yield.
Jake chuckled, low and rough, his teeth scraping Elliot's shoulder. "Feel that? Your *brain* sliding down my throat." He punctuated the words with a slow, grinding thrust, his free hand slipping lower to palm Elliot's limp cock through his boxers. "Bet you never thought you'd get off like this, huh? Getting *eaten* alive."
Elliot's vision darkened at the edges, his thoughts reduced to static—no equations, no logic, just the overwhelming sensation of Jake filling him in every possible way. His hips twitched weakly into Jake's touch, his body reacting despite the terror clawing up his throat. Jake groaned approval, his fingers tightening around Elliot's cock as he rocked deeper, the wet slap of skin echoing in the small dorm room.
"Gonna make *so* much use of you," Jake murmured, his voice thick with stolen intellect. He dragged his tongue up the side of Elliot's neck, lapping at the sweat-slick skin like he could taste the last dregs of Elliot's intelligence pooling there. "Gonna walk into that test tomorrow and fucking *own* it. All thanks to you, nerd."
Elliot's knees trembled, his legs giving out completely as Jake's thrusts grew rougher, more erratic. The golden light flickered weakly now, thinning to pale wisps as Jake sucked the last of it down with a satisfied sigh. His grip shifted, fingers digging into Elliot's hips hard enough to bruise as he fucked into him with single-minded intensity, chasing his own release with the same ruthless efficiency he'd stolen Elliot's mind.
Elliot's body jolted with each thrust, his own neglected cock leaking pitifully against his stomach, his thoughts reduced to a hollow, echoing chamber where Jake's voice now lived, whispering *mine, mine, mine*.
Jake groaned, his hips stuttering as he buried himself to the hilt one last time, his cock pulsing deep inside Elliot's spent body. The sensation sent a final shudder through Elliot—a weak, reflexive clench around Jake's dick—as if his body still understood *something* was being stolen, even if his mind no longer could.
Jake shuddered against him, his breath hot and ragged against Elliot's nape, his fingers still tight around Elliot's limp cock. "God, you're *were*, perfect" Jake gasped, pressing a sloppy, possessive kiss to Elliot's slack jaw. "Gonna keep you around for *next* semester, too." He chuckled, low and dark, as he pulled out with a wet sound, letting Elliot crumple to the floor like a discarded sweater. Elliot's knees hit the hardwood with a dull thud, his body folding in on itself—his once-quick mind now a hollowed-out shell, his once-tense muscles slack and pliant.
Jake stepped back, admiring his own reflection in the mirror—his biceps fuller, his shoulders broader, his cock still slick with Elliot's sweat and his own cum. He flexed, watching the way his veins popped under his skin, the stolen strength settling into his body like it had always belonged there. He rolled his neck, cracking it sharply, and grinned down at Elliot's twitching form.
Elliot's glasses lay askew on his nose, his unfocused eyes staring blankly at Jake's feet. His lips moved soundlessly, trying—and failing—to form words. Jake crouched beside him, tilting Elliot's chin up with two fingers. The golden light had faded entirely now, leaving Elliot's skin pale and clammy, his breathing shallow. Jake traced a thumb over Elliot's slack lower lip, smirking.
"Bet you never thought *this* was how you'd help me study"
"Dude I said you had nothing on me, you are so fucking weak I didnt need to use any wrestling with you at all. Now, you're my bitch and I am starving, give me some of that energy you got, I bet your vital energy will look way better on me than wasted on a weak piece of shit."
Josh felt his very soul being plucked from deep inside him and squeezed of every bit of energy it had, only to be greedly drunk by his rival, the guy didnt show remorse has he drained a few years of his defeated colleage, swallowing and distributing all that vital energy to feed his flesh and make himself younger and stronger. That sip wouldnt be enough to kill Josh, but the pred never said he would drink from his life only this time...
bull breeding (m/m cockvore, str8)
Gabriel hated bullfights. He hated the way the crowd roared when the matador's sword finally plunged deep, hated the metallic stink of blood on hot sand, hated the way the dying animal's legs would buckle slow and confused before it collapsed. But Annah had begged—pleaded—with those big dark eyes of hers, clutching his arm in the café as she scrolled through her phone. "It's art," she'd insisted, tracing a fingertip over a photo of Emiliano Vega mid-pass, his sequined jacket catching the light like shattered glass. "Look at his form. It's like dance."
Now, sweat pooled at the small of Gabriel's back as they squeezed into their seats under the punishing Seville sun. The stadium smelled like fried dough and spilled beer. Annah bounced beside him, her knee jostling his, already half-drunk on sangria. "There he is!" she gasped, gripping Gabriel's thigh hard enough to bruise as the matadors paraded into the ring.
Emiliano moved like he owned the ground beneath him. The crowd erupted—women whistled, men bellowed—as he tossed his hat into the stands with a flick of his wrist. Gabriel watched, grudgingly fascinated, as the man's hips rolled with each step, the fabric of his obscenely tight pants straining with every shift. Then Emiliano turned his head, slow, deliberate, and Gabriel followed his gaze—right to Annah, who was clapping like a starstruck child.
The bull came charging. Emiliano didn’t flinch. Gabriel did. His fingers dug into the wooden bench as the beast’s horns grazed the toreador’s jacket—so close the sequins trembled. Annah let out a breathy gasp, her nails now biting into Gabriel’s forearm. "Did you see that?" she breathed. He had. He’d also seen how Emiliano’s eyes flicked to her again mid-dodge, how his smirk curled just for her.
The bull's hooves kicked up dust as it wheeled around, but Gabriel barely noticed. His gaze was fixed on the way Emiliano's crotch strained against the silk of his traje de luces—every vein, every contour pressed obscenely against fabric that looked painted on. The man wasn't just wearing the pants; he was testing their structural integrity. Gabriel swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of his own khaki shorts, his own… average proportions. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple—was the sun always this hot?
Their eyes met then. Emiliano's were black as the bull's hide, glinting with something that wasn't quite amusement. It was the look a panther gives a housecat. For three endless seconds, Gabriel forgot to breathe. The toreador's smirk widened—just a fraction—before he turned back to the bull with a flourish of his cape, leaving Gabriel gripping the edge of the bench like he might float away otherwise.
Annah's fingers dug into his arm again. "He's amazing," she breathed, her pupils blown wide. Gabriel watched her watch Emiliano, saw the flush creeping up her neck. He knew that look. It was the same one she'd given him that first night in Barcelona, when he'd stupidly tried to dance flamenco and ended up knocking over a pitcher of sangria. Except now, it was directed at a man who moved like sex and danger had a lovechild.
The crowd gasped as Emiliano executed a veronica so close the bull's horn tore a ribbon from his jacket. Gabriel's stomach clenched—not from fear, but from the sudden, humiliating realization that his palms were sweating for entirely the wrong reason. Every fluid twist of Emiliano's hips, every arrogant arch of his spine, felt like a personal indictment. This was what Annah deserved: someone who could command an arena, someone whose very posture screamed virility. Not some graphic designer from Milwaukee who thought "adventure" meant ordering the spicy paella.
The sword went in smooth—too smooth—like sliding a key into a well-oiled lock. One moment Emiliano was a statue draped in gold and white, the next his body arched backward as the bull's weight carried the blade deeper, the hilt pressing flush against matador ribs. The crowd's roar hit Gabriel like a physical wave, but what stuck with him was the sound: wet and thick, like a butcher separating tenderloin from bone.
Annah was on her feet before the bull's knees hit the sand, her hands pressed to her mouth. Gabriel watched her instead of the death throes—watched the way her throat moved when she swallowed, the way her fingers trembled against her lips. "They're giving him the ear," she whispered, as if sharing a secret. Gabriel didn't know what that meant, but Emiliano was kneeling now, accepting something dark and dripping from the judges' box while the band played.
A teenager in a stained apron materialized beside their seats, holding out a folded slip of paper.
Gabriel took it automatically. The paper smelled of citric perfume. Unfolding it revealed three words in looping cursive: La Puerta Roja. Below, a rough sketch of a bull's head crowned with roses.
Annah snatched it from his fingers before Gabriel could react. "La Puerta Roja," she read aloud, the syllables curling off her tongue like smoke. Her thumb traced the inked roses—crude but deliberate—and Gabriel saw the exact moment her brain connected the dots. Her breath hitched. "It's him."
Gabriel's stomach dropped. He wanted to say something—anything—but the teenager was already gone, vanished into the sea of sweaty spectators shoving toward the exits. The noise was unbearable now: drunk men bellowing, women laughing too high, vendors hawking bloody souvenirs. He caught a whiff of something rancid—bull’s blood drying on hot sand—and swallowed hard.
Annah wasn’t looking at him. Her gaze was locked on the arena floor, where Emiliano stood surrounded by admirers, his jacket unbuttoned to reveal a sweat-darkened shirt clinging to every ridge of his abdomen. Even from here, Gabriel could see the way his pants still hugged him obscenely, the fabric straining as he shifted his weight to accept another glass of sherry from a blushing older woman.
-
Gabriel woke to cold sheets and the muffled throb of a headache pressing against his temples. The digital clock on the nightstand blinked 9:47 AM in garish red—far later than they ever slept in. He reached blindly for Annah’s warmth, fingers grasping only rumpled linen still damp with sweat from last night’s… whatever that had been. The hotel room smelled of stale sangria and the sharp citrus of her perfume.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Three missed calls from Annah—all within the last hour. The screen lit up with a notification from Find My Friends, her pulsing dot lodged in the heart of the Triana district, a good fifteen minutes away by taxi. Gabriel sat up too fast, the room tilting. He jabbed at the address with a thumb that felt too thick. Callejón de las Flores, 12. The map zoomed in on a honey-colored villa crouched behind a wrought-iron gate, its terraces choked with bougainvillea.
The taxi ride was a blur of narrow streets and the driver’s cigarette smoke coiling thick in Gabriel’s lungs. He tipped too much, stumbled out onto cobblestones still slick from morning dew. The gate was unlocked. He pushed through, heels clicking too loud on the tiled path. Somewhere, a fountain burbled.
Then he heard it.
A high, keening wail—unmistakably Annah’s—cut through the heavy air. It crested, broke into ragged gasps, then dissolved into a string of Spanish so filthy even Gabriel’s half-remembered college classes couldn’t translate it. His feet moved before his brain could protest, carrying him up the staircase to a half-open balcony door. The sheer curtains billowed inward, carrying the scent of jasmine and something muskier, saltier.
The sound hit Gabriel like a physical blow—Annah's voice, raw and unraveling, tangled with Emiliano's low, taunting Spanish. He stood frozen in the doorway, the tiles cold under his bare feet, the curtains brushing his calves like ghostly fingers. Through the gap, he caught flashes of movement: Annah's bare back arching off rumpled silk sheets, Emiliano's bronzed hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave marks. The headboard slammed against the wall in a rhythm that made Gabriel's stomach clench. Thud. Thud. Thud. Each impact punctuated by Annah's gasping pleas.
"Más—por favor, más—"
Emiliano's laugh was dark, satisfied. "Tan pequeña para mí," he murmured, and Gabriel didn't need to understand the words to feel their meaning. The man's body blocked most of Annah from view, but Gabriel could see enough—the way Emiliano's shoulders flexed as he drove into her, the obscene slap of flesh meeting flesh, the way his low-hanging balls swung heavy with every thrust. The scent of sex and sweat thickened the air, cloying as honey.
Annah's fingers scrabbled at Emiliano's back, her nails leaving angry red trails. Her legs were hooked over his arms, spread obscenely wide, her heels digging into the dimples above his ass. Gabriel could see the exact moment Emiliano angled deeper—Annah's mouth fell open in a silent scream, her body bowing off the bed. Emiliano's smirk was all teeth as he watched her come apart, his hips never slowing. "Mira cómo lloras por mi polla," he purred, thumbing at her clit in rough circles. Annah sobbed, her thighs trembling.
Gabriel's knees threatened to buckle. He'd never heard her make sounds like that—guttural, needy, like an animal in heat. The wet squelch of Emiliano's cock plunging into her overstimulated cunt was louder than the fountain below. Saliva pooled under Gabriel's tongue; he couldn't swallow past the knot in his throat. Emiliano's strokes grew erratic, his breath coming in harsh grunts. One hand fisted in Annah's hair, yanking her head back to expose the bruise-dark love bites littering her throat. "Grita para mí," he ordered.
Annah's scream crested—raw, primal—as her body bowed off the sheets, her thighs clamping around Emiliano's hips like a vise. Gabriel watched, transfixed, as the toreador's smirk widened, his hands tightening on her waist before he pulled out with a wet pop that echoed obscenely in the tiled room. Emiliano's cock glistened in the morning light, thick and uncut, the veins standing proud like rope under sun-darkened skin. It twitched—pulsed—as he turned toward Gabriel, the tip already beading with fresh arousal.
"Tu puta tiene un coño delicioso," Emiliano murmured, stroking himself lazily as Annah whimpered behind him, her fingers still clutching at the rumpled silk. His balls hung heavy between his thighs, the sac drawn tight and flushed dark. "Tan fértil… no pude resistirme." The admission curled through the air like smoke, settling hot in Gabriel's lungs.
Gabriel's knees locked. He should run. Should scream. But his eyes were fixed on the way Emiliano's cock moved—not just hardening, but swelling, the flesh rippling unnaturally as it thickened beyond human proportion. The head ballooned grotesquely, the slit parting wetly as the shaft elongated, veined and throbbing like some monstrous breeding tool.
Emiliano sighed, rolling his shoulders as if stretching after a long match. "Gasté demasiada energía hoy," he mused, stepping closer. The floorboards groaned under his weight—or was it the weight of it, that obscene flesh now swaying at Gabriel's eye level? "Necesito llenar mis huevos para darle lo que merece a tu puta."
Gabriel stumbled back, his heel catching on the threshold. The curtains tangled around his ankles as Emiliano's cock twitched, the tip glistening with something thicker than precum. It lunged.
The impact knocked the breath from Gabriel's lungs. Heat—wet, suffocating heat—enveloped his face as the slit yawned wide, the inner flesh pulsing greedily around his skull. He thrashed, nails scraping at Emiliano's thighs, but the toreador merely chuckled, his hands settling on Gabriel's shoulders like a lover's. "Si…Más movimiento… joder…" he crooned, hips rolling lazily.
The swallow was inexorable. Each desperate twist of Gabriel's body only spurred the hungry undulations of Emiliano's flesh, the muscles milking him deeper with slick, rhythmic contractions. His shoulders disappeared into the weeping slit, the heat unbearable now, the air thick with the musk of cum.
Emiliano moaned, head tipping back as Gabriel's waist vanished inside him. "Sí… nutricioso…" His free hand drifted to Annah's thigh, fingers splaying possessively over the red marks he'd left earlier. "Haré mi leche más potente para ella… para todas mi putas."
Gabriel's ribs creaked under the pressure. His vision swam—black spots blooming at the edges—as Emiliano's cock swallowed him to the hips. The flesh around him rippled, squeezed, wringing a choked sob from his throat. The sound was muffled, drowned in slick meat.
The toreador sighed, satisfied, stroking the bulge in his shaft where Gabriel writhed. "Te haré mejor," he murmured, thumbing the tip where Gabriel's shape distorted the skin. "Parte de un hombre real." His other hand tangled in Annah's hair, dragging her close until her lips brushed the weeping slit. "Chúpalo," he ordered. "Ayúdalo a disolverse."
Annah obeyed without hesitation. Her tongue flicked out, lapping at the slickness beading around Gabriel's trapped form. Emiliano shuddered, his cock twitching around its meal, the walls convulsing tighter. Gabriel's movements grew sluggish—weaker—his body succumbing to the heat, to the enzymes seeping into his skin.
Emiliano groaned, tilting his hips to feed more. "Sí… así…" His voice was thick, drunk on the sensation of Gabriel's body breaking down inside him. Annah sucked greedily, her cheeks hollowing, her fingers kneading Emiliano's swollen balls as they churned with fresh seed.
Emiliano exhaled through his nose—a slow, satisfied sound like a bull settling after a kill. His hand drifted downward, fingers splaying over the taut swell of his gut where Gabriel's shape had long since dissolved into nothing but nutrients. The skin there was stretched glossy, veins mapping the surface like rivers of ink. His other hand cupped the obscene weight of his balls, now swollen to the size of cantaloupes, heavy with molten seed thickened by Gabriel's essence. He squeezed experimentally, and a thick pearl of cum welled at his tip, glistening in the morning light.
Annah watched, lips parted, as Emiliano's body changed. His shoulders broadened, muscle layering over muscle in visible undulations beneath his skin. The veins along his arms thickened, snaking up toward his collarbones like living things. When he flexed, the sound of sinew rearranging itself was audible—a wet, organic click that made Annah's thighs press together.
"Mira lo que me diste," Emiliano murmured, dragging a thumb through the spill on his stomach before pressing it between Annah's lips. She sucked greedily, her tongue lapping at the salt-bitter taste of Gabriel's dissolved proteins, now laced with Emiliano's musk. The flavor burst across her tongue—hot and metallic, like licking a fresh wound.
Emiliano's laugh was a low rumble as he palmed his cock, now thicker, darker, the veins standing proud like cables. "Tan hambrienta," he mused, watching her swallow. His hips rolled forward, the tip of his cock nudging her bottom lip. "Abre."
Annah obeyed without hesitation, her mouth stretching wide around the swollen head. Emiliano groaned as her tongue swirled along the slit, lapping at the pre-cum already beading there—thick as syrup, warm as blood. His fingers tangled in her hair, guiding her deeper, until her nose pressed into the wiry curls at his base. Her throat fluttered around him, the muscles working instinctively even as tears welled in her lashes.
"Buen chica," Emiliano praised, his free hand drifting to his balls—now heavy as ripe fruit, swinging with every shallow thrust into Annah's mouth. The sac was tight, hot to the touch, the skin stretched thin over the churning load inside. He squeezed experimentally, and Annah whimpered around his cock as a fresh pulse of pre-cum flooded her throat.
The nutrients from Gabriel's body had done their work. Emiliano could feel it in the way his muscles knit tighter, in the new ridges of sinew rising along his forearms like living armor. When he flexed, the veins along his biceps snaked outward, branching like dark rivers beneath his skin. He exhaled through his nose—slow, satisfied—as Annah's saliva dripped down his shaft, her efforts growing sloppier, more desperate.
"Ya basta," he decided suddenly, pulling free with a wet pop. Annah gasped, her lips slick and swollen, her chin glistening. Emiliano's smirk was all teeth as he hauled her up by the hair, her body arching against his. "Ahora," he purred, his palm pressing flat against her stomach, "quiero sentir cómo te lleno."
Annah's thighs trembled as he lifted her effortlessly, her legs hooking around his waist. The head of his cock nudged against her entrance, already slick with her arousal—and something else, something thicker, hotter, the promise of what churned inside his swollen balls. Emiliano exhaled sharply through his nose as he sheathed himself in one smooth thrust, the stretch drawing a ragged cry from Annah's throat.
"Dios—!" Her fingers scrabbled at his shoulders, nails biting into the new muscle there. Emiliano groaned, his hips snapping forward, driving her back into the mattress. The bedframe creaked under the force, the headboard slamming against the wall in a rhythm that matched the wet slap of flesh on flesh.
Like many of other girls Emiliano has claimed he would fill her womb with his thick cum, she would carry one of his baby boys like all the other whores he seduced after consuming their boyfriends and husbands. She is just one more on the list of lovely couple he ruined.
The alley smelled like piss and stale beer, but Peter Parker barely noticed. His whole body buzzed with a different kind of awareness—the gnawing emptiness in his gut, the dull ache in his swollen balls begging for sustenance. Three days. Three days since his last meal, and his web fluid was starting to look more like sad strands of spit than the thick, sticky ropes he relied on.
He crouched on the brick wall above the alley, fingertips clinging effortlessly as he scanned the shadows. A laugh echoed from below—wet, nervous, followed by the rhythmic sound of skin on skin. Peter tilted his head. Some pervert was jerking off behind a dumpster. Perfect.
"Hey buddy," Peter called down, flipping upside down to dangle by his knees. The guy yelped, scrambling to shove himself back into his pants. "Whoa, easy! No judgment here." Peter pulled off his mask just enough to reveal his grin, letting the pheromones seep into the air. The guy blinked up at him, confused, then inhaled sharply as the scent hit him—musky, sweet and impossible to resist.
"You, uh... you wanna kiss?" Peter asked, like it was the most normal question in the world. The guy hesitated, then nodded dumbly. Peter leaned down, catching his mouth in a deep, filthy kiss. His tongue pushed past slack lips, dripping thick saliva laced with even more potent pheromones. The guy moaned, hips jerking forward helplessly as heat flooded his body.
Peter could feel the man's pulse racing under his fingertips, the eager way his throat worked as he swallowed every drop of spit Peter fed him. It was always like this—the pheromones turned them pliant for whatever he gave them. His cock, still tucked inside his suit, twitched impatiently. The transformation was already starting, the base of his shaft thickening at an alarming rate, his body prepared to consume his prey.
The man whimpered when Peter finally broke the kiss, strings of saliva still connecting their lips. "You taste so fucking good," Peter murmured, licking his own lips. His voice dropped to a growl. "I need more than that, tho."
He reached down, peeling his suit open just enough to free his cock. It wasn't impressive yet—just eight inches of flushed, leaking flesh—but he could feel the heat building in his balls, the ache of expansion. The man's eyes flicked up, then widened as Peter's shaft pulsed, swelling thicker with every heartbeat.
"Oh god," the man choked out, but it wasn't fear in his voice—it was raw, pheromone-drunk want. His hands twitched toward Peter's cock like he couldn't help himself.
Peter hissed through his teeth as the man’s fingers wrapped around his cock—too tight, too eager—but the sting melted into pleasure as his body responded on instinct. His balls churned, the empty ache inside them sharpening into a gnawing demand. "That’s it," he breathed, watching his cock twitch and swell under the man’s touch. Veins bulged along the shaft as it thickened, the skin stretching taut. Eight inches became ten, then twelve, the head bloating obscenely as his slit yawned wider. The man’s breath hitched, his grip faltering as his fingers couldn’t even meet around the girth anymore.
"Shhh," Peter soothed, though his own voice was ragged with hunger. He caught the man’s wrist, guiding his hand away just as his cock gave another violent pulse. The piss slit gaped, wet and glistening, the inner walls already rippling with peristaltic motions. "You’re gonna help me so much." The man’s pupils were blown wide, his lips parted around shallow, pheromone-drunk pants. He didn’t resist as Peter tilted his hips forward, the swollen head of his cock nudging against the man’s cheek.
The first swallow was always the best. Peter groaned as his slit stretched around the man’s head, the tight heat of his throat a perfect contrast to the cool night air. The man gasped, hands flying up to clutch at Peter’s thighs as his skull was engulfed in one slick, inexorable slide. His shoulders followed, his chest, the tight squeeze of his ribs making Peter’s cock throb with satisfaction. Pre-cum dripped thick and hot down the man’s back, the excess already lubing the way for the rest of him.
Peter arched his back, a shudder running through him as the man’s hips disappeared inside him. His balls, heavy and eager, were already churning, preparing to receive their meal. He could feel every twitch, every desperate squirm as the man’s legs kicked uselessly in the open air. "Almost there," Peter murmured, running a hand over the bulging outline of his own cock. The man’s feet were the last to go, his toes curling reflexively before they, too, were swallowed whole.
Peter exhaled sharply as the last of the man slid inside him, his cock bulging obscenely with the full outline of a human body now packed tight within the throbbing shaft. His balls, already swollen to the size of cantaloupes, gave a hungry gurgle as they welcomed the fresh weight settling into them. The man’s movements were frantic at first—kicking, twisting—but the rhythmic contractions of Peter’s inner walls soon had him stilling, his struggles melting into sluggish twitches as the pheromones and heat did their work.
"Ohhh, fuck," Peter groaned, rolling his hips experimentally. The man’s shape pressed deliciously against his insides, every shift sending sparks of pleasure up his spine. He could feel the guy’s heartbeat fluttering against his cock walls, rapid at first, then slower, steadier, as the digestive fluids seeped into him. Peter licked his lips, imagining the man’s skin softening, his muscles breaking down into rich, thick nutrients that would fuel his own body for a couple of days more.
His spider-sense prickled at the back of his neck—someone was coming. Peter glanced toward the alley entrance, but his usual urgency was dulled by the sheer fullness of his cock, the satisfaction humming through his veins. Still, he couldn’t risk being seen like this. With a grunt, he shot a web upward, hauling himself and his engorged cock onto the rooftop. The movement made his testicles lurch pleasantly, the man’s body shifting inside him with a wet, sloshing sound.
Up here, under the moonlight, Peter could finally relax. He sprawled back against the gravel, one hand lazily stroking the massive curve of his cock while the other cupped his balls, feeling them churn and gurgle as they got to work. The man inside him was little more than a bulge now, his outline blurring as the digestive process accelerated. Peter’s mouth watered at the thought—all that protein, all that energy—just for him.
Peter sighed as he rubbed the massive swell of his cock, feeling the man inside twitch weakly—his last reflexive jerks before digestion really took everything. Sometimes, in moments like these, he couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. Here he was, New York’s beloved friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, and yet his body demanded a sacrifice every few days just to keep him swinging between skyscrapers. One guy—one whole, living, breathing person—reduced to nothing more than nutrients sloshing in his balls. The irony wasn’t lost on him.
He’d tried alternatives at first, back when the hunger had first started gnawing at him. Protein shakes, raw steaks, entire tubs of whey—none of it worked. His body burned through regular food like kindling, leaving him hollow and desperate within hours. The first time he’d accidentally swallowed a mugger whole—well, that had been terrifying. But the relief? The sheer, overwhelming satisfaction? That had been impossible to ignore. His spider DNA didn’t just want meat—it wanted people. And once he’d accepted that, well… it wasn’t like New York was short creeps no one would miss.
Muscle theft
The whistle around Coach Halgren’s neck hadn’t left his skin in seventeen years. It dangled there now, nestled in the coarse gray hair of his chest, as he paced the length of his office. The thing was practically fused to him—a second heartbeat, a third nipple. He’d blown it so many times his lips had memorized the shape of the metal.
Outside, the football field was empty except for the late afternoon shadows stretching long across the turf. Halgren liked this time of day. The quiet. The way the setting sun turned everything gold, like the world was made of trophies. He flexed his hands, the knuckles popping like gunfire. Sixty-two years old and still built like a brick shithouse, as his ex-wife used to say. Not that she’d said it kindly.
The knock at the door was timid. Too timid. Halgren scowled before he even turned around. “Enter.”
The kid who shuffled in was exactly what Halgren had expected: thin wrists, thick glasses, a backpack that looked like it weighed more than he did. Ethan something-or-other. The school’s resident tattletale. The boy’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Coach Halgren, sir. You, um. You wanted to see me?”
Halgren exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, like a bull deciding whether to charge. The kid—Ethan—flinched at the sound. "Sit," Halgren growled, jerking his chin toward the folding chair opposite his desk. Ethan scurried to obey, his sneakers squeaking against the linoleum. The chair groaned under his negligible weight.
"You filed a complaint," Halgren said, leaning forward, his massive forearms resting on the desk. The wood creaked in protest. "Against my quarterback."
Ethan's fingers twisted in his lap. "Y-yes, sir. He, um. He shoved me into a locker. Twice. And then he—"
"I know what he did." Halgren's voice was a low rumble, the kind that vibrated in your bones. "What I don't know is why you thought running to the principal was the play."
Ethan’s mouth opened, then closed, like a fish yanked from water. His fingers dug into the fabric of his jeans. "Because—because it hurt," he whispered.
Halgren’s laugh was a landslide—deep, sudden, and utterly humorless. "Hurt?" He pushed back from the desk, the chair rolling on uneven wheels. "You think a little pain’s worth benching my best player? Worth costing this team the championship?" He stood, looming over Ethan like a storm cloud. The kid’s glasses slipped down his nose, and he didn’t dare push them back up.
A drop of sweat traced Ethan’s temple. Halgren watched it slide, slow and fat, down to his jawline. The boy smelled like cheap fear. Halgren inhaled, nostrils flaring, but there was something else beneath it—something sweet: youth.
Halgren’s tongue dragged across his teeth. "You ever hear of lodge pole pines, kid?"
Ethan blinked, his fingers twitching against his thighs. "The—the trees?"
Halgren's grin split his face like an axe wound. "See, lodge poles don’t grow unless fire clears out the deadwood." He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing Ethan whole. "Weak things burn. Strong things thrive." His hand shot out, fingers like vise clamps around Ethan’s chin, forcing his head back. The boy gasped, glasses askew, his pulse thrumming wild against Halgren’s thumb.
Something in the air thickened—not sweat, not fear, but the electric hum of a storm gathering. Ethan’s breath hitched as Halgren’s grip tightened. His skin prickled, then burned, as if the coach’s fingers were branding him. A golden glow seeped from Ethan’s pores, swirling like mist in the fading sunlight. His sneakers kicked uselessly against the floor, his legs turning limp as wet rope.
Halgren inhaled, slow and deep, nostrils flaring. The golden light coiled toward him, drawn into his mouth like smoke. His skin drank it in—first his lips, then his cheeks, then his throat—until his whole body shimmered with his victim's vitality. Ethan’s glasses slipped off entirely, clattering to the floor. His pupils dilated, black swallowing blue, as his essence unraveled.
The boy’s fingers twitched, clutching at Halgren’s wrist. His grip was weak. Weaker. The skin of his hands thinned, veins standing out like ink strokes on parchment. His nails grayed, then cracked, flaking away like old paint. The backpack slumped off his shoulders, collapsing into a heap of denim and canvas—empty, now, of anything resembling flesh.
Halgren exhaled through his nose, steam curling from his nostrils. His shoulders broadened, the seams of his polo shirt straining. Silver streaks dissolved from his hair, replaced by thick, chestnut waves. His crow’s feet smoothed; his knuckles lost their arthritic swell. Ethan’s final breath left him in a sigh, his body collapsing entirely into dust.
The dust settled on the floorboards. Halgren flexed his hands, watching tendons slide beneath rejuvenated skin. He rolled his neck, relishing the absence of its usual pop. The whistle around his neck gleamed, polished by some unseen hand. He scooped Ethan’s glasses off the floor, holding them up to the light. The lenses were spotless. Useless, now.
Hey guys I'm making this story just to show off how much Jac-, Jared... Jason? I don't fucking remember his name, so many sacrifices offering to become part of me that I really can't keep tabs on their names anymore. Anyways, when I finish assimilating him his brain will add to mine, his memories will be too, so I won't be able to forget it even if I want... ANYWAYS, the dude had some descent muscles on him! He'd gave me some solid mass to absorb, look at this, like I'm on pump 24h. NICE!
You know guys, I couldn't be perfect like I am without having you letting yourselves be devoured, consumed and added to me, each day I am getting closer to become a fucking god I deserve to be! So fuckers, I want you all to subscribe to my diet and train plan as fast as you can, I need you to be in the best shape to add yourselves to me, I want the most shredded mother fuckers adding all that potential to ME. So stop eating your fucking carbs and go train, inject as much trembo you can, and remember that everything you are doing is to GIVE ME EVERYTHING YOU ARE AND WILL EVER BE. MAKE ME A FUCKING GOD.
Common guys, a pred gotta evolve, ya' know? Anyways...
Ty guys, till next offering, and that one needs to habe at least a decent 8 inches dick to add to mine!
Mason leaned against the brick wall outside Devon's Club, the neon purple sign above him casting an ethereal glow over his chiseled physique. His chest, sculpted like a god’s, rose and fell with slow, deliberate breaths. He wore only his pants, the waistband slung low, revealing the V of his hips. His abs rippled faintly as he flexed, the hunger inside him gnawing at every fiber of his being. It wasn’t just physical hunger—it was something deeper, darker. He craved life. And he knew how to get it.
His eyes scanned the street, the thumping bass from the club vibrating through the pavement. People stumbled in and out, laughing too loud, stumbling too much. Easy prey. Mason smirked, his full lips curling into a predatory grin. He didn’t need to hunt; he only needed to lure. His body was his weapon, a masterpiece he’d honed with every stolen breath, every stolen soul. And tonight, it was working perfectly.
A guy caught his eye—tall, lean, a little too drunk, a little too wide-eyed. Mason tilted his head, his dark hair falling just enough to frame his piercing gaze. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His presence alone was a siren call, and the guy was already walking toward him, drawn like a moth to a flame.
“Hey,” the guy slurred, his voice cracking. “You, uh… you waiting for someone?”
Mason’s smirk deepened. He leaned back further against the wall, his biceps bulging as he crossed his arms. “Depends,” he purred, his voice low, smooth, and dripping with confidence. “You offering?”
The guy blinked, swaying slightly on his feet. “I mean… I don’t know. You look like… you’re not from around here.”
Mason chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that made the guy’s knees wobble. “I’m not from anywhere,” he said, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous light. “Just passing through. Looking for… something.”
“Something?” the guy echoed, his voice barely above a whisper.
Mason pushed off the wall, closing the distance between them in one fluid step. He was taller, broader, his presence overwhelming. “Someone,” he corrected, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Someone who’s willing to give me what I need.”
The guy swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “And what do you need?”
Mason’s hand shot out, grabbing the guy’s wrist with a firm but not painful grip. “Your energy,” he said, his voice a silky blend of menace and seduction. “Your essence. Your very life.”
The guy’s eyes widened, but he didn’t pull away. Mason could feel the rapid thrum of his pulse beneath his fingers, the heat of his skin. He leaned in, his breath ghosting over the guy’s ear. “Don’t worry,” he murmured. “I’ll make it… pleasurable.”
A shiver ran through the guy’s body, and Mason knew he had him. He guided him into the alley, the darkness swallowing them whole. The neon light from the club faded, replaced by the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the cracks of the buildings. Mason pressed the guy against the wall, his body pinning him in place.
“What’s your name?” Mason asked, his lips brushing against his prey’s neck.
“J-Jake,” the guy stammered.
“Jake,” Mason repeated, savoring the sound. “You’re going to give me everything, aren’t you?”
Jake nodded, his breath hitching as Mason’s hands roamed over his chest, his touch electric. Mason could feel the life force within Jake, a pulsing, vibrant energy begging to be taken. He leaned in, his lips hovering over Jake’s. “Good boy,” he whispered before capturing his mouth in a searing kiss.
It started slow, almost tender, but Mason’s hunger quickly took over. His tongue delved deep, claiming Jake’s mouth with a fervor that left him gasping. His hands slid under Jake’s shirt, fingers tracing the lines of his trembling body. And then, he began to take.
A faint, golden glow emanated from where their skin touched, tendrils of energy flowing from Jake into Mason. It was intoxicating, the pure vitality seeping into his veins, filling him with an indescribable high. Mason moaned into the kiss, his grip tightening as he drank deeper, faster. Jake’s body went limp, but Mason held him up, his strength unyielding.
When he finally pulled away, Jake slumped against the wall, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Mason stepped back, his body radiating with newfound power. He flexed his arms, his muscles seeming even more pronounced, more alive. He ran a hand through his hair, a satisfied smirk curling his lips.
“You should feel honored,” he said, his voice dripping with arrogance. “Most people don’t get to experience this.”
Jake managed a weak nod, his eyes glazed over. Mason tilted his head, studying him.Mason’s smirk widened as he felt the final strands of energy coil around him, but he wasn’t done. His hunger wasn’t just for life force—it was for everything. He pressed his body against Jake’s weakening frame, their forms merging in a way that defied logic. Jake’s weight, his essence, even the inches of his manhood, began to melt into Mason, absorbed into his own already titanic physique. Mason’s chest expanded, his pecs swelling even fuller, the ridges of his abs deepening as he took everything Jake had to offer. His shoulders broadened, his arms thickened, and his pants strained against the growing bulge between his legs as Jake’s stolen inches added to his own already monstrous size.
Mason groaned, a sound of pure ecstasy, as the transformation completed. He stepped back, towering over Jake’s now shrunken, hollowed-out form. His cock pulsed beneath his pants, now even more colossal, a testament to his dominance. He ran a hand down his chest, his fingers tracing the bulging sinew of his new, even more perfected form. “You should feel honored,” he purred, his voice thicker, more commanding. “Your body is now part of something godlike.”
Jake became but a weak echo in the pred's head, his voice a faint whisper. “W-what did you do to me?”
Mason laughed, low and dark. “Improved you,” he said, flexing his arms with a ripple of power. “Your mass, your strength—it’s all mine now. You’ve become perfection… through me.” He glanced down at his pants, the outline of his newly enhanced cock unmistakable. “You had a little something I needed,” he added with a smirk. “Hope you don’t mind—I’ll put it to better use.”
With one final, predatory look, Mason turned away, leaving Jake's empty clothes scattered below the wall, a hint of what happened to him. Mason radiated strength, his every movement exuding a raw, vital energy. He was a predator, a god among men, and he was just getting enjoying his superior existence.
He turned away, his chest swelling with pride. Another conquest. Another soul to add to his collection. He could feel it—the stolen vitality coursing through him, making him stronger, more perfect. He glanced down at his reflection in a puddle, admiring the way the moonlight caught the definition of his abs, the curve of his biceps.
As he walked back toward the club, the hunger began to stir again. It was never enough. He always wanted more. His eyes scanned the crowd once more, his predatory instincts already zeroing in on his next target. A girl this time, perhaps? Or maybe another guy. It didn’t matter. They were all the same in the end—just vessels for his insatiable appetite.
But then, a voice cut through the din. “Hey, big guy. You look like you could use some company.”
Mason turned, his smirk returning. A woman stood there, her hips cocked, her eyes gleaming with challenge. She was gorgeous, confident—just the way he liked them.
“You have no idea,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.
The woman grinned, stepping closer. “Why don’t you show me?”
Mason’s hunger roared to life, and he reached out, his fingers brushing against her arm. “Oh, I will,” he promised, his eyes locking onto hers. “But first, tell me something…”
“What’s that?” she asked, her voice teasing.
“Are you ready to give me everything?”
She hesitated, her confidence faltering for just a moment. But then she smiled, her hand resting on his chest. “Take it,” she whispered.
Mason’s grin widened, and he pulled her close, his lips hovering over hers. “As you wish.”
WELL, I am surprised that it got exactly what I wanted, its gonna be an amazing nice story