#Steroid Half-Life

[steroidjuicebar]

Appropriate Dosage of Steroid Half-Life

Steroid half-life refers to the time it takes for half of a steroid compound to be metabolized and eliminated from the body. It is an important pharmacokinetic parameter that determines the duration of action and dosing frequency of steroids. The half-life can vary depending on the specific steroid used, with some having shorter half-lives and others having longer ones. Understanding the half-life of a steroid is crucial for optimizing its therapeutic effects and minimizing potential side effects. It helps healthcare professionals determine the appropriate dosage regimen and timing for administering steroids to achieve the desired clinical outcomes.

[tj-crochets]

Hey y'all! Just a heads up that my asthma flareup got bad enough for my "uh oh" medication, which is really really effective but sometimes eats my words a little bit. I am okay and already feeling waaaaay better after the first dose, but if something I post in the next week or so** does not make sense or seems like I'm implying something kinda mean or whatever, please have patience with me and ask for clarification. It sometimes takes me a few times to reword it to be legible, but usually I can figure out how to fix it if I keep trying*. Thank you!! *even if sometimes that means saying something like "firetruck people" instead of "firefighters" lol **posting this 7/24/23

[mars-ipan]

having to get infusions as part of my treatment plan as someone with a huge dislike for ivs is kinda evil

[r4spb3rr13s]

pro heroes meeting their feisty, mcbling gf

♱ bakugou, kirishima, midoriya, dabi

♱ pt.2 here pt.3 here

note: it’s me, i’m the feisty mcbling gf 😞

Katsuki has been on shift for what feels like hours. In reality… well it has been hours. He’s been patrolling a smaller, more mundane part of Tokyo, where all he’s done is help little old ladies with their groceries and scold kids for trying to steal candy.

He was dying to get home.

So, when he heard a scream five minutes from patrol ending, the groan he let out was loud, unprofessional and frankly, really douche-y of him. But still, he flew towards the alley it echoed from.

He turned the corner, expecting a damsel in distress…

Only to see you.

Beating a man with a Juicy Couture suede bag, wobbling on platform sandals.

While this man lets out the girliest, highest-pitched screams Katsuki has ever heard in his life.

“That’s.” Hit. “What.” Hit. “You.” Hit. “Get!” Big hit!

Katsuki blinks out of his trance and takes a booming step toward you. “What the fuck’s goin on?”

You gasp and look up, and Katsuki swears his heart is echoing out of his chest.

Your s/c skin is everywhere, from your jean shorts to the cleavage practically spilling out your leopard print zip-up, and as you straighten up, he catches a glimpse of a belly ring that makes him gulp.

Your hair frames your face with a pair of sunglasses at the top of your head, showing off a fantastic scowl. Glittery eyes are met with furrowed brows, decorated with piercings-galore on your face, and two big hoops either side of your head.

“This prick!” You punctuate it with a nudge of your painted-pink toe, “Tried to rob me! I kneed him in his tiny balls.”

Katsuki raises a brow. You take a minute to glare at the guy, still whimpering, before you strut towards him with narrowed eyes.

You hate to admit it, but Dynamight was hotter in real life. Soot is smeared on his cheek and the scowl on his face sends his ruby-red lasers shooting through you.

“What? You have a staring problem?” You ask with a hand on your hip. Every ounce of confidence you’re letting off is soooo clearly fake right now, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

He shakes his head and looks around you to the poor guy on the floor. He’s not going anywhere, still curled up in a feral position and cradling his nads.

Katsuki sweats.

“Alright, sweetheart-”

You try to pretend it doesn’t make your heart skip a beat.

“Sweetheart?” He freezes and looks down at your cocked brow. “At least take me out for a drink first, Mr. Dynamight, c’mon.”

He clears his throat awkwardly, “Shit- sorry, I didn’t- look, you’re okay, right? No injuries?”

You’re inspecting your nails at this point, trying to avoid looking at the muscles in his hero costume. “Huh? Nah, but he should probably get checked out. Am I good to go?”

You sound eager to leave, but you make no move to when he nods.

Instead, you stand, scrutinising him with crossed arms. Katsuki hates to admit it, but even standing a whole foot taller than you, you’re making the blond blush.

“Okay, what? You need somethin’?” He gruffly says.

You glance back at the idiot still on the floor, and he flinches at your gaze.

“You don’t need my number for a report or somethin’?”

The words leave your mouth sooner than you can stop them, but you keep your face cool as your turn around. God, you need a smoke after this.

Katsuki’s hearts skips a beat, but his lip quirks up and he huffs out a chuckle. He reaches into one his pockets, and passes you his phone.

He’s still blushing, but God that man is grinning as well.

:::

Eijiro is mid-lat pulldown when he hears you through the full blast of his headphones. Being the manly pro he is, he takes an earbud out to hear the commotion.

“When I say fuck off, I mean fuck off! What part of that isn’t get through your thick skull?”

Eijiro watched as you scream in a steroid-fueled gym-bro’s face. You’re jabbing a pink nail in his chest, neon pink shorts matching to a sports bra and a small hoodie on your top half.

He gets off the machine, and a loud clang echoes through the gym - you don’t even notice.

“What, too much muscle blocking your brain from working?”

The guy is getting ready to respond, an ugly, violent grimace on his face. As Eijiro steps behind you and crosses his arms, the guy thinks twice.

He nods at you, and turns away, practically running.

You huff and tuck a loose piece of hair behind your hair.

“What was that?”

You jump at the voice and spin around with a shout. A chest- Jesus Christ, he’s tall. You’re face-to-chest with a man covered in muscle, a sharp-toothed smile and spiky, red hair to match it.

“Oh!”

…

…

He raises a brow and smiles at you.

A blush is fighting it’s way onto your face, but you’re too cool for that. Way too cool. So you clear your throat and stop staring at his adorable face for a minute.

“He wasn’t taking no for an answer,” You huff and cross your arms.

Eijiro frowns, “Shit, that sucks. Do you come here often?”

…

It’s your turn to raise a brow.

His face turns as red as his hair when he realises how stupid that sounded. It’s weirdly endearing watching such a large man blush and panic in front of you.

“N-no, like, I can get him banned if you’re a regular. I know the owners, so-”

“Where do I know you from?” You cut him off, doing mental gymnastics.

Eijiro freezes as he watches you. Your thick lashes touch your brows as you go wide-eyed, staring at him intently. So intently, he’s terrified to move a muscle.

You click your fingers and point a sparkly nail at his chest, “Red Riot! I knew I recognised you from somewhere.”

He grins and shrugs. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“I mean,” You trail off for a minute, using all your self-restraint to not blush or stutter in front of this fine-ass man, “if you ever wanted to come to rescue again, I could just give you my number?”

Eijiro has never grabbed his phone faster in his life.

:::

Izuku has been caught in the midst of little fans. Children are detaching themselves from parents, flying away from friend groups to crowd around for his autograph. He’s reminded again why he always wears a cap and glasses when he goes to the mall.

He just needed to pick up a pair of boxers, for Gods sake.

A little boy comes hurtling at him, but such is the norm. What he doesn’t see is the girl sprinting after him- sprinting in platform heels that is.

Jeans cling to you tighter than your zebra print top, and the tiny handbag on your shoulder keeps slipping down. Every step you take is a loud jingle with the massive array of jewellery you have on, and star-shaped clips in your hair keep slipping out.

“Deku! You’re the coole-”

“Isamu! Get back here!” You screech. Your sister was going to kill you if she knew the one time you took your nephew out for a little trip to the mall, you lost him.

Watching him talk to a stranger was almost the cherry on top.

You come to a skidding stop, somehow not hurtling over on your open-toed death machines, and grab the 5 year old by the armpits. Isamu let’s out an excited shriek and smiles at you.

Then he points to the guy.

That guy being the number one hero in Japan.

You nearly drop your nephew.

“Oh my God-”

“I’m so sorry-”

You both speak at the same time, then shut up, and just stare at each other like two idiots. He’s not in his costume - duh, idiot, he’s at the mall?- but he looks just as good as he does with his face plastered all over Tokyo.

Strong arms are straining the seams of his black shirt, and his dark hair is brushing the nape of his neck- it looks so soft-

“I’m really sorry, I should have come out with my hat on, sunglasses-”

“Please do not apologise for looking that good,” You mutter and roll your eyes. Then you freeze. Then you both look at each other, while you nibble your lip and smear your lipgloss everywhere.

“Deku! Can I have your auto map!” Isamu screeches from your arms, wiggling like a worm. It’s getting hard to hold him, so you plop him down and hold his hand instead.

“Autograph, buddy, not auto map,” You whisper in his ear.

Izuku’s heart skips a beat. You are gorgeous, silly and amazing with kids- I mean, what else could he really ask for?

He nods and crouched to Isamu’s height.

“Who am I making it out to, then?”

Isamu screams his government name so loud you want to cover your ears, but you just smile awkwardly at Izuku crouching under you.

He looks at you with his big, doe eyes and a soft smile. “What about you?”

“Oh, no, I don’t want an autograph-”

“Your name?”

Oh shit. You mutter it and watch with a smile as the pro scrawls on a notebook he miraculously pulled out from his arse. His round, perky-

“There you go, Isamu. It was great meeting you,” He pats your nephew’s head, who is practically beaming. “It was nice meeting you too, Y/n,” he adds, and turns away with a wave.

As you walk away, Isamu thrusts the paper in your hand.

“LOOK AT IT AUNTIE Y/N!!”

‘if it’s not too forward, id like you text me sometime y/n :)’ and next to the note is his number.

Cheeky bitch.

:::

Dabi has no fucking idea how he ended up in a bar blasting Kesha from the speakers with millennial women screaming ‘this was my party song!’ but he hates it.

Until he sees you.

You’re in the tiniest jean skirt he’s ever seen, and your ass cheeks are so close to popping out. If you’d just stopped swaying your hips and bend over, he’d get a glimpse-

But you turn around, and he watches you twist and turn in a matching halter top, jewellery adding rhythms to the music.

Dabi swears he has never seen anything as captivating as your baby pink lips mouth along to Die Young. God, was he really thinking that? In relation to Kesha? You must be special, he thinks to himself.

He makes no move, though. He sits at the bar, watching you tip back fruity cocktails and teeter on your fur-covered boots.

He looks away for a second, he swears, and suddenly you’re on the bar stool next to him. Not just sat, but staring. Like, blatantly staring right at him.

He mirrors you, leaning on his palm and watching you.

You’d be lying if you tried to say his cerulean eyes weren’t doing something to you, but there were more pressing issues at hand.

“You’ve been staring at me all night.”

It’s a fact, he has been.

A smile curls onto his lips, and he shifts so he’s closer to you. “Have I? Didn’t notice…”

You’re drunk. Like, much too drunk, because his face is a blur- a handsome blur though. You are aware enough to tell he’s staring at your tits, though.

You click your fingers in his face and he looks back up at you. There’s a moment on his face where he looks shocked, but a bigger smirk replaces it.

“Sorry, hun-”

“Hun? What am I, 5?”

He leans forward, and the overwhelming stench of a beach fire is fighting with your Britney Spears perfume. The air starts to smell like burnt sugar around you, and it’s weirdly compelling.

“What do you want me to call you then?”

“Well, you’ll need my number to call me.”

It takes you a minute to realise how dumb that was- you’re drunk and that is not what he meant, but it made him drop the cool boy act. He stared at you for a second with wide eyes before chuckling under his breath.

“You are somethin’, princess…”

“Princess?”

“Yeah, the skirt and all the pink- very princessy,” He gestured to your outfit before pulling out… a burner phone.

You really should not have drank that much, because you don’t even care to question it as you’re typing you digits in.

note: ffs i didn’t make izuku’s gf feisty enough 😞

[goldsbitch]

Just don't talk---

-to me.

p4 to Just don't talk

summary: Enemies to lovers on steroids. Y/N unknowingly crosses a line, making it impossible for Lando to continue their little affair.

warnings: cursing, typos

Sometimes, the world of F1 really required one to grow up fast. Y/N had noticed strange looks from few of the team members during meetings and sessions for the whole week. She tried not to give it much thought - that was until her manager called, on a late Wednesday evening and broke the news. There were serious talks of her being replaced by someone, who used to drive for her team before and wanted back. She, as an average rookie, couldn't stand a chance and couldn't possibly play the "female driver" card (which she hated anyway). The phone call with her manager was a hard one, nothing seemed to be confirmed, but her pro active guardian angel worked on having enough close friendships around the team to know the news before it got to be known around the paddock. Her heart was racing for life, hand shaking, mind running wild. This couldn't be happening. They can't just drop her out of nowhere, she tried to convince herself.

She lived in this uncertainty for three days, constantly in contact with her own team, focusing on not failing at her job, completely ignoring any texts or calls from people outside her comfort zone. Yet, she didn't hesitate to schedule a hook up with Lando. A break though came when her manager called, informing her that she currently in negotiations with another f1 team for potential transfer, she called it a "just in case" back up, but sounded a little too excited for it being a back up team. Even when Y/N begged to know what team that was, her manager did not cave in, saying it was just too early stages.

//

What a perfect waste of time. Every evening in her busy life was a calculation, a plan to keep or alone time prescribed by herself. Tonight they were suppose to meet up with Lando, in the morning they'd texted about it, he even cracked a joke and appeared to be in a generally easy going mode. But 8pm rolled in and no text, call or even a doorbell. After a half an hour of pacing around and pretending to be busy, she found herself in a completely clean kitchen, finished emails and painted nails. Lando was rarely ever late without a note beforehand. She was not going to text him. That would be too needy. Few episodes of some sitcom, which she had to rewind several times as her attention span lasted about two minutes. Minutes rolled in like a cruel indicator of how much she took as a given that they'd see each other. How much it wasn't on the table that he would ditch her. At some point, she had to come to terms with it. But nobody was there to force to admit that she felt a strange hollow feeling in her stomach. She pushed all thoughts into the back of her head and focused on her next racing plan. That's what she was suppose to be anyway. She might face being replaced out of nowhere, she had to be at her best game. Only when she lost the option of the only distraction that seemed to work in the form of Lando's smirk, she realized how much tension she held within her. It wasn't a night filled with much sleep for her. The late night loneliness crept in, loveless mornings had pilled up over time into a tower blocking the sunshine in. She sat on her bed, second guessing every choice she ever made - was the racing even worth it all? She could have been married by now? What a strange concept. Was she ever going to do so? In a man's world, was there an option to find a lover who would not challenge her and only induce her anxiety? She circled back to her first and only love and wasn't even sure if she had the privilege to call it that as the memory of the slacker guy from her hometown literally slept through their break up. Often she'd watch her colleagues hop on the first plane to spend as much time as this lifestyle allowed with a loved one. She had yet to find out what that kind of a flight felt like.

A whole week had passed since that night. They saw each other on numerous occasions and both of them avoided each other's looks, as if they would turn to stone if their eyes had met. It was good for their public image.

Y/N was excited when her manager finally met up with her in person to tell her about a potential team transfer, should the silly season kick in hard. "I'm not saying anything is set in stone. There have just been few meetings, lawyers checked up your contract again for potential breach causes, so we did some work in the meantime," she stated dramatically over a coffee date they'd set up at Y/N's hotel room. Her manager seemed unusually giddy, excitement poking through her professionalism. "There is a possibility, now, hold your horses, just a possibility, that there might be an open seat at McLaren soon." This came as a shock wave. Y/N always admired her manager, who was always three steps ahead of everyone. Her mind started to race in many conflicting directions. McLaren was an exciting team, definitely a promotion. So was this why Lando ghosted her? Because she might potentially become his teammate? That was just a little too childish of him, she thought, judging her own choices in a hook up "buddy". "So does that mean that Oscar is thinking about leaving the team?" "Well, not exactly. Technically, nobody is thinking about leaving the team. Also, it's not Oscar, but Lando." And the penny dropped.

//

Lando had been in this business for years. He knew well enough what was up. Made sure to have people at the right places, faithful souls who loved him a little too much and were willing to breach their NDA for him. Of course he knew that Y/N's managers were speaking to McLaren. And also why. It took him by surprise, that was for sure. He was a great racer with a big potential. When he learned in secrecy that the reason why McLaren is thinking of changing up their driver line up, it wasn't exactly because of the actual racing, but more of marketing and appearing as a young hip team, it made him furious. Lando had started to become an old news for the marketers. Oscar and Y/N pairing had intrigued them. Of course he wasn't going to keep on with their little love affair. She was becoming a threat, more so outside the track than on the track. He was mad when he found out. Of course he had always kept his distance from Y/N. But this felt personal. She truly was a ruthless bitch, as his gut had told him from day one. It probably wasn't even attraction what he felt towards her, just his subconsciousness telling him to keep his enemies closest physically possible. He tried to hold of thinking about their glorious sex. There were bigger things at stake. He didn't feel threatened. Just little bit betrayed. He had to take action.

//

Once her manager left, she found herself pacing around her room yet again. Thoughts jumping one over another. Excitement skipping over anxiousness, joy being overrun by a sinking fear. She was always going to put her career first. So why was there a sudden urge to run to wherever Lando was and explain that she had no idea this was being set up in her name.

It was a strangely bittersweet feeling, standing at a photoshoot for her contract renewal. There was an unspoken tension between her and the team leaders, nobody willing to talk openly about the fact that they were about to drop her and she was talking about running to different team. But there she was, faking smiles, staying with the team for another two seasons, hating this industry more than ever before. In the end, she gave her everything just to stay in an environment that made her feel just like another clog in the all too big entertainment machine. McLaren calls were getting postponed and everyone knew what that meant, so her own personal team decided to jump for the first option that offered some security. With that, she smiled and posed again. Merely a shell of the fiery girl that bit Lando's arm just weeks ago. All this stress, loneliness and self-doubt had changed the course of her energy.

//

"Oh, you're taking the same elevator?" Lando asked, shooting arrows at Y/N as he pressed the close door button. He had imagined many times that he would slam a door in her face and this was the closest her could get to that. She put her hand into the door gap, giving him a strict eye roll. Finally, faith brought them into a place where they were alone again. "Really?" she said walking in the elevator. Lando tried to be the bigger and mature person. Being around her was making it impossible. He was angry and frustrated. "So...how are you?" she tried to break the ice. "You have never asked me that before. Are you sick?" "No, I'm just...we haven't spoken-" "-ever. No reason to start now," he said, acting as if this was all passing him by. Scrolling on his phone without a care in the world. "I didn't know..." "What..?" "I didn't know that my managers were having these talks," she said softly. There was an apology on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't bring herself to actually say it. "And are you looking for my advice on how to keep the people who you pay in check? Or what is the purpose of this conversation?" "I'm just...I never wanted to try and push you out of..you know." Lando laughed. "That's some severe delulu vibe you're giving off." "Sorry?" she reacted, genuinely confused. "The audacity you have! Thinking you can manipulate the situation better than I do. Princess, I've been in the game years more than you and survived bigger shitstorms - do you really believed I'm here only because I'm a good driver? No, these games are half of the work. So no, I absolutely do not believe that you didn't know about this. And the fact that you're trying to convince me of that is highly disrespectful." Y/N was taken back, processing several conflicting reactions at the same time. The always calm Lando got pushed over the edge. And he was not done. "Next time you're drowning, don't reach out to drag me down too. You should be grateful, you got to keep your job and certainly no thanks to the shitty managers of yours, so you're welcome. I'm genuinely surprised that you landed the job you now have in the first place."

It was a lot of information blurted at her. But she got a hold of the important part. "Lando? What did you do?" He took a deep breath. He said too much. "You will never find out. Now stop talking."

Y/N hit a pause on the elevator. Not that it would help, she figured they had only few minutes extra before someone would be over to run the machine again. "The fuck are you doing," Lando exclaimed and tried to stop her. His hand grabbed her arm and Y/N got an instant flashback to the night he tied her to her own bed frame. "Did you help me?" she asked, anger spitting out of her lips. "Let's not dive into that, shall we? Now, get the elevator running." "I don't need your help, Lando." "This was not any help, I'm trying to keep you out of McLaren, so don't read into it." While that did sound reasonable, Y/N knew there was more. With that, the fire she'd been missing for weeks entered her system again. "Stop helping me, Lando," she said in a serious tone, stepping closer to the guy still holding her arm. She quickly pushed it away. "I don't need your help." She was really pushing it, he thought and bursted. "Is that so! I saw that last week. Your weak strategy and poor results nearly got you dropped. " "No, not dropped. Replacing you." "It would take the hell to freeze over for that to happen, Princess naivité. It was a straight path back to f2 at best. Get your shit together and get a grip over those who act in your name and grow up. Nobody is going to save you next time." She wondered what exactly he did, but knew that there will be a time and place for that conversation. Lando cursed himself for saying it all at once. He was there, lecturing her on strategy, while not being able to follow his own for a second when she was around. Said things he planned on keeping for himself forever. She stood in front of him and he could read the surprise on her face. Anger left her body and suddenly she never looked so innocent. Just a scared girl standing in front of him, trying to navigate their complicated world. The only reason he helped her was because he felt sorry for her. Nothing else. Definitely. "How can I repay you?" she asked, humbled by the newly found information. He took his time to respond. Prolonging this moment just a little. Knowing that soon enough, the innocent face he stared at would soon turn to its usual pseudo-tough-cool-girl mask. It was as if he saw the real Y/N for the first time. "You could stop whining and get this elevator running," he said slowly, as if his body was rejecting these words. Without any other comment, she obeyed his wish. They both turned away from each other and continued in silence. Lando had secretely hoped that she would question him more. She let out a little thank you when exiting the elevator. He watched her leave and forgot for a moment into which floor he was supposed to originally go. She paced away from his as fast as she could. These past few days have pushed her to the limit and the conversation with Lando was the last straw, the word "Princess" screaming in Lando's voice in her head.

part 5

_________________________________________

@scopeiguess @multifandomwhore-003 

[orbitariums]

*+. 🎧

pussy taste like rum punch... all it took was one touch, knock out one punch... eat it up for lunch lunch... +*

expanding more on rum punch... gonna call this lil series #recoverybf!patrick (x black reader alwaysss)

contains: smut (oral f receiving), slight pheromone kink?, cheating, patrick acting like reader's coochie is on steroids

recoverybf!patrick, who you come crying to when your real boyfriend is being a dick (which is often) will spend what feels like hours between your legs, eyes closed in complete bliss as he pulls orgasm after orgasm from you, not minding when your legs shake uncontrollably and damn near crush his head. he just pries them open with a gentle shove and keeps at his job, his tongue lapping away at your sopping core as you cry out like you're asking the gods for forgiveness. your clit is sore and sensitive, and you're not sure you have another one left, but he always coaxes it out of you. slows his speed, ever so softly ghosts his tongue against your pussy like water trickling down a stream. just closes his lips around the clit ever so softly, just enough to apply pressure but not enough to make you actually tap out (you did once, and he tried his hardest not to mope — you returned the favor by giving him head, and as much as patrick loves your mouth, loves feeling the side of your cheek bulge with the swell of his cock, he is a giver, especially when it comes to you).

"pussy tastes so good," he would often murmur against your cunt, as if it was its own person, a separate entity from you. he'd say this while his lids were heavy and his fingers were tracing against your clit, ready to tease and prod at your slit. it was like he was in a trance, memorizing your pussy to memory while you looked down at him with the deepest admiration and honestly, a hint of surprise.

patrick always bragged about how many girls he fucked and how much he made them come, how good he was at "eating pussy." and while you were curious, you were slightly dubious – you'd always been attracted to him, but for some reason it was hard to believe that he was this extremely generous sex god who made girls squirt on his face on a regular basis. patrick had this selfish, overtly masculine energy about him that made you think different — but that was before you started running to him every other day to get fucked, tears from an argument with your boyfriend freshly dried on your face. you were pleasantly surprised the first time he went down on you, which was of course that first night, and all the times after.

he's such a dickhead, though. he'll pull away from your pussy with his mouth completely soaked, readjust the backwards cap he has on his head and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand as he leans back on his knees to look at you, a quivering, fucked out work of art underneath him. usually you'd tell him to wipe the smug fucking smirk on his face but you're too busy getting hit with aftershocks from your third time coming.

once after, you were getting cleaned up and patrick was throwing something together in the kitchen for you two to eat. while he was half-heartedly washing dishes in the sink he turned to you and asked,

"do you take supplements or something?"

"hmm?" you hummed absentmindedly as you scrolled on your phone, your brain clear of all the drama and nonsense that had caused you to flock here — patrick made sure to fuck the stress out of you, right after eating it out of your pussy, slurping and sucking like his life depended on it, biting your inner thighs ever so slightly. he'd want to leave marks, but he knows he can't, knows you'll kill him, knows it'll jeopardize what you have going on (but deep down he believes you'd still find your way back to him anyway even if he did fuck up that majorly).

"i mean, you taste so fucking good. like are you taking some kind of vitamin or something?"

"patrick, what?" you sat up sit up then, glaring at him in genuine confusion, your brows knit together.

"i'm just asking like.... is there some sort of pill you can take to make your pussy taste good? because you do taste really good, like the best i've ever had. i don't mean to be crass but usually they don't taste like that. i was just wondering," he shrugged, rambling on like it's not the absolute dumbest thing you've ever heard.

you weren't offended by any means, but you do note that no one else has made such a big deal about your taste like patrick. everytime he goes down on you it's "you taste so fucking good yn" or "your pussy's so fucking sweet" or "could eat this sweet little pussy for hours, baby" or, more recently: "wish you'd keep this all for me."

you wonder if it's some special kink he has, but then it's only with you? you'll wonder if this is a good or bad sign... if he's this attracted to your pheromones and your taste, shouldn't this mean something? you remembered hearing something similar in biology class — not that your teacher had ever said anything close to patrick asking you if you took pills to make your vagina taste good.

"you're comparing the taste of my vagina to other girls you've been with?" you respond with a raised brow, half-joking.

"c'mon. you know they're not you," he responded.

"not even close?" you egged him on.

"no shot," he shook his head, spooning in fried rice leftovers into your bowl.

the first time you squirt on patrick's face, you're apologizing profusely, covering your mouth in embarrassment at how you've soaked through his couch.

you're gasping, horrified,

"patrick, oh my god, i'm so sorry, i swear i didn't mean to, i didn't even know, i never usually — i mean, by myself, but —"

he doesn't even register your blubbery apologies, just keeps eating you, letting his face get soaked in your juices as he practically makes out with your pussy.

"attafuckinggirl," he cuts you off with a literal growl, his eyebrows furrowed in what looked like determination and concentration — like he hadn't already made you squirt around his tongue. your brain practically freezes over when he adds two fingers into the mix and they just slide so easily into your pussy because of all the wetness there — but somehow you still feel that sweet stretch around his fingers and you both moan at that. "fuck, pussy's just fucking taking it. want you to squirt for me like that again, okay sweetheart?"

you should've known patrick would be a fiend for being squirted on — he's always been particular about bodily fluids and scents and licking and tasting and anything wet and warm. but somehow you're still creaming around his fingers just at the sheer realization of how excited he is, how proud that he's made you squirt like that with just his tongue, and that he wants more. if you were with your boyfriend...

"he doesn't eat it like this, does he?" he asks, half-muffled as he presses his lips back against your pussy in tandem with his fingers driving in and out of you, making obscene squelching noises as cream forms around his fingers.

you can barely even lift your head to shake it no, so out comes a little squeak instead.

"mhm," he hums, knowing that the vibration of his voice against your pussy sends electric shocks up your spine. "what i thought. now give me one more."

just a wee little drabble, more to come with this concept... i love #recoverybf!patrick ♡

[katakaluptastrophy]

So we all know how Ianthe became a Lyctor for “ultimate power—and posters of [her] face.”

And I'm sure someone made a nice icon.

But you know who would have definitely gotten a poster of their face? Coronabeth.

Think about it: every House but the Ninth has lost a scion. In a culture that thrives on melodrama and the conspicuous consumption of death, there is a wave of hysterical funerary fervour to mourn their lost leaders. And the Third - the House of glitz, trendsetting, and political intrigue - has lost its beloved Crown Princess.

We don't know a huge amount about funerals in the Nine Houses, but we do know a bit about Third House funerals:

The front coffin is distinguished from its fellows by its gorgeous arrangement of flowers and wreaths. The flowers are all in hues of gold or violet, and are fake. The coffin is hinged open at the front, with its contents hidden from view by the flowers. A tray of meat is rested on the closed bottom half of the coffin. A queue of gaudily masked mourners process past the coffin, slowly, each one taking a strip of meat, then stopping by the head to lean within—kissing or feeding; we can’t be sure. - TUG

Apparently, a Third House funeral - unsurprisingly for flesh magicians - focuses on the physical. The reverence of/fear of/(lust for?) the body. A wake on steroids. But they received no body for Coronabeth. So I can only imagine larger than life posters of Corona decked with flowers, the weeping crowds surging through the streets of Ida, etc etc... Poor Ianthe, second place once again to a 'corpse'.

Moving past Ianthe to House funerary customs in general, and to the awful aftermath of the Lyctor trials in particular, it seems especially unfair that neither of the flesh magic Houses got a body back to mourn. Obviously Corona wasn't actually dead, but for those who believed her to be, the lack of a body for such visceral funerary rights must have been traumatic.

We don't have as many details of Seventh funerals, but the House famous for it's "beguiling corpses" likely also focuses much of its post-mortem ritual around the body. Dulcie suggests that the deceased might even leave specific instructions in their will about the appearance of their corpse:

That drawing looked nothing like me. I loved it. You don’t know this so it doesn’t help, but I included it in my will and put down that I wanted to look like that after I died. I thought maybe it would give you a laugh at the funeral, you know? - TUG

Meanwhile, the Fourth, Fifth, and Eighth receive their perfect pairs of "statuesque and incorruptible" bodies, preserved beyond the wildest dreams of the Seventh. These Houses are all spirit magicians. The Fourth, for whom thanergetically detonating oneself on a battlefield far from the rays of Dominicus isn't unheard of, almost certainly have funerary rites that don't presuppose a body. And the Fifth, whose necromantic practice is far more concerned with the spirit than the body, likely centre their most significant funerary rites around the ghost.

Y'know, the bit they don't have? Just as the flesh magicians of the Third and Seventh would have been unable to mourn their lost scions with rites around the body, the Fifth would have been unable to call their ghosts, trapped in Harrow's River bubble.

So amidst all the grief and awfulness, and the Emperor refusing to answer any questions about what happened (why are they all dead? Why are so many bodies missing? Where are the ghosts? Why are the bodies so creepily perfect?), half the Houses can't even mourn their dead in the way they normally would.

[fuckdamn]

jjust. the way jack starts out completely untethered except to her Singular Purpose, her Will to Power, the way she’s literally larger than life, she’s not even an idealist she’s an ideal. and the way lou is so situated, so located, so bound to and within her family structure. how both of their interactions w drugs feed their anger but lou weans herself off nicotine and grows more frantic and fragile and human, while jack pumps herself full of steroids and grows more decisive and single-minded and capital m barbara creed Monstrous. and then those roles are reversed at critical moments. and then gently fantastically reversed back at the Most critical moment. the way that “i wish i never met you” doesn’t sting but feels heavy…. and then jack is strong enough to carry it. there’s all these little moments of severance throughout the film where they’re trying to save each other from the fact that they got enmeshed so quickly, trying to believe that there’s only room for one of them, jack the hero or lou who serves her or jack who saved her or lou who’d give everything for her or jack who doesn’t need so much as she desires. please watch love lies bleeding i think it altered my brain chemistry. dave franco gets the entire lower half of his face smashed in

[cure13-blog1]

Brandon was shaped like a Stickman, always insecure about his appearance. He fantasies of being admired by others (mostly men) and to be the idolisation of masculinity. He always had some sort of fetish with muscles, he was easily turned on when seeing steroid driven men with unfathomable amounts of testosterone and strength. When I’m the gym he became so aggressively horny yet also jealous of the teen muscle freaks. He was manly jealous at the fact that he could never build muscle like them, even tho they where full of steroids. He was desperate to jump on gear yet was terrified of the side effects. But it was hard to stay natural when seeing the contrast between his undefined frame to these muscled jocks. He tried twice as hard in the gym than they ever did, however not even half of the results.

It was a Monday evening and Brandon decided to make his way to the gym, late enough that all his steroid driven jocks from his class weren’t there. He was dreading the leg day grind ahead of him but he stayed motivated and disciplined.

He went in to the gym locker room the pure musk of testosterone and sweat hit Brandon’s nose, causing a solid 4 inch hard on in his underwear. The room was ghost quiet with no one in sight, so he decided to undress to get into his gym clothes. But as he was undressing he noticed a dirty jockstrap on the floor.

Obviously being the horny teen he is, he made sure no one was around and picked up the jockstrap. Without even thinking he shoved his face into it taking a massive sniff. It was drenched in the musk of sweaty balls and cum, and also of piss. He never felt so horny in his life, even his legs began to tremble. Then the idea came to him, to put the jockstrap on. He removed the remaining clothes so we was fully naked and put the jockstrap on. It was way to big for him and he had to hold it up so It wouldn’t fall down.

Suddenly a wave of heat and energy came across his body. He felt a aking feeling on his joints and ligaments. Then realising he’s growing taller. Once was 5,8 now rising to 6 foot then slowing down and stoping at 6,2. He felt confused and shocked, with being such a height he never could expect, yet his joints felt under more pressure without strength to support. But then he began to sweat, with his brain becoming foggy and hormones rising. His libido began to rocket in levels, becoming horny and a need to grow. It began with his legs, his calves grew to immense size, fallowing with his thighs. His legs began to bulge out of control to the size of giant tree trunks, through all of this he was in immense pleasure, thoughts full of lust moaning in bliss. Then his ass inflated into giant globes, to the point that it can suffocate someone. Then it began on his torso, he felt his shoulders widen, his delts bulging into canon balls, and his back muscle twitching and expanding forming a v shape torso with a slutty waist. Then his nipples started to tingle and his pecks ballooned out, growing and bulging into massive juicy pecs. This then following his arms wich he tended and the bulged into slabs of muscle and meat, and veins picking out all over. He felt a tight feeling on his stomach, then abs piping out forming a tight 6 pack.

Now the jock strap was tight on him yet there was still some space on his crotch area where in soft 2 inch and small balls where. Then with a sudden sensation he slammed his fist into a locker door bending it in half with his god like strength and aggressive horny energy. And his dick and balls began to grow. His penis began to grow longer and thicker by stoping at 10 inches Soft. That alone filled out the jock strap and it was steaming from the weight and size of his cock. Then his balls began to bulge out of control into tenis balls of size. He looked himself in the mirror, he looked like a muscle jock god, putting all his class mates to shame. And all that was on his mind was sex and gym.

[lostdreamr-blog1]

Nightmare of a Roommate

Requested: Nope

Pairings: Jake Seresin x Reader

Word count: 3k

Summary: When you are forced to share an apartment with the notorious Bagman, life seems to be harder than it should be. But what difference does a few weeks together make?

Warnings: mild swearing, mentions of death, the usual fluff

A/N: Two posts in one week?! I had this idea come to me today and knew I needed to get it out! I love to hear all your thoughts and comments! As always, my inbox is open to you!

Part 2

Top Gun was currently redoing their dorms which meant the group of aviators who were called back were placed in apartments close to the base. Normally it wouldn’t have been a huge deal, but the number of vacant units caused a slight issue. Everyone had to pair up. The higher ups figured the best way to do it was for everyone to draw a number that way no one can complain about how it was done. Or at least not blame them for who their roommate would be for the next few weeks.

You each took a turn drawing a paper out of the hat and you pulled out the number 4. You smiled to yourself because that number had been your lucky number for as long as you could remember.

That was until a southern voice called out, “Which lucky person got the other number 4?”

You cringed at the question and Natasha looked over your shoulder in curiosity. “Oh god. Hey Bagman, what kind of flowers do you want at your funeral?”

You smirked at the question and his answer almost made you laugh. “Is that the kind of question you ask guys? No wonder you’re still single.”

Her laugh told you she found the whole situation entertaining. “Might want to get your affairs in order. I don’t see you lasting more than a week with Y/N.”

His head whipped over to you and a slow smirk appeared on his face much to your annoyance.

“Wipe that look off your face before I do it for you.” He chuckled and held up his hands in mock surrender.

“I’ll make sure to keep my door locked at night.” He gave you a wink and turned back to Coyote.

You couldn’t help but shake your head at what just happened. Of all the people here, you just had to be paired up with the teenager on steroids.

Natasha came and put an arm around your shoulder. “If it gets too bad, we can set up something in my room.”

You gave her a weak smile, “Thanks, but I think I can manage a few weeks with him. If something changes, like needing help to bury a body, you’ll be my first call.”

She snorted in response, “I already know a good spot to hide him.”

A voice behind you both made you jump. “The two of you are scary.” Bradley had a concerned look on his face, but Natasha waved him off. “Don’t get on our bad side, Bradshaw and you’ll be fine.”

Day one and you already wanted to strangle the man. You knew everyone had their own quirks when it came to their routine, but his were borderline insufferable.

It started out with only having one bathroom. If the Navy taught you anything, it was how to be quick about your personal time. Your showers were under five minutes, and you were courteous enough to do your hair in your room. The only issue was, you forgot to brush your teeth while you were in the bathroom. Something you planned on quickly doing when the blonde was done with his shower.

A few minutes of waiting turned into nearly half an hour, and you had to leave for base if you didn’t want to be late. What the hell he was doing in there you had no idea, but you couldn’t wait any longer. You mumbled “asshole” and walked out of the apartment to your car, making a mental note to move your toothbrush later.

The group of you were ushered into the hanger, getting ready to listen to the plan for the day. A tap on your shoulder had you turning around to see your roommate from hell holing out some gum.

“Thought you might need it.” You narrowed your eyes at him and shook your head.

“I knew it took a lot of hair product for your hair to be the way it is, but thirty minutes to get ready seems like a waste of time. Clearly it didn’t do you any favors.” You turned back around before you could see his reaction, but the muffled laughs around you had you smirking.

End of week one and the two of you were getting into a small routine, being able to work around each other. He realized very quickly not to talk to you first thing in the morning. Getting a breakfast burrito thrown at him was not something he wanted to make a regular occurrence, so he kept his distance until you had a cup of coffee in you.

That morning though, he came in from a run just as you were waking up. Seeing the sand come off his shoes into the kitchen had you taking deep breaths to keep your cool. You had to admit, seeing him shirtless was a sight to be had, but it still wasn’t good enough to mask his intolerable personality.

“I don’t understand why you have to go for a run every morning.” Not only did it bring in the sand, but the smell of sweat wasn’t also something you particularly enjoyed.

“I’m flattered that you think these good looks are all natural, but sadly I do have to work out.” It took your brain a few seconds to process what he had said, and you opened your mouth to try and come up with what you meant.

“That’s not-no. I meant-you know what, whatever.” His laugh was what you heard as you retreated to the bathroom, and you knew the best way to get back at him. You took your five-minute shower and then kept the hot water running full blast as you finished getting ready in the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, you walked out ready for the day and gave Hangman a smile as you passed him in the kitchen. He gave you a questioning look, but eventually went to go take his shower.

You were about to walk out to your car when you heard a shout, “God dammit!” A smile was plastered on your face for the rest of the day.

Hangman stopped you in the hall at Top Gun and asked why you used all the hot water. “You seemed to get all hot and bothered talking about yourself this morning that I figured you needed a cold shower to calm down.” He stood there looking like he was pissed off with what you said, but the stupid smirk appeared. “Good thing I love a cold shower. It’s better for my hair.” And walked off.

Things changed in week two. Training had gotten intense and the stress of everything was starting to show with everyone. Coyote ended up in G-LOC and Natasha and Bob had to eject after a bird strike. Things like that had old memories surfacing and you could only hide so much. Your teammates had no idea you were struggling to keep it together, but Hangman saw right through your act. He just didn’t know how to approach the subject without pissing you off.

It was three in the morning and a nightmare had woken you up. Knowing that if you closed your eyes, it would just replay again. So, you made the decision to get up and watch tv. You kept the volume down low to not wake up your roommate, but you didn’t know he woke up during your nightmare.

With thin walls, Hangman could hear everything that went on in your room. He knew when you finally went to sleep at night or when you decided a light workout at midnight was a great idea. But this night, he heard a pained whimper and the constant tossing and turning coming from your bed. It didn’t take long after for the footsteps to follow and the opening and closing of your door. What surprised him though, was the tv turning on in the living room at three in the morning.

He knew you had problems getting to sleep or staying asleep. But most of the time you at least attempted to get a few hours in before getting up. Tonight, was a red flag for him and he knew he couldn’t stay silent anymore. No matter how much you hated him, he couldn’t let you keep going the way you were. Eventually the lack of sleep is going to catch up and he knew it would be while you were in the air.

Your ears perked up when you heard a door open. A few seconds later, Hangman came walking into the living room and sat on the couch across from you. This was the first time either of you interacted with each other this late at night and you could feel the uneasiness coming off of him. A glance over to him showed he was lost in thought, looking at the ground in front of him.

“What are you doing up?” His eyes lifted towards you at the question, and you waited for him to answer.

“I could ask you the same thing. Last I checked, there was nothing good on at 3 in the morning.” Your eyes squinted at his response, and you tried to figure out his play.

“I don’t see why my sleeping habits are of concern to you.” Your answer seemed to deflate him a bit. Almost like he was disappointed in what you said. But again, you didn’t understand why.

“Look, Y/N. I know you haven’t been sleeping and recently you haven’t been yourself. The others don’t see it because you do a pretty damn good job of putting on an act, but I do. Is it something I’ve done? Because if that’s the case, I’ll go bunk with someone else. I don’t need you getting hurt out there because me.”

His words hit you harder than you wanted to admit. You tried to figure out how he came to that conclusion and thought back to this last week. You were closed off, the jokes you made towards him had all but vanished, and you mainly kept to your room. But it wasn’t because of him. It was easier to hide away than explain to someone what was going on.

“It’s not that. Work has been stressful, and I have my own way of dealing with it.” It wasn’t a lie, but it was a very watered-down version of the truth.

“And the nightmares?” You winced at that question. Here you thought you had been doing a good job of hiding things, but the blonde in front of you was too observant for his own good.

“Why does it matter? In a week we won’t be roommates anymore and everything will go back to the way it was.” In a last-ditch attempt of avoiding the real issue, pushing him away seemed like the best option. Until he said what he did.

“Because I know what it’s like to be a prisoner in your own head. To feel like the world around you is moving too fast for you to keep up. And while I may not be your biggest fan, I wouldn’t wish that kind of internal struggle on anyone.” You watched as he ran a hand through his hair, clearly struggling to find the right words. The ever so cocky pilot wasn’t here tonight, and you found yourself struggling to keep your composure. It was easier to put up a front when he was the worst version of himself. But this was different.

“How about tonight we pretend like we don’t have a million differences with each other. You can say anything, and I won’t judge or even bring it up in the morning. But something is wrong, and you need to talk about it. And what better person to do it with than someone who doesn’t know you that well?”

He was right. If you confided in one of your close friends, like Natasha, you knew it was something she would remember for a long time. While she may not judge, the pity looks were just as bad. Hangman was a near stranger when it came to personal information. The two of you only knew each other on a surface level, never trying to push boundaries.

“Last year there was an accident. A friend and I were on a routine flight when a bird strike hit. Both of our planes caught fire and I ejected without a problem. Her lever was stuck, and she ended up crashing her plane into a mountain. This last week just opened old wounds and it’s like my mind is stuck in the past. I’m either too worked up to fall asleep or a nightmare wakes me up. Every time I close my eyes, that day keeps playing on a loop and I guess I just thought it would eventually stop.”

You knew the memory would never quite leave you alone, but you hoped things would at least get easier. But seeing Natasha’s plane crash was too close to the original memory.

“Can I make a suggestion and you not get mad?” It was a loaded question, but your desperation for some sort of help pushed you to nod your head.

“Sometimes having someone near you when you go to sleep can help. It’s almost like a sense of safety that you can sleep, and the other person will have your back. I’d rather you be pissed off next to me while you get a few hours of sleep than have to stand next to your casket because you couldn’t think clearly in the sky.”

His words were brutally honest, and you couldn’t tell if you were thankful or not for it. To have someone not tip toe around your feelings was almost refreshing, but why did it have to be Jake Seresin of all people?

The last two weeks have been nothing but a challenge living together. You were two very different people forced to coexist and now he was talking about you sleeping in his bed. The boundaries you had made very early on were about to be crossed and that’s what you were struggling the most with.

“It will change things.” Was your response to his suggestion. But a quick shake of his head and you knew it was a weak argument.

“Nothing changes. You need a source of safety and I’m willing to provide it. I know you may not think I’m a team player, but when it really counts, I’ll have your back no matter what.” You searched him for any signs of misleading, but the only thing you saw was a genuine concern.

“Okay. But only for tonight.” He gave you a small smile, one you had never seen before. The smirk you had come to hate was nowhere to be seen and you were starting to wonder how much of a front he puts up. Because then man that was currently offering his bed to help you sleep, was not the man you thought existed.

You awkwardly crawled into his bed and turned with your back to him, facing the wall. You felt the bed dip, and the warmth behind you told you he wasn’t far. To your surprise, his hands stayed to himself, and he was a respectable distance from you. But the sound of his even breaths mixed in with the smell of him had you slowly drifting off to sleep.

A few days had passed, and Jake was honoring what he had said that night. Nothing was ever brought up and the two of you went back to how things were. But things seemed easier now. The dancing around each other in the morning was seamless and you found his presence to be comforting rather than an annoyance. Things moved forward and for once you felt like you were keeping up.

That night came at you like a fright train. You had gone the last few nights without a nightmare and only a few wakeups. But the hope of moving forward was quickly crushed when you woke up out of breath and tears streaming down your face.

It almost scared you how much you didn’t think about what you did next. You walked out of your room and knocked on the bedroom door next to yours. Jake answered the door in sweatpants and his hair in a million different direction. Clearly, he had just been woken up. But he very quickly was on alert as he took in your tear stained face and shaking hands.

“I-I’m sorry. I woke up and just came here. I didn’t mean to wake you. I-“ He cut you as he wiped a few tears away.

“Come here, sweetheart.” He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into his chest. One hand was rubbing the back of your head and you started to sob against him. All the hurt and pain you had been keeping in, finally escaped. You both stood like that for a few minutes, him letting you calm down some before he let go.

“Stay in here tonight. I won’t let anything happen to you.” He wiped the tears away and gently grabbed your hand, leading you over to his bed. This time was different. This time you weren’t the levelheaded pilot who knew to keep walls up around others. No, this time you were a broken girl desperate for comfort. Which is why you curled yourself up next to him, allowing him to wrap an arm around you to pull you closer.

“Get some sleep. I’m not going anywhere.” He kissed the top of your head and lazily drew circles on your back.

A few weeks ago, you hated the fact you were stuck with him for the next few weeks. But now, you had no idea how you were going to let him go.  

A/N: Thank you so so much for reading!!! I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did writing it!

[ultram0th]

A New Life

Part 1 │ Part 2 │ Part 3

It’d been almost a year since Blue had hypnotized his new boyfriends.

The first had been Kevin Jonas, and Blue had managed to convince the former boy band member that he was just some slutty streamer who loved to be musky all day. Whereas Kevin used to have the boy-next-door motif, he now looked like he’d been ripped straight out of a 70’s porn flick, complete with the mustache and hairy chest.

Second had been Nick Jonas. The singer was now a cowboy who had to play with his nipples in order to get off. Sure, Nick had played tons of gay roles for shows in the past, the stud was now living it: showing off and fondling his sensitive chest for everyone to see on stream, all the while moaning in that new country accent of his.

Finally, Wolfe Glick had joined the group. The competitive Pokémon player had gone from good boy to an entirely different definition of the phrase. His body had been pumped full of steroids, turning him into an absolute muscle monster who lived to be praised by Blue and the others. Not only was he a good boy in the new sense, but he also acted as guard dog for the group’s house, growling at anyone who walked too close to the front door.

The three of them would frequently stream together online, playing numerous video games and showing off for the chat. Speaking of, the chat would often times egg them on, tipping them if they sniffed/licked one another’s pits or flexed their muscles for the camera. Their streams proved to be immensely popular, and the three altered men were loving their new lives.

However, at the end of the day, Blue couldn’t deny that he felt a little semblance of guilt in the pit of his stomach. Of course, he loved his life with his three slutty streamer boyfriends, and he wouldn’t change them (back) for the world; however, it was getting harder and harder to ignore the voice in the back of his head that told him that they were only with him because of the hypnosis. No matter how happy they looked and no matter how great the sex was, the hypnotherapist still knew deep down that they wouldn’t be there if he hadn’t hypnotized them in the first place.

Therefore, one day Blue called the three of them down to his office. 

The trio lumbered into the office, each of them a little confused as to why this impromptu meeting had been called. Each one of them was dressed in just a jockstrap; with the exceptions being Nick’s cowboy hat and Wolfe’s dog collar. They shared the couch with one another, with Wolfey taking up most of the space with his extra wide bulk. The three of them were shirtless, each one of them preferring to be as uncovered as possible. Musk wafted off their hot bodies in waves since they’d just finished showing off on stream, the stench of sexual excitement permeating the air.

“What’s up?” Kevin asked.

Blue leaned back in his chair, unsure of how to approach the issue that he was feeling. He wanted to ask if they would still be with him on their own free will, but at the same time, he didn’t know how to possibly explain the current situation to them. Hence, he figured that the band-aid method would be best.

Snap! the hypnotherapist snapped his fingers, each man on the couch wincing as they felt as if they’d just been hit by a freight train.

Immediately, the three men felt a rush as the onslaught of the year’s past memories came back at them full force. They each paled at the memories of what they’d done on stream as well as the body modifications that they’d undergone.

“Wh-what?” Kevin stuttered as he blushed furiously, feeling as if he’d burst into flames over the humiliation he felt over seeing himself sniff at his hairy pits for hundreds to see. He looked down at himself, feeling incredibly exposed as his hairy body was clad in just a small jockstrap. Worse was that his cock was still half-hard, despite being surrounded by other guys.

In the middle of the couch, Nick grabbed his cowboy hat off his head and placed it in his lap so that he could shield his own jockstrap bulge from view of the other men. He was red from head to toe, and despite himself, his perky nipples still burned with want. It took all of his willpower to not tug on them in front of the other men, and he had to focus on his humiliation in order to stay grounded. The poor guy even struggled with the odd sensation of feeling naked without his hat on… despite truly being nearly nude. His lack of a cowboy hat seemed to be the catalyst for his sense of discomfort.

Lastly, Wolfe first noticed how heavy he felt. He looked down at his body and gasped loudly as he saw how large he now was. With shaking hands, he moved barely flexible arms to feel at his large, new bodybuilder form. He was huge and he blushed as his new form kept rubbing up against itself with every movement. “Wh-what happened to me?” he panicked, his voice sounding a bit deeper than it should’ve.

The three men looked at Blue with wide, frightened eyes as they struggled to piece the last year’s events together. They knew that he was behind it, and their humiliation was mixed with anger over how they’d been forced to act against their will. More embarrassing was that, despite how horrified they were at this epiphany, there was a growing part inside each of them that was excited over the thought of showing off for the camera— a spark of pleasure forming at the idea of handfuls of men watching them pleasure themselves.

The hypnotherapist held his hands out in front of himself in a genuine gesture. “Listen,” he said, his voice slow and soothing, “I’ve had you three hypnotized over the past year. Each one of you had been brought to believe that you were a gay, slutty streamer and that we’d all been in a poly-relationship together.”

Each of the men on the other couch blushed at this epiphany but despite their shock, they couldn’t deny the foreign tingling they felt deep inside as their broad, bare shoulders constantly brushed up against one another’s. Plus, with the three of them on one sofa, their musk permeated the small living room. Poor Wolfe’s arms were too large and they kept jostling against his bulbous pecs, preventing him from covering his hardening bulge in the front of his tiny jockstrap.

“I simply used hypnotherapy to convince each one of you to let down your inhibitions and unleash a hidden part of yourself— and behold!” Blue gestured at the three men on the couch. “Think about it. I released you from the hypnosis, but what do you all feel in this moment?”

Instinctually, the three altered men wanted to lash out at the smaller guy on the other side of the living room. However, they couldn’t help but ponder the question presented to them all.

Kevin thought back to his transformation into a hairy slut. Of course there was a part of him that missed his old boy band life, but he could not deny that there was a thrill that rippled through him at the thought of showing off on camera for tons of other men to gawk at. He was rock hard as he breathed in the other guys’ musk, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t deny that he was eager to get back on camera as soon as possible. 

Nick experienced the same influx of emotions: embarrassment, anger, and above all horniness. Although he couldn’t shake his thick country boy accent, Nick didn’t really seem to mind the thought of showing off his body to other guys. He’d done it before on TV as he’d played plenty of LGBTQ+ characters. The only difference now was that he was actually living the part. Also, his chest burned with want, and never before had Nick ever gotten off so intensely than when he’d had his nipples toyed and played with. He severely doubted that even if he did go back to his old life, that he’d ever experience pleasure as great as when Blue would thumb his hard nips. The mere thought already made his tits burn with deep desire.

Wolfe was obviously the most drastically transformed. The stud knew that no matter what, there was no way he could ever trade in his new bodybuilder bulk for his old body; nor did he really want to. His chest felt cumbersome and he couldn’t see over the shelf his large pecs created. His arms were thick and barely movable. When he walked, he was forced to lumber side to side in a waddling stride. But despite all of that, he loved how much he dwarfed the other men in the house. He could easily pick up each of them and toss them over this broad shoulder, the simple action filling him with a protective contentment. Deep down, Wolfe had always been described as a sweet puppy by his friends, and now he was a sweet guard dog… just significantly bigger.

Overall, as Kevin, Nick, and Wolfe each thought about what had been done to them, they didn’t take long to realize that at the end of the day, they all loved it and they couldn’t imagine leaving their new lives of pleasure to return to their old, boring ones.

But still, they each wanted Blue to pay.

Each man wore a mischievous smirk as they looked over at the small hypnotherapist.

Kevin, being the first one transformed and therefore assuming the role as leader of the group, spoke up. “You’re right,” he admitted, “we love our new lives. But for doing this to us against our will, you owe us.”

Blue’s heart sped up in his chest. “What do you mean?” he asked, feeling himself getting hard as he stood in front of the three larger men.

Wolfey stepped forward and easily tossed the smaller man over this broadened shoulder, puffing out his muscled chest with pride as he carried him back up the stairs to their shared bedroom. Kevin and Nick eagerly followed behind.

As soon as they were in the bedroom, Blue was gently tossed down onto the bed before all three of the men pounced at once.

They took turns shoving their hairy, musky armpits into Blue’s face, forcing the smaller man to lap at them hungrily with his tongue, which he did so gleefully. Kevin’s were especially musky, and he went so far as to place his hand on the back of Blue’s head to shove his face deeper into them. 

Each of the larger men was rock hard, their massive cocks springing out as they tore their tight jockstraps away from themselves as they anticipated their hypnotherapist boyfriend taking care of them.

Kevin grabbed Blue from behind, placing both of his hands on the other man’s hips. Nick tore away Blue’s pants, allowing the other man to line up his throbbing cock with the smaller guy’s hole. 

“Oooohhh!” Blue moaned loudly as Kevin entered him. The rest of the guys cheered in the bedroom as the sounds of Blue’s clapping cheeks rang out, Kevin thrusting into his throbbing hole like a mad man. 

Wolfey circled around the bed and grabbed a hold of Blue’s head (having a little difficultly with his bulky muscles getting the way). Wolfe’s hard cock bobbed in front of Blue’s face, his purple-flushed head leaking precum as it brushed against Blue’s slack jaw as he moaned.

Without hesitation, the hypnotherapist took in Wolfe’s hard cock in his mouth, moaning loudly as he was being stuffed full by both ends. 

Kevin fucked his aching hole while Wolfey fucked his face. 

Not wanting to feel left out, Nick hungrily rushed forward and snatched both of Blue’s hands, shoving them onto his hairy pecs. Blue took his cue and began to tug on Nick’s sensitive nipples, causing the cowboy stud to moan like a needy slut.

All four men heatedly fucked in the small bedroom that they shared, illustrating their new roles in life. No longer did Kevin, Nick, and Wolfe feel angry about being turned into slutty streamers. They loved their new lives and they loved their new boyfriend that they all shared.

Blue moaned as he was fucked both ways and as he groped Nick, loving having all three of his boyfriends use him to get off.

Kevin, Nick, and Wolfe each came at the same time, filling up the small hypnotherapist with their cum from both ends while Nick’s coated his chest.

Blue lied on the bed, spent from being used by his boyfriends, a smile on his tired face.

“I’d say we’re even now,” Kevin smirked as he crossed his arms in front of his hairy chest.

..The End..

[zepskies]

Assistant Hottie

Pairing: Jason Teague x F. Reader (implied Jason T. x Lana Lang)

Summary: Jason Teague, Assistant Football Coach, meets you in the faculty break lounge at Smallville High. He tries to kick you out, thinking you’re a student. Technically, you are. Turns out, you both go to the same university. 

AN: So I know it’s about 20 years late, but I’ve been wanting to write some Jason Teague for a while now. There’s a very dated reference to iPods (remember this show was circa early 2000s).

Word Count: 2,600 Tags/Warnings: Implied love triangle (quadrangle?), fluff, tinge of angst, and a meet cute.

“Hey, Coach T!”

Jason turns his head, shooting Clark Kent a smile that’s just a little bit forced. He slows down in the busy hallway so the younger man can catch up.

Clark’s friends, Chloe Sullivan and Lana Lang keep walking, though the brunette glances his way. Her hazel eyes catch his.

But Jason focuses on Clark, who’s coming at him with all six feet and three inches of farm boy earnestness.

Jason has City Boy Charm in his arsenal.

“What’s up, man?”

Clark smiles. “Real quick, just wanted to ask you about the drills we’re running today…”

Eighth period is about to start, meaning just another hour until school ends, and another day of practice begins on the football field. Clark takes all five minutes between classes to ask his questions about how he can better move the ball, his throwing technique, how to better communicate on plays with the rest of the guys.

As always, Jason gives Clark the best advice he has to offer. Even a few months into this job, he’s still feeling a bit of imposter syndrome. He’s only a couple of years older than the guys he’s coaching, and Clark is looking at him like he’s got all the answers.

Newsflash, champ. I don’t. Jason smiles though. 

Because Clark is something else. He’s a starting quarterback of a game he’s never played before in his life. Head Coach Quigley thought it was steroids at first, but Jason had a gut feeling about the guy.

“He’s not a cheater,” he’d told Quigley. The other man had scoffed, rubbing his chin.

“Okay, Teague. If you think so,” he said. “…Make him piss in a cup anyway.”

Since then, Clark hasn’t given Jason a reason to doubt him, at least on the field.

No, his reasons for still being wary of Clark are more…personal.

“All right, we’ll workshop the rest later on the field,” Jason says, as the starting bell rings. “You’re gonna be late for class.”

“Okay, see ya later.” Clark nods and holds up a hand in goodbye. To tell the truth, Jason is a little relieved to see him go.

Instead of heading to his office, he makes a pitstop at the faculty break lounge for a cup of coffee. He could use a little pick-me-up, even if it is from a watery K-cup.

When he pushes open the door, he’s greeted by the familiar smell of stale roasted hazelnut and microwaved fish. Along with the wall-to-wall countertop and refrigerator down the end, there’s a small round table fitted with just three chairs.

Uh oh, he thinks.

You’re sitting there with a pair of earbuds in, nodding to your music while you make notes with a red pen. The contents of your messenger bag are half-strewn across the table, displaying a couple of notebooks and binders, different colored highlighters, pens, and a post-it pad.

Your back is facing him, so he has to walk around the table to get your attention. He hesitates, before he taps your shoulder. He’s never had to do this before, and he’s actually a bit nervous.

“Hey there,” he says. His lips quirk when you jolt a little. You stare up at him with wide eyes and the top of your pen resting against your lower lip. 

“Uh…” You remove your ear buds and hit pause on your iPod.

“Did you get lost on the way to study hall, or you just here for the coffee?” Jason gestures to the Keurig machine on the counter. “Hate to break it to you, but that stuff’s not exactly quality joe.”

You blinked at him. “What? Um…I mean yeah, the coffee’s ass. But it is free, I guess.”

Jason tries to reign in his smile. He cards a hand through his blonde hair and taps his free hand on the table.

“Uh, are you ditching class or something?” he asks. “If it’s history, I get it. Snooze fest.”

He makes a flatlining motion with his hand. Your brows knit together in confusion…but then you brighten.

“Oh, I’m not a student,” you laugh. “But good on you for trying to lay down the law, Coach Teague.”

Now it’s Jason’s turn to be confused. “How did you know—”

You point with your red pen, over to the yellow patch emblazoned on his red polo that says: Crows Football and Assistant Coach.

“Pretty sure you’re the one the cheerleaders are calling Assistant Hottie,” you say. Your gaze is wry and a hint playful.

He lets himself smile, albeit with some embarrassment. He points at you.

“And you’re…”

“Part-time teacher’s aid,” you reply. Your hands make a frame around the stack of papers in front of you, that Jason now realizes you’re grading.

Great. His face warms a bit.

“Sorry,” he chuckles, and points to the coffee maker. “Let me just mind my business.”

He doesn’t know it, but you subtly watch him with a small smile while he goes about said business. The Keurig eventually spits out more roasted hazelnut into his Styrofoam cup.

With his prize in hand, he means to leave you in peace to head for his office, but your voice stops him.

“You can sit if you want. I need a break anyway.”

Jason can admit, at least to himself, that he’s curious. (About you.) He goes over to the table and sits down across from you. His eyes unconsciously dart over the splayed contents of your bag, and you don’t miss it.

“Sorry,” you say, as you try to reign in the mess and corral things back into your bag. “I’m kind of an organized chaos kind of girl.”

“No worries. I dabble in that philosophy myself,” he says with a grin. “I’m Jason, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you,” you reply, giving him your name in return.

You like his smile. His long fingers are wrapped around the steaming cup. Meanwhile, the afternoon sun is pouring in from the windows behind him. It shines golden on his hair and broad shoulders, and makes his green eyes look warm.

Those eyes glance down and focus on a familiar badge sticking out of your bag. His brows furrow.

“No way. You go to Kansas A&M?” he asks. “So do I.”

You blink at him. “What, you’re still in college?”

He laughs and leans back in his chair, blowing out a breath.

“Okay, wow! A bit rude," he says. "Just how old do you think I am?”

You bite your lip in embarrassment.

“Second thought, don’t answer that,” he quips.

“I’m sorry,” you say, through a bit of laughter. “I guess we’re both reading each other wrong today.”

Jason shakes his head and crosses his arms.

“No, no. It’s fine,” he says airily. “Lest I be any more presumptuous, can I ask what year you’re in? Major?”

You concede with a nod, but you’re still smiling too hard.

“Secondary Education. Junior year,” you say. Jason’s brows raise with his grin still in place.

“Okay, a future teacher on our hands.” He leans forward. “As it turns out, I’m actually a sophomore.”

A year below you. You bury your reddened face in your hands, though a giggle still bubbles up.

He doesn’t let you stew in your misery for long though.

“Eh, it’s okay. Don’t feel too bad,” he says. You hear the smile in his voice, and you peek out at him from between your fingers. “I’m technically a year behind. Transferred from another school so I could take this job.”

Once again, your eyes widen as your hands fall away from your face.

“Oh, yeah? I assume you play football, but I’ve never seen you on the team…”

Jason’s smile turns playfully cocky.

“I don’t play anymore, but I’ll have you know, I was on track for the NFL.”

Yeah, for about a minute, comes a dull reminder in his brain.

You rest your chin in your hand as you meet his smile. “Okay. You definitely have the face of a guy who almost went pro.”

Your voice lowers at the end there, impersonating every “dude bro” you’ve ever met who thought he could throw a ball across a field.

“I’m serious.” Jason laughs, but then his eyes dim a bit. “I played for Metropolis U. Tore my rotator cuff, and uh…that’s it. Scrubbed. Had to start over.”

You dim along with him. “That sucks ass. I’m sorry.”

He snorts, almost spilling his coffee. “You’ve certainly got a way with words.”

“But you feel better for me calling you old, don’t you?” Your pen taps on your lip, and his eyes are drawn to the gesture.

He also notices your eyes, the shape of your face, the shade of your hair, the black Fleetwood Mac shirt (with a ripped V hinting at cleavage). It doesn’t exactly scream T.A., but you’re pretty.

Beautiful, really.

He tries not to notice that too much.

“Maybe a little,” he allows. He smiles behind a sip of his drink. It’s getting cold, as he forgets to actually drink it.

“My parents sent me to college to be a lawyer,” you confess. It perks his interest with raised brows. “Like my mom, and my uncle, and his father before him, and so on.”

Jason’s smile is back. You consider that a small triumph.

“I sat in one class. Intro to Business Law.” You shudder at the memory. “Jason, I wanted to bludgeon myself with the textbook. And it wouldn’t have taken long. That thing was the size of a Dostoyevsky novel.”

Jason laughs, even though he doesn’t know who Dostoyevsky is. It does unearth a distant memory of his 12th grade English class (he barely passed that one).

“So, I decided to disappoint them,” you say ruefully.

That, he understands all too well. He raises a finger at you. “Hey, a teacher’s respectable. But I happen to be an expert at disappointed parents, so you’re in good company.”

You smile, small but genuine. Jason counts that as a win.

“What’s your major now?” you ask.

“Sports medicine,” he replies, but you both hear the lack of enthusiasm in his voice.

Your head tilts, and your eyes soften. Not with pity, he thinks. Maybe with understanding.

“You could find something else you’re actually passionate about,” you say.

Jason bites the inside of his lip, sets his cup back on the table.

“Sure,” he says.

His lackluster answer is telling, and he can’t even think of a joke to inject into this moment to lighten the mood. (He even disappoints himself there.)

“Look, I get it,” you say at last. “You probably ate, slept, breathed that game. Like that’s what you were put on this earth to do. And I know you must’ve been good. Because the fact that this school hired you while you’re still in college is amazing.”

He meets your gaze steadily. 

Your smile brightens. “But I’m sure football’s not all there is to you.” 

That touches him. Warms him even, though he’s reluctant to let it. 

“We just met, and you’re already sure about that?” he remarks. 

You shrug, gesturing at his cup. “Well, I’m sure that you probably have crappy taste in coffee. I’m broke as hell, and even I don’t drink from a Keurig.” 

Jason laughs. If you only knew that he’d spent his summer in Paris, sampling some of the best restaurants and cafés in the world without even looking at the bill…until his dad cut him off. Needless to say, he’s had to refine his tastes.

“What kind of teacher do you want to be?” he asks, instead of getting to all that.

Your brow arches. “You mean what subject?”

“Yeah. What, like physics or something?”

“Ew. God, no!” 

“What’s wrong with physics?”

“Too much math. I’m shit at that shit,” you reply. 

“Okay. No to the sciences.” He laughs and rubs his chin, squinting at you. “Let me see if I can guess.”

You gesture widely. Go ahead.

“Not economics, I’m thinking. Too close to business,” he teases.

“Business law,” you correct. “But you’re actually right about that.”

“Hmm, history?”

“It's interesting, but it’s also rigged,” you say. “Only the victors in society get to dictate what gets remembered. Just look at Columbus Day. What a sham that is.”

Jason allows that with a nod and a smile. “All right, what then? Algebra? Geometry?”

“That’s math, remember?” you reply, with furrowed brows. “Besides, I don’t like mixing letters and numbers. It’s not sanitary.” 

He chortles at that. You’re a little ridiculous, but he kind of likes that.

“Okay, how about English?” he says.

Your gaze flicks up to his. A small, growing smile. 

“What makes you say that?” you ask. 

“Process of elimination?” he says. His smile curves. He saw your little reaction. “But I don’t know. I get the feeling you’re a hell of a lot smarter than me. The way you’re talking, all quick as a whip… Like I said, you’ve got a way with words.”

You laugh a little. “Oh, do I?” 

Jason’s brows raise expectantly as he leans back in his seat again.

Well, then? that move says. “Am I right?”

Your head tilts, and you answer the unspoken challenge in his eyes. You raise a finger and pull out one of your notebooks and you take up your red pen. You tap the top of it on your lip, in what seems to be your habit, and you begin to write on a clean piece of paper.

Your hand moves with purpose on each word. Jason watches you in curiosity. Though when you realize he’s staring hard at your paper, your free hand forms a wall against his probing eyes.

“No cheating,” you reproach.

He scoffs, but he waits for you to finish.

Finally, you tear off the piece of notebook paper, fold it up neatly, and you slide it over to him.

“What, are we passing notes now?” Jason can’t help but joke, even as he opens the little gift. “I thought we weren’t in class, Professor.”

You shake your head. “Just read it.”

He starts to, and his smile grows. He glances back up at you. “You wrote me a poem?”

“Just a little haiku.” You gesture at him to keep reading while you start to pack up your things. The alarm bell just tolled for the end of class, and you have another job to get to.

Jason’s eyes lower back down to the looping scrawl of your handwriting. His smile deepens into a smirk.

Assistant Hottie

You flatter me, see through me

Smarter than he thinks.

He stares at your words for a while. He rereads the last line a few times.

By the time he looks back up, your bag is packed and you’re standing, ready to go. You smile at him.

“See you on campus,” you say. “I also work at the Writing Center, if you ever need a spruce up on your essays.”

“Can I get you to rewrite my history paper?” he teases.

“Make an appointment,” you counter, still with that smile. “And we’ll see.”

You leave the faculty lounge, and Jason feels a suspicious jolt in his heart.

Something he immediately feels guilty about. 

Because the real reason he came back to Kansas is to continue his summer fling with Lana Lang, a senior at Smallville High. 

Well, to him, it’s not a fling. He used to think it was as close to love as he’s ever been. Recently though, he’s been getting the sense that she’s still hung up on her not quite ex, Clark Kent.

That’s not even the most complicated part.

She’s 18, and Jason’s barely 20, but their relationship could still one day be the reason he loses his job…

And maybe, any chance he might have of being friends with someone like you.

AN: Lol no shade to my sciences, history, and math people! Just creating a character. Let me know what you think! 😉

And if you liked this...

Read the Sequel!

Check out "Miss Professor" to continue reading. ❤️

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[icequeenlila]

Context: They just confessed in a sunflower field. (Bradley has cried a little bc he's secretly insecure.)

"What are you doing?", Bradley asked when Max suddenly pulled away.

He still felt dizzy, his nose clocked up and his face sticky with dried tears and soda. He felt fucking raw. Like his chest had just been ripped open, every part of him laid bare.

It was kinda what happened.

"Picking flowers for my beloved", Max said, his back turned towards him.

Bradley frowned in confusion, a giggle escaping him. It still sounded a bit pathetic, a wet sound to his voice.

"We already vandalized a grocery store today", he said, wiping at his stuffy nose and sniffing softly. "You really want to put theft onto the list?"

Max shot him a conspiratorial grin. "Nobody will ever know." He tipped his head back, inspecting all the sunflowers to choose from.

Bradley crossed his arms, watching with a grin on his lips as Max nodded slightly and went right for the biggest and prettiest one. The flower was easily two heads bigger than him, its blossoms bright yellow and velvety smooth.

"Don't hurt yourself", Bradley chuckled when he watched Max stand on his tippy toes to grab the flower at a narrower part of the stem.

"Do I hear mocking there?", Max joked, hand wrestling with the thick stem.

Bradley laughed at the sight and his heart felt fluttery with it.

"Never", he lied.

Max grinned up at him, now bending the flower's stem until he could swing one leg over it, like sitting on a broom.

Bradley couldn't stop laughing, watching the boy struggle with that poor flower, now hanging half broken on its stem, but it refused to give in to Max' pull.

"What did they water this thing with?", Max panted, pulling and wringing. "Steroids?"

Bradley's belly hurt already, the tears in his eyes now ones of laughter. The dizziness still hadn't worn off fully, his head feeling airy and light. He had to sit down on the ground as the world started spinning around him.

"Just leave the damn thing", he rasped, trying to catch his breath, one hand pressed to his tummy.

"You want that flower, I'll get you that damn flower", Max said through bitten teeth.

"I never said I wanted it!"

"You want it!"

God, Bradley felt giddy. All attempts to calm down thrown into the winds when Max somehow slipped and tumbled to the ground, landing directly next to Bradley.

"Bwahahaha!"

Bradley couldn’t help it. Max was lying on his back, eyes big in shock, blinking up a Bradley as his brain still tried to catch up with the situation.

"My hero", Bradley said, wiping black strands out of Max' face.

Max' lips split into a grin, dark eyes gazing up at him. Bradley felt his insides twist in that delicious way. Max was looking at him like a love-struck puppy. He had to blink a few times to make sure he wasn't imagining it.

"I got it", Max said, holding up the poor flower.

Its petals, big and smooth before the assault, were now knitted and littered with dark spots all over. The best part: Max had pulled out the whole thing by the root. So now he was holding a half-smashed sunflower, hanging on for dear life on its half-broken stem, roots still attached to it.

"I love it", Bradley said, taking the flower from Max' hand. "Thank you so much."

If possible, Max grin only widened at that, his dark eyes filled to the brim with affection.

"Anything for you."

+

From chapter 6 of 'Good Luck, Babe!' on ao3.

[chubbycelebs]

Enjoying life (Harry Styles)

During the 2000s, Hollywood portrayed the best body type for men across the world is to have a toned stomach, bulging muscles, be in shape constantly and to be incredibly fit. This portrayal of male bodies made them spend hours and days in the gym pumping iron, running on treadmills, getting hot and sweaty and then aching from all the work they would put into their body, starving them selves of enjoyment. The ideal male body just became harder and harder for men to achieve that they began to go crazy trying to achieve it. They would take steroids and guzzle down protein powder and spend endless hours in the gym to try and get that body every man wanted to achieve to have the media deem them as "attractive".

Unfortunately even today male celebs feel this pressure to stay constantly in shape with the rise of social media and constantly on show. One of these celebs is fan favourite, Harry Styles who was one of these many men stuck working out all the time trying to have the perfect body. Constantly on a world tour, wearing revealing clothing meaning most of his spare time was spent in the gym endlessly working his body to its whits end. Harry's body was in peak fitness yet this never seemed enough for the tabloids or fans who still critiqued his arms or chest or whatever wasn't "perfect". Day after day he would go to the gym to keep his toned body in check but it still didn't feel enough for him.

He was quickly approaching the end of his tour however and Harry planned on going into hiding for a few weeks and take a rest from constantly being seen and judged and looked at. And that day finally came. He had finished his world tour with great reviews and many people saying he deserved a long break, and that he agreed on. Harry got back from his tour into his huge house in Hollywood and he immediately ripped off his travel clothes leaving him in his tight white brief underwear and sunk into his huge bed, quickly fell straight asleep.

Harry arose the next day at around 12pm having slept for hours. He stretched and yawned and then decided he couldn't be bothered to go to the gym today or even get out of bed for that matter. He just wanted to lay there in his comfortable sheets doing nothing. After about an hour of being in and our of sleep, his stomach began to growl with hunger. He looked at the time and realised that it was 1pm and he hadn't eaten anything all day yet. His stomach did a monstrous growl and he knew he had to eat something big and quick. He grabbed his phone and pulled up the first fast food place he could see and ordered everything off their breakfast menu. About 20 minutes later there was a knock on the door. Harry pulled him self out of bed and stumbled down to the front door, still just in his underwear. He opened the door still half asleep, grabbed the 2 large bags of food, tipped the delivery man and thanked him and then closed the door, quickly going back to his bed. Harry sat there and ate the whole contents of the two bags with ease. As he polished off his sausage sandwich he fell back into his bed. Harry rested his hands on his extended stomach, bloated with food. He hasn't been this full in a long time, years maybe. It felt good to be full of food, to not worry about if he looks bloated or fat right now, he just enjoyed the sensation of food. As he rubbed his stomach feeling his rounded torso, he felt a pulse in his briefs of excitement. He was confused by this as he'd never felt this way about being bloated and full, but then again he'd not been this bloated and full for a long time.

Harry spent the rest of the day laying around in his underwear, snacking on the odd bits of junk food he could find in his house. He could't stop thinking about what happened in his underwear earlier however. Was he really turned on by being that full and bloated? He had heard about people that enjoyed eating and being fed but those type of people were huge gainers, he wasn't one of those surely?

Harry spent the next few days doing very little. His routine had become waking up late into the day and spending the rest of the day eating and lazing around in nothing but his tight briefs. These last few days for Harry had been the happiest he'd been in years. He felt the pressure of everyone else leave him. He didn't have to worry about the fans, the paparazzi, the magazines, his PR team. He could just live his life how he wanted to and at the pace he wanted to and that was very slow and very lazy. But he enjoyed being lazy and enjoyed eating what he wanted when he wanted and enjoyed not having to work his body till he couldn't move in the gym. He had no desire to go back to the life he had had just days ago.

A few days of this lifestyle turned quickly into weeks. He hadn't cooked a meal in weeks, he hadn't put on proper clothes in weeks, he hadn't gone to the gym in weeks, he hadn't left the house in weeks but he had enjoyed him self finally. He had found a routine he felt comfortable living in and it started to show. As Harry tucked into his second burger for his breakfast, his belly, now much softer and less defined then the post tour body he had a few weeks ago, spilled over the edge of his shorts. His softer chest slightly deforming his nipples as he slouches, his love handles started to push down his shorts, even slightly revealing the top of his butt crack which was also due to his expanding backside. Harry had gone from ideal male physic to now a softer chubby version of that. He still held some muscle definition in his arms but a lot of his body was now covered in a soft layer of fat. As always, Harry polished off the last of his large greasy meal and leaned back on the bench he was sitting on in his garden. He rubbed his gut and let out a little burp. As he rubbed his belly, the usual hardness of his abs wasn't there, instead a softness and warmth. He looked down and saw his belly spilling over the edge of his shorts. Harry's face went warm and red as he put both hands on his bloated stomach. He was touching it in shock. He'd never seen him self so soft before. He started to panic about what people would say if they saw him, what the photos would look like, how he'd look on tour with a jiggling belly, how people would point out how big he'd gotten. As he thought these things, that same pulse in his briefs was felt. His large member grew hard and excited by the prospect of people pointing out his growing belly, his jiggling belly on stage as he dances around. He enjoyed that thought a lot and even thought about how it would be if he got bigger than this and he became even harder and even more excited by that thought. He spent the rest of the day eating and lazing around stuck in thought. He didn't have any commitments any time soon nor did he have to leave the house and be seen publicly. This sparked a thought in his head. Why not explore the possibility of getting bigger? He was enjoying his current lifestyle much more than the life he had before, why not give into it, see how far he can go with it? At that moment Harry ordered him self everything off the menu from the fast food place in town and spent the evening filling is softening belly with the greasy fatty foods.

Over the next few weeks Harry spent every waking hour of the day eating. As soon as he woke up he'd make him self stacks of pancakes or waffles covered in syrup and butter. He'd follow that up with a thick milkshake and then snack on cereal bars till lunch time came. For lunch he would order 3 large burgers and 3 large chips, chicken strips and cheese melts and a huge cup of soda. After snacking all afternoon on muffins and cupcakes came the main event: his dinner. He would go full out ordering from the finest restaurants everything off the menu. He would spend the rest of the evening stuffing all the food into his chubby cheeks and filling up his growing gut. He couldn't get enough of the feeling of being full. He loved at the end of the day when he'd lay in bed rubbing his big bloated belly feeling his softening gut grow bigger and bigger. He became so in love with this lifestyle that he couldn't stop now even if he wanted to. He had gone too far to the fat side.

As Harry lay rubbing his fat body he thought back to how hard life was trying to stay in shape just a month or so ago. He would spend hours in the morning training just to feel unhappy about himself but now he didn't get up till early afternoon and spent his days eating and growing and he couldn't be happier. He thought how other men must feel having to appeal to the standard of beauty when all they want to do is eat and enjoy life. This gave Harry an idea. He called his PR team to come round first thing in the morning to have a discussion about his next career moves.

That morning Harry arose earlier then usual. He quickly hopped in the shower and then put some clothes on for the first time in weeks. He noticed how his shirts clung tight to his expanding middle and how his jeans squeezed tightly to his juicy ass and growing thighs. He made a mental note to buy some looser more comfortable clothes. When his PR team arrived they did notice Harry's fuller figure. No one said anything, thinking he'd just enjoyed his time off that's all. Harry pointed them to his sofa and they all sat down as he stood in front of them. "I want to talk about where I want my career to go from now on and I want to stand for something that I firmly believe in. Before my break I was known as a very attractive and very fit man who had, some may say, the ideal body, however this wasn't enough for a lot of people and not enough for me. I felt like shit all the time. I spent hours in the gym trying to be the best I could and it was never enough and I realise now that it'll never be enough. That is why i decided to experiment with my life style, resulting in this." Harry lifted up his shirt to reveal his soft belly and his lack of abs. This reveal was met with a round of gasps from his team who hadn't expected him to get quite this big over his break.

"I understand that this," Harry grabbed his belly and shook it, "isn't what you'd expect me to do in my break but I have enjoyed my break, enjoyed my time relaxing and eating and feeling full and content."

His PR team all seemed confused and some now worried for Harry.

"What I'm trying to say is that I like this. I like being fat. In fact I want more of it. I want it bigger. And I want to show men that you can be hot and sexy and FAT. I've had enough of fitness culture making men feel shit about themselves. It's time for the fatness culture to take over."

With this a few of his PR team all smiled and looked at each other. They all agreed to follow through with Harry's vision and wanted to support him in his growth. Harry was so happy to get this seal of approval and to celebrate, he got the whole team a large order of take out to share (even though Harry ended up having most of it for himself).

Later that week Harry would make his first public appearance since his break. He didn't want to shy away from his new body, instead he wanted to show it off to the world. Show how proud he was of his growth. He had a custom teddy bear crop top made for him that showcased his round gut perfectly. His first public outing was a press conference that he had arranged to talk about body positivity. When he entered the room, belly first of course, the room all looked at him in shock, even a few people couldn't hold back their gasps. Harry took a seat as the paparazzi snapped photos of Harry Styles and his new fat gut. Harry smiled slightly excited by this reaction. The shock and horror on peoples faces made him excited to keep growing and showing that off.

At the conference he spoke in detail about how sad he was before his break where he discovered his love for eating and enjoying food. He said how Hollywood and the media put so much pressure to look perfect but why cant a belly and a soft chest with thick thighs and a fatty bum be perfect too. The whole room stood up in applause, some even cheered for him. Harry was so happy that his first time out the house was met with such positive reaction. He couldn't wait to show the world more of what he was made of.

Over the next few days Harry took part in photo shoots displaying his fat figure in fashion magazines. He gave interviews about his weight gain and how he loved it and promoted men to try it if they feel down about their current body. The whole world was talking about Mr Harry Styles' belly. The reveal was met with many positive people praising him for letting go and enjoying life. He even inspired some celebrities to join him in their exploration of weight gain. As well as positive feed back, Harry was met with some negative feedback as well. Some fitness freaks began to slate him for promoting an unhealthy life and how people shouldn't strive to be fat but should all work for abs and strong muscles and be in perfect shape at all time. For some reason this didn't affect Harry negatively at all. One morning, Harry was reading some articles about his weight gain and came across one calling him names like "Fatty Styles" or "A pig in nice clothes". These names made his member throb and he got very excited. Seeing them call him them names inspired him and pushed him to keep gorging and keep getting fatter. If they wanted him thinner he was gonna go bigger than ever before. Harry looked down at his gut and slapped it saying "you aren't going anywhere" and stuffed his face with a full burger.

Harry was blowing up. Figuratively and literally. He was doing photo shoot after photo shoot displaying his growing belly. He was the headline of every tabloid and magazine with his fat belly on the front of every one. The fat guy was literally everywhere. Harry also couldn't stop eating. His gaining journey became less about empowering people and more that Harry had just become addicted to stuffing his belly and he loved it. Every day he would eat enough food to feed a large family. Members of his team would have to buy new clothes for him every week as he couldn't stop growing. He would go for fittings but he would never fit into them a week later. His expanding body was constantly on full public display as well and he loved every second of it

The paparazzi would have field days whenever Harry was out and about. He would walk the streets shirtless stuffing his face with some fast food or sugary filled dessert. Harry loved the public attention he got from his huge jiggly body. Since he had gone public with this weight gain, he had continued to gain an excessive amount of weight. One reason was due to the fact Harry just loved eating and honestly couldn't stop but another reason was because of how excited he got from his expanding body. As he felt his waist line get wider, his love handles grow further out, his chest start to droop, this hips and bum grow outwards and his limbs fill with fat, he couldn't help but get turned on by it. He began hooking up with an old friend, Louis Tomlinson, who loved to encourage Harry. He has never been this excited by his own body ever. He loved filling his stomach till he couldn't move and then commit sexual acts with Louis. Louis even loved walking around with him showcasing just how big he was helping Harry become.

It had now been 9 months since Harry had first gone on his break and had gone from 155lbs to now 250lbs of fat. He had honestly never been happier or fatter in his life and he loved every second of it. One morning when he woke up after a large stuffing he got out of bed and went down to the kitchen to grab some sweet treat to fill his morning hunger. He accidentally dropped his fork as he went to sit down at the table. As he bent down to pick it up, his tight over stretched weight brief underwear split right down his ass crack. As he quickly stood up he ran to the full length mirror. He turned around and saw just how large his arse had gotten. It had burst the seams to his underwear and revealed his large fatty bottom. As he stood there he took in the rest of his body. He pulled on his love handles, rubbing his belly and watching it jiggle. He rubbed his chest and saw how his once defined pecs had softened and drooped into moobs now. Harry was getting so excited and turned on that he called Louis to come round immediately to stuff him and make him fatter than ever.

Over the next few months Harry carried on gracing the front cover of every magazine displaying his now huge figure. They wanted to show the world what had happened to the fit and in shape Harry Styles and Harry loved to show it off. He loved talking about his gaining story, how he felt better fatter and how other men should gain to feel free. Now breaking 300lbs he had officially become the face of fat and obese men all over the world. His display of gluttony and enjoyment of food encouraged so many men to go from fit and switch to fat. A lot of celebs like Tom Holland, Chris Evans, Evans Peters, the Jonas Brothers all had stopped working out and started enjoying stuffing themselves with food! Harry had really changed the face of man-kind with his unleashing and accepting his gluttonous behaviour.

As much as Harry enjoyed how much he changed how men percieved their bodies and looking after them, he much more enjoyed the feeling of his own and his own exploration into his gaining. He had never realised when he was skinny but he quite obviously had a gaining kink. He loved the feeling when his belly was filled to the brim full of fattening foods. He loved being teased and showcased by his lover out in public. He loved when he played with his own huge body but he enjoyed more when others would play with this jiggly body. Louis, when he came round to stuff Harry and relieve him, would always grab Harry's underbelly and jiggle it mocking just how fat he had become. He would show images of him from before his break and tell him how much of a pig he was for letting him self go. All these things made Harry absolutely crazy. He couldn't get enough of it. He'd sometimes beg Louis to mock him and play with him he was so desperate for it. Without realising Harry's desire to be empowering had also become his desire to be a huge fat hog and he loved it so much.

As time went on and Harry descended further and further into obesity, flying past the 300lbs mark, the past image of the fit and toned Harry Styles was a distant image. He had truly accepted his life as a huge fat hog now. When he went out and about, strangers would bring him food like hot dogs or burgers and he loved accepting them. He would stuff it all straight into his fat cheeks, making it not even last a minute. Some fans would ask to poke his belly or hug him as to feel his soft middle and of course Harry couldn't resist. Every so often he would get a male fan come up to him and say how he inspired them to get fat too. These moments were Harry's favourite moments. To see that he had not only made him self a huge fat hog but inspired other men to let go and unleash their inner pigs too, it truly warmed his heart. Harry was so proud of the impact he had had on men.

As his two year anniversary of his first break was coming up, Harry had decided he wanted to go back on tour. Now at 360lbs, Harry thought it was time to tour the world as a new man, a fat man. Just before his tour started however, he took a vacation on a boat for a week or two just to have a final relax. He loved putting on tight speedos in front of the paparazzi. It would showcase every inch of his hog body, putting it all on show leaving nothing to the imagination.

Harry's tour was a smash hit. He loved spending every night on stage, wearing barely enough clothes to cover his huge body. His fans loved it too, watching the giant man jiggle around stage. He would have seconds of his show where he would sit and eat food that fans had thrown at him to eat. He would show off his new shapes and curves by jiggling his huge gut for the fans to cheer and clap at. He felt like a proper circus hog, performing for food and to grow fatter. And that he did. By the end of the tour Harry had cracked the 400lbs mark. On his final show he thanked the fans for standing by him but more importantly for keeping him well fed and fat. He admitted he was worry about losing weight on tour but his fans made sure that he wouldn't lose a pound and instead gain 40.

Harry then end back home to his trusty feeder Louis. Louis was happy to have Harry back in his hands. The first night back he admired the work the fans had done to his piggy. "Your fans really know how to keep you well fed huh?" Louis said as he pulled off Harry's tight shirt. "But let me show you how I stuff my pigs." And with that Harry went back to being fattened and stuffed by Louis. This was the life he had always wanted. He loved being this big and loved every stage of his weight gain prior but he couldn't wait to get even bigger. He knew he couldn't stop even if he wanted to but he most definitely didn't want to ever stop being a huge fat hog.

This is a story based around AI images that I created recently. I have really loved writing this story and really put in a lot of effort with it. I have slightly teased other celebs in this story so if you would like to hear a story about their gaining experiences then please do let me know. Anyways I hope you guys enjoy this story as much as I loved writing it <3

[bootleg-nessie]

List of Extremely Cursed Knowledge

Having autism and ADHD is a blessing and a curse because on one hand, I’m basically a walking encyclopedia of random facts and information. On the other hand, a fair amount of that information is so fucked up that it’s not socially acceptable to share it with anyone. So naturally, I took every fucked up fact, every bit of twisted trivia, every bit of cursed knowledge that I could come up with off the top of my head and compiled it into one big list to post on the internet. Some of this information may permanently ruin your (you, the reader) perception of certain things. None of this information should have ever seen the light of day, and a fair amount of it was never, ever meant to be known by humans.

You cannot unlearn anything on this list. This is your chance to scroll past.

You have been warned.

\/ \/ \/

According to FDA standards, a jar of peanut butter is allowed to have up to seven (7) rat hairs before it’s considered unfit for human consumption. If it has 7 or less rat hairs it will still be sold in stores.

If I just ruined peanut butter for you, don’t google the FDA regulations on any other foods you enjoy.

Human teeth have 36 calories each.

The average human body has roughly 125,000 calories. This is actually relatively low, which makes cannibalism in humans generally unsustainable.

Human meat tastes like pork.

Penguins have been observed practicing necrophilia.

Dolphin vaginas secrete a substance that acts like an aphrodisiac on steroids. When scientists swabbed some of it on a chimpanzee’s penis, it masturbated so furiously that it had a heart attack and died.

Dolphins have been known to intentionally commit suicide if kept in poor conditions.

Scientists that work with cockroaches often become allergic due to exposure. Simultaneously, they also develop an allergy to chocolate and pre-ground coffee. Make of that what you will.

Dolphins have been observed masturbating using decapitated fish heads.

Dolphins have been observed getting high on pufferfish venom recreationally, sometimes even passing a pufferfish around like a joint.

There’s a LOT of rape across the entire animal kingdom. Like, a LOT. It’s especially prevalent in dolphins, otters, ducks, penguins, and primates, to name a few.

On a related note, female ducks have corkscrew shaped vaginas. Male ducks also have corkscrew shaped penises that measure in at a whopping eighteen inches.

The barnacle has the largest penis to body size ratio in the animal kingdom, with its penis being up to eight times as long as its body.

Chimpanzees have been observed using frogs as a fleshlight.

A disembodied human head weighs about 10-12 lbs and is balanced in such a way that requires you to use both hands to pick up.

Pigs will eat every single part of a corpse - including bones. In 2012 a farmer in Oregon was eaten by his pigs after having a heart attack and falling in their enclosure. This also makes pig pens a prime spot for dumping bodies.

A body will decompose faster if you fill the rectal cavity with yogurt before burying it

When burying a body, make sure to bury it in a heavily wooded area. If vegetation is too sparse and/or the body isn’t buried deep enough, it will be easily noticeable after a few months because plants will grow in much thicker directly above where the body was buried.

You cannot bury a body in sand, as sand is too porous. The smell will seep through and give away the location

The entire universe could theoretically exist as a false vacuum and collapse into nothingness at any moment without warning.

Any alien civilization advanced enough to detect life on earth is also probably advanced enough to destroy our entire planet almost immediately. At the peak of interstellar technology, the only limiting factor is the speed of light. If they decided to attack, we probably wouldn’t even know it was coming until the entire surface of the planet was already vaporized.

It takes three and a half rotations to fully detach a human head from its body.

Recently deceased bodies can experience rigor erectus, which translates to “death boner.” This is especially common in victims of hanging, as it’s primarily caused by trauma to the cerebellum or spinal cord.

There is an extremely real chance that you have unknowingly purchased a product that was made by modern day slaves at least once in your life. Coffee, cotton, fish, clothes, shoes, and technology are among the most vulnerable industries.

A decapitated head remains conscious for several seconds after separated from the body.

The entire koala population across Australia is currently undergoing a major chlamydia epidemic. It’s actually been extremely devastating for them and they’re currently facing the threat of extinction because of it.

[wannabehockeygf]

Florida!!! - Clayton Keller

“My friends all smell like weed or little babies,

And this city reeks of driving myself crazy,

Little did you know, your home’s really only a town you’re just a guest in?

So you work your life away,

Just to pay for a timeshare down in Destin.”

Summary: On a family vacation with your boyfriend, you find him stoned with his brother, and when he gets you alone, things escalate…

Word Count: 5k

Pairing: Clayton Keller x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+ NSFW! Use of drugs (marijuana), oral sex (f receiving), Clayton being an absolute munch.

Notes:

- been indulging recently (it’s perfectly legal where i live, don’t @ me…) so real life projection!

- munch Clayton is finally here for my girlies who enjoy him as much as I do!

- also I’m still not over ttpd. no skip album.

- not proof read <3

***

*EDIT 08/15/2024 @ 8:31pm PST : His brother’s name is Jake. Not Luke. Sorry if you read prior 😭 (hughes brother brainrot)

A vacation with your boyfriend’s family? Oh, this was uncharted territory. I mean, you’d survived Thanksgiving dinner at his parents’ house in St. Louis—barely. But that was just one night. One turkey. One slightly-too-long hug from his mom. You’d only been together five months, after all.

But now, here you are, basking in the relentless sunshine of Destin, Florida, sharing a timeshare with them. A timeshare. This is like Thanksgiving on steroids, with no escape hatch. The place is stupidly nice, though. Like, if Pottery Barn threw up on a beach house, this would be it. Sure, Clayton probably financed half of it, but you still feel like you’re tiptoeing through a very fragile house of cards. One wrong move and you’ll topple the whole “good impression” thing you’ve got going on. So yeah, “best behavior” mode is fully engaged, like a 24/7 surveillance camera on yourself.

But then, the moment of truth. After a blissful solo beach jaunt—because let’s be honest, sometimes you just need a break from all that “family bonding”—you wander into the garage, nose twitching at some weird smell. Is that...skunk? No, no. Please don’t be a skunk. You cautiously push open the door, and what do you find? Clayton and his brother, Jake, in full bro-mode sitting in flimsy lawn chairs, laughing like they’re at some frat party, sharing hits from a brightly colored bong.

Well, that’s definitely a new one.

Really, Clayton? You’re on a family vacation, not reliving your glory days as "Chad, the King of Sigma Nu." Is this his idea of “relaxing with the fam?” Plus, isn’t smoking bad for your lungs? Especially for a hockey player. You stand there for a second, frozen like you’ve just walked in on a murder mystery party and are trying to figure out if you’re the victim or the detective. Your mind is a hurricane of thoughts: Should I laugh? Should I be offended? Is this one of those “testing the girlfriend” moments? Because honestly, who packs a bong for a trip to a family-friendly beach destination?

You catch Clayton’s eye, and for a split second, you see the gears in his head screech to a halt. Jake, on the other hand, is blissfully unaware of your presence, too busy blowing a perfect smoke ring that floats lazily toward the ceiling. Clayton gives you this wide-eyed, deer-in-headlights look, which would be adorable if it weren’t so stupid. Oh, sweetheart, you are so busted.

“Heyyy,” Clayton says, dragging out the word like he’s trying to slow time. “You, uh, back already?”

You blink. “Yeah, funny thing, I actually live here too. With your family. On vacation. Remember?”

He shifts uncomfortably in his lawn chair—seriously, who uses lawn chairs indoors?—and suddenly, you’re struck by how much this scene looks like a low-budget college film. The only thing missing is a dorm fridge stocked with PBR and a poster of Bob Marley on the wall. Instead, it’s all beige walls and perfectly coordinated coastal decor that just screams, “Don’t touch anything.”

Jake finally notices you and breaks into a grin, lifting the bong like it’s a trophy. “Hey, you wanna join?”

Oh, great, you think, now I’m one of the bros.

But before you can respond, Clayton is already scrambling to fix this train wreck. “No, no, she doesn’t want to join! Right, babe?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Where did you guys even get that? I mean, isn’t smoking pot like… illegal in this state?”

Clayton, bless his clueless heart, is staring at you with wide, bloodshot eyes like a puppy that just realized it’s chewed up your favorite shoes. Meanwhile, Jake— who you’re now starting to think might actually be a golden retriever in human form—waves the bong around like he’s offering you a slice of pizza at a sleepover.

“Illegal? Pssh, not if you don’t get caught,” Jake says with a wink that’s meant to be charming but lands somewhere between “bad decision” and “future mugshot.”

Clayton clears his throat and finally sets the bong down on the cement floor, like he’s slowly disarming a bomb. “It’s just, you know, for relaxation. Family vacations can be...stressful.”

You tilt your head, considering this. Stressful? You’ve been trying to make sure his mom doesn’t hate you and his dad doesn’t think you’re a gold-digger. And he’s the one who’s stressed? You bite back a laugh, because now’s really not the time to remind him that you’ve been fake-smiling so much your cheeks are about to cramp.

“Oh, totally,” you say, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because nothing says ‘stress relief’ like hiding in the garage with your brother, getting high while the rest of your family is out there expecting you to be getting ready for dinner.”

Clayton scratches the back of his neck, his go-to move when he’s trying to avoid a conversation. It’s endearing, really. In a way that also makes you want to strangle him. “I wasn’t— I mean, we were just—” He stumbles over his words, and you can practically see the gears in his head struggling to find a logical explanation that isn’t “We’re idiots.”

You take a deep breath, rolling your eyes so hard you’re worried they might get stuck. But, honestly, are you even surprised? In the last five months, you’ve learned that Clayton’s the kind of guy who accidentally dips his fries in your ketchup while trying to impress you with some half-baked philosophical theory about life. Which, admittedly, is part of his charm—when he’s not pulling stunts like this.

“Alright,” you say, crossing your arms, “let’s get one thing straight. I’m not going to narc you out to your mom since you’re actual grown adults, but you’re coming inside with me right now, and I’m going to help you sober up before we have to go to dinner.”

Jake’s still grinning like an idiot, probably already mentally planning the next bong hit, but you’ve got your sights set on Clayton. He’s trying to look contrite, but the bloodshot eyes are sort of ruining the effect.

“Come on,” you say, reaching out to take his hand, which, by the way, is clammy. Lovely. “I don’t think anyone’s noticed you’ve gone missing yet, but let’s not push our luck.”

Clayton gives you a sheepish smile, the kind that’s got you melting just a little bit. He stands up, wobbling slightly, and you have to resist the urge to laugh. Instead, you squeeze his hand, pulling him toward the door that leads back into the house.

You’re halfway there when Jake chimes in, “You sure you don’t want a hit? It’s good stuff. I mean, if you want to see, like, colors you didn’t know existed...”

You raise an eyebrow. “Colors? Really? I thought you were more of a ‘munchies and conspiracy theories’ kind of guy.”

Jake blinks at you, clearly having to work too hard to process that sentence, and you’re actually kind of proud of yourself. Two points for you, zero for the stoner brothers.

Clayton’s trailing behind you, still holding your hand like it’s a lifeline, and you can feel him trying to gauge your mood. It’s not anger, really—more of a low simmering exasperation. You drag him through the door and into the immaculate kitchen, up the stairs, until you reach the bedroom you’d been sharing.

Clayton finally releases your hand, flopping down onto the bed like a ragdoll. “Babe, you’re the best, you know that?” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes like a kid who’s been up past his bedtime. “I mean, seriously, the absolute best.”

You raise an eyebrow, perching on the edge of the bed. “Oh, I know. But that’s not going to save you from having to drink a gallon of water and eating something before we go to dinner with your parents.”

He groans, throwing an arm over his face like he’s in a bad rom-com. “Do we have to? I was kind of hoping we could just... stay here. Forever. In this bed. With no responsibilities.”

You smirk, reaching over to poke his side. “As tempting as that sounds, I’m not sure your mom would appreciate us skipping out on dinner after she called multiple travel agents to find the best restaurant.”

He peeks out from under his arm, giving you a lopsided grin. “Come here,” He urges, obviously still trying to get out of his responsibilities. His voice is teasing, but there’s something genuine in his eyes that makes your heart do a weird little flip.

You take a deep breath, trying to muster the willpower to resist the magnetic pull of that stupidly adorable grin. Clayton’s got this way of looking at you, all soft eyes and boyish charm, like he’s just discovered the best thing in the world, and it happens to be you. It’s the kind of look that could melt the Polar ice caps, and honestly, it’s not fair.

But you’re here for a mission, and that mission is to get this man sober enough to face his family without blowing your cover as the perfect girlfriend who isn’t remotely flustered by her boyfriend’s impromptu stoner session in the garage.

"Nice try," you say, raising an eyebrow and trying to keep your resolve firm, "but you’re not weaseling your way out of this one with cuddles."

“Come on,” Clayton says again, patting the bed beside him. “We’ve got, what? An hour before dinner? We could… relax for a bit.” His voice drops at the word “relax,” and you catch the hint of mischief in his tone.

You narrow your eyes at him, feigning suspicion. “Relax? Are you sure that’s all you want to do?”

He grins, and it’s that boyish, slightly cocky smile that usually precedes him getting his way. “I mean, we could do other things. Fun things. Relaxing, fun things…”

You’re already shaking your head, but you can feel the resolve weakening. It doesn’t help that he’s giving you that look—the one that’s equal parts puppy-dog eyes and shameless seduction. How he manages to pull that off when he still smells like weed with a hint of Febreze is beyond you.

“Clay…” you start, trying to maintain a firm tone, but he’s already moving closer, his hand finding its way to your thigh. The warmth of his touch sends a shiver up your spine, and suddenly, you’re a lot less focused on the whole “responsible girlfriend” thing and more on the fact that, despite his current state, he’s still ridiculously attractive.

“Mm-hmm?” he murmurs, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your shoulder.

Oh no. You know where this is going, and while every logical part of you is screaming “this is a bad idea,” the rest of you is pretty much ready to throw logic out the window.

“Clayton,” you try again, but this time it’s softer, less of a protest and more of a gentle reminder that maybe—just maybe—you should both be thinking this through.

He nuzzles his way up your neck, planting kisses as he goes, and when his lips reach that spot just beneath your ear, the one that makes your breath hitch, you know you’re done for.

“Mm-hmm?” he repeats, but this time it’s muffled against your skin, and the way his voice vibrates sends a delightful thrill through your entire body.

“Dinner,” you say weakly, though even to your own ears, it sounds more like a suggestion than a requirement.

“Later,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your jaw.

You let out a breathy laugh, your hands instinctively finding their way to his hair, threading through the soft strands. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Mm-hmm,” he hums again, clearly not caring in the slightest. His hands are roaming now, one sliding up your back, the other tracing patterns on your thigh. You feel him gently push you back against the pillows, his body pressing against yours in a way that makes it very hard to remember why you were resisting in the first place.

For a brief moment, you consider pushing him away, reminding him of the inevitable dinner with his parents where, let’s be honest, you’re still trying to score all the points. But then his lips find yours, and all thoughts of social propriety melt away.

His hand slides up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin in that gentle, affectionate way that always makes your heart skip a beat. He pulls back just a fraction, his eyes half-lidded and glassy, but there’s a warmth there—a genuine sweetness that cuts through the haze of weed and turns your resolve to mush.

“You know I’m crazy about you, right?” he murmurs, his voice low and a little rough. It’s that tone that gets you every time, the one that makes it clear he’s not just messing around, even if he’s not entirely in his right mind at the moment.

Your heart does that weird flip again, and you find yourself smiling despite everything. “I know,” you whisper back, your fingers still tangled in his hair.

He grins, all boyish charm and mischief, and then his lips are on yours again, more insistent this time. The kiss is slow and languid, like he’s savoring every second, and you can’t help but melt into it. His hands are warm, tracing a path down your sides, and when he pulls you closer, pressing his body against yours, you let out a soft, involuntary sigh.

“Mm, I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he mumbles against your lips, his voice thick with desire. “Can’t stop thinking about you.”

You’re lying there, pinned under the warm, slightly too-heavy weight of Clayton’s body, and your mind is racing, trying to catch up with the situation. Clayton’s still high as a kite, and yet here he is, trying to seduce you with that damn lopsided grin of his. You’re supposed to be the responsible one right now, the one who keeps everything on track. The one who doesn’t let her boyfriend’s cannabis-induced haze derail a meticulously planned family dinner. But, as his lips work their way down your neck, you’re beginning to think maybe you’ve lost control of this situation altogether.

“Clayton,” you say, trying to sound firm, but it comes out more like a breathless sigh. His mouth is trailing hot, lazy kisses along your collarbone, and you can feel his fingers tugging at the hem of your shirt. It’s distracting, to say the least, and you’re struggling to hold on to any coherent thought that doesn’t involve how good his touch feels.

“Hm?” He hums against your skin, completely oblivious to the inner turmoil you’re experiencing. His hands slide under your shirt, the calloused pads of his fingers brushing against your bare stomach, sending shivers up your spine. He’s not making this easy, and you know that’s probably the point.

“Dinner,” you manage to say, though it’s a weak attempt at protest. “We’re supposed to be getting ready for dinner.”

“Mm, later,” he mumbles, his lips moving lower, kissing just above the waistband of your shorts. “This is more important.”

You can’t help the small, breathy laugh that escapes you. “Is it now?”

He lifts his head to look at you, and the sight of him—flushed, with slightly mussed hair and glassy eyes that are somehow both earnest and a little mischievous—makes your heart skip a beat. “Definitely,” he says, and there’s something in his voice, a kind of sweet, dopey sincerity, that almost makes you want to give in right then and there.

You chew on your lower lip, trying to stay focused, but it’s hard when his hands are skimming up your sides, pushing your shirt higher. “Clayton, you’re high,” you remind him gently, as if he needs the reminder. “We really should—”

“I know,” he interrupts, and there’s that lopsided grin again, the one that makes your stomach do funny little flips. “But I just... I really fucking want you. And I want to make you feel good.”

You let out a sigh, glancing at the bedroom door as if it’s the gateway to the world of “responsibility” that you’re desperately trying to cling to. But honestly, that door is looking less like an escape route and more like a blockade against the pure, unadulterated temptation that is Clayton, sprawled out on the bed, high as a kite and making it very clear what he wants.

You’re supposed to be the responsible one. The one who keeps her wits about her, who doesn’t let a family vacation turn into a complete disaster because her boyfriend decided to get high with his brother in the garage. And yet…here you are, feeling the weight of Clayton’s gaze on you, his hands warm and insistent as they trace the curve of your hips.

“Clayton,” you try again, but your voice is soft, more an invitation than a protest. You should be telling him to sober up, to get dressed for dinner, to think about the fact that his mom could come knocking on the door at any minute. But instead, you find yourself caught in the way his eyes—glassy as they are—still manage to look at you like you’re the only thing that matters.

He looks up at you with those dazed, love-struck eyes and gives you that adorable lopsided grin. “Again? Baby, you don’t understand. I’ve been dreaming about having you like this all day. I just want to make you feel good. I’m so fucking into you right now. Just let me take care of you. It’s all I want.”

Oh god, his eyes are making your heart race, and every rational thought you had is slipping through your fingers. Here you are, his fingers gently tugging at your shirt, his lips grazing your collarbone in a way that makes you question every life decision you’ve ever made.

He’s literally begging to go down on you. To make you feel good, not giving a shit about himself. You’d laugh if it didn’t sound like the absolute best idea in the world right now.

But still, you hesitate. “Clayton,” you start, and even you’re surprised by how steady your voice sounds. “We really, really shouldn’t…”

He doesn’t stop. In fact, he seems to take your half-hearted protest as encouragement because he’s already kissing a path down your stomach, his fingers expertly unbuttoning your shorts like he’s done it a thousand times before. “I don’t care,” he mutters against your skin, and there’s an edge of desperation in his tone that sends a shiver down your spine. “I just need to taste you. Please, baby, let me.”

You bite your lip, trying to keep a level head, but Clayton’s hands are roaming, his fingers curling under the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down with a slow, deliberate movement. You feel the cool air against your skin, and suddenly every nerve in your body is on high alert. He’s not stopping—he’s determined, and you know, deep down, that if you don’t stop him now, you’re going to lose this battle entirely.

But then he looks up at you, his eyes soft and pleading, his lips swollen from the kisses he’s trailed across your body, and you know you’re done for. He’s high, sure, but there’s something in his gaze that’s entirely genuine—a need to make you feel good, to lose himself in the act of worshiping your body.

You swallow hard, your breath catching in your throat as you nod, just once, and it’s all the permission he needs. He grins, and there’s that boyish charm again, the kind that makes your stomach flip in the most ridiculous way.

“Thank you,” he breathes out, and before you can even process what’s happening, he’s tugging your shorts fully down your legs, tossing them aside with zero care about where they land. His hands find your thighs, spreading them apart with a gentle insistence that makes your heart pound in your chest. He’s on a mission, and that mission is apparently you.

You try to brace yourself for what’s coming, but nothing—nothing—could have prepared you for the way Clayton dives in like a man starved. His mouth is hot, wet, and insistent, and the first swipe of his tongue against you has your back arching off the bed. He’s not wasting any time, his mouth moving with a kind of single-minded focus that makes your head spin.

“Fuck,” you gasp, your hands flying to his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as you try to ground yourself. He hums against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your entire body, and you know you’re in trouble. Big, big trouble.

Clayton’s always been good at this—like, freakishly good—but tonight? Tonight, he’s on a whole other level. Maybe it’s the weed, maybe it’s the fact that he’s so damn into it, but whatever it is, it’s working, and you’re rapidly losing any semblance of control.

Your mind is a mess of sensations, each flick of his tongue, each gentle suck driving you closer to the edge. You’re not even sure how long he’s been at it—time has lost all meaning, and all you can focus on is the way he’s making you feel. The heat is building, a coil of pleasure tightening in your core, and you know it won’t be long now.

“Clay,” you pant, your voice shaky and breathless. “Oh god, Clayton, I—”

But he’s not stopping. In fact, he’s doubling down, his mouth working you with an intensity that has you trembling, your thighs quivering around his head as he pulls you closer to the brink. You can feel the pleasure building, a tidal wave that’s about to crash over you, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it—not that you’d want to.

And then, just when you think you can’t take it anymore, he moans against you, taking such obvious pleasure in it that the sound vibrates through your entire body, and that’s it. The coil snaps, and you’re free-falling into pure, unadulterated bliss. You cry out, your fingers tightening in his hair as your orgasm crashes over you, wave after wave of pleasure washing through you in a way that leaves you breathless, trembling, and utterly spent.

Clayton doesn’t let up, his mouth working you through your climax with a kind of reverence that makes your heart swell in your chest. He’s not just doing this because he’s high—he’s doing it because he loves it, loves you, and that thought alone is enough to send a fresh wave of warmth flooding through you.

When you finally come down from the high, your body relaxing back into the bed, you realize with a start that Clayton’s still there, still between your legs, nuzzled up to your thigh. He’s breathing hard, his cheeks flushed as if he’s drunk on you along with being stoned, and when he looks up at you, there’s a smug, satisfied grin on his face that makes you want to smack him and kiss him all at once.

You can practically see the gears turning in his head, and despite everything, you can’t help but roll your eyes. The man just gave you the kind of orgasm that makes you question your life choices, and now he’s looking at you like a puppy who’s proud of himself for learning a new trick.

“Clay,” you start, but your voice is weak, more of a croak than the firm reprimand you were aiming for. You should be getting up, throwing on some clothes, and dragging him to dinner with his parents. You should be the responsible one. But you’re not moving. In fact, your legs feel like they’ve turned to jelly, and all you can do is lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how to function as a human being.

He hums, lazily kissing your inner thigh, clearly not in any hurry to move. You would take him a lot more serious if his lips weren’t glistening, with, well, you. “Yeah, babe?”

You close your eyes, taking a deep breath. He’s still down there, between your legs, like it’s the most natural place in the world for him to be. And maybe it is, but right now, all you can think about is the fact that you have dinner with his parents in, what, forty-five minutes? An hour, if you’re lucky? And here you are, half-naked on the bed, with your high-as-a-kite boyfriend nuzzling your thigh like it’s the most comfortable pillow he’s ever found.

“We really need to get up,” you say, though even you can hear the lack of conviction in your voice.

“Mmm, don’t wanna,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your skin. “Wanna stay right here.”

You let out a groan, not entirely sure if it’s from frustration or the lingering pleasure still coursing through your veins. “Clayton, we have to go to dinner.”

He finally lifts his head, looking up at you with those hazy, love-drunk eyes that make your heart do a ridiculous little flip. “But I’m not done,” he says, as if that’s a perfectly valid excuse for skipping a family dinner.

You blink at him, trying to process what he just said. “Not… done?”

He grins, that boyish, slightly cocky smile that usually precedes him getting his way. “I mean, I could do this all night. I really, really like doing this for you. Makes me feel all… I dunno. Good. Happy.” He’s rambling now, his words tumbling out in a way that’s both endearing and a little infuriating. “You taste so fucking good, babe. Seriously. It’s like… fuck. I don’t even have words for it. I just wanna make you feel good. Again. And again. Until you can’t even think straight.”

Oh, you’re definitely not thinking straight. In fact, you’re pretty sure all coherent thought has flown out the window the moment he started talking about how much he likes going down on you. And the worst part? He’s completely sincere. This isn’t just the weed talking—this is Clayton being his ridiculously sweet, overly affectionate self, and it’s making it really, really hard to be the responsible one.

“Clayton,” you say again, trying to muster up some authority, but it comes out more like a plea than anything else. You should be getting up. You should be dragging him to the shower, dousing him with cold water, and forcing him into some semblance of sobriety before facing his parents. But instead, you’re lying there, letting him nuzzle your thigh, his breath warm against your skin, and all you can think about is how good it felt to have him between your legs, how good it would feel to let him do it again.

But you’re supposed to be the responsible one.

“Babe,” he murmurs, his voice low and a little rough, “please let me. Just one more time. I promise I’ll be good after. I just… I can’t stop thinking about it. You. How you taste. How you look when you come. God, it’s like… it’s the only thing I want right now.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and you have to bite down on your lip to keep from moaning at the sheer desperation in his voice. He’s practically begging, and it’s doing things to you—things that are making it very, very difficult to stay focused on the whole “responsible girlfriend” thing.

You swallow hard, trying to gather your thoughts. “Clay,” you start, but before you can get another word out, he’s already leaning in, pressing his lips to the inside of your thigh in a way that makes your toes curl.

“I’m really good at it, right?” he mumbles against your skin, his voice muffled but still clear enough to make your heart race. “You like it when I do this?”

You want to say something—anything—to stop this before it spirals completely out of control, but all that comes out is a breathy whimper as he trails kisses higher, his tongue darting out to tease you in a way that makes you want to scream.

He grins against your skin, clearly pleased with himself. “Yeah, you like it. I knew it.”

“Clayton, we can’t…” You try again, but it’s a losing battle. Your body is betraying you, every nerve ending screaming for more even as your brain tries to remind you that there’s a dinner reservation looming over your head. But then he’s licking a slow, torturous line up your thigh, and any hope of rational thought flies out the window.

“Just one more time,” he murmurs, his voice soft and coaxing. “Please, babe. I just… I need it. I need you. Let me take care of you, yeah?”

And that’s it. Your resolve crumbles, and you find yourself nodding, even as your brain tries to scream at you that this is a terrible idea. But right now, with Clayton looking at you like you’re the most important thing in the world, you can’t bring yourself to care. This man is thorough, methodical, and once he sets his mind to something, he’s like a dog with a bone—or, in this case, like a stoned hockey player with a serious oral fixation.

“Okay,” you whisper, and the word is barely out of your mouth before he’s diving back in, his mouth hot and insistent as he picks up right where he left off. You’re gasping, your hands flying to his hair as you arch into him, all thoughts of dinner, responsibilities, and anything outside of this room fading into oblivion.

And as he works you over with a kind of focused intensity that leaves you breathless, you can’t help but think that maybe—just maybe—being the responsible one is overrated. At least, that’s what you’re telling yourself as he sends you spiraling into another earth-shattering climax, your mind going blissfully blank as you lose yourself in the overwhelming pleasure.

So much for being responsible. But honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.