If you're interested in just stuffing (no weight gain), @ginger-and-mint has some really cool stuff, including a multi-chapter magic university story with a stuffing-based magic system.
If you enjoy stuffing, weight gain, and intox, especially in a fantasy or historical context @fancifulbellies has some fun one-shots, and some stories with recurring characters.
I thought I would add a new favorite! "An Arrangement" by @fatlesbianjoyer is a slow-burn historical fic about two women in an arranged marriage coming to love each other!
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hi cam, i was wondering, what are your favorite ways to do intox scenes? my partner rarely smokes but i finally have the chance to get him baked soon so i wanna rock his fuckin world — you seem like you know how to have a good time. help a pet out and i'll let you decide how high i should get too, if you want <3
-☄️
Here's where old Cam is gonna show his true colors a bit.
I am a cautious Dom in every setting. I don't like unboundaried scenes, I don't like play in unnegotiated spaces, and I don't do serious intox play without testing the waters first. It only takes one or two bad experiences of accidentally pushing someone's limits before you learn just how slow you should really be going.
So, knowing this, here are my tips.
One: Go slower than you think. Even experienced doms may struggle with reading cues when their sub/scene bottom is intoxicated, so err on the side of giving yourself more chance to course correct. This goes double if your sub is inexperienced, but even if they're not, they will often want to push themselves to impress you. It is your job to protect them from this impulse.
If you want to give them a blinker, only give them one before seeing how they take it. If you want to make them chug, give them smaller drinks to chug for the first few scenes.
Two: Understand all of the risks and develop specific aftercare. Make sure you know what to do if someone gets sick or starts having anxiety. Setting this up and having it ready the very first time will enable your sub to feel safe knowing they can push a little harder next time because you will be there to catch them.
Three: if you're both into it, the very act of substance use control will be so, so hot. It doesn't matter if you're instructing them to take baby hits or if you only make them two or three drinks; you're the one in charge of their mental state, and that is intoxicating in its own right.
Four: I only ever intox top/dom in person while sober.
All of this said, for your first time with your partner, I would recommend a fun little game to get to know his tolerance and how smoking effects him. Kind of like the numbers game with impact, when you're getting to know someone's pain tolerance. Give him a first dose (however you are planning on doing this; smoking, vaping, edibles, whatever) and gauge his response. If you can do it without making him feel pressured, ask questions. ("How are you doing, baby?" "Does that feel good yet?" "Tell me what you like about it.")
Then just continue in this way, nice and slowly. Keep checking in. Note any hesitation or moments where he may be performing for you. Reward honesty over bluster. (Add a spin if you have types of play you enjoy here, should you wish; trainers can use clickers, medplay folks can have the Dom take medical style notes, some dynamics might prefer the sub to try to write things down until they can't anymore.)
By the end of it, he should be nice and engaged with the pleasure in his body, and you will likely be extremely turned on from watching your partner have a very, very good time! I wouldn't recommend getting too frisky the first time, in order to continue to establish healthy consent frameworks, but your discretion is key here.
I hope the two of you enjoy yourselves! I'm sure you will. Hard not to, when you're getting someone baked.
Intox can be so much fun, but please remember that it is very serious edgeplay. It can have real consequences for the bottom's body and their mind, and by its nature leaves them vulnerable in a way that cannot be immediately safeworded out of like impact and restraint can be. Respect that.
A little treat I've been working on for a while (months!!) featuring my new original character -- a powerful Gilded Age politician who's growing fat at the height of his power. Hope you guys enjoy!
content warnings: historical setting (1870s), drunk intox, stuffing, burping ; 4k words
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
A fresh dusting of snow has settled over the streets of New Haven, drifting from a sky clear as onyx-glass… to join the six inches of snow already there from last Sunday. The cobblestone roads are slick; a layer of black ice gleams along the ground, teasing peril. Lampposts sputter and burn out at the storm’s mercy — if the bitter chill hasn’t already stolen their glow.
Sweet, vile January, Senator Roswell T. Spencer muses, glowering out his carriage window. We’d all have a better time in hell.
The polished black carriage slows outside the Lanyard estate. Its wheels squelch in the snow; the horses shiver in their leads, snow dusting their dark fur. Within the carriage, all is… digesting. Roswell shifts and grunts, his heavy rear straining over the velvet upholstery. He may as well be confined to a prison cell — and his clothes have become a straightjacket.
So damned tight. The Senator lays a hand over his middle, but doesn’t dare press down. Beneath layers of fine fabric, his stomach groans. Dinner was so rich tonight — oysters, roast duck, too much gravy — and the liquor hadn’t helped matters. His gut gives a long, low burble of digestion. Roswell grimaces.
“John,” he grunts. “Up. You’re home.”
Beside him, Congressman John Lanyard groans. His head lolls back, cheeks blotchy. He blinks up at the carriage ceiling with the idiotic stare of a dead drunk.
Lanyard is in his second term in Congress — a stalwart Republican who’s always served Roswell’s interests. Of course, the senator has many allies in Washington (and just as many enemies). It helps to call a few people friends. He counts Lanyard among that select number. But… Good God, the man cannot hold his drink.
“Thought there was… an encore.” Lanyard slumps sideways to peer out the window. His cheek smushes against the glass; he manages to slide halfway out of his seat. “Why, this isn—hIIC!! isn’t the theatre…”
“You don’t say.”
Roswell’s hands are restless. He fiddles with the gilded watch chain over the too-tight swell of his waistcoat. With a soft grunt, he leans forward to peek out the window — ignoring how his seams creak in protest. The Senator is imperious as ever, but his eyes (normally sharp as flint) are glazed. Blame the cold, or blame the bourbon.
“To hell with it, Ros, we’re— we’re here. Home. Gone in the wrong direction. Tell’m… take us to the bawdy house!”
Oh, for God’s sake. As the carriage stops, the men are jolted hard. Roswell grunts, bracing against the side of the carriage. His lips purse around a low, wet belch.
“Wh— wha’was that?” slurs Lanyard. He lolls towards the window — missing the glorious eye-roll directed his way.
The Senator’s expression is sharp disdain. For the carriage ride, for the weather, for all the damned food in his stomach. He shouldn’t have had the lamb stew… two bowls, that was a tad excessive. And he ought to have refrained from the oysters on ice… followed by the suet pudding… and the rich, creamy hard sauce, which went down so well. (God, what a meal!) Washing it all down with brandy had been vanity, not sense.
Another gurgle rolls through him, thick and simmering. Roswell forces a breath. He’d like to be home right now, digesting this mess with dignity — not hauling around an incoherent friend.
Generous. That’s what he is. No one gives the Senator enough credit. Not the media, for certain. They reported voraciously on his financial scandal during the Grant administration… and on his mess of a marriage (which ended with his wife leaving him in the cold — literally, locked out of their townhouse in Washington).
Roswell doing a good deed, though? Driving a fellow lawmaker home on a cold night? The media would never report that. He is, in fact, a stand-up friend. Do they care? Bah.
Senator Roswell T. Spencer is a notorious rogue. A ruthless politician with dirty hands, endless connections, and a loose definition of morality. He’s also one of the most powerful men in the Republican Party. Scandals slide off him like oil… and if his reputation is sour, fine, let it be.
Damn them all, Roswell thinks as the carriage door opens. He muffles a belch into his fist as he swaggers out, not bothering to excuse himself. He’s past caring about anyone’s opinion.
At least he’s able to dismount the carriage on his own — and stand upright, though the world is certainly bleary. Roswell grips his silver-headed cane, bracing his weight against it. His chest jolts with a stifled belch. The carriage door swings lazily; after a moment, Lanyard takes the hint and stumbles out.
Like a dead fish, the poor bastard flops bonesless to the pavement. He would have broken his nose, if not for Roswell’s quick reflexes. Lanyard gives a low groan, head lolling against his friend’s bicep.
Roswell has never been so disgusted in his life.
People are watching. A gaggle of servants have clustered at the front door. Lanyard’s butler, several footmen, the coach-driver… the staff will talk, they always do. Does Lanyard have no pride? Roswell straightens his back and squares his shoulders, ignoring his own bleary head.
“This way, sir.” With extreme tact, the butler tries to usher his charge along. Lanyard’s past the point of caring, though. Can’t even keep his eyes open. It’s like a bad vaudeville, watching him slump and stumble over himself.
Roswell exhales sharply through his nose. As they stand, his options are miserable. The cold is already biting into his bones, piercing the thin protection of his coat. Flakes of snow land softly in his hair; the longer he stands out here, the more his immaculate coif will become disarranged. Even worse… he has a damned stomachache. Roswell shifts on his feet, stifling another deep burp. No, this situation will not do.
The sensible thing would be to hop back in the carriage. Go home, old boy. You’ve done enough tonight.
And yet… Roswell’s gaze flickers up, over Lanyard’s towering home. His vision swims; the bourbon still burns in his veins. In one of the downstairs windows, a candle’s gentle glow pierces the night. Roswell catches a flutter of curtain — a shift of a dark, slender shadow. A gaze he cannot see, but still feels the weight of, like a silvery curtain falling over his head…
Lanyard chooses that moment to retch.
Roswell shuts his eyes, exhaling through clenched teeth.
"Get him inside," he orders the butler. "Before he ruins my damned boots."
“He is, ah— rather heavy, Senator—“
Oh, like hell will Roswell be conned into carrying the bastard.
"Fetch a footman! Or a damned wheelbarrow.”
In the end, it takes two footmen, plus the butler, to haul Lanyard inside. At some point between vomiting and moaning about missing the theatre, the drunk passes out. He’s led up the steps into the house, head lolling.
Roswell glances back to his carriage… then, with a deep sigh, follows Lanyard inside.
It’s the easy choice. The lesser of two evils. He’d better make sure his friend is settled… and get himself out of the cold for a few minutes. Once thawed out, he’ll be ready to go.
The truth is, Roswell is sluggish and overfull. His belly sloshes, head swimming from drink. He just… would like to get warm for a moment.
Really, that’s all he wants.
“Is, ahem—“ His voice comes out rough. “Is Mrs. Dalton awake, by chance?”
Oh, very subtle.
The butler eyes him skeptically. Ignoring the gaze, Roswell straightens his shoulders, doing his best to project the image of a Washington dignitary. Sober and respectable, in control. In no mood to be interrogated.
After a long stand-off, the butler blinks first. “Yes, Senator,” he sighs. “Mrs. Dalton is in the drawing room, awaiting her brother’s return.”
It’s well after midnight. They’ve kept her waiting for a long time — but of course she stayed up. That’s just who Virginia Dalton is. A respectable widow, now living with her brother and maintaining his household… playing hostess for any guests, accompanying him to social events, lending his bachelor lifestyle a veneer of respectability. Lanyard is a modestly-capable politician; his sister is a gem. Of course she would stay awake, keeping a watchful eye on the streets of New Haven. Is she just being a dutiful sister… or is she expecting guests?
“I must go pay my respects,” Roswell declares. “Horrible manners… to drop by unannounced at this hour.”
“If you insist, Senator.” The butler’s tone makes clear he knows — exactly why Roswell wants to ‘pay respects’ to Mrs. Dalton at an unholy hour of the morning. Senator Spencer has never been known for subtlety. No… when a goal is in his sights, he pursues it doggedly, relentlessly, without an ounce of shame. He’ll cut corners (and people) down to get what he wants.
Tonight, he wants Ginny Dalton.
Roswell takes his time sauntering into the parlor; his lion’s-head cane clicks against the floor, masking his unsteady gait. A powerful man hurries nowhere — and a drunk man ought to know better.
The room is empty when he arrives, but a fire blazes in the hearth. An empty cup of tea rests on the coffee table, alongside a volume of Keats’ poems. Roswell’s gaze lingers over a rumpled blanket, a candle recently snuffed, a disheveled curtain… and a low chuckle escapes him. The lady hasn’t gone far.
Now, it’s quiet. Rather than disappointment, a wave of relief washes over him. The small section of his brain un-drenched by brandy knows he ought to sit down, to use this short reprieve to make himself presentable.
For once, however, he’s not thinking analytically. The Senator’s better (sober) angels have been drowned at the bottom of a glass. Like a hunger-driven animal, Roswell moves towards the hearth. He plants himself in front of the blaze with a deep sigh.
For the first time tonight, he can freely press a hand to his belly. Beneath his coat, his stomach feels heavy, downright straining against his clothes. It gives a deep rumble of digestion. He works at it with his hand, rubbing deep circles as the heavy meal within churns. A great, thick belch builds. He lets it roll up — rich with the taste of roast duck, but so damned relieving.
Of course, that’s the moment a voice speaks up behind him.
“Senator Spencer.”
Christ. Mrs. Dalton. The widow’s demure tone is rich as butter. She glides into the room like a shadow, all slender limbs and womanly curves, a blue satin housecoat over her white lace nightgown. As she takes him in, her elegant lips quirk upwards. “What a pleasure.”
Oh, thundering hell.
Roswell turns quickly. Too quickly. His head reels. It takes all his self-control to hold himself upright and at least pretend to be sober. He offers the lady his patented charming-the-constituents grin. “Mrs. Dalton. Beautiful even at this late hour. That must be a crime.”
The lady tilts her head, humoring him. “My, Senator. I thought you ran a legal practice. Would you prosecute a case like that?”
The senator’s mouth curves into a slow grin.
“I would vigorously argue the defense.” He lets his gaze trail over her form — a liberty he would never take in the sober light of day. Probably.
(Bah, why jest? At dawn or dusk, on the Senate floor or the floor of a tavern — he could never resist Virginia. Why would the Lord craft a figure so shapely and a mind so sharp, if not to be admired?)
The pretty widow bites back a smile. Roswell lowers his head, dipping into a courteous bow. As he bends, his stomach groans under the sudden pressure. Something rumbles up his gullet. Roswell tries to stifle the foul belch, he really does, but…
whhuUUURP!
Oh, damn it all.
Mrs. Dalton arches an unimpressed brow.
“Ah— ahem. My apologies.” He is not a man who apologizes often, but this is a special case. He is also not a man easily flustered… but between his digestive upset and the fine lady across the room, Roswell is at a disadvantage.
Once again, Mrs. Dalton allows it. She seems full of mercy tonight. “Thank you for bringing my brother home safely. I fear the excesses of the Bacchanalia are not for him.”
Roswell snorts. “He can’t hold his drink to save his life.”
“Indeed,” she agrees with a wry grin. After a moment’s pause, she steps forward, spreading her hands — the concerned hostess at last. “You are damp, Senator. And… rather unsteady. Both conditions must be remedied.”
“Madam, you wound me,” Roswell says, a little too loudly. Mrs. Dalton’s shoulders tense, but a passing maid startles in the hallway. Damn, why is it so hard for drunk men to mind their volume? Roswel clears his throat, adjusts his stance — very steady, thank you, and raises his chin. “I am never loud without reason.”
“So I’ve heard.” Somehow, he wins another wry smile. “Half of Washington has witnessed your thunder at this point.”
Roswell smirks. “Why, Mrs. Dalton. You’ve watched my speeches? How flattering.”
“Pray, don’t take it to heart.”
She gestures once again towards the sofa, where the blanket and book still rest. Roswell’s first instinct is to demure; he is drunk, there’s no denying that, and if he sits down in such comfort, he’s not sure he can get up again.
“No, really… very kind of you, but I only came to pay my respects.” A soft hCCc! jolts him. “Your brother insisted.”
“Did he? Goodness. Usually, he insists you do not cross our threshold.”
This startles a genuine laugh out of him. Disarmed, Roswell finally sinks down onto the couch. No harm in accepting the lady’s hospitality for a few minutes.
He should have known better. Within minutes, Mrs. Dalton has things well in-hand. She orders a tray brought from the kitchen — “modest leftovers from dinner, I fear” — and finds a warm blanket for their guest. Roswell is encouraged to divest his coat, to lay his cane aside…
Soon enough, he’s sitting before the hearth, dressed down and bundled up warmly. As the tray is set before them, his stomach gives a soft pang. He cannot contemplate any more food… but curse him, those sandwiches look good.
Mrs. Dalton hums softly to herself as she pours out a measure of brandy. “Really, I insist,” she says when he tries to protest. “To keep you warm.”
Roswell has plenty of liquor heating his veins already. If he didn’t know better, he’d think the lady was trying to further discompose him. To get him liquored up, ply him with heavy food until he’s far too heavy to rise from this sofa… but to what end?
Frowning, Roswell downs the drink… and regrets it, as it burns down his throat and hits his stomach hard. He leans back in his chair, breathing slow. A gut-deep belch escapes him.
“Christ,” he gasps, raising a fist to his mouth. He couldn’t have stopped that one if he tried. “Pardon me, madam.”
Mrs. Dalton looks pleased as a spoiled kitten. “Really, Senator, it’s alright.”
“It isn’t,” he grouses, with all the stubbornness of a very drunk man. “I’ve come here to… to be polite…”
“Really?” She drags the word out, tilting her head as she studies him… and for once, the firey Senator finds himself on the back-foot. He’s not used to being scrutinized. Not used to being seen so clearly by clever green eyes. “I fear you haven’t succeeded. Oh, to think… you could be home already, curled up in front of your own hearth. Free to stretch out your legs and… unbutton yourself at will.”
The thought makes Roswell swallow thickly. The buttons across his middle feel suddenly, impossibly tight. Oh, to undo his pants and let his gut spill out, finally given room to breathe… to massage the tender swell with one hand, stifling a moan, feeling it gurgle in response to his touch… unbuttoning his waistcoat slowly, shucking the too-tight straightjacket aside, finally able to sprawl out and nurse his aching belly…
Roswell exhales shakily. The room is too damned hot.
Mrs. Dalton gazes up at him with soft, coy eyes. “Really, Senator Spencer. Why are you here?”
The senator licks his lips. For a long moment, he can only stare at her.
Finally, he utters, his words thick with drink: “You have me at a disadvantage, Mrs. Dalton.”
A soft laugh bubbles out of her..
“Did you expect to find me at one? The late hour doesn’t faze me, I’m afraid.” That wicked little smile remains on her lips. She moves, and Roswell watches, feeling like he’s caught in a dream. With great care, she selects two sandwiches — one roast beef, one cream-and-radish — and loads them onto a plate.
“Please,” she drawls, holding it out. “For your pleasure.”
Roswell’s belly groans audibly; it clenches and ripples with a pulse of discomfort. A soft belch inflates his cheeks, but he swallows it down — and shakes his head.
“I— hell. I cannot possibly—“ She places the plate in his lap, and Roswell grunts. “Damn me, woman, you call that light?”
“Something to sober you up.”
Oh, she’s toying with him now. Roswell’s stomach gives a noisy burble of protest; Mrs. Dalton snickers.
“I’ve had enough,” he declares, holding on to his dignity. “I couldn’t stomach another bite.”
“Ah. So you admit human frailty.” For some reason, this seems to delight her. Mrs. Dalton sips her tea, the picture of innocence. “They call you the Iron Lord, you know, Senator.”
“Washington gossips give me too much credit,” Roswell retorts with a snort. He’s heard worse sobriquets: The Great Bellower, Old Rattlesnake, the Kingmaker. Really, you make a few influential speeches (and Roswell is very good at speeches), encourage a few promising Congress appointments (and his preferred candidate always gets voted in), make a few backroom deals for the benefit of the country (and his pockets) and suddenly you’re the talk of the town. Well, Roswell doesn’t mind. ‘Tis better to be hated than not be known at all.
Before he knows it, Virginia is pushing another glass of brandy towards him. With a plate in his lap and a drink in his hand… well, damn him. By now, Roswell has no more objections left.
“Thank you, madam,” he sighs… and begins to eat his sandwich.
Mrs. Dalton pretends to be preoccupied with her poetry book, but her attention is obviously elsewhere. She never stares outright — though Roswell is not eating quietly. The sandwiches are delicious; the roast beef is juicy and rich with flavor, the bread perfectly crunchy. Every bite lands heavy in his stomach, rounding him out and straining his waistcoat taut. He washes the food down with smooth brandy. It leaves him hiccuping before he even finishes his glass.
Once the first sandwich is gone, Roswell takes a moment to breathe — leaning back in his chair, panting heavily. One hand rests on his overtaxed stomach. Christ, he’s swollen. So damned heavy. His stomach feels firm beneath his waistcoat, as though he’s swallowed an entire roast turkey and it’s sitting within him. This is going to go straight to his hips by morning… and his trousers have already been fitting tightly. He’s going to have to call his tailor, damn it.
Roswell belches in his closed mouth, and groans aloud. Before he can apologize, he hears Mrs. Dalton inhale. The lady sits across from him, entire body tense… but her cheeks are flushed a telling crimson. Oh, that’s interesting.
The senator cocks his head. “I sense a game afoot, madam.”
“A game?” she enquires, all innocence.
“Yes. What are you— mmmng, ohh…” He pauses, rubbing at his stomach as a cramp ripples through. He hasn’t been this full in ages. “What are you playing at?”
“I know not what you mean.”
“Let's not dissemble here,” Roswell snorts. “I respect your intelligence too much.”
Mrs. Dalton pauses, clearly chewing over her words — but discretion has not won out tonight, for either of them. She catches his gaze, all-too-knowing, and the decision is made.
She huffs a laugh. “You are unnervingly direct for a drunken man.”
“You’ll have to get me substantially more liquored before— ah,” he says, as her hand twitches towards the bottle. “Don’t get any ideas.” He’s rewarded with a delicious flush upon her cheeks, a flash of something like frustration in her eyes. She doesn’t like being foiled, the minx. Roswell’s mouth quirks wickedly. “So the lady does blush.”
“Senator—“
“Do me the honor of calling me Roswell.”
Her cheeks nearly flush… but Mrs. Dalton is no shrinking maiden. She’s a society hostess, wise to the foibles of Washington intimacy. Perhaps this is a bit too intimate, but she doesn’t falter. “If you will call me Virginia.”
Virginia, he thinks with pure relish. The name coats his senses like sweet honey. Roswell leans back in his chair like a preening panther — not ashamed of his swollen gut. It rests heavily atop him, and he massages with a languid hand. “Gladly,” he rumbles… then, “Hmm… excuse me a moment.”
He lets the pressure build in his chest, before releasing it in a deep brUUuurp. “Mmmm…” he almost moans, massaging into his sensitive underbelly.
When she’s able to speak, Virginia sounds downright strangled. “Are you… uncomfortable?”
“You do not know how much I’ve eaten tonight,” he retorts — even though she must. She’s the cause of half the trouble.
“Your clothing betrays you,” the lady says with a huff.
“I would like to be rid of it all.”
“Not in the parlor, surely.”
Ah. A bit too brazen, there. “Forgive me, madam, I don’t mean to—“
“Virginia,” she insists.
Fine. If that’s the way she wants to play it…
“Forgive me, Ginny,” he rumbles. “I’m being a boar.”
It takes her a long moment to reply. He has the pleasure of knowing he’s discomposed her, even if she’s too good to show it. The lady’s lips purse; she even tears her eyes away from his belly, deigning to look him in the face.
“Boars,” she says, “are delightful omnivores. Once you get past the tusks.”
A sharp bray of laughter is startled out of him — followed by another belch, interrupting him. Roswell doesn’t bother to excuse himself, and it clearly pleases her.
“You are no ordinary lady,” he observes, with a politician’s art of understatement.
“And you,” she replies, “are quite extraordinary. They say, Senator, that you’re a dangerous man to know.”
Ah. Would that have to do with the backroom politics? Or the one upstart challenger for his district seat who ended up face-down in Lake Saltonstall?
“They oversell my virtues,” he answers modestly.
Mrs. Dalton arches a brow, the picture of elegance — and that same tug deep in his belly yanks hard. The pull of fascination. He is endlessly drawn-in by this woman… and look where it’s brought him. Roswell presses gently into his taut stomach, marveling from a distance.
“Perhaps I ought to throw you out into the cold,” Virginia muses, drumming her fingers against the empty brandy glass. “For my own safety.”
“You stuff me full of food, then show me the back door? Damned cruel of you, Ginny.” He scoffs, holding her gaze for a moment too long — long enough to outlast her. Roswell settles back in his chair with a smirk, letting his legs spread wide. It’s the most comfortable position, anyways; his trousers are too tight. “No,” he drawls, “I don’t think you will. Pour me another glass of brandy.”
Mrs. Dalton’s eyes spark like hot embers in the firelight.
“Phagan,” she calls over her shoulder — and when a housekeeper obediently appears in the doorway, she waves an imperious hand. “Please have the blue guest bedroom made up. Senator Roswell won’t be journeying home tonight.”
It’s the first time he’s ever truly surrendered himself — and for once, Senator Spencer has no argument to make.
The bit about the world narrowing to just the little cage of steel and leather? That actually captured exactly what I *disliked* the one time I got in armor for a fighter practice. And then getting hit in the head by something i couldn't see.
I'm sure with time and practice, I could have learned to sense and avoid that. But... I'm far happier watching from the sidelines than out on the listfield.
ahdhjd, at least you know your limits. i can imagine how claustrophobic that would feel --- the world narrowing to this confined little space, and all your sensory sensations suddenly closing in on you. your breath echoes around you, pulse loud in your ears... and you can feel your own body so much more sharply without the whole world to distract you. for better or worse. i can't imagine having a sloshy, aching tummy in that helm ( or liquor-breath, god forbid! )
Would you be interested in hearing some of the more specific stories? I've collected a few at this point. The combination of Weather, Armored Combat, and Home-Brewed Alcohol means that Things Happen.
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🌸 Tilly just woke up! What should she have for breakfast?🌸
I'll update with another drawing based on whichever is the highest next time I check! Let her have it!
Saw a post kind of like this other day for hunger and couldn't find any for stuffing, so I was inspired! Couldn't tag the artist for some reason? It won't let me? May be a bug, but I don't want to mess with their privacy if not. So if you see this lmk if you want to be mentioned!
we have good news and bad news, my liege. the good news is that we now know what that curtsying was about: you will be pleased to know that, after several heartfelt conversations between your child, the court jesters and a myriad of singing woodland creatures, you are now the parent of a proud and joyful new princess. the bad news is that, due to a series of events related to the dragon-sized hole in her bedchamber wall,
I love the insinuation that the second the princess realized she was a girl and thus actually a princess, the dragon was there. That thing wasted no time. It heard "princess" and was like "I need no further invitation, here I come."
paging my fellow intox babes... what's the hottest thing about intox for you?? what can you read in fiction or see onscreen that absolutely drives you wild?
I don't know if this is immediately helpful: it came out as more a series of scene archetypes than specific tropes. Also, I realized that I listen to a LOT of Canadian folk artists who sing about drinking. This gets a little long, so I'll throw in a text break.
Mysticism: Maybe it’s magic. Maybe it’s just a trick of the firelight, of the bottle that’s being passed around. For whatever reason, though, the veil has grown thin, and tomorrow’s foggy memories won’t be able to fully capture the strange things you’ve seen. For song inspiration: The Giant by Stan Rogers
Communal Revelry: Laughter and talk are flowing as freely as the drink. Grab a drink, not just for yourself, but for the whole of the table. After all, the night is young. Perhaps things will end Songs: Of Beare by Thomas Ravenscroft, Hobbit Drinking Medley
Holiday Revelry: This is the domain of wassailing songs: going from door to door, both spreading and demanding good cheer. The night will end stretched out before a roaring fire, warmed from without and within, safe from the storm outside. Song: Somerset Wassail
Dangerously uncontrolled: Sober, they aren’t all that threatening. Call it self-preservation or cowardice, but something would keep them from acting on their most dangerous impulses. After a few drinks, though, they no longer care that actions have consequences. Song: Preston Miller (Originally by Tracy Grammar, but I prefer this cover)
In Vino Veritas: I don’t actually have a song picked out for this one, but it’s one I do have experience with in person: a beautiful, soft-eyed boy, his lips sweet with May-wine, promising that he would do his best to be good. He wouldn’t have confessed sober, but tonight…
Drinking to Forget: It’s gone wrong. Whatever plans they might have had, they’re ruined now. She's gone. There’s nothing left to do but drink about it. Song: The Early Morning Rain
Drinking to Remember: This song was written by a dead man. But, with his favorite drink in hand, maybe we can imagine he’s still around. The wine is musty with the memories of better years. Song: One Last Drink by Three Pints Shy
Pathetic Inevitability: The night was always going to end like this. Every night does. There’s no particular romance to it, just the awareness that tomorrow will be the same. Maybe they’ll be dragged out of it by a change in circumstance. Maybe they’ll just keep sinking deeper into the bog. Song: The Old Black Rum by Great Big Sea
Agreed! I'm pretty sure one of my uncles made it up to gross us out at the state fair when we were little. (Though he would keep making that joke every time we went, well into our teenage years).
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I went back and re-read Jason Hellert's story... he's so cute! Since he likes jewelry, but doesn't let himself wear it... would you consider writing a piece where he gets something as a gift from one of the girls?
!! i'm always excited to write more with jason! this story takes place not long after this one, where he's taken in by a group of sympathetic college girls. what happens when you accidentally get yourself adopted? this, apparently.
content warnings: intox (weed edibles and beer); domination; a bit of puppy play; stuffing mention; not-really-noncon (he's out of it and the girl's are turned on, but nothing happens)
Their first mistake is giving him the lavender gummy. It’s… a bit too much, even for Nadia, a connoisseur of all things edible. But when he sees the tiny purple flowers, Jason’s eyes light up. He doesn’t say anything — they’re quickly learning that Jason rarely asks for what he wants — but the desire in his eyes is plain.
“You’re gonna be soaring,” Nadia warns him as he gulps the flower down.
“That’s okay,” he replies with a crooked grin. “That’s… kinda the point, right? Tonight, we’re all gonna get a little fucked up?”
“The best way to have a self-care night,” Ofelia declares, stretching her legs out. She’s already taken a bubble bath; her skin is smooth, soft as velvet, glistening faintly from the bath oils. Jason eyes the long, tanned leg… then swallows, glancing away.
“Nothing to worry about,” Jenna assures him, hovering around the room like the mother hen she is. According to her, she’s the only responsible one in the friend group. The girls have all seen her after a few Jell-O shots; they don’t buy it for a second.
“We’re just going to… wash your hair.” Shameless, Nadia drags her fingers through Jason’s scruffy auburn locks. “Give you a shave. Let’s see what a little moisturizer will do to you — shh, baby, you need it.” She runs a hand gently across Jason’s neck, tracing his collarbone. The boy shivers. “And… hmm. What if we pierced your ears?”
“W-what?”
“Too much?” Nadia shrugs languidly. “That’s okay. But we are gonna do your nails.”
A flush of color floods Jason’s cheeks… but inwardly, he’s pleased. Ever since That Night (the one he only remembers in flashes — bright orange walls, a door that won’t open, giggles and coaxing hands and someone gently rubbing his back) the girls have… adopted him. That’s the best way to put it. He and Jenna text all the time; Sanaa sits next to him in class; they even eat lunch together, which is cool, ‘cause Jason usually spend his lunches in the robotics lab.
Alone. That’s… fine. It was fine, at least, until the girls came along.
Now, he finds himself missing their company. They don’t mind when he rambles, they think his jokes are funny, and during lunch, they keep pushing food in front of him. Jason’s never allowed himself three desserts before… but if Ofelia bought them for him, it’s rude to refuse.
(And so what if he’s ended up a little too full, having to stifle burps and unbutton his pants under the table? The truth is, the girls have seen worse.)
“Jason,” Nadia coaxed, her long nails grazing the side of his face. Unconsciously, Jason tilts his head back, chasing the touch. Is he already starting to zone out? Damn, this gummy is strong.
“And we got a few of these,” Ofelia offers. Reaching under the bed, she pulls out… a case of beer. Montano, Jason’s favorite brand, rich and foamy, loaded with carbonation. His eyes light up. He swallows hard, and just manages to shake his head.
“I don’t wanna… get wasted, y’know?”
“Of course not,” Jenna agrees. “We wouldn’t let that happen.”
“We’re taking care of you tonight,” Sanaa adds gently. Her smile is soft, patient… like she sees right through him. Already, Jason’s head is starting to spin.
“O-okay.” His breath trembles as he releases it from his lungs… and reaches out, taking the beer as it’s passed to him.
Self-care nights are actually a lot of fun. The girls plant him in a chair and stick his feet in a weird water machine, letting it burble around him. Jenna’s not afraid, so she cuts his toenails — “seriously, you need it!” — and rubs a rose-smelling lotion deep into his skin. When she starts to massage, pressing her thumbs into the arches of his feet, a jolt shoots up Jason’s legs. He giggles.
“That— whoo. Wow, it’s… I like this, I think. Kinda like this.” He looks around, flashing a goofy grin. Sanaa is painting Ofelia’s nails; Nadia is doing something intricate with her curls, rubbing a glossy oil into them. They’re all… so beautiful. Like butterflies. A purple haze surrounds them, making their movements slow. The air feels like syrup. Jason’s head drops back against the pillow, but he’s still grinning.
“That’s it,” Jenna murmurs, massaging his ankles. “Easy, now.”
Jason takes a long drag of his beer — he has trouble raising it to his lips, his mouth isn’t where it should be. The alcohol bubbles in his tummy. A foamy belch rises up, and he just lets it go.
As the girls giggle, his face flushes a little deeper. “‘Mmm… sorry?”
“Don’t apologize,” Jenna scolds, giving his calf a little pinch; it jars Jason back to reality like a tug on a leash. “You’re doing great. This night is all about… feeling comfortable.”
“‘M def’nitely… comfortable, alright.” The word feels awkward in Jason’s mouth. Like he’s chewing a mouthful of silly putty. Or Laffy Taffy, that thick, sweet candy. A low moan slips out of him as his palate starts to water. He could go for some sweet stuff right now.
Another drag of beer. Did he just take one? He doesn’t remember. Ten seconds ago feels like a dream. He’s been sitting here forever… right here, in this spot, like he grew out of the ground. He’s only a statue. A… heavy stone statue of some ancient god, an altar where beautiful girls come to worship. They’re polishing his feet. Massaging his scalp. He doesn’t deserve it, doesn’t deserve any of it…
“Oh, he’s gone,” a voice above him rumbles.
“Told you that gummy was too strong!”
“Shh, he’ll be fine. Just has to come down.”
“How long does it take?”
“Umm… a few hours? Then he should be able to remember his name, at least.”
His… name. God, what’s his name? It’s on the tip of his tongue. Jason fumbles around for it, trying to form the word on his lips, but… it’s too far away. He knows who he is, but not who he is. Isn’t that funny?
“Shh, Jase.” Someone strokes his head, running their nails over his scalp. Jason shivers. “Wow, he’s so giggly.”
“He’s… out of it.”
“Completely.”
“Heyyy, Jason…”
His head lolls to the side. All the voices around him are slow and spacey, coming in echoes. The ancient gods, speaking to him. As his head lolls, he recognizes one… the silky headscarf, the syrupy dark eyes. Like rich whiskey. Like a flower blooming at night. Jesus, she’s so beautiful.
“Jason,” the goddess prods again. “Are you with us?”
He’d go with her anywhere. “Uhh… yuh-huh.”
“Good boy.” Another voice… another goddess. Someone tilts his head up, and he catches a flash of silky dark hair, mischievous eyes. Something’s being pressed to his lips. He gulps on instinct, drinking it down…
Another beer. The flavor grounds him, something he recognizes… something that feels good. Eager to please, Jason gulps and gulps, letting the dense liquid slide down his throat.
“Mmm, that’s right. You’re doing real good, baby.”
Someone’s massaging his Adam’s apple. His throat spasms. There’s a hand on his chest, beating gently. Oh god, he can’t—
aaAAOOUURP!
The belch releases in a rush of hot air. Jason blinks, dazed. He knows he should apologize, but his mouth has been turned to Laffy Taffy; he can’t get a single word out. The goddess above him only laughs.
They wash his hair. They scrub his face. They rub sweet-smelling lotions into his skin until he’s slick and glistening. Jason lolls in his chair, a completely vacant look on his face; his eyes follow them vaguely, but there’s no recognition, no awareness.
“He’s like a puppy,” Ofelia muses. She scratches his head, coaxing her nails along his scalp. Jason gives a soft whine, leaning towards her. “A very good puppy. Oh damn, this is doing things to me.”
The other girls bite their tongues, cheeks flushed. It’s doing things to all of them, but it feels wrong to admit it.
“He’s so zonked,” Jenna finally says. “He doesn’t even know what he’s doing.”
“Yeah,” Ofelia agrees, unashamed. “That’s the best part.”
“Yeah, but he didn’t… we have to talk this out. When he’s sober.”
“Yeah,” Ofelia agrees absently. She’s still stroking Jason, letting him nuzzle into her side. His head slowly lowers to land in her lap; the boy’s eyes flutter, blissed out. Ofelia’s eyes gleam with suppressed heat. “Yeah. Totally. Talk it out.”
“He only signed up for a spa night,” Jenna says firmly.
“And flying high,” Nadia adds with a giggle. (She’s had three gummies. Her tolerance is terrifying.)
“That too,” Jenna agrees, a faint smile crossing her face. Slowly, she leans down. At the sight of Jason lying there, his expression totally blissed, floating on another planet… the girl grins.
When Jason finally comes back to himself, he’s laying… on something soft. A lap? Someone cuddling him? The flash of hope strikes like lightning… and quickly fizzles away. He’s bundled up in a colorful blanket (bright pink, with Christmas trees on it), laying on the cozy chaise in Jenna’s room. There’s a soft pillow under his head. The room is warm, quiet, lit only by a string of fairy lights along the far wall.
Hazily, he lifts his hands to inspect them. His nails are… a bright, metallic blue. A soft laugh escapes him, surprise and delight all rolled into one. “Pretty,” he mumbles faintly; one hand rises to scratch his face.
On the floor, someone stirs. It’s Sanaa, splayed out with soft-eyes and faintly dilated pupils. She’s been staring at the ceiling for an hour, enraptured by the beautiful, rippling fireworks. For some reason, no one else can see them. That’s okay with her.
“Hey,” she murmurs, shifting closer to Jason. “You back with us?”
“Umm… I think?” His mind still feels like soup. Warm, happy soup. “‘S just so… I feel so nice. Ev’ry… ev’rythinng…”
When her hand lands on his chest, his words fizzle out. Sanaa hushes him, massaging all the heavy thoughts away; they slide like syrup, dripping out of him in a soft moan. It fades into a giggle at the end, his gaze hazy and reverent. Now, he knows who she is — sweet, steady Sanaa. He knows who wrapped him in a blanket and made sure they are all warm — dependable Jenna. He knows who gifted him this beautiful haze — adventurous Nadia. And he knows who adorned his finger with a shiny, silver-and-onyx wring… knows who draped a silver necklace around his neck, knows who pressed false studs to his ears.
“I don’t look… like myself,” he muses hazily, gazing at himself in the mirror. It’s around 4am; a few people are passed out, but Jason wants to walk around. Stumble, really. Ofelia is babysitting him.
“I know,” she agrees, tucking a lock of auburn hair behind his ear. He smells faintly of cherries. It makes his stomach growl. “You look cooler. Like, this is an awesome version of Jason. I’d see this guy across campus and totally think, ‘wow’.”
“Wow, he’s a goofball?” Jason murmurs.
“Wow,” Ofelia corrects, giving his hair a twinge. Instinctively, Jason curls toward her, giving her his full hazy attention. “This guy knows who he is. He’s cool being himself.”
“I don’t… know who I am, though.” It’s a hazy confession, something he’d never admit aloud. Jason’s eyes flutter.
When Ofelia leans in, close enough that her lips brush his temple… a shiver runs through him. He wants so badly to lean in. Wants all of her. Wants her to lay him bare, take him apart in pieces until there’s nothing left but raw pleasure — a senseless, purely human thing.
Ofelia just gifts him with a tiny kiss… and then pulls away. Jason’s temple lingers.
“Try this you out,” she encourages. “He’s pretty cool. And if you like it, great. If you don’t… we’ll still love you anyways.”
A thrill of pure pleasure runs through Jason — a wave of peace, of belonging. A soft noise drifts from his throat, almost a whimper. Ofelia smiles… they all do. His girls, hazy and soft and eager to take care of him.
For some reason, they care.
Jason’s never had that before.
“I- I—“ His voice is weak. He’s way too high for this. “I’m so glad… to be here. to have you guys.”
All of them. He loves every one of them. Jason’s hand drifts to the necklace around his neck, clenching it absently. The cool silver seeps through his palm, grounding him.
They’ve given him so much tonight… but this is the greatest gift of all.
“Oh, Jason,” Jenna sighs, reaching for him — and without hesitation, Jason lets himself be tugged back in.
I remember seeing a post where people were talking about how there’s a fetish for everything, and mentioned hiccups as a ridiculous example. and then it slowly dawned on me oh! that’s very much me ….
characters who have had a life of intense hardship and deprivation who are now in a place to be well fed and cared for and get fatter because of it >>>>>>>
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If you're interested in just stuffing (no weight gain), @ginger-and-mint has some really cool stuff, including a multi-chapter magic university story with a stuffing-based magic system.
If you enjoy stuffing, weight gain, and intox, especially in a fantasy or historical context @fancifulbellies has some fun one-shots, and some stories with recurring characters.
If you're interested in just stuffing (no weight gain), @ginger-and-mint has some really cool stuff, including a multi-chapter magic university story with a stuffing-based magic system.
If you enjoy stuffing, weight gain, and intox, especially in a fantasy or historical context @fancifulbellies has some fun one-shots, and some stories with recurring characters.
