Punk Rock

AI Assisted Story

This story has heavier backstory before getting into the exciting stuff. If you want to skip the slow parts, go to the halfway part.

The record store’s neon sign flickered like a dying strobe light as Dean shoved the door open, a battered messenger bag slung over one shoulder. His eyes immediately locked onto the girl flipping through the vinyls—choppy black hair, smudged eyeliner, that look of someone who’d argue about bass tones at gunpoint. "Hey," he called, nodding toward the Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge LP in her hands. "You gonna buy that or just glare at it like it owes you money?"

Lydee didn’t even glance up, her fingers tightening around the vinyl sleeve. "Oh wow, a dude in a band tee thinks he’s the gatekeeper of Gerard Way’s legacy," she muttered, finally flicking her eyes toward him with a practiced scowl. The store’s overhead lights caught the navy tips of her hair as she tilted her head. "Tell me—do you also lecture girls about ‘real’ punk while wearing a Hot Topic choker, or is that just a bonus feature?"

She deliberately turned the record over, inspecting the B-side like it held state secrets. The pentagram pendant on her choker swung slightly as she shifted her weight—a silent dare for him to keep talking. The bassline from the store’s speakers thumped faintly under a pop-punk vocal, making her jaw tense.

Dean barked out a laugh, running a hand through his messy hair—bleached at the tips, roots showing. "Hot Topic? Ouch." He hooked a thumb into the collar of his very worn Thursday shirt, flipping it to reveal a sharpie-scrawled tour date from 2007. "This survived the Great MySpace Purge, so." Leaning against the shelf, he nudged a Warped Tour compilation with his elbow. "But yeah, sure. Lecture me about Three Cheers like I didn’t cry to Helena at fourteen. Bet you skip Interlude though—everyone does."

His grin was all teeth as the store speakers switched to an acoustic cover of I’m Not Okay. Dean winced exaggeratedly. "Christ. That’s worse than my ex’s mixtapes." He side-eyed Lydee’s death grip on the record. "You gonna crack the vinyl in half or actually let me see if that’s the 2004 misprint?"

Lydee's grip loosened just enough to show the barcode—her smirk sharp as a safety pin. "Misprint? Please." She flipped the sleeve to reveal the matrix scrawled in silver. "This is the third press, dumbass. The one where they fucked up 'The Jetset Life' guitar solo." The pop-punk vocals from the speakers hit a high note; her free hand twitched toward her chest before she caught herself.

She tossed her hair, navy tips brushing her collarbone. "And obviously I don't skip 'Interlude.' Only posers skip tracks—" A sudden burst of live-recorded crowd noise from the speakers made her knees buckle slightly. "Fuck. Turn that shit off before I—" Her tube top seams creaked ominously.

Dean's grin faltered as Lydee’s knees buckled—his eyes darting to the seams of her top with sudden understanding. "Shit, you’re that kind of emo." He lunged for the store’s aux cord, yanking it mid-chorus. The silence was instant, save for Lydee’s shaky exhale. "Third press, huh?" He tossed her his hoodie without ceremony. "Tell me about the guitar solo after you stop turning into a fucking Bratz doll."

His fingers tapped an impatient rhythm against his thigh, gaze flicking to the clerk’s suspicious stare. "We’re leaving. Now." He grabbed a random cassette—some obscure skramz band—and slapped it on the counter. "Ring this up fast unless you wanna explain why your speakers almost murdered a girl."

Lydee caught the hoodie mid-air with a scoff, but her fingers trembled as she yanked it over her head—sleeves swallowing her hands whole. "I hate when people know," she hissed through the fabric, voice muffled but venom intact. The pentagram pendant clinked against the zipper as she pulled it up to her chin, shoulders hunched like the hoodie could erase the last thirty seconds.

She kicked the Three Cheers vinyl toward Dean's shin, eyes blazing. "And it’s not a misprint, it’s a variation—God, even my curse has better taste than you." The store’s fluorescent lights caught the fresh tear tracks cutting through her smudged eyeliner.

Dean snorted, bending to scoop up the vinyl with one hand while the other fished crumpled bills from his pocket. "Variation, misprint—call it whatever lets you sleep at night." He tossed the money at the clerk without looking, already steering Lydee toward the exit by the hoodie’s oversized sleeve. The door’s bell jingled like a shitty tambourine as they spilled onto the sidewalk. "Alright, Bratz. You got a safe zone or am I dragging you to a diner where they don’t play fucking Sugar, We’re Goin Down on loop?"

The late afternoon sun hit Lydee’s face as she squinted up at him—mascara wrecked, navy hair sticking to the hoodie’s fabric. Dean's smirk softened just enough to dig his keys from his jeans. "And for the record," he added, jingling them, "my car’s aux only plays actual screamo. So. Silver lining."

Lydee blinked against the sunlight like a disoriented bat, clutching the hoodie tighter as Dean's keys jingled. "Silver lining? Try only lining," she muttered, but her shoulders relaxed slightly at the mention of screamo. A passing truck blared top-40 radio; she flinched hard enough to elbow Dean's ribs. "Fuck—diner. But if they even hum Blink-182, I’m setting the jukebox on fire."

She eyed his car—a dented Subaru with peeling Circle Takes the Square stickers—like it might bite. "And don’t think this means we’re friends," she added, stomping toward the passenger side. The vinyl sleeve crinkled in her death grip.

Dean snorted, unlocking the Subaru with a click. "Friends? Please. You’d have to like people for that." He yanked the passenger door open with a creak, tossing the Three Cheers vinyl onto the dashboard where it slid against a pile of gas receipts. The car smelled like stale coffee and guitar picks. "But if you’re gonna ride shotgun, rule one: no skipping tracks. Rule two: if you vomit, you’re cleaning my floor mats with your hoodie."

He revved the engine just to watch her grip the seat, grinning as the aux cord dangled between them like a dare. The first distorted scream of The Used ripped through the speakers before he even pulled out of the parking spot.

Lydee's fingers tightened around the dashboard as The Used's vocals shredded the air, but her scowl flickered for half a second—just long enough to catch the way Dean's thumb tapped the wheel in perfect sync with the drums. She yanked the hoodie sleeves over her knuckles, chewing her lip raw. "This isn't—fuck—this isn't pity fuel, right?" The words came out jagged, like she'd rehearsed them in a mirror a hundred times. "Because I can handle my own shit. Always have."

The vinyl slid toward her as Dean took a sharp turn; she caught it against her thighs, the sleeve's edge digging into her palm. The diner's neon sign blinked ahead—a greasy spoon with a flickering NO POP MUSIC sticky note slapped on the door. Her shoulders dropped half an inch. "And if they even think about playing Panic—I'm stealing your car."

Dean laughed, cranking the volume louder as they pulled into the diner’s cracked parking lot. "Pity? Nah. You’re just the first person who didn’t call The Used ‘screaming nonsense’ on first listen." He killed the engine, the sudden silence making Lydee’s hoodie rustle. Tossing the keys in the air, he caught them with a smirk. "Steal the car all you want—just know it stalls if you go under 40. Allegedly."

He shouldered the door open, nodding toward the diner’s sticky note. "Place is run by an old punk who banned major chords after ‘99. You’ll live." The scent of fry oil and nicotine hit them as he held the door, grinning at Lydee’s hesitation. "Unless you’re scared of waffles, Bratz."

Lydee stomped past him into the diner, the bell above the door jingling like a taunt. "Scared of waffles? Try terrified," she shot back, sliding into a booth with cracked red vinyl seats. Her fingers drummed against the Three Cheers sleeve still clutched to her chest, eyes scanning the diner’s walls—plastered with flyers for local hardcore shows. The jukebox in the corner was unplugged, a handwritten OUT OF ORDER sign taped over the coin slot. She exhaled for the first time since the record store.

The waitress—a woman with a shaved side of her head and a Rancid tattoo—slapped two menus down without looking. Lydee flipped hers open immediately, scowling at the NO REFUNDS scrawled in Sharpie under the pancake section. "If they put sprinkles on anything, I’m walking," she muttered, but her knee bumped Dean's under the table. Accidentally. Probably.

Dean flipped his menu upside down—the back was covered in band stickers and coffee stains. "Sprinkles are for people who think Chunk! No, Captain Chunk! is metalcore," he said, nodding toward the waitress’s retreating back. "But order anything with syrup and I’m charging you a ‘cleaning fee’ for my passenger seat." He kicked Lydee’s boot under the table, grinning as she jerked her knee away like he’d burned her.

The diner’s overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting a yellow glow over Lydee’s smudged eyeliner. Dean's smirk softened as he watched her trace the Three Cheers sleeve absentmindedly, her nails chipped black. "For the record," he added, quieter, "your ‘shit’ is way more interesting than most people’s best days."

Lydee rolled her eyes at Dean's comment but couldn't stop the corner of her mouth from twitching up. She tugged the hoodie sleeves further over her hands, the fabric warm and strangely comforting. "Yeah, well, most people are boring as fuck," she muttered, but there was no bite to it this time. Her fingers absentmindedly traced the edge of the vinyl sleeve on the table, the familiar texture grounding her. The diner's muffled chatter and clinking plates felt safe—no cursed basslines here.

She glanced up at Dean through her messy bangs, her voice quieter now. "Thanks. For the hoodie. And the... you know. Not being weird about it." The words felt awkward in her mouth, but she didn't take them back. The waitress approached with their drinks, and Lydee immediately wrapped both hands around her coffee mug like it was a lifeline.

Dean watched Lydee cradle her coffee like it held the secrets of the universe, his own mug untouched. "Don't mention it," he said, spinning a sugar packet between his fingers. "Besides, weird’s relative. Saw a guy at a show once who turned into a sentient tube of glitter when the chorus hit." He smirked at Lydee’s horrified expression. "Yeah. That was a dry-cleaning nightmare."

The waitress returned with their orders—Lydee’s pancakes suspiciously sprinkle-free. Dean stabbed a fork into his waffle, nodding toward the vinyl still between them. "So. Third press. Tell me why the solo’s fucked up without sounding like a Discogs page."

Lydee scoffed, flipping the vinyl sleeve over with a practiced flick of her wrist. "It's not fucked up, it's raw—like they recorded it in one take after Gerard punched a wall." She dragged her fork through the syrup pooling on her plate, voice dropping conspiratorially. "The high note at 2:17? Original press cuts it clean, but this version—" She tapped the sleeve—"you can hear his voice crack. Like he was actually choking on blood."

Her knee bumped Dean's again under the table, lingering this time. "Posers want everything polished. Real emo's supposed to hurt."

Dean leaned in, close enough to see the chipped black polish on Lydee’s thumbnail where it rested against the vinyl sleeve. "Huh. So you’re telling me Gerard Way’s vocal cords were the original screamo breakdown." He took a deliberate bite of waffle, syrup dripping onto the plate like a failed metaphor. "Guess that explains why the Helena music video looks like someone filmed a breakdown in a Catholic gift shop."

His boot nudged hers under the table—no accident this time. "But if we’re gatekeeping pain, does that mean your curse is just… performance art?" The grin was back, all teeth.

Lydee's fork clattered against her plate as she stiffened, the hoodie sleeves slipping down to reveal white-knuckled fists. "Performance art?" Her voice was dangerously low, the diner's chatter fading into static. "Try involuntary body horror with a side of existential dread." She jabbed her fork toward Dean's waffle like it owed her answers. "Next time it happens, I'll let you explain the physics of suddenly needing a custom fucking bra mid-mosh pit."

The vinyl sleeve creased under her grip as she slumped back against the booth, suddenly exhausted. "And for the record—Gerard's voice crack is art. My shit's just... shit." The admission tasted bitter, like coffee left too long in the pot.

Dean's smirk evaporated as Lydee's fork clattered. He pushed his plate aside, leaning forward until the vinyl sleeve dug into his forearms. "Hey—bad joke." His voice dropped, rough around the edges like a demo tape. "But your shit's not just shit. It's the rawest fucking thing I've ever seen." The diner's fluorescents caught the silver in his earlobe when he tilted his head. "Gerard's voice crack got pressed on wax. Yours? Happens live. That's punk as fuck."

He flicked the Three Cheers sleeve with one finger, meeting her glare dead-on. "And for the record? Custom bra logistics sound metal as hell. I'd buy that zine." The waitress reappeared with the check; Dean snatched it before Lydee could move, scrawling NO TIP - PLAY MORE SKRAMZ under the total.

Lydee stared at Dean like he'd just recited the entire Three Cheers liner notes backward, her fingers slowly unclenching around the vinyl sleeve. A laugh punched out of her—sharp and startled, more genuine than anything she'd said all afternoon. "You're such an asshole," she muttered, but her knee stayed pressed against his under the table, warm and solid. She reached for the check, scribbling PAID IN FULL - STILL HATE POP PUNK over Dean's note before shoving it toward the waitress.

Her voice dropped as she leaned in, close enough for Dean to see the faint freckles under her smudged eyeliner. "And fine. Next time it happens... you're on bra duty. But if you ever call it 'performance art' again, I'm feeding your Thursday shirt to a thrift store." The threat lacked heat, her lips twitching against the straw of her iced coffee.

Dean watched Lydee’s lips curl around the straw, the diner’s neon lights painting her cheekbones in pink and blue. He reached across the table, his fingers brushing the Three Cheers sleeve still between them. "Bra duty, huh? Better start taking notes." His grin was crooked, but his voice was earnest—low enough that only she could hear. "And for the record, I’d burn every Thursday shirt before I let some thrift store poser touch them."

The diner’s door chimed as a group of teenagers stumbled in, their laughter too loud over the hum of the fryer. Dean didn’t look away from Lydee, his boot nudging hers under the table again. "So. You keeping that vinyl, or am I gonna have to fight you for it?"

Lydee rolled her eyes but didn't pull her foot away from where it rested against Dean's under the table. "Like you could take me in a fight," she muttered, but her fingers lingered on the vinyl sleeve a second longer than necessary before sliding it toward him. "Just don't scratch it. Or—God forbid—play it on one of those fucking Crosley suitcases."

She took a slow sip of her coffee, watching him over the rim of the mug. The diner's warmth and the steady press of Dean's boot against hers made something in her chest unclench. "But if you're gonna borrow it... you owe me a ride to the next show. One with actual good sound."

Dean caught the vinyl with one hand, tucking it into his messenger bag like it was made of glass. "Deal. But if I’m DJing, we’re blasting The Used loud enough to drown out any cursed pop-punk bullshit." He tossed a crumpled five on the table for the waitress, nodding toward the door. "And if you’re really nice, I might even let you pick the next track." His grin was all challenge as he stood, stretching until his Thursday shirt rode up over his hipbones.

The diner’s neon sign flickered against his bleached tips as he held the door open, glancing back at Lydee still hunched in his hoodie. "Coming, Bratz? Or do I gotta carry you too?"

Lydee scoffed but stood up anyway, her fingers lingering on the edge of the table for half a second before she shoved her hands into the hoodie's oversized pockets. "Yeah, yeah, DJ Dean—like I trust your aux skills after that Thursday shirt confession." She stomped past him toward the door, but her shoulder brushed his arm on the way out—deliberately this time.

The evening air was cooler now, the diner's neon sign reflecting off the puddles in the parking lot. Lydee hesitated by the Subaru, glancing at Dean over her shoulder. "And for the record," she added, voice softer now, "you're not carrying me. But... the vinyl's yours. For now." The hoodie sleeves swallowed her hands again as she fiddled with the zipper.

It was a month later when the two of them had decided to face Lydee's condition. They were now officially together. He took her to a cabin for the weekend and brought his guitar. She had relented in favor of understanding the whole effect.

The cabin's wooden floor creaked under Lydee's boots as she paced near the fireplace, her fingers twisting the hem of Dean's stolen hoodie. "This is stupid," she muttered, eyeing the guitar propped against the couch like it might bite. A draft made the fire flicker, casting shadows across her nervous expression. "What if it—what if I can't control it?" Her voice cracked on the last word, raw in a way that had nothing to do with the curse.

"You're so focussed on control. Punk rock isn't about control. It's about letting loose and being yourself. You've shown me that. Besides this is just a test. You say stop, I stop." He didn't realize that once she heard the music, her 'other self' would be too obsessive to ask him to stop. That she would demand he would play until she was huge and a complete goth bimbo with giant breasts, huge hips, long dyed hair, pouty lips, and a beyond horny attitude.

Lydee's pacing slowed as Dean spoke, her boots scuffing against the wooden floorboards. She chewed her bottom lip raw, the firelight catching the nervous flutter of her eyelashes. "Fine. But if I turn into some—some pinup nightmare, you're the one explaining it to my therapist," she muttered, sinking onto the couch beside his guitar. Her fingers twitched toward the strings before she snatched them back, like they might burn her.

The first chord rang out before she could protest—clear and sharp in the cabin's quiet. Lydee's breath hitched as the vibration thrummed through her ribs, her spine stiffening. "Oh fuck," she whispered, hands flying to her chest as the seams of the hoodie groaned in protest.

"I know it's scary. But just trust yourself. Trust the music. Trust me. I wrote this for you. And I need you to hear it." He began to play his emo ballad about the incredible girl he adored.

The first notes curled around her ribs like smoke—slow, aching, too close to the way Gerard Way's voice used to claw at her sternum. Lydee's fingers dug into the couch cushions as her hips twitched against the fabric, a whimper catching in her throat when the hoodie's zipper pinged open under the pressure. "Dean—" His name came out strangled, her voice already dropping an octave as her collarbones flushed pink. The pentagram pendant swung wildly against her rapidly swelling cleavage.

Dean noticed the effect. He couldn't stop himself. He was too allured by her. He kept playing and watching and singing for her.

Lydee's back arched off the couch as another chord vibrated through her, the hoodie sleeves ripping at the shoulders as her arms thickened. "More," she gasped, voice already slurred with want—her once-sharp features softening into pouty, bimbo-esque exaggeration. The pentagram pendant disappeared between her ballooning cleavage as she reached for Dean with newly plump fingers, nails now glossy black. "Don't... stop..." The words dripped like syrup, her tongue darting over suddenly fuller lips.

He hears her excitement and plays on, harder now. Her strums louder and sings to her. He feels intense adoration for her. He reddens as her clothes rip.

Lydee’s breath came in ragged gasps as her body strained against the remnants of Dean’s hoodie, the fabric finally giving way with a loud rip. Her newly plush thighs pressed together, the heat between them impossible to ignore as the music thrummed through her veins. "Fuck—don’t stop," she moaned, her voice dripping with want, her hands sliding up her own curves as if she couldn’t believe they were hers. The pentagram pendant bounced with every heavy breath, her bimbo-wide eyes locked on Dean’s fingers dancing across the strings.

She reached for him blindly, her glossy nails scraping against the guitar’s body. "Play me," she demanded, her pouty lips forming the words like a prayer. The cabin’s warmth had nothing on the fire pooling low in her belly, her hips rolling to the rhythm without shame.

He took to her demand. "Here, let me make this last." He took his guitar pedal and recorded his playing. "Guitar pedals technically play live music. Hopes it works." He was sweating at the heat between them. He would do anything for her.

The pedal's looped guitar riff filled the cabin, pulsing through Lydee's swollen body like a second heartbeat. She moaned, her back arching off the couch as her hands slid down her own curves—fingers tracing the dip of her waist before gripping her widened hips. "Dean—please," she whined, her voice thick with need, her glossy nails digging into her thighs. The pentagram pendant swung wildly between her heaving breasts as she rocked against the guitar still pressed to her skin.

Her bimbo-wide eyes locked onto Dean's face, pupils blown with lust. "Touch me," she demanded, her plush lips forming the words between panting breaths. The looped music vibrated through her core, her body responding instinctively—every strum drawing another desperate roll of her hips against nothing.

With the music set up to play 'live', Dean moved to Lydee. Her hair was so beautiful. He caressed it. He nervously took in her growing body. Her womanhood was nearly visible. Her chest almost spilled out from the remnants of his hoodie. Her lips looked so kissable. He stared at them.

Lydee's breath hitched as Dean's fingers tangled in her lengthened hair, the sensation sending shivers down her already hypersensitive skin. She arched her back, pressing her chest against him with a whimper—his hoodie remnants straining dangerously. "Stop staring and touch me," she demanded, her voice dripping with needy frustration, her plush lips parted in anticipation.

Her glossy nails scraped down his chest, leaving faint marks on his Thursday shirt before gripping his waistband. The looped guitar riffs pulsed through her core, her hips rolling instinctively against nothing—her pentagram pendant bouncing with each desperate movement. "Or do I have to beg?" she breathed, eyelashes fluttering.

"I wouldn't argue against begging." He grabbed her hips and pulled the bucking body part to him. He clambered next to her and picked her huge and still growing body onto his lap. She was easily taller than him and her chest was beyond wider. "I want you. The you, you don't give to anybody. Give it to me. Now."

Lydee's breath hitched as Dean hauled her onto his lap—her widened hips barely fitting against his thighs, her massive chest pressing flush against his torso. She tangled her fingers in his bleached hair with a whimper, her glossy nails scraping his scalp. "Yours," she gasped against his mouth, the word slurred with want, her plush lips parting in invitation. The looped guitar riffs still pulsed through her veins, her body responding instinctively as she ground down against him—every movement desperate, every touch electric.

Her pentagram pendant dug into Dean's chest as she arched against him, her navy-tipped hair a tangled curtain around their faces. "Gonna make you feel it," she moaned, her voice dropping to a husky whisper—the curse's heat twisting her words into something feral and needy between them.

He leaned in and kissed her violently. He wanted her bad. He felt her plush lips against his and her tongue up in his mouth. Her soon to be F cup breasts pressed against his torso and filled the space between them. Her thighs squeezed him. His dick grew in his jeans. He was fully erect in seconds. His 10 inch member was fighting to get out.

Lydee whimpered into the kiss, her plush lips molding against Dean's as her tongue tangled with his—hungry, desperate. Her swollen breasts pressed flush against his chest, the pentagram pendant digging into his skin as she rocked her hips against his erection, each movement sending sparks through her hypersensitive body. "Fuck me already," she gasped against his mouth, her voice thick with need, her glossy nails raking down his back.

The looped guitar riffs still pulsed through the cabin, vibrating against her skin as she ground down harder, her thighs squeezing around him. Her bimbo-wide eyes locked onto his, pupils blown with lust. "I want to feel you inside me," she breathed

Dean's eyes went wide as her form grew ever bigger. She would soon encompass him. He felt her undo his pants zipper and tear his jeans from his legs. When she kissed his dick, he nearly came from excitement. But he had to hold on for the main event. He aimed her lush thighs onto his lap and stuck his member into her. "You're so sexy. And very punk rock." He lifted her up and down onto him, fucking her gently at first until she took over, her need making her go all in.

Lydee's moan reverberated through the cabin as Dean filled her completely, her swollen hips lifting and dropping with practiced rhythm—every movement amplified by the curse's hypersensitive enhancement. Her nails raked down his chest as she rode him, her plush lips forming filthy promises between gasps. "Gonna milk every inch of you," she slurred, her bimbo-wide eyes glazed with lust as the pentagram pendant swung wildly against their sweat-slicked skin.

The looped guitar riffs pulsed through her core like a second heartbeat, each strum syncing with her rolling hips as she took him deeper. Her massive chest heaved against him, nipples pebbling through the shredded hoodie remnants as she clenched around his length with a broken whimper. "F-faster—please—"

Dean took to her and sped up, ramming his self in and out of her. He kissed her wildly and passionately. The music swelled her huge. She was getting to be as tall as the cabin roof and definitely taller than Dean. Her breasts were almost too big for her to stand. She landed on them and sat on her stomach while Will shifted to doggy style and humped her gigantic ass.

Lydee's back arched impossibly as Dean pounded into her from behind, her massive ass jiggling with each thrust. The guitar loops still pulsed through her swollen body, her moans now guttural and raw as she clawed at the wooden floorboards—her pentagram pendant lost somewhere in the wreckage of clothes. "Fuck—don't stop—" she slurred, her voice thick with pleasure, her hypersensitive skin tingling with every movement.

Her swollen breasts dragged against the rough wood as she pushed back against him, her navy-tipped hair a tangled mess across her flushed face. The curse's heat coiled tight in her core, her body responding to the music's rhythm like a puppet on strings—every note pulling another desperate roll of her hips.

"I'm close!" Dean yelled over Lydee's constant moaning and screaming. Their bodies slammed together more. Lydee was almost double Will's size. He just wanted to make her come.

Lydee's moans crescendoed into a broken scream as Dean's thrusts sent shockwaves through her hypersensitive body. The guitar loops vibrated against her swollen skin, every note syncing with the coil of pleasure tightening in her core. "Gonna—gonna—" she choked out, her massive chest heaving against the floorboards as her plush lips formed silent pleas—her entire being reduced to raw, shuddering need.

Her navy-tipped hair clung to her flushed cheeks as the curse's heat crested, her bimbo-wide eyes rolling back when the orgasm ripped through her. "Dean!" His name tore from her throat like a prayer, her thickened thighs clamping around nothing as her body convulsed—pentagram pendant lost in the wreckage of their passion.

Dean came right with her. He pulled out and his seed covered Lydee's body. She stooped to suck him off and swallow as much as she could. He couldn't help but let her as she climbed over him and crushed him under her enormous body. "Fuck, you're so beautiful."

Lydee's swollen lips curled into a dazed smirk as she licked the last of Dean's cum from her fingers, her bimbo-wide eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. The looped guitar riffs had finally faded, leaving her hyper-sized body thrumming with aftershocks—her massive chest rising and falling against Dean's torso as she pinned him beneath her. "Told you I'd milk you dry," she slurred, her voice still thick with pleasure, her navy-tipped hair tickling his collarbone.

Her pentagram pendant lay forgotten near the fireplace, the firelight casting flickering shadows across her sweat-slicked curves. With a contented sigh, she nuzzled into Dean's neck, her plush lips brushing his skin. "Now... carry me to bed, emo boy," she murmured, her words slurring as the curse's intensity began to wane—her body still oversized but softening at the edges.

Dean unplugged the pedals and watched as Lydee's body settled into its enormous size. She was at least 6'7" tall and her boobs were like bean bags that stood out nearly two feet from her body. Her hips were wider than him. "Carry you? Maybe you should carry me." He pulled her to bed and fell asleep right in between her mountainous boobs.

Lydee’s giggle vibrated through Dean’s chest as she curled her massive arms around him, her swollen breasts pillowing his head like overstuffed marshmallows. “Shoulda seen your face when I popped that third button,” she slurred, her voice still thick with post-curse bliss, her glossy nails tracing lazy circles on his back.

The firelight painted gold streaks across her hypersized body as she nuzzled into his hair, her pentagram pendant long lost in the wreckage. “Next time,” she murmured against his scalp, her plush lips brushing his skin, “we’re testing bass frequencies.”