19ryan17

[19ryan17]

Zach's Summer

Zach hadn’t imagined spending his summer like this—stuck near campus, no job, no car, and no way back to his parents’ house. Finals week had ended with the usual mix of relief and dread, but while most of his classmates were already packing up or hopping flights home, Zach found himself standing outside his locked dorm, his bags heavy, his phone battery dying, and his options thinner than ever.

His parents were off on a months-long European trip, a getaway they’d been hyping for weeks. The problem was, in classic parental fashion, they forgot one key detail: they took the house keys with them. So Zach’s own home was out of reach until they returned in late August. And with no summer job prospects and the bank account threatening to hit zero, flying home wasn’t an option even if he wanted it.

He had no plan, just an uncomfortable sense of being stranded.

In his circle of friends, Zach was sort of a nobody—more of a background character than a main one. Not jock enough for the popular crowd, not nerdy enough to have any sort of study crew, just kind of… there. So when a random message popped up in the group chat—Tyler, Chase, Ryan, and Blake, four guys who were the campus embodiment of “bro” culture, jock stereotypes in tight tees and gym shorts, who treated their bodies like trophies for Instagram—offering him a spot on their summer house couch, it felt like a hail-mary. Zach half-expected it to be a joke.

Tyler’s reply was simple, almost casual: “For real, man. Come crash here.”

So, with nothing better to do and nowhere else to go, Zach packed the bare essentials and took an Uber to their rental house. It was a two-story place just a few blocks off campus, with peeling white paint and a sagging porch. Inside, the walls were mostly bare, save for a couple of motivational gym posters and a whiteboard covered in macros, workout schedules, and plans that, Zach was about to learn, rarely materialized.

The place smelled sharply of sweat, cheap cologne, and something faintly chemical—Axe or Old Spice, probably mixed with too much body spray. Four bedrooms had been claimed immediately, each with a bed meticulously made and workout gear stashed neatly in corners. Zach was assigned the sunroom out back, a converted porch with dusty windows, a battered futon, and a box fan that rattled like it was held together by hope alone.

The first few days felt like trying to fit into a mold that wasn’t his. The guys followed routines Zach couldn’t quite keep up with—early morning gym sessions, protein shakes loaded with powders Zach didn’t recognize, loud music blasting in the bathroom while they took their showers. The conversations were all about gains, reps, and which one of them looked better on Instagram. They talked about their girlfriends with a kind of pride and ease Zach found foreign.

And of course, they kept themselves meticulously smooth—abs tight, chests and backs clean-shaven, legs trimmed. It was part showmanship, part obsession, and Zach felt like a fish out of water with his lean frame and patchy scruff.

But there was an odd comfort in their casual acceptance. Nobody treated him like a charity case or a guest. Blake tossed him a spare controller one night without asking if he gamed. Tyler handed him leftover wings without a second thought. Chase gave him a half-smile and a nod when he caught Zach tidying up a pile of empty boxes.

“Dude, you live here now,” Tyler said one evening, collapsing on the couch with a beer. “Just chill.”

As June crept on, the summer routine started to wobble. One day Chase didn’t show up for the gym, citing a “dead arm” from leg day—though no one really bought it. Blake left his protein shake bottle half-empty on the kitchen counter, and it stayed there for two days. Ryan started waking up later, sometimes crashing back on the couch in just his boxers, his legs sprawling wide.

Morning shaves became less frequent, turning into an every-other-day thing. Then a week passed without anyone bothering to touch the razors. One afternoon, Zach caught a glimpse of Blake’s chest stubble when he lifted his shirt to scratch his belly, and it looked almost… natural.

“You growing that out?” Zach asked, half-joking but honestly curious.

Blake shrugged, a lazy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, kinda forgot about it. Might just let it ride for a bit.”

It was a small thing, but it made Zach pause.

The house itself started to feel less like a gym sanctuary and more like a lived-in den. Empty pizza boxes stacked up on the counter. A pile of laundry began to grow in the corner of the living room. Someone—definitely Chase—was leaving his gym socks out, and they gave off a sour, pungent smell that clung to the carpet.

The air thickened with a scent Zach hadn’t expected—less the clean, citrusy cologne and more a primal musk of unwashed bodies, sweat, and fast food grease. Not strong enough to be unbearable, but distinct. He noticed it most when he lay on his futon at night, the window cracked to let in the warm summer air. It was the smell of four guys who’d forgotten the drill, who were letting things slide.

One evening, Tyler cracked open a fresh six-pack and stretched out on the couch, shirtless, one arm behind his head. Zach could see the dark shadow of hair under his pit, the damp sheen of sweat, and the faint fuzz beginning to sprout along his forearms.

Ryan snored on the floor nearby, his loose gym shorts riding up to reveal a thick, slightly curly patch of thigh hair. Blake, lounging on the armchair, scratched absently at a belly that was starting to soften—not much yet, but noticeable if you looked closely.

Zach watched quietly from his corner, nursing a lukewarm beer. He ran a hand across his own chest absentmindedly and stopped.

There was stubble there now too.

It hit him with strange calm—he wasn’t really an outsider anymore.

Not just because they’d welcomed him, but because he was starting to become one of them.

The house felt different now. It wasn’t just the layout or the peeling paint or the furniture arranged in a way that encouraged lounging and laziness—it was something deeper, something that had seeped into the very air and bones of the place. The four guys—Tyler, Chase, Ryan, and Blake—weren’t just skipping their gym sessions anymore. They were skipping everything that reminded them of effort, discipline, or, frankly, hygiene.

Zach knew exactly when the drift had started. It wasn’t a single moment or an event but a gradual loosening of routine, a giving up of the relentless grind that summer was supposed to bring. The kind of grind that had made them lean, taut, and Instagram-ready in May. By the middle of July, those six-pack abs were softening, the clean-shaven skin was becoming a distant memory, and the smell… well, that was becoming its own thing entirely.

It began with the mornings. Where once they’d been up at dawn or just before, now the alarms rarely went off or were silenced without a second thought. The house filled with sounds of stretched-out yawn cascades and the shuffle of bare feet across the floor, but rarely the clatter of weights or the slam of a protein shaker.

One morning, Zach woke to the smell of breakfast, but it wasn’t eggs or oatmeal or any of the lean muscle-building fuel he remembered from the start of summer. No, it was the greasy aroma of fast food breakfast sandwiches and something that smelled suspiciously like leftover pizza crust burning in the toaster oven. When he wandered into the kitchen, he found Ryan slouched on the couch, still in his shorts from the day before, watching videos on his phone with a half-eaten sausage biscuit beside him.

“Morning, man,” Ryan mumbled, barely glancing up.

Zach blinked at the plate stacked with wrappers and greasy paper, the crumbs and smudges that made the whole counter look like a late-night food binge zone. The sink was piled with cups and half-empty bottles of soda, and a familiar musk lingered in the air.

Tyler sauntered in, shirtless, with a five o’clock shadow that had morphed into a thick stubble along his jawline. His pits were dark with hair, and he gave off the unmistakable scent of sweat mixed with a layer of something deeper—something unwashed and earthy. He flopped down beside Ryan with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Gym’s canceled,” Tyler announced like it was a victory. “Dead legs, dead motivation.”

Chase appeared next, his hair tousled and his normally tight T-shirt stretched over a belly that was rounding in a way it hadn’t before. He gave Zach a lazy smile that showed the scruff now darkening his cheeks. “Besides, we got better stuff to do. Like, marathon the new Call of Duty, right?”

Blake rounded out the group, dragging himself up from the floor where he’d been sprawled for hours. His chest hair was thick and curly now, curling over the neckline of his tank top, and a patch of it peeked out from his shorts along the top of his thighs. He scratched absently at his beard—a full goatee now—and sniffed his armpit with a mock grimace that had become less mock and more real over the last week.

The transformation wasn’t just physical—it was mental. The guys joked about their smell, their laziness, and their expanding waistlines like it was a badge of honor. Their usual sharp banter had softened into slow, easy laughter and teasing that circled around burps, farts, and dumb pop culture references. They weren’t dumb exactly—they were just… different. Slower in their responses, less focused, and far more content to laze around with greasy food and sticky controllers than to push themselves at the gym or in class.

For Zach, it was both disorienting and oddly comforting. At first, he had tried to keep up, jogging around the block when the others skipped, shaving every morning even if they didn’t, washing with their fancy scented body wash while they stuck to bar soap. But as the days passed, the urge to maintain his previous routine faded. He found himself staying up late playing video games, waking up late to greasy leftovers, and skipping showers because—honestly—it just felt easier.

The house grew a distinct smell. It wasn’t just the guys. It was the house itself soaking in their laziness. The couch cushions reeked of sweat and fast food grease. The bathroom floor was sticky, and the mirrors were foggy from neglected cleaning. The trash cans overflowed with empty soda cans, chip bags, and pizza boxes. The air hung heavy with a thick musk, a combination of sweat-soaked T-shirts, unwashed bodies, and stale food odors that clung to the walls.

Zach noticed how the smell clung to his own skin, how his T-shirts started to hold that same stale odor even after washing. His body was changing too. The smooth skin he’d taken for granted was slowly getting fuzzier. His chin sprouted a thin mustache that thickened into a patchy goatee over the weeks. His arms had soft hair that brushed against his sleeves when he moved, and he caught himself unconsciously scratching at his armpits more often, finding they were darker and hairier than before. He noticed how his belly was starting to round just a little, how his T-shirts were tighter around the waist than they used to be.

It wasn’t a shock or a crisis. It was more like slipping into a new identity, one that felt… right.

The other guys weren’t immune either. Tyler’s smooth, Instagram-perfect chest was now a thick blanket of hair that spread from his collarbone down to his navel. The muscles beneath still showed, but the lines were softer, the sharp angles rounded. He’d traded his razor for a pair of scissors and just trimmed the thick growth every few days.

Chase had let his beard grow into a scruffy mess that matched the wildness of his hair. He had gained some weight, too, his once-flat stomach now bulging just slightly beneath his stretched-out tees. He laughed more easily now, burping loudly during movie nights and teasing Zach about his “new man smell.”

Ryan was the most muscular of the group, but even his body was starting to show signs of change. The veins that used to pop during workouts were less visible, hidden beneath a thin layer of softness that softened his defined arms and broad chest. His hair was thicker everywhere—arms, legs, chest, even a few stray hairs creeping up his neck and over his jawline.

Blake was the slowest to change physically, but his attitude shifted the most. He moved with a languid ease, took longer naps, and was always first to suggest ordering another pizza or switching to a comedy instead of the usual action flicks. His beard was thick and curly now, and he spent more time scratching at his belly hair than he did at his phone.

Zach found himself laughing with them, not at them. The slow descent into this unmotivated, hairy, and slightly smelly summer tribe was infectious. The feeling of being accepted—really accepted—was a balm for his uncertain soul.

On a night when the heat was pressing against the windows and the hum of the city was distant, the four jocks and Zach sprawled shirtless on the sagging couch. The TV was playing some old comedy rerun, but no one was really watching. The conversation meandered lazily, drifting from sports gossip to who could eat the most wings, to ridiculous hypothetical questions.

Tyler stretched his arm behind his head and the dark hair beneath his pit caught Zach’s eye again. It was thicker than it had been the week before, the scent stronger too—a warm, earthy musk that was no longer a sign of neglect but a new kind of masculinity. Tyler noticed Zach staring and gave him a sly smile.

“Getting used to it, huh?” he said, voice low.

Zach nodded, feeling heat creep into his cheeks. “Yeah, it’s different. But kinda nice.”

“Yeah, man,” Chase added, burping loudly. “Feels real. Feels like summer.”

Ryan laughed, the sound deep and full. “We’re just getting real. No more pretending. No more Instagram bullshit.”

Blake reached over, ruffling Zach’s hair like he was part of the crew now. “You’re one of us, man. You smell like it.”

Zach grinned and rolled his shoulders, feeling the stretch of his shirt over a belly that had softened but wasn’t quite fat yet. The fuzz on his arms and chest caught the dim light, and for the first time in a long time, he felt like he belonged.

The transformation was no longer just physical—it was something deeper. A letting go, a surrender to a new kind of comfort and identity. The four guys he’d once seen as distant, chiseled jocks were now just a crew of lazy, hairy, stinky guys who didn’t care about the world outside their little house.

And neither did he.

The house was thick with that sticky, warm summer air—the kind that made your skin feel slick, and your clothes cling in all the wrong ways. Outside, the city buzzed and hummed, but inside, the world was reduced to the creaking floors, the low murmur of voices, and the sharp, heavy scent of four guys who were no longer trying to keep things neat, clean, or remotely gym-ready.

Zach had officially slipped into the rhythm of the place. The slow drift from lean to soft had continued unabated. His shirtless reflection in the cracked mirror by the bathroom door showed a guy with a soft belly that curved over his shorts, a patchy goatee darkening his chin, and a scruff that thickened into a short beard on his jaw. His arms and chest were flecked with soft, dark hair, and the faint smell of musk clung to his skin, mixed with the faint sourness of sweat that hadn’t been fully washed away.

He loved it. And he hated it. The contradiction made him restless some nights.

But tonight, restlessness was the last thing on his mind.

Tyler was sitting on the edge of the couch, one arm stretched out behind him, his thick, hairy chest rising and falling slowly as he smiled down at Zach like he was the only person in the world. The others were off in the kitchen, grabbing snacks and beer, leaving the two of them alone in the dim light that flickered from the TV screen.

“You good, man?” Tyler’s voice was low, teasing, but with something softer underneath.

Zach swallowed hard, feeling the heat of Tyler’s gaze like a flame licking at his skin. “Yeah. Just… warm in here.”

Tyler chuckled, the sound deep and rough. “That’s the house, or maybe it’s us.”

Zach shifted on the couch, the fabric pulling tight over his belly. The thick hair on Tyler’s forearm brushed against his own bare skin as Tyler leaned closer, his scent strong and heady—the rich musk of sweat, hair, and something uniquely Tyler.

Before Zach could think, Tyler’s hand found his wrist, fingers curling around it gently but with a surprising strength. The warmth spread from that touch, settling into his chest, making his heart beat harder.

“You’ve changed, man. Like, a lot,” Tyler said, voice rough with something like admiration.

Zach laughed nervously, scratching at the hair on his forearm. “Yeah, guess I have.”

“Not just the looks,” Tyler said, his voice dropping lower. “You’re… different. Chill. Real.”

The words hung in the air between them, thick and heavy. Zach felt a flush rise to his cheeks and met Tyler’s gaze—dark eyes, framed by thick lashes and a shadow of stubble on the cheeks that made him look even more rugged.

Suddenly, Tyler leaned in, slow and deliberate, until his lips brushed against Zach’s. The touch was feather-light, teasing, and then it deepened—soft but hungry, warm and sticky with sweat and unshaven stubble.

Zach froze for a second, heart hammering, before he melted into the kiss. His arms wrapped around Tyler’s neck, pulling him closer, fingers tangling in thick hair that felt like velvet against his skin. The room seemed to shrink until the only thing that mattered was the heat between them—the smell, the roughness, the softness all at once.

Tyler’s lips moved over his, mouth opening slightly to let Zach’s tongue slip inside. The kiss was slow, deep, tasting of sweat and something more—something primal and intoxicating. Zach’s hands slid down Tyler’s back, feeling the solid muscles beneath the loose, hairy skin. He could feel the warmth radiating from Tyler’s body, the slight softness that had crept in over the weeks of laziness and junk food binges.

When they finally pulled apart, gasping slightly, Tyler rested his forehead against Zach’s.

“Been wanting to do that for a while,” Tyler admitted, voice low and rough.

Zach smiled, his own breath uneven. “Me too.”

Behind them, the kitchen door creaked open and the others returned, carrying plates piled with greasy wings and cold beers. The easy buzz of their laughter filled the room, but Zach and Tyler didn’t move apart. They stayed close, the heat between them a quiet flame amid the casual chaos.

Over the next few days, the house’s transformation continued to deepen. Zach found himself more and more tangled up in the group’s slow, lazy routines—the endless video game marathons, the greasy takeout dinners, the relaxed, shirtless afternoons sprawled on couches and floors. His own body followed suit, growing softer, hairier, smelling muskier with each passing day.

The hair on his arms thickened and darkened, creeping up past his elbows and blending into the fuzzy warmth on his chest. His beard grew fuller and coarser, a goatee that framed his mouth and chin with a deliberate ruggedness. His belly rounded noticeably, stretching his shirts tight over the new softness, and the scent he gave off was no longer just his own but something shared, a signature of the house and its occupants.

Tyler was the most overtly affectionate, often slipping his hand into Zach’s during the long, lazy evenings or pressing soft kisses to his jawline when the mood struck. Their touches grew bolder, more confident, moving from playful teasing to something tender and intense.

One night, the air thick with the scent of pizza and cheap beer, Tyler pulled Zach onto the couch, sliding an arm around his waist as they settled into the familiar warmth of each other’s bodies.

“You’re really changing,” Tyler murmured, fingers tracing slow circles on Zach’s side, brushing over the soft hair that had grown thick there.

Zach’s breath hitched. “I know. Feels… good. Weird but good.”

Tyler smiled, lips brushing against Zach’s temple. “That’s the point, dude. You’re part of this now.”

They kissed again, slower this time, exploring lips and tongues with a hunger that was both new and deeply familiar. Tyler’s hands roamed over Zach’s soft belly, fingers pressing into the warmth beneath the skin. Zach arched into the touch, the roughness of Tyler’s palms a delicious contrast to the softness of his own body.

The other guys occasionally glanced over, grinning knowingly but leaving the two to their moment. The house was theirs, their world, and everything else could wait.

As the weeks passed, Zach and Tyler’s connection deepened. They shared stolen moments in the kitchen, soft kisses in the hallway, and heated touches late at night when the others were asleep. Their bodies changed side by side—the slow growth of hair on arms, chests, legs, the spreading softness over bellies and thighs, the thickening musk that clung to skin and clothes alike.

One afternoon, after a particularly greasy lunch of wings and fries, Zach found himself in the bathroom, staring at his reflection. The scruffy beard framed a face that was softer and more masculine in a way that made his heart race. His chest was flecked with dark hair that curled slightly at the edges. His belly was round and warm, pressing against the waistband of his shorts.

A slow smile crept over his lips. He was no longer the clean-cut, lean guy who’d moved in just weeks ago. He was something else. Something warmer, thicker, messier—and he liked it.

The door creaked open and Tyler slipped inside, closing it quietly behind him. He came up behind Zach, hands resting lightly on his hips, his chest warm against Zach’s back.

“You okay?” Tyler asked softly.

Zach nodded, leaning back into Tyler’s touch. “Yeah. Better than okay.”

Tyler pressed a kiss to the side of Zach’s neck, fingers tightening just a little. “Good. Because I’ve got plans for you.”

Zach laughed, the sound low and happy. “I’m ready.”

Later that night, the house was quiet except for the soft sounds of music drifting through the rooms and the occasional murmur of voices from the others. Zach and Tyler were alone in the living room, sprawled across the couch with limbs tangled and skin sticky with sweat.

Tyler’s hands moved over Zach’s body with a careful, reverent touch—the rough palms tracing the soft contours of his belly, the thick hair on his arms, the newly broad shoulders that still held hints of muscle beneath the softness.

They kissed again, mouths hot and urgent, hands exploring and pressing. Tyler’s beard scratched lightly against Zach’s jaw as their tongues tangled, and Zach moaned into the kiss, his body arching into the heat of Tyler’s touch.

Clothes were shed slowly, deliberately, until they were bare and warm against each other. Tyler’s fingers traced the thick hair on Zach’s chest, down to the soft curve of his stomach, lingering over the warmth of his thighs.

The scent of sweat and musk surrounded them, thick and intoxicating. Tyler’s breath was hot against Zach’s skin as he whispered, “You’re perfect like this.”

Zach’s heart pounded as Tyler’s hands moved lower, exploring the soft flesh beneath the hair, the warmth and weight that had replaced the lean tightness he’d once known.

Their bodies pressed together, heat and desire mingling in the quiet room. They kissed and touched, whispered and laughed, discovering new ways to be close, to be together, to be exactly who they were becoming.

Time slipped away until the night was deep and still. They lay tangled in each other’s arms, the soft rise and fall of their chests and the steady beat of hearts a quiet reminder of the new lives they were building—messy, hairy, lazy, and full.

[19ryan17]

Rob and Cole

The first snowfall came earlier than expected that year. Thick, pillowy flakes danced through the air and blanketed the ground in white, muffling the world outside. Rob sat in the backseat of a rattling shuttle van, staring out the window at the darkening forest. His phone buzzed uselessly in his lap, showing a single bar of reception. Whatever signal he had would be gone soon.

The van skidded slightly on the icy road as it crept up the mountain. Rob glanced at the driver, who seemed completely unconcerned, humming along to some old country tune playing through a dusty dashboard speaker. Next to Rob, a pair of guys in their mid-20s chatted loudly about ski routes. They looked like the outdoorsy types, all thermals and beards and big boots. Rob pulled his coat tighter and slumped in his seat. This wasn’t exactly his scene.

He hadn’t planned to spend his winter break at some remote mountain lodge, but after a messy roommate breakup and a canceled flight home, he was stuck. A last-minute offer from his cousin Cole to join him at the lodge where he worked had been his only real option. Cole had promised a chill spot with Wi-Fi, heat, and food. That was all Rob really needed.

When the van finally pulled up to the lodge, Rob was surprised by how big the place was. The logs looked almost black under the snow, and warm yellow light spilled from the windows. A carved wooden sign out front read "Spruce Hollow Lodge." Smoke drifted lazily from the chimney.

Cole met him at the door, grinning like he’d been waiting all day. Rob blinked in surprise. His cousin looked... different. Still the same broad frame, but something about him seemed bulkier, softer maybe. His hair was a little longer, and a thick beard now covered his face, reddish-brown and neat. He looked like he belonged here, like he’d been part of the mountain itself.

"Rob! Dude, you made it," Cole said, pulling him into a hug that lifted Rob slightly off his feet.

Rob laughed, surprised at the warmth. "Yeah, barely. That road’s a death trap."

Cole clapped him on the back. "Come inside, man. You look like a popsicle."

The lodge interior was gorgeous—rustic wood, stone fireplace, cozy furniture. A few guests were lounging near the fire, sipping something hot. The whole place smelled like cinnamon, pine, and something buttery. Rob’s stomach growled.

"I got a room set up for you in the back," Cole said, leading him down a hallway. "We’re kind of in the off-season, so you’ll have the place mostly to yourself except for a few guests. Good time to relax."

Rob nodded, eyeing the heavy beams overhead. "I thought winter was peak season?"

"Usually is, but we’re doing some renos, and most folks aren’t coming ‘til New Year’s. It’s just you, me, and a couple regulars for now."

The room Cole led him to was small but warm. A thick quilted blanket covered the bed, and a little heater hummed in the corner.

"Dinner’s at six. We eat together with whoever’s around. Trust me, you won’t wanna miss it. Our cook’s kind of a legend."

Rob dropped his bag and rubbed his hands together. "Sounds good. I’m starving."

The first dinner felt like stepping into a different world. A massive table took up the dining hall, set with steaming platters of food that looked like they belonged in a holiday commercial: thick roast meats, herbed potatoes, homemade bread, and some kind of creamy casserole that Rob couldn’t stop scooping onto his plate.

Cole piled his own plate high and winked. "Better eat up. Up here, you burn calories just breathing."

Rob chuckled and dug in, surprised at how hungry he was. Every bite was rich, buttery, and warm in a way that made his limbs loosen. It wasn’t long before he was full, then somehow still eating, and then slumped in his chair, heavy-lidded and satisfied.

That first night, Rob slept harder than he had in weeks. The bed was firm and warm, and when he woke, it was nearly noon. He rubbed his eyes and groaned. His stomach felt a little off—too full maybe—but he chalked it up to the heavy food.

Cole greeted him in the kitchen with a mug of something creamy. "Morning, slug. Here, drink this. Good for the cold."

Rob sniffed the drink, then took a sip. It was sweet, like melted custard and cinnamon. Oddly addictive.

They fell into a rhythm. Cole would work in the mornings—fixing things, hauling wood, helping the kitchen—and Rob would read by the fire, go for walks, and help out when asked. There wasn’t much else to do, especially with the spotty internet and no real cell service.

The food remained the star of each day. Breakfasts of eggs, sausage, pancakes soaked in syrup. Lunches of thick stews and buttery grilled sandwiches. Dinners that left him stuffed and sleepy. It was indulgent, but Rob told himself he’d get back to his routine when he left.

Still, by the end of the week, he started noticing changes. His jeans fit tighter, especially around the waist. His shirts clung to his stomach a little more. At first, he figured it was just water weight or bloat, but the mirror told a different story. His face looked a little puffier, his jawline softening.

He mentioned it to Cole one morning, laughing nervously. "Think I’m getting fat, dude. Your cook’s trying to kill me."

Cole grinned around a piece of toast. "Welcome to lodge life. You’ll get used to it. Or grow into it."

Rob raised an eyebrow. "You say that like it’s happened before."

Cole just winked. "Let’s just say the mountain’s got a way of making folks comfortable."

The days blended together. Snowstorms came and went. The heater in Rob’s room kept everything toasty, and Cole started showing up with snacks in the evenings—leftovers, hot cocoa, cookies fresh from the oven. Rob always accepted, even when he said he was full.

His clothes were getting harder to wear. He found himself borrowing some of Cole’s old sweatpants and thermals, which were a little too big in the legs but fit strangely well around the belly. He didn’t think too hard about that.

The weirdest part was how good it felt. The food, the heat, the clothes that hugged his growing body—it was comforting in a way he couldn’t explain. The more he softened, the less he cared. His energy dipped a bit, sure, but he was sleeping better than ever, and there was always something good to eat.

One night, they were watching some old movie by the fire when Rob shifted and his shirt rode up. He saw his belly—rounder, pale, with the faintest fuzz of hair he didn’t remember having. Cole’s eyes flicked over and then back to the screen, but his smirk lingered.

"You’re looking comfy," Cole said.

Rob tugged the shirt down, heart thudding. "I need to cut back. For real."

Cole stretched and yawned. "Why? You look good."

The room fell quiet except for the crackle of firewood. Rob didn’t respond right away. That was the first time anyone had said he looked good in... he didn’t know how long.

He cleared his throat. "You’re just saying that."

"Nah," Cole said, standing to refill the popcorn. "I like seeing people enjoy themselves."

Rob watched him walk away, feeling an unfamiliar flutter in his chest. He didn’t understand what it meant yet, but something was changing. Not just in his body—but between them.

And the lodge? It didn’t seem to mind. Snow piled higher outside. The days got darker earlier. And inside, Rob’s world grew warmer, heavier, softer.

He didn’t know it yet, but the real transformation had only just begun.

Rob stood in front of the small mirror in the lodge bathroom, fingers resting on the swell of his belly. It wasn’t massive—not yet—but it was definitely there. A soft, round curve had settled in, especially when he leaned forward. His sides had smoothed out, too, and his chest felt fuller in a way that made his shirts sit oddly across his torso. He pressed into it gently and felt a strange, quiet satisfaction. It was like he finally had weight to himself.

“Don’t get weird,” he muttered, adjusting his thermal shirt.

He pulled on a hoodie—Cole’s old one, since his own felt too snug—and padded out toward the common room. The morning fire was already crackling. Cole was at the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up, kneading dough like he was born to do it. There was flour on his forearms and beard, and his hair was pulled back with a red bandana. He looked like some rustic mountain god.

“You’re up early,” Cole said without looking up.

“Didn’t sleep much,” Rob said. “Too full.”

Cole smirked. “You say that every night. Want some of this? Gonna be cinnamon rolls in like an hour.”

Rob hesitated. “Just one.”

Cole’s eyes flicked up, amused. “Sure.”

The rest of December slipped past in a warm blur. The snow outside piled so high it nearly reached the lower windows, and the lodge staff—now mostly just Cole and a retired handyman named Gus—stayed indoors more often than not.

Rob began helping around the kitchen. Nothing fancy—washing up, chopping vegetables, refilling mugs for the few remaining guests. But being near the food meant being near Cole. And that had started to matter.

Something was shifting between them. Cole had always been kind and playful, but now his teasing lingered longer, his eyes held a different kind of warmth. When Rob dropped something and groaned trying to squat, Cole would chuckle and ruffle his hair, calling him “softie” or “butterball,” but always with this look. Not mocking. Something else.

And Rob… well, Rob didn’t pull away anymore. He laughed with him. Teased back. Sometimes he caught himself wondering what Cole’s beard would feel like brushing against his jaw. It scared him a little—mostly because it didn’t scare him that much.

By Christmas, Rob had undeniably gained weight. He still told himself it was temporary—just holiday fluff, nothing serious—but his reflection didn’t lie. His belly stuck out even when he sucked in. His thighs rubbed slightly when he walked, and there was a new jiggle to his arms. His face had softened, cheeks rounding out beneath his eyes, with a faint shadow of stubble that was darker and thicker than he remembered ever growing before.

He didn't bother shaving it. Cole made a face the one time he tried. “No way, man. You look good like that. Let it grow in.”

Rob hadn’t stopped since.

And the food kept coming. Cole had started making late-night snacks just for the two of them. They’d eat by the fire, sometimes talking, sometimes just listening to the wind outside. Rob would eat slowly, carefully, but Cole would just keep offering more until his stomach was taut and groaning. And when he’d lean back, hand instinctively resting on his belly, Cole would smile—gentle, pleased, quiet.

“Comfy?” he’d ask.

Rob would nod, a little embarrassed, but never said no.

One night, after too many molasses cookies and some mulled cider, Rob kicked off his slippers and let himself sink into the couch. His belly pushed up under his sweatshirt, and he didn’t bother tugging it down. He felt slow, warm, and oddly content.

Cole dropped beside him with a grunt, his own bulk settling into the cushions. He handed Rob a fuzzy blanket and casually draped it over both of them.

“You know,” Cole said after a long pause, “I wasn’t sure you’d like it here.”

Rob smiled sleepily. “I wasn’t either.”

“But you’ve been... adapting.” There was a grin in his voice. “Real well.”

Rob groaned. “That’s your way of saying I’ve gotten fat, huh?”

Cole chuckled. “You’ve gotten happy. Round’s just part of the package.”

Rob turned his head to look at him. “You don’t mind it?”

“I like it,” Cole said, shrugging. “Not just the weight. You. You’re different now. Calmer. Softer. In a good way.”

Rob blinked. His chest buzzed, and it wasn’t the cider.

“Cole—”

But the moment passed. Cole stood up to toss another log on the fire, leaving Rob flushed and speechless beneath the blanket.

That night in bed, Rob stared at the ceiling. His body felt full—heavier in every sense. His thighs pressed together. His belly spilled over his waistband, and his chest was soft to the touch. Even the faint musk under his arms smelled... different. Stronger. More masculine. It made his heart pound.

He had no idea what was happening to him. Or why part of him never wanted it to stop.

The winter dragged on, and the snow outside turned from crisp white to a grayish slush as thaw started teasing the edges of the mountain. Inside the lodge, the fire crackled steadily, and the scent of woodsmoke mixed with warm spices and something else—something musky and earthy that seemed to grow stronger every day.

Rob had been spending most of his time with Cole now. The two had fallen into a rhythm of shared meals, quiet evenings, and long talks by the fire. The lodge was their little world, tucked away from the bustle below. Rob barely thought about anything else.

But one afternoon, that fragile bubble burst.

Rob had gone down into the small village at the base of the mountain to pick up supplies. He was wearing Cole’s old flannel shirt, the one that draped loose over his expanding belly, and a pair of sweatpants that had stretched beyond comfortable. His hair was unkempt, longer than usual, and his jaw had a faint shadow of stubble.

He was standing outside the general store, clutching a brown paper bag filled with pastries, when he heard a familiar voice.

“Rob? Is that you?”

He turned, stomach sinking. There she was—Maya, his ex. Same sharp smile, same confident posture, and the kind of cold eyes that had once made him feel small.

She blinked, taking in his new shape. The softness in his face, the way his shirt stretched a little too tight across his chest, the way his belly pushed out beneath it. Her eyes flicked down to his jeans, which strained slightly at the seams.

“Wow,” she said, voice thick with something between surprise and judgment. “You really let yourself go, huh?”

Rob’s heart hammered. “I—”

“It’s okay,” she said, holding up a hand like she was trying to be kind. “Just thought you’d want to know.”

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Instead, he forced a smile and walked past her, the paper bag rustling loudly as he tried not to show how much her words stung.

Back at the lodge, Rob stood in front of the mirror longer than usual that night. His reflection looked back at him, and he barely recognized the man staring from the glass.

His cheeks were rounder, and his jaw was dusted with a new layer of dark hair—not a full beard, but definitely more than before. A faint mustache had started to form, thin but noticeable above his lip. His body had broadened, with new softness spreading from his belly down to his thighs and up into his chest.

He ran a hand over the thin mustache and decided not to shave it off the next morning. The idea felt strange at first, but also... right. There was something grounding about letting it grow without fighting it.

Days stretched into weeks, and Rob’s transformation continued to unfold like a slow-burning fire.

He grew hairier—patches of dark hair appeared on his arms, sprouting thick hairs on his forearms and spreading into a faint trail that disappeared beneath his waistband. His legs, once smooth and lean, now showed a dense fuzz that made the cold mountain air seem less biting.

The mustache thickened, curling slightly at the edges, giving his face a rugged, almost mischievous edge.

Cole noticed the changes with a knowing smile, teasing Rob gently.

“Lookin’ like a proper mountain man, huh?”

Rob laughed, a deep sound that rumbled from his chest. “I guess so.”

They began spending more time outside, walking through the thinning snow and exploring the woods. Rob liked the way his body felt heavier and stronger, the way his clothes stretched comfortably instead of clinging.

One afternoon, after a long hike, they stopped by a frozen creek. Cole stripped down to his undershirt, revealing a thick mat of chest hair and a belly that curved outward proudly. Rob hesitated, then followed suit.

Cole grinned, reaching out to run a hand over Rob’s stomach.

“You’re getting there,” he said softly. “More to love.”

Rob’s breath caught. He met Cole’s eyes and smiled—this time, without any hesitation.

But the outside world wasn’t done with him.

One evening, a package arrived at the lodge addressed to Rob. Inside was a letter from his old workplace—HR informing him of a possible return date, with a reminder to dress professionally.

Rob stared at the paper, heart pounding. The thought of going back felt overwhelming. He wasn’t the same man who had left the city months ago. His body, his mind, everything was shifting, and he wasn’t sure where he fit anymore.

Cole sat beside him, hand warm over Rob’s.

“We’ll figure it out,” Cole said quietly. “Whatever you want.”

Rob nodded, feeling a strange mix of fear and excitement. The transformation wasn’t just physical—it was rewriting who he was.

That night, Rob stood in front of the mirror again, tracing the curve of his mustache, the thickening hair on his arms, the softness settling into his belly.

Winter had finally loosened its grip, and the lodge’s windows fogged with the warming spring air. The snow was melting fast, dripping in lazy rivulets down the eaves and pooling on the forest floor beneath the budding branches.

Rob caught his reflection in the window one morning — broad, round, and warmly familiar. His belly curved proudly beneath his shirt, the fabric stretched tight but not uncomfortable. His chest, now generously covered in thick, dark hair, rose and fell with steady breaths. The mustache curled slightly at the edges, matching the rugged confidence that bloomed in his eyes.

His arms had thickened too, hair coiling across forearms like wild ivy, and his legs carried the solid weight of someone rooted, grounded.

The day began like any other, with Cole humming in the kitchen and the scent of fresh coffee filling the air. Rob ambled into the room, wearing a shirt that stretched snugly over his chest and belly, his beard a full goatee now — untamed and proud.

Cole looked up and grinned, eyes lighting up with a familiar spark.

“Morning, mountain man.”

Rob laughed, a deep, booming sound that shook the small room.

“Morning, big bear.”

They fell into an easy rhythm, the comfortable banter and soft touches weaving around them like a warm blanket. Their hands met over the coffee pot, fingers tangling naturally, a silent promise.

Days later, Rob stood outside in the sunlight, peeling off his shirt to let the warmth kiss his skin. His body was unrecognizable from the lean man who’d first arrived at the lodge months ago. His belly hung thick and round, a soft cushion beneath a coat of dense chest hair that climbed in dark waves toward his shoulders.

His arms flexed with strength beneath thick hair, and his legs were solid pillars, dusted with coarse hair that tangled at the edges of his worn jeans.

He felt a deep hum of satisfaction — strong, warm, undeniably himself.

One evening, as twilight bled into night, Rob and Cole sat side by side on the porch, wrapped in a shared blanket. Rob’s beard brushed gently against Cole’s cheek as he leaned close.

“You’re different,” Cole whispered.

“Yeah,” Rob said, voice low. “I am.”

“But you’re perfect.”

Rob smiled, his fingers brushing Cole’s beard, tracing the rugged line beneath his jaw.

“I never thought I’d like being this... big.”

Cole laughed softly. “It’s not just about size. It’s who you are. The man you’ve become.”

Rob’s hand drifted to his own belly, now soft and heavy, a symbol of everything he’d become — strength, warmth, confidence.

“I’m glad you saw me through it,” he said.

“Always,” Cole replied, pulling him closer.

The next morning, Rob caught sight of himself one last time in the mirror before they left the lodge to return to the city. He no longer recognized the nervous, skinny guy who’d come up the mountain that first day.

[19ryan17]

Ryan and Connor

It hadn’t always been like this.

Ryan used to be the one turning heads. Just two years ago, he looked a lot like Connor—tight waist, broad shoulders, gym-cut arms always filling out his sleeves just enough to get noticed. He and Connor had even met in the campus gym, spotting each other on the bench, exchanging those subtle nods and sweaty grins that jocks did when sizing each other up.

Back then, Ryan was on a meal plan, protein shakes, Greek yogurt, grilled chicken. He tracked macros religiously. His dorm had practically been a temple to lean mass and low body fat. But life had a funny way of derailing things.

It started small—just a semester off the gym due to a shoulder injury. Then a breakup that hit him harder than he admitted. One late night turned into two. Post-class beers turned into six-packs. The chicken got replaced with drive-thru, the protein shakes with milkshakes. His shirts got tighter, then stayed in drawers. The beard came in thick, and shaving just felt like too much of a chore.

By the time graduation came around, Ryan had ballooned past recognition. His abs were long gone, buried under a heavy, round belly that sloshed when he moved. His thighs rubbed together when he walked. His back was always damp with sweat. And the smell? Let’s just say deodorant wasn't part of the new routine. He'd embraced it. Gotten comfortable.

But Connor hadn't changed. If anything, he’d doubled down. He was up early every morning, off to the gym with that stupid stainless steel water bottle and sleeveless hoodie. Still lean. Still fresh-faced. Still that slightly cocky, clean-cut golden boy who turned heads just walking down the street.

Ryan hated how much he still wanted him.

They’d moved in together after college to split rent in the city. A two-bedroom apartment, modest but clean, with a decent kitchen and a shared bathroom. Ryan took the bigger room—he needed more space. And every day, he watched Connor glide through life effortlessly, brushing his perfect teeth in front of the mirror while Ryan’s belly jiggled as he scratched at his armpits and yawned through his morning stink.

Connor never judged. Never mocked. He just was—all sleek and athletic, like a permanent reminder of what Ryan used to be. Or worse—what he wanted.

At first, Ryan kept things to himself. He’d peek through doorways when Connor was shirtless, catch a glimpse of that faint Adonis belt. The smooth V of his hips. His hairless, taut chest rising and falling as he slept. It wasn’t fair. Guys like Ryan weren’t supposed to want guys like Connor. But he did. Badly.

And then came the feeding attempts.

The Food Strategy Ryan started small. Cooking a bit more, offering second helpings. “You’ve been working hard, man. You should eat more,” he’d say, sliding another greasy grilled cheese across the table.

Connor would raise an eyebrow but eat it. He was polite like that. Ryan upped the portions. Bacon for breakfast. Burgers for dinner. Pizza for midnight snacks. He always made enough for two, always made sure the food was rich, oily, heavy.

Connor ate. He was too nice not to. But it never stuck.

Ryan watched, annoyed, as Connor's body refused to change. He stayed lean. Shredded. You could see the veins in his forearms, even after half a pizza. He didn’t even seem to bloat. He just burned through it all like a furnace. Must’ve been all the workouts—those endless 6 a.m. runs, the late-night ab sessions, the way he still took the stairs to their fifth-floor apartment without breaking a sweat.

Ryan, meanwhile, was winded from rolling off the couch.

He got desperate. Tried adding heavy cream to sauces. Started using lard in the scrambled eggs. Bought weight-gainer powder and hid it in protein shakes. Connor didn’t notice—he was used to chugging them.

But still, nothing.

Ryan started muttering to himself. “Why won’t it stick?”

He began watching Connor more closely. His daily rituals. The way he moisturized his skin. How his towel always hung neatly over the rack. The lemon-scented soap. The whitening toothpaste. The order of it all.

Ryan looked at his own routine—if you could call it that. He hadn't trimmed his beard in months. His gut was always sweaty. His sheets smelled like man-musk. His room reeked of old food and body spray. He was the opposite of Connor now. And maybe that was the problem.

He couldn’t make Connor love him by feeding him.

He had to make Connor become him.

The Plan Ryan’s turning point came one night while scrolling through obscure message boards on his phone, lying shirtless in his unmade bed. A post caught his eye: “Got hair envy? Tired of feeling like a twink in a bear’s world? Try THIS.”

He clicked. The site was shady. No branding. Just glowing testimonials and an anonymous checkout. It promised: “Rapid follicular stimulation, body composition modulation, and pheromone augmentation.” A single bottle. A mist. Unscented. Untraceable. Delivered in plain packaging.

He didn’t even hesitate.

When the bottle arrived, it was small. Glass. Brown. No label. But Ryan could feel the weight of it in his hand. He knew it worked. He just knew.

That night, he walked into Connor’s room like a man on a mission. His roommate was snoring gently, shirtless under the sheets. The moonlight glinted off his smooth chest.

Ryan’s hand shook as he uncapped the bottle.

If the food won’t change you… this will.

He misted it over Connor’s chest. Then his arms. His neck. Three spritzes, like the instructions had said. He waited. Nothing happened. But he hadn’t expected fireworks. This was long-game stuff.

He stepped back, smiling. The first step was done.

He was going to make Connor his. Not just in heart. But in body. In scent. In everything.

And when it was over, they’d finally be equals. No more pretty-boy prince and his slob roommate. No more distance.

Connor would be his mirror.

And he’d love it.

It started with the hair.

Connor had always been smooth. Not by effort—he just didn't grow much hair. His chest was bare, arms lightly dusted, and his jawline clean with just a day's worth of subtle, sandy stubble when he let it go. He shaved once every couple days, mostly for his girlfriend Madison, who liked him "polished and fresh."

But that week, something changed.

It was after one of his early morning runs. He'd come back to the apartment, sweaty and flushed, stripped off his shirt like usual, and hit the shower. But as the water hit his chest, he paused.

There were hairs.

Not a lot, but enough. Fine, light brown ones curled just beneath his collarbone, growing down the middle of his pecs in a line he'd never noticed before.

He frowned, running his hand down his chest, feeling the soft bristle that hadn't been there a few days ago. He shaved it, of course. Thought it was a fluke.

But by the next day, it was back. Thicker.

And by day three, it wasn't just on his chest.

"Dude, your arms okay?" asked Ryan, standing in the kitchen in nothing but a stretched-out tank top and boxer briefs. He was scooping instant mashed potatoes straight into a bowl of shredded cheese, eyes flicking toward Connor's biceps.

Connor looked down. His forearms had grown darker. The hair there was coarser now, more obvious. He flexed his hand, and the muscles still popped—but so did the trail of fuzz up to his elbows.

"Yeah, I guess," he muttered. "Kinda weird."

Ryan just smiled.

"You're finally catching up to me, man. Bout time."

Connor rolled his eyes but didn't argue. He didn't realize Ryan was watching him carefully, noting how the scent around him had started to shift—less like citrusy deodorant, more like sweat-soaked gym towels and musk.

The smell came next.

It clung to Connor's shirts by the end of the day. Not awful, just strong. Masculine. Earthy. But persistent. No amount of antiperspirant seemed to help. Madison noticed first.

They were cuddled on her couch, watching a movie, when she subtly leaned away.

"Did you… go straight from the gym to here?" she asked.

"No," Connor said, frowning. "I showered right after."

She gave him a look. Not mean, just uncomfortable. "You smell kinda… ripe."

That stung.

Connor went home, scrubbed harder in the shower, even used some of Madison's exfoliating soap. But the next morning, it was still there. And his armpits itched more than usual. When he checked in the mirror, he saw why.

His underarm hair had doubled in thickness. It curled wildly now, deep and dark, clinging damp to his skin.

By the end of the week, his chest hair had grown back fully—denser than ever. A dark patch had started blooming between his pecs and branching out toward his stomach. There was a trail down his abs now, one that thickened daily.

Connor tried shaving again, but it itched terribly when it grew back. And it always grew back. Faster.

Madison snapped when they met up the next weekend.

"Connor, seriously? You didn't even try to clean up before this?"

"What are you talking about? I just showered," he protested.

"You smell like you've been sitting in a locker room for a week! And what's going on with your… everything? You look like you haven't shaved in months."

He opened his mouth, but she kept going.

"I just… I can't. This isn't what I signed up for. You used to be clean. Smooth. You cared about hygiene! Now you reek, and you've got more chest hair than my dad."

"Madison, come on. It's just—I'm under a lot of stress. And I don't know, maybe it's hormones or something."

She shook her head, stepping back.

"I'm sorry, Connor. I just can't be with someone who doesn't take care of themselves."

And just like that, she was gone.

Connor came home miserable.

He flopped onto the couch, still in his gym clothes, head in his hands. Ryan, already there with a plate of loaded nachos on his bare stomach, looked up.

"She dumped you, huh?"

"Yeah."

Ryan sat up, set the plate on the coffee table, and grabbed another one from the kitchen. Within minutes, he'd piled it high with food: fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, cornbread.

"C'mon. You need comfort food."

Connor hesitated.

"Dude. One cheat meal won’t kill you. Plus, look at you. You could gain a few pounds."

Connor managed a weak laugh and sat down.

Ryan watched him closely as he ate. And he did eat. A lot.

The food comfort continued. One dinner turned into a habit. Connor stopped counting calories. Ryan always knew where to go: steakhouses, burger joints, pizza buffets.

"Appetizers too, yeah?"

"You sure you don't want your own fries?"

"You finishing that milkshake?"

And Connor, hurt and drifting, said yes more and more. The food made him feel warm. Safe.

He didn’t notice that his gym visits were becoming less frequent. Or how tight his compression shirts were getting.

His friends did.

When he met them for drinks, his buddy Jordan laughed.

"Damn, bro, what happened to you? You look like a bear."

"You been camping or something? You smell like firewood and armpit."

Connor laughed it off, scratching the dark beard that now covered his jaw. He hadn’t bothered shaving it since Madison left. What was the point?

Ryan leaned back in his chair, smiling smugly.

It was working.

Connor was cracking.

He wasn’t just hairier.

He was slipping.

And soon, Ryan knew, he wouldn’t want to go back.

Connor stood in front of the bathroom mirror, towel barely clinging to his waist, eyes locked on the thick forest creeping across his chest. The coarse hairs had spread over the last week, connecting in patches that now formed a solid, dark mat stretching from his pecs down to his stomach. His armpits had become dense and wiry, a jungle of scent that lingered even after long showers. Worse, the hair wasn’t just multiplying—it was coming in darker, denser, sweatier. His skin had taken on a constant sheen of sweat, no matter how much deodorant or cologne he applied.

Connor’s reflection didn’t lie. No matter how much he tried to suck in his stomach or twist to find the best angle, the gut was there—round, hairy, soft, and unmistakably growing. It hung slightly over the waistband of his now-snug joggers, pressing against the fabric with a slow confidence. His pecs, once defined and high, had softened too, the edges blurred with fat. And his arms? They’d grown thicker, but not with muscle. There was a puffiness to them now. He scratched at his chest—coarse hair spilling over his fingertips, a constant itch that reminded him how different his body had become.

At first, Connor still clung to old routines. He dragged himself to the gym, hoping to reclaim something of his old self. But the gym had changed for him—or rather, he had changed for the gym. His body felt heavier. Movements that once came easily now required effort. Jumping jacks left him winded. His T-shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat before he even reached the halfway mark of his routine. Worst of all, when he tried a simple plank, his gut sagged, brushing the floor, a hairy curtain swaying beneath him.

And the smell. He couldn’t ignore it anymore. No matter how many showers he took, there was always a musky scent. Strong, persistent, deeply masculine. He’d overheard one of the trainers whispering to another guy, “Does he not know he reeks like a high school locker room?” It stung. Connor finished his session early and didn’t look back.

Ryan was waiting at home, greasy takeout containers spread across the table like a buffet. “Rough day?” he asked, already reaching for a fried chicken drumstick. Connor nodded and sank into the couch. Ryan slid a cheeseburger into his hands.

“It’s easier to let go,” Ryan said softly. “Let the world stop judging you.”

That week, they went out to eat almost every night. Ryan knew all the best greasy diners, burger joints, and rib shacks. Every time, he ordered more than Connor said he wanted, acting surprised when Connor inevitably cleaned every plate. "You're just hungry, man. You’ve been starving yourself with all those greens and powders for years. Your body’s thanking you."

Connor's clothes were beginning to lose the battle. His favorite jeans dug into his waist so hard they left red lines. His gym shorts barely pulled past his thighs. Even his shirts started riding up, exposing the growing curve of his belly. One morning, standing in front of the mirror, he lifted his arms to stretch and the hem of his shirt got stuck halfway over his gut, revealing a thick trail of belly hair and two love handles.

“I think we need to go shopping,” Ryan said, peeking his head into the room.

They hit a department store downtown. Ryan insisted on tagging along in the changing room, passing Connor size after size until they settled into XL territory. The first time Connor pulled on a loose tank top and it actually fit, he sighed with relief—but also with surrender.

"Looks good," Ryan said, giving his shoulder a squeeze.

Connor’s friends weren’t as subtle. “Dude, what happened to you?” Marcus asked at a house party. “You used to be, like, gym-hot. Now you’re just... comfy?” He tried to laugh it off, but the words hit.

At home, even the shower had become a new experience. He bumped the walls more. His belly, covered in matted hair, jiggled when he washed it, his hands lingering longer than necessary. He’d find himself cupping his chest or dragging his fingers through the hair on his thighs, lost in thought.

One night, Connor caught Ryan watching him. Not subtly. Ryan's eyes followed every movement as Connor dried off in the hallway, towel clinging around his thick waist, hair curling damply on his chest and stomach.

“You’re really filling out,” Ryan said, voice lower than usual. “Looks... good.”

Connor felt a rush of heat in his face. He looked away, mumbling a thanks, but the words got caught in his throat. Later that night, they ended up eating wings together on the couch, fingers greasy, laughing at something on TV. Their thighs touched, and neither moved away.

Connor knew. He knew. Ryan had been behind something—maybe everything. But the thought of confronting him... took too much energy. And truth be told, when Ryan looked at him now, Connor felt seen in a way he never had before. Not for who he was, but for who he’d become.

The cravings were stronger. The gym, further and further away. His world now centered around heavy meals, sweat-damp shirts, and Ryan’s gentle, guiding hand on the small of his back.

Connor had officially given up trying to fight it.

It started with a moment. A lazy, quiet Sunday morning, sunlight cutting through the blinds, the house heavy with the warm scent of bacon, butter, and something muskier—something unmistakably them. Ryan was in the kitchen in just his stretched-out boxers, frying sausage and singing off-key. Connor was sitting at the table shirtless, arms crossed over the mound of belly that now pressed against his thighs when he sat. His chest hair curled thick across his pecs. His once-tight sweatpants had rolled down under the soft swell of his gut. He caught a glimpse of himself in the dark window and blinked. That can’t be me.

But it was.

And part of him… didn’t hate it anymore.

It had been weeks since he tried the gym. And when he finally went back, it was a disaster.

Everything was wrong. His old gym tank rode up above his navel, revealing the thick trail of hair that led from his wide chest down across his belly. His sneakers barely fit—his feet puffier now—and just tying them left him winded. He caught stares in the mirror. His once-proud arms now jiggled when he moved. When he tried the treadmill, his thick thighs chafed. Sweat poured off of him—and he stank. Not like regular BO—something richer, more primal.

He lasted fifteen minutes before giving up.

He saw himself in the locker room mirror: puffy, hairy, red-faced. His gut, heavy and furred, sagged enough that he couldn't see his feet. One guy passed by and muttered, “Damn, Connor really let himself go.”

It hit like a punch to the chest.

He drove home and walked in the front door to the smell of fried cheese and garlic knots.

Ryan looked up from the couch. “Rough day?”

Connor nodded and collapsed beside him. “It’s over. I’m done pretending.”

Ryan passed him a garlic knot. “You did your best. But some guys weren’t meant to be gym rats.”

Connor took a bite. Then another.

Then the whole basket.

Over the next week, everything accelerated.

Connor’s appetite exploded. Ryan took him out constantly—diners, BBQ joints, taco trucks. At first, Connor resisted. But Ryan always ordered extra. “Just in case.” Then he'd nudge it toward Connor with a smirk.

“You sure you’re done?” “Well, if it’s already here…”

His belly pressed tighter into his shirts. His jeans no longer buttoned. He started borrowing Ryan’s clothes—loose sweatpants and oversized tees that clung in new ways. On laundry day, Connor stood shirtless and barefoot, scratching his stomach, looking at the pile of his old clothes that no longer fit. Ryan walked in and whistled.

“Lookin’ good, big guy.”

Connor blushed. “Shut up.”

The shower became a new battlefield.

He barely fit in it now. His sides brushed the glass. When he bent down to soap his legs, his gut hung heavy, swaying. His pits stank stronger than ever. His beard was fuller now, matching Ryan’s, and his chest hair was a jungle. Steam clung to his skin, to the thick curls across his back and shoulders.

He ran his hands across his belly. It felt good. He squeezed it, watched the flesh move. There was a strange pride forming.

When he stepped out of the shower, Ryan was brushing his teeth. Their eyes met. Connor caught himself staring at Ryan’s wide, hairy chest. Ryan noticed.

It happened the next night.

They were watching a movie on the couch, close, shirtless, both nursing greasy paper baskets of fried chicken. Ryan reached over, casually rubbing Connor’s belly. Just a little at first. Circles. Slow. Connor didn’t stop him.

“You’re really filling out,” Ryan murmured. “Looks good on you.”

Connor grunted. “Shut up.”

Ryan leaned in. “You know… I always liked you.”

Connor turned his head, mouth full. “What?”

“I’ve always liked you. But you’d never look at a guy like me. So I thought, maybe… if you were more like me…”

The words hung there. Heavy. Like everything else in their lives now.

Connor sat up, belly bouncing. “You… did this to me.”

Ryan didn’t deny it.

“I used the serum. I made the food. I wanted you to see how good it feels.”

Connor stood, but struggled. He waddled to the door, shirt clinging to his back, breathing hard.

He made it two steps outside. Then stopped.

The cold hit his sweaty skin. His belly gurgled. His thighs rubbed raw.

He looked back at the warm light of the house. The smell of fried chicken. Of Ryan. Of home.

He returned inside.

Later that week, they went out to eat together in public. Shirtless in a dive burger bar, hairy bellies on full display. The waitress wrinkled her nose. The family at the next table moved. But they didn’t care. They were too busy laughing, feeding each other fries, and making out between bites.

At one point, Connor leaned back, stomach covered in sauce, licking his fingers. Ryan leaned in and licked a bit off his beard.

“You’re mine now, huh?”

Connor didn’t even fight it.

Connor was sprawled on the couch in their shared apartment, the late afternoon sun spilling lazily through the window and casting warm golden light across the room. In his lap rested a greasy cheeseburger, half-eaten, juices slicking down his fingers and dripping onto his thickening belly.

Ryan sat beside him, comfortably stretched out and flipping through a magazine without a care in the world, his own ample frame a soft cushion next to Connor’s growing mass.

Suddenly, breaking the quiet hum of a distant TV show, a loud, unapologetic burp erupted from Connor’s chest, the sound echoing off the walls. He froze, cheeks flushing crimson as he lowered his eyes to the mess on his hands.

“Uh… sorry,” Connor mumbled sheepishly, embarrassed beyond words. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, but the scent of grease and the faint musk of sweat clung stubbornly to his skin.

Ryan chuckled warmly and ran a hand over Connor’s belly, the soft flesh wobbling beneath his touch. “You’re just full, big guy. Nothing to be sorry about.”

Connor shifted uneasily, but before he could reply, a sudden, unmistakable fart escaped him—loud and lingering, a ripe mixture of musk and grease that filled the room. He gasped, covering his face in shame.

“Oh god,” Connor groaned, “I can’t control this stuff anymore.”

Ryan laughed, eyes twinkling with mischief and something softer. “You’re turning into me, little dude. Just gotta own it.”

Days blurred together, but Connor could feel the change inside him growing heavier than the weight he carried physically. His mind felt foggy, as if thick molasses had seeped into his thoughts. Reading textbooks became an exhausting chore, letters swimming on the page until his vision blurred.

He tried to focus, determined to hold on to who he’d been, but it was like grasping at sand slipping through his fingers.

One afternoon, as he sat in the living room, Connor accidentally left a greasy fingerprint on his laptop screen. He stared at it blankly for a long moment before he realized he should wipe it off. The simplest task felt monumental.

Ryan noticed the dazed look in his eyes and gave him a teasing smile. “Hey, big dumb bear,” he said affectionately, fingers brushing through Connor’s thickening beard.

Connor sighed, the haze around his brain thickening with each passing day. “Feels like my head’s turning to mush.”

Ryan pulled him close, rubbing slow circles on his belly. “It’s okay. You’re softening up. You’ll get used to it.”

Connor rested his head against Ryan’s chest, comforted despite the creeping realization that the sharpness he once prized was fading away.

One evening, while scrolling through his phone, Connor received a notification—a message from an old group chat with his college friends.

“Hey man! We’re hitting the pool tomorrow. You in?” one message read cheerfully.

Connor hesitated, the knot tightening in his stomach. He hadn’t seen any of them since the changes started, and fear gripped him tightly. What would they say? Would they recognize him under the thick hair and growing belly? He was no longer the lean, clean-cut guy they remembered.

Despite the anxiety, he agreed, telling himself it was good to try to stay connected.

The next afternoon, Connor pulled on his trunks, grimacing as the fabric stretched painfully tight over his swollen gut and fuzzy legs. His chest hair matted against his skin, and the scent of sweat and musk clung to him like a second skin.

At the pool, his friends froze.

“Whoa, dude! What happened to you?” one blurted, eyes wide in disbelief.

Another shook his head, awkward laughter escaping. “Man, you really let yourself go, huh?”

Connor’s cheeks burned with shame. His thick hair curled wetly around his arms and chest, and the extra weight shifted uncomfortably as he tried to move.

“I—yeah, guess I did,” he muttered, trying to cover his belly with his hands.

The friends exchanged uneasy glances, unsure how to respond to the new, heavier, hairier version of their once fit buddy.

Connor’s heart sank. The unspoken judgment weighed on him more heavily than his expanding waistline.

Over the following weeks, the comments grew more pointed, more biting.

“You used to be ripped,” one friend remarked during a casual hangout.

“Now you’re just… there,” another muttered under his breath.

“You’re making us all look bad,” someone else joked—though the humor was cold and empty.

Connor tried to laugh it off, but each remark cut deeper. He felt trapped in a body that no longer obeyed him, covered in thick hair he couldn’t shave away, smelling stronger and muskier every day. His scent clung to him even after showers, and the teasing didn’t stop.

One night, after a particularly harsh comment, Connor shaved his arms and chest, desperate for control, for a reminder of the clean-cut self he once was.

But the hair grew back overnight—darker, curlier, and even more abundant than before. He ran his hand over the prickly new growth and sighed.

His friends didn’t notice the hair so much as the weight—the slowness in his movements, the way he avoided meeting their eyes.

After one particularly brutal day of social judgment, Connor trudged home, his shirt damp with sweat and embarrassment, eyes red and stinging with unshed tears.

Ryan greeted him with open arms and a warm smile.

“Rough day, huh?”

Connor collapsed onto the couch, burying his face in Ryan’s broad chest.

Ryan lifted Connor’s chin, revealing tired, shining eyes, and handed him a giant plate piled high with greasy fries, crispy chicken wings, and a huge, frothy milkshake.

“Let me take care of you.”

Connor ate slowly, the familiar taste soothing his aching heart. Ryan’s hands never left his belly, rubbing slow, comforting circles, fingers tangling in Connor’s beard as he pet him gently.

“You’re perfect like this,” Ryan whispered, voice low and full of affection.

Connor leaned into the touch, the weight of judgment outside melting away as Ryan’s love wrapped around him like a warm blanket.

Over the next few days, Connor found himself staring longer into mirrors, tracing the outline of his once lean frame, now hidden beneath a thick blanket of hair and fat. His face, once sharp and clean, had softened around the edges, his jawline blurred by a growing beard that he no longer bothered to trim meticulously.

His gut pressed forward, stretching shirts beyond recognition. He noticed his hands, pudgier now, fingers thicker and slightly swollen. The fine hair on his arms darkened and thickened, climbing toward his shoulders like wild vines.

One evening, alone in the bathroom, Connor ran a hand down his chest. The hair there tickled his skin, rough and wild. He could feel the weight beneath—his own breath heavy in the room.

The scent of musk lingered on his skin despite the long hot shower he’d just taken.

He let out a deep sigh, half frustration, half something else—an odd calm settling in him.

The guy he’d been, the sharp, fast, athletic Connor, was vanishing like mist at dawn. The new Connor was softer, slower, more animal than man. And somewhere in that loss, he felt a strange pull—not just fear, but something quietly thrilling.

Ryan, ever patient and warm, began showing signs of deeper affection—not just through teasing or comfort food, but subtle, intimate touches.

During one quiet night, as they watched a movie, Ryan shifted closer, fingers brushing lightly against Connor’s furry arm.

“Hey, big guy,” Ryan murmured, voice low and smooth.

Connor’s heart skipped. He tried to pull back but found himself leaning in, drawn to the warmth.

Ryan’s hand moved to Connor’s belly, fingers tracing lazy circles through the soft hair.

“Feels good, doesn’t it? Being this way.”

Connor swallowed hard, conflicted. The softness, the smell, the slow warmth of Ryan’s touch tangled his thoughts. He wanted to resist, to fight back, but his body betrayed him—he relaxed, letting Ryan’s hand soothe and claim him.

One weekend, Ryan dragged Connor out for a casual lunch with some of their old mutual friends. Connor dreaded it, imagining the cruel comments, the pitying looks.

They arrived at the bustling café, Connor’s belly noticeably filling the chair, his shirt straining across his broad, hairy chest.

Friends’ eyes widened instantly.

“Oh wow, dude. You’ve… changed,” one said awkwardly, voice barely hiding judgment.

Another joked, “Looks like Ryan’s really got you under his thumb now.”

Connor flushed, the familiar sting of embarrassment burning hot.

But Ryan squeezed his hand, whispering, “Ignore them, you’re amazing.”

They ordered huge plates of comfort food, and Connor ate with surprising ease, the greasy sauces clinging to his beard and chest hair. He could feel eyes watching him, hear the whispers.

But he didn't care.

[19ryan17]

Cheat Meal

Thanks @aigains for the photos and inspiration

Ryan kicked open the door to his apartment, still toweling sweat from his dirty blond hair. It was the usual post-gym ritual—protein shake in one hand, Nike hoodie clinging to his sculpted, sweaty chest. His abs peeked through the open front of his hoodie, the kind of body that made people turn heads at frat parties or beach trips. He wasn’t cocky about it—well, maybe just a little—but he worked hard to stay this cut. Track team in high school, gym almost daily, and a clean diet—except tonight. Tonight, he wanted a cheat meal.

He ordered pizza on impulse. Something greasy. Something he could devour while binging whatever dumb action flick Netflix shoved at him. He almost forgot about it until the doorbell rang.

When he opened the door, the guy standing there wasn’t the bored, acne-pocked delivery dude he expected. This guy—Tommy—was hot. Like, “should be modeling for a leather jacket brand” hot. Brown hair in a lazy side part, some scruff on his chin that looked sculpted, not accidental. He had a sharp jaw, sly brown eyes, and a confident smirk that made Ryan pause mid-step. Tommy handed over the pizza with one hand and sized Ryan up with the other. There was no subtlety in his gaze—it slid up Ryan’s hoodie, lingered at the line where abs dipped into basketball shorts.

“You look like you earned this, man,” Tommy said, voice smooth like warm syrup. “Been working out?”

Ryan chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh… yeah. Just got back from the gym actually.”

Tommy stepped a little closer—barely noticeable, but enough to tighten the air between them. “Bet you need to refuel. Cheat night?”

Ryan nodded. “Yeah. Just felt like pigging out a little.”

Tommy’s smile deepened like he knew something Ryan didn’t. “Good. You’ll like this one. It’s... special.”

Ryan blinked. “Special?”

Tommy shrugged and turned, leaving a faint musky scent in his wake—woodsy, rich, with a hint of sweat. “Call it a house recipe,” he said, walking off into the night.

Ryan was weirdly unsettled—but also a little flushed. Something about Tommy had clicked something deep inside his chest. Or maybe lower.

He opened the box, and the scent hit him like a punch: garlic, cheese, meat, oil. It was almost too much—but he dug in, moaning softly at how good it was. Way better than any pizza he’d had on campus. That night he ate the entire thing without thinking. The last slice left a slick smear of grease on his fingers he licked off slowly while watching a mindless action scene.

The next day, he felt fine. Maybe a little... slower? He skipped his morning run. Just didn’t feel like it. The pizza had been heavy, and his stomach felt bloated in a way that was weirdly satisfying. He tugged at his hoodie—it fit a little snug in the chest? Probably the laundry.

That night, he ordered again. From the same place. Same delivery guy.

“Back already?” Tommy said with a teasing smirk, holding the box like it was a gift. He wore a tight black T-shirt this time, and Ryan noticed the shape of his chest under it—broad, a little soft, with a noticeable shelf. He looked strong but comfortable in his size.

“You put crack in these or something?” Ryan joked.

“Only the good stuff,” Tommy said, brushing a finger against the edge of Ryan’s palm as he handed over the box. “I added something extra tonight. You’ll love it.”

Ryan barely remembered closing the door before diving into the pizza. It was even greasier this time. Strings of cheese clung to his chin. His fingers were soaked in oil. He didn’t care. His stomach bulged slightly by the time he finished, and he sat back with a dumb grin, rubbing the dome of his belly through his hoodie.

That night he passed out on the couch, shirt halfway up his abs.

———

Over the next week, Ryan’s cravings became impossible to ignore. He wasn’t even waiting until dinner—he’d order a pizza mid-afternoon, and Tommy was always the one to deliver it.

“You’re glowing,” Tommy said once, leaning against the doorframe as Ryan stood shirtless, sweat beading on his chest from the heat.

“Yeah?” Ryan asked, rubbing a hand over his chest. His pecs felt… puffier? “Guess I’ve been bulking up.”

Tommy smirked. “You sure are. I like it.”

Ryan flushed. He had no idea why Tommy’s compliments were getting under his skin. He wasn’t into dudes. He was sure of that. And yet when Tommy’s hand brushed his as he handed over the box, Ryan held the contact a beat too long.

That night, he didn’t wait. He sat on the floor, box open in front of him, his fingers and chin slick with grease. He ate like a beast. Tommy had left a handwritten note inside the box: “Keep growing for me ;)”

By the second week, his routine had changed. No more runs. Gym skipped “just this once.” Hoodies felt tighter. Shorts dug into his waist. He started noticing how winded he got walking across campus. His breath would catch after stairs. At first he tried to hide it, but the wheezing was real.

His track buddy Mason clapped him on the back one day. “Yo, Ry. What’s going on, man? Haven’t seen you at the gym. And, uh…” Mason motioned vaguely to Ryan’s middle.

Ryan looked down. His tee—an old Under Armour one—was clinging to a subtle curve of a belly now. The abs were mostly gone, replaced by a slight softness that bunched when he sat. His thighs looked thicker too, like his muscles were starting to blur with fat.

“Bulking season,” Ryan lied.

Mason laughed. “Looks more like hibernation season, bro.”

Ryan laughed with him, but it stung.

He shaved less. It started as laziness. Then the stubble grew longer, thicker. One morning he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror—shirtless, with a soft, light dirty blond mustache beginning to form over his lip. His cheeks had dark fuzz. And his chest hair was spreading—wispy but growing darker, denser.

He considered shaving it. But something stopped him.

Tommy noticed too. The next delivery came with a raised eyebrow and a low whistle. “Damn, you’re starting to look... real good. Real manly.”

Ryan looked down at himself. He wore boxers and a too-small tank top, his gut poking out slightly. Grease was already staining his fingers from the slice he’d half-finished before even greeting Tommy.

“You think?” he said, shy.

Tommy didn’t answer. He stepped forward, gently reaching up to rub a smear of cheese from Ryan’s cheek. His thumb lingered there. His eyes were dark, unreadable.

“Let me feed you,” he said softly.

Ryan blinked. “Wait, wha—”

Tommy took the slice from his hand, brought it up to Ryan’s lips, and fed it to him. Slowly. Grease ran down Ryan’s chin. He opened his mouth, chewing, flushed, his breath heavy. When Tommy leaned forward, their mouths inches apart, Ryan didn't back away.

Their lips met. Softly at first. Then hungrily.

Pizza grease smeared between them as they kissed—Ryan’s first kiss with a man—and something inside him broke open. He moaned softly into Tommy’s mouth as the delivery guy’s hands found the growing swell of his belly.

“You’re getting perfect,” Tommy whispered against his lips. “Keep eating for me, Ryan. Don’t stop.”

It had only been a few weeks since Ryan first noticed the softness around his stomach, but now his abs were completely buried under a thickening layer of fat. He still wore the same tank tops, though they clung tighter and rode up more, exposing the subtle curve of his gut and the first hints of a happy trail that hadn’t been there before. The same trail that now had dark blond hairs snaking higher each day—coarser, thicker, spreading outward across his stomach like ivy.

Ryan tried to ignore it. Maybe it was bulking season. Yeah. He’d just do a cut soon, he told himself. But even he didn’t believe that anymore—not when he couldn’t stop thinking about pizza. Or, more specifically, Tommy.

That delivery guy kept showing up at his door like clockwork, somehow always on shift when Ryan placed his orders. The guy never wore a full uniform—just joggers or jeans, a tight tee or sometimes no shirt at all. Every time he came over, he smelled like cologne and fresh dough. And every time, he brought something extra: an extra garlic crust, a tub of dipping sauce, a double-thick milkshake, “forgotten” breadsticks. Ryan didn’t ask for them, but Tommy just winked and said it was a “loyalty reward.”

The worst part? Ryan kept accepting it all.

One night, Ryan opened the door in only his boxers—too lazy to throw anything else on. His belly had definitely softened. A faint crease had formed under it when he slouched, and his thighs brushed slightly as he shifted from foot to foot.

“Damn, Ryan,” Tommy murmured, eyeing him up and down. “You’re looking real good these days. Comfortable.”

Ryan blushed. “Dude, you say that every time.”

“’Cause it’s true,” Tommy said with a smirk, stepping inside without being asked. “And you’re only getting hotter.”

Ryan didn’t reply. He was too distracted by the smell of the pepperoni and the way Tommy’s arms bulged through his sleeves. Tommy watched him the whole time he opened the box, those dark eyes glittering.

“You want a slice?” Ryan asked, grabbing one. He paused halfway to his mouth.

Tommy plucked it from his fingers. “Let me.”

He fed it to Ryan slowly, watching grease pool in the corner of his lips before wiping it with his thumb and licking it off. Ryan shivered. His cock stirred in his boxers, but he didn’t say a word. He just chewed, slowly, shamefully aroused.

“Grease looks good on you,” Tommy whispered.

Ryan was still chewing on that moment—both figuratively and literally—a few days later when he dragged himself to the gym for the first time in a week. He barely lasted ten minutes on the treadmill before his breathing got ragged. His shirt stuck to his sides in wet patches. And when he caught sight of himself in the wall mirror, he didn’t see the athlete he used to be.

He saw a sweaty, bloated dude with a plush belly and a thickening line of chest hair peeking through his stretched neckline.

He went home early. And he ordered another pizza.

By mid-month, people were starting to talk.

“Bro, are you okay?” asked Connor, one of the tight ends from the football team. They’d caught Ryan halfway through devouring an entire box of cheesy breadsticks on the quad lawn. “You used to be all about meal prep and macros. What happened?”

Ryan blinked at him, cheese still stuck to his lip. “Dunno. Just chillin’. Feels good, y’know?”

Connor laughed nervously. “Yeah, but, like... you’ve kinda let yourself go, man.”

Ryan just shrugged, unbothered. He stretched back and let his hand rest casually on his belly, which now pushed his hoodie out in a subtle arc. He was still in denial, but he couldn’t pretend anymore that this was just “bulking.” His face had rounded out, his jawline fuzzier than usual—not just from the extra padding, but from the dirty blond mustache that had started growing over his upper lip. He hadn’t bothered shaving it off. Tommy had said it looked “scruffy in the best way.”

The first time they kissed, Ryan had already outgrown his favorite jeans.

He’d been lying on the couch, belly exposed under a too-small tee, groaning from the amount of food he’d just eaten. Tommy sat beside him, watching with a lazy grin and running his fingers through Ryan’s now noticeably hairy thighs. The contact made Ryan twitch—and not from discomfort.

“Look at you,” Tommy purred. “You were so tense the first time we met. Now you’re soft. Warm. Heavy.”

Ryan didn’t respond. He just looked at Tommy with a strange mix of guilt and hunger.

Tommy leaned in, slow, deliberate, until their noses almost touched. “You know you want it.”

Then he kissed him. Deep. Greasy. Hot.

Ryan moaned into it, letting Tommy’s hands slide over his belly, under his shirt, thumbs brushing his newly grown treasure trail.

By the time finals rolled around, Ryan had practically dropped his gym schedule altogether.

He spent most of his time sprawled on his bed, shirtless, snacking between naps and study breaks. His legs had thickened, covered in wiry blond hair. His armpits were rank by noon most days, and he’d stopped caring. His cheeks looked fuller, his mustache was connecting to a beard now, and there was a dark shadow of hair down his chest that made even him pause in the mirror sometimes.

He started wearing sweats more often, not just because they were comfy—but because his old jeans simply didn’t fit anymore.

“Dude,” said Nate, another teammate, during a library group session. “Is that a beard?”

Ryan scratched his cheek lazily. “Kinda. Dunno. It just started growing.”

“You’ve been different lately,” Nate added, eyeing Ryan’s belly bulge under his oversized hoodie. “Tommy got you under a spell or something?”

Ryan chuckled softly. “Maybe.”

That night, Tommy showed up with two boxes of pizza instead of one.

“You need more fuel,” he said with a grin.

Ryan didn’t even protest. He just opened his mouth for the first slice, juice and oil dripping down his scruff as Tommy pushed it in. He burped afterward, lazily licking his fingers.

“You’re my favorite customer,” Tommy said, eyes gleaming. “So soft. So sexy.”

Ryan leaned back, groaning, full and happy and just a little drunk on whatever spell Tommy was weaving.

His gut pushed high, round and proud, the new fuzz spreading around it like a halo. His beard caught some cheese. Tommy licked it off.

They made out again. Longer this time. Dirtier.

And Ryan knew—deep down—he wasn’t going back.

[19ryan17]

The Experiment

Jake slammed his bottle down on the sticky bar top, foam sloshing over the rim. “Bro, I’m telling you—if they had gone for the field goal, they could’ve won in OT.”

Ethan snorted, tossing a peanut into his mouth and leaning back in his chair like he owned the place. “Yeah, and if your mom had wheels, she’d be a skateboard.”

Jake rolled his eyes. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Neither does going for the field goal when you're down six.”

They were two beers deep, parked in a half-crowded college bar with TVs blasting the game, sticky floors underfoot, and the warm haze of fried food and cheap alcohol clinging to the air. Jake and Ethan had known each other since freshman year—randomly assigned roommates who somehow never drifted apart. Both were average guys in their early twenties: lean, a little scrawny, clean-shaven, definitely not gym bros. Jake had messy brown hair and wore flannel unironically. Ethan was the hoodie and ballcap type, always smelling faintly like Axe and microwave burritos.

They were comfortable. Close in that way straight dudes sometimes get when they’ve lived together too long and stopped caring about personal space.

Jake lifted his drink. “Anyway, here’s to failing midterms and pretending our fantasy league matters.”

They clinked. A stranger behind the bar—tall, broad, a little too smooth—leaned over with a smirk.

“Next round’s on the house. You two look like you’ve earned it.”

Jake blinked. “Wait, really?”

The guy just winked and set two shots in front of them. Neon green. Smelled like sour apples and something stronger beneath.

“Bottoms up,” Ethan grinned, already grabbing his.

Jake hesitated for half a second, then shrugged. “Screw it. Cheers.”

They threw them back.

The world twisted sideways.

Jake’s vision went watery, sound stretching like molasses. The buzz he’d been nursing all night slammed into something else—stronger, wronger. His stomach flipped. Ethan’s voice reached him like it was underwater.

“Dude… I think I’m—”

Darkness.

**???

Jake woke up gagged and groggy, head pounding. The fluorescent lighting above him hummed cold and relentless. He blinked, squinting through the blur. His arms were strapped to a chair. Heavy leather cuffs around his wrists, his ankles, something tight across his chest.

Panic flared instantly.

He tried to jerk free—nothing. Next to him, Ethan groaned, eyes fluttering open. “What the hell...?”

They were in a clean, metallic room. The air smelled like antiseptic, but underneath that—something... raw. Animal. Jake’s nostrils twitched.

A voice crackled through the speaker overhead. Calm. Smooth. Clinical.

“Subject 014 and 015 awake. Excellent.”

A door hissed open.

In walked a man in a lab coat, holding a clipboard. Mid-forties maybe, with perfectly slicked-back hair and round glasses perched on a nose that screamed I don’t get out much.

“Good evening, gentlemen. My name is Dr. Halvorsen. You’ve been selected for the Masculine Optimization Project. Please do not be alarmed.”

Jake’s heart hammered. “You can’t do this! Let us go, you psycho!”

The doctor clicked his pen. “Typical subject response. Don’t worry. In time, you’ll be thanking me.”

Ethan barked out a laugh, though it sounded more like fear. “Yeah, okay. And I suppose this is all legal?”

“Your consent,” Dr. Halvorsen replied smoothly, “has already been obtained. Retroactively. You’ll find the body has its own ways of adapting to new truths.”

He tapped his clipboard.

“Let’s begin.”

Needles. Machines humming. A faint gas seeping from hidden vents. The restraints stayed on, but warmth spread through their limbs—tingling, deep, strange. Like their muscles were being rewired from the inside out.

Jake felt it first in his chest. A subtle pressure. A slow pulsing beneath the skin, like something was waking up.

Ethan groaned. “Dude… something’s wrong.”

“Yeah,” Jake muttered, his voice already a little rougher. “No shit.”

Dr. Halvorsen stood just outside the glass now, watching.

“Subject 014: increased androgenic response. Subject 015: early euphoria signs noted.”

Jake’s throat tightened. He could feel sweat beading under his arms—and the weird thing? His armpits itched. Not like irritation. Like… something was growing.

A lot of something.

“Let me out,” Jake hissed.

But Ethan?

Ethan was grinning.

“Dude,” he chuckled, sluggishly. “I feel... kinda awesome.”

Jake looked over. Ethan’s upper lip had a faint dusting of stubble. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes hazy.

Jake’s gut dropped.

This was only the beginning.

Jake couldn’t tell if it had been hours or days. The lights never changed. The cold metal chair was swapped out eventually for a narrow cot in a white-walled room, maybe eight feet by eight. No windows. Just a steel door with a meal tray slot.

They weren’t restrained anymore. Not physically. But they still couldn’t leave.

Jake sat cross-legged on his cot, staring at the untouched meal on the tray.

Steak. Mashed potatoes. A heap of something greasy and fried. And a glass of thick, chalky-looking protein shake.

It reeked—like garlic, butter, and something he couldn’t name. Not bad. Just... strong.

Across the room, Ethan was already halfway through his tray, chewing with glazed eyes and a dumb smile on his face. He was shirtless now—had stripped it off a day ago, complaining it was itchy.

Jake couldn’t stop noticing the change in his body. Subtle, but definitely there.

Ethan’s shoulders were thicker. His traps, a little higher. His chest had started filling out, the hint of new muscle pushing beneath his skin like rising dough. But more than that—it was the hair.

His pits had gone from sparse to dense. Tufts of dark brown hair spilled out, curling against his arms every time he lifted one. A faint trail had appeared below his belly button. Not sharp and clean like gym guys—but fuzzy, soft-looking, thick.

Jake swallowed hard.

“What the hell is in that food?” he muttered.

Ethan burped and licked some mashed potatoes off his thumb. “Dunno. But it’s kinda good now, right? Way better than the first tray.”

Jake frowned. “You’ve had like five trays.”

Ethan just shrugged, his eyes distant. “Guess I was hungry.”

Jake hadn’t eaten since the first day. He didn’t trust it. But his stomach growled, loud and angry, as the scent wafted up again. God—it really did smell kind of amazing now. Almost… intoxicating.

He shook his head and turned away, catching his reflection in the polished steel wall panel.

And paused.

There—under his nose.

It was faint. But unmistakable.

A line of darker fuzz above his lip.

His breath caught.

Later that night, Jake sat hunched in the corner of his cot, his fingers trembling as he touched the fuzz again. It felt foreign. Wrong. He hadn’t grown facial hair before—not like this. Maybe a little scruff, but this? It was darker. Denser. A mustache was coming in.

Across the room, Ethan was humming tunelessly to himself, stretching on the cot like a cat. His shirt still lay crumpled on the floor.

“Dude,” Jake whispered. “You’ve got a mustache.”

Ethan grinned, not even looking up. “Sick, right?”

Jake blinked. “You… like it?”

“Yeah, man. Kinda makes me feel... I dunno. Hot.”

Jake stared at him. His face was fuller now. Rounder. The mustache was thick enough to notice even in the dim light. It curled a little at the corners. His cheeks had a faint stubble shadow, and—God—it looked like his goatee was starting too.

Something low and instinctive stirred in Jake's chest. Not fear. Not quite.

He crossed his arms, noticing how his shirt was tighter across his pecs. And his armpits… they itched. A lot.

He lifted an arm and took a sniff—then recoiled.

“Jesus.”

The musk hit him like a punch. Earthy, sharp, like a gym bag left in the sun. But buried beneath the disgust was… something else. He wasn’t sure what. He just knew he didn’t hate it as much as he should.

Ethan was watching him now, grinning lazily. His teeth looked wider somehow. Or maybe Jake was just tired.

“Doc says we’re getting optimized,” Ethan said, voice a little slurred. “Like… peak man stuff. Testosterone, muscles, hair…”

He scratched under his gut, where a new patch of hair had definitely started spreading.

Jake felt a chill crawl up his spine.

“Ethan,” he said quietly, “this isn’t us. We’ve gotta fight this. We’ve gotta stay sharp. Remember who we are.”

Ethan leaned back, resting one hand on his jiggly belly, smiling like he hadn’t heard a word. His fingers sank in just slightly.

Jake couldn’t stop looking at that—at the way Ethan’s soft gut bounced just a bit when he shifted. He was starting to look... hefty. Stronger, yeah. But there was mass now.

A low hum buzzed from the ceiling. Feeding time again. Another tray clunked through the slot.

Ethan’s eyes lit up.

Jake clenched his fists.

But he was starving.

Jake lasted until the fifth day.

That’s when the growling in his stomach turned violent, and the scent of the food tray hit him so hard it made his mouth water. He’d woken up sweating, shirt soaked through, his whole body thrumming like something was happening beneath his skin.

Ethan was already scarfing down his meal across the room, shirtless as usual. His hair was longer now, curling against his neck. The goatee was thick, wide across his chin and creeping toward his cheeks. The mustache had fully connected, dark and bristly. He looked like some frat bro turned lumberjack—huge, sweaty, hairy.

And dumb. So dumb.

“Dude,” Ethan mumbled through a mouthful of something buttery. “You gotta eat. Feels good. Like… so good.”

Jake stood on shaky legs and approached his tray like it might bite. Steak again. Mashed potatoes. A massive hunk of bread dripping with grease. And that same thick shake.

He hesitated.

Then shoveled a forkful of potatoes into his mouth—and moaned.

It was amazing.

His body practically buzzed in response, like it had been waiting. Craving. Every bite made his skin tingle, his muscles pulse. The shake hit like warm syrup down his throat, and he drank all of it without even thinking.

Across the room, Ethan let out a loud belch, his hand lazily rubbing his stomach.

Jake felt something shift inside him.

By the next morning, everything was different.

Jake woke up soaked in sweat. His chest was sticking to the sheet. And when he sat up—he felt heavy. His pecs bounced. His stomach sat in his lap, soft and jiggly. Not huge. Not yet. But it was there. Round and real.

“Oh my God,” he muttered, running a hand over his belly.

It was hairy.

Not just a little peach fuzz. Thick, curling hair, centered around his belly button and spreading outward like someone had painted it on. His armpits itched like hell—he raised an arm and hissed through his teeth.

A forest under there. Dark and dense and reeked.

He stumbled toward the metal wall to check his reflection—and gasped.

His mustache was fully in now, thick and bristly. But below it—chin fuzz had turned into a proper goatee, short but definitely there. His jaw was fuller. His traps had risen. His neck had thickened.

“Jesus,” he whispered, reaching up and rubbing his face.

Behind him, Ethan groaned from his cot and sat up—naked from the waist up, his belly massive compared to a few days ago. Round, soft, covered in sweaty curls of hair. His goatee looked trimmed, like the doc had shaped it for him. His chest had started drooping with weight, but the muscle beneath it was undeniable.

And God, the smell coming off him.

Jake turned, nose wrinkling—but he didn’t step back.

Ethan grinned, eyes glassy, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.

“Morning,” he said, voice thick and slow. “You’re lookin’ good, bro.”

Jake blinked. “You’re... you’re getting huge.”

Ethan looked down and jiggled his gut with both hands, giggling dumbly.

“Yeah, bro. Feels kinda awesome.”

Jake couldn’t believe this. Ethan was proud of it. The belly. The hair. The stink. He liked it.

“You don’t care?” Jake asked, stepping closer, voice quiet. “About what they’re doing to us?”

Ethan just smiled. His face looked dopey and happy.

Jake stood in front of him now. Too close. He could see the sweat beading on Ethan’s chest hair. Smell him. And—God—feel something stirring low in his gut. Something he didn’t want to name.

“I feel good,” Ethan said, licking his lips absently. “You look good too, man. Like... real good.”

Jake’s breath caught.

Ethan reached out, lazily, and pressed a hand to Jake’s gut.

Jake froze.

It was a slow, heavy touch. Just resting there, feeling the give of it. The warmth. The newness.

Jake stared down, horrified—but didn’t pull away.

“You’re getting soft,” Ethan murmured, grinning. “I like it.”

Jake opened his mouth to say something—anything—but all he could feel was that hand, warm and rough and hairy, resting on his belly like it belonged there.

He didn’t stop Ethan when his fingers brushed lower.

Didn’t move when Ethan’s forehead bumped against his chest, lips parting, breath hot and shallow.

Didn’t stop himself from curling one hand behind Ethan’s head and whispering:

“I think they’re turning us into pigs.”

Ethan chuckled against his skin. “Hot pigs.”

Jake’s heart thundered.

And he didn’t disagree.

Jake couldn't breathe.

His body was too heavy—his belly pressing into his legs with each breath. Every time he inhaled, it felt like he was pulling more weight into his chest. The thought of stepping out into the hall again seemed impossible. The sweat wasn’t just a result of the heat, either. It had become a part of him, his body continuously working, expanding, adjusting to the steady onslaught of food and whatever the hell those experiments were doing to him.

Ethan, on the other hand, seemed almost comfortable in his own skin.

Jake turned his head to look at him. Ethan was lounging on the couch, the crinkle of his chubby, hairy belly filling the room. His arms were stretched behind his head, showing off his thick biceps that had only grown more defined with the constant meals and rest. The sweat that covered him made the light bounce off his chest hair—wild, thick curls spread like vines. His smile was lazy, confident.

"You look like a goddamn bear," Jake muttered.

Ethan just chuckled, rubbing his belly lazily. "Yeah, man. A big, hairy, happy bear."

Jake sighed and rubbed his face. His own hands were bigger now—his fingers thick, his palms wide, with an uncomfortable layer of softness covering them. His legs were getting harder to move around, his thighs rubbing together with every step, his jeans tight in places that used to be his comfort zone.

His reflection in the mirror only made things worse. His face had rounded out more, his chin softening, covered in the beginnings of a goatee. A thick layer of hair now lined his jaw, and a strip ran up to his lips, dark and almost gross to him. And his stomach… it wasn’t just soft anymore. It jiggled. It was round, full, with dark patches of belly hair swirling down toward his waistband. His shirt strained against his shoulders, no longer fitting right—too tight in places where it should’ve been loose. His arms, too, were getting heavy, their muscle hidden under a growing layer of fat and hair.

“Ethan, I... I can’t keep doing this. I don’t even recognize myself anymore,” Jake said, his voice low, shaking slightly.

Ethan sat up, his thick stomach squishing as he did. He wiped the sweat off his brow and walked over to Jake. His chest was so massive now, it looked like it was swallowing the rest of him.

“You’re just not used to it yet,” Ethan said, gently brushing a hand over Jake’s belly. The softness under his touch made Jake flinch. "Trust me, bro, this is a good thing. We’re getting bigger, stronger, better."

Jake stiffened at the touch. "I’m fat now, Ethan. And you... You look like you’re getting bigger every day. It feels like I’m losing control."

Ethan’s smile didn’t fade. He grabbed Jake’s shoulders, turning him toward the full-length mirror. “Look at us, man. We’re becoming something different. Something better. We’re not just these scrawny little college guys anymore. We’re something strong. Powerful."

Ethan’s thick fingers slid down Jake’s chest, his palm resting right on his belly. Jake stared at their reflection in the mirror. Ethan was right there, taller and fuller, with the dark patch of a goatee, his hair sticking up in messy curls. And Jake? He was bigger, too. His belly was round, soft, like a pillow under his hands. His legs were thicker, the muscles beneath the fat still there but hidden beneath layers of softness. The dark hair on his chest, his arms, his belly—he looked like a whole new person.

Ethan leaned in, brushing Jake’s hair behind his ear, his fingers lingering just above his ear. “You’re hot, man,” Ethan murmured, looking at Jake with an intensity that made Jake’s heart race. “You’ve always been hot. Now? You’re a man. Just like me.”

Jake froze.

Before he could respond, Ethan pressed his lips against Jake’s—just a soft, teasing kiss. The warmth of Ethan’s body pressed against his. Ethan tasted like the food they’d been shoveling down, his breath a mix of fast food and sweat. But it wasn’t the taste that made Jake’s heart thud; it was the feeling of Ethan’s hands on his belly, his thick fingers sliding over the soft layers of fat that were growing on him. The kiss deepened, and Jake felt something stir inside him that he couldn’t explain.

Ethan’s hands slid lower, rubbing Jake’s belly, kneading the softness. And for the first time, Jake didn’t pull away. Instead, he let Ethan touch him. He let himself feel that softness—the weight of their bodies, the heat between them. His body was changing, but in that moment, Jake didn’t care. He wanted more.

“You like it, don’t you?” Ethan whispered, his lips brushing against Jake’s neck.

Jake swallowed. “I don’t know… I don’t know anymore…”

But deep down, he knew. The way his heart raced. The way his body responded to Ethan’s touch. It wasn’t just the transformation. It was more than that.

A few weeks later, they were released from the experimental facility. The world was different now. They were different.

Jake felt like he was suffocating in his clothes. The pants he used to wear so easily were tight now, barely fitting over his thickened thighs and swollen belly. He and Ethan stood outside the place they used to drink, their faces unrecognizable from the college students they used to be. Their shirts were stretched tight over their bulging chests, exposing dark patches of belly hair as they adjusted, trying to breathe without feeling so full.

Ethan, of course, was handling it much better. He’d grown into his body with an ease Jake couldn’t even describe. His shirt clung to his chest like a second skin, his arms thick with muscle and fat. His belly jutted out proudly, no longer hidden but on full display. He looked like a walking statue of masculine power.

Jake couldn’t help but feel jealous. Ethan was exuding confidence, swaggering like he owned the world. Every step he took was assured, his chest out, his belly swaying with each movement. He was huge—but it felt right on him.

The minute they stepped back on campus, they knew things had changed.

“Yo, Jake? Ethan? What the hell happened to you guys?”

“Jesus Christ, bro. You guys are huge.”

Their friends stared in shock, some with mouths agape, others whispering. It didn’t take long for people to start laughing, but it wasn’t the mocking kind. It was the kind of laughter where people didn’t know whether to be impressed or disgusted.

Jake’s cheeks burned. He felt their eyes on him. The whispers. The pointed glances.

Ethan just grinned and leaned back, slapping his hand on Jake’s shoulder, causing their bellies to bump together. “What’s up, guys? You lookin’ at my bro here?” Ethan said, laughing. “He’s looking good, huh?”

Jake didn’t know how to respond. He stared at the people he’d once hung out with, now unsure of who they even were. They were staring at his belly—at the hair that had grown on his chest, his arms, his legs. His face had changed, too. He had a full goatee now. His body was a mess of fat and muscle and hair.

One of his old friends—Ben—raised an eyebrow. “You’ve really let yourselves go, huh?” he said, crossing his arms. “Or are you just doing it on purpose now?”

Jake felt his stomach churn. His belly was growing heavier with each second, his shirt tight against the expanding mass.

“Yeah,” Ethan said, slapping Jake’s belly lightly. “We like it like this.”

And then the realization hit Jake.

He liked it too. He liked how he felt in his skin now. How big he was. How confident Ethan made him feel.

Jake turned to look at him, and Ethan grinned.

"Let’s head back to our dorm. I’m starved."

Jake nodded, grinning back. And as they walked back to the dorm, their bodies pressed together, and the stares of the people around them faded. Jake realized that this—this was who he was now. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

[19ryan17]

Leo's Plan

The second Luke Matthews stepped into the dorm room, he was hit with a wave of thick, stale warmth—the kind of heat that clung to skin and left a faint sheen on your forehead before you even set down your bags. The overhead light flickered weakly, buzzing like it hadn’t been touched since the last guy moved out in May. His fingers tightened around the strap of his duffel bag as he took in the space: two bunk beds pushed to the walls, a pair of battered desks, a single cracked window, and the unmistakable scent of body spray, old laundry, and something… earthy. Human. Musky.

And then, sitting in the center of it all, was Leo.

Well—more like sprawled.

Leo filled his side of the dorm like a piece of furniture that had always been there. His enormous frame was barely contained by the too-small mattress beneath him, the plastic corner of it bowing under the pressure of his thighs. A tank top stretched across his chest like it was losing a battle, the armholes gaping wide enough to show the thick, dark hair that coated his torso and the sides of his torso. His beard gleamed, like he’d oiled it that morning, and sweat shined on his neck and temples. The room didn’t just smell like him—it felt like him.

Leo looked up—and lit up. “Dude! You’re Luke, right? Luke Matthews?”

Luke blinked. “Uh… yeah?”

“No way,” Leo said, scrambling to his feet like a dog that had just heard a treat bag. He crossed the room in three steps, socked feet thudding heavily against the tile. “Bro, I’ve totally seen you around. You were always in the gym last year. Weird hours, yeah?”

“Sometimes,” Luke said, still processing. “I liked going when it was quiet.”

Leo grinned. “Yeah. I remember. You did, like… treadmill stuff, right?”

Luke gave a hesitant nod. “I did some weights, too.”

Leo’s eyes flicked to Luke’s arms. They were narrow, pale under his fitted T-shirt, with just a hint of definition at the shoulders—nothing like Leo’s bulging forearms or thick traps that disappeared beneath his shirt straps. “Yeah, man,” Leo said, clearly not believing him. “Cool.”

He slapped a heavy hand on Luke’s shoulder—firm, meaty, warm—and Luke nearly stumbled under the weight of it.

“Dude,” Leo said, his voice practically vibrating with excitement, “get this—the other two roommates? Dropped. One bailed last-minute, the other transferred to some art school.”

Luke’s brows rose. “So… it’s just us?”

Leo leaned back with a laugh, stretching his arms over his head so that his tank rode up, revealing more of the dense trail of body hair that covered his belly and disappeared beneath the waistband of his gym shorts. “Yup. Just the two of us.”

There was a beat of quiet. Luke looked around. The room wasn’t dirty exactly, but Leo’s side already had a kind of messy sprawl to it—half-unpacked boxes, a pile of shirts that looked like they’d been peeled off mid-sweat, a bottle of beard oil next to an empty energy drink can. Luke’s side, meanwhile, was pristine. The bed was still tucked in tight from the summer cleaning crew. Everything smelled faintly of detergent.

Leo clapped his hands once. “Alright, bro. Let’s get you set up!”

—

Luke unpacked quietly, moving with the precision of someone who liked order. He lined his textbooks up by subject, stacked his notebooks by color, and folded his clothes into neat drawers. His toiletries came out last—three razors, a bottle of minimalist cleanser, a soft-bristled toothbrush. All the clean lines and neat scents of a person who lived small, clean, and smooth.

Leo watched from his bed, one thick arm thrown behind his head. He couldn’t stop staring. Luke had always looked good—really good—but up close, in shared space? He looked delicate, almost untouched. His jawline was smooth. His forearms were hairless. Even his neck had that pale, fine-skin look that made Leo’s fingers twitch.

“You shave a lot?” Leo asked, voice casual.

Luke looked over. “Yeah. If I don’t, I get this weird fuzz.”

“Damn. Used to be like that too.”

Luke glanced at Leo’s beard, which was full and dark, curling lightly at the edges. He blinked. “Yours looks… good. Like, really good.”

Leo rubbed it lazily, hiding the way his chest puffed out. “Routine, man. I got some products if you ever wanna try ‘em.”

Luke’s face turned a little pink. “Thanks. I think I’m good for now.”

—

Dinner that night was a buffet-style mess in the dining hall. Luke filled his tray modestly—salad, a little grilled chicken, half a scoop of rice, and a water bottle. Leo stacked his like a linebacker prepping for a second workout. Two cheeseburgers, three scoops of mashed potatoes, chicken tenders, a brownie, a soda, and a banana he forgot about halfway through the meal.

“You always eat like that?” Luke asked, genuinely curious.

Leo grinned around a bite of burger. “Hell yeah. Gotta fuel the gains.”

Luke laughed. “What gains? You already look like you bench press vending machines.”

Leo flexed subtly. “Appreciate that, bro.”

Luke looked down at his own tray. “I used to be chubby, actually. Back in high school. Lost the weight before college.”

Leo’s eyes flicked up. “No way. For real?”

“Yeah,” Luke said, shrugging. “Didn’t like how I looked. So I cut calories and started running.”

Leo set his fork down. “Man, you ever think about bulking up again?”

Luke blinked. “Not really.”

“Dude,” Leo said, leaning in like he was sharing a secret. “You got the frame. You ever wanna grow a little—get thick, scruffy, real manly—I’m your guy.”

Luke’s mouth opened and closed. “You… sound like you’re recruiting me.”

Leo laughed, a little too loud. “Just sayin’! Dorm bros eat together, right?”

—

Later that night, Luke was brushing his teeth in the shared dorm sink when Leo passed by in just boxers and a tank, towel around his neck. Luke tried not to stare, but it was hard to ignore the sheer mass of him—hair-covered thighs, a rounded belly that jiggled just slightly when he moved, and the scent he left in his wake: warm, musky, earthy. Not bad. Just… intense. Like a locker room in the sun. He took up space in a way Luke didn’t. Couldn’t.

By the time Luke climbed into bed, he felt the difference more than ever. His sheets were crisp and cool. His side of the room still smelled faintly of detergent and minty toothpaste. Across from him, Leo had already sprawled out, snoring lightly, arm over his eyes, beard glinting in the light of his charging phone.

What Luke didn’t notice—what he wouldn’t notice for days—was that his razors were gone.

That his old soap had been replaced with one that smelled just a little stronger, a little more like sandalwood and something he couldn’t name.

That Leo had, at some point during the night, adjusted the A/C settings and maybe—just maybe—spritzed the vents with something… special.

But that could wait.

For now, Leo grinned into the dark, quiet room and whispered, “Night, bro.”

Luke, already half-asleep, mumbled, “Night.”

And in the silence that followed, Leo made a silent promise to himself:

He was gonna make this dorm feel like home.

And Luke?

Luke was gonna fit in just fine.

Luke woke up three mornings later with a dull ache in his jaw and a weird taste in his mouth. Not bad, just… different. A little earthy. He sat up slowly, rubbed his eyes, and glanced around the dim room.

Leo was already gone. His bed was empty except for a crater where his body had been, the sheet kicked off, a faint outline of sweat left behind. His desk looked like a snack tornado had hit it—open bag of protein chips, a fork sticking out of a half-eaten tub of peanut butter, a shaker bottle that still smelled vaguely of chocolate and chalky vanilla.

Luke swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, stretching out with a yawn. His T-shirt tugged tight across his chest for a second, and he paused, frowning. Weird. Maybe it shrank in the wash? But he hadn’t washed it yet.

In the mirror above the dorm sink, his reflection looked… the same. Kinda. His jaw looked puffier than usual. His face had always been on the narrower side, especially after losing weight in high school. But now, in the warm, flickering bathroom light, there was a faint shadow under his jaw. Nothing dramatic—more like… definition? Or maybe a puff?

He leaned in closer.

There. Right on the underside of his chin. A few dark hairs. Short, coarse, stubborn-looking.

He blinked.

No way.

He scraped at them with his thumb, but they stayed put. Tiny bristles, like the beginnings of a beard. He reached for his razor automatically—only to find the little toiletry cup empty.

“Huh,” he muttered, rifling through his drawer. Nothing.

That was weird. He definitely brought three.

Behind him, the door creaked open, and Leo’s thick silhouette appeared in the frame. He was carrying two paper bags and a giant iced coffee in each hand. His tank top was damp with sweat around the collar, and his beard looked even fuller today, like it had fluffed up just to say good morning.

“Yo! You up?” he asked, grinning.

Luke turned, awkwardly covering the lower half of his face. “Yeah. Hey, uh—you seen my razors?”

Leo blinked, stepping further in. “Razors?”

“Yeah. I had a few. I think.”

Leo scratched his stomach absently, his shirt lifting to reveal a thick patch of belly hair. “Maybe they got mixed in with my stuff. I’ve got, like, one somewhere… but it’s kind of old.”

Luke frowned, touching his chin again. “It’s fine. I’ll grab some more later.”

Leo shrugged. “No rush, bro. You don’t even need it. Looks good. Got a little stubble comin’ in.”

Luke flushed. “Yeah, it’s just… new.”

“New’s good.” Leo walked over and set a bag on Luke’s desk. “Speaking of—got us breakfast.”

Luke glanced inside. Two bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches stacked in foil, and a greasy paper bag with hash browns. “You didn’t have to—”

“Dude,” Leo said, already unwrapping one of his sandwiches, “this is dorm bonding. Roomies gotta eat.”

Luke hesitated, but the smell hit him hard. Warm, salty, fatty—really good.

He sat down and took a bite. The egg oozed slightly, and the bacon had that perfect crispy-chewy balance. His stomach growled.

Leo leaned back in his chair, watching Luke with casual approval. “Told you. Can’t live off salad and grilled chicken forever.”

Luke laughed through a mouthful. “I don’t just eat that.”

Leo raised an eyebrow, amused. “No? Then what was that sad-ass tray you had on move-in night?”

Luke smiled, embarrassed. “Okay, yeah, but I’ve been trying to stay lean.”

Leo took a long sip of iced coffee, his eyes steady on Luke. “You ever think maybe lean’s overrated?”

Luke blinked. “What?”

“Just sayin’. Guys are always starving themselves to stay cut, and for what? You could bulk up easy. Bet you’d look real good with some size. Like, you got the frame, man. Shoulders, chest. You just need to fill out.”

Luke looked down at himself. His T-shirt did look tighter today. His forearms weren’t any bigger… were they?

“I don’t know,” he said, brushing off the comment. “I like feeling light.”

Leo didn’t push. He just smirked and said, “Suit yourself. I’ll eat your hash brown then.”

Luke immediately reached to grab it. “No, no—I’m finishing it.”

—

The changes were small at first.

By the end of the week, Luke noticed his deodorant wasn’t cutting it the same way. After his usual evening jog, his armpits carried a stronger scent—deeper, almost spicy. Not bad, just… way more there than usual. He scrubbed harder in the shower, but the smell clung to his skin, especially by morning. His sheets picked it up. His pillows. His shirt collars.

He asked Leo about it one night while they were brushing teeth side-by-side.

“You ever feel like your scent gets… stronger?” Luke asked.

Leo smirked, spitting into the sink. “Dude, I’m always musky. Like, you get used to it. Real man smell, y’know?”

Luke made a face. “I don’t think I have man smell.”

Leo gave him a look, and then leaned a little closer—close enough that Luke caught a wave of that warm, earthy scent he always carried, like sweat and cedarwood and something unshowered in a hot way.

“Nah, bro. You do,” he said, voice lower. “It’s subtle, but it’s there. Smells good.”

Luke flushed and looked away. “It’s just new.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Leo said, slapping his shoulder hard enough to make him stumble.

That night, Luke dreamt about heat. Not fire, not discomfort—just heat. Pressed up against something warm, something solid. He woke up covered in sweat and craving eggs and sausage. He ate four that morning and didn’t even realize it until Leo pointed out his plate was empty.

—

By the second week, his shirts were tight across the chest. His stomach looked… fuller? Maybe puffier. But it wasn’t fat, not really. Just solid. His jaw had lost its delicate sharpness, and now a soft curve was starting to form at the base. And the stubble? It was constant now. Darker. Coarser. Every morning, he rubbed at his chin and wondered why it didn’t feel like his own face anymore.

Leo, for his part, was cool as hell about it.

“Oh yeah, you’re totally thickening up,” he said casually one night while Luke reached for a clean shirt. “In a good way. Like, look at that upper back. That’s dorm food magic.”

Luke gave him a look. “I’m probably just bloated.”

Leo shrugged. “Hot bloat. Whatever. You look better.”

Luke paused. “You really think that?”

Leo grinned, but looked away. “Bro. You’ve always looked good.”

Luke didn’t know how to respond to that. He ended up just muttering a thanks and pulling the shirt over his head—struggling slightly as the sleeves caught on his growing upper arms.

Behind him, Leo watched. Quietly. Content.

Everything was going according to plan.

The dorm room stank.

Not in a gross way—well, not to Leo. To him, it was perfect. Thick and hot and real, like sweat-drenched hoodies and two bodies packed with food and testosterone and need. The scent of skin and musk and deep, heavy living. And at the center of it all was Luke.

Luke—who used to be lanky, quiet, barely there. Luke, who now waddled out of the bathroom in nothing but a stretched-to-hell pair of boxer briefs, towel slung over his shoulder, chest hair dripping with steam, beard thick with droplets.

He filled the room.

Broad, round belly bouncing with each step. Arms the size of small hams, slathered in dense, dark hair. Chest like two furry pillows, soft and heavy, sagging slightly from sheer size. His beard was wild now—past his jaw, curling into his collarbone, the same dark brown as the thick fur crawling across his stomach and halfway down his thighs.

And his scent.

Leo nearly groaned.

Luke's body radiated heat, his pits slick and strong, like days of sweat layered over that woodsy shampoo he’d long since adopted. The kind of smell you could taste in your nose. Animal. Thick. The scent of a man who hadn’t used deodorant in weeks and didn’t care.

He scratched his belly absently, standing in front of the mirror, eyes squinting.

“Dude,” he mumbled. “Is it just me, or am I, like… huge?”

Leo, sitting shirtless on the edge of his bed, eyes wide, could barely get his voice out.

“You’re… yeah. You’ve been growin’.”

Luke grunted. “No, I mean like… I think I might be… fatter than you now.”

He turned slightly. His belly slapped against his thigh. A visible jiggle. Leo's eyes tracked every inch of it like he was hypnotized.

“Bro,” Leo said hoarsely, “you might be.”

Luke scratched his beard, frowning. “Weird. I used to be skinny.”

Leo nodded slowly, his voice stuck somewhere between awe and arousal. “You were.”

Luke turned back to the mirror, lifting a beefy arm to sniff his pit. He didn’t flinch.

“I stink,” he said casually. “Like, I didn’t even work out today. Why do I smell this much?”

Leo nearly choked.

“You’ve just been… y’know. Becoming. That’s all.”

Luke looked at him over his shoulder, the gears turning slow behind those foggy eyes.

“Becoming what?”

Leo stood up.

His heart pounded. His belly brushed Luke’s as he stepped close. But now—it was his gut that gave way. Luke’s was firmer. Rounder. Heavier. Leo reached out, unable to stop himself, and laid a hand on it.

“Like me,” he whispered. “But more.”

Luke didn’t move. He blinked slowly, like that hadn’t registered.

Leo’s other hand went to Luke’s waist. Hair met hair, thick curls brushing like velcro. His fingers slipped under the curve of that soft, hairy gut, cupping it, stroking the skin gently.

“You’re bigger than me now,” Leo said, voice thick with breath. “Hairier, too. Smellier. You even sound dumber lately, not gonna lie.”

Luke huffed, slow and dopey. “I feel kinda dumb.”

Leo leaned in. “You’re perfect.”

There was a knock at the door.

Both of them froze.

“Yo!” someone called. It was Brian—one of Luke’s old friends. “You in there, man? We’re heading to the dining hall.”

Luke scratched his beard and waddled to the door. He opened it without thinking.

Brian stepped back.

“Dude—whoa. You’ve been bulking or something?”

Luke scratched his chest, shirtless and unbothered, his hairy belly peeking over his waistband.

“I guess.”

Brian stared, eyes wide. “You’re like… way bigger than Leo now. You’re huge. And Jesus, bro—you reek.”

Luke just grinned.

Leo, standing behind him, was staring too—like he couldn’t believe this was real.

Luke looked down at himself, then at Leo.

Then he reached back, grabbed a fistful of Leo’s shirt, and yanked him forward. Their bellies slapped together. Beard to beard. Sweat to sweat.

He kissed him.

Hot. Heavy. Greedy.

Leo froze—then melted. His hands slid around Luke’s back, gripping folds of flesh, fingers lost in thick hair. He moaned into the kiss, tongue meeting tongue, both of them sloppy and starved. Luke growled—a deep, dumb sound in his throat—and ground his gut against Leo’s, pinning him against the wall like a furnace.

Brian was gone. The door had been slammed shut at some point. Neither of them cared.

Leo gasped, pulling back for air, hands still stroking Luke’s lower back, brushing over the swell of his hairy ass.

“You—god—Luke, you don’t even know how long I—”

“Shh,” Luke murmured, pressing a finger to Leo’s lips. “Don’t care. Just wanna stay like this. Just wanna be like this.”

Leo groaned. “You are. You’re everything. I didn’t think it’d work so well. You’re bigger, you’re smellier—fuck, you stink so good—you’re so damn hot, man.”

Luke beamed, stupid and flushed and sweaty. “You made me.”

Leo kissed him again, slower this time. Lips and beard. Tongue and breath. Heavy hands stroking thick, hairy skin. The air around them humid with heat and man-musk.

Two fat, sweaty, bearded boys tangled up together, chests heaving, guts pressing, the scent of shared lust and long-time want finally exploding into something real.

And in that mess of heat and hair and soft grunts, Luke realized something:

He didn’t miss being skinny.

Didn’t miss clean showers or tight jeans or worrying about smelling good.

He liked this.

He liked himself.

And most of all, he liked Leo—who kissed like he meant it, who made him like this, who’d wanted him even before he’d changed.

Now they were just two giant, hairy, musky piles of man pressed together in a room that reeked of food and sweat and love.

And they wouldn’t have it any other way.

[19ryan17]

Trent and Griff

Griff didn’t even want to go to the damn party.

He was just trying to survive junior year. Keep his head down, pass calc, maybe finally grow into his clothes. Instead, he found himself stuck in the back row of Chemistry next to Trent fucking Bennett—the only guy who made gym shorts look obscene in the winter. Built like a linebacker, voice like a truck engine, and eyes that made people forget how to talk.

And for whatever reason, Trent had made Griff his little project.

“You’re not getting in like that,” Trent muttered one day, eyeing Griff’s scrawny arms and oversized hoodie like it offended him. “They’ll laugh you out of the front lawn.”

Griff blinked. “What are you talking about?”

Trent just smirked, leaning back in his seat. “Don’t worry about it.”

Griff should’ve known. That was the beginning.

The next week, things started… shifting.

It was subtle at first. A weird tingling in his jaw. His face felt warmer all the time, like sunburn under his skin. When he looked in the mirror, he thought he saw the shadow of a jawline where his usual soft chin used to be. He figured he was imagining it.

Then he started sweating. Like, a lot.

During gym, his shirt would stick to his back, and he caught himself sniffing his armpit one day in the locker room. Muskier. Not bad, just... strong. One of his friends even wrinkled his nose and joked, “Dude, you get hit by a raccoon or something?”

But when Griff caught Trent’s gaze from across the locker room—watching him—he didn’t say anything. Just flushed and pulled his hoodie tighter around himself.

It was week three when Trent invited himself over.

They were playing video games in Griff’s room, sprawled out on beanbags, Griff in his usual hoodie and sweats. Trent, naturally, had his hoodie off, hairy forearms out, that ever-present smell of deodorant mixed with musk just thick in the air.

Griff shifted awkwardly. “Dude, when did you get so into fighting games?”

Trent just gave him a look. “You suck at them. That’s why I’m here.”

Griff was mid-snort when Trent suddenly reached over and grabbed his jaw.

“What the—”

Trent turned Griff’s face, his thumb stroking over Griff’s cheek.

“You’re getting stubble.”

Griff froze. “No I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

He bolted to the mirror.

And—holy shit. He was. Not just stubble. He had the start of a beard. His upper lip had dark fuzz, his jawline had bristles. His neck was scratchy. He rubbed at it, confused.

“I never—dude, this is like, months too early.”

“Maybe you’re just a late bloomer,” Trent said casually, still lounging like this wasn’t insane.

Griff didn’t sleep that night. His voice had dropped too. A little raspier. A little lower.

By week five, Griff’s shirt didn’t fit.

His arms filled the sleeves out in a way that looked... jockish. His chest felt tight in everything. He had a little gut now, just soft enough to jiggle when he ran. And the hair. Fuck. His belly was fuzzed over. His pits were growing into little forests.

He’d been shaving daily. It didn’t help. The fur just came back thicker, darker, spreading down his legs and over his shoulders.

Even his scent had changed. He smelled like Trent. Sweaty, aggressive, hot-boy odor. People kept commenting.

“Damn Griff, you hit puberty or something?”

“Bro, you need to lay off the protein shakes. You’re starting to stink.”

“You smell like the gym.”

But Trent? Trent just smirked every time.

“You think it’s hot, don’t you?” Griff said one day, halfway teasing. But his voice cracked low, deep, almost seductive.

Trent didn’t answer.

The breakdown came the day Griff found a hair growing on his shoulder blade.

“What the fuck is happening to me?” he hissed at his reflection, his once-smooth body now covered in a messy patchwork of fur. His face had scruff even after shaving, his voice was like gravel, and he could feel the way his body jiggled when he moved.

He texted Trent:

"come over now. emergency."

They were back on the floor of Griff’s room, controllers abandoned.

Griff was pacing, breathing heavy, sweating even though it wasn’t hot. His gut pushed against his waistband. His tank top (when did he even start wearing tank tops?) clung to his hairy chest. He reeked of BO and body spray.

“I—I don’t know what’s happening, man. I feel like I’m turning into—fuck—I dunno. Some kinda dumbass jock or something. I can’t stop sweating. I have to shave every goddamn day. I smell like I haven’t washed my gym bag in a month—”

“Griff.”

Trent stood up.

Griff kept talking. “And I don’t even mind anymore when people say shit, which is fucked! I looked in the mirror this morning and thought, ‘hey, not bad,’ and I just—"

Trent grabbed him.

Pushed him hard against the wall.

Griff gasped.

Trent leaned in, hot breath against his ear.

“You wanna know what’s going on?” he growled.

Then—BAM—he shoved Griff’s face straight into his armpit.

Griff struggled at first, muffled and shocked. But then—

That smell. That fucking smell. Thick, ripe, drenched in Trent’s sweat. Animalistic. Heavy with pheromones. Griff’s brain shut down. Every thought drowned in musk.

He moaned.

Like actually moaned.

Something inside him clicked. Broke. Snapped like a stretched jockstrap.

He liked this. He wanted this. He wanted to smell like this every day. He wanted to be hairy and jiggly and sweaty and dumb. He wanted Trent to shove him into walls and make out with him until he couldn’t think straight.

He yanked back from Trent’s pit, panting. “Do it.”

Trent blinked. “Do what?”

Griff grinned, wild and flushed. “Fucking kiss me.”

They made out hard. Hands roaming, mouths hot and hungry, Griff grinding his thickening body against Trent like he was starving. Every inch of him was buzzing. Hairier. Smellier. Dumber. Hornier.

And Trent?

Trent just held him tight and whispered, “Told you you’d get in.”

They didn’t even make it downstairs for like an hour.

Griff was straddling Trent on the floor of his bedroom, their clothes half-on, half-off, the air practically dripping with boysmell. Every inch of Griff’s thicker frame was sticky, musky, and desperate. His body hair was full-on fur now—coarse curls down his chest, across his belly, even along his arms. His thighs felt like shag carpet. His voice had sunk so low it was basically a growl.

And he couldn’t stop smiling.

“You good?” Trent asked, brushing a sweaty lock of Griff’s hair off his forehead.

“I wanna suck your pits,” Griff blurted.

Trent laughed, a deep chuckle that made Griff grind harder.

“Later, dumbass. We got a club to hit.”

It took Griff three shirts before he found one that kinda fit. His body had gone full ex-jock-on-spring-break: thick arms, rounded belly, hairy chest peeking out from the collar. Nothing hugged him right. Everything was too tight or not tight enough.

Trent tossed him one of his own old tank tops. “Try this.”

It fit.

No, it clung. To his pecs. His gut. His newly grown lats.

"You look like you smell like Cheetos and bad decisions," Trent grinned.

Griff smirked. “I do.”

Club Pheromone wasn’t just any place. It was barely legal, half-underground, and you had to look the part. Trent always did—fitted jeans, muscles for days, that cocky sway in his walk.

Griff had never even been close to getting in.

But tonight?

Bouncer looked him up and down, gave a knowing sniff.

“Yo, you with him?” He nodded at Trent.

“Yeah.”

“You smell like him. You’re good.”

Griff’s stomach did a backflip.

The place was packed. Shirtless guys grinding under neon lights, sweaty, nasty, beautiful in the filthiest way. The air was thick with cologne and body spray and unwashed tank tops.

Griff fit right in.

And Trent knew everyone.

Scene: Club Bathroom

They hadn’t even been inside fifteen minutes when Griff dragged Trent into the grimy club bathroom.

“I need—fuck—I need to do something,” Griff groaned, adjusting his junk through his jeans, which had definitely gotten tighter.

“Dude, relax,” Trent said, grinning. “You’re just on. You feelin’ it?”

Griff nodded, panting. “Yeah, but I can’t stop—wanting you.”

Trent slammed him into the stall wall, kissed him hard, his hand sliding under Griff’s tank and gripping a handful of furry love handle.

Griff whined.

He didn’t care who heard.

The Change Continues

That night lit a fuse.

The next few weeks were chaos. Griff started skipping classes. He showed up to school in beat-up slides and pit-stained tanks. He kept a stick of deodorant in his backpack but rarely used it. “Trent likes me ripe,” he’d say, grinning stupidly. Teachers started calling his name and getting confused when a deep, groggy voice answered.

His friends couldn’t believe it. “Bro, you reek.”

He’d just sniff his pits, grin, and shrug. “Hot, right?”

His shoulders spread wider. His belly puffed out into a soft dome. His thighs rubbed when he walked. He gave up shaving. His beard grew in thick and wild. Chest hair peeked out the collar of every shirt. He sweat more. Farted more. Got dumber.

Words started dropping out of his sentences.

“Yo Trent,” he mumbled one afternoon, “you seen my...uh...thingy? The controller thingy?”

“You mean the remote?”

“Yeah. That.”

Trent just kissed his cheek. “Still hot.”

Scene: The Locker Room

Trent had dragged Griff to lift at his buddy’s garage gym.

Griff didn’t do much lifting. Just stood there in soaked gray shorts, tank top clinging to his pits, gut hanging over his waistband.

One of the guys sniffed. “Jesus, man. You get sprayed by a skunk or something?”

Griff just flexed his arm—soft but huge—and grinned.

“Nah, just natural, bro.”

Trent pulled him close and whispered, “You smell like a locker room floor. I fuckin’ love it.”

Scene: Jock House Vibes

Trent had his own place. It was basically a jock frat den: Empty protein tubs stacked like trophies. The couch smelled like old socks and body spray. Griff’s clothes were always on the floor. Mostly just underwear. Sometimes just socks.

They played games shirtless. Ate frozen burritos straight off the tray. Took turns sniffing each other’s pits.

Griff would sometimes fall asleep mid-sentence, half on top of Trent, drooling into his chest hair.

Griff stood in the mirror one night, drunk on Trent’s scent and whatever cheap beer they’d cracked.

He was massive. Hairy as hell. Jiggly and stupid and high on his own smell.

“Fuck, man,” he whispered. “I’m so gross now.”

Trent walked up behind him, shirtless, arms around his waist.

“You’re perfect.”

Griff leaned into him. “You really think so?”

Trent licked his ear. “You were always mine. Just had to pull the jock outta you.”

They made out against the mirror. Griff pressed his belly into Trent, rutting, moaning, so far gone it was almost animal.

He didn’t even notice when he called himself a “dumb, hairy bitch” and Trent moaned.

Griff dropped out of school. Moved in full-time with Trent. Spent his days gaming, grunting, eating junk, and smelling like an old gym bag.

He never wore a shirt.

Every time they hit the club, guys made way. Griff would grab Trent’s ass, growl in his ear, grope him under the lights.

He was home.

And Trent? He just smirked, licked Griff’s neck, and whispered, “Told you you’d get in.”

[19ryan17]

Ryan's Team

Part One -----------------------------------------------------------------

It started with a crisis.

Ryan Burke, star running back and walking Greek statue of Roosevelt State University, was pissed. Not in a punch-the-locker kind of way. He was just sitting in the locker room with his arms folded tight across his sweaty chest, jaw grinding, eyeing the crumpled practice schedule on the bench like it owed him money.

“This is so fucking stupid,” he muttered.

“Dude,” said Josh, wide receiver, tugging his jockstrap into place, “We lost five linemen. Five. You want Coach to just draft nerds off the quad?”

“No,” Ryan said, cracking his neck, “I want guys who don’t care about class, who don’t mind being huge and disgusting. We need new blood. Bigger guys. Hairy-ass, nasty, growling monsters.”

Trevor, the linebacker with the permanent mustard stain on his hoodie, piped up from his locker, “Bro, the team used to stink. Literally. Like swampy pits and locker room BO 24/7. I miss that. Now? Everyone’s cutting carbs and shaving their pits. We’re soft.”

Ryan grunted. “No one wants to commit to it anymore. Guys don’t wanna change.”

Josh blinked. “Wait... what if we make ‘em change?”

Ryan turned slowly. “Explain.”

“You know the Musk Plan,” Trevor snorted. “We joke about it every year. Pick a weak dude, bulk him up, stink him out, make him one of us.”

Ryan actually smiled. “Yeah, but what if we actually do it?”

The locker room fell into silence. Just the steady drip from the ceiling vent and the faint, ever-present funk of post-practice sweat hanging in the air.

Ryan leaned forward, elbows on knees, voice low. “We pick someone small. Someone who's around us all the time. Someone who wouldn’t notice at first. Get in their head. Get in their gut. They start putting on weight, growing hair in places they didn’t know could grow it. Maybe they even start to like it.”

Trevor burped. “Who?”

Ryan grinned. “I’ve got two names.”

Luke and Sam were the kind of roommates who kept their fridge way too clean.

Sam was tidy, organized, and way too into graphic design. His idea of fun was making custom fonts and rating the foam on local coffees. Luke, by comparison, was a little looser—still neat, but the kind of guy who’d forget to clip his nails for two weeks and then be shocked when he clicked his mouse too hard and it cracked.

They weren’t jocks. They weren’t cool. But they weren’t losers either. They’d carved out a quiet, nerdy space for themselves. Sam designed club posters. Luke worked sound for the campus radio station. They had a system: bagels on Saturdays, “reality TV with beer” on Thursdays, and Sundays were for sleeping in and mutual judgment over who skipped class the most that week.

But that was before Ryan Burke—sun-kissed, alpha, walking BO fantasy—showed up.

It started on a random Thursday.

Ryan had walked into the dining hall like he owned the place, which he kind of did. Guys clapped his back. Girls flipped their hair. Even the lunch lady gave him an extra scoop of mashed potatoes with a wink.

Luke was in line, wearing a stretched-out Pokémon hoodie and some threadbare joggers.

“Hey,” Ryan said, nudging his tray up next to him, “You’re in my Econ class, right?”

Luke blinked. “Uh… yeah?”

“You do soundboard stuff too, right?”

Luke nodded again, eyes darting. Ryan was right there, muscles packed under a tank top, a sheen of sweat still on his neck from practice, smelling like cheap cologne and something muskier underneath. Luke tried not to breathe too deeply.

“You ever go to games?” Ryan asked.

Luke shook his head. “Not really a sports guy.”

Ryan grinned, slow and wide. “You will be.”

Sam didn’t think much of it when Luke mentioned Ryan the first time.

“Ran into Ryan today,” he said, half-buried in a bag of chips. “Big dude. Smelled like a locker room. Kinda funny.”

Sam raised a brow. “Funny how?”

“I dunno,” Luke shrugged, “He kept asking about what I eat. Said I had ‘a build.’”

Sam laughed. “A build for what, the equipment bench?”

Luke chuckled too, but his ears were red.

A week later, Ryan was sitting on their couch.

No warning. Just there. Shirtless, hairy legs spread, sockless feet propped up on their IKEA table like it belonged to him. Sam came back from class and nearly tripped over a football cleat in the hallway.

“Oh hey, man,” Ryan said, not moving, “You must be Sam. Luke talks about you.”

“Cool,” Sam said, because what else could he say?

Ryan stayed for dinner. Stayed for dessert. Left his gym bag on the floor and promised to “grab it later,” which somehow meant never.

Two weeks after that, they were dating.

Luke told Sam over pancakes, as casual as if he were talking about a midterm.

“So… Ryan and I kinda made out last night.”

Sam blinked, mid-bite. “Wait, what?”

“Yeah,” Luke scratched his cheek. “We were watching that stupid car crash reality show and he leaned over and kissed me.”

Sam didn’t know what to say. Ryan? Like that Ryan?

After that, Ryan was always around.

Sometimes sweaty from practice. Sometimes just waking up from a nap on their couch. Luke started dressing different. More tank tops. Less socks. Sometimes he’d go out to “get food” and come back with an entire tray of burritos, saying Ryan had “a craving.”

Sam noticed little things.

Like how Luke’s shirts seemed to fit tighter lately, clinging around his arms and chest. How he was constantly scratching his belly or tugging the neck of his shirt away from his throat.

And once—just once—Sam walked into the living room early from class and caught Ryan and Luke on the couch.

Ryan had his big meaty hand under Luke’s shirt, palm pressed to his stomach. Luke’s head was tilted back, eyes half-lidded, a low moan caught in his throat as Ryan stroked at the soft curve of his gut.

And Luke... he had a little mustache now.

Just a hint. Barely there. But Sam noticed.

Ryan kissed it, and Luke shivered.

That night Ryan walked into the kitchen, cracking open a cold one and handing Luke a burger the size of his face.

“You’re looking good, man,” he said, running a hand down Luke’s back. “Starting to fill out.” He groped Luke's now slightly puffy midsection.

Luke grinned through a mouthful of meat. "Thanks babe."

Ryan sat down next to him, forcing the rest of the burger into Luke's mouth. He then licked the sauce around his mouth and kissed him.

Luke moaned and started to feel his crotch stiffen. Ryan let his hands travel over Luke's bigger body, feeling the start of a gut and big pecs.

Part Two -----------------------------------------------------------------

Luke wasn’t one to skip showers.

In fact, if Sam had to describe his roommate in one word, it’d be “tidy.” Luke shaved almost every morning, folded his shirts military-style, and used unscented soap because anything else was “too much.” But about two weeks into his thing with Ryan, Sam started noticing something.

Luke’s towels? They weren’t drying right.

At first, Sam thought it was the ventilation in the bathroom. But the smell wasn’t mildew. It was… something stronger. A little sour. Musky. Thick. Luke didn’t notice. He’d step out of the shower, humming to himself, hair slicked back, water running in rivulets over his skin—and leave behind a heat, a scent that lingered like fog.

Sam didn’t say anything.

He told himself it was all in his head.

Luke was eating more.

Like, a lot more.

Burgers for lunch and dinner. Leftovers at midnight. Bags of chips, greasy breakfast sandwiches, triple-meat pizzas. He’d munch during study sessions, eat between classes, constantly unwrapping something with one hand while the other cradled his phone.

It crept up slowly.

First his cheeks looked a little fuller. Then there was that one morning where Sam caught Luke tugging down the hem of his tee.

“Shirt shrank in the wash,” he grumbled.

But it hadn’t. Sam knew because it was his shirt, and Luke had borrowed it clean from the basket. It stretched tight across Luke’s belly, hugging it just enough to show a curve forming. His chest looked puffier too, not muscle—just soft, rounded, like the beginnings of a doughy shelf.

And then there was the trail.

Barely visible at first. Just a faint dusting of dark hairs under his belly button. Luke didn’t notice. He’d pull his shirt up absentmindedly when he was full, scratch his gut, then let it fall again. Sam saw it though. Every time. That hair thickened by the day.

“Dude, you’re eating like Trevor,” Sam joked one night as Luke housed his third grilled cheese.

Luke wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What? I’ve just been hungry lately.”

Ryan, sprawled on the couch behind him, smirked. “He’s got a jock’s metabolism now.”

Luke chuckled and elbowed him. “Guess I gotta hit the gym.”

“You’re getting stronger,” Ryan murmured in his ear. “You’ll fill out nice.”

Luke turned red.

Sam noticed the way Luke leaned into it.

The next thing to go was the shaving.

Luke used to keep a clean face—maybe a little peach fuzz, but nothing serious. But now, he’d forget to shave for days. And then weeks. His upper lip sprouted a faint line of hair, darker every time Sam looked.

One morning, Luke came out of the bathroom scratching his chin.

“You ever get that itchy stubble phase?” he asked, rubbing the underside of his jaw.

Sam looked up from his laptop. “You… growing a beard?”

Luke shrugged. “I dunno. Ryan said he likes it.”

Sure enough, there it was: a little patchy at first, mostly around the chin and jawline. But the 'stache was there. Dark and fuzzy, curling slightly at the edges like it couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. Then came the goatee—thicker, rougher—and before long, Sam noticed the shine of oil clinging to coarse whiskers. It wasn’t patchy anymore. His cheeks had started to fill out, the fuzz spreading like moss along his jaw, dense and dark.

He was getting beardy.

Sam tried not to stare, but he started tracking the changes. He had to. Something was happening to Luke, and no one else seemed to notice. Especially not Ryan, who just kept smirking like this was all part of some long game.

It started with a slight belly bulge. It started small—barely a roundness under the hoodie. Sam only saw it because Luke’s shirt rode up when he reached for chips. And that mustache shadow? It wasn’t a trick of the light. It was legit. Then, his voice cracked mid-sentence while he was on the phone. Not dramatically, not cartoonish—but it dipped, just enough to make Sam blink. Gone was the high, tight energy in his tone. There was a sluggish warmth now, like molasses. Less “Luke the nerd,” more “Luke the lineman.” Soon the leg hair arrived with a vengeance. Sam caught a glimpse when Luke kicked off his sneakers one afternoon. Thick black tufts had sprouted just above his socks, curling out in every direction. “Dude, when did your legs get that hairy?” Sam had asked, half-joking. Luke just grinned and shrugged. “Dunno, always been that way, right?”

He said it like he believed it.

Then Luke seemed to stop showering. That’s when it got real. It started subtle—just a hint of musk clinging to the couch after Luke left the room. But it built up, week by week. The kind of humid, ripe scent that lingered under the armpits and settled into the upholstery. Sam started cracking windows. Luke stopped caring.

By then, Luke had grown thicker—like his whole body was swelling with some lazy power. His belly pressed against his waistband now, jiggling slightly when he moved. His shirts started creeping up, riding higher on his gut, revealing a stretch of newly fuzzy lower back. He didn't seem to notice—or care.

Sam did.

And Ryan? Ryan would just lounge nearby, watching with this smug little smile as Luke scratched his belly and let out a slow belch mid-sentence, brain clearly stuck in second gear. Sometimes Ryan would toss him a greasy burger or a protein shake with that same tone people use when they’re feeding a dog a treat.

“Atta boy,” he’d mutter, like Luke had done something impressive just by existing fatter and dumber than the day before.

Sam pretended not to notice. Acted like none of it mattered.

But he kept tracking the changes. Every belly shake. Every deeper grunt. Every new patch of hair curling across Luke’s skin.

Because whatever Ryan was doing, it was working.

And Luke… he was starting to like it.

“Jesus, you smell like the weight room,” Sam blurted.

Luke lifted his arm and sniffed his pit. “Damn. Guess I forgot deodorant.”

But Sam saw it—dense, dark armpit hair spilling from the sleeve like wild ivy.

He watched Luke scratch, slow and lazy, letting out a soft burp.

They stopped doing laundry as often.

Luke started leaving clothes everywhere—on the floor, on the couch, balled up in the bathroom. And they reeked. Musky. Sweaty. Used. But Luke didn’t seem to care. In fact, sometimes he’d pull on the same pair of sweats three days in a row.

Ryan thought it was hilarious.

“Jocks don’t need fresh clothes,” he’d say, ruffling Luke’s thickening hair. “Just sweat and stink.”

Luke didn’t argue.

By mid-semester, Luke’s belly had outgrown half his wardrobe.

He kept tugging down his shirts, trying to make them stretch, but they’d ride up anyway—exposing more of his round gut, now dusted in thick, curly hair. His chest hair was blooming too, creeping up his pecs and out the neck of his shirts.

Sam caught him standing at the mirror one morning, one hand under his shirt, palm pressed to his belly.

“Getting kinda big, huh?” Luke muttered.

“You, uh… like it?”

Luke glanced over his shoulder, surprised. “Yeah, I guess. Ryan likes to grab it. Says it’s real jock material.”

Sam didn’t reply. His heart was pounding.

Luke’s voice was deep now. Lazy. Drawling.

There was a stretch mark curving just under his love handle.

The final nail was the feet.

Luke had always had small feet. Size 9, tops. But now? He was stretching out Sam’s flip-flops.

“Dude,” Sam said, “What the hell?”

Luke grinned, lifting one foot. It was broader, hairier, toes thick and slightly swollen like he’d been stuffing them in too-tight shoes.

“Ryan says my whole body’s bulking,” Luke said, like it was obvious. “You think I should get new socks? These keep tearing.”

Sam just stared.

One night, Sam couldn’t sleep.

He wandered to the kitchen for water—and heard giggling from the living room.

He peeked.

There was Luke, shirtless, lounging on Ryan’s lap. His gut was out. Full and round. Ryan had one hand stroking the thick forest of belly hair, the other scratching behind Luke’s ear like a dog.

Luke let out a groan, low and breathy.

And Ryan? He leaned in and kissed Luke’s mustache.

“You’re turning out perfect,” he whispered.

Part Three ---------------------------------------------------------------

Sam had been sweating more lately. He could feel it clinging under his arms, a humid dampness that lingered even after showering. It wasn’t just the sweat. His undershirt clung tighter across his chest than it used to, the seams digging into his sides by midday. His face felt prickly constantly, like there was always a faint shadow no matter how recently he shaved. But it was the smell—the strange, overpowering musk that Luke now carried with him everywhere—that was really messing with Sam’s head.

Luke had changed. Sam didn’t need a magnifying glass to see it. He used to be his skinny, clean-cut best friend—neurotic about his hygiene, weirdly proud of his hairless chest. But now? Luke waddled around campus in stretched-out gym shorts and stained tank tops, burping through half his sentences and scratching his thick new gut like it was second nature. The guy hadn’t shaved in weeks, probably months. His face was covered in a dense patchy beard, his upper lip crowned with a thick, greasy mustache that twitched every time he laughed at something stupid. His chin had practically vanished under the bulk of new weight and coarse hair.

And the smell. God, the smell. Luke reeked. It hit Sam like a slap every time they hung out. That thick, manly, sour musk that clung to Luke like a second skin—armpits, belly folds, even his breath. Luke didn’t seem to notice or care. He’d just fart, laugh about it, and keep talking about protein powder and “hitting legs.”

Something was wrong.

Sam had chalked it all up to Ryan at first. Ever since Luke started dating the cocky jock, he’d started acting different. It wasn’t immediate. Ryan was charming, a little dumb maybe, but confident. And Luke, bless him, had never dated anyone before. He’d fallen hard. At first it was cute—Ryan bringing him burgers after class, Luke trying on tank tops to impress him. But then came the weight. The hair. The smells.

And Luke didn’t even seem to notice.

“Dude,” Sam had said once, trying to be chill about it. “You ever, uh, think about shaving again?”

Luke blinked. “Why? Ryan likes it. Says it makes me look ‘grown.’” He chuckled dumbly. “Plus, it’s kinda hot, right?” He lifted his arm and gave a flex, revealing a jungle of matted pit hair soaked into the fabric of his tank. Sam nearly gagged.

So Sam decided it was time. He had to confront Ryan.

The walk to Ryan’s dorm was a blur. Sam’s shirt felt too tight, the sleeves digging into his softening arms. He kept tugging at it, aware of the way his belly was starting to bulge ever so slightly over the waistband of his jeans. He hadn’t eaten anything crazy—at least, not that crazy—but his appetite had been out of control lately. Just being near Luke made him hungry. For food. For... something else.

Luke lumbered beside him, slurping a protein shake between burps.

“Dude,” he said around a belch, “Ryan’s makin’ wings tonight. Smells soooo good.”

“Luke,” Sam said, exasperated, “We’re not going to eat. We’re going to talk to Ryan. Something weird is happening, man. You don’t notice how... different you are?”

Luke scratched his stomach with a lazy smirk. “Guess I’m bulking, bro.”

Sam rolled his eyes.

They arrived at Ryan’s door, the scent of fried meat and musky jock sweat thick in the air. Luke didn’t knock. He just barged in like he owned the place.

Ryan was sitting on the bed, shirtless, glistening with sweat, his golden-tanned muscles flexing lazily as he lounged back. The room smelled rank—a mixture of old socks, fried food, and BO. Sam almost choked.

“Yo,” Luke said, flopping onto the couch and immediately scratching his chest through his tank top. “What’s up, stud?”

Ryan chuckled. “Just waitin’ on my boys.”

Sam crossed his arms. “We need to talk.”

Ryan stood slowly, like a panther stretching. “Sam. Buddy. You look... bigger.”

Sam stiffened. “Don’t play games with me. Something’s wrong with Luke. And I think you did something.”

Ryan shrugged. “He looks fine to me. Healthy. Confident. Hot, even.” He stepped forward, his bare feet padding across the grimy floor. “What’s the problem?”

“You’re changing him. And I think it’s happening to me too.” Sam’s voice cracked, deeper than expected. He cleared his throat.

Ryan smirked. “Maybe it’s just... catching.”

He lunged.

Before Sam could move, Ryan grabbed him and yanked his face hard into his musky, swampy armpit. The thick hair smothered Sam’s nose, and the scent hit like a punch to the brain—sour, salty, manly, feral. Sam struggled, but Ryan held him there, rubbing his sweaty pit deeper over Sam’s face.

“Breathe it in, bro,” Ryan growled. “You’re one of us now.”

Sam groaned. It hit his gut like hunger. His skin flushed. His whole body prickled with heat. He felt it.

His belly gurgled, swelling outward inch by inch, pressing tight against his shirt. His arms thickened, fuzzing over with dark hair. His face tingled—a mustache pushing out, thick and greasy. Then his chin itched furiously, filling in with dark scruff that thickened fast into a scraggly beard. His shirt ripped at the seams as his chest ballooned forward with fat and muscle.

His feet burst out of his sneakers, toes thickening, toenails yellowing slightly as hair sprouted across his knuckles and the tops of his feet. He let out a burp, deep and gurgly, followed by a lazy laugh.

“Ughhhh... bro...” he moaned. “I’m gettin’... fat...”

Luke clapped. “Welcome to the bulk, man.”

Sam stumbled back, rubbing his hairy gut. His mind was slower, fuzzier. He could feel the dumb spreading in like fog. He liked the smell. He liked being sweaty.

Then he turned toward Ryan with a feral grin.

“Let’s get our boy finished.”

They tackled Ryan.

Ryan yelled, but he was laughing too. “Guys! Hey! I’m not—HEY!”

Luke yanked his head back and sat hard on his face, grinding his swampy, sweat-soaked ass across Ryan’s nose.

Sam rubbed his own pit, working up the stink, then pressed it to Ryan’s chest.

“You did this,” he muttered. “Now it’s your turn.”

Ryan groaned. His whole body convulsed.

It started at his abs. One by one, they softened, puffing outward, then disappearing under a soft new layer of fat. His pecs sagged slightly, then jiggled. His jawline faded under the slow crawl of a thick, dark beard that crept out like mold. His armpit hair doubled in density and color, stinking up instantly. His feet cracked and grew longer, hair bursting from his toes.

“Noooo... ughhh... I’m gettin’... gross...” Ryan muttered, his voice deepening with each breath. “Smell so bad...”

Sam and Luke just laughed.

“You’re hot now, bro,” Luke said, slapping Ryan’s belly as it surged outward with another burp.

When it was done, Ryan was barely recognizable. His once golden skin was now sweaty, pimpled, and flushed. He was massive—easily 300 pounds—covered in dense dark hair, from his thick chest to his round belly and down to his bloated, sweaty feet. His beard was unkempt and tangled, his mustache curling over his lips. He stank like a gym locker on fire.

“Ughhh... bros...” he moaned. “I’m... hungry.”

Luke grinned. “There’s wings in the kitchen.”

They all waddled off, bellies rumbling, sweat trailing in their wake.

They were dumb. Hairy. Fat. And happy.

Forever jock bros.

Part 4 ---------------------------------------------------------------

The air in the locker room was thick with sweat and old body spray. Ethan, Bryan, and Jake had just wrapped up a grueling afternoon practice—alone. Again. Their cleats thudded against the tiled floors as they wandered toward the coach’s office.

“Where the hell is Ryan?” Ethan muttered, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow and tossing his helmet into his locker.

“Seriously,” Bryan chimed in, stretching his thick neck from side to side. “That’s the third time this week he’s skipped out. Coach is gonna lose it.”

Jake shrugged, reaching into his gym bag and grabbing a protein shake. “You think it’s got something to do with Luke? I saw them hanging out a lot last week. Luke’s looking... different.”

Ethan snorted. “You mean fat? Hairy? Dude looks like he ate a lumberjack.”

“Whatever,” Jake muttered. “I say we go check his dorm. Get him back in gear.”

With a shared nod, the three left the locker room, cleats still clacking, not bothering to change. They marched across campus, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows.

The scent hit them before the door opened. Thick. Musky. Like sweat baked into a couch for years.

“Dude... what is that?” Bryan said, recoiling.

Jake made a face. “Smells like someone’s cooking socks and B.O.”

Ethan pounded on the door. “RYAN! Open up, man!”

Silence. Then, shuffling footsteps. The door creaked open—just a crack—and an ungodly belch rolled through the gap. Jake gagged.

“What the actual fu—”

The door swung open fully, and all three of them froze.

There, lounging shirtless on the couch, were Ryan, Luke, and Sam.

All three were massive. Not muscular. Massive. Their thick hairy guts spilled out over stretched athletic shorts, and sweat glistened on their dense body hair. Ryan had a thick brown beard now, curling under his chin and coated in crumbs from what looked like half a pizza box. His chest hair connected in a solid pelt to his belly, and he scratched his belly with one hand while the other held a can of beer.

Sam, no longer small or clean-shaven, had the thickest back hair of the three. He leaned forward to grab a chicken wing, his gut pushing his thighs apart. His neck had disappeared under a thickening double chin, and his voice was several octaves deeper than before.

Luke had gone fully feral. A dense forest of hair covered his chest and arms, his legs were like two tree trunks, and he was idly stroking a patch of belly hair with one hand while finishing off a carton of fries.

“Oh shit,” Ethan breathed.

“Bros!” Ryan grinned, mouth full. “Come in! We saved y’all some wings.”

None of the three moved.

“You guys look...” Bryan whispered. “Different.”

“Better,” Sam belched, rubbing his gut. “So much better.”

“C’mon, sit down,” Luke grunted, patting a seat on the couch. “Let’s chill.”

Ethan took a cautious step in. The smell was worse now—so strong it was nearly visible. Sweat, grease, and musk rolled off the couch in waves.

Bryan followed, nose wrinkled. “Ryan, man, what happened to you?”

“Just got upgraded, bro,” Ryan chuckled, taking a long swig of beer and letting out a thundering belch. “No more stress. Just eat, sweat, and hang with the bros.”

Jake looked Ryan up and down. “Dude... you’re, like, huge. And hairy.”

“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” Sam smirked.

As the three former jocks sat awkwardly on the other couch, something started to shift. Subtly. But unmistakably.

Bryan scratched his stomach. “Weird. I feel hot.”

Ethan yawned, rubbing his eyes. “Yeah. Me too. Sweaty. Like... more than usual.”

Jake frowned and looked down. “My socks feel tight. Are my feet swelling?”

The room seemed to hum with a heavy energy. The couch cushions squished under their weight, heavier than just minutes ago.

Ethan shifted, pulling at his jersey. “Ugh, my pits are soaked. What the hell?”

Sam leaned over, sniffed dramatically. “Damn, bro. You’re ripe. Smellin’ like a real man already.”

Luke chuckled, grabbing a handful of chips and stuffing them in his mouth. “Let it out, bro. Don’t fight it.”

Bryan scratched again—this time at his chest. “Is it just me, or is my chest hairier?”

He pulled down the collar of his shirt. Where there was once a smooth expanse of skin, a dusting of dark hair was forming, spreading slowly but visibly.

Jake’s breath caught. “Dude, your stomach too.”

All three looked down. Bryan’s once-ripped abs were starting to bloat outward, a soft gut pushing forward.

“No way,” Bryan muttered. “No way, man.”

Ethan stood abruptly, then sat right back down. “Whoa. Dizzy. My legs feel like... huge.”

He looked down—and froze. Thick, curling hair was sprouting down his thighs, and his calves were looking puffier by the second.

Jake leaned over to touch Ethan’s leg, but stopped when he caught sight of his own forearm. “What the hell...”

His normally smooth skin was sprouting blond hair like wildfire. A prickly itch ran up both arms, followed by a deep warmth settling in his chest.

Bryan let out a sudden grunt. “Oh god—my voice! Did you guys hear that?”

He coughed, then belched. The sound was guttural. Deeper. His throat bulged slightly as a patchy scruff darkened across his jawline.

Sam was grinning like a lunatic. “Told ya. It’s the smell, bro. Can’t fight it. Just embrace it.”

Luke leaned forward, lifting one of his arms and wafting the air toward the trio.

“Take a deep breath, bros. Let it sink in.”

The three jocks writhed in slow-motion discomfort as the changes began speeding up.

Bryan clutched his stomach. “I’m... I’m starving.”

Ryan laughed, tossing him a half-eaten burger. “You’re gonna want more than one.”

Without hesitation, Bryan tore into it. His beard, once patchy, darkened and connected under his jaw. His stomach gurgled as it expanded further, pressing into his waistband.

Ethan’s arms had thickened, veins disappearing under soft muscle and a coating of hair. He was panting now, the collar of his shirt tight around his neck.

“God, I’m sweating like a pig,” he mumbled.

“Good,” Sam said. “You’re starting to smell right.”

Jake was quieter. Still resisting. But his belly had started to rise, swelling under his compression shirt. His pecs had softened into thick mounds, bouncing slightly as he shifted.

“I can’t... we can’t turn into this,” he muttered. “We’re athletes.”

Ryan burped, and scratched the fuzz of his growing second chin. “You were athletes. Now you’re bros.”

He stood, letting his own massive gut swing forward. Then he waddled toward Jake, leaning in close. Jake tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go.

“You already smell like us,” Ryan whispered.

He grabbed Jake’s face with one hand and shoved it deep into his armpit.

Jake screamed—or tried to. The stench hit him like a freight train. Pungent. Thick. Masculine. Something primal shifted inside him.

His arms went limp. Then heavy.

He gasped when Ryan let him go, stumbling backward. “Oh fuck,” he growled. His voice had dropped an octave. “I... I need food.”

His gut rumbled loudly. A beard was already darkening along his jaw.

Bryan and Ethan were too far gone to react. Bryan was on his third burger, crumbs in his chest hair, while Ethan was pulling his shirt off to scratch at his sweaty, newly hairy chest.

“Damn, Ethan,” Sam laughed. “You’re almost as hairy as me now.”

“Can’t help it,” Ethan muttered. “Feels good.”

Ryan returned to the couch, planting himself between his two new bros. The couch groaned under their combined weight.

Bryan’s face was now encased in a short, thick beard. He scratched it absently, his other hand resting on his swollen, shirtless belly.

Jake had kicked off his shoes, revealing rapidly hair-growing feet. He reached into the box of wings and started devouring them, grunting between mouthfuls.

“Think... I need to stop shaving,” he growled, licking grease off his fingers. “It just keeps coming back thicker.”

Ethan, now fully shirtless, belched and grinned. “We still doing practice today?”

Ryan laughed, spraying crumbs. “This is practice now, bro.”

The room was filled with the sounds of chewing, burping, scratching.

Jake’s voice was now a full, gravelly bass. His body hair had connected across his chest, and his gut sagged onto his thighs.

Bryan had completely outgrown his pants. They were unbuttoned, his hairy belly hanging forward, slick with sweat.

Ethan looked around, blinking slowly. “Wait... what were we doing before?”

Luke laughed, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “Doesn’t matter, bro. You’re one of us now.”

Jake belched. “Damn straight.”

Ryan let out a thunderous fart and slapped his own belly. “Time for round two, bros. Pizza’s on the way.”

They all erupted into hoarse, greasy laughter. The air was thick with funk and fried food. Their bodies were massive, their minds foggy, their lives reduced to eating, scratching, and hanging out shirtless with their bros.

[19ryan17]

Moving in

Day 1 -----------------------------------------------------------------------

Noah pulled into the driveway just after noon, the crunch of gravel under his tires loud in the still, wooded air. The house Wes had mentioned in his texts was even more remote than he’d pictured—set back from the road, surrounded by old trees that looked like they hadn’t been touched in decades. Quiet didn’t even cover it. It was still. Like the whole forest was holding its breath.

He climbed out, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag and tugging his hoodie down over his waist. He hadn’t worn anything special—just the same beat-up jeans and hoodie combo that helped him blend in and disappear. It was familiar. Comfortable. Safe.

The front door swung open before he could knock.

“Dude,” Wes called out, beaming. “You made it.”

He stepped out barefoot, wearing mesh shorts and a loose tank that clung to his chest. Noah blinked. Wes looked even bigger than he remembered. Broader, thicker. His chest hair peeked out above the neckline, dark and coarse, and there was a sheen of sweat on his arms, like he’d just finished chopping wood or something rugged like that.

Wes pulled him in for a one-armed hug, hand warm and firm against Noah’s back. He held on a beat too long, gave a friendly squeeze, and then let go.

“C’mon in. Got your room set up. Hope you’re hungry.”

Inside, the house was all cozy wood tones and thick rugs, worn couches, and shelves full of old books and half-burned candles. There was a smell in the air—something rich and buttery coming from the kitchen, layered with a deeper, woodsy scent. Something like cedar, or maybe… musk?

Wes moved around the kitchen like it was his kingdom. Barefoot, tank clinging to his back as he pulled pans off the stove and set out plates already heavy with food.

Noah hovered awkwardly at the doorway. He didn’t quite know what to do with himself. It had been months since he’d seen Wes in person—he wasn’t sure they’d even been close before. But when Wes had offered him a few weeks away from everything, away from the stress, the job hunt, the roommate drama, the constant noise—he’d said yes without thinking too hard.

And now, here he was, in this quiet, almost too-perfect house in the woods, with a guy who looked like he belonged on a lumberjack calendar, already piling food onto plates like Noah hadn’t eaten in days.

Dinner was massive.

Big bowls of creamy pasta, garlic bread still steaming, roasted vegetables drenched in herbs and butter, thick slices of glazed pork that practically slid apart on the fork. Noah tried to keep up, but Wes kept piling more on his plate, laughing, saying things like “You’re not full yet, are you?” and “You gotta eat like you mean it out here.”

It wasn’t like Wes was forcing him exactly. But there was a kind of energy to him—this low, constant push that made Noah want to go along with whatever he said. Wes was just… magnetic. Confident in a way that made everything seem like no big deal.

By the time they were done, Noah’s stomach was tight under his shirt, rounded out in a way that felt more than just bloated. He caught himself rubbing it idly as Wes brought out dessert.

“Pie?” Wes asked, holding out a slice that looked like it had been cut for a bear, not a man.

Noah hesitated, then shrugged. “Fuck it.”

Wes grinned. “Atta boy.”

Later that night, Noah peeled off his clothes in the guest room. The air was cooler here, and the sheets smelled like fresh laundry and something just faintly masculine—maybe Wes’s cologne? Or his laundry soap?

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Nothing major. His stomach was a little puffy, but that made sense after the dinner he’d just demolished. His cheeks looked a little flushed. The collar of his hoodie had a smudge of grease he hadn’t noticed. And his jaw… he squinted, leaned in. Maybe there was a little more shadow there than usual, but it was probably just the lighting.

Whatever. He was full, tired, and warm in a way that made it hard to care.

As he sank into the mattress, the springs creaked softly under his weight. He lay on his back, hand resting absently on his belly, and stared at the ceiling.

Just the house settling, he told himself, when he heard something thump softly in the hallway. Just Wes moving around.

And the scent that drifted in through the crack under the door? Definitely just more woodsmoke.

Day 2 -----------------------------------------------------------------------

Noah didn’t sleep much that night.

The bed was too warm, the air too still. The mattress felt soft in the wrong way, like it sank a little more each time he turned. Every creak of the old house made him sit up, wide-eyed and waiting. The shadows in the corners of his room felt heavier somehow, like they leaned in the longer he stayed still. The radiator clicked and groaned, and the wind outside kept brushing the trees just hard enough to sound like someone walking past the window.

He blamed the food. All that rich, heavy butter and fat sat in his stomach like a stone. His skin even felt… greasy. Not in a gross way, just… extra. Like something was clinging to him, like the meat and gravy and melted cheese were trying to soak into him instead of through him.

By the time morning rolled around, Noah had barely slept an hour. He stared at the ceiling until light crept in, then dragged himself out of bed.

The first shirt he grabbed felt weird going on.

Not tight. Just… wrong. It caught around his upper arms in a way it hadn’t yesterday, dragged slightly across his chest like static was holding it there. His sleeves bunched near the shoulders, riding higher than usual like something had shifted underneath overnight—muscle or swelling or just bloat from the dinner. He kept tugging them down, annoyed, but they kept creeping back up.

He looked in the mirror, rubbed under his eyes. Nothing crazy. Just tired. Pale. Maybe a little… flushed? His skin looked warmer today, but it could’ve been the lighting.

He didn’t linger. He had texting to do.

Noah, 10:08 AM

Jake, dude. Please just come over for dinner. Just once. Wes is nice but like… too nice. And massive. I don’t know. It’s a vibe. You’ll see. Just come.

Jake, 10:12 AM 👍 “bring beer or?”

Noah exhaled, shoulders dropping. The tension eased, just a little.

By the time late afternoon rolled in, Noah had cleaned the already-spotless kitchen three times. He was pacing the living room now, wiping down the coffee table and straightening throw pillows like some 1950s sitcom wife trying to impress the neighbors. He couldn’t stop tugging at the collar of his shirt either—it kept creeping a little higher on his neck, clinging like it was a size too small.

Wes barely reacted when Noah mentioned a friend coming.

No raised eyebrow. No questions.

“More mouths to feed,” Wes said with a slow, easy nod, already heading to the fridge. “Good thing I made ribs.”

Noah froze. “Wait. You… made ribs?”

Wes glanced back, grin creeping across his face like it had always been there. “Was a hunch.”

The smell started early. Meat, smoke, fat. It rolled through the house thick as fog, soaking into the floorboards and Noah’s clothes until it clung to everything. By the time Jake knocked, Noah had opened a window just to breathe something other than roast pork and masculinity.

He cracked the door and waved him in.

Jake stepped inside, took one deep sniff, and blinked hard. “Bro. You live in a steakhouse now?”

He looked around the place like he wasn’t quite sure it was real. Jake was lanky, wiry, dressed like he always was—band tee, thrifted flannel tied around his waist, scuffed Vans, a ring on every other finger, and that ironic charm that usually made people laugh without knowing why. He looked like a cartoon next to this warm, wood-heavy house that smelled like meat and beer and smoke.

And Wes?

Wes stepped out of the kitchen in a thermal that stretched across his chest like it barely fit, sleeves shoved up over thick, tanned forearms. His dark hair looked slightly damp—he’d probably showered—but there was still a hint of woodsmoke clinging to his skin. The guy looked carved out of tree bark and testosterone.

Jake took one look and whispered, “Is this guy real? He looks like he chops wood for podcasts.”

Wes smirked, shook Jake’s hand, slow and deliberate, the way a snake might taste the air. He didn’t squeeze hard—he didn’t have to. His hand swallowed Jake’s completely.

“Nice to meet you,” Wes said. Then, with a little too much meaning, “You’re the backup, huh?”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “Backup?”

Wes grinned. “Just jokin’. Mostly.”

Dinner was borderline obscene.

A pile of ribs that fell apart if you looked at them too long. A cast-iron dish of mac and cheese that looked like it had been baked three times, with a crusty top that flaked like caramel. Cornbread so buttery it left fingerprints on the plate. Green beans cooked down with bacon, soft and glistening.

Noah sat across from Jake, trying not to eat like he had last night. He chewed slower. Sipped water. Avoided eye contact every time Wes said something like “You’re not gonna waste that, are you?” or “You look like you need another helping, man.”

He could feel Jake watching. Not judging exactly, but… clocking it.

He reached for another rib anyway.

Halfway through dinner, Jake tilted his head and squinted at him.

“Hey,” he said, pointing with a greasy knuckle. “You got something on your face.”

Noah froze. “What? Where?”

“Right side. Like your cheek. Is that sauce, or…”

Wes stayed silent, just leaned back in his chair, sipping his drink with his eyes on Noah—like he’d been waiting for this.

Noah grabbed his napkin and wiped.

Nothing.

He rubbed again, slower. This time he felt it.

Not sauce. Not dirt.

Texture.

Something dry. Rough. Not long, but scratchy enough to catch his skin. He stood up without thinking, chair scraping loud behind him.

Jake called after him, but Noah was already down the hall, moving fast toward the mirror.

Under the soft yellow light, it was there.

A faint line along his jaw. Just a whisper of it. But real.

Downy hairs, not many, but thick enough to change the color of his cheek. Darker. Coarser. Visible.

He leaned in closer. Touched his cheek with two fingers. Rubbed. It didn’t smudge. It didn’t move. It tugged just slightly under his fingertips—anchored.

“I don’t… I don’t grow facial hair,” he said, quietly.

Behind him, Wes leaned against the doorway.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low.

Noah turned, chest tight. “I mean, I shave, yeah, but like… once every few weeks. This wasn’t there yesterday.”

Wes tilted his head like a curious wolf. “Bodies do weird things, man. When they’re finally safe. When they’re fed.”

Noah blinked at him.

Wes shrugged. “You’ve been starvin’ yourself, haven’t you? All that stress. All that pressure. Your body’s just catching up.”

Noah turned back to the mirror, breathing slowly.

Jake’s voice floated in from the kitchen, muffled by food and distance. “Y’all good in there? Or are we starting some kind of primal ritual I should know about?”

Noah forced a chuckle. “Yeah. Just… sauce.”

He scrubbed again, harder, and winced. The hair didn’t move.

That night, in bed, he ran his hand across his jaw a dozen times before falling asleep. It didn’t feel thick. It wasn’t even visible from more than a few feet away. But he knew it was there. Felt it under his skin like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

And the worst part?

He didn’t hate it.

Day 3 -----------------------------------------------------------------------

Noah woke up to warmth.

Thick, heavy warmth under the covers—like his sheets were made of wool instead of cotton, like his body generated more heat than he remembered. The kind of heat that made the air feel thick and damp, clinging to his skin like a second layer. His neck was sweaty, the collar of his shirt stuck to it, and his inner thighs were uncomfortably slick.

He shifted with a grunt, peeling the damp fabric off his skin, blinking in the early light leaking through the blinds. And then he froze.

His legs—bare from the knee down—weren’t right.

The pale, smooth shins he’d lived with for twenty years were gone. In their place: a soft coating of dark hair. Not long, but undeniably there. Curling slightly, like it was trying to become something thicker. It caught the light. Thicker on the calves, especially near the ankle bones. He reached down with a shaky hand and rubbed.

His fingers came away with the faint, oily sheen of sweat.

Nope. No. I shaved a week ago. I barely grow anything. This isn’t—

He sat up hard, heart thudding, and caught sight of himself in the mirror across the room. The shirt he’d slept in—a loose graphic tee—clung to him around the arms now. Not like a fashion choice. Like a fit issue. His upper arms had a fullness now. The sleeve didn’t hang straight anymore—it curved around the new roundness of his bicep.

And under the shirt—was that a shadow on his chest?

He yanked it up with trembling fingers.

There it was: hair. A small patch in the center of his chest, curling dark and tight over his sternum. His fingers shook as he brushed over it—coarse, damp with sweat. It looked like it had always been there.

He caught his scent for the first time, too.

Richer. Sharper. Like he’d forgotten deodorant—but not in a bad way. More like… primal. Earthy. There was musk under his arms now. Not just sweat, but something deeper. Pungent and male.

He blinked, half-dazed, staring at his own reflection. The faint stubble from last night was darker this morning. Spread lower along his jaw. Even his sideburns had crept down. And when he squinted… was there a shadow under his pecs? He pushed his shirt flat. No doubt—there was definition there now. Barely, but it was real.

Downstairs, Wes had coffee already brewing.

He didn’t look surprised when Noah shuffled into the kitchen, hoodie zipped halfway, pulling his sleeves over his hands like it would hide something.

Wes just smiled over the rim of his mug. “Sleep okay?”

Noah cleared his throat. “Hot. I was hot.”

“Body’s workin’ hard. Growin’, maybe.”

“I’m not—” Noah started, but stopped. Even his voice sounded thicker this morning. Not deeper, exactly. But heavier. Gravelly, like he’d been yelling or smoking. Or something.

“Hey, bro,” came a voice from behind him.

Jake strolled in through the back door, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept much either—still in the same band tee from the night before, hair sticking up at weird angles. He froze when he saw Noah.

“Dude. You okay?”

“Yeah, just… tired,” Noah muttered.

Jake narrowed his eyes, stepping closer. “You, uh… missed a spot again.” He pointed at Noah’s neck.

Noah rubbed, knowing what he’d find. The stubble was spreading—climbing up toward his cheekbones, thickening down the front of his neck. His skin looked darker from it. Like it had been kissed by dirt and heat and man-sweat.

“You sure you’re not trying something new?” Jake asked. “Beard oil? Bulking phase? Protein shakes or something?”

Noah just stared. Then he grabbed the coffee mug Wes offered him, hands visibly bigger than they were two days ago—slightly puffier at the knuckles, veins starting to press under the skin.

Jake’s gaze lingered a second too long on the arm that lifted the mug. “Your forearms look kinda… jacked, man.”

Wes chuckled under his breath, low and warm. “He’s growin’ into himself.”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Wes shrugged. “Some guys just need the right environment.”

Later That Afternoon

Jake stuck around longer than usual. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was the burgers Wes promised. Maybe it was how different Noah looked—stronger, sweatier, more grounded. Like gravity liked him more today.

They sprawled on the back porch. Jake cracked a beer. Wes rubbed steaks down with his bare hands—fingers thick, forearms flexing with every movement. His apron said “Meat Daddy” in block letters.

“This guy’s got, like, barbecue energy,” Jake muttered to Noah as they leaned on the porch rail. “Alpha dad from a soap commercial.”

Noah grunted, scratching absently at his chest. The new hair itched sometimes. Especially when it curled under his shirt. Even his stomach had a patch forming—a trail starting from his navel that hadn’t been there before. He hadn’t said anything. Didn’t know how.

Jake turned his head suddenly, nose wrinkling. “Dude, do you smell that?”

“The meat?” Noah asked.

“Nah, you. It’s… different. You smell like… sweat, but not gross. Like gym sweat. Musk. Like Wes, kinda.”

Noah’s face burned. He tugged his hoodie tighter, but it didn’t help much.

Wes came over with a plate of burgers, smiling like he knew exactly what was going on. “Hope you’re hungry.”

After Dinner

They ate on the porch again. Jake devoured his first burger without question. When Wes handed him a second, he took it like it was expected. His stomach was already full, but something about the smell, the seasoning, the way Wes’s hand brushed his when he passed the plate—he had to take a bite.

It was the best bite of food he’d ever had.

He finished it fast, wiping grease from his mouth with the back of his hand, licking a bit from his knuckle without thinking.

“You’re staying the night, right?” Wes asked casually. “Noah said he sleeps better with company.”

Jake blinked. “Wait, he did?”

Wes shrugged. “He will.”

Noah didn’t say anything. He just sat there, full and warm, rubbing at the itchy new hair curling over his stomach and trying not to notice how good it felt to smell like sweat and meat and wood smoke.

Later, Upstairs

Jake borrowed some clean clothes—his own shirt felt weirdly tight—and crashed on the couch in Noah’s room. They stayed up late watching some dumb horror movie. Noah kept tugging at the neck of his hoodie, scratching under his shirt. Jake pretended not to notice, but something about it made his skin tingle.

The room smelled different now. Stronger. Like boys who’d been working outside. Jake caught himself sniffing once or twice when Noah shifted beside him.

“You okay?” Noah asked, voice low.

Jake cleared his throat. “Yeah. Just… feelin’ warm. You?”

“Yeah.”

Day 4 -----------------------------------------------------------------------

Jake had crashed on the couch—half-sunken into the old cushions, surrounded by the scent of wood, sweat, and something meaty that still hung in the air from the grill. The house didn’t just smell like Wes anymore. It smelled like Wes and Noah. Musk thick in the air like a warm blanket.

He woke up to an itch.

Not just a little scratch-behind-the-knee kind of thing—this was deep. On the top of his chest, between his pecs, right where his shirt rubbed raw. He shoved his hand under the collar and scratched.

His fingers hit something coarse.

Jake sat up, eyes narrowing, and marched into the hallway bathroom, slamming the light on. The mirror blinked back at him: sleep-swollen face, pillow lines, and—

“The hell?”

There it was. Right in the middle of his chest: tiny dark hairs, curling like stubborn weeds through cracked pavement. Sparse but obvious. He pulled the shirt off—some old skate brand tee—and got a full look.

The hair went down. Not just a patch, but a trail, snaking down past his sternum toward his stomach. He rubbed both hands over his torso like he could wipe it off.

Did Wes put something in the food? Was this some kinda prank? Testosterone cream or something? But then he noticed something else.

His stomach wasn’t flat anymore.

Still soft, sure, but not like before. There was a roundness now. A slight puff to his belly that pushed out when he exhaled. His pecs weren’t totally flat either. More like… puffed up. And his arms looked heavier. Not shredded, but thicker at the forearm. His skin had a shine to it, like a permanent post-workout glow.

“Yo, Noah,” he called out, knocking on the guest room door. “You up?”

No answer. But Jake swore he heard rustling—low groans, maybe. He pushed the door open.

Noah was shirtless on the bed, sprawled sideways, bathed in soft morning light. One arm thrown over his face, the other rubbing at his stomach like it ached.

He looked different. Again.

His chest hair had exploded overnight. No longer a patch—now it covered both pecs, thick and matted with sweat, curling under his armpits in dark, dense clumps. His pits themselves were… wild. Dark, bushy, and damp with musk. It filled the room, heavy and warm like it was part of the air itself.

His belly was pushing the waistband of his shorts outward. Not big—yet—but definitely not flat. Puffy, with the hint of a crease forming under his navel. Hair spread all across it, curling toward his sides like it was looking for more space to claim.

Jake stood there frozen.

“Bro,” he whispered. “What the hell is happening to us?”

Noah groaned into his arm, voice muffled and deep. “Wes… he’s doing something. I don’t know. But it feels…”

He trailed off, hand drifting over his hairy chest, thumb absently brushing his nipple.

“… kinda good.”

Wes was already up, shirtless in the kitchen. His chest was an open forest, thick and full, the hair so dense it made his already-broad body look even bigger. He was barefoot, wearing gray sweats that clung to powerful thighs, and flipping pancakes with practiced ease.

He turned when the boys came down—Jake still rubbing at his chest like it might fall off, and Noah looking like he didn’t want to admit how much he liked it.

“Morning, guys,” Wes said, with a grin that knew exactly what was going on.

Jake didn’t respond. He just stared at Wes’s stomach—thick, round, covered in fur like a bear in mid-winter. His trail of hair ran like a highway straight down into those sweatpants.

Noah sat at the table, eyeing the food. His stomach rumbled audibly.

Wes set down two massive plates, pancakes stacked high, butter melting into the steam.

“You’re both lookin’ good. Filling out. Way more your speed.”

Jake finally spoke. “What is this place?”

Wes leaned in. “Let’s just say… this house has a way of bringing out the real you.”

That night, Noah caught himself flexing in the mirror. He wasn’t even doing it on purpose—it just felt good to see how his body moved now. The small bulge of his biceps, the soft, hairy roundness of his chest. His beard had officially crossed into patchy stubble territory. And every time he scratched his pits, the smell made his stomach twist in ways he didn’t know it could.

Downstairs, Jake sat on the couch alone, rubbing his stomach. He was shirtless now, too, not even realizing when he pulled his tee off during dinner. His happy trail had thickened. His chest had sprouted more. There was a buzz in his bones, like static under the skin. Hunger. Warmth. Change.

And Wes? Wes was in the kitchen again, cleaning up, smiling to himself. He could smell both of them from here.

And they were coming along nicely. The heat was thick by noon. Heavy. The kind that settled into the floorboards and clung to skin. The kind that made shirts feel like traps.

Noah didn’t wear one anymore.

He stood barefoot in the hallway, fingers digging absently into the side of his softening waist, trying to process just how fast it had all escalated. His boxers barely fit—they rode up over the swell of his thighs and clung damp against the hairy bulk of his upper legs. His calves looked like they belonged to someone else. Coated in a layer of dark fuzz, thicker near the knees, denser around the ankles.

He scratched his side—his hand brushed through coarse hair that hadn’t been there a week ago. His chest was officially full. A wide, soft mat of dark brown fur that curled over his pecs and made his nipples feel constantly sensitive under the breeze of the ceiling fan.

And then there was the smell.

Noah’s musk had become part of the house now—rich, earthy, deep. He caught a whiff every time he moved. From his pits. His belly. The soft crease forming under his chest hair. And somehow, impossibly, it smelled good.

Jake sat at the kitchen table, still shirtless, fidgeting with the waistband of his gym shorts. His gut pushed softly against the table edge. His armpits were dark now—so much darker than yesterday—and every time he lifted his arms, the scent hit like a wave. He didn’t even apologize for it anymore. Just shrugged.

“Something’s seriously wrong with me, man,” Jake muttered, scratching at the wild patch creeping up toward his shoulder.

Noah smirked, barely hiding it. “Dude. Us. Look at this.” He raised both arms and flexed. Not a bodybuilder flex—just a big guy stretch. Hairy pits, thick arms, belly hanging out soft and proud.

Jake blinked. “Holy sh—bro, you’ve got like, lumberjack chest hair now. You’re like a damn werewolf.”

“Look who’s talking. That’s a full-on happy trail, Jake. And don’t even try to say you haven’t noticed the beard coming in.”

Jake instinctively rubbed his chin. The stubble had gotten scratchy. Coarse. There was even a shadow creeping up his cheeks and curling under his jawline. He hadn’t shaved since that first night. Somehow, it didn’t feel like he needed to. The growth wasn’t messy—it was right.

Wes walked in, sweating, shirtless, carrying a cooler of beers like he wasn’t phased by the heat. His gut was glorious now—round and firm under his thick trail of stomach fur, which met his chest hair like a wild overgrown forest. His arms were sun-kissed and dusted in golden hair, glistening in the light.

“Pool day,” Wes grinned. “C’mon. You two need some vitamin D and fresh air before the house eats you alive.”

Day Five –------------------------------------------------------------------

The backyard was all sunlight and green. A long stretch of overgrown grass, a half-forgotten pool, and trees that lined the fence like a secret. No neighbors in sight.

Noah stripped down to just his shorts. His stomach caught the sun now—soft and pale in some places, darker in others from all the new hair. The sun hit his chest, and it shone. A wet, sweaty sheen over a thick rug of curls that clung to his pecs.

He sank into the pool with a groan, arms resting on the edge, chest hair floating lazily on the surface.

Jake followed, slower. His body wasn’t as hairy as Noah’s—yet—but his thighs were coated now, and his chest had sprouted little tufts on both sides that looked ready to connect. He scratched at his thicker forearms and waded into the water, not even realizing he let out a soft grunt of pleasure.

They sat in silence for a while, heavy and slow.

Then Wes dropped in beside them, a cannonball of hot weight and laughter. The water surged. When he surfaced, he pushed his hair back and gave both boys a long look.

“You're coming along,” he said, voice low. “Real good. Thick. Solid.”

Jake laughed nervously. “You keep saying that. Coming along into what, man?”

Wes leaned back. “Into who you were supposed to be.”

That night, the air was damp and electric. Noah stood in front of the mirror again, rubbing lotion into his shoulders without thinking. The hair kept coming in thicker. Curlier. His chest looked huge now, not just from fat—but from hair. It clung to his belly, thick around his navel, then down into a thick V leading below the waistband of his sleep shorts.

He turned. His ass was rounder. Meatier. Covered in fuzz, even the backs of his thighs were coated now.

He leaned forward, scratching under his jaw—and froze.

His beard had come in full.

Thick, brown, dense. Framing his face in a way that made his eyes look deeper. Rough around the jaw, darker near the chin. He rubbed it slowly, the sound of bristles like sandpaper on wood. He ran his hand down his chest, over the curls. And smiled.

He liked this.

Down the hall, Jake lay in bed shirtless, staring at the ceiling. One hand on his stomach. His skin was warm and tight over new fat. Hair surrounded his navel now. His pits were soaked in musky sweat. He pressed his nose to his own bicep and sighed.

“No way I’m going back to normal,” he mumbled.

Downstairs, Wes turned the lights out and opened the window. The night breeze carried the scent of their musk into the yard like incense.

He smiled. The house was almost done with them.

Day 6------------------------------------------------------------------------

The day had a thick, almost suffocating quality to it. The kind of heat that made everything feel sticky and overbearing. Noah was awake early, staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The stubble on his face had thickened again overnight, and his chest hair was more than just a rug—it was a fucking forest. He traced his fingers through the curly mess of it, the feeling of the bristles turning him on in ways he hadn’t expected.

It was like he was becoming someone else. Someone bigger. Someone... more. More what, though? More manly? More like the guys he’d used to idolize? Like Wes? The thought hit him harder than usual as he caught his reflection—his jawline more defined, his stomach fuller, his legs, thick with muscle and hair. The transformation felt... good. Hell, it felt right.

He let out a deep breath, rubbing his hand down his chest again. The softness of his belly was becoming more pronounced, but the hair over it was a badge of pride now.

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself. “I’m turning into a goddamn beast.”

Jake’s voice echoed from the hallway. “Yo, man, I need your help with something.”

Noah smirked, scratching under his armpit as he swung open the bathroom door. There Jake stood, shirtless as usual, looking even thicker. His chest wasn’t just a couple of tufts anymore—it was full on. A thick trail of dark, coarse hair ran down from his sternum, disappearing into his waistband. His arms had grown even broader, and there was no mistaking it now—his stomach was pushing out in a soft, round curve.

“You feeling yourself, too?” Noah asked with a grin.

Jake shot him a glare, but the blush spreading across his face betrayed him. “Dude, I don’t know what the fuck is happening to me. Look at this.” He waved his arms around. “I got more body hair than I had two days ago, and I don’t know what the hell’s up with my stomach, either. It’s—uh—growing.”

Noah didn’t try to hide the way his eyes flickered to Jake’s midsection. His stomach had definitely taken on more roundness, and the hair growing there had thickened in places that used to be smooth.

“Let me guess,” Noah said, narrowing his eyes. “You’re not just worried about the changes, huh?”

Jake’s face reddened more. “Shut up. I’m serious, man. What’s going on here? First we get more hair, then we get bigger, and now my fucking pits smell like a damn locker room.”

Noah laughed softly, the deep, almost guttural sound making Jake bristle. “Welcome to the club,” he said. “You really think I didn’t notice it? My pits are so fucking ripe right now I could probably knock out a grizzly bear with just my smell.”

Jake groaned and sat down on the couch. “Goddamn it. I’m turning into a hairy mess.”

Noah smirked again. “I don’t know, man. I’m kind of starting to like it.”

Jake stared at him like he was nuts. “What the hell are you talking about? This ain’t normal.”

“Normal? Nothing about this is normal,” Noah shot back. “But... fuck, man. I kinda like it. It feels... natural? Like, I feel like I’m turning into someone I’m supposed to be.”

Jake rubbed the back of his neck, the heat of the day starting to make his skin itch in places it didn’t used to. “I don’t know, man. I just... I’m not sure I’m cool with how fast this is happening.”

“I wasn’t either at first,” Noah admitted, walking closer and plopping down next to him on the couch. “But the more I look at myself... the more I fucking love it.”

Jake eyed him skeptically. “You’re saying you love this shit?”

“Yeah,” Noah said, voice low, almost a growl as he ran a hand through his thickening beard. “I mean, look at me. I’m a fucking stud. I didn’t have shit before. No muscles, no chest hair, no thick beard. Now? Now I look like a damn man. And it feels... right. Feels like I’m supposed to be this way.”

“Dude, you’re fucking crazy.” Jake laughed but the sound was a little too tight, a little too unsure. “But maybe you’re right. I’m not—uh, I’m not hating it as much as I thought I would.”

Noah gave him a knowing look, leaning in closer. “You’re feeling it too, huh?”

Jake shifted uncomfortably, staring at the floor. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I’m okay with it.”

Noah watched him for a long moment before grinning.

The evening had arrived quietly, the warm summer air settling around the house like a comfortable blanket. The smell of dinner filled the air—something hearty, savory, the kind of meal that could make a person feel full and satisfied both physically and... in other ways. Wes had worked his usual magic in the kitchen, and now it was time for Noah and Jake to truly experience the effects of his “special touch.”

Noah sat on the couch, his body leaning back slightly, a new, subtle heaviness in his posture that he wasn’t used to. He ran a hand through his messy hair, still getting used to how thick it was starting to feel. His shirt, which had once hung loosely off his frame, now clung tightly to his chest and belly, the soft roundness of his stomach visible through the fabric. It wasn’t just his gut that had changed—his arms had thickened too, his muscles not quite as toned, but they were big in a way that felt... comforting. More to hold, more to love. The hair on his chest was becoming thicker, sprouting out in thick patches, each one adding to his growing sense of masculinity. He could feel it, all of it—he was becoming someone different, someone stronger.

Jake sat next to him, his presence always a bit overwhelming, his shoulders broad and powerful, his body a solid mass of muscle and soft curves. But today, he was different—he had grown since the morning. His belly had expanded, rounding out as a thick softness spread across his midsection, the waistband of his shorts pulling snugly against his expanding form. His chest was a wild landscape of thick hair, dark and rough, each strand feeling more and more like a part of him with every passing hour. The thickness of his arms, his biceps, felt heavy, solid—he was turning into something more... real, more powerful.

The tension between the two of them had always been there, but now, it felt different. Noah couldn’t stop glancing at Jake, his eyes drawn to the way his body seemed to radiate confidence, power, and strength. And Jake—well, Jake was staring at Noah with a mix of admiration and something else, something deeper.

“Man,” Noah said softly, breaking the silence between them, “look at you. You’re... massive.” He could feel his heart rate pick up as he took in the sight of Jake’s body, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath. The sight of the dark hair covering his body, his belly pushing out from his waistband—God, it was hot. Jake’s body was a revelation. And Noah couldn’t tear his gaze away from him.

Jake turned to him, a grin pulling at his lips. He looked Noah over, his gaze lingering on his thickening chest, his growing belly, the trail of hair that now ran down Noah’s stomach. “Yeah? You’re not looking so bad yourself, man. Hell, you’re bigger than I thought. All that muscle you’re hiding under there... I can see it now.”

Noah smiled, feeling a warmth spread through his chest at the compliment. But he couldn’t help but feel more than just admiration for Jake. There was something about the way he looked at him—like he was seeing Noah in a way no one ever had before.

Wes, who had been observing quietly from the kitchen, finally walked in, his usual mischievous grin on his face. He had prepared the dinner, but he knew the real magic would happen in the moments that followed. “Dinner’s ready, guys,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “You’re gonna want to eat... trust me.”

Noah and Jake glanced at each other, then moved toward the dinner table, their bodies heavy with the changes they were feeling. They sat down, though neither of them could really focus on the food. Every bite seemed to be feeding something inside them—something primal, something growing. And with every bite, they felt it. More muscle, more fat, more hair.

As they ate, the changes continued. It was subtle at first, but soon Noah felt his stomach pushing out even further. He couldn’t help but notice how his fingers seemed to sink into his soft belly as he took another forkful of food. He didn’t mind it though. It felt natural, like he was exactly where he needed to be. His shirt had ridden up, exposing more of his stomach, and the thick trail of hair on his chest had spread down further, now disappearing into the waistband of his pants. He could feel the weight of it all, the heat building inside him as his body stretched and shifted.

Jake was in the same state. His hands rubbed against his belly, feeling the softness there. His arms felt thick, and the veins were almost completely hidden by the layer of muscle and fat that had built up. His chest, wild with dark hair, heaved as he took another bite, his eyes never leaving Noah’s.

There was something magnetic about their connection, something deeper than the transformation itself. The changes in their bodies seemed to heighten their awareness of each other. They weren’t just seeing each other as the growing men they were becoming—they were beginning to appreciate the strength, the confidence, the raw masculinity they both shared. And in that moment, something shifted.

Without thinking, Noah reached out, his hand brushing Jake’s arm. The roughness of his body, the way his muscles tensed under his touch, sent a thrill through Noah. He could feel Jake’s heat radiating off him, the smell of their combined musk filling the air. It was intoxicating, the scent of their shared masculinity mixing in a way that made Noah’s chest tighten.

Jake’s eyes flicked down to Noah’s hand on his arm, his fingers gently squeezing the flesh there. “You’re getting pretty damn strong, Noah,” Jake said, his voice thick with admiration.

Noah felt a rush of warmth flood through him at the words. “You think so?” he whispered, his heart racing as he leaned in closer, his breath shallow.

Without another word, Jake tilted his head, leaning toward Noah slowly. Their lips met in a soft kiss—gentle at first, exploratory. Noah’s hands moved to Jake’s chest, feeling the warmth, the softness of his growing belly under the firm muscle. Jake’s hand slid around Noah’s waist, pulling him closer, their bodies pressing together as the kiss deepened. Noah could feel the heat between them, the weight of their growing bodies, the way their hearts beat faster, the blood rushing through their veins.

Their lips parted only for a moment before they came together again, this time with more intensity. Jake’s tongue flicked against Noah’s lips, a slow, deliberate caress that sent a shiver down his spine. Noah responded eagerly, his tongue sliding into Jake’s mouth, tasting him, exploring him. The kiss deepened, becoming more passionate, as if neither of them could get enough. Their bodies shifted against each other, the heat of their skin mixing, the feel of their growing bodies sending sparks of desire through them both.

Noah’s hands wandered, tracing the thick muscles of Jake’s arms, his fingers brushing the dark hair on his chest. Every touch felt more intense, more real, as their bodies grew together in this intimate dance. They kissed and kissed, their lips slick with desire, their hands roaming over the other’s body, exploring the softness of Noah’s new belly and the rough, solid muscle of Jake’s chest. The deeper they kissed, the more they felt each other’s growth, the changes that had brought them to this moment.

Noah could feel the heat building between them, the electricity in the air that had always been there but was now undeniable. His heart was pounding in his chest as he kissed Jake, his hands sliding down to feel the soft fullness of Jake’s belly, the way it pushed out from under his shirt. Jake’s hands were everywhere—on Noah’s back, his chest, his sides, pulling him closer, feeling him grow under his touch.

They paused for just a second, staring at each other, breaths heavy and shallow. Noah’s lips were swollen, his chest heaving as he gazed into Jake’s eyes.

“Fuck,” Jake breathed, his voice husky with desire. “You’re so fucking hot.”

Noah couldn’t help but smile, his own breath coming in quick bursts. “You are too.”

And with that, they were kissing again, deeper now, their mouths hungry for more of each other. The air between them felt charged, thick with the intensity of their desire, and their bodies—changed, growing, evolving together—couldn’t help but respond in kind.