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thefattestwizard · 2 months ago

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Welcome to Mooncrest Motel

Male tf - long tf - weight gain - bald - hairy

The rain had turned the road into a ribbon of shimmering black, stretching endlessly through the flat, empty plains of the American Midwest. Nathan had been driving for hours with nothing but the steady hiss of tires on wet asphalt and the low hum of static from a failing radio. His phone had long lost signal, and the fuel gauge was dangerously close to empty. Just when he began to wonder if he’d have to sleep in his car, a flicker of neon pierced the foggy evening.

A crooked sign buzzed weakly above a rusted pole: "MOONCREST MOTEL - Vacancy"

He pulled into the gravel driveway, tires crunching over pebbles as he coasted to a stop. The motel stood like a relic of another time — a single-story building with a peeling red roof and chipped paint on every door. A wide awning sheltered a small, windowed lobby and an adjacent diner. One light was on above the entrance. No other cars in sight.

Nathan stepped out into the rain and jogged to the door. It creaked open with a long, drawn-out moan.

Inside the diner, soft jazz played from an old jukebox in the corner. Tables were set with gleaming silverware, and a steaming buffet was laid out—beef, chicken, pork, pasta nad cakes . The smell was inviting, mouthwatering.

“Hello?” Nathan called, his voice echoing. “Anyone here?”

Silence.

He hesitated, stomach growling. The food was hot. Someone had to be here recently.

“Hope you don’t mind,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

He filled a plate and sat at a booth near the window, devouring the food like a man starved. Each bite tasted like it had been made just for him. Comforting, warm. Almost nostalgic.

After eating, he wandered to the adjacent lobby. The front desk sat in dim light, a dusty bell on the counter, untouched. Behind the desk hung a black-and-white photograph: a broad-shouldered, heavyset man, bald with a thick beard, standing proudly in front of the very same motel, likely sometime in the 1950s. The picture’s frame was cracked, the glass fogged at the corners.

On the counter sat a key. Old-fashioned, brass, attached to a wooden tag that read: “Room 7.”

“No one around…?” Nathan looked left and right. Still no sign of life.

He rang the bell. It gave a dull ding. No answer.

“I’ll just... settle up in the morning,” he said aloud, as if trying to justify it to someone.

The motel hallway was quiet, lined with faded carpet and flickering wall sconces. Room 7 was halfway down. The door opened without resistance, and the room inside was surprisingly clean. A queen bed with crisp white sheets, a small TV, an armchair, and a lamp softly glowing beside the bed.

Nathan closed the door behind him and collapsed onto the mattress with a sigh.

Outside, the rain kept falling, tapping against the windows like insistent fingers. As he drifted off, he thought he heard something — a faint whisper, almost like voices beneath the sound of the storm. But when he turned over, only silence greeted him.

And the whispering stopped.

Nathan stirred beneath the covers, blinking groggily against the amber light streaming through the half-closed blinds. For a moment, he didn’t remember where he was. The ceiling above him was off-white, stained faintly by age and time, and the air smelled faintly of detergent and dust.

Then he remembered—the motel. The food. The strange quiet.

He sat up slowly.

“Oof…” he muttered, rubbing his eyes.

His body felt... off. Not quite sore, but sluggish. Heavy. Like he’d slept too long, or like he was waking from a fever. He dragged himself out of bed and shuffled to the small bathroom.

The mirror was fogged from the shower someone must have taken the night before. He wiped it clean with his palm, squinting into the glass.

His eyes narrowed.

There was something different about his face. It was subtle, but… his cheeks looked fuller. His jaw felt thicker. And there—along the sides of his face—fine, dark stubble had appeared, thicker than usual. He rubbed at it with a frown, then looked down at his chest.

“Seriously?” he whispered.

A dusting of dark hair was spreading across his collarbone and stomach, creeping up in places it had never grown before. His thighs and calves looked more fat, almost swollen with mass.

He stepped back, alarmed. “What the hell is going on?”

Trying to shake it off, Nathan dressed hastily and returned to the front lobby, hoping to find someone, anyone. The desk was still empty. The bell sat untouched.

He stepped outside.

The air was cool and damp. The gravel crunched under his sneakers as he walked back to the diner, still half-expecting the place to be empty. But once again, the buffet was laid out: fresh pancakes, scrambled eggs, sausage links sizzling on warming trays. Hot coffee steamed in its pot.

Nathan blinked. No sound of a kitchen. No people. Just food, waiting for him.

“No way,” he whispered.

But his stomach growled, loud and persistent. Against better judgment, he sat down and ate.

One plate became two. Then three. And when he finally stood, dazed and stuffed, he wandered back to the lobby and placed a twenty-dollar bill on the desk.

"That should cover it," he said aloud, feeling a strange sense of guilt. "Thanks, I guess."

He got into his car, started the engine, and backed out of the lot. The road stretched ahead, grey and slick under a cloud-choked sky.

But five minutes later, the motel sign flashed again through the fog: "MOONCREST MOTEL - Vacancy"

Nathan blinked, slowed the car.

“What…?”

He made a U-turn. Drove the opposite way.

Fifteen minutes.

Thirty.

More fog. More endless plains.

And again, like a cruel magic trick, the same sign appeared. The same crooked pole. The same gravel lot.

He slammed on the brakes.

“No. No no no no—”

He parked, got out, stared at the building in disbelief.

He was back.

The Mooncrest Motel stood silent, unchanged, waiting.

And the twenty-dollar bill? Still sitting on the counter, right where he left it.

Nathan stormed back into the motel lobby, his breath fogging in the still, conditioned air. He slammed his palm on the counter.

“HELLO? Is anyone here?” His voice cracked.

Only silence answered him.

He paced like a caged animal, heart pounding, glancing at the door every few seconds. He tried the phone by the desk—dead. No dial tone. No service. He checked his cell again: still nothing.

He left the building and wandered the lot, peering into windows. Each room was clean, untouched, but empty. He passed the laundry room, the storage shed, the kitchen behind the diner — not a soul. Yet, everything was ready, as if maintained just hours ago. Beds made. Food warm. Floors swept. It was as if the building itself were keeping up the routine.

Returning to the front desk, Nathan froze.

The key to Room 7 was still there.

He stared at it. He hadn’t returned it.

His hands trembled as he picked it up and walked back to the room. The door creaked open with a sick familiarity. He dropped onto the bed, heart pounding in his ears. The TV crackled static for a moment before falling silent again.

That night, just as the sky bled orange behind the storm clouds, headlights broke through the mist outside.

Nathan leapt to his feet.

A car was parking near the diner. A man in his 30s stepped out — tired, maybe traveling for work. Briefcase in hand, coat over one shoulder.

Nathan didn’t hesitate. He burst out of his room and ran across the lot, waving.

“Hey! Wait! You can’t stay here! Something’s wrong with this place!”

The man paused, startled. “What—?”

“It’s the motel,” Nathan said, his voice desperate. “It doesn’t let you leave. I’ve been stuck here since this morning. Every road leads right back to this place.”

The man took a step back. His brow furrowed, his hand gripping the strap of his bag tighter.

“Okay, I think you need help. Maybe take a breath—”

“I’m serious! Look at me! I’ve changed. I’m not—I wasn’t like this when I got here! It’s doing something to me!”

“Listen,” the man said, voice low, cautious. “I’m just passing through. I’ll find another place, alright? You stay here and… get some rest.”

He turned quickly, got into his car, and pulled out of the lot without ever stepping inside.

Nathan stood there in the rain, heart sinking as the tail lights disappeared down the road.

“Wait,” he whispered. “You’ll be back. You’ll see.”

But no one came back. Not that night. Not the next morning.

And when Nathan tried to follow the road again—he found himself pulling back into the same gravel lot. The Mooncrest Motel.

The key was back on the counter again.

Exhausted and broken, he returned to Room 7.

The days blurred together.

Nathan no longer knew what time it was—only that he was awake when the motel was awake, and asleep when it wasn't. There were no clocks in the room, and the sun behind the grey skies seemed stuck in a perpetual overcast haze.

The transformation, slow at first, became undeniable.

His stomach had grown soft, then rounded. His face puffier, cheeks fuller. His once-trim jawline now faded beneath the heavy shadow of a thickening beard. The hair on his head had started to thin dramatically. At first, he noticed extra strands in the sink. Then he saw his scalp peeking through.

On the third morning, he touched the crown of his head and found only smooth skin.

He laughed. Then cried.

"God, what is happening to me…?"

Each day, the motel gave him something new to do — whether he wanted to or not. A cart with fresh linens waited outside Room 7. A broken lightbulb in Room 4 flickered until he replaced it. A clogged toilet. A stain on the hallway carpet that seemed to appear from nowhere.

He didn’t remember choosing to do any of it, it was just the only occupation that he had.

When guests came, they ignored his appearance — or rather, seemed to assume it was normal for him to be there. They asked for room keys, requested towels, chatted briefly, and left in the morning without a second glance.

Nathan tried to explain, once. To a woman traveling with her teenage son.

“I don’t work here,” he had said, voice trembling. “I’m not supposed to be here. I can’t leave. Please. Please help me.”

She frowned. “Alright,” she said slowly, carefully. “I’ll… call someone.”

But she didn’t. And she left the next morning, smiling politely, as if they’d never spoken at all.

After that, Nathan stopped trying.

He avoided mirrors. But even the shadowy reflections in the windows showed a rounder face, heavier shoulders, thicker arms. A man who looked nothing like the one who’d pulled in that rainy night.

The silence of the place grew heavier too — a kind of presence that watched him. Not malevolent exactly, but expectant. Like a master waiting for its servant to finally settle into his role.

And Nathan… he began to settle.

He swept the hallways.

He folded sheets.

At night, he’d lie in bed and try to remember his life before this — where he had been going, who he had been. But those memories were blurring, fading like the edges of a dream.

He wasn’t sure which was scarier: being trapped… or growing comfortable in the trap.

Nathan realized, after days of wearing the same increasingly tight clothes, that he desperately needed something clean. He gathered his things—shirts now clinging tightly to his rounded belly, pants cutting uncomfortably into his softer waistline—and trudged toward the motel’s laundry room.

The room was dimly lit, smelling strongly of detergent and humidity. A row of industrial washers lined one wall, dryers opposite them. Fluorescent lights buzzed softly above. Nathan stripped down to just his boxers and tossed his clothing into a washer, the metal lid slamming shut with a satisfying clank.

He leaned against the wall, arms folded, feeling unusually exposed. Glancing down at himself, he sighed. His belly was full and round, hanging slightly over his waistband. His legs and chest were covered in dark hair, thick enough now to be unfamiliar and alarming.

But worse was his reflection in the polished metal surface of the dryer door. His face—once youthful and lean—now heavy, with thick jowls and cheeks framed by the shadow of a dense, coarse beard. His scalp, shining under the harsh laundry room lights, was bald.

He stood there, staring at the warped reflection, heart pounding in his chest. Then slowly, almost mechanically, Nathan began to explore the contours of his new body, as if to convince himself it was real.

He pressed a hand against his belly — warm, soft, heavy. The flesh yielded beneath his fingers, round and unfamiliar. His palms traveled lower, to his widened hips and the folds forming at the base of his back. He winced as he ran his hands across the thick rolls that clung stubbornly to his sides.

He turned slightly, glancing over his shoulder at the curve of his backside, fuller than it had ever been. His thighs were thick, rubbing slightly as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He ran a hand along them, feeling the hair, the dense weight of each step.

Then, lowering his gaze, he tried to look past his belly to see his feet — but they were hidden. He had to lean forward, pulling his stomach in with both hands, just to glimpse the tips of his toes. A frustrated breath escaped his lips.

He brought his hands up again, to his arms — once lean, now rounded with fat and soft muscle. He followed the curve up to his shoulders and along his neck, feeling the slight swell where it met his jaw. His fingers found the softness of his double chin. Then his cheeks — full, warm, unfamiliar — and up, finally, to the top of his scalp.

His fingertips traced the bare skin there, smooth and cold under the flickering fluorescent lights. He closed his eyes.

This body… wasn’t his.

But it was the one he was left with.

And it was still changing.

“This isn’t me,” he murmured. “It can’t be.”

When the washer beeped its cycle complete, Nathan opened it—only to find it empty.

“What…?”

He stared, then spun around, searching frantically. His clothes had vanished. In their place, were entirely new clothes: larger, clearly tailored for a man of his now substantial size. On the pocket of a grey button-down shirt was stitched a name:

“Carl.”

Nathan swallowed hard, touching the fabric. It felt real, soft under his fingertips, perfectly suited for him.

He hurried, barefoot, back to Room 7. His heart sank further when he discovered his belongings—everything he had brought—were completely gone. His suitcase vanished, replaced by a neatly arranged wardrobe of new clothes: practical pants, heavy flannel shirts, oversized jackets. The drawers were filled with socks, underwear—all clean, all his size.

He stumbled back toward the lobby, dizzy and disoriented.

There, standing awkwardly near the counter, a small group of guests waited. Nathan froze, embarrassed, nearly naked except for his boxers. Their eyes turned to him with questioning gazes.

“Oh, uh... sorry,” Nathan muttered, feeling heat spread across his face. “I’ll—I’ll be right back.”

He dashed back to the laundry room, heart pounding so hard it echoed in his ears. The hallway lights flickered faintly overhead as he passed, his bare feet slapping softly against the worn linoleum. Back in the quiet hum of the laundry room, the warm air and smell of detergent embraced him like a fog.

The clothes were still there — neatly folded on the metal table like a silent offering. A gray button-up shirt, matching slacks, and sturdy black shoes. The name “Carl” was embroidered in cursive above the breast pocket.

Nathan hesitated only a second before snatching them up.

He pulled on the undershirt first. The fabric clung softly to his chest and stomach, snug but not tight, as if it had been tailored for this new body. Then the shirt — heavier cotton, cool at first, warming quickly against his skin. As he buttoned it slowly, one button at a time, he felt something shift in him. Not physically — something deeper. Like the clothes weren’t just covering him, but grounding him.

By the time he tucked the shirt into the waistband of the slacks and fastened the belt, his breathing had slowed. He stood straighter. The nervous fluttering in his chest gave way to a strange quiet.

Each movement — the adjusting of the collar, the smoothing of the sleeves — felt… right. Natural. Familiar, even.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the glass door of one of the dryers. The man looking back didn’t seem lost anymore. He looked... settled. Present.

With each button he’d closed, it was as though the motel had closed another part of his past, and opened something new in its place — not by force, but by slow, steady suggestion.

By the time he slipped on the shoes and tied them, Nathan wasn’t sure whether he had chosen the clothes, or if they had chosen him.

Returning to the lobby, the guests greeted him with polite smiles.

“Oh, you must be Carl,” said one of them warmly, looking at the name on the shirt.

Nathan hesitated, mouth opening to correct them, but as his gaze landed on his reflection behind the desk—right next to the old black-and-white photograph of the motel’s former manager—he froze. The image was almost identical: bald head, heavy build, thick beard. Nathan—no, Carl—closed his mouth.

“Yes,” he replied quietly. “I'm Carl. Welcome to Mooncrest Motel.”

As he handed out keys, guiding them toward their rooms, he realized how naturally the actions came. He was becoming who the motel needed him to be.

Or perhaps, he had always been Carl, and he was only now realizing it.

He watched quietly as the guests settled into their rooms, accepting their thanks with a polite nod, and returned slowly to the front desk.

For the first time, Carl felt a strange peace wash over him.

Carl no longer tried to leave. He stood behind the reception desk, his hands resting firmly on the polished counter. The wood was smooth beneath his fingers, familiar now, almost comforting. The small brass bell gleamed under the lobby's warm lights. The silence no longer felt oppressive — it was natural. Routine.

A couple entered the lobby. Young. Tired from the road. The man carried a duffel bag, the woman checked her phone. They smiled politely as they approached.

"Evening," Carl said, his voice deep and steady.

“Hi. Uh, just need a room for the night,” the man replied.

Carl nodded, already turning to reach for a key. “Room 3 is available. Quiet. Good heating.”

The key slid across the counter. The couple barely looked at him, thanked him, and headed down the hall.

Carl watched them go, then turned back toward the wall. His eyes landed — as they always did — on the photograph. The one with the original manager. Bald. Bearded. Stout. Proud. The resemblance was uncanny now.

He had stopped questioning the photo. Or the motel. Or himself.

He didn’t remember the exact moment he’d stopped being Nathan. Maybe it was the morning he answered the phone and said, “Mooncrest Motel, Carl speaking.” Maybe it was the moment he folded fresh towels and arranged them without even thinking. Or the night he fixed the ice machine without needing to check the manual.

Whatever part of him had resisted was long gone now.

Sometimes he dreamed of highways, of wet asphalt and faraway headlights. But he never dreamed of what lay beyond. He couldn’t remember where he’d been going when he first arrived. Or why.

And it didn’t matter anymore.

The motel was alive, in its way. It breathed through pipes and vents, blinked through flickering lights. And Carl was part of that breath now — a piece in its design, a cog in its engine. Necessary. Fixed.

He swept the hallway. He set breakfast out before sunrise. He changed sheets with silent precision.

And when guests arrived, he welcomed them — not with warmth, necessarily, but with presence. With a calm, settled certainty. They came, stayed, and left.

He never did.

From time to time, he saw one arrive who reminded him of himself — a young man, a nervous glance, a restless energy. And he watched them carefully. Sometimes, they'd leave by morning. Sometimes… they didn’t.

But Carl never interfered.

He simply waited.

And so the Mooncrest Motel continued, ageless and ever-expectant, nestled on a forgotten stretch of highway. Its halls whispered stories into the night. And in its heart stood Carl — no longer a prisoner.

Just the manager.

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