Maxwell dipped his brush into the murky water for the third time, watching the pigment swirl away into nothing.
"You're pacing out again," Eli said, nudging him with a knee from where he lounged on the drafting table. His shirt rode up just enough to reveal a sliver of toned stomach—a new development, one that hadn’t been there a month ago.
Maxwell shrugged, flicking excess water off his brush. "Just thinking about proportions." It wasn’t entirely a lie. The sketchpad in front of him held half-finished studies of the football team’s captain—broad shoulders, the slope of his neck, the way his thighs strained against his uniform. But Maxwell wasn’t just doing a random anatomy study.
Across the room, Mateo and Joon were hunched over their own work, pencils scratching in rhythm. Neither of them looked like the scrawny kids who’d joined the art club at the start of the semester. Joon’s arms flexed as he erased a line, his biceps pressing against his rolled-up sleeves. Mateo’s jawline had sharpened.
The clock above the door ticked past midnight when the art room door finally creaked open. Darren—captain of the varsity team, pride of the college, and currently swaying on his feet—stumbled in with Eli’s arm hooked around his waist. His jersey was rumpled, his cheeks flushed from whatever cheap beer Eli had plied him with at the party.
"Man, your clubhouse is fucking creepy," Darren slurred, blinking at the dim glow of the drafting lamps. His gaze landed on Maxwell and he grinned, loose and easy. "Hey, you’re that quiet kid who draws all the time. You draw me yet?"
Maxwell’s fingers twitched toward the sketchpad. "Not quite," he said. The lie tasted sweet. Behind Darren, Eli shot him a look—part warning, part hunger—before nudging Darren toward the center of the room where the ritual circle lay hidden beneath a drop cloth.
"Alright, hotshot," Eli said, steering Darren with deceptive gentleness. "Let’s get you sitting down before you faceplant."
Darren collapsed onto the stool with a drunken chuckle, his thighs spreading wide enough to strain the seams of his football pants. The overhead light caught the sweat at his throat, the pulse jumping there like a trapped animal. Maxwell exhaled slowly through his nose—sharp citrus, stale beer, something muskier underneath.
"You gonna draw me like one of your French girls?" Darren grinned, reaching for the hem of his jersey. His movements were loose, uncoordinated, but the muscle beneath his skin rolled with unconscious power. Eli's fingers dug into Maxwell's shoulder—a silent warning.
"Something like that," Maxwell murmured. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. The sketchpad trembled in his grip as he flipped it open to reveal the completed portrait—Darren mid-tackle, every tendon rendered in perfect, hungry detail.
Darren whistled low. "Damn. That's me?" His fingers fumbled at his belt buckle. "Shoulda signed the release forms, huh?" The joke fell flat as his pants slid down his hips, pooling around his ankles. The black jockstrap beneath clung to the swell of his thighs, the fabric stretched taut.
Darren’s laughter echoed off the art room walls, hollow and too loud, as he kicked his pants aside. The jockstrap left little to the imagination—the thick outline of him straining against the fabric, the sweat-damp waistband digging into his hips. Maxwell’s throat tightened. The portrait on his sketchpad seemed to vibrate under his fingertips, the lines pulsing faintly gold where they mapped Darren’s body.
"You’re not gonna—uh—draw me like this, right?" Darren chuckled, rubbing his stomach absently. His fingers left streaks of sweat on his skin. "Coach would kill me." His words slurred at the edges, his eyelids drooping. Eli’s hand settled on Darren’s shoulder, pressing him down onto the stool with deliberate gentleness.
"Relax," Eli murmured, his voice honey-thick. "Just sit still." His gaze flicked to Maxwell, a silent signal. The air between them crackled with something old and hungry.
Maxwell set the sketchpad aside and reached for the vial tucked in his apron pocket. The liquid inside shimmered, catching the lamplight—ground charcoal and stolen sweat, crushed petals from the football field’s bleachers, a drop of his own blood. He dipped his brush into it, the bristles soaking up the mixture like a parched tongue.
The brush hovered over Darren's collarbone, its tip trembling with anticipation. Maxwell inhaled sharply—the scent of Darren's skin, salt and heat and something indefinably masculine, filled his lungs. The first stroke landed just above Darren's heartbeat, black ink seeping into his pores like ink into blotting paper. Darren twitched, a half-formed protest dying on his lips as Eli's fingers tightened on his shoulders.
"That tickles," Darren mumbled, his eyelids fluttering. His breath hitched when Maxwell dragged the brush lower, tracing the path of his sternum with deliberate precision. The ink didn't smear—it sank, vanishing beneath Darren's skin as if his body were drinking it in. Beneath Maxwell's fingertips, Darren's pulse stuttered, then steadied into a slower, heavier rhythm.
Mateo and Joon moved in unison, circling behind Darren like planets pulled into orbit. Their shadows stretched long across the floor, merging with the outlines Maxwell had chalked earlier—hidden beneath the drop cloth, but pulsing now with a faint, phosphorescent glow. Joon's hand settled on Darren's thigh, his thumb pressing into the muscle there just hard enough to leave a pale imprint. Darren exhaled, long and slow, his head lolling back against Eli's stomach.
"Good boy," Eli murmured, his free hand carding through Darren's sweat-damp hair. The words were syrupy with false comfort. Darren's lips parted—whether to speak or gasp, Maxwell couldn't tell—but no sound emerged. His throat worked helplessly as Maxwell's brush dipped lower, skating over the taut plane of his abdomen. The ink swirled where it touched, forming intricate patterns that pulsed once, twice, before dissolving into Darren's skin.
The brush reached Darren’s navel, and Maxwell paused. His own breath came quicker now, shallow and uneven. Beneath his fingers, Darren’s skin had taken on an almost feverish heat, radiating outward in waves. The scent of him—ripe with exertion and youth—thickened the air, pressing against Maxwell’s tongue like a physical weight. He swallowed hard, tasting salt and something darker, metallic.
“Almost done,” Maxwell murmured, though the words weren’t for Darren. Eli’s fingers tightened in silent acknowledgment, his nails biting crescents into Darren’s shoulders. The captain’s eyelids fluttered, his pupils blown wide and glassy. A thin line of drool trailed from the corner of his slack mouth. Maxwell’s stomach clenched with hunger.
The final stroke landed just above the waistband of Darren’s jockstrap. The ink sizzled as it touched skin, tendrils of smoke curling upward in lazy spirals. Darren jerked, his spine arching off the stool like a live wire had been shoved down his throat. A strangled noise tore from his lips—half-groan, half-whimper—before Eli clamped a hand over his mouth, muffling the sound into something wet and broken.
Maxwell’s vision swam. The golden lines of the sketch pulsed brighter, then brighter still, until the paper itself seemed to glow with vitality. Darren’s body followed suit—his veins standing out in stark relief beneath his skin, luminescent gold racing through them like liquid fire. His muscles twitched and bulged, straining against invisible bonds as his essence was siphoned away strand by glimmering strand.
Darren's body convulsed once, violently, his heels drumming against the floorboards. The jockstrap strained obscenely as his cock twitched to full hardness—a final, futile protest of his body's dying instincts. Maxwell leaned in, his lips parting inches from Darren's heaving chest. The first tendril of golden energy seeped from Darren's parted lips, curling upward like smoke seeking air. Maxwell inhaled sharply, and the essence coiled into his mouth, thick as honey and twice as sweet.
The taste exploded across his tongue—sun-warmed leather, adrenaline, the iron tang of blood after a hard tackle. Maxwell groaned, his own body responding instantly. His shoulders broadened beneath his threadbare shirt, the fabric stretching taut over now defined pecs. Heat pooled low in his belly, his cock swelling against his jeans as Darren's vital energy surged through him. Across the room, Joon and Mateo shuddered in unison, their hands gripping Darren's thrashing thighs as secondary streams of energy spiraled into their nostrils. Eli's breath came in ragged gasps, his fingers white-knuckled where they pinned Darren's wrists.
Darren's golden glow flickered. His skin dulled, the vibrant flush leaching away like watercolor in rain. His biceps—once thick as tree trunks—quivered, then sagged. Maxwell drank deeper, his teeth gritted as Darren's essence flooded his veins. His sketch trembled on the table, the paper vibrating as the lines of Darren's rendered body darkened to obsidian. The real Darren made a wet, guttural noise, his hips jerking in a pathetic mimicry of his former athletic prowess. A wet spot bloomed across the front of his jockstrap—the last, humiliating spasm of a body robbed of its vigor.
Maxwell straightened, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His reflection in the darkened windows showed a stranger—broader jaw, thicker neck, the faintest shadow of stubble that hadn't been there an hour ago. Darren slumped forward, his spine curling like a dying leaf. His once-bronzed skin had gone ashen, the hollows beneath his eyes deepening into pits. When Eli released his grip, Darren's arms flopped limply at his sides, his fingers twitching in useless little spasms.
The golden energy thickened in Maxwell’s throat, molten and heady, as Darren’s body began to crumble at the edges. His fingers—once thick and calloused from years of gripping footballs— like dried petals. Maxwell exhaled through his nose, watching as Darren’s collarbones sharpened grotesquely beneath his skin, the flesh sinking inward as if sucked by an invisible straw.
Eli’s grip on Darren’s shoulders loosened, his breath ragged with shared euphoria. “God, look at him,” he whispered, staring at Maxwell’s swelling biceps as they strained against his sleeves. The seams split with a soft *pop*, threads unraveling to reveal skin that glowed faintly under the lamplight—a healthy, golden hue that hadn’t been there before.
Darren’s mouth gaped soundlessly, his tongue desiccating mid-pant. His jockstrap sagged as his thighs withered, the once-firm muscle collapsing into itself like a deflated balloon. The last thread of golden energy spiraled from his gaping mouth, and Maxwell swallowed it greedily, shuddering as it settled hot and heavy in his gut. His jeans tightened unbearably, the denim biting into his thickened thighs.
A dry, papery sound filled the room as Darren’s skin split along his cheekbones, fissures spiderwebbing outward like cracks in desert soil. His entire body dissolving into fine ash. Joon let out a shaky laugh, flexing his hands as the tiny bits Darren’s stolen life he got merged into his sinews. “Holy shit,” he breathed, watching the veins rise along his forearms like riverbanks after a storm.
Eli was the first to move, his fingers trailing down Maxwell’s newly corded forearm. "Jesus," he breathed, thumb pressing into the divot of muscle where Darren’s quarterback grip had once lived. "You’re *hot*." The words hung in the air, charged and clumsy. Maxwell flexed, watching the way his own tendons now mapped his wrists like cables. His reflection in the window was a stranger—broader, *better*, the sharp cut of his jawline shadowed with stubble that hadn’t existed an hour ago.
Mateo kicked at the pile of dust that had been Darren, sending up a lazy cloud. "Think anyone’ll notice?" he asked, toeing the abandoned jersey with its proud varsity letter. Joon snorted, rolling his shoulders with a crackle of popping joints. "Notice what? That some drunk jock wandered off after a party?" He grinned, all white teeth and predatory glee. "Happens all the time."
Maxwell’s reflection in the art room window wasn’t his own anymore. The broad shoulders, the thick column of his neck, the way his jawline could’ve cut glass—it was Darren’s physique layered over his own, but sharper, *better*, like a master sculptor had taken the jock’s raw material and refined it into something godlike. Eli’s breath hitched when Maxwell turned, the lamplight catching the sweat-slick planes of his chest where his torn shirt hung open.
"Fuck," Mateo whispered, staring openly at the obscene bulge straining against Maxwell’s jeans. The denim groaned at the seams, the zipper teeth stretched to their limit. Maxwell flexed his hands—bigger now, the knuckles pronounced—and grabbed Joon by the collar, yanking him forward with a strength that hadn’t existed an hour ago.
Joon gasped as his back hit the drafting table, pencils scattering. Maxwell didn’t bother with preamble; he ripped Joon’s pants down with a single vicious tug, the fabric splitting like tissue paper. Joon’s cock sprang free, already half-hard from the residual energy thrumming between them, but it looked almost comically small next to Maxwell’s newly monstrous size. Maxwell spat into his palm, slicked himself with a few rough strokes, and shoved into Joon with a snarl.
The table rocked with each thrust, Joon’s knees knocking against Maxwell’s ribs as he took it. His mouth fell open in a silent scream, his body stretching to accommodate the thickness that had once belonged to Darren—only now it was *more*, the stolen vitality amplifying everything. Eli watched, biting his lip bloody, as Maxwell fucked into Joon with the same single-minded hunger he’d used to drain Darren dry.
"Feel that?" Maxwell growled, his voice deeper, richer, the vibration of it thrumming through Joon’s spine. He pistoned harder, the drafting table screeching across the floor. "That’s what *power* feels like." Joon could only nod, his fingers scrabbling at Maxwell’s biceps as they swelled even larger mid-thrust, the stolen energy still settling into muscle memory.
Mateo dropped to his knees beside them, his hands shaking as he reached for Maxwell’s balls. They were heavy as ripe fruit, the skin taut with stolen potency. When he leaned in to lick the sweat from them, Maxwell groaned and fucked deeper, his cockhead brushing something inside Joon that made his vision white out. Golden energy sparked where their bodies joined, leaking from Joon’s stretched rim like honey.
Eli couldn’t take it anymore. He climbed onto the table beside Joon, his own cock dripping onto the scattered sketches. Maxwell didn’t hesitate; he grabbed Eli by the throat and dragged him down, sealing their mouths together in a messy, biting kiss. Eli whimpered as Maxwell’s tongue—thicker now, more *invasive*—pushed past his teeth. He could taste Darren in Maxwell’s mouth, the ghost of gridiron grit and cheap beer transmuted into something darker, sweeter.
The air smelled like sex and ozone, the overhead lights flickering as Maxwell’s stolen energy destabilized the voltage. Joon came untouched, his back arching off the table as his cock pulsed between them. Maxwell didn’t slow—if anything, he fucked harder, using Joon’s oversensitive body to chase his own climax. When he finally came, it was with a roar that rattled the windows, his cum flooding Joon’s guts in thick, scalding spurts.
For a suspended moment, the room held its breath. Then Maxwell pulled out, his cock glistening and *still* hard, twitching against his thigh. Joon lay boneless, his hole gaping, golden-tinted cum leaking onto the ruined sketches below. Eli licked his lips, staring at the mess with something like reverence.
Mateo was the first to speak. "Holy *shit*," he breathed, reaching out to touch Maxwell’s abs—now carved like marble, the skin hot to the touch, but nothing compared to the titanic meat between his legs. "You’re—fuck, you’re *huge*."
"Like I fucking deserve to be." Maxwell said as he to was enamored by the size he got from devouring Darren.
