Weight gain - hairy - balding - bear tf
I never believed in love stories.
Not the slow ones. Not the intense ones. Not even the tragic ones people pretend to admire.
What I believed in was rhythm.
A clean, controlled sequence of moments that never overlapped, never lingered longer than necessary.
Morning started the same way every day.
Weights. Precision. Repetition.
I liked the mirrors there. Not out of vanity—at least that’s what I told myself—but because they confirmed something simple: I was in control.
Of my body.
Of my image.
Of how I was seen.
“Man, you’re gonna scare people off at this rate.”
Lucas leaned against the rack, watching me finish a set.
I smirked, wiping sweat from my forehead. “That’s kind of the point.”
He laughed. “No, seriously. Do you ever keep anyone?”
I racked the bar, grabbed my towel, and shrugged.
He raised an eyebrow. “Because that’s… normal?”
I shook my head, already turning away. “Normal’s overrated.”
And honestly, I meant it.
Keeping people meant dealing with expectations. Messages. Attachments.
That carried into the rest of my day.
Work was just something to get through—efficient, detached. I did what I had to do, nothing more.
Evenings, though—that was where things started.
Bars. Clubs. Low lighting and loud music.
A glance across a room.
A shared smile.
A drink.
Sometimes I didn’t even need the apps.
But most nights, I still used them.
Back home, my apartment reflected that same philosophy.
Neutral tones. Clean lines.
A couch no one ever really sat on. A kitchen barely used.
That was the only space that mattered.
Large bed. Soft lighting. Nothing personal.
Just a place where people arrived… and disappeared.
I dropped my keys on the counter, loosened my shirt collar, and grabbed my phone.
Notifications. Messages. Profiles. The usual. Swipe. Swipe. Pause. Swipe.
It was almost mechanical at this point. Faces blurred into each other. Same angles. Same bios. Same attempts at standing out.
“Gym rat.”
“Adventurous.”
“No drama.”
His profile appeared without warning, like it had been waiting.
No flashy pose. No exaggerated lighting. Just him. Looking straight at the camera. Calm. Grounded. Perfect.
Not in the obvious, sculpted way I saw every day—but in something quieter.
I leaned back slightly, studying the photo longer than I intended.
“Okay…” I muttered under my breath.
I tapped into his profile. Minimal text. No clichés. And a single line:
“I prefer real connections.”
I huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, sure you do.”
I didn’t swipe right immediately. That alone should have told me something was different. But curiosity won. I swiped.
A message popped up almost immediately.
Him: “I was hoping you’d show up.”
I frowned slightly, typing back.
Me: “You say that to everyone?”
Him: “No. Just the ones who think they’re in control.”
I paused. Something about that… lingered. I smirked anyway.
Me: “Sounds like you’ve already figured me out.”
Him: “Not yet. But I’d like to.”
I leaned against the counter, reading that again. There was no hesitation in his tone. No need to impress. Just certainty. And that— That was new.
Another message followed immediately.
Me: “You always this direct?”
Him: “Only when I know what I want.”
I stared at the screen for a moment longer.Then— Without overthinking it— I sent my address.
I knew something was different the moment I opened the door. He didn’t hesitate when I stepped aside. Didn’t scan the room like most people did. Didn’t ask questions. He just walked in. Like he belonged there. I closed the door behind him, watching carefully.
He turned slightly, his gaze settling on me.
There was no tension in his posture. No nervous energy. Just stillness. Measured. I stepped closer, testing the space between us.
A faint smile touched his lips.
“I see exactly what I expected.”
I tilted my head. “And what’s that?”
His eyes didn’t leave mine.
“Someone who never gets chosen first.”
That hit harder than it should have.
I scoffed lightly. “That’s a bold assumption.”
Silence stretched—but it didn’t feel empty.
It felt… deliberate. Then he stepped closer. And just like that— The rhythm I knew so well… shifted.
There’s always a moment. A precise, almost invisible threshold where a night becomes predictable. I know it by heart.
The distance closes.
The tone softens.
The bodies align.
But this time— Something was off. Not wrong. Just… different. I stepped even closer, expecting him to meet me halfway. He didn’t move. Not back. Not forward.Just… waited.
That faint smile still there. Observing. Me. It unsettled me more than I wanted to admit.
“Careful,” I said lightly, trying to regain control of the rhythm. “You’re starting to sound like you’ve got me figured out.”
“Not figured out,” he replied calmly. “Positioned.”
He gestured subtly—barely a movement—between us.
“Close enough to invite. Far enough to stay in control.”
“You don’t step in until they do.”
And I hated that he saw it.
I let out a small chuckle, masking the tension. “You’ve done your homework.”
“No,” he said softly. “You’re just consistent.”
My hand reached his arm—firm, confident, practiced. Warm. Solid. Real.
“Then maybe it’s time I break the pattern.”
That, at least, felt right. Familiar.I leaned in. This time, he let me. His hand slid to my waist—not grabbing, not pulling. Guiding. Subtle. Measured. Too measured. Our bodies aligned. Breath mixed.
Close enough now that I could feel the steadiness of him. No hesitation.No anticipation. Just… certainty.
“You’re tense,” he murmured.
I scoffed quietly. “I’m not.”
His fingers pressed lightly against my side. Not enough to restrain. Just enough to notice.
“Yes,” he said. “You are.”
I exhaled through my nose.
“Maybe I just don’t like being analyzed.”
“Everyone likes being seen.”
A beat. His hand moved—slowly—up along my side, deliberate. Not searching. Mapping. I should have pulled away. I didn’t. Because underneath the discomfort— There was something else. Curiosity. And something dangerously close to… wanting to know where this went.
“You don’t have to think so much,” he said quietly.
I smirked despite myself. “You talk a lot.”
“And yet,” he leaned in slightly, voice lower now, “you’re still here.”
That was the problem. He was right.Again. I closed the remaining distance. This time fully. Our foreheads almost touching. My hand moved to his jaw. Rougher than his had been. Reclaiming something.
He held my gaze for one more second. Then—
Simple. Too simple. But I didn’t question it. Not yet. The kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hesitant either. It was— Heavy. Grounded. Like everything else about him. No urgency. No need to prove anything. And somehow— That made me lean in more. My hands moved, pulling him closer now.Reasserting control. At least— That’s what I told myself.
Because beneath that— There was a growing awareness.Something was slipping.Not dramatically. Not obviously. But enough. Enough that I noticed. Enough that I ignored it. His hand left my side. I barely registered it. Too focused on the moment. On regaining the rhythm. On not losing ground.
Then— A shift. Subtle. His body angled slightly away. Just enough to create space. I frowned, pulling back a fraction.
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his hand disappeared briefly behind him. Out of sight. Out of frame. A small movement. Insignificant. I almost didn’t question it. Almost.
A prick. Sharp. Quick. Barely there. I blinked.
The words didn’t land. My vision flickered. The room tilted—just slightly. My grip loosened.
He was still there. Right in front of me. Perfectly steady. Watching. Always watching.
My legs felt… wrong. Too heavy. Too distant. My body didn’t respond the way it should.
I tried to step back.Failed. His hand caught me. Effortless. Like I weighed nothing.
“That’s it,” he murmured.
The edges of the room blurred. Sound dulled.My thoughts slowed. No— Not slowed.Thickened. Like moving through something dense.
“You’ll understand later.”
His voice felt far away now. Even though he was right there.
Nothing. My knees gave in.Darkness rushed up—Or I fell into it. I’m not sure which.The last thing I saw—Was his expression.Unchanged.Calm.Certain. Like everything had gone exactly as expected.
Air slammed back into my lungs like I’d been underwater too long.
For a second— I didn’t move. Didn’t think.Didn’t exist, really. Just… breath.In.Out. In—
Too fast. Too sharp. Something was wrong. I knew it before I even opened my eyes. There was a weight in my body that hadn’t been there before. Not external. Not like pressure.
Internal. Anchored. Deep. I forced my eyes open. My apartment. My ceiling. My bed. Everything looked exactly the same. Too normal. That’s what made it worse.
I pushed myself up— And pain exploded through my abdomen. I sucked in a breath, clutching my stomach instantly.
My voice cracked. Dry. Unfamiliar. My hand pressed against something thick. Fabric. Bandages. My heart started pounding. No.
I tore the blanket off. My shirt was gone. Replaced with gauze wrapped tightly around my midsection. Clean. Precise. Deliberate. My hands started shaking as I pulled at it.
Like saying it would make it make sense. The tape came loose. The fabric peeled away—And underneath—A line. A fresh, clean incision.Running just below my ribs. Still slightly swollen. Still… real. My stomach dropped.
No. Not someone. Him. I stumbled out of bed, legs unsteady. The room tilted slightly, like my balance hadn’t caught up yet.
I braced myself against the sink and looked. Same face.Same body. At least— At first glance. But I couldn’t stop looking at the cut. At the way the skin around it felt… tight. Wrong. Like something inside didn’t belong.
That made sense. Doctors. Answers. Reality. I grabbed the first clothes I could find and left. The waiting room felt unreal. Too bright. Too slow. Too disconnected from what was happening inside me. I kept pressing my hand against my stomach. Feeling. Testing. There was something there.
I couldn’t explain it. But I could feel it.Not pain. Not exactly.Presence.
Tests. Questions. More tests. I told them everything. Or tried to.
The app.
The meeting.
The apartment.
The blackout.
I watched their expressions shift. From concern— To confusion— To something else. Something quieter.
“Let’s get imaging done,” one of them said.
The scan room was cold. Mechanical. I lay still as the machine hummed around me. Counting my breaths. Trying not to think. Trying not to feel that… thing inside me. When it was over, they told me to wait again. So I did. Sitting there. Alone. Time stretching too thin. When the doctor came back, he wasn’t alone. That was the first bad sign.
The second— Was the way he looked at me. Not scared. Not alarmed. But… fascinated.
“Can you sit up for me?” he asked.
I did. Slowly.Carefully. He held a tablet in his hand. Turned it toward me.
I looked. My body. Rendered in shades of grey and white. Bones. Organs. Familiar shapes. Except—
Something new. Something that didn’t match anything else. A structure. Dense. Compact. Nestled deep inside my abdomen. Connected. Integrated. Wrong.
My voice sounded distant. He hesitated. That was worse than anything.
“We’re not entirely sure.”
I let out a hollow laugh. “Not sure?”
“It’s… not a transplant.”
“There are no signs of removal. No damage to surrounding tissue consistent with extraction.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“It appears to have been… added.”
Silence. Heavy. Impossible.
“It’s fully integrated into your system,” he continued. “Blood supply, neural connections… it’s functioning.”
“That’s what we don’t understand.”
My stomach twisted. Or maybe— It moved. I froze.
“You feel that?” I whispered.
The doctor frowned. “Feel what?”
I pressed my hand harder against my abdomen.
And then it hit. Sharp. Sudden. A pull. Deep inside. Not pain. Hunger. Raw. Immediate. Violent. I sucked in a breath.
The doctor stepped closer. “What are you experiencing?” I looked at him. Then at the scan. Then back at my own body.
I shook my head. Too fast. Too hard.
Because this wasn’t normal. This wasn’t “I skipped a meal” hunger.
This was— Demanding. Expanding. Consuming. Like something inside me had just— woken up. And it wanted more. A lot more.
At first, I told myself it was manageable. That word—manageable—became a shield. A lie I repeated often enough to almost believe it. The hunger didn’t fade. It didn’t stabilize. It grew. Not in waves. Not in cycles. Constant. Present. Like a second pulse inside me. I started eating more.
At first, it felt almost… justified. My body needed energy, right? Recovery. Healing. That’s what they said.That’s what I told myself. But it didn’t feel like recovery. It felt like feeding something else.
I went back to the gym. Of course I did. That was the first thing I tried to hold onto. Control. Routine. Identity. I stood in front of the mirror again.
Same place. Same lights. Same movements. But it wasn’t the same. The weights felt heavier. Not dramatically. Just enough. Enough that I noticed. Enough that I couldn’t ignore it.
And my body— My body didn’t respond the same way. The pump wasn’t clean anymore. There was… resistance. A softness creeping in where there used to be precision.
I pressed my fingers against my abdomen in the locker room. Testing. It gave. Just slightly. I froze.
I adjusted my posture, straightened up, flexed harder. There it was again— The version I recognized. Almost. The hunger followed me everywhere. Work. Gym. Bed. It didn’t matter.
It was always there. A low, insistent pressure. Then louder. Then unavoidable. I started carrying food with me. Protein bars. Sandwiches. Anything. It helped— For minutes. Maybe an hour. Then it came back. Stronger. More demanding.And slowly—I stopped waiting. I just ate. Whenever it came. Wherever I was.
The changes accelerated. Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone else would immediately notice. But I did. Every morning. Every mirror. Every reflection in a dark window.
I tried to stop. That’s the part that matters. I tried. Diet. Strict. Precise. Measured. Back to discipline. Back to control.For a day— Maybe two.
Then— It hit. Harder than before The hunger wasn’t just physical anymore. It was… intrusive. It occupied my thoughts. My focus. My patience. I snapped at people. I lost track of conversations.
Everything blurred into one thing: Eat. I remember sitting at my desk, staring at my screen— And realizing I hadn’t heard a single word my colleague had said. Because all I could think about— Was food.
The gym became harder. Then frustrating. Then pointless. I was lifting less. Looking worse. Feeling heavier. Each movement slower than the last. And the mirrors— I started avoiding them. Because when I looked— I didn’t see progress anymore. I saw drift.
My clothes changed before I admitted it. Tighter across the waist. Pulling at the seams. Shirts clinging differently. Pants pressing when I sat down. I told myself it was temporary. Water weight. Recovery. Anything. But then— One night—
I caught my reflection without expecting it. No posture correction. No flexing. No control. Just— Me. And I didn’t recognize it immediately.
I stood there. Frozen. My hand moved— Almost without thinking. To my stomach. I pressed. Firmer this time. It didn’t resist. It shifted. Heavy. Real.
But I didn’t move my hand. I pressed again. Slower. Testing the limits. Feeling the weight. The presence. That same presence from before— But now it wasn’t hidden. It was visible. Growing. Becoming me.
I stumbled back slightly. My breath uneven. My reflection staring right back at me. Not panicked. Not shocked.Just— Watching. Adapting. Accepting faster than I was. And underneath the fear— Something worse began to form.
Not acceptance. But— Recognition. Because the hunger… wasn’t fighting me anymore. It was winning.
There’s a point where denial stops being possible. Not because you accept. But because your body refuses to let you ignore it anymore. I crossed that point without realizing when. Or maybe—
I realized it, and just didn’t want to name it. The hunger didn’t just stay. It evolved.It sharpened. It became… specific. Not just eat.
But more. Always more. I stopped planning meals. I reacted. Constantly. Kitchen. Delivery. Snacks. Anything within reach. And still— It wasn’t enough.
The mirror became unavoidable. Because now— It wasn’t subtle anymore.
I noticed the beard first. Not because it appeared. But because it wouldn’t stop. I shaved. Clean. Sharp. Controlled. The next morning— Stubble. Thick. By evening— It was already back. Dense. Darker. Stronger than before.
I ran my hand over my jaw.
It felt… wrong. Not unfamiliar. But accelerated. Like my body had stopped following normal rules. Then the hair. Chest. Arms. Shoulders. Even my back. It spread. Filled in. Darkened.
What used to be light, barely there— Now stood out. Thick. Coarse. Present. Everywhere.
And my body— There was no hiding it anymore. My shirts stretched. Pulled tight across my stomach. Clung to my chest in ways they never had before. I tried going up a size. Then another. Still— The shape underneath didn’t change. Just… expanded.
The first tear happened at home. I bent down to pick something up— And—
I froze. Slowly straightened. Looked down. The seam of my pants had split. Clean. Irreversible. I stared at it. Then at myself in the mirror. And for a moment— I didn’t feel panic. I felt something else. A hollow, quiet realization.
I stopped going out. It wasn’t a decision. It just… happened. Clothes didn’t fit. Nothing felt right. Nothing looked right. And people— People looked. Even when they tried not to. I saw it. Every time. I opened the apps again. Out of habit. Out of… hope. I didn’t upload new pictures.
Of course I didn’t. I used the old ones. The ones that still looked like me. Matches came. Messages too. Same as before. Same rhythm. For a second— It almost felt normal. Then came the meeting. And the look. That split second when they saw me— And something shifted. Politeness. Excuse. Exit. Every time.
Back home— I sat on the edge of my bed. Breathing heavier than I should have been. My stomach resting against my thighs. Solid. Present. Unavoidable. I placed both hands on it. Held it. Not testing. Not denying. Just… holding.
My hair started falling a week later. At first— Just strands. On the pillow. In the shower. On my hands. Then more. Noticeable. The front thinned. The crown showed. I stared at it in the mirror.
Beard thicker than ever. Body bigger than ever. Hair— Leaving. The contrast was almost cruel.
The hunger was still there. Always. But it didn’t feel like an attack anymore. It felt like… baseline. Like breathing. Like something I had stopped questioning. I stood in front of the mirror again. Longer this time. No adjusting. No correcting posture. No trying to find angles. Just— Looking.
My hand rose. Slow. Heavy. Rested on my stomach. It filled my palm. Warm. Alive. Mine. And for the first time— I didn’t immediately pull away. Not because I accepted it. Not yet.
But because— I didn’t know what I was supposed to fight anymore.
I couldn’t keep wearing the same clothes. That became obvious the moment I tried to leave the apartment again. Nothing fit. Not really. Everything either clung too tight… or gave up entirely. So I did something I hadn’t done in weeks. I went shopping.
The store felt too bright. Too open. Too… exposed. I stayed near the back at first. Larger sizes. Clothes I used to ignore completely. I picked up a shirt. Held it in front of me. Hesitated. Then another. And another. A pile formed in my arms. I didn’t look at anyone. Didn’t want to see if they were looking at me.
The fitting room mirror was worse. Always is. I tried the first shirt It fit. Not “almost.” Not “if I adjusted it.” It actually fit. Loose where it needed to be. Wide enough across my stomach. Long enough to fall over it. I stood there for a long time. Looking. Not judging. Not correcting. Just… seeing.
“This is it now,” I muttered.
No anger. No panic. Just a quiet statement. I bought everything. Didn’t think about it. Didn’t hesitate. I needed clothes for this body. So I got them. That night— I went out. Not to hunt. Not to impress. Just to… be somewhere else.
The bar was familiar. Same lights. Same noise. Same rhythm. But I wasn’t part of it anymore. Not in the same way. I felt it immediately. The space I took. The way I moved. The way people looked— Then looked away. Or didn’t look at all.
I went to the counter. Ordered a drink. Sat. Alone.
“You adapted faster than most.”
The voice hit before the recognition. Calm. Measured. Controlled. I turned. And there he was. Exactly the same. Perfect. Untouched. Unchanged. For a second— I didn’t recognize him. Then it clicked.
My stomach tightened. Not from hunger. From something else.
My voice was lower now. He smiled.
He looked me over. Slowly. Deliberately. Taking everything in. My size. My posture. My beard. My hairline. That same faint smile returned.
He stepped closer. Like nothing about this was strange.
“Your body’s done adjusting.”
It wasn’t a question. He tilted his head slightly.
Something inside me snapped— But it didn’t come out as anger. Just a heavy, tired breath.
He studied me for a moment.
“For the same reason you did what you did.”
I frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“Before,” he said. “Your routine.”
I didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. He already knew.
“I used to be like you,” he continued.
Silence. I searched his face. Looking for something— A crack. A lie. But there was nothing. Just calm. Just certainty.
“No one wanted me,” he said simply.
His eyes didn’t leave mine.
“I was ignored. Rejected. Dismissed.”
A faint tension in his jaw.
Then— It disappeared. Replaced by that same control.
A small tap of his own abdomen.
“An organ. Or… something close enough.”
“It regulates fat. Converts it. Enhances muscle growth.”
He stepped closer again. Lowered his voice.
“You got a beta version.”
I let out a hollow breath.
He glanced down at my body. Then back up.
“You picked men like me,” he continued.
“Men you thought were… beneath you.”
His gaze hardened slightly.
“So I gave you perspective.”
My hands curled into fists.
“Some handled it better.”
“And yet,” he said softly, “here you are.”
He reached out— Not touching. Just gesturing toward me.
“You feel it, don’t you?”
I didn’t answer. Because I did. That constant presence. That weight. That… change.
His eyes moved again. This time slower. More deliberate. They lingered. On my beard. Thick. Unavoidable. Then my chest. My stomach. Lower. My hips. My ass.
I shifted slightly. Instinct. He noticed. Of course he did. A quiet chuckle escaped him.
He leaned in just enough for me to hear clearly—
“And the hair,” he added, glancing briefly at my thinning scalp, “or what’s left of it.”
I didn’t react. Didn’t give him that. But he kept going. Unbothered.
His eyes dropped again. Lingering longer this time.
“…you’ve really filled out.”
A pause. Then, almost amused:
My stomach twisted. Different this time. Not hunger. Something heavier.
“You’re enjoying this,” I muttered.
“I’m observing,” he corrected.
I looked at him. Really looked. Perfect posture. Perfect control. Everything I used to be. Everything I wasn’t anymore.
“Can it be reversed?” I asked.
He hesitated.Just slightly.
Simple. Clean. Final. Silence settled between us.
The noise of the bar faded into the background. People moved. Laughed. Lived. Like nothing had changed. Except everything had. He straightened slightly.
“Well,” he said, almost casually, “you’re stable now.”
Another look. One last assessment.
“You don’t really have a choice.”
And just like that— He stepped back. Blended into the crowd. And disappeared. I stayed there. Sitting. Heavy. Still. My drink untouched.
My reflection faint in the mirror behind the bar. Distorted. Wider. Different. My hand moved slowly. Rested on my stomach. Pressed. Firm. Grounded. Real. And for the first time— I didn’t ask why anymore.
blakekathryn
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