You step into the apartment, kicking the door shut behind you as the scent of rain-soaked pavement trails in from outside. The soft crack-crack of a fire draws your eyes to the living room, where the flickering glow bathes everything in amber and gold. Cozy. Almost too cozy.
Then you see him.
Curled—no, sprawled—on the couch like a lion in repose, is your roommate. Or at least, was your roommate. Because this? This beast of a man stretching the couch’s limits with his sheer mass? This is not the same delicate-limbed, waifish twink who used to float around the apartment in oversized sweaters and boyish charm.
His legs are kicked up casually, one arm slung over the backrest. The firelight dances over broad pecs that bulge against a t-shirt clearly designed for someone four sizes smaller.
And he's wearing that shirt. The purple unicorn shirt.
Only now, it looks more like a battlefield than a garment.
The once-loose cotton is now stretched skin-tight across a chest so wide it practically has its own weather system. The pastel unicorn — formerly prancing cheerfully across his chest — now looks, warped and distorted by the sheer expanse of muscle it's forced to parade across.
The sleeves? They’re losing the will to live. Threadbare and clinging for dear life around biceps thicker than your thighs. You swear you hear a stitch pop as he casually shifts his arm. The fabric twitches, one breath away from a full-scale structural failure.
His biceps? Ridiculous. Veined, pumped, like he’d just curled a Volkswagen for fun.
“Hey,” he rumbles, voice an octave deeper than you remember — warm, low, and way too smug. “You’re home late.”
your roommate — your sweet, skinny, bubblegum-tart-twinkle of a boy — has somehow grown into a massive, vein-laced colossus.
You blink. twice
“W-What… happened to you?”
He stretches, the shirt making an ominous stretching noise, and smirks.
“Growth spurt.”
You step forward slowly, half-expecting the illusion to shatter. But nope—his traps are real. His jawline could cut glass. And those thighs... and that BULGE? You don’t even want to know what pants shopping is like now.
“Growth spurt?” you repeat, incredulous. “You look like you ate your old self and used creatine as a chaser.”
He shrugs—casually, cockily—every movement a flex.
“Maybe I got tired of being the ‘adorable roommate.’ Figured I’d bulk up. Took… well, a bit more than just protein powder.”
You raise a brow.
“You kept that shirt?” you ask, incredulous.
He shrugs, the motion wracking the unicorn with fresh trauma.
“It’s nostalgic,” he says, grinning. “And stretchy. Mostly. So far.”
The couch creaks under him. One of the seams along the side of his torso snaps audibly.
You take a step back.
“You’re gonna explode.”
Another grin. Another twitch. Another stitch sacrificed to the altar of hypertrophy.
He leans back, huge arms spreading across the cushions, utterly unapologetic.
He smiles—mischievous, confident, terrifying.
Somewhere, one of the couch legs gives way under the weight.
You’re still staring.
He winks. “You gonna keep ogling, or join me?”
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