This is my first full length story, so I hope you enjoy it! Please email me ([email protected]) any feedback. Enjoy!
All characters are entirely fictional besides Byron, whom has given me his express permission to include later in the book. Please follow him on Instagram (@byronrosekelly)!
The Power Shift
Harry adjusted his waistband with a subtle motion of discomfort, shifting the black trousers that were never designed for someone of his extraordinary proportions. On an average man, these formal work pants would fit comfortably, allowing for ease of movement and professional presentation. On Harry's colossal frame, they looked as if they'd been vacuum-sealed to his lower body, the fabric stretched to its absolute threshold across the terrain of his massive thighs and glutes. Every muscle fiber, every curve and swell of his development was outlined with such precision that the pants might as well have been painted directly onto his skin.
The sensation was familiar—fabric pulled taut against his flesh, seams straining at their stress points, the constant awareness that one wrong move could result in a catastrophic wardrobe failure. He had to be careful, maintaining a controlled awareness of his movements. He had a history with these trousers, a past filled with near-misses and actual disasters, and he didn't particularly fancy a repeat performance of the most recent incident.
Not after last time.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he remembered it vividly—a few weeks ago, mid-shift at the pizza restaurant. He'd dropped a pizza slicer and bent over to pick it up, a motion most people would perform without a second thought.
RIIIP.
The sharp sound of tearing fabric had filled the air, echoing across the restaurant floor like a gunshot in the relative quiet. For a split second, there had been silence, a collective held breath as diners processed what they'd just heard—then—
A table of kids had exploded into laughter, the sound rippling through the restaurant like a wave breaking against shore.
Their mother had been caught between embarrassment and... something else as her gaze flickered over the bright orange fabric of Harry's boxers, now fully visible through the gaping seam, pushed outward even further by the sheer mass of his glutes straining against the compromised garment. Her eyes had lingered a moment too long, her cheeks coloring with a flush that wasn't entirely from mortification.
Her husband, however, had been absolutely fuming, his face reddening for entirely different reasons. Probably jealous as hell, Harry had thought. The man's reaction had been disproportionate to the situation, his glare containing a personal animosity that suggested deeper insecurities triggered by Harry's physical presence.
Harry had played the part of the mortified employee, apologizing profusely, covering himself up as best he could while backing toward the staff room with exaggerated embarrassment. But inside? Inside, the incident had thrilled him in ways he rarely admitted even to himself.
That feeling—of every pair of eyes locked on him, of people staring, whispering, talking about his body—it was pure electricity coursing through his veins, a high more potent than any substance could provide. The attention was addictive, intoxicating in its raw potency, feeding something in him that craved recognition on a primal level.
The Bucket Incident
Back in the present, Harry sat on an upturned bucket in the storage room of the pizza restaurant, reaching behind him to grab his phone from the shelf. The ordinary task was complicated by his extraordinary physique, requiring a twist of his torso that most people would execute without thought.
Not his best idea.
The plastic bucket groaned beneath him, the material straining audibly under the concentrated pressure of his substantial weight. Before he had a chance to redistribute his mass or stand up—
CRACK.
It collapsed beneath him with startling suddenness, the structure giving way completely. The bucket's integrity surrendered to physics, sending Harry sprawling backward, his massive frame crashing into the metal rack behind him with enough force to shake the entire shelving unit.
Above, a bottle of olive oil that had been placed precariously close to the edge wobbled ominously, teetering for a heart-stopping moment before—
SPLASH.
A thick stream of golden oil poured straight onto his chest, soaking into his crisp white uniform shirt, seeping through the fabric almost instantly. The oil clung to every contour of his magnificent torso, transforming the previously opaque material into a translucent membrane that revealed rather than concealed. Every ridge of his abs, every curve of his pectoral development was suddenly highlighted with glistening precision, as though he'd been professionally oiled for a bodybuilding competition.
Harry groaned, wiping ineffectually at the mess, his efforts only succeeding in spreading it further across the expanse of his chest. The fabric clung to him with even greater determination now, molded to his physique with revealing accuracy.
"For fuck's sake," he muttered, looking down at the disaster with a mixture of annoyance and resigned amusement.
He glanced at his oil-slicked reflection in a nearby metal surface, the distorted image still enough to show the extent of the damage. A reluctant chuckle escaped him as he took in the absurdity of his situation.
"I swear, I keep getting oiled up against my will lately."
With a resigned sigh, he began unbuttoning the ruined shirt, each movement causing the wet fabric to cling more determinedly to his skin. He peeled it off with careful movements, the material separating from his torso with a soft, wet sound of reluctance. The shirt was beyond salvation, the oil stain too extensive for any amount of laundering to fully remove. He tossed it directly into the bin, not even attempting to salvage the garment.
Now, he had a problem.
What the hell was he supposed to wear for the remainder of his shift? The manager was strict about uniform requirements, and Harry couldn't exactly serve customers bare-chested, no matter how much some of them might appreciate the view. His only option was the black T-shirt from the other night with Jase, still stuffed in his gym bag from their evening at The Velvet Stag.
It'd have to do.
The Walk Through the Restaurant
With resignation, Harry walked out of the kitchen, bare-chested, through the closed restaurant, heading for the staff area where he'd left his bag. The restaurant wouldn't open for another twenty minutes, so he was spared the audience of customers, but a few early-arriving staff members stopped to stare as he passed.
Who could blame them? The sight of Harry's upper body, unconstrained by fabric, was enough to halt conversations mid-sentence. With every step, his pecs moved freely, bouncing in perfect rhythm with his gait. Each muscle group rippled with coordinated precision beneath his smooth, tanned skin, creating a mesmerizing display of physical perfection in motion. The overhead lights caught the residual oil still glistening on his torso, highlighting the deep separations between muscle groups with photographic clarity.
He ran his hands over his chest, massaging the dense muscle, feeling the warmth and responsiveness beneath his palms. The sensation was familiar and strangely comforting—the recognition of his own body, the tactile confirmation of development earned through thousands of hours of dedicated effort.
And in that moment, his mind flashed back to the other night.
Jase.
Jase's hands worshipping his chest, his fingers gliding over every inch, squeezing, kneading, exploring with reverent attention. The memory was fragmentary but vivid, snapshots of sensation rather than a coherent narrative.
Harry had remembered snippets of that night, more than he'd admitted to Jase during their awkward morning-after conversation. He had deliberately withheld certain recollections, uncertain how to navigate the shift in their friendship that those moments represented.
But he knew.
Jase had loved every second of their exploration. The way his breathing had quickened, the flush that had spread across his skin, the undisguised awe in his eyes as he'd mapped Harry's physique with his hands—none of it could be attributed solely to alcohol.
And, if he was being honest with himself...
So had he.
The realization wasn't as uncomfortable as it should have been. Something about Jase's touch had felt different from the casual, admiring contact he regularly experienced from strangers. There had been intention behind it, appreciation that went beyond surface admiration into something deeper, more meaningful.
Shaking the thought, Harry pulled on the black T-shirt, feeling it scrape down over his immense torso. The fabric fought a losing battle against his development, stretching to its absolute limit across his chest and shoulders. His pecs jutted forward aggressively beneath the material, creating a shelf-like protrusion that cast shadows onto his midsection below. The seams along his biceps creaked audibly as they strained to contain the massive arms they encircled, threatening imminent surrender with each subtle shift of his posture.
He exhaled, rolling his shoulders experimentally, testing the garment's tolerance for movement.
Perfect fit. For him, at least. On anyone else, it would have been comically large.
Dylan's Message
Back in the kitchen, he grabbed his phone from the shelf where it had miraculously remained during the bucket collapse, thankfully spared from the oil spill. The screen illuminated with a notification—a message from Dylan.
Harry smirked as he read the name. The guy was an absolute unit, no question about it. They'd trained together yesterday after George had made the introduction, and Harry had genuinely liked him—a good lad, eager, disciplined, and completely in awe of Harry's physique despite his own extraordinary development.
Not that Harry minded the admiration. It fed something in him that craved validation, that thrived on being recognized as exceptional.
Dylan wasn't gay, at least Harry didn't think so from their conversations, but his attention had been addictive nonetheless. There was something refreshing about his straightforward appreciation, uncomplicated by the social awkwardness that often accompanied such obvious admiration between men.
They'd talked a bit during rest periods between crushing sets—Dylan was unemployed, looking for work after his last bar job "didn't work out." He hadn't elaborated on the circumstances, and Harry hadn't pressed. Instead, he'd suggested Dylan try Jase's building site, offering to ask about any laboring jobs that might be available. The construction industry was always looking for strong backs, and Dylan certainly qualified in that department.
Now, Dylan was checking in, his message flashing on Harry's screen.
Dylan: Hey mate, any news from your mate?
Harry typed out a quick reply, his massive thumbs moving with surprising dexterity across the screen.
Harry: Yeah, Jase said just go down there during normal hours and ask for him. He's spoken to the site manager—reckons there might be some groundwork available.
The response came almost immediately, as though Dylan had been waiting with his phone in hand.
Dylan: Mate, you're a legend. Appreciate it. Enjoy your shift!
Harry smirked at the enthusiastic response. Dylan was grateful, but Harry had the feeling this wouldn't be the last favor he'd ask for. There was something about the way Dylan had looked at him during their training session—a mixture of admiration and calculation—that suggested he was already thinking several moves ahead.
It wasn't manipulation exactly, more like strategic planning. Harry recognized it because he employed similar tactics himself when he wanted something. People were generally eager to help someone who looked like him, and he'd learned early on how to leverage that advantage when necessary.
The Game Begins -- Ethan Returns
Later that night, mid-shift, Harry was waiting on tables when a familiar face caught his attention amid the crowd of diners. The Friday night rush was in full swing, the restaurant packed with customers enjoying their end-of-week treat, conversations and laughter creating a pleasant buzz of ambient noise.
But through the sea of anonymous faces, one stood out with jarring clarity.
Ethan.
The barman from The Chapel.
He'd already been served by Stella, who was stupidly busy and visibly stressed out, running between tables with increasing desperation as the orders piled up. Harry watched her for a moment, noting the frazzled energy in her movements, the tight smile that didn't reach her eyes as she dealt with demanding customers.
"Want me to take over?" he asked, intercepting her path back to the kitchen. "He's on his own, and I sort of know him." The offer was casual, helpful colleague to helpful colleague, though his motivations weren't entirely altruistic. Something about Ethan's unexpected appearance in his workplace triggered his curiosity.
Stella looked relieved, gratitude washing over her features. "God, yes. Take him." She thrust the order pad into Harry's hand with perhaps more force than necessary, already turning toward another table that needed attention.
The Flirtation War
Harry strolled over to Ethan's table, his movements deliberately measured to maximize the visual impact of his approach. With each step, his extraordinary physique commanded attention, the black fabric of his borrowed T-shirt stretched to its absolute limit across his chest, the material so taut that the outlines of his individual muscle fibers were visible beneath it. His trousers, somehow still intact despite the morning's oil incident, strained against his massive thighs, the fabric pulled so tight that walking required conscious adjustment of his natural gait.
Ethan looked up as Harry approached, recognition immediately lighting his features. There was something in his expression—a calculation, an assessment—that seemed at odds with the nervous persona he'd projected at The Chapel. The change was subtle but unmistakable, like watching an actor briefly drop character between scenes.
Harry grinned, the expression confident and just slightly predatory. "Thirsty?" he asked, the innocuous question somehow carrying layered meanings beneath its simple surface.
Ethan smirked, his demeanor more assured than Harry had previously witnessed. "Something like that," he replied, his gaze traveling over Harry's torso with deliberate slowness, taking inventory of his development with the methodical appreciation of a connoisseur.
Harry tilted his head, feigning innocence though his eyes held knowing amusement. "See anything you like?" he asked, flexing his pecs subtly beneath the strained fabric, making the massive muscles dance with controlled precision. It was a move he'd perfected over years of similar interactions—casual enough to seem unintentional, deliberate enough to be unmistakable to the right observer.
Ethan's confidence flickered momentarily—a brief crack in his newfound assurance—but didn't vanish completely. He recovered quickly, his gaze steady as he met Harry's eyes.
"Depends," Ethan said smoothly, his voice carrying a subtle challenge. "Do you offer samples before I choose what I'd like to have this evening?"
Harry's grin widened at the unexpected boldness. This wasn't the same nervous bartender who had fumbled drinks and spilled sauce at The Chapel. This was someone else entirely—or perhaps the real person behind a carefully constructed facade.
This lad had game.
He took Ethan's order with professional efficiency, turning to walk away toward the kitchen. But something made him glance back over his shoulder, a sixth sense honed through years of being observed.
Ethan's eyes were locked onto his lower half, his gaze so intense it was almost tangible. He was studying Harry's glutes with the focused concentration of a scientist examining a rare specimen, his appreciation undisguised and unapologetic.
Ethan's gaze flicked up, catching Harry in the act of observation.
Their eyes met across the distance.
But Ethan didn't look away, didn't flush with embarrassment at being caught staring. Instead, he held Harry's gaze with unexpected confidence, a slight smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, as though they were sharing a private joke.
For the first time in his experience, Harry felt it—a subtle but unmistakable shift in the dynamics between them.
The power slipping from his grasp, transferring elsewhere.
His heartbeat spiked unexpectedly, a rush of something unfamiliar coursing through his system—not fear, not anxiety, but a strange, electrifying excitement that he couldn't immediately name.
This was new.
This was thrilling.
And he had no idea why it affected him so powerfully.
The Final Move
When Harry returned with Ethan's pizza, he placed the steaming dish on the table with practiced care, the movement causing his chest to flex involuntarily beneath his tight shirt. The fabric strained audibly with the motion, the seams tested once again by the extraordinary development they struggled to contain.
"Anything else?" he asked, the standard server question somehow carrying additional weight in this particular interaction.
Ethan's eyes gleamed with something knowing, something calculating. He gestured with his finger, beckoning Harry closer with a simple, confident motion.
Without even thinking about why, Harry obeyed, leaning down slightly to bring himself closer to Ethan's level. The compliance was automatic, unquestioned—a departure from his usual carefully maintained control of all interactions.
Ethan reached out with unexpected boldness, his fingertips pressing into Harry's enormous pecs through the sheer black fabric. The touch was deliberate, testing the density of the muscle beneath, exploring its resilience with appreciative precision.
Harry exhaled sharply, caught in a moment that felt suspended between their established roles and something new, something unexplored. The contact sent a subtle current of electricity through his system, his body responding to the touch with an eagerness that surprised him.
"Like what you see?" Harry murmured, the question emerging as a reflexive defense mechanism, an attempt to reclaim familiar territory in an increasingly unfamiliar interaction.
Ethan pulled back, smirking with quiet confidence. The withdrawal wasn't a retreat but a strategic redistribution of forces, a calculated move in whatever game they were now playing.
Then, he picked up the order pad from Harry's hand, scrawled something quickly on a fresh page, and tore it out with deliberate precision.
He slid the paper across the table toward Harry, his movements unhurried and assured.
Harry picked it up, curiosity overriding his usual careful maintenance of professional boundaries.
A number.
And underneath, in neat, controlled handwriting:
"Call me if you want an answer to that question."
Harry swallowed, the fragile paper suddenly feeling like a weighted object in his hand. Without conscious thought, he stuffed it into his pocket, struggling slightly to fit it between the thick, smooth bulk of his thighs and the fabric that clung to them with unrelenting pressure.
His mind was blown, his usual confident equilibrium disturbed by this unexpected development. The entire interaction had followed none of the patterns he was accustomed to, had violated all the usual scripts that governed his encounters with admiring strangers.
And for the first time in his extensive experience of being desired, appreciated, and pursued, Harry Schett wasn't sure who was really in control of the situation unfolding between them.
The realization was terrifying.
And intoxicating.
