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)!
Thursday Rituals
The Chapel had the kind of atmosphere that made people feel comfortable the moment they walked through its heavy oak doors, a rare establishment that balanced modern convenience with timeless charm. A contemporary bar with olde-worlde character, it boasted warm wooden floors worn smooth by decades of footsteps, exposed ceiling beams that spoke of sturdy craftsmanship, and dim lighting that cast a honeyed glow across the space, making everyone look slightly better than they did in the unforgiving light of day. The air carried a rich blend of scents—polished oak, the yeasty tang of good beer, and the mouth-watering aroma of sizzling food drifting from the kitchen's swinging doors. Though not packed to capacity on this Thursday evening, the place hummed with the steady buzz of conversation, punctuated by occasional laughter and the gentle clinking of glasses, all underscored by low music playing through hidden speakers.
Harry Schett stood at the bar, one strong hand wrapped around a pint glass, leaning against the polished wooden surface with the kind of effortless confidence that couldn't be manufactured or practiced. His mere presence seemed to alter the dynamic of the room, pulling attention toward him like planets orbiting a particularly magnificent sun.
The skin-tight black T-shirt he wore, accented with bright red detailing along the seams, clung to his torso with almost desperate determination, the fabric stretched to its absolute limit across his massive pecs and biceps. Each movement, no matter how slight, caused the material to shift and readjust, highlighting every deeply cut muscle beneath as though the shirt were eager to showcase its contents. It was deliberately one size too small—an intentional choice by a man who understood the power of presentation. Harry didn't just want to be seen; he craved it, crafted it, cultivated it with each carefully selected garment. His jeans were no less provocative, hugging his thick, tree-trunk legs and substantial glutes with devoted attention, the denim pulled so tight across his lower half that the sturdy fabric seemed perpetually on the verge of surrender. As he leaned his elbow on the bar, his stance naturally accentuated his physique, his lower body pushed slightly outward, the impressive curve undeniable beneath the stretched material.
And Mags, the sharp-eyed landlady who had seen every type of customer imaginable during her decades of pub management, was—as always—fixated on Harry's chest. The middle-aged woman with her practical, cropped silver hair and no-nonsense demeanor was wiping a glass with slow, deliberate strokes, but her gaze barely lifted from the expanse of Harry's pecs, like they possessed some magnetic quality that commanded attention. Her eyes traced the dramatic shelf they created, the deep separation between them visible even through the strained fabric.
"Alright, Mags?" Harry asked with a knowing smirk, raising his pint slightly in casual greeting. He was accustomed to her frankly appreciative gaze, had come to expect it as part of his Thursday ritual.
She exhaled with theatrical resignation, shaking her head as though confronted with something slightly unfair. "I don't know how you even fit in shirts anymore, love," she said, her voice carrying the rough edges of someone who'd seen too much to be easily impressed, yet found herself impressed nonetheless.
Harry chuckled, taking a long sip of his beer, leaving a slight foam mustache that he wiped away with the back of his hand. "I think you're just jealous, Mags," he responded with playful accusation. "I've told the lads, I reckon you're a lesbian—mad for a pair of big pecs." The teasing held no malice, just the comfortable banter of people who'd established their own peculiar friendship.
Mags snorted, the sound somehow both derisive and affectionate. "You wish," she retorted, giving him a playful slap on his massive arm that would have staggered a smaller man but didn't even register as physical contact to Harry. Her eyes lingered a little too long on his physique before she turned away with practiced nonchalance, busying herself with stacking some freshly washed glasses behind the bar.
As Harry shifted his weight, adjusting his position against the bar to better accommodate his substantial frame, the student barman—covering shifts during his spring break from university—brushed past him again, moving within the narrow space behind the bar. It was the third such "accidental" contact in the twenty minutes since Harry had arrived.
The lad—a short, slim young man standing about 5'5" with an average build that seemed particularly unremarkable in Harry's presence—wore a name badge that read 'Ethan' and moved with what he clearly believed was subtlety. Every time he walked past, his hand just barely skimmed the curve of Harry's lower half, a touch so light and fleeting that it could be dismissed as accidental in the confined space. Yet there was an undeniable deliberateness to each contact, a calculated trajectory that betrayed intention rather than chance. And Harry, far from discouraging these attentions, responded by widening his stance slightly each time, pushing back almost imperceptibly into the contact, offering silent encouragement.
The game between them remained unspoken but mutually understood. Harry said nothing about these increasingly bold touches, maintained his conversation with Mags without missing a beat, while Ethan continued his charade of innocence, believing his admiration remained his secret alone.
The heavy door swung open with a gust of evening air, the hinges creaking slightly as Max Schett entered the pub with the commanding presence of a general inspecting his troops. He was impossible to miss, even in a room already containing his physically impressive son. The white short-sleeve shirt he wore, crisply pressed and tucked with military precision into dark grey shorts, created a striking contrast against his tanned skin. The brown leather belt cinched at his narrow waist perfectly balanced the ensemble, its rich color complementing the smooth, unblemished fabric that stretched across his broad frame. His pecs, massive by any standard, stretched the shirt just enough to hint at their impressive size without straining indecently, the fit so meticulous it suggested custom tailoring.
But it was his lower half that truly captured attention once the initial impact of his entrance had registered. The seams of his skin-tight shorts visibly strained under the pressure of containing his development, the sheer mass of his glutes creating a silhouette that drew the eye regardless of one's preferences. Nothing about this presentation was accidental or unconsidered. Max chose clothes that fit this way by design, each garment selected to frame, enhance, and emphasize his physical attributes without crossing into vulgarity.
His gaze swept the room with practiced efficiency before landing on Harry at the bar. He moved toward his son with purposeful strides, each step causing the thick muscle of his thighs to press against each other in a rhythm that seemed to command the very floor beneath him.
Harry turned at his approach, a genuine grin spreading across his face. "Alright, old man?" he greeted, the familial resemblance between them unmistakable despite the two decades that separated them—the same sharp jawline, the same striking blue eyes, the same platinum blonde hair, though Max wore his styled back with sophisticated simplicity while Harry's had the artful tousle of youthful indifference.
Max pulled him in for a brief but firm hug, the kind of physical affection between men who are comfortable in their masculinity, patting his back with genuine affection before stepping back to appraise him with critical eyes. "Jesus, you're getting bigger every week," he observed, his gaze lingering on Harry's chest with a mixture of pride and professional assessment. "You sure you've not had implants put in?"
Harry smirked, reaching out to prod one of Max's even larger pecs with teasing familiarity. "Dunno, you tell me," he countered. "You're still the biggest pair in the room." The competitive undercurrent between them was good-natured but unmistakable, the push and pull of two men who measured themselves against each other even while sharing genuine affection.
Max chuckled, shaking his head at the familiar banter. "One pint, then food?" he suggested, already settling into their weekly routine.
"Sorted," Harry agreed with simple finality.
Mags had disappeared into the back room, likely checking on kitchen orders, leaving only Ethan behind the bar to attend to customers. Max turned to him, unaware of the charged dynamic that had been playing out between the barman and his son. "Alright, mate? Pint of lager, please," he requested, his tone polite but carrying the natural authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed.
Ethan nodded quickly, his head bobbing with almost puppyish eagerness. "Right away," he managed, darting behind the beer pumps with unusual haste. His eyes flickered between Max and Harry, taking in the magnificent father-son duo with barely concealed fascination, his composure clearly affected by the double impact of their presence.
He tried to focus on the simple task of pulling a pint, something he'd done hundreds of times in the weeks he'd worked at The Chapel, but his hands betrayed him, shaking slightly as he positioned the glass. He pulled the tap with too much force, sending beer rushing into the glass at a rate that quickly created excessive foam. The glass overflowed before he could correct his error, beer spilling over his fingers and splashing onto the rubber mat below. His face flushed a deep crimson as he hurriedly wiped his hands on his apron, his breath audibly unsteady as he placed the imperfectly poured drink on the bar.
"Shit, uh—sorry," he mumbled, clearly mortified by his uncharacteristic clumsiness.
Max took out his wallet with unhurried movements, seemingly unbothered by the bartender's nervousness. He watched with patient tolerance as Ethan fumbled the change, coins slipping through trembling fingers before being hastily gathered and passed over.
Max said nothing about the obvious discomfort, simply nodded his thanks and took his drink, the epitome of unflappable composure.
Harry, however, was grinning widely, having observed the entire interaction with knowing amusement, filing away each detail of Ethan's flustered behavior for later discussion.
They took a table near the window, settling into comfortable wooden chairs that creaked slightly under their substantial weight. The warm glow from the streetlights outside cast long, atmospheric shadows across the worn wooden floor, creating pockets of intimacy in the already cozy space.
Harry took a long sip of his pint before setting it down with deliberate care, his smirk impossible to contain any longer. "Mate, I think the kid fancies you," he declared, leaning forward slightly as if sharing classified information.
Max raised a single eyebrow, the expression somehow conveying both skepticism and surprise simultaneously. "What?" he asked, genuinely caught off guard by the suggestion.
Harry leaned back in his chair, the wood groaning slightly in protest as his weight shifted, his pecs pushing prominently against his shirt as he rolled his shoulders. "That was a serious performance of flustered," he explained with the confidence of someone who recognized the signs. "Overfilled your pint, hands shaking like he was defusing a bomb... bet he's in the back now having a meltdown over it."
Max shook his head dismissively, taking a measured sip of his imperfectly poured beer. "He was just nervous," he countered, unwilling to consider the alternative. "Probably new to the job."
Harry took another drink, still grinning behind the rim of his glass. "Nervous, sure. Or just really, really into you," he insisted with brotherly teasing. "Christ, he spilled more liquid over himself than you did that time in Marbella." The reference to some shared memory hung between them, clearly significant though unexplained.
Max sighed, a sound of exasperated affection. "Jesus, Harry," he muttered, neither confirming nor denying the comparison.
Harry laughed, a rich sound that turned a few heads in their direction, but let the subject drop for the moment, allowing the conversation to drift toward more neutral territory.
A while later, as they discussed the latest local sports results with the comfortable familiarity of a long-established ritual, Ethan approached their table. He balanced a tray with their food order—a pasta dish for each of them, accompanied by a small ceramic jug of cheese sauce. His approach was cautious, almost reverent, as though bearing offerings to particularly demanding deities.
"Here you go, gents," he announced, his voice steadier now that he'd had time to compose himself. He placed their meals before them with careful precision. "Want me to pour the sauce?" he offered, gesturing to the jug with a helpfulness that bordered on eagerness to please.
Max nodded, his attention more on the steaming pasta than on the server. "Yeah, go on," he agreed casually, unaware of the minor disaster about to unfold.
The moment Ethan tipped the jug to pour, catastrophe struck with the kind of perfect timing usually reserved for cinematic comedy. His hand, steady until that crucial moment, seemed to develop a sudden tremor. A thick stream of creamy white sauce slid straight down the front of Max's pristine shirt, splattering across his magnificent chest in a spreading stain that immediately began soaking into the fabric.
Ethan froze in horror, the jug still tilted at a dangerous angle, his face a mask of pure mortification. "Oh, fuck—sorry, I—" Words failed him as he stared at the spreading mess, his complexion alternating between deathly pale and feverishly flushed.
Max exhaled slowly through his nose, a controlled release of breath that spoke volumes about his self-restraint. He tilted his head down to assess the damage, taking in the substantial white stain spreading across his shirt with the calm resignation of someone who had learned that some situations simply must be endured.
Ethan was frantic, already scrambling backward, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste. "I'll—just a second—" he stammered, practically running toward the bar to retrieve something to address the mess he'd created.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Harry burst out laughing, the sound erupting from him with such force that it drew attention from nearby tables. "Knew it!" he exclaimed triumphantly, slapping the table with enough force to make the cutlery jump. "Knew he fancied you. That was on purpose, clear as day."
Max rolled his eyes, dabbing ineffectually at the spreading stain with his paper napkin. "Christ, Harry. It was an accident," he insisted, though a hint of doubt had crept into his voice. "These things happen."
Harry leaned forward across the table, his grin wolfish and knowing. "Mate. He's in love," he declared with absolute certainty. "I've seen fewer nervous spills in amateur porn." The comparison hung in the air between them, outrageous yet somehow fitting.
Max shot him a warning look that contained more amusement than actual reproach, but before he could formulate a suitable response, Ethan returned, clutching a clean cloth in his trembling hands. With a mixture of professional obligation and obvious fascination, he began dabbing at Max's chest, his movements simultaneously apologetic and reverential.
The fabric of the shirt, already fitted to Max's impressive dimensions, was soaked instantly by the combination of sauce and water, the white cotton becoming nearly transparent as it clung to the massive pecs beneath, outlining every curve and contour of the muscle with inadvertent precision. What had been merely suggested before was now on clear display, the wet fabric leaving little to the imagination.
Max sighed, looking down at the ruined garment with resigned practicality. "I can't get on the bus home like this," he observed, stating the obvious with calm rationality that belied the somewhat compromising situation.
Ethan stammered, clearly struggling to maintain professional composure while confronted with the magnificent sight of Max's chest outlined in clinging wet fabric. "I—I think we have a spare shirt in the back," he offered, latching onto this potential solution with desperate hopefulness. "Sometimes staff leave things... I'll check."
A few moments later, after a hurried search through lost-and-found boxes and staff lockers, Ethan returned bearing the largest polo shirt he could find, a navy blue garment with The Chapel's subtle logo embroidered on the breast. He presented it like a peace offering, his expression hovering between apology and anticipation.
It was still visibly too small for Max's substantial frame.
With no viable alternative, Max rose from his seat and, with casual disregard for conventional public decorum, stripped off his wet shirt in one smooth motion. The cool air of the pub hit his bare, smooth skin, raising the slightest goosebumps across the expanse of his chest. Ethan stared, no longer attempting to disguise his fascination, his eyes wide and locked onto the physical masterpiece revealed before him.
Max took the offered polo and pulled it on with practiced efficiency, years of managing clothing not designed for his physique evident in his movements. The struggle was immediate and obvious.
It was tight—achingly, almost comically tight. The short sleeves dug so deeply into his biceps that they visibly compressed the thick muscle, squeezing them like a vise attempting to contain something well beyond its capacity. The fabric stretched mercilessly across his torso, gripping his pecs with such determination that each individual fiber of the weave seemed to be holding on for dear life. The short sleeves barely covered half his upper arms, making them appear even more massive by contrast with the straining fabric.
Harry grinned, taking in the absurd sight with undisguised amusement. "Think it fits?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Max sighed, tugging uselessly at the hem that refused to reach his waistband properly. "Shut up," he muttered, accepting the situation with as much dignity as possible while essentially poured into a shirt at least two sizes too small.
Later, as the evening came to its natural conclusion, Max and Harry stood outside The Chapel in the cool night air, streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. The borrowed shirt remained stretched to its absolute limit across Max's torso, transforming what would have been a casual garment on anyone else into something that looked painted onto his frame.
Max pulled Harry in for a farewell hug, the gesture warm with genuine affection despite the competitive undertones that colored their relationship. "I'm proud of you," he said, his voice carrying the sincerity of a father seeing his son succeed in his own right. "You've done well with yourself."
Harry grinned, rolling his shoulders in a casual movement that was nonetheless calculated to showcase his impressive development, his pecs pushing against his shirt in a visual display of his physical prowess. "Thanks, old man," he responded, the nickname affectionate rather than dismissive.
Two young men passing on the opposite side of the street noticed the display, their walking pace slowing as they took in Harry's physique with undisguised appreciation. One of them let out a low whistle of admiration, the sound carrying clearly in the quiet evening air.
Max rolled his eyes, a mixture of amusement and mild exasperation at his son's effect on strangers. "Jesus," he muttered, though there was no real criticism in it, just the resigned observation of a phenomenon he'd witnessed countless times.
He hugged Harry once more, a quick embrace of farewell, kissing his cheek with paternal affection that contrasted with their usual banter. "See you next week," he said, a simple confirmation of their established ritual.
Harry smirked, his eyes following the two admirers who had now stopped completely, pretending to check something on one of their phones while stealing obvious glances in his direction. With deliberate showmanship, he crossed the road unnecessarily, slowing his pace to ensure they got the full effect of his approach, the movement causing every muscle to shift and flex beneath his tight clothing.
"Want a feel?" he offered with brazen directness once he reached them, his confidence so absolute that what would have been absurdly forward from anyone else somehow seemed a perfectly reasonable suggestion coming from him.
The two young men hesitated, exchanging glances that contained equal parts disbelief and eagerness, before nervously extending their hands to run them over Harry's biceps. Their touches were tentative at first, then more appreciative as they encountered the solid mass of muscle beneath the fabric.
Max turned back, watching this interaction from across the street, his expression complex with layered emotions. A mixture of anxiety, parental concern at his son's sometimes reckless openness with strangers, mingled with undeniable awe at Harry's absolute comfort in his physical magnificence. Beneath it all lay a deep, genuine pride—not just in the impressive physique Harry had built, which was in many ways a reflection of Max's own life's work, but in the confident, unapologetic way Harry inhabited his body, owned his desires, and embraced the attention he generated without shame or hesitation.
And as Harry stood there, bathed in the amber glow of streetlights, confidently inviting these strangers to admire him, Max couldn't help but take in just how massive his son had become—not just physically, though that was undeniable, but as a presence that commanded space and attention with seemingly effortless grace.
In moments like these, Max felt the peculiar mixture of competitive edge and paternal pride that defined their relationship, along with something else he rarely acknowledged: a subtle envy of Harry's freedom, his uninhibited enjoyment of being desired, touched, appreciated. It was a freedom Max had never allowed himself, a boundary he had never dared to cross.
He turned away finally, heading toward the bus stop with measured strides, his borrowed shirt still straining against his torso, a constant reminder of the evening's unusual developments. Behind him, Harry's laughter carried on the night air, a sound of pure pleasure and enjoyment that lingered in Max's thoughts long after he boarded the bus home.
