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 Morning After, Revisited
Jase stood frozen to the spot, Harry's words hanging in the air between them like a physical presence, a weight neither of them quite knew how to carry. His mind scrambled desperately for an appropriate response, something casual yet unrevealing, something that might diffuse the growing tension without acknowledging its existence. But his usually quick wit failed him completely, leaving him with nothing but a noncommittal shrug that felt woefully inadequate to the situation.
"Yeah, well... I don't remember shit," he muttered finally, infusing his voice with deliberate dismissiveness, as if the entire night—whatever it might have contained—was too inconsequential to remain in his memory. Perhaps if he acted as though nothing significant had happened, Harry would follow his lead, and they could both pretend that whatever transpired during those missing hours had never occurred at all.
But then, he glanced down.
Harry's t-shirt was still clutched in his hand, the fabric stretched beyond recovery from containing Harry's extraordinary development. The cotton had molded itself to the contours of his massive chest so completely that it retained the imprint even when empty, like a fossil preserving the shape of something magnificent.
Before Jase could react to this damning evidence of his unconscious fixation, Harry moved with the fluid grace that always seemed incongruous with his substantial size.
The scent of freshly brewed coffee drifted through the air, rich and inviting, as Harry crossed the room. His thighs, each one developed to proportions that would make professional rugby players question their training regimens, created an unavoidable friction against each other with each step. The sound of skin against skin provided a subtle percussion to his movement, a reminder of the sheer mass that prevented his legs from ever achieving a parallel position. His ridiculously tight turquoise boxer briefs, the only clothing he currently wore, seemed to be fighting a losing battle against the laws of physics as they struggled to contain his lower body. The fabric strained most dramatically across his glutes, which protruded from his frame with such extraordinary development that they created their own gravitational field, demanding attention regardless of one's usual preferences.
Harry squeezed past Jase in the limited space, his body radiating heat like a furnace, solid and unyielding as a marble sculpture brought improbably to life. The proximity was overwhelming, an assault on multiple senses simultaneously—the warmth of his skin, the subtle scent of sleep and lingering cologne, the visual impact of so much perfectly developed muscle moving in coordinated harmony.
As he passed, he plucked the t-shirt from Jase's unresisting hand in one smooth motion, his fingers brushing against Jase's with casual intimacy. He leaned in close, close enough that his breath ghosted warm against Jase's ear as he whispered:
"Thanks for looking after this."
The words were simple, innocent on the surface, but something in Harry's tone—a hint of amusement, perhaps, or something deeper and less easily defined—sent an involuntary shiver racing down Jase's spine. He pulled away before Jase could regain his composure, moving toward the sofa with the unhurried confidence of someone entirely comfortable in their own skin, regardless of their state of undress.
He dropped onto the couch with casual grace, his massive frame causing the furniture to creak in protest. His glutes settled into the dent he had left behind earlier, filling it so perfectly that it seemed to have been custom-formed for his specific anatomy, like a throne designed exclusively for his use. The cushions compressed beneath his weight, adjusting to accommodate his substantial mass as though they had no choice but to yield to his physical authority.
Still gripping his coffee mug like a lifeline, Harry gestured lazily for Jase to join him, seemingly unconcerned about the tension crackling in the air between them.
"You still look pissed," he observed, amusement coloring his voice as he took in Jase's disheveled appearance and obvious discomfort.
Jase hesitated, still trying to piece together the fragments of the previous night, to construct some coherent narrative from the shattered remains of his memory. Then, reluctantly, he crossed the room and lowered himself onto the sofa beside Harry's massive bulk, maintaining a carefully calculated distance that he hoped appeared casual rather than deliberate.
Piecing Together the Night
Jase exhaled deeply, rubbing his temples in a futile attempt to massage away the pounding headache that had taken up residence behind his eyes. "Alright... let's try this," he began, resignation evident in his tone. "What the hell do you remember?"
Harry stretched out his colossal frame, his movements languid and unhurried, claiming more of the sofa's limited real estate with casual entitlement. He took a thoughtful sip of his coffee before responding. "Bits," he admitted with characteristic nonchalance. "Mostly the bar. You getting absolutely wrecked. Me being admired by various onlookers. Standard Thursday, really." His description was delivered with the easy confidence of someone who assumed such attention was the natural order of things rather than a noteworthy exception.
Jase scoffed, though the sound held more nervousness than genuine derision. "Alright, dickhead. And after that?" he pressed, trying to fill in the crucial gaps in his timeline.
Harry's brow furrowed slightly, genuine concentration briefly replacing his usual mask of casual indifference. "I remember the cab," he said after a moment's consideration. "You said something about 'worship.' Then I woke up here." The statement was delivered matter-of-factly, without innuendo or suggestion, yet the word 'worship' hung in the air between them, loaded with implications that neither seemed prepared to address directly.
Jase felt his stomach tighten with apprehension. He could tell Harry wasn't lying—there was none of the subtle tells he'd learned to recognize after years of friendship. At least, not entirely lying. There was something in Harry's careful phrasing, in the deliberate vagueness of "bits," that suggested selective disclosure rather than complete honesty. But Jase wasn't in a position to push for greater transparency, not when his own recollection was a void of nothingness where crucial memories should have been.
He forced himself to relax, exhaling slowly as he picked up his phone from the coffee table with deliberate casualness.
Time for the dreaded post-night-out tradition that had become a staple of modern socializing—scrolling through the photographic evidence to assess exactly what kind of embarrassing situations they had documented for posterity, what moments of temporary insanity had been preserved in digital amber for future mortification.
Harry was already swiping through his own camera roll, his thumb moving lazily over the screen with the unhurried confidence of someone who had nothing to fear from their documented behavior.
A moment later, he barked out a laugh, the sound genuinely amused rather than forced. "Oh, mate. Look at this," he said, turning the screen toward Jase.
Jase leaned in reluctantly, bracing himself for whatever humiliation awaited.
The photo showed him mid-dance, swaying with unsteady abandon alongside a complete stranger whose face reflected a mixture of amusement and mild concern. Jase's expression was one of utter inebriation, his eyes slightly unfocused, his grin too wide to be entirely sober. The stranger had one steadying hand on his shoulder, seemingly trying to prevent him from toppling over while maintaining a polite distance otherwise.
Jase groaned, the memory of this particular moment still frustratingly absent despite the photographic evidence of its occurrence. "Who the fuck is that?" he asked, squinting at the unfamiliar face beside his own drunken visage.
Harry grinned, clearly enjoying Jase's discomfort more than was strictly necessary. "No idea," he admitted cheerfully. "But lucky them—getting a dance with the great Jase the Jock." The teasing nickname from their university days emerged with familiar affection, a reference to a time when Jase's confident persona had earned him both admiration and gentle mockery from his peers.
Jase shook his head, laughing despite himself, relief flooding his system at the relatively innocent nature of the documented misbehavior. "Damn right they were lucky," he agreed, falling into their usual pattern of banter with grateful ease. Perhaps the night had been nothing more than typical drunken adventures after all, with no relationship-altering revelations or boundary-crossing activities.
They flicked through more photos from the bar, each one showing typical scenes from their night out—Harry flexing for an appreciative audience, several selfies that looked more like professional modeling shots than casual documentation, group pictures with strangers who had clearly been drawn into their orbit through the gravitational pull of Harry's physical presence. Nothing incriminating, nothing that explained the strange tension humming between them this morning.
Nothing about what happened after they left the bar.
The evidence trail ended precisely where Jase's memory did, offering no illumination of the critical hours that followed.
With growing frustration, Jase reached for his own phone, hoping his personal documentation might provide the missing pieces of the puzzle. The device, however, was inconveniently positioned on the far side of Harry's immovable form, requiring intervention to retrieve.
With no choice but to navigate through Harry's personal space, Jase steeled himself and stretched across, his palm pressing against the unyielding mass of Harry's thigh for balance as he leaned over. His fingers sank slightly into the dense muscle, the sensation both foreign and disturbingly familiar, as though his body remembered interactions his mind could not access. The brief contact sent an unexpected jolt through his system, a physical response he chose to attribute to his hangover-heightened sensitivity rather than examine more closely.
Phone finally in hand, he sat back with perhaps more haste than the situation strictly required, clearing his throat to cover the momentary awkwardness. Harry, as usual, appeared entirely unbothered by the physical contact, his expression betraying no awareness of Jase's internal turmoil.
Jase flicked through his own photos with mounting anticipation, hoping for—yet simultaneously dreading—evidence that might explain the strange undercurrents flowing beneath their usual camaraderie this morning.
More bar pictures. More Harry posing with the unselfconscious confidence of someone who knew exactly how good they looked. More documentation of increasingly inebriated revelry as the night progressed.
One image in particular caught his attention—Harry bent over a barstool in what appeared to be a deliberately provocative pose, his posterior so outrageously developed that it threatened to split the seams of his jeans at any moment. The denim strained across his glutes like it was holding back a force of nature, the waistband of his turquoise boxers peeking out above the belt line in a flash of color that seemed designed to draw the eye. His face was turned toward the camera, grinning with the satisfied expression of someone who knew exactly what effect they were creating and enjoyed every second of it.
Jase stared at the image longer than strictly necessary, a complex mixture of emotions stirring in his chest. Harry's shameless enjoyment of being observed, of being admired, of being desired, had always fascinated him—the freedom with which he inhabited his extraordinary physique, the casual acceptance of attention as his natural birthright.
Harry glanced over at the screen, seemingly unimpressed by this documentation of his exhibitionism. "That's a good one," he commented with casual assessment. "Might use it for a thirst trap later." The statement contained no irony or self-consciousness, just the practical consideration of someone evaluating content for its social media potential.
Jase snorted, shaking his head at Harry's matter-of-fact narcissism. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, though the words contained more fondness than genuine exasperation.
Still, there was nothing beyond the bar in his photo roll either. Their digital breadcrumb trail ended at precisely the point where his memory failed, offering no guidance for navigating the unmapped territory that followed.
Their search had hit a frustrating dead end, leaving them still adrift in a sea of uncertainty about the night's conclusion.
Social Media -- The Smoking Gun
With no other avenues of investigation immediately available, they turned to the broader digital landscape, checking various social media platforms for any evidence of their activities that might have been documented by others or posted in a state of diminished judgment.
Harry scrolled through his Instagram feed with practiced efficiency, his thumb moving across the screen in the automatic pattern of someone who had performed this action countless times before. The content passed by in a predictable parade—gym advertisements featuring impossibly sculpted models, fitness influencers sharing their latest workout routines, and an endless stream of posts dedicated to massive pectoral development, absurdly enhanced glutes, and men flexing in designer underwear that cost more than most people's entire wardrobe. The algorithm had clearly identified his preferences with unsettling accuracy, serving him an unrelenting stream of content that mirrored his own physical aesthetic.
Jase, meanwhile, quickly lost interest in this repetitive visual feast and ended up watching short video reels about artisanal chocolate sculpting, his attention diverted to content that required less emotional investment given his fragile mental state.
Then—Harry's thumb paused mid-scroll, his body language shifting subtly as something caught his attention.
His gaze sharpened with sudden focus, the casual indifference of routine social media consumption replaced by genuine interest. A photo had appeared in his feed—a close-up shot of a chest so massive, so perfectly developed, that it seemed almost unreal in its proportions. The pectoral muscles captured in the image protruded from the torso like continental shelves, creating deep shadows beneath their substantial overhang. The skin gleamed with an unmistakable sheen that enhanced definition, highlighting every striation and fiber of the underlying muscle.
Harry frowned slightly, his gaze dropping to his own chest—his mountainous pecs creating an impressive landscape beneath his thin shirt—and back to the screen with dawning recognition in his eyes.
The same unmistakable shape. The same distinctive development. The same oil-slicked sheen capturing the light in identical patterns.
His eyes flicked to the account information of the post's originator, confirmation of what he already suspected.
Jase.
The accompanying caption stood out in stark contrast to Jase's usually articulate posting style:
"Fucking look att these puppy's! I'm 1 lucky boy tonight!"
Harry's lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk. The expression contained no shock, no offense, no discomfort—just the satisfied recognition of someone whose suspicions had been confirmed rather than contradicted. This was an opportunity served directly into his hands, a perfect opening he couldn't have manufactured more effectively if he'd tried.
With calculated casualness, he turned his phone screen toward Jase, his voice deceptively neutral as he asked: "Does this jog any memories for you, you 'lucky boy'?"
The Floodgates Open
Jase looked at the phone with reluctant trepidation, already anticipating something incriminating before his eyes even focused on the screen.
The moment he registered the image, his pupils dilated visibly, his body language shifting from cautious defense to unmistakable recognition. Like a dam breaking under too much pressure, the memories came rushing back in a torrent of vivid detail, flooding his consciousness with scenes his alcohol-soaked brain had temporarily misplaced rather than permanently erased.
Harry. Performing an impromptu strip show in his living room, peeling off his shirt with the practiced movements of someone accustomed to displaying their physique for an appreciative audience.
Jase. Applying massage oil to Harry's torso with dedicated attention, his hands exploring every ridge and valley of the extraordinary musculature beneath them, lingering over the massive pectoral development with particular appreciation.
Harry. Posing from different angles, flexing various muscle groups in sequence, allowing Jase to touch, to feel, to squeeze with increasing boldness.
Jase. Growing flustered, his own inhibitions dissolved by alcohol and desire, stripping off his own clothes until he matched Harry's state of undress.
Harry. Saying goodnight with casual affection, kissing Jase chastely on the cheek before heading toward the bedroom, seemingly unaffected by the charged atmosphere between them.
Jase. Following Harry's massive form like a man entranced, unable to tear his gaze away from the hypnotic movement of those impossibly developed glutes as they led him toward the bedroom.
Harry. Collapsing face-first onto the mattress, passing out almost immediately with the sudden unconsciousness of the thoroughly intoxicated.
Jase. Lying beside him, fighting his own exhaustion, his hands moving with cautious reverence over Harry's magnificent glutes, marveling at their perfect roundness, their extraordinary density.
Then—darkness. Sleep claiming him mid-exploration, his last conscious memory the feeling of warm, solid muscle beneath his palm.
Jase's entire body tensed as these recollections cascaded through his mind, each more potentially mortifying than the last. His heart raced with the fear of exposure, of judgment, of the possible destruction of a friendship he valued above almost all others.
But he had to play it cool. Had to maintain the fiction of continued amnesia rather than admit to actions he couldn't justify or explain even to himself.
He forced out a laugh, the sound hollow and unconvincing even to his own ears, shaking his head with feigned confusion. "Nope. Still nothing. Sorry, mate," he lied, the falsehood transparent in his delivery despite his best efforts.
Harry raised a skeptical eyebrow, clearly unconvinced by this performance. "Right. Sure," he replied, his tone making it abundantly clear he didn't believe a word of it.
Then, grinning with the confidence of someone holding all the cards, he leaned back into the sofa cushions and added, "Hope you enjoyed the 'worship.'"
The word hit Jase like a physical blow, reverberating through his system with uncomfortable recognition. It was the exact term he had used the previous night, thrown back at him now with deliberate precision. Harry remembered. Harry knew. Harry had been conscious and aware during moments Jase had assumed were safely hidden behind the veil of mutual intoxication.
Jase knew he should brush it off, should maintain his denial, should retreat to safer conversational ground. But something in him rebelled against continued pretense. Maybe it was the hangover stripping away his usual filters, maybe it was the futility of denying what was increasingly obvious, or maybe it was simple exhaustion with the effort of maintaining boundaries that had been crumbling for longer than he cared to admit.
Whatever the reason, he found himself smirking with unexpected boldness, throwing caution to the winds of impulse.
"Mate, I absolutely did," he admitted, his voice carrying a challenging undertone that surprised even himself. "You ever need another rubdown, you know where to find me." The offer hung between them, outrageous in its directness, impossible to misinterpret or dismiss as merely jesting.
Harry's smile faltered, something complex and unreadable flickering across his expression. His gaze darkened, pupils expanding slightly as he processed this unexpected response.
"No one calls me a 'good boy,'" he murmured, the statement emerging with a curious mixture of challenge and uncertainty.
Then, without warning, Jase leaned in—and grabbed one of Harry's thick, sensitive nipples between his fingers, giving it a firm squeeze.
Harry's entire body jerked in response, his back arching slightly, a bolt of electricity visibly surging through his substantial frame. The reaction wasn't just physical—there was something deeper, more significant in his expression. A realization. An awakening. A discovery of something that had perhaps always been there, waiting to be acknowledged.
He loved this.
Not just the attention, not just the admiration, not just the envy of others.
The control.
Jase was taking control.
And Harry didn't want it to stop.
