complete novel MadMutter’s Thicker than Water — Chapters 1-8

[scarletic]

On 11/3/2022 at 3:44 PM, StochasticQuetzal said:

also is Dr. Alice the Alice from Family Affairs on Coiledfist?

Yes, she is! I'm surprised haha and if there's something blatantly different you've noticed about her, it's intentional.

[citizenies]

Tha ks for the new chapter ~ hope you add more to family affairs too 

[ibron888]

so hot!!!  The story is stunning so far ! Can't wait for the next part!

[dredlifter]

One small thing.  6'6 and 230 isn't very muscular.  At that height he'd have the build of a slim or typical basketball player.  If Max is quite buff he probably needs another 30-50 lbs at least.

[Ripped]

On 11/13/2022 at 9:53 PM, dredlifter said:

One small thing.  6'6 and 230 isn't very muscular.  At that height he'd have the build of a slim or typical basketball player.  If Max is quite buff he probably needs another 30-50 lbs at least.

May I suggest this web page for proportions?

Stats Proportion Calculator

[scarletic]

MadMutter's

Thicker than Water

by Scarletic

4B

What Happens in the Dark

Marco was woken by a noise. Something other than the droning ticking of the wooden clock over the bed.

He turned his head to the side, peeled his eyes a quarter, and saw nothing but night and hazy white lights outside the window. It struck him then that he’d been napping longer than he’d initially planned. It was well past thirty to seven, and there were footsteps walking along the gravel path just outside, glass bottles clinking, beer bellies churning. The early night was cool and quiet, cicadas echoing somewhere in the distance. Peaceful was a word to describe it. But something still bothered Marco.

Despite the few seconds of consciousness, he’d yet to understand what it was that ruined his sleep in the first place.

Just as he opened his mouth to yawn, a massive shadow loomed over him from the opposite side of the bed. And it spoke. “Are you awake?”

The yawn already in his throat mutated into a yell, a cry of terror. The enormous figure then jerked down and covered his mouth with a thick hand. Against Marco’s mouth, it felt more like a brick.

“Dude! Why the hell are you screaming?” Max said. He leaned closer, enough for the streetlamp outside to cast a white glow over him, emphasizing his curvaceous pecs that reminded him of white elephants. “It’s just me. Did I wake you up?”

Marco pinched his eyes awake and rose, sitting up and into his blanket. He typically slept shirtless, and seeing Max standing over him with his blimp-like torso and ham legs made him feel downright puny.

Dare he thought, even in the pale, secondhand light of the moon, Max somehow looked even bigger than he did a few hours ago. The short sub-seven-foot ceilings looked precariously close to his wishy-washy bedhead of cocoa hair. His cleavage alone was already casting a shadow in the creases of his abs and pecs.

“Did... did you grow again?” Marco asked, afraid of the answer.

No doubt his lips wouldn’t have been level with Max’s nipples anymore. He may have needed to tiptoe just to have his nose at the same height.

A memory of the first time he’d encountered Max flashed in his mind — cowering like a newborn in their rental’s bathroom, no more than a few extra pounds of muscle for his stature. Most athletes would have killed to have his body, the tone muscles, the height. The German had had a slight V-shape, slim enough to be confused for parallel lines, granted the illusion of a broader chest only thanks to naturally wide shoulders that jutted out from his sleeves.

“I did. Yeah.” Max now was a different beast altogether. “It’s kind of funny to me too. It’s like you shrink a bit every time we separate.”

Since then, he’d become nearly a foot taller and had a torso ample enough to crush the bed and leave a meteor-like crater in his wake. While his waist had remained relatively slim, it seemed that the taller he got, the further his arms and breadth of his neck stuck out, as though the inverted triangle kept its sharp angles as it lengthened with extra inches, filling out all three dimensions: sides, front, back, and upwards. Max could have picked up Marco with a single hand, crumpled him into a ball, and made enough room in his tits to stuff the twin into them.

Max snickered. “I wouldn’t blame you if I scare you. I feel like I grow more the longer this thing sits in my balls,” he said, jiggling his package with his entire hand.

 It wouldn’t have been too far off from the truth if there were enough meat in one of Max’s thighs alone than there was in Marco’s entire body. He looked down, hoping to at least see a chest that looked reasonable on a guy his age. Only he found nothing but bone. Skin and bone, every individual rib visible with each pained breath.

“When did you get in here?” Marco asked, his voice still groggy.

Max switched on the light and stood underneath, exposing the vast universe of difference between them.

Marco took one look at the goliath of a man before him and felt lacking. In bed, the flimsy cotton blankets were swallowing him, his existence a mere speck compared to the intimidating new size Max had gained a few nights prior.

Max walked over, picking up the yellow rag of a tank top he’d been wearing and tossing it over his neck. Though, it didn’t do a good job of covering anything besides his abdominal washboard. Not anymore. It barely scraped the hem of his too-short shorts.

“I just got back a few minutes ago to wash my face. I didn’t want to wake you up. Sorry.”

Marco’s eyes couldn’t escape the trance Max’s movements put him under. It was intoxicating to look at him, to stare at the individual fibers that flexed and stretched under Max’s skin. He doubted he could even wrap both hands around the bigger man’s upper arms relaxed. It would likely take three hands if Max gave even an inkling of effort to flex.

He didn’t want to leave the bed. Nor the protection offered by his blanket.

It was excruciatingly humiliating enough to exist in the mere presence of a musclebound boy-next-door. He wasn’t about to fade into Max’s oversized shadow. At least, not literally.

“So where is Elias? Did I miss dinner?” Marco asked.

“No, no. You didn’t miss a thing. We just got back from our walk. We were actually on our way to dinner now with Dr. Alice.”

Dr. Alice. “What? You met her? How?” Marco couldn’t help but feel a bit insulted. She was, after all, his contact. And he hers.

Max readjusted his crotch, the obscene schlong forcibly stuffed into his boxers like a pool noodle. “She found us while we were checking out the statues,” he finished with a sigh, finally ready to head back out. “Things got a bit… out of hand”—he gestured at his body, trailing down from his neck—“as you can see. I don’t know how much I grew, but Dr. Alice was so short, I swear she was almost as tall as my leg. She got her sample though and invited us to dinner here. Jol’ didn’t think you’d be awake yet. Something about ‘knowing how it is when he knocks you out.’ Anyway, since you’re up, did you want to come to the meal hall with me?”

“With you?” Marco asked, not much thought placed into his words.

Max’s thin lips twitched into a frown, evidently not expecting Marco’s apprehension. “Yeah. I mean... You don’t have to. If you don’t want to. I could force you,” Max said, lifting his left arm and tauntingly stroking his half-flexed bicep, revealing its calf-like form, threatening to outsize an American football. “But Jol’ wouldn’t like that.”

Marco dwelled on those last few words before throwing his legs out of bed.

Jol’ wouldn’t like that.

He had to wonder: Why does it feel like I’m never a point of interest in these conversations?

He was beginning to spiral when Max’s rich voice called out to him from the open doorway.

“Hey! Are you coming or what? There are dogs out here and—” Max buckled and held the doorway as a sneeze knocked him against the frame, causing the fragile wood to crack behind him. “Shit. Fuck it; I’m sorry, Marco, but I can’t wait for you. God, there are dogs coming from the village!” He didn’t wait to even acknowledge the surprise in Marco’s face before sprinting towards the mess hall.

The smaller man had just witnessed a giant-in-the-making literally fracture the door with a sneeze and leave without a second thought.

And it wasn’t that Max abandoned him out of conflict or disdain. Marco could hear the strays barking as they approached en masse. Sure, there was some joy in knowing such a behemoth was allergic to a pack of mad mutters. At least he wasn’t perfect.

But Marco still couldn’t help but feel like he’d been left behind in more than just a literal sense. Lost in two shadows, neither of which were his own.

He was going to have to catch up somehow. Perhaps Dr. Alice would have an answer, but it would have to wait. Dinner called.

And Jolias had some things to answer for.

◊ ◊ ◊

The buffet of seafood and fried spinach was more than enough to satisfy Jolias’ hunger — but he still craved, less for intake, more for release. His first day on Easter Island was having a rough go at him, and with everything happening at once, he needed a pick-me-up.

Preferably one that didn’t involve Max having another accident. He was already dwarfing 90% of the people worldwide. Better not to make it 100%.

Jolias excused himself and Marco from the table and eloped to their shared guest room. He didn’t say a word till he’d zipped from one corner to another, shutting and tying the windows and locking the doors. Twice for good measure, chain included.

Marco didn’t protest when Jolias pried him from Dr. Alice’s hands. He actually looked eager to get away, as if Max were some walking venereal disease. Though the motivation wasn’t ideal, the end-purpose was all that mattered: to be alone with Jolias, like he’d originally been planning.

To Jolias, Marco was an easy nut to crack. Whether it was twin telepathy or a terrible sense of secrecy, Jolias didn’t need to know how to read minds to flick through Marco’s like a pamphlet.

“Any particular reason you’ve dragged me all the way over here when I wasn’t finished with my tuna?” Marco asked (rhetoritally, obviously), grinning as he threw himself back on his bed and crossed his legs.

Jolias barely heard what his twin had just said, still picking at straws and trying to comprehend the whirlwind of information Dr. Alice had thrown at him.

He thought about Max again, how his nerdy best friend was evolving into something once considered to be a god among his people. An actual giant among men. Immortal as they came. And he came and came and would continue to cum again. The thought thrilled as much as it terrified — Jolias couldn’t decipher which held greater sway over his feelings.

Marco asked another question, quieter this time. “I hope those are leftovers in your pocket, Elias. I haven’t said anything to get your trouser snake so excited.”

Jolias looked to his brother and, regrettably, recognized weakness. The very same he saw in himself, only worse, more emphasized, exacerbated to the point of pity. Times like these were a reminder of where Jolias once was and how far he’d come. He used to be smaller and weaker and undesirable among the girls and guys; Marco was treated the same way on the best of days. Picked on for something out of their control. On the worst of days, they were bedlocked. Bruises abound.

He’d developed his body to a point where he could defend himself against those who far outweighed him. And he was at peace with where he was.

But knowing that Marco and Max gave the same amount of effort at fitness — that is, none — yet ended up at extreme opposites of the spectrum — one king-sized dork with the other barely able to get into a skeleton’s weight class — it bothered him more than it should’ve.

Because he could have ended up as either if he’d been at a different place at a different time. Only seconds in difference.

Bygones be bygones, right now Jolias just wanted to relieve some of the building pressure inside him, the compounding eons of stress that this vacation was quickly turning out to be. Jolias approached Marco and took off his running jersey, showing off the sweat-soaked athlete’s build he’d spent years carving.

In the minimal light, he glistened like stars washing down the grooves of his torso, free of imperfection — yet far from its antithesis.

Marco, still seated on the bedside, puckered his lips and cracked his knuckles as he wrapped his hands around Jolias’ glutes, ready to take him into his mouth by instinct.

“Guess I can skip the tuna tonight,” Marco said, pulling down Jolias’ underwear and freeing the semi-hard four-incher that bent to the right. “This never gets old,” he added, ending his sentence with a moan as he rested Jolias’ cock on his tongue, pulling it deeper into his mouth with every breath until he’d vacuum sealed it.

Jolias chewed his lower lip and thrusted gently into his twin’s mouth. It was the perfect combination of flesh and friction, a hole that lent itself to giving sexual favors more than receiving them. Marco preferred the former.

Receiving post-dinner blowjobs was always something to look forward to in Jolias’ teenage years.

Marco had evolved since then, had trained his mouth (and ass, most likely) to take in more demanding lengths. Four years ago, he would have struggled to get all of Jolias into his mouth without worrying about teeth — this time was different. Jolias’ eyes widened as he felt himself devoured in Marco’s mouth, the slit of his cock tickling his brother’s uvula.

In that moment, Jolias felt his world narrow into a Marco-shaped abyss that sucked him off with the vigor of a black hole.

“Fuck, you’re too good at this,” Jolias uttered, running a hand down his abs to further stimulate his nerves, the other clutching Marco’s clipped hair.

He was brought to climax and released his spunk down Marco’s willing throat, emptying his balls. Finally relieved of the building pressure, he sat on the bed next to Marco. His twin was still wiping the excess off his lips.

“Of course there’s no one better than me at giving you blowjobs,” Marco said. “You forget we have the same parts.”

It was true. They’d seen each other naked on more than one occasion, and they’d studied the other’s body more than they did any porn star’s — but never had Jolias ever been the one to welcome a cock into his mouth. Not Marco’s, anyway. It had always been him on the winning side; in bed, Marco was almost nothing more than a living sex doll made to appease his lust.

Jolias snickered and thought that was that, crossing his arms behind his head and throwing himself back onto the mound of pillows.

He patted on the free space next to him, inviting Marco to join. “Lie with me,” he said.

But Marco didn’t follow, only turned his head to face Jolias, a sorrowful crease between his eyes.

“What are you looking at me like that for?” Jolias tried to avoid the sudden discomfort and pulled his eyes down, and it was then that he noticed Marco’s own shorts tenting between his legs. “Oh.”

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of giving yourself a blowjob,” Marco joked, nervously. He was teetering on the edge of the bed, strung up, ready to move given the order.

Only, Jolias never gave it. He stayed grimly silent at his brother’s invitation for reciprocation, not wanting to feed into his internal struggle for power, enabling Marco’s weakness by getting on his knees and submitting to someone who in his mind had never matched, much less surpassed, him — someone inferior, though he knew it was unfounded, disrespectful. He hated that he believed it at all. There were even times he wished he would have that silly notion beaten out of him. A punishment befitting someone of his age, acting with the maturity of someone with half his years.

They stayed silent, expecting the other to either retreat or submit. But Jolias was stubborn (Max had called him as much at least twice a day). Marco being his twin, though different in many ways, behaved similarly.

It wasn’t fair. Jolias knew it wasn’t. So did Marco.

But he stayed adamant. Marco, true to his character, didn’t, and he caved, bowing his head in defeat, smiling in his grief.

“Marco…” Jolias reached out with a hand, only for his brother to pull away.

Without another word, Marco stood, spat out the remaining cum from his mouth into the back of his hand, and left.

The door slammed behind him, and so did Jolias’ eyes. He drowned himself in a pillow as he groaned, wondering what it is he was supposed to be doing.

Marco had never complained before — but that was nearly half a decade ago, before Jolias left. It was for Chicago, sure, but he knew Marco ached more than anyone else and felt the brunt of his absence most of all.

In the end, Marco did have his turn. And left.

Only, it was an exit that made neither a winner.

“I’m such a fucking idiot,” Jolias whispered to himself. And, in his mind, he knew Marco — and Max — would agree.

◊ ◊ ◊

By 10 in the evening, the buffet had ended for the night. The resort guests had returned to their houses, the lights had been shut, and most of the staff had clocked out for the night, ready to turn in and finally get some personal time.

Max, however, accompanied by a handful of chefs and waiters, stayed in the mess hall.

He wasn’t sure where it was Marco and Jolias had gone off to, but he wasn’t about to complain — not when he was being fed to the point of bloating with readily-cooked meals. A personal chef, private catering service.

It amused him how easily he could use his size’s influence to get what he wanted. When filling his plate hours earlier, he would need only to give a small, subtle — but still hardy — flex in his biceps, pecs, and the waiter would give him extra. And only him. They had no problem saying no to everyone else, Jolias included.

Of course, Dr. Alice’s words weren’t lost on him. He knew the locals here had a history of worshipping people like him, people who no longer fit in the realm of what was humanly possible. It may have been centuries long gone, but there was still possibility that some fragment of that religion carried over. And Max could see the lust embedded in the local servers’ eyes. The very same people who were now feeding him exorbitant amounts of their finest stores under the cover of night. Making quick and subtle touches of his immensity.

He loved entertaining such a concept. It was like roleplay, something he once enjoyed participating in in his teens.

Max was, however, still human. Albeit for now. And like anyone else, he got full. There was some hesitation in letting him go, but Max finally managed to break loose and head back to their guest house, eager to spend the night with Jolias. The ache in his balls was still torturing him, as if the organism were punishing him for pinching its release, holding it back from complete ejaculation. It had swollen red in the few hours the passed. While he could have masturbated and gotten it over with literally anywhere he wanted, he forbade himself from doing it alone. He’d promised that Jolias would be there with him every step of the way, his partner in crime. His lover, most of all.

He wore a quiet smile as he approached the guest house, ready to take on the night with the sole subject of his infatuation, relishing in the way every muscle viscerally girated and rubbed into one another as he moved.

Only, that joy was shortlived.

As he strode up to the guest house, his guess that the windows had been blocked off had been cemented. It felt as though he were being cut off from whoever was inside — and there were only two people in the world who could be.

He did his best to stay silent, to avoid making contact with the grass beneath his feet. Eventually, he found an open slit in the window.

What he saw inside twisted his guts and tore him apart.

It was Jolias standing against the bed, naked, back turned towards the window, with Marco sitting on the mattress, mouth full with Jolias’ hardened cock.

Max froze where he stood, unable to pry his aching eyes away from the sight. The grief of heartbreak ate at him until his knees fell to weakness, his overgrown musculature suddenly an incomprehensible weight that hung from every inch of his body.

He was no idiot, though, of course. It had been a long-accepted belief that he could never have someone like Jolias, that his heart had always been somewhere else, somewhere more familiar. And now that he’d met him: someone like Marco. While their history never became open fact, Max was well-read enough to read between the lines, to see the spark that had reignited at the doorway when Marco first came to visit their rental in Lima.

Still. The past few days had proven that he was closer than ever to making Jolias his. He was so close, had grown so much, so big, so powerful. Jolias evidently preferred his men large — significantly more so than him. And Max was learning to love his growing size, being so much more massive than his ever-shrinking companion. As long as he kept rising in stature, Jolias would find it impossible to keep away. Yet he wasn’t good enough, not worthy of exclusivity.

Because there was someone in the way.

Jolias slept around, Max knew that.

It was in his nature. But whenever Max thought of the men Jolias had slept with before, there had always been an absent connection: both men only ever hungry for one thing — sex. He knew that if he and Jolias were to ever become an item that the latter would still ache and hunt for sex, more than Max could reasonably provide. It wasn’t a problem. Because there was never any long-term competition, no one to worry about.

No one — until now.

Max was snapped out of his anger-fueled stupor at the sound of Jolias moaning from inside.

It wasn’t healthy, wasn’t going to keep his sanity in check, by staying around, torturing himself needlessly.

There would be other opportunities to prove himself Marco’s better. Max resigned himself to giving Jolias’ twin this night — because he was more determined than ever to make his name synonymous with Jolias’.

He headed back to the hills for some quiet alone time. As he was about to make his way out of the resort’s entrance, he was greeted by the pilot of the seaplane who’d flown them in. The man was draped over a plastic chair just outside a decrepit shed, enjoying what was easily a cigar in the double digits, judging by the splayed-out ashes below. While his movements were slow and muddy, his face remained sharp.

“Hey! It’s you, gringo,” he said, exhaling a thick puff. “I don’t remember you being so big before. Heavy dinner?”

Max stopped, assessing himself and realizing how heavily the two inches of height difference altered his perspective. “Something like that. You probably just weren’t paying attention,” he said, not wanting to reveal any secrets.

But there was no fooling the pilot. “Ah, and you don’t seem to understand that no one becomes a pilot with one eye shut. It’s alright, amigo. I’ve lived long enough to know what you are.”

“And what is that?”

The pilot quirked a smile, sneaking in a quick chug of beer. “A god. Or soon to be. Semantics, yes?”

Max shook his head, unsure if he was ready for such a claim to be public. “You’re confused, I think. I’m just… a barista.”

“So? Jesus was a carpenter,” the man said, smirking. “No one achieves greatness in an afternoon. I just want to warn you, because you’re a good guy: the locals here know the legends by heart. They pray every night in secret, hoping their gods return to walk the earth. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but they’ve been watching you since you got here. If you understand what I’m trying to say, then I hope you know what you’re doing. If no, then just be careful. Simple.”

Max crumpled his brow, fully aware of the eyes and ears and tiny footsteps that had been following him around all day. They were like mosquitoes in their tenacity, their hunger for what felt like his blood. It never occurred to him that perhaps Dr. Alice’s theory was fact, that an extinct culture was thriving centuries later through word of mouth alone.

But he had nowhere else to go. He wasn’t about to head back just yet, not when he was still driven by his irrational emotions.

“Thanks,” was all he could muster in his breathlessness. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The pilot reclined in his seat as Max walked away, resuming his walk with more careful, more precise footsteps. Silent as the night — or at least as hushed as they could be. “I hope you do. For your sake.”

◊ ◊ ◊

“Read that out for me, Marco,” Dr. Alice said, hunched over her makeshift workstation, set up in a nondescript guest house at the opposite end of the resort. Like his own guest house, the lights were kept off, curtains pulled. It was dark everywhere but the glow emitting from her lab equipment. Names of which Marco had likely never heard of. Some looked more like torture devices than anything remotely scientific. It may have been his ignorance showing — or the age of her gear.

Regardless, she was scowling at him, getting impatient as he scanned the clipboard she’d entrusted to him. “Well?”

He should have been grateful she even let him come in. There was a moment in their friendship once where he entered during one of her experiments and set a nearby hotel ablaze. It was a grisly endeavor. And a permanent reminder to never interrupt her work.

But he had nowhere else to go. He wasn’t about to head back just yet, not when he was still driven by his irrational emotions.

“Male, aged 24, born October 24, 1997. Started at 181 centimeters tall and 98 kilograms heavy. As of tonight’s dinner measurements, 203 centimeters tall and 146 kilos.”

Dr. Alice brightened at the mention. “Merci, Marco.” And she battered away at the keyboard, accompanied by a symphony of beeps.

Marco wanted to be mesmerized with the magic Dr. Alice seemed to be working with, a smorgasbord of unusual steel and glass machines that whirred to life following the other, proceeding another. But his mind was not there, not completely.

He was still wallowing in his grief, unable to accept that Jolias would still (even after four years apart) refuse to do the bare minimum for the brother who’d always given him his everything.

Even a handjob would have sufficed.

Marco wasn’t oblivious to the fact that he didn’t share the same athletic prowess as his twin, nor did he have any motivation to address the problem in the first place, to step out of his comfort zone and enter a gym. But if a few extra pounds of muscle fiber was all it took to make Jolias weak in the knees, which of the two was the actual weaker brother?

Dr. Alice spoke after laying back in her seat, allowing her setup to work its magic. “So, Marco. Do you ‘ave any questions for me? About all of this? I’ve already caught you up on everything I told your twin and his boyfriend out in the field. Perhaps, you want to ask me something while we wait for my work to finish?” She glanced at the wall clock. “It’s close to midnight, but it should be ready soon. ‘Alf an ‘our max.” And realizing her own pun, she giggled. “Pun unintended.”

The first question that came to mind was the same Marco had been wondering since the entire thing began. “Is there a way to make him stop getting bigger?”

“Fortunately — or unfortunately, in your case — no. There’s no stopping what’s happening to him now. Not unless he dies. But I think you would find that a bit of a challenge considering he can regenerate. In fact, his cells now reproduce so fast that the organism has essentially halted his body’s natural aging process. ‘E’s like a vampire in that regard. Except it’s your brother doing the sucking. All we can do is make him grow even faster. But you wouldn’t want that, would you?”

Marco groaned, frowning deeply. “That’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair, mon cher. You learn to live with it.”

“What are those organisms even supposed to be? Are they aliens or something?” Marco asked, eyeing the cyan fluid swirling around in a nearby vial.

Dr. Alice adjusted her glasses and tidied her disheveled hair, readying herself to answer. “You could say that, yes, they are aliens, as much as I am here and Max is to Chicago. I still don’t know where it is they originally came from or ‘ow they came to be, but I can tell you that they are commensal and symbiotic in nature. Once they attach to a ‘ost, they essentially become a part of them and die in the process.

She continued, taking a deep breath. “Being a viable ‘ost, however, is the difficult part. If the body is incapable of providing sufficient sustenance, even though the ‘ost feels no hunger or thirst, the ‘ost’s body will succumb and self-destruct. It is why plants, small animals, and insects all perish within hours, sometimes days. The meteors they arrived in, actually, weren’t even meteors to begin with. They used to be entire planets. Small organic rock-like beings that became hosts and were grown to the size of Mars before dying and shrinking and falling out of orbit.”

Marco sighed, realizing that such a small, insignificant thing could transform people into planets. As he opened his mouth to speak, Dr. Alice muttered something silently. “A dead ‘ost’s body then becomes poison to the organism it was united with. Attacking the organism with a meteor shard would suppress it and make it unable to grow its host. A ‘pause’ button, in essence. Alas. We have no meteor shards in captivity. Our test subjects in Seattle had destroyed all three that crashed last year.”

Marco choked on his saliva. “So Max has no choice but to grow.”

“And there is nothing either of us can do to stop it,” Dr. Alice groaned, her expression softening as she turned to Marco. He hated being pitied.

“Well, fuck,” he said, carrying one leg and resting it over his knee in a vain attempt to ease his discomfort.

Following a few moments of silence, the machines’ persistent humming, noise that had been drowned out and forgotten, came to a halt, ending the cyan lightshow along with them. Enshrouding the two in the cover of night.

In the muted darkness, an ominous chuckle escaped Dr. Alice’s lips. “I can’t make Monsieur Voigt stop growing. But”—she flicked on the lights, holding in her hand what looked like a test tube of glue—“I can level the playing field a little bit.”

Marco didn’t follow. “What do you mean?” He felt his self floating at the edge of Dr. Alice’s peripheral vision, her attention captivated by something far more pressing: the vial in her hands.

“What do you think I’ve been doing for the past few hours? Boring another innocent listener with my crack theories? Of course not. I’ve been extracting and isolating the sperm and other waste products from the generous sample your rather large friend gave me. Thankfully, the organism hadn’t stayed in his genitals long enough to fully fuse with him.” She approached Marco and gently opened his hand, resting the translucent liquid in his palm. “And what you are now holding is a somewhat diluted essence. If my assumption is correct… drinking it should serve as a bit of a boost.”

“What? So this is what the alien looks like?” Marco asked, doubtfully, shaking up the contents. “It just looks like corn starch and water.”

“Drink it and find out. If you grow, then it works. If it doesn’t, then you’ll probably have a few bad weeks of loose bowels at most to worry about.”

He couldn’t believe it, even after the earful of an explanation he’d been subjected to for the past two hours. The moment itself was still so surreal. In his hand, in such a small glass tube, was the answer he’d been looking for, offered to him on a silver platter without his say-so.

A means to catch up, to give him a chance to augment his body in ways he’d never thought possible before — a way to make Jolias stay.

“But is it alive? Will it make me grow every time I cum or—“

Dr. Alice vigorously shook her head, pulling out a steel drawer from the machine and revealing at least twenty more vials of a similar kind. “No,” she said, sternly. “The organism itself is still inside Max. But these are all micro-doses of the power it is capable of releasing into its host. One shot is one episode of growth. No more, no less.” And her mouth folded into a devilish grin. “And no consequences.”

“And how tall would I end up being if I took one? I don’t have clothes that can fit me if I end up like Max.” Marco rolled the test tube around in his fingers.

Dr. Alice’s face hardened with her quickly wrinkling smile. “Like I said: drink it and find out. Even I don’t know the answer to that, Marco.”

“Why don’t you go first?” Marco asked, his faith wavering.

She shook her head in response. Solemnly, as if to grieve. “It doesn’t work on women the way it does on men. It has something to do with the arrangement of chromosomes. It changes us, yes, but”—she caught herself before she said more—“if you only knew what ‘appened to one of the women caught in the meteor’s blast in Seattle. She’s alive and physically normal…”

Marco wanted her to finish her sentence. “But?”

“She’s in a coma. She ‘as been for the past few months, likely years. And because the organism keeps its host from aging, ‘er body is refusing to heal because ‘er brain suffered a concussion and malfunctioned. It is projected that, unless we euthanize her, she will be unconscious for the foreseeable future. Probably forever, the poor girl.”

“That’s, um, depressing,” Marco squeaked.

“Oui.” Dr. Alice then let out a heavy sigh, jerked her head, and wiped the sadness off her face. It was as if she was used to that kind of thing. Marco wondered what other secrets she was hiding, what other stories she could tell. “Anyway,” she said, forcefully, “it would be good if you drank it already so I know if it works. My superiors are asking for my progress, and I can’t send them back placebos.”

Marco eyed the dull, lifeless liquid inside the vial. While physically present, however, mentally, he was reliving that moment in the past, those few short moments with Jolias in the guest house. It ate at him from within like a sinkhole that led to nothing — betrayal of a brotherly kind. He’d thought then, what would have happened if he had had the power he needed, the power Jolias longed for, to take control of the situation. To have been the one whose breathing, whose heart beat, the others mimicked.

Even with four years apart, being around Jolias again tortured Marco like a regressive spell, reverting his mind back to how it was before Jolias left him so easily. He didn’t know how to be independent then. Didn’t know how.

But he was older now. Marco wanted to make his own choices — to give Jolias one last chance to treat him as an equal.

If push came to shove, he had a backup plan. Though he hoped it would not have to come to that.

Marco slipped the vial into his fanny pack, much to the disappointment of Dr. Alice. “I’ll keep it on me for now,” he said. “I’ll let you know what happens.”

In his refusal to obey, her left eye twitched, and a stray hair fell loose. Marco had plucked the string keeping her mentality in check, forgetting who she was and what she had been doing non-stop for the past few weeks, running on fumes and Peruvian coffee.

She approached him like a mad dog, held back by a chain of her own making. “What are you doing, Marco?!” she barked. “Just drink it and be done with it.”

But he was adamant. Stubbornness was something he shared with his brother. “I don’t want to be done with it yet,” he said.

Faced with his nonchalant calmness, she simmered down surprisingly quick. “Why are you hesitating?” Dr. Alice asked, worried. “This is the chance of a lifetime.” She stepped up to him and clamped his face in her callused hands.

Her voice went soft. “You saved my life once. And I know this path you’re on with your brother and his boyfriend. Drink the vial. If not now, then later. Let me repay you this one kindness. You deserve more. To be more.”

To be more.

Those words were like a warm shiver that resonated with his every being, as if it were something he was meant to connect to. Though he wasn’t quite sure if that was how he would’ve said it. If those were his words at all.

He pulled away and backed up towards the door, smiling at the scientist. “I will,” he said.

“Take care, Marco. Do what’s right. For you.”

◊ ◊ ◊

Max stood over the hole in the ground he’d exposed hours earlier, knee-deep in disbelief that he’d somehow managed to lift the moai statue that had plugged it for centuries.

He didn’t feel that much different, though he definitely looked it. Still, most people at his current size — if there were any at all — wouldn’t have been able to dislodge a multi-ton boulder. Especially with as much ease as he had.

This was a rare moment he was treating himself to, a few minutes to relax and contemplate on everything that’d happened to him in the past week. Without distractions. No Jolias, no Marco. Because, only last Tuesday, he was on the verge of filing his two weeks’ notice. Whether he wanted to admit it or not: he needed to come on this trip.

He never expected to become a living deity along the way. Jolias’ grandmother’s passing was meant to be the point of interest. Not him.

The night was ocean-cooled and silent as a Winter’s eve, a million stars watching over him overhead, the moon lost in focus among them. He could still smell the grass and freshly unearthed soil emitting from the hole. It reminded him of home, though absurdly hotter and more humid than his village back in Germany. Chicago was never a comfortable place. The smog that enveloped him daily and wracked him with constant acne was gone here, the air clear as glass, flowing in and out of his lungs like cold honey.

Then he recalled the Easter statue he’d toppled over, lying deathly still on the ground in front of him.

A tombstone, Dr. Alice had called it.

How many had there been before? Walking around in broad daylight, dwarfing anyone they wanted, growing endlessly.

He didn’t know what it was he was meant to feel, to struggle to accept the reality that he was possibly the last of a bygone breed, the only man left on Earth akin to a god, overloaded with muscle. The confusion clung to his thoughts with a sharp hook. It was times like these where he would come to Jolias for comfort, his Adonis, his sanctuary.

But he was busy with his brother.

And Max had no one else.

Then he felt a small hand suddenly breach his personal space. Its tiny, shaking fingers crawled down his back, and somehow Max could tell it was not fueled by fascination or curiosity.

It was awe, and that lifted Max’s spirits, even for a moment.

He spun in place and leaned forward to see who his mysterious guest was, invisible from his vantage point. Standing a foot away (his foot, specifically) was a petite woman who looked no older than 50, hairs only partially grayed (mostly frayed), crow’s feet and smile marks wrinkling what was undoubtedly a model, proportion-perfect diamond face. She had rich brown skin, indicative of the locals — and even with their shared acknowledgement of the other’s gaze, her hand refused to detach from his waist.

“Así que es verdad. Realmente eres un dios…” she whispered. There it was again; that word: dios. Her Spanish ramblings continued until she’d become unintelligible in her prayer.

And Max heard another voice to his right. And one more to his left.

He stepped back, standing to his full height for a bird’s eye view of what was unfolding around him. Only then did he notice the other few locals standing in admiration a few meters away, their footsteps quieter than air.

Max was surrounded by the encroaching crowd, people he’d seen in the streets, all average in appearance. Most middle-aged. One or two teenagers. Their youthful appearances betrayed their ages, and Max knew what that meant — their sexual appetites ageless in desire.

They’d come for him. To see him, a living legend, decades of tall tales turned reality.

Max’s heartbeat couldn’t keep up; the stress and anxiety that came with embodying another’s idealized version of him, the him they’d put up on a pedestal — the him that Max had always believed would never come to exist. Others had tried to change him before, to manipulate him into fitting their molds. His parents were first. Viktor was second. The perfect son. The perfect boyfriend.

He didn’t want to disappoint what these people had come to bear witness to. If what the pilot had said was true: they wanted a god. And he knew — despite the immense size he’d grown to, a height and weight that no one on Easter Island had likely ever seen in person — that he was still painfully human.

By the time he’d come to his senses and thought to leave, it was too late. The small crowd of nine or so locals had gathered around him in admiration, adoration.

And they were all so short. Max was still adjusting to his new height of 6’8” — and the tallest among his worshippers barely tickled the underside of his protruding pecs, facing his brick wall of plump abs.

With every blink, another pair of alien hands and Spanish whispers landed on his bare skin, crawling under his too-tight yellow tank top, digging into his white tennis shorts. Pulling, tugging, massaging his unblemished skin. There was a hunger in the people’s eyes that he’d recognized in his reflection, back when he’d longed for Jolias — and the same yearning Jolias had recently confessed for him.

But his other half was missing. And the root of his cock ached harder than ever for pleasure, for release.

Max could do nothing in their ceaseless exploration over his enormity. One wrong move could handicap any one of them for life, aware of the strength he could muster. Matched against the nerve-wracking intensity that curdled in his testicles, pleasure he’d normally only found when edging, he was paralyzed.

“Deja que te adoremos,” Max heard a man say. “Hemos estado esperando a que un nuevo dios camine entre nosotros.”

There it was again. Dios. Adore.

They wanted him to be their god. Already saw and treated him as one. The cloud of hesitance that loomed over his judgment was suppressed by the ever-increasing passion, the intoxicating white heat that blinded him, moved him to sweat, to kneel and lie on the ground, subject to their unbridled idolatry.

Max’s legion of devotees snuffed out the moonlight with their shadows as they offered themselves to him. They crawled over him, knelt to touch him, to smell him, lick him. To tear off his clothes, strip by strip, shedding off their own in turn, leaving them all bare as the grass that cushioned them all. Their passion soaked into his skin, drawing heavy breaths from his lungs, to make his cheeks flush red with erotic bliss.

A hundred little fingers that scurried and cradled every fiber of his massive being, making him feel all the more impossibly huge — not one able to dent or leave a mark on any square inch of his expansive frame.

He felt his tits groped, and enjoyed it, and leaned in for more. And more he got, another pair of hands squeezing and flicking his big, meaty pecs, his rigid nipples. His biceps and triceps and delts, lats, and traps were squeezed and massaged with the reverence of a priest. It baffled him how little impact each individual made, barely enough to dent clay, yet all together they were overwhelming in number, univocal in their gusto, their zest.

His entire body from toes to ears was put through a grinder of dominating powerlessness, of weakness.

Despite his homosexuality, the volume of breasts that nestled their way into the crevices of his musculature were a welcome distraction from the three pairs of hands delighting in his monolithic penis that stood tall, poking out from the sea of heads that reveled in its plump mushroom head.

The power he had over the people filled him with pride. Taking a look at himself again, he was taken aback, not having seen himself fully in days.

Laying on the cool grass, he felt gargantuan next to the locals.

And in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to outsize them even more, to be wanted even more, bigger than ever before.

Desire took control. Max let go.

That familiar wellspring of power rippled through his body for the second time that day, pulling his worshippers closer, tighter. Their moans became an orchestra with his. And he fucking loved it.

The organism let out a visceral roar as it stirred back to life in his shaft. His endowment vibrated as it braced for release, hardening and extending another inch taller, longer, thicker.

The erection ached, and the longer he delayed his inevitable release, the sorer the pain became, the harder his member swelled.

In seconds, Max’s own cock was starting to weigh down on him. It felt like a marble obelisk that erected from his pelvis. Magnified by the guttural warm moans and whispers and curious hands that crept along his skin, he was overwhelmed with ecstasy.

And finally, with a firm squeeze of his urethra, a lick of the underside of his  bulb, he came.

A geyser of snow-white splooge erupted from him, surprising Max and those on and around him. There were grins worn on those who were groping his cock and his balls, proud of what they’d managed to detonate. But Max didn’t care who did it — nor could he care about how long it had been begging him for purgation. Spurt after spurt shot out from his testicles like bullets, raining down on everyone, coating the grass in thick, white cum.

So much semen had never escaped at once before. Every other second was another surprise for Max, challenging both the understanding of his own body and his testicles. How much could have been produced at once.

His worshippers had taken to using his semen as a bodily oil, as lube, rubbing it along his skin, coating themselves in his pungent bleach-like cum and fucking each and every muscle and valley that protruded from his wide-set frame, raw and ripe with fibrous muscle.

The orgasm intensified tenfold in their small, plentiful hands, touching, and poking, and prodding his erotic zones: his nipples, his scrotum, his ears, and neck. Even in his immensity, he felt infinitely liquid.

Then another surprise came. He felt his muscles tighten, and tear, and stitch back together — setting the stage for what was about to be an unimaginable amount of growth.

It started in his pelvis, then crawled up his Adonis’ belt. It was a wave that washed over his abs, that same fiery vigor that set his sensations ablaze, that urged his already robust pecs, each almost swollen to the size of his thighs, to protrude further to expand upwards from the ground and outwards from his center.

He raised his left arm and watched as his upper arm — bicep and tricep and all — seemed to quiver and pulsate as he brought it to a flex, watching it grow, mesmerized by its transition from a log into a sphere under his skin.

He barely moved from his spot, but even as he struggled to peer over his surging chest, his devotees were falling away from his body. Not by their own volition. Max was becoming too big too fast for them to comprehend, unable to contain their sexual appetites.

Everyone was getting off.

As he felt his back crawl along the dirt underneath him, his feet crushing blades of grass as his entire body lengthened upwards and outwards, he watched gloriously as men and women were masturbating one another in his growth.

“Holy fuck…” He couldn’t help but laugh.

But the growth continued, and only now did his balls finally empty out.

As each accumulative bout of added poundage piled itself on his frame, his mind cleared. It rid itself of its insecurities, his worries. He was living out whatever consequences he’d been occupied by since that fateful swim in the cave — and he relished it. In those moments, with inhuman power brimming, coursing through his veins as if it were his own flesh and blood: he finally felt himself.

He continued to inflate, to enlarge, to outgrow the increasingly small locals who threw themselves onto him again. An attempt at squeezing out every last drop of growth from his system. To make him bigger than big. To become the god they — and, partially, he — wanted him to be.

When the spectacle finally faded back into normalcy, he was looking straight up at the night sky.

Still light-headed from the surreality of growth. And yet, he knew, if he were to look down, that he would have dwarfed the man he was only minutes ago.

Words were pointless to express how he was feeling. Not when he was drowned out in a legion of Spanish-speaking locals who were nodding, and talking, and wiping proclaiming their love for him, their hands clasped at their hearts.

He wanted Jolias — and he knew, now more than ever, that Jolias wanted him back. The puny man didn’t have a choice. The more he moved, the implausible weight in his arms, and chest, and legs, almost a burden in the way they rubbed and jiggled and swayed in momentum. A body like his was irresistible.

He’d masturbated to morphed photos of bodies like his before. Countless times before.

Max stood, using the nearby moai statue to prop himself up. And he marveled.

The people who had brought him to climax still had boundless lust restless in their eyes. They approached him, and he had to tilt his head down painfully low, cradling his own chiselled chin against his morbidly thick pecs. Some barely reached his chest anymore. Most were face-to-face with his wall of abs, jutting out from his torso like a flat turtle’s shell, yet appearing flat compared to his supersized tits.

As he stepped forward, he failed to consider adjusting his gait to match his new height. He slipped on the wet grass, crashing into the ground with an ear-popping thud.

He chortled at himself. At how ridiculous it must have looked for such a colossal man (whose glasses now no longer fit on his head) to slip and land on his ass, unable to grasp and control his own endowment.

But the villagers didn’t seem to care. On the contrary, they appeared to motion to one another to lead Max towards the beach for a bath.

He smiled, flexing an arm that rivalled his head in circumference behind it, and stood, and followed. “Lead the way.”

◊ ◊ ◊

Marco neared their guest house, heart pumping, readying himself to challenge his brother. He was never a man of action, always diplomacy. The vial Dr. Alice had given him bounced in his fanny pack. It was a constant reminder of his desperation — of his last resort.

He hoped it wouldn’t have to come to that. The appeal of gaining a few pounds — or a hundred — was a thrill he entertained at times, but he was fond of his petite build. The men around Lima found him irresistable. Even if he never thought the same of them.

Because, much to his displeasure, only one man ever snagged his attention.

Hoping for Jolias’ ego to deflate after three years was a lost cause. Not that he had any reason to be surprised, of course. Living in the USA often has the opposite effect. But where time failed, science didn’t. He could still force it in one night — if he wanted to; and all it took was a single tube of his rival’s diluted sperm.

The irony of it sickened as much as it amused.

Marco didn’t know what he would find once he returned to their shared bed. He’d been dwelling on his shallow attempts at reading his twin’s mind the entire time he sat with Dr. Alice, and he wondered if Jolias shared the same difficulty, the inability to read his twin’s thoughts. It was as if his brain had gotten denser along with his muscles.

Was such a man even capable of shame? Marco didn’t have an answer. And the more he thought about why it was he was so drawn to his brother in the first place, the less sensical his answers became.

He brought his fist up to knock on the door, but stopped himself, chuckling, wondering why he thought himself unwelcome from his own accommodations.

And if he were, whose fault was it?

The door barely opened when Jolias’ rigid hand appeared from behind and pulled it open. Marco was caught by surprise, taken somewhat aback. He prepared scenarios where Jolias would have left for a walk or gone to bed; he didn’t expect him to be waiting at the door. Not for the past few hours. Not when Max was still evidently missing.

Marco wanted to believe Jolias was waiting for him. The truth didn’t matter.

He would gladly take a half-assed lie over the crux of his reality.

“Marco…” Jolias said, with a hint of relief, though tainted with palpable disappointment. Marco waited for an apology. An ‘I’m sorry’ would have sufficed. “Where did you go?” Jolias followed.

He let himself inside, brushing off his brother’s hands and setting aside his fanny pack on the lone armchair. “I went to check up on Dr. Alice’s research.”

Jolias closed the door behind him, quietly, to avoid Marco getting muffled, his words getting out. “And? Anything good?”

“Are you asking for yourself or for Max?” Marco asked. The words left his mouth before he even conjured them, surprising him. Surprising Jolias. It wasn’t supposed to go like this, he thought.

“I’m asking for all of us,” Jolias replied. He approached Marco, still shirtless from their earlier foray. “Look, are you still upset?”

Marco was caught off-guard. Fitting, he supposed, as he came back to do the same to his brother. He wasn’t expecting to be the one being questioned. Put in the hot seat. Once again, he was second place in their little race.

“Of course, I’m upset. When you told me you were coming home to pay our abuela your respects, I thought you would’ve also wanted to pick up where you left off.” Marco felt himself getting emotional. His cheeks were running red, even under the guise of night.

Jolias nodded softly in acknowledgement, unable to look his brother in the eyes. “I know. I’m sorry. I just have a lot on my plate. You of all people should know that I wouldn’t come back — no matter whose death it was — if you weren’t here with me.”

“Then why can’t you act like I mean a shit to you?” Marco snarled. “Every single time I try spending time with you again, just the two of us, you always end up back with Max. Always talking about him, worrying about him.”

A crease formed on Jolias’ forehead, his bravado withering as he returned to the bed. Cold in their shared absence. “What are you asking me, Marco?” he asked, sounding offended. “I only brought him with me so he could go sightseeing. Getting infected by a fucking alien was never on our itinerary. Why wouldn’t I worry about him—“

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t care about him,” Marco started shakily, “I’m asking why you haven’t given a flying fuck that I’ve been by your side the entire time. You told me I meant something to you a few days ago. You said it was my name that kept you up at night.” He approached the bathroom, squeezing the knob in his hand. “You never mentioned Max then. Why do you act like he’s your boyfriend now? Did you just decide it on a whim? While I was around?”

There was a spark that appeared in Jolias’ eyes at the mention of Max’s name — and it turned Marco’s heart to ashes.

Shaking his head, not even giving Jolias the benefit of a glance, Marco plucked the vial from his fanny pack and locked himself inside the bathroom. He switched on the light and found Jolias’ lesser staring at him in the mirror. Red-eyed. The visible verge of tears. Pathetic.

The doorknob jostled under his elbow in his stupor. “Marco, what are you doing in there?” Jolias called. “I know you don’t take showers at night.”

Marco choked his tears back. “What do you care?” he said, struggling desperately to avoid sounding weak. The vial sat in his hand.

“I always have, you fucking dingus,” Jolias said. “Now open the door. I want to hug my four-minute-older brother.”

But it wasn’t a hug he wanted. Marco was no stranger to band-aid solutions.

“Do you love me?” Marco asked, quietly, a part of him not wanting Jolias to hear. But enunciating every word anyway.

He’d forgotten how good of a listener Jolias was. The words were unnecessary. “I wouldn’t be standing out here waiting for you to come out if I didn’t. If you’re still mad about earlier… then you can have your way with me tonight. I don’t know when Max is going to get back. But I’m all yours while he’s gone.”

While he’s gone. Always a condition.

“And what, do I just go back to being a decoration when he gets back?” Marco asked.

Jolias paused for a minute. His nasal exhale was audible through the door. “Marco…”

The sentence didn’t need to finish before Marco knew — could understand what his brother was thinking, for the first time in a long time — what it was Jolias wanted to say. Wanted, but couldn’t. Because they both knew: Marco’s ego was bruised enough.

It was obvious; Jolias wanted Max. Time apart did that to people, the same way time together.

Perhaps it was his fault for clinging onto something the lock had changed for. His way in never changed. The world around him did.

Still, he loved his brother. Ached for him more than the world, pined for his soul, lusted for his body. Yearned for something that he’d let slip through his fingers in the blink of an eye. He should have been grateful Jolias was humoring him tonight at all.

Max and Jolias, boyfriends in all but name. And he’d become the paramour right under his nose. It was his ego in need of a humbling. Not Jolias’. Again, second place.

He was admitting defeat. There wasn’t much left he could do, not when he and his twin had become nothing alike. Yet managed to love all the same.

If this were to be his last night with the man of his dreams, he wanted to add a little surprise, at least. Something to help in bed, to make him desirable in Jolias’ hungry eyes. Something — to make him more like Max.

And it wriggled in his hands. The little vial.

He unplugged the lid and downed it in one go.

It was still warm, tucked in his pack against his body the way home. A viscous concoction of glue and water that tasted and felt like it smelled: distilled cum. Even the thought of knowing whose it was made him nauseous; he had to erase Max from reality for the time being. Jolias would have never let him live it down. Vomiting tuna and cum and whatever greens were there at dinner.

Much to his glee, there wasn’t much of it. Not when Dr. Alice had only given him a drop of the reserve she’d created.

The heat coursed like a wave through his body in a shower of goosebumps. They were sensations he’d never felt before — not in the warmest of Peruvian summers or the fire he and Jolias once shared in bed. And would, in moments, be doing again. He wasn’t Max and didn’t yet know what it felt like to grow, to expand, to feel heavier and bulkier and stronger, to hold the world in his palm and loom over it like a god. If there were any doubt that the formula worked, it was gone now.

Marco was ready, and he wanted Jolias to feel it with him.

“Marco?” Jolias asked, worried, blissfully unaware of what his brother had done. “You still with me, bud?”

The imminent growth aroused him more than he’d expected; though the mirror showed nothing physically, he could already feel the individual threads of fibers in his arms, and chest, and legs, and back, and ass tearing and reforming in a flurry of compounding strength.

He flexed a non-existent bicep at his side and forgot, instinctively, what it felt like to be weak, to be him only seconds ago. His imagination wandered in the mirror; the reflection promised him a body like Jolias’, and he pictured it — standing there in his ill-fitting clothes; and he got hard.

His cock got painfully hard. Sore to the point he wasn’t sure he was still capable of release, yet his groin and over-sensitive tip egged him on, urging him to cum.

Then he remembered Jolias. Still standing outside the door. Listening.

“You’re going to have to come out eventually,” he said. “This cock ain’t gonna suck itself.”

And Marco sniggered. The liquid power that circulated in his veins had changed him, and he let it happen. Gone were the days of submission, he thought to himself.

Tonight, if it were going to be the last night of all nights: it would be his to captain.

Shaking off what nerves remained, he inhaled sharply, turned, and swung open the door, catching his brother — for the first time — by surprise. And grinning, almost smirking. Eye to eye.

“Marco…?” Jolias muttered, taking a step back, seemingly overcome by Marco’s sudden aura of bravado.

And he responded with his own step forward. He constricted the space between them, merging their personal spaces into one. “You were right, Elias.”

“…About what, exactly?”

Marco wrapped his thin arms around his brother’s head and brought him close for a kiss. In that moment, they shared one breath, one desire.

“Look,” Marco said, piercing into Jolias’ soul with his own matching pair of molten gold eyes. “I know you want Max. And you don’t have to lie to me. I’ve seen the way you look at him; and I can’t blame you. I know men like him have always been your type. The big, strong, stupidly big men who could crush you like a marshmallow. But if this is going to be the last night I share a bed with you, then I’m holding the reins.”

Jolias was speechless for a moment, appearing lost between surprise and confusion. He was about to laugh. “What are you—“

Before he could speak, Marco pressed a firm finger against his lips, silencing him. “Just shut up for once, and let me fuck you.”

Marco dragged Jolias to the bed, feeling the tropical heat boiling in his sweat. He tossed his athletic brother onto the mattress like a plaything before leaping over and trapping Jolias in a cage of his limbs.

Jolias was only smiling now. “I… Fine. Alright, Marco. I’ll fucking humor you,” he said.

“Oh, you’ll be doing more than humor me tonight.”

A drop of sweat fell from Marco’s chin, landing on Jolias’ neck. Marco’s breathing quickened pace, and his steadily rising heartbeat was on the verge of pounding through his ribs. He was losing vision. Dr. Alice never mentioned any side effects. He struggled to lower himself and plant his lips on his brother’s, but he suddenly found himself in a losing battle to the formula. Still, he remained erect, his body aching for Jolias more than the vial’s consequences.

“Kiss me, oh captain, my captain,” Jolias teased, impatiently, pulling Marco down over him — chest to chest, cock to cock, and lips to lips.

Just like that, Marco was drawn out of his stupor and back in the arms of the only man he ever longed for. They let their tongues wander, their hands brush through the other’s hair, squeeze their ribs, run down their lithe obliques. Both eventually ended up pressing down on the other’s Adonis’ belt, following the trail down to their mirror image cocks. Full mast.

Marco grabbed Jolias’ hand and brought it down to his rigid member. “Why do you make me so hard?” he moaned, tasting Jolias’ cheek.

His brother chuckled and moved unprompted, wrapping his willing fingers around Marco’s endowment. “Because I look like you.”

Jolias’ fingers were coarse with gym-born calluses, but the form stayed the same, and he stroked with adept skill, already familiar with where to squeeze, where to press. They, after all, were carbon copies where it mattered.

For now, Marco thought. He remembered the vial, the instant burst of strength contained within. And, as if summoned, the flashing white sear ravaged through his body again, reigniting his senses.

It spoke to him. It was ready. He was ready — to grow.

All that was left was the trigger. A push over the edge.

He whispered into Jolias’ ear, “Do you think you can handle it?” he asked, maneuvering Jolias’ hand around his cock like a lever.

Jolias raised an eyebrow and tossed Marco off, crawling down his petite body.

Marco turned in place so that his back lied against the sweat-soaked sheets, and he pulled a pillow to nest his head as he shared glances.

“Figured it’s about time you got a blowjob anyway,” Jolias said, positioning his face above Marco’s pillar.

“Do it,” Marco said, his face beaming with euphoria. He watched with excruciating anticipation as Jolias lowered his willing mouth to take him in.

The moment Jolias’ tongue wrapped around the sensitive underside of his cock’s head, Marco’s body went cold-white rigid with pleasure. His arms and legs tensed and sprawled out as each touch and tap of Jolias’ tongue on his member bombarded his senses with a thousand layers of burning ecstasy. It was nothing like he’d ever experienced before. Marco couldn’t even bear a smile, though he felt nothing but lust for more.

Jolias was also surprisingly eager, hungry for his dick, his cum. His mouth didn’t stop to breathe, bobbing up and down in a controlled motion that would’ve wrought anyone’s mind awry.

And then he felt it. That same power from before, now emerging and weighing him down.

Though he’d never gone to the gym before or done much hard labor, the strength he suddenly knew he could muster was enough to tear the bed in two. And he watched it happen, the physical changes. He pried his eyes open as he beheld every individual pound that packed itself onto his toothpick-like frame.

The transformation was slow, but time itself became a null concern as each second lasted a lifetime.

New curves were forming where once there had only been bone. His chest, once a ridged cage of ribs was flattening out with fresh muscle and continuing to protrude into two defined slabs. His shoulders widened and shifted his torso from a rectangle into an elongated pyramid. They rounded out into sinewy baseballs that served as beginnings of his arms’ augmentation.

Caught off-guard by the sudden girth in Marco’s thighs, Jolias stopped and looked up. “Marco, what— oh, fuck.”

Marco, of course, couldn’t reply. He could barely open his eyes to delight in Jolias’ concern for him.

He relished in the way his body pressed against the bed, the way his muscles seemed to round out, to bulge and tone. His body was nothing like Max’s. Instead of smooth and thick and bulky, Marco’s body resembled that of a runner’s: tight, compact, every sinew visible and trailed with veins. His upper arms were nearly double their original girth.

There was concern in Jolias’ eyes, and his hands and mouth paused. “Are you getting bigger?” he asked.

But Marco didn’t tell him to stop. He brought up his right arm to flex the spherical bicep that jutted out from his bone in the moonlight, while the other travelled down to force Jolias back onto his penis.

“Don’t you dare stop sucking.” Marco shivered as Jolias resumed his servicing. “I’ll entertain your questions after the show.”

He couldn’t believe what was happening. The insane power that zipped from end to end of his body, made him swell, made him stronger, wider, in a flurry of electric shocks.

And as Jolias continued to lick and suck and blow his cock, he felt it surge longer in his brother’s mouth. Almost close enough to poke the back of his throat. For the first time, he’d finally outgrown his twin. He knew his body well enough, knew how far Jolias’ could reach in his own oral cavity. At least two more inches, if not three. Six or seven. More flesh than he ever needed to gratify.

Jolias’ eyes bugged out as his forehead wrinkled, unable to explain what was happening. But Marco had ordered him not to stop. And he was obedient tonight.

But the growth didn’t stop there — no, Marco also felt the slightest pull in his spine, discreet in the way it lengthened his torso. He inhaled, and he felt his hair scratch against the pillow above him. His neck had lengthened, thickened. It happened once or twice throughout the excursion; as with his cock, the same number of inches taller.

Even before he could open his eyes and get a good look at himself, he savored every glimpse he stole at his body, using Jolias’ once larger frame as a point of comparison. The raw muscle that adorned Jolias’ Adonis’ body now looked undeveloped. Weak. Small. Marco raised two arms, saw two biceps and triceps whose peaks bulged even higher than earlier, needing two hands minimum to wrap around. His chest had filled out, becoming two firm slabs of granite that clung to his ribs. Abs separated with sharp angles, creases that could hold water. Thighs decorated in striations that pressed against Jolias’ torso, matching an oak log line for line.

All the while, Jolias continued to suck in intensifying fervor. Marco was losing himself more and more with each passing moment, while his body, separate from his enflamed mind, continued to strengthen him.

The growth entwined with Jolias was enough to send Marco over the edge. His apotheosis.

Marco ejaculated directly down Jolias’ throat, producing a sharp groan in response from both of them. His of pleasure, the other of discomfort. The release lasted ten seconds.

Afterward, silence ensued. A quiet that gave the brothers ample time to gather their thoughts.

The power that had been raging through him had dissipated into nothing, a storm that calmed into a breeze.

Jolias’ lips detached from Marco’s cock with a loud vacuum pop as he stepped off the bed with a withering look of confusion.

“What just happened?”

“I just came into your mouth.” Marco said, still panting, catching his breath. “That’s what happened.”

Putting on his shirt, resting on a nearby chair, Jolias approached Marco as one would a stranger: with caution. “How did you just grow?” he asked, stupefied at the Olympian he could barely call a twin. “I mean it’s hot, but…”

Marco twisted himself out of the confining blankets and sat up and out of bed. There was a new weight, a surprising amount of heft in his muscles. They were airtight and dense with rippling fibrous beef that betrayed his true, slackish nature. While he wouldn’t be bursting out of any clothes, he still looked strong. Toned. Entangling veins wrapped around his arms and legs like a network of steel cables.

“‘But’?” he asked. Raising the tip of his lips in a smirk. Even that took effort now. The slightest of flexes.

And he loved it.

“You look like a fitness model, bro.” Jolias broke out of his stupor to realize what he’d just said. “I mean, not to toot my own horn, being your twin. But, damn. You’re more vascular than I’ve ever been in my life! How did this happen? Seriously?”

Marco planted his longer feet on the ground and propelled himself upward, keeping his head low as he rose to his full height — and just as he matched Jolias’ eye level, he flicked his neck back, exposing his now taller viewpoint. It was a difference of at least two, maybe three inches. The change in gravity was something he wasn’t used to yet.

Still, he grinned, proudly. “I told you. I paid Dr. Alice a visit. She gave me a sample of what she was working on, and I drank it while I was in the bathroom. It was only supposed to be a little boost,” he said, raising his toned arms and spinning in place like a princess. “But it looks like it gave a bit extra.”

Jolias’ jaw was slack with amazement. “Jesus Christ. You’re tall.”

“Am I?” Marco replied, fishing for confirmation. He knew he had to at least be 5’8” if not 5’9”. He wanted to hear it from Jolias’ mouth.

“More than me, yeah.” Jolias gulped. “You’re bigger than I’ve ever been in my life.” And he was. Broader, taller, thicker, and stronger.

Brimming with pride, Marco stroked back his spiky head of hair and leaned forward for another kiss, his fat lips ever so slightly overtaking Jolias’, who didn’t protest.

“And for tonight, you’re all mine,” Marco whispered.

His hand travelled down to Jolias’ cock and felt it stiffen against his fingers.

But before anything else could happen, they heard a bang at the door. The sound of something colliding with its fragile wooden shell. It was loud. A bit angry. Heavy.

Marco’s drive had been forced into silence. In place of his lust, a wash of dread burdened his mind.

“What was that?” Jolias asked, turning, leaving Marco’s hands, walking towards the door.

Marco wanted to call for him. ‘Wait,’ he willed himself to say. But he couldn’t. He only followed, curious to see what made the noise. Knowing that it likely would be the unceremonious end to him. To them.

The two brothers stood at the door and glanced at one another once before Jolias twisted the knob and swung it open. Marco wasn’t presuming anyone to visit so late at night. It had had to have been a stray dog that couldn’t stop its sprint in time, or a drunkard slipping and colliding at the base of their cement porch.

At the very least, Marco was expecting to see moonlight.

His eyes were trained to the ground where he was envisioning the source of the noise to be. But as Jolias opened the door, he found no light. No dogs. No drunkards lying on the concrete.

Just two gargantuan pair of bare, Caucasian feet.

“Scheiße…” Max’s voice came, from high, high above both their heads.

Attached to those same wriggling feet were ankles that were closer to some men’s thighs than actual ankles; they bulged in the back and to the sides with thick, smooth muscle that perpetuated the V-shape throughout the rest of Max’s enormous body.

And it was only in these little gaps between his calves and feet where moonlight broke through.

The higher Marco’s gaze went, the wider his eyes — and Max’s frame — became. His thighs stood out from his legs like jagged cliff faces that darkened his knees with shadows. Just above was a tapered waist, no more than the 30 inches he arrived in South America with, which was also (quite likely) the skinniest part of his body apart from his wrists and ankles. His flesh was glued to his pelvis, revealing every inch of his muscle-wrapped bone beneath. It also trailed upwards to another V-shape in the form of an Adonis’ belt. It dwarved Marco’s and Jolias’, having deeper valleys than either of the twins’ chests.

And swinging in between the two hams was a limp cock the size of a Pringles can.

Marco had never felt so pathetic in his life at the German man standing before him, now somehow even larger than when he arrived on the island, and greater still than when they had dinner. He wanted to vomit at the sight of him. The nausea was becoming too much to bear, even for him.

Max’s abdominal washboard stuck out a few inches from his stomach, each individual loaf a firm stone of beef that exuded power: firm, and thick, and heavy. The wide obliques framing it also nearly reached either side of the door frame. Not that it was American standard to begin with — Marco didn’t envy the little space Max had to stand in, to squeeze himself through. Marco knew that if he hadn’t taken that vial, there was no way he would’ve been able to wrap his entire wingspan around Max’s midsection anymore. Over a foot and a half taller than his old height. Than Jolias’ height: his twin who now looked like a stupefied doll next to his boyfriend. Even now, he doubted he could get anywhere near Max without a swollen pair of spherical tits protruding from every angle, pink nipples that rivalled Marco’s palm in diameter, a casted shadow that would’ve protected from the rain.

If Marco had to make a guess, a single of Max’s tits alone probably held more muscle than his entire thigh. More than Jolias’ entire body.

Max’s cleavage was the second widest part of his body; they were two globes that resembled medicine balls more than pecs. Both Jolias and Marco could have carried one muscle breast in their hands and had enough beef to satisfy their appetites for a year. They were smooth from armpit to armpit, a single fat vein running down his left tit. A child’s arm could’ve been crushed in the valley between if they ended up at the wrong place at the wrong time — or, in Jolias’ case as Marco guessed, the only place his face was meant to be. It was a fault made for him.

And just when Marco’s neck was starting to ache from tilting backwards, Max’s body only continued to lengthen higher and broader, past the limits of the door. Only the bottom of his neck was visible. The same went for the downward slopes from his jaw-wide neck leading to his shoulders, two gargantuan bowling balls that no longer fit in the door frame.

Marco had never seen or known anyone to be so tall and stretched out yet fill out every square inch of that same body. He was a zeppelin of muscle. One that could’ve easily crushed a coconut with a bicep the size of a helium balloon.

Max ducked his head, revealing his messy head of hair and bashful smile. He wasn’t wearing his glasses anymore, and he brought them out from his palm. The twins didn’t need to ask to know they no longer fit around his head.

“Sorry,” he said, his voice no deeper than it was hours ago, only louder, “I tripped on the patio.”

Marco opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. Only hot air.

“Max?!” Jolias cried out. “What the fuck happened to you?”

He sniggered. “I had a bit of an accident by the beach, I guess.” Neither Jolias nor Marco could see his face if they didn’t take a few steps back. Max’s pecs were a bit too plump.

As Jolias face went bright and he approached Max, Marco subconsciously raised a hand, attempting to pull him back in. But there was no point. He’d lost, now more than ever before.

Even in the shadow casted by Max’s goliath body, Marco stepped back, fading in his oblivion, darker than a moonless nightmare. One he would never wake from.

But he saw Jolias’ grin; and he smiled.

 

[scarletic]

On 11/13/2022 at 7:53 PM, dredlifter said:

One small thing.  6'6 and 230 isn't very muscular.  At that height he'd have the build of a slim or typical basketball player.  If Max is quite buff he probably needs another 30-50 lbs at least.

Oh, thank you for the feedback! I'll keep those numbers in mind should I write again; I'll keep the numbers here as is just to keep it consistent with all the succeeding chapters since everything's already been written, but hopefully they'll be more plausible with any new stuff. 

 

On 11/15/2022 at 7:33 AM, Ripped said:

May I suggest this web page for proportions?

Stats Proportion Calculator

And thank you for this, too. I always appreciate sharing resources.

[citizenies]

Just WOW  

[RealIn2Growth]

Really incredible work.  Loving your story.

[RealIn2Growth]

Really looking forward to reading the rest of this great story.