For Now Untitled

Everyone goes through life looking for their calling, their one purpose in life.

For Levi:

That is being a personal trainer.

Problem is that he can not make a breakthrough. Being an personal trainer is just not about knowledge, but also looks. Short & scrawny, and baby faced, no one takes him serious despite being in his late twenty's.

But he keeps the faith that he will one day get there.

Knock. Knock.

It's Ian:

Levi's best friend.

Taller, more muscular, and shows more of his age. He is more likely to get hired as an personal trainer despite having no experience or knowledge in the field.

"Rejected again," he asked.

"Yep," Levi said as he flexed another small bicep.

"I have to say I admire your determination. If there is anything I can do to help, I am here."

Levi's mouth turned into a frown, he turned his eyes towards Ian without moving his head.

"Thanks bro."

"I got dinner ready. Doubled up on the protein for you," Ian said nonchalantly. He walked off to go to eat.

Levi finally turned his head around to study the Ian-less entrance.

He was planning something.

After dinner before he went to bed, Ian spent an hour on the computer.

"Order Confirmed. We at BodU Corp thank you for your Patronage!"

Five days went by, and Ian landed another interview at a gym across town. He had two days to prepare. There was a knock at the door, and when Ian opened it; no one, but a smal package was left on the front porch.

He smiled a devious smile.

Later that day, Ian returned home from work. He was tired. He found Levi in his bedroom.

"Hard day?"

"Hard day."

Levi kept quiet & then cocked his head to the side as he studied Ian.

"I am going to cash in on that favor. I am going to need your help transforming my body."

"You know as well as I do that I am clueless on the stuff, you are more than likely to help me out in that area" he said in an amused tone.

"I don't need your mind. I just need your body."

Levi pulled out a tv like remote, pointed it towards Ian & pressed a button.

Ian started to glow & then began to shrink.

"What is this, what do you mean body?"

As he shrunk his body seamlessly morphed into a small blue marble like sphere.

"Famous last words."

Levi picked it up & then swallowed. Within a few moments, he could feel the Ian-marble hit his stomach & dissolve.

There was a silent calm, then Levi's eyes shot wide open. Ian's memories began to flood his brain. At the same time his DNA upgraded itself using Ian's own.

There was a euphoric feeling that consumed the entirety of his being.

Crack, pop. His spine began to elongate. "Yes Ian, make me taller."

Pop. Pop. His neck & pecs exploded with new muscle.

Pop. Gloop. His shoulders & arms began to grow new muscle in waves, and then constricted themselves making then bigger & rounder.

Levi began laugh as it felt as if someone was tickling him in his stomach, but it was his abdominals reshaping themselves. He always had visible obliques, so they stayed. Where he was previously flat, a line split his abdominal wall down the middle, and then more lines flowed from it like tributaries from a main river. No more solid flat wall, but visible abdominal stones creating valleys.

"Oh that felt good Ian. If you have more, give it."

Creak. His waists expanded outwards giving him bigger hips. His v-line reshaped themselves closer to Ian's.

Gloop. Creak. His buttocks grew bigger very fast. His rod & jewels also grew & began to push against his shorts. One could hear cracking sounds from his jewels as they exploded in size & then remade their physical connections to the rest of his body.

Pop. Pop. His thigh & calve muscles exploded like he was hulking out.

"Oh yeah, this feels good."

Creak. Creak. His hands & feet became thicker.

"Mmm, one more area Ian. Your mine forever so give in."

His face began to morph.

Their skull shapes combined, giving Levi a wider rectangular shape with a stronger jawline. He kept his eyebrows & eyes. His ears was from Ian. His mouth & nose a combination of the two.

He kept his hair volume & styling. His hairline, color, and texture was from Ian. Increased testosterone levels gave him the beginnings of facial hair.

Levi took a deep breath.

He went to the nearest mirror & took a picture of the new him:

"Thanks Ian, now I look like I know what I am talking about. It feels great. And look at this face, who knew that a sharper jaw & hairline with a bigger forehead would do wonders. I did, but that is not the point."

He chuckled.

Three hours. Three goddamn hours he’d waited for the contractor who swore he’d be there by noon. The guy’s name was Ricky—some cousin of a friend who supposedly "knew his way around a brush." Donovan had texted him twice. Called once. The last message, sent twenty minutes ago, was still unanswered: *You alive?*

The front door rattled open at 3:17 PM, followed by the uneven slap of sneakers on hardwood. Ricky stumbled into the living room, reeking of cheap beer and cigarette smoke, his tool belt hanging crooked off one hip. "Yo, my bad," he slurred, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "Traffic was *wild*."

Donovan blinked. "You walked here."

Ricky grinned, all crooked teeth and bleary-eyed charm. "Yeah, well. Metaphorical traffic." He swayed slightly, then thumped his fist against the wall like he was testing its structural integrity. "So. Where we startin’?"

Donovan inhaled sharply through his nose, the scent of stale alcohol clinging to Ricky’s flannel shirt making his stomach twist. The guy was swaying like a sapling in a storm, his eyes glazed over with that particular brand of drunk confidence that made idiots think they could fly. Or, apparently, paint a whole damn apartment.

"Metaphorical traffic," Donovan repeated, flat as the spilled paint on his floor.

Ricky barked a laugh, slapping his thigh like it was the funniest thing he’d heard all day—which, given the state of him, it probably was. "Yeah, man. You get it." He hiccuped, then frowned at the spilled paint. "Whoops. You, uh… wanna grab a mop or somethin’?"

Donovan didn’t move. He just watched Ricky’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, the way his throat worked under the thin, sunburned skin. Something dark and hungry uncoiled in Donovan’s gut. He’d been patient. He’d been *civil*. But this? This was the last straw.

"Actually," Donovan said, stepping forward, his voice dropping to something low and velvety, "I think I’ll just handle it myself."

Ricky's grin faltered, his drunk-addled brain catching the shift in Donovan's tone a half-second too late. "Uh. You sure, dude? 'S kinda my job—" His words cut off with a wet *gulp* as Donovan's hand clamped around the back of his neck, fingers pressing just shy of bruising into the sunburned skin.

"Trust me," Donovan murmured, his breath warm against Ricky's ear, "you're *exactly* what I need." The hunger coiled tighter, a primal thing threading through his veins like live current. He could already taste the idiot's adrenaline—sour and electric—on the back of his tongue. Ricky squirmed, his drunk bravado dissolving into panic as Donovan's grip tightened. "Wait, man, I can—*hurk*—"

Donovan didn't let him finish. His jaw unhinged with a soft, grotesque *pop*, throat expanding like a snake's as he shoved Ricky's head between his lips. The guy thrashed, limbs flailing, but Donovan barely registered the weak punches to his ribs. He swallowed once, twice, the muscles of his throat working in smooth, undulating waves as Ricky slid deeper, his shoulders disappearing past Donovan's teeth. The flannel shirt scraped against his palate, beer-sweat and nicotine flooding his senses, but beneath it—ah, *there*—the warm, pulsing thrum of a mind ripe for the taking.

He tipped his head back, letting gravity do the rest. Ricky's legs kicked wildly for another second before vanishing with a final, wet *schluck*. Donovan's stomach bulged obscenely, the fabric of his shirt straining as Ricky curled into a fetal ball inside him. He exhaled, running a hand down the curve of his distended belly, and grinned. "Now," he purred, "let's see what you know."

The assimilation hit like a freight train. Memories flickered behind his eyelids—Ricky at twelve, stealing his dad’s whiskey; Ricky at twenty-three, fucking some barfly in the back of a pickup; Ricky last week, slopping primer onto drywall with the finesse of a chimp fingerpainting. Donovan hissed through his teeth as the guy’s knowledge—such as it was—slotted into place like greased gears.

His stomach gurgled, muscles twitching as they absorbed the bulk. He unbuttoned his shirt with trembling fingers, watching his abs ripple and swell. The waistband of his jeans dug in painfully, but he didn’t bother loosening it. The seam split on its own with a satisfying *rrrip*, denim giving way to thickening thighs. He kicked off the ruined pants, stepping free just as his cock surged against his boxers, straining the fabric until it too tore.

Donovan groaned, palming himself as Ricky’s essence melted into muscle. The guy’s mediocre painting skills crystallized into instinct, but more than that—his hungover bravado, his lazy charm, it all bled into Donovan’s pores like ink in water. He flexed, watching biceps swell beneath his skin, veins snaking up his forearms.

"Well, at least I don't need to pay him for a shit job I can now make myself," Donovan muttered, plucking the half-empty bottle of whiskey from the floor where Ricky had dropped it during his futile struggle. The glass was still slick with condensation—proof the idiot had been nursing it right up until his untimely career change. Donovan chuckled, throat vibrating with the sound, and took a swig straight from the bottle. The burn was cheap and sharp, just like Ricky’s taste in liquor.

CW: Oral vore, rapid digestion,

Small pred/big prey&pred/big prey

Feat: @zealkokobold’s gnoll

Don't you dare to complain. I didn't have to eat you, if your protein shakes weren't absolute trash. Two hours later and I'm still gassy because of them...

Just what the doctor ordered