#musclefic

...or inside the neighborhood.

You're obsessed. You're living in the gym now. You reek of iron and sweat.

You've turned yourself into a barely-sentient mutant, hell-bent on forcing your grotesque body to keep getting BIGGER. Where does it end? How will it? Can it?

Was this worth it?

All you do is lift and eat. And your nuts routinely swell and bloat with testosterone and cum - like clockwork, your balls get uncomfortably full; you grunt as your shorts constrict and tighten around your visibly bloating package. Then you furiously, animalistically, release yourself, like it's little more than a chore. Then you get back to lifting. To GROWING.

You can barely move. But you don't stop. Even calling you a beast, with what you've transformed yourself into, would be generous. You're a mindless machine. A mindless, GROWING machine.

Made with Perchance, sample prompt below: An (extremely broad shouldered), (absurdly muscular), (overgrown), (racially diverse) male bodybuilder with an (impossibly muscular, hulking, wide-framed physique) with (hugely inflated musculature; extremely exaggerated muscles). He's wearing a (sleeveless shirt; gym shorts with a masculine bulge); his glutes are (very muscular and enlarged); he's (bursting out of his clothes). He has a shaved head, beard stubble. His body is (very hairy; very vascular; muscular striation). His shoulders and arms are (very wide), with (incredibly prominent overgrown extremely enlarged triceps that are massively inflated and muscular); his (trapezius muscles are enormously enlarged bigger and taller than his head). His pectorals are (massively thick wide muscular massively overgrown). He has a bulky, muscular abdomen, with (extremely enlarged latissimus muscles under his arms). His (massively wide) quadriceps and inflated calves are (extremely overgrown and muscular). His head looks (small, being surrounded and engulfed on all sides by his enormous overgrown hyper-muscular upper body muscles); his neck is very short. He's in a garage with sparse gym equipment. His small head is (engulfed by his own muscular mass). He's growing incredibly wide; his arms are (extremely muscular, thick, bloated) and extremely muscular overgrown wide; supported by (immense, very wide, thick) back muscles with widely flared latissimus muscles. His shoulders are impossibly wide. His head is small amid his enormous muscles. His very broad shoulders and arms are enormously muscular and extremely wide. His leg muscles are extremely overdeveloped. His body is extraordinarily hairy.

A middle-aged, masculine, man with a broad, athletic, bulky muscular build; trim beard, dark hair; wearing a high-vis vest and tattered orange pants that are down around his knees. In a construction site, standing and posing, slapping his enormous belly. His massive belly is huge and rotund, inflated, ballooning, pregnant, filling his lap, heaving between his wide legs down to the ground. He has a smirking expression. His shoulders are very broad and muscular; enormous arm muscles; overdeveloped and enlarged pectorals; thick, muscular neck. His belly is massive and spherical, inflated bigger than he is tall, growing across the ground like an enormous sphere. His muscles are inflating like balloons. His belly is being held up with canvas straps

Because over the following months, Jerry didn’t just get bigger—he became something new. It wasn't just the towering height or the way his looks had somehow refined into some kind of distilled handsome masculinity.  It wasn't just that his frame widened and thickened until he looked anchored to the ground, like gravity itself had decided to claim him more fully. Muscle settled onto him in heavy, deliberate slabs, his body taking on a grounded inevitability that felt less like growth and more like arrival, as if he’d been slowly assembling himself for years without realizing it.

His chest filled out until shirts strained and buttons begged. His legs turned steady and immovable, thick columns that carried his weight with quiet authority. His arms grew dense and warm with strength, forearms heavy, hands broad and sure. When he walked into a room, conversations softened without anyone meaning them to. Eyes lifted. Postures shifted. Men of all kinds reacted the same way—relief, curiosity, a strange magnetic pull toward his size, his calm, his undeniable presence—often without having words for why.

He thought they were joking at first. *“You’ve got dad energy now," *they all said.

Then one night, that turned very real.

It happened at the bar after closing time, when the noise thinned and the lights went soft. The guy—mid‑thirties, tall, big, with broad shoulders, but pulled inward like he was used to taking up less space—stood beside Jerry instead of across from him. 

The guy was big, but Jerry was easily a foot taller and at least a hundred pounds heavier. 

The guy kept glancing nervously over, then up at Jerry, then down and away, working up to something.

“Hey,” he said finally, voice low, but looking up to meet Jerrys' eyes. “This is stupid, but… you make me feel steady. Like I don’t have to keep bracing all the time.” He swallowed. “Is that weird?”

Jerry smiled on instinct, half a deflection ready—then caught the way the man’s hands stilled, waiting. Jerry stayed where he was. Didn’t joke it away.

“It’s not weird,” Jerry said, slower this time. He put one of his own big hands on top of the other man's hand. “I’ve got you.”

The man exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years. He stepped closer—not touching yet—eyes searching up to Jerry’s face for permission.

Jerry gave a small nod down at him.

That was enough. The space between them closed, the man leaning into Jerry's chest. Jerry embraced him, one hand settling at the small of the man’s back, warm and sure, guiding without force. The room seemed to rearrange itself around that moment, quieter, steadier.  The man melted against Jerry for a few minutes, and just stood there breathing while Jerry held him.

They talked. About work. About pressure. About how exhausting it was to always be the strong one. Jerry listened. When he spoke, it was calm, confident—grounding. When the man leaned in, Jerry didn’t flinch.

Jerry led, using a finger to gently and unmistakably tlit the mans' mouth up towards his own. They kissed deeply, and the trust in that was electric.

They spent the night together, and it taught Jerry something he couldn’t unlearn. He liked being the one someone leaned on. Liked setting the pace, offering reassurance, taking responsibility when another man needed it. It wasn’t about control—it was about care, about showing up big enough that someone else could finally rest. And when they parted, both of them better for it, Jerry realized this wasn’t a fluke. It was the shape he’d grown into.  Getting bigger hadn't just made him stronger - his inner* dadness* had come out to the front.

What Jerry discovered wasn’t just size, or strength, or attraction. It was purpose. Being Dad—for a night, for a moment, for however long someone needed—felt natural. And once he understood that, once he leaned into it, the world responded.

Jerry found he liked this part of himself. He didn’t rely on it, didn’t build an identity around it—but he became known for it all the same, the way some men are known for steadiness, humor, or warmth. The men who needed him would often find him, sometimes without quite knowing why.

There were nights of mad, passionate lovemaking with some, nights where he simply held another man until the shaking stopped and the tears finally ran dry. Jerry found something quietly rewarding in almost all of them—the trust, the release, the sense that he’d given someone a place to rest.

And then, in time, he found the man who matched him: someone strong in the same way, grounded and generous, where they both could be Dad, both equals, both caring for each other when they needed to, and both standing side by side, bringing something new into the world by choosing each other.