Chapter Text
Brandy sets down his dumbbell, putting his hands on his hips and stretching out his lower back. He blows out a breath.
“You know what I’m craving right now?”
DeShawn looks up at him, towel around his neck and sucking from a water bottle. “What?”
“Brownies. Like, not the store bought ones, I mean home made, fudgey, rot-your-teeth peanut butter brownies. Maybe with some caramel syrup on top. God.”
“You are fat as hell, man.” DeShawn chuckles, wiping sweat from his brow. “Agreed, though.”
“I am not. Can a man not fantasize a little? Not like I’m actually gonna do it, god knows what that’d do to me, but fuck.”
“No one’s saying you can’t, bro. Have a fuckin’ cheat day.”
“I’m sayin’ it.” Brandy smacks his chest. “You know how hard I worked for this? If I caved every time I felt like I wanted a Dr Pepper, I wouldn’t even be in this room right now.”
“Whatever you say, man.” DeShawn takes a drag of his water bottle, not quite maintaining eye contact.
A couple things have changed since Brandy and DeShawn graduated from college. For starters, both of them have jobs now, Brandy got one at a landscaping company that pays way too much, with a theme that made it clear they were mostly hiring sexy young dudes, and DeShawn just works retail. Neither of them have as much sex — or rather, Brandy doesn’t, and DeShawn has exactly the same amount of sex as he always has, which is none. He’s just never been as interested in chicks as his other peers.
Something that hasn’t changed is their roommate situation.
After they met in their sophomore year of high school, the two of them became absolutely inseparable, and decided to room together for every semester of their four year college — and, for the foreseeable future, they’re doing the same thing with a two-bedroom apartment.
The arrangement is great, actually, thank you for asking. Brandy cooks. DeShawn cleans. Everything’s happy. Especially DeShawn, since he gets to enjoy his best friend’s cooking, and especially Brandy, because he gets to cook for his best friend. Both halves of his family were always interested in the culinary, and he would have gone to school for it if he wanted to turn it into a job. Now, though, he’s more than happy just to make sure him and his bro are eating good.
But, you know, not too much.
All human beings come in all different shapes, sizes, and combinations of the two. Some are very small, and others are very large. Most are not. In relation to this, the societal ideal for a man is one that is somewhat large, but in a way that makes him look in control, triangular shapes and broad shoulders, big thighs with incredible definition, the works. It’s a standard so common and ingrained into the human psyche that some are convinced that the man in question’s largeness is a result of his hard work and effort.
DeShawn is not one of those people.
In the most natural and unworked state of his body, DeShawn is six foot three and built like a refrigerator, with massive thighs, a big butt, a soft pudgy belly and love handles like a cello. As an unideal figure, he’s worked hard to avoid this, but that ideal still avoids him. In his current state, he’s six foot three and built like a notably slimmer refrigerator, with massive thighs, a big butt, a firm stomach that only looks a bit pudgy, and the barest hint of love handles.
Meanwhile, Brandy always looks like he stepped right out of a pro-shot porno; the kind with a bunch of different cameras and ring lights. His abs are a washboard of discipline and his muscles are so defined they might as well be in the dictionary. Lean yet still bulky, a little bit of a swimmer’s build, closer to Spider-Man than Superman, but not quite either. His hair is very much Superman, though, a dark dusky brown with a coiff of hair falling in front of his forehead even when he pushes it back, he’s always got the faintest bit of five-o’clock shadow, and his brown eyes have this little crease beneath them that’s always there, even subtly. Moles dot pretty much all over his body, so many you could make a pantheon of constellations out of those brown spots on his pinkish tan skin. Even in the winter he stays tan, so that’s probably his natural state — that’s all DeShawn knows about it. What he looks like when he doesn’t put so much effort in. He never really stops, it’s always full throttle, on-season, cutting even when there’s nothing to cut. That level of discipline is something that DeShawn envies.
The only thing DeShawn really has on him is height — Brandy is just below six feet, while DeShawn is three inches above it — and, frankly, ass, which is more of a curse than a blessing. Half the time he has to buy his pants a size up, and he wears sweats and basketball shorts almost exclusively to save himself the trouble. Brandy on the other hand has a respectable but very average ass that you wouldn’t expect coming from someone as chiseled and fit as him. If he ate a burger or something, chicks would be falling at his feet more than they already are.
“Man, you talk about craving shit a lot, but I never see you actually eat anything,” DeShawn asks.
“Homie. You see me eat all the time. We eat lunch together like, every other day.”
“Yeah, but when you talk about that kinda stuff it’s, like, cake, or brownies, or burgers, or whatever. Then when we eat lunch you get, like… a turkey sub. Or a salad. Or grilled chicken.”
Brandy, taking a seat on the floor next to DeShawn sitting down on his own bench, looks up at him. “Grilled chicken is good.”
“Not at the places we go, bro.”
“You cannot be telling me that Wendy’s doesn’t have baller grilled chicken.”
“It really doesn’t.”
Brandy flicks DeShawn’s thigh. In response, DeShawn flicks the back of Brandy’s head, which signals the start of a war that lasts upwards of twenty seconds. When the dust is cleared and all their swears of dickhead, bitch, asshole are dried up, Brandy asks: “What’s good grilled chicken to you?”
“Brooo. If you want grilled chicken to be good you gotta drown that shit in seasoning, else it’s just chicken. But honestly, if you’re at a grill, just make fuckin’ burgers, or hotdogs, or ribs — god, why not ribs?”
“Careful, you’re drooling.” Brandy smirks.
“I can feel myself getting fatter just thinkin’ about that shit, man, fuck.”
A long moment passes as Brandy purses his lips, scanning DeShawn up and down. “If I was gonna go full Porky Pig, I’d want, like, something sweet. Like, y’know, the brownies I was talkin’ about.”
“I don’t think eating brownies one time would turn you into Porky Pig.”
“It’s a slippery slope. Like, if you slip up one time and eat some junk, then you’re gonna keep thinking about it more and more, and then you’re gonna be eating more junk because you’ve already done it once, and nothing bad happened — and then before you know it you’re 300 pounds and no one wants to put out except chubby chasing chicks and that dude from Feed.”
DeShawn blinks. “I feel like that’s kind of an exaggeration. Ain’t you kind of a chubby chaser anyway?”
“What? No.”
“I mean, I dunno, Diamond was fuckin’ thick, with like, four C’s, and I haven’t seen you that down bad for anyone before or since, bro.”
“Man, you don’t get it. She was — it was her personality. She — just, she was personable. Charisma.”
Personally, DeShawn doesn’t get what the hang-up is, but Brandy has enough hang-ups to fill a closet in Hollywood. While he hides his neuroticism well, living with him requires a saintly patience that DeShawn apparently possesses in spades.
“If brownies turn you 300 pounds that easy, we could always hand ‘em out at the gym. You know. Take out the competition.” DeShawn wiggles his eyebrows.
Brandy chuckles. “Nah, nah. None of the dudes here would touch something with that many calories and that little nutritional value. It’d just rot in the fridge.”
“Then I’d have to eat it, and we’d all be fucked,” he grins.
A look of confusion crosses Brandy’s face. “We could just throw it out.”
“Nah, I got this weird thing about it. When food’s about to go bad, or like, when I have a meal, I gotta eat all of it or I think my moms is gonna come up behind me and beat my ass.”
“Oh.” Brandy stares at him, and his gaze lazily travels from DeShawn to the wall, to DeShawn again. “I, uh, didn’t know that.” He doesn’t add anything after that, looking contemplative. “Isn’t that kinda fucked up?”
“Prolly.” DeShawn shrugs. “You wanna go back in time and tell her she’s gonna gimme trouble cutting?”
“I mean, yeah,” Brandy says, with utmost sincerity.
At that, he cackles. “I’ll let you know when science makes it, bro. Then we can see how skinny I get from the butterfly effect.”
“Do you like the stuff I make?” Brandy cuts in. “Sorry. Just, like, do you ever feel like you have to finish it even if you don’t like it?”
“Uh,” DeShawn stumbles, “naw, dude. If anything I just wish I could eat more, but, y’know. Metabolism.”
“Mm,” he nods, the sound of muffled pop from the gym radio filling the silence. “I’m kinda tired. You wanna turn in for the night?”
Tilting his head and looking up, DeShawn answers with a “Yeah, sure.”
— — —
The next day, DeShawn opens their shared fridge to see half of the bottom shelf’s real estate taken up by a giant tupperware container. His nose flares in confusion, although not completely devoid of curiosity.
“Brandy?”
“Yeah?” He calls from the couch.
“The fuck is this?”
Brandy turns around laboriously, having to pick himself up while sinking into the soft cushions. DeShawn holds up the tupperware container one-handedly, even his strong arms can tell that this is kind of heavy.
“Oh, that.” Brandy says. “Yeah, I got, like, super high last night. Made some brownies.”
“Edibles?”
“Nah, just, uh, straight up brownies.” He shrugs.
“Oh.” DeShawn gives an odd look to the container. “I thought you were still cutting?”
“I didn’t eat any. C’mon, dude. I got self control.”
“Not enough to not make the shit.” DeShawn trills his lips, and puts the tupperware back in the fridge. This level of neuroticism is absolutely the reason Brandy hasn’t been able to hold down a girlfriend longer than three months. Sometimes DeShawn thinks he’s the only person in the world who can put up with him.
It sits there, neither of them daring to touch the forbidden fudge in between their trips to the gym. Its presence is almost seductive, almost scary, waiting for the two men’s darkest moments in order to pounce; but they remain strong, and level-headed in its aura. It’s almost a full week later until either of them even mentions it.
“Looks like brownies last a week in the fridge.” Brandy shows him a google result on his phone.
“… Yeah?”
“Just uh, just thought that was interesting.”
“You trying to tell me somethin’, bro?”
“Well, I mean, it’s been almost a week since I made that pan. S’kinda feelin’ bad that it’s just gonna go to waste.”
“The hell haven’t you been eating them, then?”
“What? Are you insane? I’m not Porky fuckin’ Pig over here, dude, I have self-control.”
DeShawn huffs the most put-upon sigh. “Mama would beat my fuckin’ ass if she knew we were wastin’ that much.”
All the fight in Brandy’s old posture completely deflates like a sad balloon, DeShawn can almost hear the air sputter out.
He groans. “Bruh, you gonna help me put all this away, or are you just gonna sit there ‘n bitch about your brownies?”
Brandy raises a brow.
“Eat them. Are you going to help me eat them?”
“… You… ” Brandy makes a face. "You know I can't, dude."
DeShawn throws his head back and groans, “Fiiine.”
Unenthusiastically, like a teen who just woke up, shambling downstairs to breakfast, DeShawn thuds over to the refrigerator and pulls out the tupperware container, grabs a knife from the drawer, and brings them all over to the living room coffee table, eyes set like a man on a mission.
“You still not gonna help?”
The only answer from Brandy is the way his lips go inward, the way he tries to make himself small.
He rolls his eyes. “Fine. Shit, man.”
DeShawn tentatively slices through the cold slab of brownie. It doesn’t seem to have lost all that much of its softness, it still remains easy to cut, presumably easy to bite into. DeShawn swallows something in his throat, and Brandy watches.
It’s a solid ten seconds before he actually picks it up, spending that time just staring at it like it’s a venomous snake. Forbidden fruit. The pit in his stomach is as embarrassing as it is expected, his heart beats faster than it should.
Taking a deep breath in and then heaving it out, DeShawn ignores the saliva piling up below his tongue and takes a bite out of the thick, fudgey brick.
“Mm, fuck,” he half-moans, “shit, man, forgot how good you are at this.”
“I’ve baked your birthday cakes, dude, don’t pull that shit with me,” he smirks.
“I haven’t had a birthday cake since high school senior year, bro, I got goldfish brain. Why don’t you do this shit more often?”
“I dunno. Used to be more into it than I am now, I guess. I still kinda do it when I’m high. Or stressed. Or just, like, craving something.”
“But you still don’t wanna eat it?” DeShawn shoves the rest of it into his mouth and makes an obscene noise.
“I can’t,” Brandy says and then immediately regrets it. “You — do you like it?”
DeShawn tries to respond, but his mouth is full of chocolate and peanut butter and caramel. He swallows. “Bro, this shit is insane. Like, this is dangerous, dawg.”
Brandy blushes, he rubs the back of his neck as he grins. “T–thanks, dude.”
There’s not a response from DeShawn, just another obscene moan as he stuffs half another brick in his face. “Fuuuuck.”
His lips smack sinfully as he licks the chocolate off his lips, jaw moving up and down, licking his fingers of the sticky caramel, by the time half the tray is gone his tank-top has a bump around his midsection, and he groans with effort. “Fuck, bro.”
Ignoring something stirring below his waist, Brandy takes a deep breath and asks, “Yeah?”
“I gotta finish this,” he breathes deep and burps, “s’cuse me — but I’m – I’m so fuckin’ full, bro.” DeShawn’s heavy-lidded brown eyes turn to Brandy, not quite pleading, but too close for comfort. His hand is cradling his bloated gut, it’s one of the first times Brandy can remember him looking, well, not ripped.
Brandy swallows. “Dude, don’t even worry about it.”
“No, you don’t understand, I have to—”
“No, not that, dumbass, of course you have to eat the whole thing. I just have this trick I used to do when I was bulking in college. My girl taught it to me.”
DeShawn chuckles. “Diamond or Mari?”
“Diamond, duh, c’mon dude. Girl was a foodie.”
DeShawn doesn’t mention that that’s also basically the reason those two broke off, but he feels like Brandy at least knows that much. “Fine. What is it?”
Brandy reaches over and starts massaging DeShawn’s aching stomach.
“Sorry,” Brandy says, “I’m used to doin’ it to myself. Kinda hard to get the angle right.”
DeShawn’s eyes are wide as he does, fingers pushing up against DeShawn’s stomach, lightly dragging on the taut surface of it. Almost subconsciously, he leans back, letting Brandy’s hands work on it, eyes fluttering closed as the touch of Brandy’s skin on his sends warm ripples through his entire body.
His eyes snap back open when he hears his stomach growling.
“Bro. What the fuck,” he asks, barely a question.
“Toldju, man, fuckin’ works.”
Feeling suddenly ravenous, DeShawn goes back into the try like a man possessed, shoving one in his mouth and getting almost half of it down immediately, then using his other hand to get a quarter of another in there, moaning through a full mouth. “Bro, fuck. Fuck,” he almost whines. “What the fuck did you do? How are you so good at this?”
Red in the face, Brandy just chuckles like a schoolboy. “I–I dunno. I just… I know how to make some brownies, I guess.”
It was less than fifteen minutes before the tupperware was entirely empty, with DeShawn cradling his swollen stomach, crumbs on his mouth, looking half-awake.
“You, uh, you wanna hit the gym?” It wasn’t until now that either of them realized that it was right before they usually hit it. If it was another day, Brandy would never ask. It would be so routine that the act of asking would be a redundancy. But the circumstances here are… extenuating.
Burp, “N–no. I fuckin’... I can’t…” DeShawn wheezes, “can’t even think ‘bout that, bro, I’m so… full.” The light palm of his hand and tips of his fingers circle around the gut pushing out of his gray shirt. Brandy can barely keep his eyes away.
“Okay.” He swallows thickly. “I’ll go hard enough for the both of us. Don’t worry about it.”
A grunt is the only acknowledgement he gets from DeShawn, too stuffed to speak anymore, breathing heavily as he does.
Brandy ignores the way his erection rubs against his sweatpants.
All day at the gym, Brandy tries to ignore it, but the image of DeShawn, stuffed to the gills, full pretty lips covered in crumbs and licking his fingers, barely able to control himself as he dives into the plate of the sinfully high-calorie sweets that Brandy had made keeps drilling itself into his head, reminding him of it as he squats down, as he moves his legs, the head of his cock consistently present and aching for release.
Brandy jerks off in a bathroom stall while trying to think of Diamond instead of DeShawn. It does not work.
— — —
When he gets home, he smokes a blunt and makes a cheesecake.
— — —
DeShawn thinks he’s been cursed into fucking madness.
Every waking moment is plagued by the memory of those brownies, those goddamn brownies on his tongue. They were perfect, thick and moist and sweet and sinful, and detestably high calorie. How was he supposed to go back to being normal after eating those? Not only that, but eating those and knowing that Brandy had made other shit that’s just in the fridge, probably perfect, sweet, and fattening all the same?
“It’s my Nonna’s fault,” Brandy says when he asks him where he’d learned to do that witchcraft, “I spent a lotta time at her house while my parents were splitting up, and, y’know. I spent most of it baking, I guess.”
“So was that… like… a Grandma recipe?”
“Oh, nah, I made that one up. Kinda surprised you, uh, liked it so good, dude.” Brandy does this stupid bashful rub of the back of his neck that leaves DeShawn equal parts endeared and violent.
“Bro, I’m bein’ a hundred fuckin’ percent with you right now, you gotta get a job doin’ this shit.” He sets down a barbell and wipes some sweat from his brow. “That was the best thing I’ve ever eaten. Full stop. No cap. Honest.”
Brandy makes a weird noise as he pulls up one of his dumbbells. “You – unf – you really don’t gotta flatter me, dude, I’m good.”
Every day, every pump of his muscles, DeShawn was thinking about pastries. At one point it got to where he was too focused on lifting and not thinking about baked goods to realize that a puddle of drool was building up in his mouth, and when he loosened his jaw upon setting the weights down, an obscene amount of it spilled onto his shirt — some of it even got onto the floor.
When he needs reminding of why to resist, he looks down at his flat belly and thinks of what he’d do to himself if he completely let go. He probably put on a pound of fat just that night with the brownies alone. Does he want to be some porky hog spending all day at the buffet, someone who just can’t put the fork down? No, he can’t do that, that’s not who he is, that’s not who he should be.
This isn’t nearly enough motivation. A fact which, maybe, should be more concerning than it is.
It occurs to DeShawn that he could call some friends over to eat the cheesecake in his fridge. There’s plenty of people who don’t look after their waistline as much as Brandy and DeShawn do to theirs. They’re not bigots, they have fat friends and stuff like that, skinny friends who are really into food too — so why doesn’t he just call one of them?
(He wants it all to himself.)
Brandy comes home from his shift to see DeShawn on the couch, shoving a piece of cheesecake into his mouth. A quick glance at the tin reveals that it’s three quarters of the way done. DeShawn is groaning, his big hand on his stomach. They exchange a glance.
Almost too enthusiastically, Brandy chucks his backpack onto the floor and drops himself on the couch next to DeShawn.
“Lemme help you out,” Brandy says.
“Mmph.” Sounds affirmative.
Brandy’s hand rubs the taut drum-like surface of DeShawn’s stomach, fingertips digging into the surface to help him digest. DeShawn groans wordlessly, a small belch escaping him. “‘Scuse me.”
“Don’t worry about it, dude. Helps make room.” Brandy’s pulse is racing so fast he feels like he’s committing a crime.
“You still not gonna help me?” DeShawn asks, almost smiling as he does, the area around his mouth glistening from the moist cake, covered in crumbs.
“Dude, I am helping.” Brandy’s hand forces another burp out of DeShawn’s mouth. Brandy grins ear to ear.
“I’onno if I can eat this anymore, bro.” He seems frustrated about this fact. “But it’s so — ‘s so good. Can’t waste it.”
Were Brandy’s dick not pointing down and contained by some tight sweatpants, it would be pitching the world’s largest tent for DeShawn to make a home in.
“Do… do you want some more help?”
DeShawn nods, the tiny bit of softness on the underside of his jaw makes Brandy feel ill with passion.
Brandy swaps hands, using the opposite to rub DeShawn’s gut and the original to grab a slice of home-made cheesecake and guides it into his mouth, DeShawn opening his mouth almost subconsciously, hungrily taking in all of the calorie-laden sugar-rich cake despite his stomach practically screaming in protest.
“Ongphf,” he says, eloquently.
“Good, yeah?” Brandy’s eyes shine.
“So,” a swallow, “so fuckin’ good, bro.”
The idea to question this does not come to either of them. To them, it’s the only natural conclusion. Brandy bakes when he’s bored, DeShawn refuses to waste food. DeShawn can’t finish everything, Brandy helps with his digestion. DeShawn can barely move enough to stuff his face with cake, Brandy moves for him.
“Two more, man. Just two more and then you’re all good. Yeah?” Brandy, for some reason, cannot stop smiling. His cheeks hurt.
“Fuuuuck,” DeShawn says.
Despite every emotional synapse in his brain telling him not to say anything, eventually his morality and logic wins out, stomach dropping as he speaks. “You don’t have to eat it. We could call someone over to finish it up. You know that, right, man?”
“I–I know.”
A silence follows.
“But?” Brandy asks tentatively.
“I, uh.” He swallows the drool in his mouth. “I–I want it. It’s — it’s so — the shit you make is so fuckin’ good, man.”
Brandy’s eyes narrow, almost darkening. He grabs another slice.
“Eat up, then, dude.”
Overexcited, Brandy almost shoves the cake into DeShawn’s mouth, something that the man himself isn’t complaining about, chewing slowly as he moans with discomfort and an, of course, purely culinary pleasure.
“Fuck,” DeShawn tries to say, but his mouth is so full that it sounds more like fawgh.
“Shh, shh, don’t talk. Eat, dude. Gotta be concentrated.” Brandy’s voice is unbearably gentle. His strong, calloused fingers dig into the tight roundness of DeShawn’s bloated stomach. DeShawn is chewing slowly, savoring it — before it took effort not to cram as much into his mouth as possible, it was a sprint to the finish, but now that his throat is begging him not to swallow and his stomach churns with the sounds of digestion, the continued taste in his mouth almost makes him hungrier.
“Man, I gotta be honest. I’m impressed, dude. You’re so good at this — I always kinda wondered how you always bulked so quick, but… wow.” The word is almost a whisper, big brown eyes sparkling. “You ever thought about joining one’a those hot dog eating contests or some shit? You’d do numbers with some training.”
DeShawn can barely shake his head, but he manages, after a few moments of silence. “Naw. I’d pork up, bro,” he almost giggles. The image in Brandy’s head almost makes him throw up, despite his lack of disgust towards it.
“I think you’d work it,” Brandy says, grabbing the last slice. “One more.”
“Himme,” DeShawn says. Hit me, he means. His mouth is open as wide as he can manage it, his tank top a mess of brown crumbs. Brandy, doing it before he can think of why, cups DeShawn’s jaw with one hand and puts the cake in his mouth with the other, like putting a letter into a mailbox. The motion of his jaw as he chews is enchanting, his thick lips flowing up and down his face as he does.
“”Nother bite.” Brandy holds it in front of DeShawn’s mouth before he’s swallowed the last one, and the man sniffs it. It smells like vanilla and cream and oh dear lord so many calories, but he can’t resist, and leans forward as much as he’s able to get the last of it in his mouth.
“Oh my God,” DeShawn moans, licking his lips and picking off some of the crumbs on his shirt to put into his greedy mouth.
Brandy swallows the lump in his throat. “G’job, man.”
In lieu of a response, DeShawn throws a thumbs up at him. Then, taking a deep breath like guzzling water after a marathon, he lets out a loud, deep belch, easily two seconds long, then groans with the euphoric relief. Brandy’s cock is so hard that it hurts, but he tries to ignore it.
Even though he knows he probably should, Brandy can’t bring himself to want to take his hand off DeShawn’s gut. There’s a magnetic force in his brain that wants to stay on it, take in the warmth of it and the vibrations of fullness and the thin layer of sweat on his palms for as long as DeShawn will have it. He doesn’t do that. Instead, he crosses his arms and faces the wall in front of them.
Sort of sleepily, DeShawn rests his head on Brandy’s shoulder, and the warmth comes back, his short coiled hair tickles the side of Brandy’s neck. DeShawn’s eyelids flutter as he glances up at him. Brandy always thought his eyelashes were pretty like a girl’s, but not as long as theirs. Something you only notice when you’re above or below him, and DeShawn’s been the taller of them since they met in their junior year of high school.
Brandy leans his head on DeShawn’s. Neither of them mention it.
Brandy sucks the roof of his own mouth with his tongue. It makes a wet ftchuh sound. The hell you doin’ that, DeShawn thinks. Doesn’t say it, though, Brandy’s more insecure than he seems and pointing it out would make him stop. The odd things he does when he’s in his own head have always been funny to DeShawn. Make him smile. It’d be a bummer if he stopped, so he doesn’t mention it.
The air conditioning hums.
“No gym today?” Brandy asks.
DeShawn’s response is a long, dramatic groan. “I know I gotta, but, fuuuck, I can’t even move, bro.”
“You don’t gotta do anything, D. Just chill here for the day. Watch your fuckin’ shows, or something. That one about the samurai that kill demons got a new season? Why don’t you binge that?”
“It’s not a Netflix show, dude, they don’t dump it on the floor and hope you scramble for it, that shit’s weekly. S’only like, halfway done.”
Brandy laughs through his nose. “But are you caught up?”
“Fuck you.”
Instead of saying anything, Brandy just makes eye contact and raises his eyebrows.
“No.”
“Knew it.”
“It’s gettin’ really good, too. There’s like, this fruity guy with a buncha wives.”
“How’s he fruity if he’s got a bunch of wives? That doesn’t sound fruity. That’s like, anti-fruity.”
“I don’t mean fruity like gay, bro, I mean fruity like… what’s the word?”
“How would I know what the word is,” he states, and does not ask.
“Flamboyant, it’s flamboyant. He’s straight but he’s always like, that’s flashy, this is flashy. Nails are painted, but that’s kinda normal for anime dudes, and he’s got makeup on, yeah? But bro’s got like, five wives, and bandages on his head that look just like a fuckin’ durag.” He yawns. “The squad’s gotta infiltrate this, like, bright lights underbelly of the city type place to find some demons to kill.” DeShawn adjusts his place on Brandy’s shoulder. “Strong ones.”
“So, dude, if you’re gonna talk about this show so much, why not watch it today?”
“Fine,” DeShawn grumbles. “Prolly couldn’t even do much if I went, if I tried to do legs I’d barf, bro.”
“Figured. You got a lot down.” Something in Brandy’s chest is warmed, like sunbathing from the inside.
“‘Cause you keep making the shit.”
“I can stop, if you want.”
DeShawn blows out a sigh. “S’really good, though,” he speaks, though it turns into a laugh by the end.
“Then there’s nothin’ to worry about,” Brandy smiles sweetly.
— — —
The day of the next step is also the day that DeShawn takes note of the changes.
It’s Saturday morning and DeShawn is off, but he likes to wake up at least a little early so he doesn’t feel like a slob, even though he’s not a morning person. Although they’ve seen each other’s dicks more times than they can remember, they still wear pants around the house — or at least underwear.
He grabs some sweats from a drawer in a half-asleep haze, they’re gray and form-fitting with a logo on the side of one of the legs. When he pulls them up, though, he takes notice of something.
DeShawn always had a big ol’ ass, a certifiable bubble butt that the women in his life had all sorts of opinions on, but even with that, he doesn’t have to pull his pants up like this. He practically has to jump to get these things on. Initially he thinks he’s just been doing too many squat lifts, but a quick glance at his stomach when he checks the bathroom mirror puts a metallic taste in his mouth.
It’s soft. It’s getting soft.
He knows he’s been eating more than he should, especially when it comes to Brandy. Recently he’s started taking his coffee with sugar and cream, since after eating all those sweets he could barely take the bitter taste of dark roast black coffee. More red meat, more candy bars from the Seven-Eleven — he couldn’t feel it happen, but looking back on it, his appetite has been expanding at a steady rate.
Clearly, that’s having an effect on his figure.
Right now, though, it just looks like he’s taken a bulk a little far. Most of it’s gone to his butt, honestly. But if he isn’t careful, he could turn into a serious pig.
The feeling of Brandy’s stomach massages ghosts over him for a second. An instinctive hand rushes up to his belly. It’s almost cold, in the way you get when you go from warm to lukewarm. Something’s missing.
A smell wafts from the kitchen. Brandy’s up, he’s making breakfast. Seems like waffles.
“Yo.” DeShawn walks in. Brandy is drinking a cup of black coffee and rubbing his eyes.
“Yo,” Brandy replies.
“You sleep?”
“Nah. Couldn’t manage.”
DeShawn trills his lips. “Bro.”
“Yeah.”
“Take a nap before we hit the gym today. I’ll drive.”
“I’m drinking coffee right now.”
“Dawg, we both know that shit doesn’t work on you.”
Brandy rolls his eyes, then sighs. It sounds like a groan.
“I’m for real, bro, after breakfast, you’re gettin’ on that damn couch.” DeShawn crosses his arms. “You seriously think you gonna be lucid enough to lift without any sleep?”
“Naaaah,” he drawls. “You— it’s a good point, yeah. Let me eat breakfast first”
DeShawn nods. “What’s the occasion?”
“Just felt like it.” Brandy shrugs. “Dunno. I just, I wanna get back into cooking, I guess. You keep tellin’ me I’m good at it. Figure I should use it for something.”
DeShawn swallows the drool that immediately pours into his mouth at that sentence. “You should, brah. Gotta get that shit recognized.”
Brandy shakes his head with a flattered smile. “You’re just buttering me up so you don’t gotta meal prep anymore.”
He shrugs and laughs, “Guilty.”
Predictably, Brandy makes enough for two people and only eats some toast. DeShawn cleans up his leftovers — by shoving them all into his mouth. Then, he cleans up his mistakes by forcing him to take a nap on the couch.
At the gym, he spends a good half the day on the treadmill, trying not to think about his ass jiggling.
The next step occurs on the drive back.
“Dude. You know what I’m craving?” Brandy, who insisted on driving home, asks.
“Naw. Brownies again?”
“Nah, nah. Honestly? I kinda want Wendy’s.”
“Fatass,” DeShawn supplies. There’s a smirk on his face.
“Fuck you. You wanna hit it up, man?”
DeShawn stretches, his elbow is on the shoulders of Brandy’s seat. “I shouldn’t.”
“Not what I asked, dude. I said do you wanna.”
“No fuckin’ shit I wanna, but I’m gettin’ chunky. Gotta watch out for allat.”
Brandy blinks at that, but DeShawn doesn’t pick it up. “Alright, but I’m going through the drive thru.” He smacks rhythmically on the handle of the steering wheel. “Driver seat privilege, boy!”
“Eat my ass,” DeShawn answers helpfully.
They’re at the drive thru. It’s about six P.M., so it’s not super busy, but there’s still a line. Brandy’s just finished ordering a combo meal with a diet Dr Pepper. DeShawn’s stomach rumbles.
“Get me a number two combo. Large. With a sweet tea.” He closes his mouth like he’s done talking, and then adds, “And a, uh, six piece chicken nugget, honey mustard.”
Brandy smirks at him, then repeats that into the speaker, with the exact same phrasing that DeShawn used.
“And will that be all today?” The employee asks.
“Uh,” Brandy pauses and wets his lips. For a second he looks back at DeShawn, and then aimlessly at the empty space in front of the car. The other people have already driven up to the next window. “No, can I get a parmesan chicken salad?”
They drive to a spot in the parking lot. Credit where credit is due, Brandy is drinking his diet coke. Not much else.
“Thought you said you was craving this, bro.”
“I was.”
“So… you gonna eat any of it?”
“I was.”
“Bro. I don’t know what that means.”
“I dunno,” he murmurs. “Just started feelin’ guilty.”
Then Brandy looks at him with the big brown puppy dog eyes he’s always had. Since the day they met, DeShawn could never look right at them, like the sun. It feels dangerous, doing it now. Maybe it is.
He reaches over and claps a hand on Brandy’s shoulder, pulling him into a sweet one-armed hug.
“I feel you, man,” DeShawn says. “I feel you.”
“Sorry. Sorry. “ Brandy sucks in a breath through his teeth. “I wanted to eat somethin’ bad with you, y’know, for once, but you… you know how it is.”
As he’s saying that, DeShawn is pulling his chicken salad out of the bag and handing it to him. “We are. C’mon, bro, you know I ain’t gonna let all that go to waste.”
Brandy snorts. “Really into that lately, huh?”
“Duh.” DeShawn smiles. “It’s ‘cause you keep makin’ all that food. I clean my plates.”
If there’s anything DeShawn missed, it was fast food. Since he started getting fit, he ate it less and less, even on bulks he stuck to healthy fats and high protein meat. Fried grease like this was mouthwatering and sinful, but he almost forgot about it.
When DeShawn takes a bite of his first of two burgers, there’s a moment of clarity in which he realizes that he’s probably fucked.
“Oh, my god,” he muffles, then takes another bite. “Forgot how good this shit is, bro.”
Brandy’s picking at his chicken salad. “Better than my stuff?”
“Naw, just different. Like, Terminator 2’s better, but sometimes you’re feelin’ Terminator 1.”
“Terminator 1’s still good.”
“That’s what I mean, bro. You stupid?”
“Maybe a little. You’ve been rubbing off on me.”
“Suck a dick.”
The burger’s already almost finished, and the last of it goes straight into DeShawn’s big mouth. He licks the sauce off of his thick fingers. A sense of something that isn’t quite urgency but is definitely brisk accompanies his devouring of the grease-filled food. He takes Brandy’s small-sized carton of fries and tips it into his mouth. Brandy is reminded of all the times he’s guzzled down protein shakes or bottles of water in front of him, and for a moment thinks that he prefers it when it’s a sodium-laden batch of fried carbs going down his throat, something that has to be chewed. He does the same thing with his own large sized fries with minimally more effort, then takes a sip of his sweet tea.
DeShawn’s lips smack, he makes an ah sound as he puts down his drink. Brandy can’t help but notice how his mouth folds around the straw.
Being trained on the ridiculously large portions of Brandy’s cooking, a simple large fast food meal is absolutely nothing for DeShawn. The remaining burger, all six chicken nuggets, and half of his large sweet tea are in his stomach by the end of ten minutes. DeShawn reclines his chair back and sips his drink like a single father under a beach umbrella.
An involuntary belch escapes his mouth as he rubs his stomach. “Oh, fuck. Hit the spot.”
“You look like you’re from Margaritaville. Leaning back, sipping your tea. Jimmy Buffett would be proud, dude.”
DeShawn smiles and rolls his eyes. “I ain’t that fat, bruh, c’mon.”
“Physically, nah, spiritually? For sure.”
DeShawn doesn’t know why that makes him feel funny, or why, when Brandy massages his stomach again, he never wants him to stop.
— — —
This marks the start of what many might call a downward spiral; the next step.
— — —
It’s almost every damn day that Brandy asks him something that he can’t resist.
“You know what I’m craving?”
Usually, he asks after the gym. Just usually. When they’re all sweaty and pumped up and exhausted from effort, Brandy asks him if he wants to go get something from a local joint. Those are the good days. The bad days are when he asks and they don’t go to the gym that day. The worse days are the ones where he asks before they go to the gym, and always, always, always, he’s so full and glutted from his feast that he can barely even think about working out for three hours.
Those days come more and more often.
“You know what I’m craving? Thai food.”
“You know what I’m craving? Burritos.”
“You know what I’m craving? Subs.”
In those scenarios, Brandy almost always eats part of his meal and then leaves DeShawn to vacuum cleaner duty, either eating the rest of his pad thai, or his italian sub, or his big spicy burrito on the spot or putting it in the fridge and reheating it as soon as he gets the inkling to shovel it in his mouth. Sometimes, though, he completely forgets about his meal, leaves it in the fridge, and, out of moral obligation, DeShawn eats it.
“You know what I’m craving? Five Guys.”
“You know what I’m craving? Pizza.”
Sometimes he’s lucky. Sometimes Brandy eats a decent part of his meal, like he finishes his whole burger and just leaves the fries, or he finishes a whole donut and only leaves ten and a half for DeShawn to clean up.
But most of the time, DeShawn, convincing himself he doesn’t want to, greedily guzzles down two large men’s portions of fattening fast food, and then watches Brandy nurse a protein bar for breakfast, lunch, and dinner while he caresses DeShawn’s stomach.
“You know what I’m craving? Indian food.”
“You know what I’m craving? Chinese.”
“You know what I’m craving? HIbachi.”
“You know what I’m craving? Ice cream.”
“You know what I’m craving? Fried chicken.”
It only happens more and more frequently, and earlier and earlier in the day. DeShawn has been a gym four times a week guy ever since he was a high school football player, and now he’s missing three of those four because of his best friend’s eyes being incongruent to his stomach. The missing sessions are starting to weigh on him — quite literally, actually. At the start, the bloat from his incidental gorging sessions just stopped going down, but now it’s getting bigger, softer, squishier. None of his clothes fit right anymore, you can see his belly button through his shirts and they all ride up whenever he does so much as think about raising his arms.
For a while he could wear his jeans, at least, they barely buttoned and they were hell around his waist, but the fact they were so tight did some favors for his butt, it was borderline painted on, and nowadays chicks dig dudes with a dump truck. That is, until he walked out his front door, bent down to pick up a package, and heard the seat of them rip in half.
DeShawn’s a sweatpants guy now. At least, for the time being.
“You know what I’m craving? Pho.”
“You know what I’m craving? Ramen.”
“You know what I’m craving? Hardee’s.”
He could stop at any time, he just doesn’t. Food has been looking more and more appealing, more and more irresistible ever since Brandy made those disgustingly good brownies. After denying himself this pleasure for so long, he fell in love — and he fell hard.
He’s turning himself into a pig, but the feeling of Brandy’s big, mole-covered hand, his strong fingers on DeShawn’s softening gut, full of delicious food, is worth any price.
“You know what I’m craving? Wings.”
“You know what I’m craving? In-n-Out.”
On one of the few days that he goes to the gym now, he’s fresh off the treadmill and being greeted by two fit men, one tall and short-haired and the other very tall and very short-haired. He knows them: Luke and Ryan. Gym bros who were in the same college as him and Brandy; never seen apart. It’s not like him and them hang out, but they’re friendly. Maybe a little unaware, but hey, he can be too.
“Woah, dude!” Exclaims Luke. “You’re, like, porkin’ up!”
DeShawn gives him a look. “Hello to you too?”
Ryan puts his hand over his chest. “Woah, Luke, hold up a min’, brah! That’s offensive language. Your workplace training videos warned you about this, man! We watched those together! You gotta say he’s inhabiting a plus-sized body.”
“Oh, fuuuuck, I’m so sorry, man, lemme rephrase. You’re looking plus-sized as fuck, dude.” Luke claps his hands together and gives DeShawn two thumbs up.
“That’s — dude.”
“What? I’m just sayin’, good on you for still coming when you dropped the ball, bro! Shit takes guts. Well, I mean, the gut’s kinda the problem — takes courage, is what I mean.” Luke nods.
“Yeah, homie, full respect for not giving in and buying the next size up. I know you’re gonna fit in those things sooner than I can fuckin’ blink.”
These don’t fit? is what DeShawn thinks, embarrassment twisting in his stomach, bouncing from the treadmill and flooding his cheeks with unpleasant heat; his cheeks on the other end bouncing all the same, he’s all too aware now that they’re bouncing out of his running shorts.
What he says is, “Uh, thanks.”
“Hundred percent.” Luke walks over and taps his fat belly, chuckling as he watches it jiggle and wobble more when DeShawn stumbles on the treadmill from the sudden touch, but when he turns to confront him he’s already gone and talking with Ryan about something he can’t make heads or tails of.
After that, he turns off the treadmill, scans the entire room for anyone who might be looking at him, and walks out.
— — —
A few days afterwards, while DeShawn is lounging in his room on his Playstation, trying to beat a boss that turns into a meteor and shoots lazers on a horse, Brandy pokes his head in and knocks on the doorframe.
“Yo yo, I’m heading to the gym. You coming?”
The interruption makes him instantly die to the boss, but he’s not all that frustrated; it’s hardly the first time that’s happened. He pauses his game.
“Uh, nah, nah. I’m good.” He takes a breath. “Actually, I’ve been, uh meanin’ to talk to you about that,” he admits, spinning to Brandy’s direction in his chair.”
Almost expectantly, Brandy freezes. “Yeah?”
“I kinda,” he stutters, “I kinda wanna take a… hiatus from the gym. I cancelled my membership. It’s kinda — the vibe there isn’t really good for me right now. People are givin’ me shit for getting fat, which, like, isn’t actually the best for losing the gut.” He puts his hands on his stomach and squishes the soft flesh in the space between his two index fingers and thumbs. Through his blank white t-shirt it almost makes a heart.
“Yeah?” Brandy asks, oddly breathless.
“Yeah. Yeah. I, uh… I dunno. I’ll prolly bust out the home equipment when I’m feelin’ better about everything. But I kinda get why fatties don’t hit the gym more often. Shit feels fuckin’ hostile.”
“Dude, that’s one-hundred percent chill. A million, even.”
“You — you sure? The gym is like — that’s our thing, man. Might not get to talk as much without it.”
“Hey.” Brandy walks up and claps a hand on his shoulder. “Nothing on this fucking earth can keep you and me from chilling out. I’ll find the time. And if you aren’t gonna be at the gym, then I’ll be lifting for two over there until you wanna come back. You feel me?”
“Yeah, yeah, I feel you,” DeShawn blushes, turning his face away from Brandy’s. “Corny ass,” he mutters.
“Not corny if it’s true.”
“Shit that’s true is the most corny, bro, c’mon. Now get to the gym before my fatass rubs off on you.”
Brandy takes a very, very deep breath. “Y–yeah. Fine, I’ll go. Wouldn’t wanna catch your fat germs.”
He flips him the bird as he walks out, Brandy laughs, and DeShawn knows they’re chill.
What he doesn’t know is that Brandy, in the open privacy of the front seat of their car, shamefully, hurriedly masturbates.
— — —
Even with DeShawn’s sabbatical from exercise, Brandy still bakes on top of buying exorbitant amount of food with his landscaping money. One day, when he just got done with half a submarine sandwich that was as big as his head, he opened the fridge to find a full fucking home-made chocolate cake bigger than his head just lying there. Waiting. No, no fucking way, he thought, this is too much. I’m not eating this shit.
The next day, he ate it all in one session, with the help of Brandy’s hands on his stomach.
“You know what I’m craving?”
DeShawn doesn’t know how much weight he’s gained. He refuses to check, because that makes it real. But now, when he’s in his underwear, his stomach covers a bit of the waistband. There are lightning bolts running down the dark brown skin of his stomach, growing in number as the days march on. The pecs that he was so proud of are starting to turn into tits, raised from under all of his ill-fitting shirts that he pointlessly tries to pull down. He thinks about how when he takes a walk, every part of him wobbles. Then, he eats some more.
One day, they’re a little high and they’re half watching half just staring at a Fast and the Furious movie, neither of them really paying attention. None of DeShawn’s shirts fit him, so his two-tone t-shirt clings to his belly and the fat of his upper arms bulges out of the sleeves. Brandy pokes at it and chuckles. Neither of them mention it. They just fuck around, mostly, at one point DeShawn gets up and shakes his ass, as a joke, and Brandy is utterly transfixed, to the point where he barely even notices when he sits back down next to him.
Obviously, the pizza they ordered has gone, almost entirely, into DeShawn’s stomach. While Brandy massages it, there’s a look in his eyes that’s almost contemplative.
“Dude, you’re like… you’re fuckin’ porkin’ up over here, man.”
Heat rushes to DeShawn’s cheeks. “I, uh, I thought we was chill about that. We talked about it ‘n everything.”
“Naw, naw, I don’t mean it in like, a bad way.”
“The fuck kind of way did you mean it? Porkin’ up?” He laughs.
“I dunno. It’s just like… wow. You got like — you’re soft now.”
“Mhm.” It’s almost odd how much he doesn’t care when he’s like that, but he supposes that’s the power of recreational drugs. DeShawn goes to jiggle his gut with his hands — as a joke, obviously — but the motion forces out a little burp. “Uh, s’cuse me.”
Brandy’s looking at him weird. Smiling all funny. It makes something turn in his stomach, something that makes his cheeks hurt with how much he’s forcing them down. Brandy scoots in closer, and DeShawn lazily puts an arm around his shoulder.
“Shit. I think you have bigger tits than Mari now, dude.”
His cock jumps at that. “Bro, she was flat as fuck.”
“Yeah, and you’re a guy.” Brandy cups one in his hand, honking at it. DeShawn’s breath spikes.
It occurs to DeShawn how close they are.
“B-bro,” his voice cracks, looking Brandy right in the eyes, ones which aren’t meeting his own. They’re so brown and pretty, like a girl’s are. Every inch of his skin is covered head to toe in random moles, and he has one right below that beautiful brown right eye of his. A couple of them are hidden in his thick stubble that masquerades as a full beard in its density. On the hand that’s touching him right now there’s a mole right above the knuckle of his index finger, one right in the middle of his wrist too. He’s decently hairy, so they’re not something you really notice — his mom is Mexican and his Dad is Italian, so the dark, luscious locks he has now are pretty baked into his DNA.
The corded muscles of his arms move under his tan skin when he digs his fingers into DeShawn’s chest, his plump lips hanging apart as he watches in some form of barely-concealed awe, the tiniest glance of his off-white teeth peeking through the hole. Brandy’s always had a nice smile. He always gets reminded of how square his jaw is when he sees him grinning, like he’s starting to do right now, as his strong hands test the suppleness of the bitch tits DeShawn’s been growing.
The contrast is embarrassing in a way that makes him want to point it out. Brandy is cut, no fat on his stomach, but perky in the right places, like his butt and his pecs. Next to him, he’s basically a land-whale, with his wide, wobbly piggish rump that moves like the ocean the few times he gets on the treadmill nowadays.
DeShawn only notices these kinds of things when it’s Brandy, the guy who’s currently fondling his man tits.
His hand feels so warm.
Brandy stops for a second, but doesn’t move his hand. “Sorry,” he mumbles noncommittally, “it’s just — fuck. There’s,” he swallows, “there’s so much of you now.”
It’s at this point when they make eye contact.
DeShawn’s face is different than it’s always been, rounder. More cherubic. Softer. There’s always the hint of a double chin under his goatee, and the muscles of his neck aren’t quite as pronounced. He’s gotten fat. That much is clear, though the average person would call him more chubby than directly fat. The transformation he’s undergone is only considered fat in the way that orange could be considered red if it used to be green.
But there’s so much of him now.
Brandy notices how his thighs touch, they wobble when he does some goofy shit like kick at the air or wiggle when he dances. His ass has always been completely obscene, but it’s almost impossible to ignore now, especially when it keeps moving, and DeShawn usually walks in front of them when they take the stairs — something that’s getting less and less frequent. Something inside him always stirs when DeShawn takes a deep breath after climbing a flight of them, he watches for the sliver of cool, dark brown skin to reveal itself when he wipes the sweat off his forehead with his arm.
It’s not like he’s gained that much weight. It isn’t. Brandy’s estimate, not that he’s been counting, is around fifty pounds. Maybe sixty. But that’s not all that much, really, people gain that much for movie roles, people lose that much for weddings.
He looks really handsome with chubby cheeks.
Brandy nuzzles into the spot where DeShawn’s neck meets his torso.
“Warm,” he says. DeShawn puts his newly soft chin on top of Brandy’s head, his thick dark-brown hair tickles his nose. He rubs his chin on him like a cat, and they both laugh, falling into each other, leaning into the crook of the couch.
“Fuck, bro,” DeShawn laughs, “you can just call me fat, s’fine.”
“That’s mean, though. That’s mean.”
“It’s not mean if it’s true. I’ve kinda been puttin’ it on.”
“You’re so handsome, though.”
“Bro, c’mon. Stop playin’.”
“I dunno. You rock it really nice.” Brandy scratches his belly. “I think you could be on My 600 Pound Life ‘n you’d still pull bitches.”
“Brooo. C’mon, I’m blushing, stop.” The back of his hand covers his eyes, glancing down at Brandy. “I’d never get that big. I’m big right now, but I’mma lose it. I’m chunky, but I can put the fork down.”
Brandy swirls a finger around DeShawn’s navel, his shirt’s ridden up enough to show it. “It’d be okay if you couldn’t, though. We’d still hang out. We’d still live together. We’d still chill. Just probably not at the gym, maybe some buffets instead. We could get you two chairs ‘n run the place outta business.”
DeShawn’s cock twitches. It doesn’t go down.
“Do you think I’m gonna get that fat?” He swallows.
“I dunno. I think you’d still be my homie if you did, though.” Brandy’s high enough to say shit like this, but still lucid. His shiny brown eyes look up at DeShawn’s, the points where their skin touches each others’ is almost unbearably hot, yet the craving for more still persists.
“You just wanna fatten me up so you the hot one,” he mumbles, adjusting himself to look at Brandy’s face closer.
Brandy chuckles with a vacant, dreamlike expression. “That’s not why.”
All that’s in either of their ears is the sound of each other breathing, with their heartbeats thudding a percussive base to their desire.
Neither of them know who leans in first, but they’re kissing.
It starts with something that is, in essence, a glorified touching of the mouths. Then they hover apart, and after a few seconds of that, they dive back in, lips parting more, Brandy almost on top of DeShawn, holding one of his love handles and dragging their tongues together, while DeShawn’s big hand is on the back of his head, bringing him in closer. When they come up for air, Brandy goes down and starts kissing his neck, nibbling into the softness that wasn’t there before, handling one of DeShawn’s tits as he does, while he puts a hand on Brandy’s ass — it’s starts as a show that he’s still the dominant one even in this pairing, but before long it’s just because it’s a nice ass, muscled and perky, something that he anchors himself with while all he can manage to do is whimper.
“F–fuck,” Brandy grunts, “what are we doing?”
DeShawn takes a deep breath. “Do you wanna stop?”
The words come out more desperate than he intends, because if they stopped now then he would have to live with the knowledge that he wanted so much more for the rest of his life, and he doesn’t think he can handle that right now.
After a lifetime of consideration in about three seconds, Brandy replies: “No.”
“Then don’t talk about it.”
So, they don’t.
What they do is keep kissing, DeShawn wraps his arms around Brandy’s shoulders and holds on tight as Brandy explores the soft curves of his body, the point where his flank turns into his love handle, the dip of his belly and the stretch marks that follow as it gets dragged downwards, the big man tits that Brandy seems to love so much, his tree-trunk thighs and his wide hips.
“Fuck,” Brandy almost moans, “your ass has been getting so fuckin’ big. J–just wobbling all the time, I can’t even think,” he breathes into DeShawn’s mouth, squeezing the cheeks of his ass like they’ll fly away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.
DeShawn whines. “B–bro, bro.”
When he comes up for air again, he digs his hand into one of DeShawn’s meaty thighs and feels his cock poke into his arm. DeShawn’s breath spikes.
“Dude. You’re hard.”
Keeping true to his word, he just nods, not talking about it. In his head he’s saying, you are too, dumbass.
“I, uh,” Brandy starts and stumbles, “can I…?” He makes a gesture like he’s using a shake weight.
His eyes go wide and his entire body turns to stone — most of all his dick, which is rapidly hardening into an alloy previously unknown by the world’s scientists. When he manages to regain control over his faculties, he nods.
“That — that a yes?”
“Bro, please,” DeShawn begs, almost frustrated.
Brandy lights up so purely that DeShawn honestly forgets what they’re doing for a second. They’re still fully clothed, so he has to reach his hand down DeShawn’s sweatpants — they’re so tight that he struggles getting them down the waistband, even with them completely tenting every inch of fabric around the waist. Neither of them are sure what they’re doing. Brandy does exactly what he does when he gets his own dick out: he pulls it out. The difference here being that with DeShawn’s he’s more gentle, more tentative. Clearly not tentative enough because DeShawn makes a very embarrassing noise when he does, but credit where credit is due, he’d probably be making some noises if Brandy bumped into his dick with his leg.
“Bro,” he whispers.
As Brandy starts stroking up and down the shaft of his cock, DeShawn leans his head and releases a breath in the form of an airless groan. Clumsy, Brandy’s motions bump into DeShawn’s stomach, jiggling in the confines of his outgrown shirt, plump and greedy. “Fuck,” Brandy says. “What the fuck have you been eating?”
“You know what I’ve been eating, man, you — you gave me half of it,” DeShawn whines.
Something about that fills Brandy with a feeling that can only be released through a growl, and before DeShawn knows it he’s at his lips again, sticking his tongue down DeShawn’s throat and trying to make a home there, still clumsily stroking DeShawn’s cock as he does, his hand shaking with want and adrenaline. It makes the whole thing a little odd, but that’s not something he can really think about when he’s breathing the air from Brandy’s mouth.
One hand wraps around DeShawn’s back to fondle his tits, and the other clumsily jerks him off, eyes closed, mouth meling into his lips. Their tongues drag against each other and he tastes like salt and grease, his lips shiny with the evidence of his gluttony.
“You’re —” really hot, he wants to say, but that feels a little much, even with them sharing spit, “warm. Soft.” Somehow, it’s gayer than telling him he’s hot, and he regrets it as soon as it comes out of his mouth.
“Who’s,” DeShawn breathes, “who’s fault is that?”
Brandy growls and grips DeShawn’s cock harder, diving into his mouth like he wants to crawl in and make a home there. DeShawn whimpers with pleasure. “B-bro, bro, I’m gonna fucking come, bro—”
“Fuck. Fuck.” Nothing runs through his head except desire, lightning fast and lightning hot, his thoughts don’t make any sense, utterly dumb with lust. All he can think when his best friend says that he’s going to come, is that DeShawn takes such good care of his clothes — it’d be a shame if he got nut on his cool hoodie.
It’s for that reason that he decides the best course of action is to stick DeShawn’s cock in his mouth.
The fuck he whimpers out turns into a moan more than a word, as Brandy’s tongue wraps around the shaft, he doesn’t last very long afterwards, blood pumping, cum shooting into Brandy’s throat, so much more than he thought there’d be. He’s tasted his own cum before after one or two curious J.O.s, but never this much, never right into his mouth.
There’s a feeling you get when it doesn’t matter how good something objectively is, hunger is the best seasoning. So when you’re hungry, you’ll clean your plate even if you don’t care for the food.
Brandy must have been starving for DeShawn’s cum, because he swallows it. Drains his cock with his hand and swallows what’s left over, too.
DeShawn is too blissed out to notice, halfway to passing out on the couch, sweat making the light bounce off his mahogany skin. It’s so pretty Brandy feels his eyes go glassy, his best friend, fat and happy — fattened by him — and perfect, basking in the afterglow like an emperor. There’s nothing he wants more than for DeShawn to be happy, to not have to think about what he eats, to eat what he wants and as much as he wants of it. Except maybe he wants him to want more, want all the things that Brandy can’t let himself want and eat all the things that Brandy refuses to let himself eat. DeShawn should be happy enough for the both of them. DeShawn should be filled to bursting with food and joy, because it’s what he deserves to be.
“Hey,” Brandy says, hoarse. “You good, man?”
“Mhm.”
“Yeah. Bet you are.”
A sleepy chuckle. “Man, shut your mouth.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t, though.”
He smirks. “Dumbass.”
“Maybe.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m gonna take a nap.”
Brandy nods, and doesn’t say anything. Right where he lays, DeShawn falls asleep, breathing softly, his nostrils expanding and contracting with his chest, his stomach poking out of his shirt.
For a lot longer than he’d like to admit, Brandy, watches DeShawn sleep.
A conflicted remorse fills him; a shame at the ruination of his best friend’s body, only matched by the irrepressible urge to ruin it even further.
Hating himself every moment, Brandy rubs one out right next to him.