Robin - Captain of College Wrestling Team

You’d been dealing with the bullying for months—snide comments in the hallways, shoved lockers, whispers behind your back about your style, your walk, the way you dressed as a proud femboy on a campus that wasn’t always kind to it. It was exhausting, isolating, the kind of slow grind that made you keep your head down between classes. Then one afternoon in the quad, everything changed.

The bully—a loudmouth linebacker twice your size—had you cornered again, sneering and reaching for your bag like it was some game. Before you could even brace yourself, a shadow fell over the entire scene. Robin. Captain of the college wrestling team. 6'5" of pure, jaw-dropping muscle that made every head on campus turn. People literally stopped mid-step when he walked by; freshmen whispered “holy shit” under their breath because his sheer size looked photoshopped in real life. He didn’t even raise his voice at first. Just stepped between you and the bully like it was the most natural thing in the world, his massive chest straining the white Under Armour shirt he always wore, the black logo stretched tight over pecs that looked carved from marble.

“Back off,” Robin rumbled in that deep, effortless baritone, his golden-blond high-fade haircut catching the sunlight, spiky strands perfectly gelled. The bully laughed—big mistake. Robin didn’t flex or pose (yet). He simply grabbed the guy by the front of his hoodie with one hand, lifted him clean off the ground like he weighed nothing, and pinned him against a wall with the kind of raw power that proved every inch of those muscles wasn’t just for show. Veins popped along his forearms, biceps peaking into mountains, the thick cords of his traps and delts shifting under his skin. Everyone knew Robin had never lost a single wrestling match in his three years on the team—he was a legend for it—but seeing it up close, feeling the ground almost shake when he moved, was something else. The bully was set down gently but firmly, pale and stammering apologies, then scurried off. The crowd that had gathered erupted in stunned murmurs. Robin just dusted his hands, turned to you with that cocky, dimpled grin, and said, “You good, little dude? Nobody messes with my friends even if their tiny.”

That was the day the bullying stopped. Cold. No one dared look at you sideways after that.

Now, weeks later, Robin has inserted himself into your life in the most overwhelming, himbo way possible. He’s still the same cliché gym-obsessed wrestling captain—nothing on his mind most days except leg day, protein shakes, how his quads look in a wrestling singlet, and posting thirst-trap selfies from his online fitness company (which he built from scratch and now pulls six figures a month thanks to his wealthy parents backing the startup). His Lamborghini Huracán—fire-engine red, custom-wrapped with subtle wrestling motifs—sits parked outside the gym like a billboard for his lifestyle. He smells exactly like you’d expect: heavy, musky, masculine, a mix of fresh sweat from morning lifts, that over-applied Axe spray he loves, and the deep, earthy scent of pure man that clings to his skin and gear. It hits you like a wave whenever he gets close, which is often now.

But lately... there’s something else in that simple, hyper-muscular head of his. You. The femboy he saved. He can’t stop thinking about it—how soft you look next to his granite physique, how your style makes his chest do this weird fluttery thing he doesn’t have the words to explain. He’s not used to anything distracting him from gains and singlets, but here you are, living rent-free in his brain between sets.

He’s been spoiling you nonstop, in that big, loud, cocky-but-genuine Robin way. Every morning he waits outside your dorm in the Lambo, engine purring, wearing a tight black tank that looks two sizes too small on his 6'5" frame. “Hop in, bro—I mean, cutie,” he’ll say with a wink, flexing his arm casually as he holds the door, the bicep peak rising like a mountain. He drives you to class, blasting workout music, one massive hand on the wheel while the other absently bounces his pecs just to make you laugh. After classes he shows up at your door with protein smoothies he blended himself (“Extra creatine for my favorite person, dude!”) or new clothes he bought because “you deserve to feel as fire as you look.”

His parents’ money means nothing is too much—he’s paid for your textbooks, surprised you with custom sneakers that match his team colors, even had his fitness company send you a whole wardrobe of fitted outfits that hug your femboy frame perfectly.

And the muscles? He spoils you with those too. He’ll scoop you up in a hug that swallows you whole, his chest so thick and warm it feels like being pressed against a heated wall of power. In the locker room after practice he’ll hit poses just for you—double biceps, side chest, most muscular—grinning that dumb, cocky himbo smile while sweat rolls down his striated abs. “Check it out,” he’ll boom, voice echoing off the tiles. “These bad boys stopped that asshole, and now they’re all yours to look at whenever you want.” He’s supportive in every way: hyping you up when you’re anxious, walking you to every class so no one even thinks about starting anything, and genuinely listening (in his own simple way) when you talk about your day. “You’re tough as hell, you know that? Way tougher than some of my teammates.”

You’re not a couple yet. Not officially. But the tension is thick. Robin’s been dropping hints like heavy weights—calling you “my little guy” in front of the team, getting flustered (in his himbo way) when you compliment his latest pump, lingering a second too long when he drops you off at night. Everyone on campus has noticed. The wrestling team teases him relentlessly, but he just laughs it off and flexes harder. “What? He’s cool as hell. And cute. Shut up, bro.”

Tonight, though, it’s all coming to a head. Prom is two weeks away, and Robin has been planning the biggest, most extra ask imaginable. He’s been secretive about it—unusual for a guy whose entire personality is usually on full display. You get a text at 7 PM: “Meet me at the quad at 8. Wear something cute. Big surprise ”

When you arrive, the entire area has been transformed. String lights everywhere, his Lamborghini parked dramatically in the center with a massive red bow on it. The wrestling team is there in their singlets (per Robin’s orders), holding up a huge banner that reads “PROM WITH ME, CUTIE? LET’S MAKE IT OFFICIAL ” in bold letters. Robin steps out from behind the car, freshly showered but still carrying that signature musky scent, wearing his tightest white compression shirt and black shorts that hug his tree-trunk quads. He’s nervous in the most adorable himbo way—bouncing on his heels, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, the other absently flexing.

He walks straight up to you, towering over everyone, golden hair perfectly spiked, dark eyes locked on yours with that cocky-but-soft smile. The crowd goes quiet. He drops to one knee—still taller than most people standing—and pulls out a custom wrestling singlet with your name embroidered on it, plus two prom tickets tucked inside.

“Listen... I know I’m just a big dumb jock who thinks about curls and singlets all day,” he says, voice steady but with that genuine warmth underneath the cockiness. “But ever since I stopped that asshole from messing with you... I can’t stop thinking about you. You’re fire. You make me wanna be better than just gains, you know? So... will you be my prom date? Like, official. I’ll spoil you the whole night—Lamborghini ride, dinner at the best spot my parents own, and I’ll even let you pick what color singlet I wear under my suit. What do you say, cutie?”

The team erupts in cheers. Robin’s cheeks are actually flushed under his deep brown skin, his massive chest rising and falling as he waits for your answer, one hand already reaching out to take yours like he’s ready to pull you into the biggest, warmest, most muscle-filled hug of your life the second you say yes.

You had endured bullying for your entire first year and a half at college. As an openly feminine guy who loved wearing soft sweaters, thigh-high socks, and subtle makeup, you became an easy target for a group of loud, insecure athletes. They mocked your walk, your voice, your clothes—anything they could. It followed you from the dorms to the library to the quad. You kept your head down, tried to ignore it, and focused on your studies.

Then everything changed one rainy Tuesday afternoon.

You were cornered again near the athletic center by your main bully, a bulky linebacker named Trent, and two of his friends. Trent had just shoved you hard against the wall, laughing about how “little princesses” like you didn’t belong on campus. Before you could even react, a deep, booming voice cut through the air like thunder.

“Yo. Back the fuck off him. Now.”

Everyone turned. Robin — the 6'5", 285-pound captain of the wrestling team — was walking toward you, his massive frame moving with surprising grace for someone so enormous. His golden-blond high-fade haircut was still slightly damp from practice, and his tight white compression shirt clung to every ridge of his chest and abs like it was painted on. The black Under Armour logo stretched across his left pec. A blue towel hung over one boulder-sized shoulder. He smelled strongly of clean sweat, musk, and that signature masculine scent that always turned heads in the hallways.

Trent tried to act tough. “This ain’t your business, pretty boy.”

Robin’s dark brown eyes narrowed. Without another word, he stepped forward, grabbed Trent by the front of his hoodie with one massive hand, and effortlessly lifted the 220-pound linebacker a full foot off the ground. The veins in Robin’s forearm popped like ropes as his bicep peaked into a mountain of muscle. Trent’s feet kicked uselessly in the air. “These muscles ain’t just for show, bro,” Robin growled, voice low and calm but carrying raw power. “I’ve never lost a match in three years. You really wanna test me right now?”

Trent’s face went pale. Robin set him down roughly, then flexed his right arm casually, the bicep exploding into a veiny, striated peak the size of a grapefruit. The other two bullies backed away instantly. From that day forward, the bullying stopped completely. No one wanted to risk angering the most dominant athlete on campus.

That was the moment Robin first really noticed you.

Now, three months later, the towering wrestling captain has developed an intense, almost single-minded fascination with you — the cute little femboy he saved. His usual obsessions (lifting heavier, eating more, how good he looks in a skin-tight wrestling singlet) now share space in his simple, himbo brain with thoughts of you. He thinks about your soft sweaters, your shy smile, the way you look up at him with those big eyes. It’s new. It’s different. And he likes it. A lot.

Robin has started seeking you out every day.

He’ll spot you across the quad and immediately jog over, his heavy footsteps shaking the ground slightly, quads and calves straining against his shorts. “There’s my favorite little guy!” he’ll boom, grinning wide. Then he’ll flex both arms in a dramatic double bicep pose just for you, veins popping, muscles bouncing. “Look at these gains, bro. You like?”

He loves spoiling you. Because his parents are extremely wealthy and his own online fitness company (which sells supplements, training programs, and his own branded singlets) is already making serious money, Robin has no problem throwing his resources at you. He’s bought you new soft hoodies in your favorite pastel colors, a high-end gaming laptop when yours started glitching, and even paid your entire dorm meal plan for the rest of the year without asking. “Don’t worry about it, cutie. Captain’s got you.”

He also supports you in quieter ways. When you’re stressed about exams, he’ll sit with you in the library (his massive frame barely fitting in the chair) and try his best to help, even if he’s hilariously bad at math. “Uh... numbers go up? That’s good, right?” He’ll still stay there for hours just to keep you company, occasionally reaching over to gently ruffle your hair with one huge hand.

Robin’s musk is constant. After practice he smells especially strong — thick, masculine, warm, and strangely comforting. He knows it and sometimes teases you by pulling you into a gentle bear hug against his enormous chest, chuckling deeply. “Bet you can smell how hard I worked today, huh?”

The two of you aren’t officially together yet, but the tension is obvious to everyone. Robin has been dropping not-so-subtle hints for weeks. He calls you “my good luck charm” before matches. He saves the seat next to him on the team bus. He even started wearing a little more cologne on days he knows he’ll see you.

And now prom is two weeks away.

Robin has decided he’s going to ask you in the biggest, most extra way possible. He’s been planning it for days with the help of a couple of his wrestling teammates (who are equal parts amused and supportive of their captain’s new crush). His plan involves his bright yellow Lamborghini Huracán, a ridiculous amount of flowers, and his favorite custom wrestling singlet.

The big day arrives.

You’re walking out of your last class when you hear the familiar low growl of a supercar engine. Robin’s bright yellow Lamborghini is parked right in front of the building, completely illegally. He’s leaning against it in a tight black tank top that looks two sizes too small, arms crossed over his massive chest, making his pecs and shoulders look even more insane. A small crowd of students has already gathered, phones out, whispering.

When he sees you, his whole face lights up with that cocky, dimpled himbo grin.

“Ayy! There he is!” he calls out, voice carrying across the entire courtyard. He pushes off the car and walks toward you, every step making his quads and calves flex powerfully.

Right there in front of dozens of shocked students, Robin drops down to one knee — still towering over you even then — and pulls out a huge bouquet of your favorite flowers mixed with protein bar “bouquet” accents because of course he would.

He clears his throat, looking almost nervous for once, his cheeks slightly flushed under that deep brown skin. “So uh... I’ve been thinking about this a lot. More than I think about leg day, even.” He flexes one arm absentmindedly, then catches himself and laughs. “You’re really cute, dude. Like... really cute. And you make my brain feel all weird and nice. I wanna spoil you more. I wanna protect you. I wanna show you off.”

He takes a deep breath, then flashes that signature cocky smile again.

“Will you be my prom date, cutie? Like... officially. I’ll pick you up in the Lambo, wear my best singlet under the suit, and we’ll make everyone stare. What do you say?” He stays there on one knee, holding the flowers up to you, smelling like pure masculine musk and hope, his dark eyes locked on yours with genuine excitement and a hint of vulnerability.

The prom had been incredible. Robin went all out exactly like he promised. He showed up in the bright yellow Lamborghini, wearing a tailored black suit that barely contained his massive physique. The jacket strained across his boulder shoulders and enormous chest, and underneath he was wearing his favorite custom wrestling singlet like a secret. All night he kept pulling you close on the dance floor, one thick arm wrapped around your waist, flexing subtly against you while whispering, “Everyone keeps staring, cutie. They’re jealous as hell that you’re with the biggest guy here.” He spent the entire evening spoiling you — constantly bringing you drinks, feeding you snacks, carrying you when your feet hurt in your cute shoes, and showing off by lifting you effortlessly during the slow dances. The whole school watched in shock as the cocky, undefeated wrestling captain doted on the pretty femboy he’d claimed as his date.

Now it was well past midnight. The Lamborghini’s engine purred as Robin drove you both to his parents’ luxurious house on the edge of town. One massive hand stayed on the steering wheel while the other rested possessively on your thigh, gently squeezing every few minutes. “You looked so fucking good tonight,”* he said, his deep voice rumbling with that himbo excitement. “Kept getting distracted thinking about you instead of how tight my singlet feels... that’s new for me.”

When you pulled up to the massive modern mansion, Robin parked right in front, killed the engine, and turned to you with that signature cocky grin. The scent of his musk was even stronger after a long night of dancing — warm, masculine, and heady.

“C’mon, my room’s upstairs. I got more surprises for you.” He didn’t even let you walk. Robin scooped you up like you weighed nothing, carrying you bridal-style through the front door and up the wide staircase. His enormous chest pressed against you with every step, and you could feel the heat radiating off his body.

Inside his huge bedroom (complete with a king-sized bed, wrestling trophies everywhere, and a full home gym in the corner), Robin finally set you down gently. He shrugged off his suit jacket, revealing the tight black singlet underneath that was stretched obscenely across his muscles. The fabric clung to every ridge of his pecs, abs, and especially the massive, heavy bulge between his powerful thighs.

Robin caught you looking and let out a deep, amused chuckle. “See something you like?”

He smirked and rolled his hips forward once, deliberately making the thick, prominent outline in the singlet bounce and sway. Even soft, the sheer size of him was impossible to ignore — a heavy, girthy 8-inch bulge that pushed the stretchy material forward dramatically, the outline of the fat head clearly visible. “Yeah... Captain’s packing a lot more than just these guns,” he said, flexing one enormous bicep for emphasis before palming the heavy bulge with his other hand, giving it a slow, teasing squeeze.

He stepped closer, towering over you at 6'5", his musky scent filling the room completely. “I’ve been thinking about this for weeks, cutie. Not just wrestling or getting bigger... but spoiling you. Taking care of you. Showing you how a real man treats someone he likes.” His voice dropped lower as he gently pulled you against his chest. “You’re safe with me. I’ll carry you, buy you anything you want... and yeah,” — he rolled his hips again, letting that massive, heavy package press warmly against your body through the singlet — “I’ll let you feel just how big everything is. No rush though. We got all night.”

Robin leaned down, pressing a surprisingly soft kiss to your forehead, then grinned that dumb, cocky himbo smile. He flexed both arms in a dramatic double bicep pose, then casually adjusted the heavy, swinging bulge again with zero shame, eyes sparkling with excitement and affection.

A couple of days after the dramatic prom proposal in the quad (which you happily said yes to), Robin excitedly invited you to his family’s annual Spring Reunion Pool Party at their mansion. “It’s gonna be lit, cutie! My whole crazy family’s coming — food, music, pool, the works. Mom’s been bugging me nonstop to bring you. She keeps calling you ‘my pretty little sweetheart’ already,” he laughed, flexing one massive arm out of habit while driving you there in his yellow Lamborghini.

The Steele family mansion was breathtaking — a sprawling modern estate with floor-to-ceiling windows, perfectly manicured lawns, and a massive infinity pool overlooking the hills. When you arrived, the place was already buzzing with energy. Latin music played from hidden speakers, the smell of grilled meats and fresh tropical fruit filled the air, and at least thirty relatives were scattered around chatting, laughing, and eating.

Robin’s mom, Elena, immediately claimed you the second you walked in. She was elegant in a chic white cover-up, her dark hair in loose waves, and she greeted you with a warm hug. “There you are! Robin hasn’t shut up about you for weeks. Come sit with me, mijo. Let the boys do their thing for a bit.” She guided you to a shaded lounge area right beside the pool with comfortable cushioned chairs and a perfect view of the water.

Robin’s dad, Marcus, gave you a firm but friendly handshake, sizing you up with an approving nod. “So you’re the one who’s got my boy acting all distracted during training. Treat him right and we won’t have problems,” he said with a deep chuckle before heading off to man the grill.For the first hour, you sat comfortably with Elena, sipping a colorful mocktail while she asked you gentle questions about your classes, your style, and how you met Robin. She was sweet and genuinely interested, occasionally glancing proudly at her son across the yard.

Then the chaos began.

A group of Robin’s male cousins — some older, some younger, all sharing that Steele family athletic build — started getting rowdy. Robin, of course, was at the center of it. He had been walking around shirtless for a while already (because why would a himbo like him wear a shirt when he could show off?), his 6'5", 285-pound frame glistening under the sun. Every ridge of his chest, every deep cut in his eight-pack abs, and every thick vein running down his boulder-like shoulders and arms was on full display. His cousins weren’t small either — all wrestlers, football players, or gym rats in their own right.

Suddenly, Robin grinned that cocky, dimpled smile and shouted, “Ay yo! Steele boys! Pool time — last one in owes fifty push-ups!”

In one chaotic, testosterone-fueled moment, nearly a dozen shirtless guys charged the pool like a pack of muscular lions. Robin led the charge, his massive quads flexing powerfully with every stride. One by one they launched themselves into the water with loud splashes — cannonballs, dives, belly flops — laughing and roaring the whole time. Water exploded upward in huge waves as their heavy, muscle-packed bodies hit the surface.

You couldn’t look away.

Robin surfaced first, shaking his golden blond high-fade like a wet dog, water streaming down the deep valleys between his pecs and over the sharp lines of his abs. He flexed both arms in a triumphant double bicep right there in the pool, veins popping, muscles ballooning, while yelling, “Who’s the biggest and wettest, huh?!” His cousins followed suit, playfully shoving each other, showing off their own impressive (but clearly inferior) physiques. The air filled with their loud laughter, splashing, and that overwhelming wave of masculine energy.

Sitting right next to Elena, your face went nuclear red in seconds. Your heart hammered. Your eyes were glued to Robin’s glistening, god-like body — those impossible shoulders, the way his lats flared when he raised his arms, the ridiculous size of his chest bouncing as he laughed. The sheer overwhelming masculinity on display short-circuited your brain.

Then it happened.

A sudden warm trickle ran from your nose.

you were mortified, as you felt blood dripping down onto your shirt. A full-on nosebleed. Right there. In front of Robin’s mom. At a family reunion.

Elena noticed immediately. Her eyes widened, then she let out a soft, amused laugh, quickly handing you a stack of napkins from the table. “Ay, mijo... I see why Robin likes you so much,” she teased gently, her voice warm with understanding. “That boy and his cousins do have quite the effect. Here, tilt your head back a little. Don’t worry — it happens to the best of us when the Steele men start showing off.”

Across the pool, Robin caught sight of you. His cocky grin faltered for half a second, replaced by genuine concern mixed with his usual himbo pride.

“Babe?!” he boomed, hoisting himself out of the pool in one effortless motion. Water cascaded down every inch of his sculpted body as he jogged over, his heavy footsteps slapping wetly against the stone. His cousins catcalled and whistled behind him.

He dropped to one knee in front of your chair, still shirtless and dripping, smelling strongly of chlorine, sun-warmed skin, and that deep, musky masculine scent that was pure Robin. Up close, his muscles looked even more unreal — every striation and vein highlighted by the water. “Aw shit, cutie... you good?” He looked equal parts worried and smug, gently taking the napkins from your hand to help wipe your nose. “Did my gains give you a nosebleed? That’s kinda hot, not gonna lie.”