Connor eats the green jelly bean that causes his stomach to start gurgling. Connor starts shrinking to 6 ft 0. He grunts as the first shrink spurt hits, the room distorting around him. "What is-" his voice cracks. "What is happening?" he saids, an octave or so lower than before, but the changes don't seem to care. He feels a wave of prickles running from your legs upwards to the rest of his body as his body hair grows in. With a creak, his chest slowly broadens, his shoulders pushing further and further apart, and when he raises an arm, he’s surprised to see some muscle there. And for some reason, he’s feeling a little on edge. He looks down at himself and without warning, his shirt cleaves itself down the middle before tucking itself into his pants, a row of buttons sliding into newly-formed holes as the fabric stiffens into a stiff, slightly rumpled cotton. It's the same shade of white as his t shirt, but his jeans are rapidly turning darker and smoother, rough denim transitioning into the shiny fabric of suit pants. A belt loops itself around his waist before pulling itself in to the third hole as a silver buckle materializes out of nowhere. He turn to face the mirror hanging on his wall, and his heart nearly stops. Rather than 20, his original age, he’s rapidly approaching 30 and showing no sign of stopping. Something looks a little off about his reflection, and when he moves a little closer, he feels a completely foreign sensation around his waist. The subtle differences in his reflection turn out to be wrinkles; they're barely there, etched at the corners of his eyes and at the sides of his mouth, but he imagines he can feel them slowly carving themselves onto his face. Inspecting his aged features, however, takes a backseat to investigating whatever's wrong with his waist. He looks down at his white, buttoned shirt, frowning. It obscures the shape of his waist, even while tucked in, and even so he thinks he might be able to see…
he shifts, turning to the side, and a brief glance towards the mirror confirms his suspicions, something rapidly dropping in the pit of his stomach. There's a slight but definite curve to his belly. And it's slowly pushing outwards even as he watches. His abdomen loses its former tautness as his burgeoning gut creeps forwards, his belt undoing itself only to buckle on the next hole, soon repeating the action as his waist thickens further. A look at his face shows that his jawline has softened somewhat. The beginnings of a second chin are visible if he tilts his head just so, and his features have continued to age, gray strands beginning to spread among his dark brown hair.
The weight gain continues, developing from the beginnings of middle-aged spread into a modest paunch that droops over the waistband of his pants. When he looks down, he can't help but wince. The excess poundage making itself at home on his midsection has begun spreading across the rest of his torso, and his chest slowly succumbs to the accumulating flab, softening as it droops downwards onto his substantial middle. His rear, too, expands, sagging slowly down as his waist continues distending, the fit of his suit pants changing shape as they shift to accommodate the added weight. And finally, with one last gurgle, the change subsides, the last wrinkles carving themselves into his forehead underneath his salt and pepper hair. A suit jacket flaps into existence around him, shrugging itself onto his shoulders, and yet doing nothing to disguise the ample belly hanging off his front. It looks incongruous on his otherwise-narrow frame; it's almost as though he’d swallowed a whole basketball. Only the subtle softness of his face, limbs, and chest belies the impression, his enlarged behind serving as a counterpoint to the weight of his abdomen. Within a blink, the room changes, the colors of a average home giving way to the gleaming wooden walls of a study, and his head fills with new and yet somehow familiar knowledge of his changed life and body. The weight is a result of a healthy love for good food and fine wine combined with a sedentary, sedate lifestyle, both developed along the course of the 24 odd years he’d been working behind a desk. He’s 44, he notes distantly. He can't help but feel as though he should be more incensed, but mainly he’s just weary. There's a dull ache in his lower back. He sits in the comfortable chair near the desk with a sigh, cupping his new flabby mass with both hands. It's soft to the touch, pliant, a yielding expanse that jiggles when he moves it. He raises a hand to pinch the bridge of your nose to think quietly.