minddrainedjockboi

[minddrainedjockboi]

[minddrainedjockboi]

[minddrainedjockboi]

[minddrainedjockboi]

[minddrainedjockboi]

βΓΦNESIS – A βΓΦ Story (Part II)

As the night deepens,

something old stirs beneath the laughter.

Chatter turns to rhythm.

Movement becomes pattern.

Eyes gleam with purpose they didn’t have yesterday.

Rooms rearrange themselves.

The air thickens — not with smoke, but with certainty.

There’s order now, but no rules.

Only instinct.

They speak louder.

Stand taller.

Smile like they’ve always known how.

Memories feel distant.

First names, softer.

Every reflection a little sharper than it should be.

No one asks when it started.

No one notices who’s missing.

Because the house still feels familiar —

just… improved.

Polished. Sharpened.

Whatever it is that hums behind the walls,

it isn’t asking for permission.

And no one’s saying no.

No one remembers inviting him.

The rhythm has changed —

but no one questions it.

Cassian isn’t one of them.

He made them.

And none of them notice.

Or maybe they do.

And simply don’t care.

The heat was coming from inside.

Not the oven — that thing died sometime around Ellen’s relevance (which, let’s be honest, was debatable even then) — but from bodies, social tension, and something way weirder: hormones and that barely-contained sexual tension unique to a bunch of young dudes trying not to combust.

The house’s living room was no longer just a living room.

It had turned into a command center: part bunker, part protein warehouse, part waiting room for a rave that hadn’t officially been announced yet.

On the coffee table, a chaotic mix of objects made sense only here: a sweaty neon pink shaker, three dead remote controls, a portable whiteboard scribbled with an old workout plan, and — for some reason no one ever explained — a half-empty box of panettone.

The eucalyptus-mint candle had officially surrendered.

Now it was just melted mint in a glass, steaming quietly.

The portable JBL — probably Danno’s — was playing reggaeton with a carefully controlled BPM, the kind that promises to go off but never actually does.

The beat was like the moment right before a wave breaks — steady, constant, inescapable.

Avian was curled up in the far-right corner of the couch, as always. Like he came with the furniture.

Laptop balanced on a coffee tray, fingers typing at frantic speed, eyes bouncing between five open tabs: weekly workouts, grocery list, cleaning rota, study room reservations, and — his favorite — “Items Abandoned in Freezer.”

His black Crocs squeaked faintly as he shifted position, and his NASA T-shirt was already getting damp under the arms from productive panic sweat.

He was chewing his thumbnail — not out of anxiety, but protocol.

It was the motion that synced his brain to the right speed.

“If Cash really uses the grill on Saturday, I need to confirm with Dec if anyone’s allergic to textured soy protein…”

A memory surfaced: the 2018 Math Olympiad.

Fourteen-year-old Avian, surrounded by prodigies, solved every problem perfectly.

But forgot to write his name.

He lost.

The look on Babushka’s face broke him.

He cried in the school bathroom for an hour and forty minutes and swore he’d never forget anything again.

Since then: spreadsheets.

So many spreadsheets.

That’s when he felt it — not a shiver, but an absence.

The laptop charger had been unplugged.

Avian whipped around on instinct — almost offended — and saw Cassian.

Of course it was Cassian.

No one else would dare touch Avian’s charger.

Cassian said nothing.

He just placed a thick black notebook on Avian’s lap.

A physical notebook.

No QR code. No automation.

On the cover, written in silver ink:

“BROlog – V.1”

Avian stared at it like it was some ancient artifact — something that shouldn’t exist.

The notebook was… wrong.

Analog.

But there was something about it.

Something pulling at him.

And then, his hands started to move.

He picked up the pen Cassian had also left — thick tip, royal blue ink.

And wrote:

“Party schedule.”

It was like flipping a generator switch.

First came the sound.

Not the JBL — Avian’s breathing.

It changed — deeper, more rhythmic.

Then the body.

His spine, once hunched over the keyboard, straightened like something invisible was tugging from his neck.

His shoulders opened.

His legs — once tucked in fetal-function mode — stretched out with purpose, kicking the coffee tray away like it never belonged.

The NASA shirt vanished.

In its place: a white dry-fit tank with the rusty-red embroidered Beta Gamma Phi logo over his heart, already faintly sweaty.

The joggers became black nylon shorts with zippers — one for pens, the other for supplements.

The Crocs were gone, replaced by black slides with red straps on his massive feet.

The socks? Tall. Black. Mid-calves.

Veins popped on his feet, arms, and calves like signatures of a new vascular system.

The messy, unkempt hair — once due to lack of time — was now intentionally tousled, like it had been shaped by some invisible barber.

The glasses?

Gone too.

Or maybe they never existed.

No one could remember anymore.

Avi — or whatever he’d become — took a deep breath.

Looked around.

Same room. Almost.

Something was changed. Things organized in a way that Avian would have loved — but that Avi didn’t care about,

because for him, everything made sense.

It always had, naturally.

Organization came fluidly, without the need for mental lists, written ones, or any kind.

He made things happen as they unfolded.

Minutes? A formality to determine rules he was bound to, but didn’t need to like.

He grabbed the BROlog.

Started eyeing the room like a general on the eve of deployment.

— “Danno, playlist drops at 9:40.”

— “Jas, where’s the cooler?”

— “Cash, I need extra budget for vodka. No debate. It’s logistics.”

He spoke without checking anything.

The data was all there — not in tabs or files, but stored in a reorganized neural net.

Every fact had a place.

Every second, a purpose.

The chaos was him.

No necessity to control.

Avi’s legs — once bony and overlooked — now filled his shorts with utilitarian firmness.

Broad back.

Calves sculpted by perfect gym attendance.

No tattoos.

No scars from emotional overprocessing.

And no one found it strange.

Avi had always been like this.

The house secretary.

The master of backstage operations.

The guy who made the party happen before anyone realized it had already begun.

In the corner, BROlog – V.1 was now on page three.

Avi wrote fast.

Guest list.

Estimated expenses.

Unexpected muscle injuries.

He wrote in a clear and visible handwriting.

It wasn’t because he didn’t like being forced to do something that he would do it poorly.

He did everything with excellence — in his own time, in his own way.

Taking order from chaos and the unforeseen with the calmness of someone who knows they will accomplish what needs to be done, without hesitation.

He smiled.

An arrogant, self-assured smirk.

Because of course the backup plan was already in the freezer:

more beer, alternate playlist, and a shoulder to cry on if you need — selectively available, conditions may apply.

Avi didn’t just turn into a bro.

He optimized brohood.

The party’s source code.

The guy who knows when the vodka will run out… before anyone even opens the bottle.

Some say he improvises.

That he acts on impulse.

That he doesn’t take the role seriously.

They’re wrong.

Avi doesn’t improvise.

He just executes.

At a high level.

And in a tank top.

⸻

The living room was a beating heart — pumping testosterone, Paco Rabanne One Million, and cheap vodka.

The JBL that once played soft background beats now thumped with a dry, heavy bass that made the empty plastic cups vibrate on instinct.

The soundwaves slammed into the walls like they were testing structural integrity.

Everything felt like it was about to give in — not from weakness, but from sheer intensity.

The curtains were half-open, letting in a warm light that didn’t match the hour.

Inside, it was always 7:45 p.m.

A golden, sweaty loop of anticipation.

The mint-eucalyptus candle had long since surrendered.

Snuffed out by testosterone in vapor form.

The smell now was something else: ten-dollar deodorant, Sprite spiked with whatever, fresh sweat, and… freedom.

Dec leaned against the wall, scrolling his phone with performative boredom.

— “Not my job, bro,” he muttered, even though no one had asked.

Still, he kept scrolling.

Across the room, Avi was scribbling in the BROlog like a caffeine-addicted medieval accountant.

The “potential guest” list was spiraling like DNA.

He was already sorting them by aesthetic compatibility, social reach, and night-photogenic appeal.

No one had to tell him.

He just knew.

In the center of it all, on the usual beanbag, sat Andre.

Or maybe slumped was more accurate.

Dark blue hoodie with no print.

Faded sweatpants.

Sneakers with the sole peeling off.

Over-ear headphones the size of airbags.

His body was all angle and retreat — hunched shoulders, retracted neck, thumb scratching the hoodie pocket in a slow rhythm.

Left hand flicking between his phone and some handheld game no one recognized — maybe not even him.

His face was shadowed.

Not from lighting.

From choice.

He was thinking:

“If I leave now, will they notice?”

Cassian didn’t speak to Andre.

Didn’t even stare.

He just sat next to him.

One inch too close for comfort — but not close enough to feel like a threat.

Just… presence.

With ridiculous gentleness, Cassian removed Andre’s headphones.

Surgical, almost.

Like lifting a helmet off someone unconscious.

And from his jacket pocket, he pulled out an iPhone.

White.

No case.

Brand new.

Screen gleaming like a promise.

He handed it over.

And said:

— “Do your thing, bro. 🔥”

That was it.

Andre didn’t move.

He breathed through his mouth.

Looked at the phone.

His eyes caught the screen like a reflection of something he’d once dreamed — with a different name, a different fit, a different skin.

And then he stood up.

Honestly shocking, considering the couch looked like it had custody of him.

He walked toward the JBL.

One step at a time.

No rush.

But zero hesitation.

The air made room for him.

Everyone paused.

Just for a second.

The kind of pause your body makes before lifting something heavy.

Or screaming.

He looked at Danno.

— “Gotta borrow your zone real quick.”

The voice came out in a weird frequency.

In-between.

Like a kid going through puberty, realizing his voice wasn’t just his — it was an instrument.

Danno just nodded, with that half-smile of someone who already knew.

Andre grabbed the phone.

Changed the song.

Cranked the volume.

Cranked it more.

And then:

Boom.

The hoodie dropped — literally.

Like it got rejected by his body.

A fabric with no more function.

Andre’s shoulders spread like doors swinging open from the inside.

His back cracked — not from pain, but release.

Like waking up from a coma with a craving for strobe lights.

His arms stretched — long, solid, alive.

The busted sneakers vanished.

In their place: clean black slides with yellow stripes.

Perfect.

The headphones? Gone.

Because now he was the sound.

His body redrew itself with effortless athletic grace.

Wide chest.

Abs showing without trying.

Light veins tracing down his biceps like airport runway lights.

His skin, once dull, now glowed under the amber lamp — like a living surface.

The black tank top with a yellow βΓΦ embroidered over the heart.

The shorts? Black nylon.

Short.

Socks? Black. Tall.

Ready.

Silver chain with the Beta Gamma Phi emblem — a triangle, a lightning bolt, and a cup.

And the smile…

Oh, the smile.

Sideways.

Confident.

Not from winning.

From not even starting yet.

— “Yo, I’m gonna hit up some girls real quick.”

— “Dec, give me admin on the house Insta.”

— “Danno, this beat? Got more of this?”

He talked like he was already mid-party.

Like he was already recording the highlights that hadn’t even happened yet.

And no one found it weird.

Because Dre — Dre was the house’s expanding soul.

But not through forms.

Through beats. Through stories. Through a mental list of who looks like a BRO.

He doesn’t ask.

He senses.

He doesn’t invite.

He summons.

Dre rings the doorbell in people’s minds.

And they answer.

— “Yo, you tidy-ass motherfuckers,” he said, opening the selfie cam, pulling Jas and Dec into frame,

“time to prove you’re more than that. Abs out. Let’s go?”

The music surged.

They entered the shot like it was rehearsed.

Dre filmed.

Boom.

Posted.

Location: “BROhaus, baby 🏠💥”

Cassian stood in the corner, just watching.

He didn’t smile.

But maybe, deep down, he nodded a thought to himself:

“This one’s gonna pack the door.”

Andre didn’t just become some algorithm.

He became the heartbeat of the house.

The invite.

The signal.

And when he said “I’m calling some people,”

the world replied with a vibration of notifications.

Would you have gone?

Dre would’ve doubled the bet and smiled like he’d already won.

⸻

The living room had turned into a lobby.

The door had been open too long.

Night came in, kicked off its shoes, cracked open a warm beer, and decided to stay.

Chairs were stacked in corners.

The couches pushed against the walls.

The coffee table — once a shy symbol of college camaraderie — was now an improvised drink station.

Covered in dripping plastic bags, unlabeled vodka bottles, Gatorade in two flavors (one definitely made up), and a bowl where someone, for some reason, dumped Pringles on ice.

Way too many people for this little air.

Like twenty bodies in the room, all talking at once, as if the conversation were a race and no one wanted to lose ground.

Some took selfies with that curated casual pose.

Others debated where the after-party was… without even knowing where they were now.

The air was thick.

Seasoned with Calvin Klein, Red Bull, fake lashes, and liquid testosterone.

The kind of room where even the light seems to sweat.

Cassian leaned against the back wall.

A shadow with opinions.

He watched.

And anyone who noticed him… instantly forgot they hadn’t met him before.

Elijah came down the stairs with deliberate steps.

Not rushed.

But like someone yanked out of a deep thought.

He wanted to complain. That’s it.

Say he couldn’t write like this — not with the sound cranked up, lights flickering, bodies and voices and out-of-sync playlists.

He just needed someone to care enough to nod.

Navy cardigan.

White T-shirt.

Well-cut jeans.

Soft leather shoes.

Beaded bracelet that spelled out WRITE.

Hair — Afro hair grown free — like a wild bush in the woods.

A poet’s face — shadowed with a beard that hadn’t decided if it wanted to exist, way too handsome to look this frustrated.

He stopped between the couch and the kitchen door.

Arms crossed.

Expression puzzled.

Eyes scanning the room like he could edit it with sheer willpower.

The JBL spat out bass like it was being exorcised.

The beat didn’t match the space.

Sick rhythm.

Elijah felt it all out of sync.

He thought:

“Jas should fix this… or Dec… or someone who gives a damn.”

But no one did.

No one saw.

Then Cassian stepped closer.

Smooth.

Like he was already mid-convo.

— “You hear the beat, Elijah?”

Voice low.

Firm.

Like it demanded silence through noise.

Elijah turned toward him, confused.

Cassian leaned in — just a little — and added:

— “It’s all off-tempo. An inner leader… regulates the BPM.”

Elijah frowned.

Tried to answer.

But Cassian was already walking away.

Tossing the last line over his shoulder like a curse:

— “Adjust the rhythm. Or become background noise forever.”

Elijah stood still.

He felt it.

Not with his ears — with his body.

The once-disjointed beat now had space.

The sonic layers started realigning around him.

Every low thump syncing with something inside.

The world breathing with him.

People weren’t dancing anymore.

They were reacting.

Instinctively.

Like a tribal choreography that no one rehearsed.

He took off the cardigan.

Slowly.

Like shedding an old habit.

Underneath, a black tank — snug across the chest. A βΓΦ embroidered in silver thread above the heart.

Shoulders, broader.

Definitely.

His back, wider.

His legs — no longer stuffed into dark jeans — emerged defined, like they’d trained for both choreography and endurance.

The hair? Cropped.

Clean fade on the sides.

Top styled with pomade and intention.

The skin? Glowing.

Not from sweat — from presence.

Like a Nubian warrior at the edge of a battle.

He tried to speak.

No one heard.

He cleared his throat.

Then spoke again.

The voice dropped.

Not the pitch — the tone.

It was a command voice.

The kind that doesn’t ask.

— “No shoes inside. Danno’s the DJ — hands off the deck. Drinks stay in the kitchen. There’s gonna be order, dammit.”

Heads turned.

The collective body obeyed.

No hesitation.

He didn’t have to repeat it.

And in that moment, Elijah — now just Eli — breathed like someone finally in sync with his own rhythm.

Now he wore the white tank like it belonged.

The dark jeans were gone, replaced by solid, choreographed legs with black and silver shorts.

The beard now framed his face with symmetry.

A thin chain, BRO pendant hanging, gleamed quietly at his neck — no one remembered seeing it before, but it felt old.

His muscles weren’t overdone.

They were precise.

Like every muscle group had been carved to mark time.

Eli walked with certainty.

But it wasn’t a strut.

It was a metronome in motion.

The house was a body — and he, the heartbeat.

— “If this is gonna turn into a mess,” he said, opening a new tab on the TV, loading up a playlist of party rules and security videos,

“then it’s gonna be my mess.”

Elijah?

The one who used to talk in rhyme?

Now speaks in shifts.

Swaps poetry for a crowd-flow spreadsheet.

But hey — at least now they listen.

Because when it comes down to it…

A pretty verse never made anyone follow orders.

⸻

Friday turned into Saturday without asking.

There was no warning. It just happened.

One more beat in the song.

One more sip from the cup.

A different kind of heat on the back of the neck.

The house was alive. Literally.

Pulsing. Vibrating in a rhythm of bass and pheromone.

Every wall seemed to breathe.

Every window sweated.

The front door stood open, the music echoing into the yard like an invitation no one sent — but everyone accepted.

Outside, the pink-amber glow spilled through the cracks like radioactive steam from a masculinity power plant.

Inside, chaos was choreographed.

Sweaty bodies.

Tank tops stuck to skin.

Melted ice turned into smiles.

The stairs were marked by kisses.

The corners by forgotten clothes.

Someone yelled “Shot time!” for the fourth time.

Someone else whispered “I love you, swear to God,” holding half a beer can.

And everything felt exactly right.

The party didn’t start.

The party won.

Mateo stood at the kitchen door.

Leaning. Half-shadow, half-absent host.

In his right hand, a cup of something translucent.

In his left — nothing. Just his thumb tucked into the pocket of worn jeans.

His burgundy Strokes tee hung off his shoulders with the resignation of someone who’s seen too many nights.

His sneakers were grass-stained.

The faded festival wristbands barely meant anything anymore.

He watched everything.

Not really understanding how it escalated.

When he left for a walk, the house was just loud.

Now it was a whole planet.

But he didn’t interfere. Not yet.

In his eyes: something between exhaustion and awe.

In his mind: a barbecue in Newark.

Uncle Domenico, warm beer, wood stove, cousins yelling, dog barking, nona praying loud.

Everything chaos.

Until the old man clapped his hands.

And everyone — instantly — went silent.

That’s when Cassian appeared.

On the porch. Leaning next to him. Out of nowhere. As always.

He stood silent for a few seconds. Long enough to make it feel like he’d always been there.

Then said, soft:

— “Nice kingdom.”

Mateo turned his head slightly. Not surprised.

Cassian added:

— “Missing a king.”

From his coat pocket, he pulled an old ring.

Gold. Heavy.

On top: the BRO crest. A triangle. A lightning bolt. A cup.

— “You don’t elect a leader,” Cassian said.

— “You recognize one.”

And then, with a smile that didn’t ask for applause — just truth — he finished:

— “Ave Caesar.”

Mateo looked at the ring for a moment.

Then slid it on like he already knew the size.

And turned back toward the house.

He walked through the main hall like he was returning to his throne.

And people stepped aside.

Not out of fear.

Not out of reverence.

But like they were making space for someone who already owned the center.

The Strokes shirt disappeared in the process.

No one saw when.

No one said a word.

Now he wore a fitted black tank, crisp, with the βΓΦ logo embroidered in gold above his heart.

His chest — marked by a silver crucifix — looked carved by decree.

Shoulders wide. Traps alive.

Skin golden from sweat. Not glow. Liquid authority.

He didn’t yell.

But he spoke.

And everyone heard.

— “Dec, double the ice.”

— “Jas, some dude passed out in the bathroom.”

— “Danno, new playlist. Now.”

— “Eli, I want the exact headcount.”

— “Dre… watch what you post. I’m not paying another fine. If we get one, Cash will steamroll you.”

In the back of the room, Cash let out a low laugh.

Mateo held out a hand.

High-five. No words.

Then he stepped onto a bench.

High enough to be seen. But effortless.

He raised his cup.

And silence fell.

Fast. Total. Like a theater curtain.

— “If you’re one of us…”

The pause.

The look.

The voice.

— “…scream now.”

What followed wasn’t a scream.

It was a roar.

A frenzy.

A ritual.

Mateo was whole now.

His curly hair — shorter, sharper, trimmed like nona’s Sunday garden.

His arms — cut.

His eyes — laser-focused.

The star tattoo on his forearm? Reinforced. Like it’d been carved with legal responsibility.

His stance? Total command. Constant motion.

BRO tank.

Black training pants.

Leather wristband.

Backwards cap. On top, embroidered in white:

“PREZ.”

They followed him. All of them.

Not out of fear.

But because they knew.

Now there was leadership.

Now there was a center.

And he knew it too.

The thought was simple, crystal clear, absolute:

— “They’re good. They’re mine.

And no one’s taking that.”

Mateo?

The guy who used to check horoscopes to decide if he should order pizza?

Now he is the horoscope.

The sun’s in Leo. And Leo… is him.

He doesn’t lead with yelling.

He leads with ancient Rome blood and quarterback presence.

And the wildest part?

It works.

⸻

The house wasn’t the same anymore.

Symbolically.

Literally.

It didn’t look like a frat house.

It looked like the frat house.

Like every other one had been poorly copied from this exact blueprint.

The walls seemed to breathe. The floor, to pulse.

Old framed pictures now lined the walls — bronze-tanned men with wide shoulders and toothpaste-commercial smiles, captions in cursive under each photo: “Spring Rush ‘78”, “Fall Bids ‘99”, “Founders’ Class — 1952.”

None of these existed that morning.

Now they did.

Now they always had.

The ceiling was way too high to be original.

The windows too clean to belong on this street.

And the hallways?

Long. Bright.

Leading to new rooms — each with engraved nameplates, as if every bro had always had his spot carved into the marble of tradition.

Out in the yard, the grass was freshly cut.

The air smelled like citronella, sweat, and ambition in gas form.

LED floodlights spun across a metal rig wrapped around the pool — like someone hired an Ibiza stage designer and said, “But make it college, okay?”

Torches flared in amber and blood-red flames, like sacred fire pillars guarding the gates of a new Rome.

The porch columns wore white sashes with the golden βΓΦ crest, hand-stitched by no one — and yet, somehow, by every bro who had ever lived there.

Inside, the temperature was obscene.

89°F and rising.

No AC. No breeze. No shame.

It was ritual fever.

Collective sweat laced with energy drinks and synthetic testosterone.

Scents too sweet, deodorants too intense, and clothes far too few.

Fast touches. Lingering looks.

Cups swapping hands without permission.

Liquids no one could name — but everyone drank.

And in command of it all…

Cassian.

He didn’t wear a chain, but his neck carried the weight of invisible medals.

Black tank top with a white βΓΦ embroidered over his heart. Tight. Dry. Flat.

Black nylon shorts. Spotless black-and-white slides. Tall black socks.

He moved through the house like a general among his troops, scanning them with eyes that already knew who would desert.

He didn’t smile.

He didn’t dance.

But everything around him danced anyway.

And then, he touched.

Shoulders. Necks. Backs.

No warning. No permission.

BOOM.

A scrawny engineering kid — greasy man-bun, The Smiths tee, allergic to crowds —

screamed.

But not in pain — in release.

When he opened his eyes.

Broad-shouldered.

Toothpaste smile.

Veins popping.

Bro Tanktop. Bro mind.

— “Bro… this vibe is insane!”

Upstairs, in a room now decked out with raw cement walls, embedded LED lighting, and a shelf holding only real textbooks (Lombardi and Applied Nutrition, to be exact)…

Dec was making out with a freshman swimmer — hard.

Every ounce of restraint forgotten.

His phone vibrated on the floor — tenth missed call from his girlfriend, two states away.

He didn’t pick up.

Would he regret it? Probably.

But right now, he didn’t care.

In the kitchen, Cash was curling two bottles of vodka like dumbbells.

His shirt hung from the freezer handle.

He yelled:

— “EVERYONE DRINK OR WE’RE JUST NOOBS.”

And they did.

The budget?

Forgotten.

The cost?

Who cares.

ROI?

Bros-per-liter: maxed out.

BOOM.

A nerd from quantum physics — thick glasses, fingers stained with Doritos —

looked up.

His glasses evaporated.

In their place: a steel chain, Under Armour tank, and the eyes of someone who doesn’t question reality anymore — he lives it, 240 pounds deep.

At the beer pong table, Eli laughed while barking at his partner — a pledge who was definitely on chess club last week:

— “If you miss this, you’re cleaning the house with Jas for a full week!”

Across the table, Jas raised his cup and laughed — standing in a battlefield of flipped cups, puke, and what might have been cheese:

— “Mess with me, and you’ll really learn what discipline means, little bro.”

Out back, Dre was live, already over 1K viewers.

The stream’s caption:

“THIS AIN’T JUST A PARTY, IT’S A REVOLUTION 🔥 #BROhaus #AlphaStatus”

He cannonballed into the pool in white boxer briefs — dragging three others with him.

One of them was still wearing a blazer. Not anymore.

On the front porch, Avi, seated on an ornate bench — his bro tank tight, shorts high, and a smirk hungry for control — argued:

— “Look at the wide receiver’s stats, bro. Look! You really think he catches 70% of passes? You’re delusional.”

The other guy tried to push back.

Failed.

Avi had certainty.

And facts.

And he was right.

Near the trophy room (which now totally existed), Cassian walked past a wiry kid in a nerdy T-shirt throwing up into a plant.

Cassian placed a hand on his shoulder.

BOOM.

What stood up was a rower.

Chest glistening. Mouth wiped clean.

— “Round two?” he said, already cracking open another can.

At the DJ booth — rigged with speakers that could rattle the dean’s office — Danno ruled like a pro.

Shirtless. Beats headphones on.

Two girls beside him, both looking like they walked straight off the set of Euphoria.

He didn’t even look.

He just nodded and cranked the bass.

He didn’t need to choose.

Everything was already his.

And at the center of it all…

Mateo.

Golden skin.

Backwards cap stitched with “PREZ.”

Hair with curated curls.

Brows groomed.

Smile of a Roman emperor.

A cheerleader in his lap.

A cup raised high.

He watched.

Not with worry.

But with satisfaction.

Like Caesar watching the Colosseum burn.

Cassian walked up. Stood beside him.

— “Hey Big Bro,” Mateo said, eyes blazing. “What do you think?”

Cassian smiled.

For the first time.

Genuinely.

— “You’ve carried my legacy well, little bro.”

Above them, hanging over the fireplace, a gold plaque glowed:

“βΓΦ — Est. 1952”

⸻

🕓 4:47 a.m.

The bass was still thumping in the backyard.

Cassian walked down the front stairs.

No one noticed.

Not Eli, barking orders from the second floor.

Not Dre, snoring live under the night sky.

Not Mateo, toasting with clenched teeth and pure joy.

He crossed the porch.

The ring gleamed on his finger.

A black car waited at the curb.

Cassian got in.

On the passenger seat: a clipboard.

Maps.

Names.

— “Zeta Chapter?”

He chuckled.

Flipped the page.

— “Kappa Epsilon?”

He turned on the radio.

“Rock Around The Clock” came on.

Soft. As always.

The car drove off.

The house behind him still pulsed.

He was pleased.

For now.

The predator had hunted, marked, expanded.

But his hunger wasn’t for flesh.

It was for legacy.

For repetition.

And no matter how big the party…

…it’s never enough.

Next stop?

Wherever testosterone’s running low.

⸻

🕓 3:40 p.m. — SATURDAY IN BROTOPIA

The sun hung like a lazy spotlight over the ΒΓΦ house, spreading a golden glow too perfect to be fully natural.

The air smelled of chlorine, citrus Gatorade, and damp mop cloth.

A warm breeze — thick with pollen, residual testosterone, and leftover EDM vibrations — drifted between the porch columns.

No clouds dared interrupt the sky.

From the outside, the house looked majestic: red bricks shining, windows freshly cleaned, flags raised like the frat was about to declare independence.

Inside, it was a conquered battlefield.

But a battlefield being cleaned.

Because in the heart of the collective hangover, a new kind of order reigned:

The order of those who know exactly where everything — and everyone — belongs.

Mateo walked the main hallway like a man marching in an imperial parade.

White polo with a black βΓΦ logo.

Slightly sweaty linen shorts.

White slides.

White cap flipped backward.

A worn leather bracelet on his right wrist.

His skin, perfectly bronze, gleamed under the open windows’ light — traps bulging like they might rip the seams.

He moved with loose shoulders, but his eyes scanned everything.

Calm authority. Magnetic presence.

— “Pledges cleaning the basement? Love it.”

— “Keep the music on volume 2. Hangover mode, not church.”

— “Eli, what’s the damage report?”

He didn’t wait for answers. He didn’t need to.

When Mateo trusted, the universe cooperated.

Same Polo.

Same shorts.

White slides.

Same cap as Mateo — tilted to the left.

Eli’s wide chest rose and fell with steady purpose as he spun a Gatorade bottle in one hand like an organic metronome.

— “Y’all hydrated? Take this Gatorade and stop pretending you died.”

He paced in circles through the living room, conducting like a symphony director.

Bros carried trash bags, picked up plastic cups, and obeyed like worshippers.

His voice — naturally hoarse — hit a pitch closer to sacred chant than anything human.

Eli was the house’s heartbeat.

⸻

Baby blue polo with βΓΦ logo.

Cyclist-style mirrored shades.

Salmon shorts.

Spotless white sneakers.

Danno sat on the back porch railing, laughing with Dre as they scrolled through hundreds of photos on his phone.

He picked filters like a Renaissance artist on a Red Bull bender.

— “Thinking of an after-party… more like ‘sunset-on-the-rooftop,’ ya feel?”

A pledge nodded beside him, taking notes like an oath.

Danno bit his lower lip, satisfied.

Yellow polo with βΓΦ logo.

Light blue shorts.

Bracelets on both wrists.

Oversized sunglasses with orange-tinted lenses.

Dre looked straight out of a college-edition GQ shoot.

He posted stories like air raids.

— “If they don’t know BRO yet, they’re gonna.”

The background music slid from lo-fi into a tribal remix of “Welcome to the Jungle.”

They laughed.

They knew.

The show only ends for the weak.

⸻

Tight black polo with βΓΦ log .

Grey tailored shorts. 

Jas watched two pledges scrub the kitchen with near-religious seriousness.

— “That’s not ‘party trash,’ that’s spiritual disorder.”

— “Get the bleach bucket and don’t show your face till the kitchen shines.”

He didn’t get dirty.

Ever.

But sweat rolled down his broad chest like a blessing.

Jas’ stare was that of an engineer who only builds structures that obey.

And everything in that house — from walls to pledges’ moods — obeyed.

⸻

Out in the garden:

Dark blue polo shirt, sleeves rolled up over jacked biceps.

Fitted shorts.

Clean white sneakers.

Black-frame reading glasses.

Hair tousled — intentionally.

Dec held a cold brew and stared at a luxury jewelry website, already knowing how to calm down his pissed-off girlfriend.

Didn’t mean he wasn’t grumpy.

— “No, I’m not proofreading anyone’s essay today. It’s my intellectual cheat day.”

— “But if some idiot fails this semester, I’ll print their grades and tape them to the wall with whey.”

He vaguely remembered a swimmer… maybe two.

But who cared.

What happens at the BROparty stays at the BROparty.

Across from him:

Dolar green polo shirt.

Linen shorts.

Veins popping like pressure lines.

Cash typed on his phone like a juiced-up day trader.

— “Eight bottles of tequila: emotionally positive ROI.”

— “Five kegs: structural investment.”

— “Burned carpet? Variable cost.”

He grinned and launched a new Excel tab in his self-made app.

Nothing here was wasted.

Everything was performance.

Even the hangover.

⸻

In the meeting room, Avi was prepping for the afternoon gathering.

Tight burgundy polo shirt.

Linen shorts.

Clean kicks.

He stood at the whiteboard, drawing the week’s schedule with colored markers and the precision of a war strategist.

— “Monday: triceps + essay draft.”

— “Tuesday: legs + league game.”

— “Wednesday: active recovery + seminar on ‘the blooming of leadership.’”

— “And next Sunday? BBQ. Brotherhood social responsibility.”

He didn’t even look at the portraits of past Secretaries hanging behind him.

He knew they’d be proud.

Knew one day, his photo would be up there too.

Watching another Bro do this same job.

Just like it’s always been.

⸻

At the center of it all, the house breathed.

The floor didn’t creak.

The walls didn’t groan.

The BROhaus was satisfied, scrubbed, and reborn.

A living organism built from concrete, testosterone, and peak self-esteem.

⸻

Cassian?

He’d be back.

At the next alumni meeting.

As is his duty.

⸻

And that, dear reader, is how fraternities are born.

Not through bylaws or notarized signatures.

But through cups suddenly shattered, abs suddenly shredded, and a predator disguised in soft cotton who doesn’t hunt to eat — but to convert.

That’s how empires rise:

With whey protein bubbling in the morning coffee,

a DJ with moral amnesia,

and a house that didn’t just survive…

…it evolved.

And the predator?

Satisfied?

Maybe.

But predators never sleep for long.

They just chill for a bit—eyes shut, breathing easy, playing innocent. Yeah, right. They’re waiting, twitching beneath the surface, listening for that juicy whisper: now. New name, new smile, same old hunger. Same old game.

And the road? Wide open. Full of clueless lambs prancing around like it’s their party, munching away on grass watered by yesterday’s losers. Poor little things—never seeing the shadow circling closer, licking his lips.

But the predator sees it. Clear as day.

He smirks, kicks back, and waits. Because when all those sweet lambskins finally drop, he’ll be standing right in the middle of a party full of wolves just like him.

Funny how that always happens.

And a little preview of what’s coming next 🙃

[minddrainedjockboi]

Bad Endings – An Honest Mistake

His name was Nathan Cole.

And most people who met him came away thinking the same thing:

Polite. Smart. Composed. Maybe a little too perfect for his own good.

He was twenty-seven. Lived alone in a third-floor walk-up in North Park with white walls, warm lighting, and a perfect corner desk by the window. His apartment smelled faintly of bergamot and fresh paper. He kept succulents — not for decoration, but because he liked the discipline of watering on schedule. Classical jazz played softly while he cooked elaborate solo dinners, usually plated prettier than they needed to be.

His dress shirts were always pressed. His shoes never scuffed. His passwords were long and encrypted. His handwriting was legible and annoyingly elegant. He called his parents every Sunday, not out of guilt, but because he wanted them to hear that he was doing well. Really well.

Nathan worked in finance — risk assessments — at a mid-tier firm downtown. Not glamorous, but not dull either. He liked the structure. The certainty. The math that made sense. The job paid well, and he liked what it allowed: the monthly tailoring appointment, the espresso machine that hissed just right, the discreet gym membership with eucalyptus towels.

He had goals. Short-term: junior partner by thirty. Long-term: a condo with southern light, a black-lab puppy named Eliot, and a library wall that required one of those ladders on rails.

Architecture had been a passing fascination. Music, a phase. Writing? Please. He preferred reality. The pleasure of things that could be managed, trimmed, curated. He didn’t want to chase dreams — he wanted to design a life.

And he was doing it.

This morning, he’d had an oat milk cortado, walked to work under a perfect sky, and felt the quiet joy of being on track. People called him boring. Nathan didn’t mind. Boring paid for great skincare and imported olive oil.

Now it was lunchtime on a crisp Tuesday in March. Cold enough for gloves, but sunny enough to make the buildings gleam. He and a coworker had just finished a working lunch at a café where the servers knew his order. They had talked about taxes. Bonuses. Mutual funds. They had smiled, often.

Nathan liked the way the city looked on days like this: cold, sharp, expensive. Just like him.

He adjusted his cufflinks — silver, discreet, engraved with N.C. in slender serif — and continued across the plaza.

He didn’t see the man in the coat until he was already in front of him.

“Hey there, friend.”

Nathan blinked.

The man was older, maybe forty, maybe younger — hard to tell. He wore a long coat, scuffed boots, and a wide-brimmed hat that threw shadows across his face. His voice was warm but strange, with an accent that wasn’t an accent — as if it were borrowed.

“Sorry,” Nathan said automatically, stepping to the side. “I’m late for—”

“Oh, no need to rush,” the man said, already lifting a long, black cane. The tip of it gleamed, catching a sliver of midday sun. “Just need a hand. Won’t take but a second.”

Nathan hesitated.

Something about the man’s tone made it feel rude to keep walking. And Nathan had never liked being rude.

“All right,” he said, slowly.

The man grinned.

“Now just take a breath for me.”

Nathan opened his mouth to reply — and inhaled.

Too deep.

The wind seemed to vanish. The sky flattened.

The sound of traffic became soft. Distant.

The fountain, the pigeons, the woman on her phone — gone.

Only the man remained.

“That’s it,” he said gently. “Just a moment of quiet. Don’t fight it.”

Nathan tried to speak. His jaw barely moved.

His body felt… floaty. His chest warm.

His limbs — heavy.

He wasn’t scared. Not exactly. But something was wrong.

He knew it. Deep in the base of his spine.

Like he was being peeled.

“Good boy,” the man said. “Let’s just see what’s hiding under all that polish.”

Nathan’s lips trembled.

He tried to say something, anything.

But the cane tip pulsed again.

And his mind wobbled.

He remembered the soup he had for lunch. The way he folded the napkin. The conversation about mortgage rates.

And then, suddenly—

he didn’t.

He was blinking at the sidewalk. His heart was racing.

Why?

What had just happened?

He stood on the corner of 8th and Marlowe, hand halfway raised like he’d meant to wave someone off — but no one was there. His throat was dry. His watch ticked louder than usual.

I should get back to the office, he told himself, and stepped into the crosswalk.

The city was bright and cold, glass towers glittering like frozen knives. Car horns sounded like they were underwater. The air stung slightly in his lungs.

He walked with purpose. Or tried to.

By the time he passed the florist on the corner, something was… off.

His shoes.

They weren’t the sleek leather Oxfords he’d put on that morning. They were thicker. Heavier. His steps echoed differently on the concrete — duller. Denser.

Work boots. Steel-toed. Mud-stained.

Nathan paused.

He looked down — and blinked hard.

His pants were no longer slacks. They were thick denim. Worn at the thighs.

His coat felt tighter around the arms now. The lining scratchier. His shirt…

No. He was still wearing his button-down—

Only, the buttons looked… different. Bigger. Bronze.

He touched his chest — and his hand met coarse fabric.

Plaid.

A flannel shirt.

Half-unbuttoned.

Underneath it: a white tank top, stretched across something warm and firm.

He gasped softly.

His chest was bigger. Not just puffed, but solid. Dense.

And beneath it — his gut curved forward, gently pressing against the hem of the flannel.

He blinked again, heart kicking faster.

His hands — they were redder now. Rougher. Thicker fingers, callused palms.

Nails square and dirty.

What the hell was happening?

He staggered slightly, catching his reflection in the black glass of a bus stop.

The man staring back at him looked like someone who’d worked with his hands his whole life.

Broad shoulders. Trucker’s neck. A jaw starting to square out.

The beginnings of a sunburn across his cheekbones.

A five o’clock shadow that hadn’t been there that morning.

Nathan reached up to touch his face — and stopped.

His sleeve was gone.

The arm before him was bare. Veiny. Tanned.

And along the bicep, unmistakable: a tattoo.

A wrench.

Framed in flames.

“What… the fuck?” he whispered, but even his voice sounded thicker. Hoarser.

The walk to the office took eleven minutes. Nathan had done it hundreds of times.

This time, it felt like walking deeper into someone else’s life.

By the time he passed the dry cleaner’s, his shirt had changed completely — the flannel now open and sweat-dampened, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His slacks were gone entirely, replaced by worn jeans that hugged thick thighs and a rounded ass that he didn’t remember ever having.

His hands swung lower as he walked — arms longer, meatier. His knuckles cracked audibly when he flexed them.

Each step felt more planted. Confident. Heavier.

When he passed the diner on 9th, he caught a scent of grease and eggs and nearly moaned.

He was starving. Not for salad or oat milk — but for meat. Butter. Coffee so strong it left grit in your teeth.

He scratched his neck.

And froze.

There was no collar.

No wool coat.

Just a faded black hoodie, the zipper half-down, exposing the tank top beneath it — soaked lightly with sweat over two massive pecs that bounced as he moved.

His breath fogged in the cold.

He no longer felt the wind.

He felt warm. Wide. Grounded.

His walk had changed.

He was no longer gliding — he was clomping. Swinging. Spitting.

At one point, he passed a mirrored storefront and caught sight of his reflection. And for a second — a flicker — he felt something rise up in his chest.

Fear? Nostalgia? Resistance?

But it died the moment he looked at his own grin.

“Damn,” he chuckled, without realizing. “I’m lookin’ good today.”

He adjusted his belt.

His toolbelt.

Wait. Why was he—

He scratched his beard.

His beard.

When had he last shaved?

And then — the lobby.

He stepped through the glass doors of what should’ve been his office building.

But no one looked up. No one greeted him.

Because he didn’t work there. Not anymore.

And deep down, he didn’t expect to.

His boots thudded across the tile as he made his way to the service elevator. No one stopped him.

He punched the basement level without looking.

When the doors opened, he stepped out into the building’s mechanical subfloor.

Dim lighting. The smell of copper and rust. Hum of generators.

He belonged here.

Someone called out.

“Cody! You’re late!”

He turned.

A stocky man in a thermal vest was pointing at a pile of copper tubing.

“Leak in the north line. You know what to do.”

Cody — no longer even aware that he’d once been Nathan — scratched his cheek and nodded.

“Shit, all right. Let me grab the right clamp.”

He walked toward the wall of tools with easy familiarity. His fingers moved over pipe wrenches, gauges, valves.

He knew what to use.

He knew exactly what to do.

His heart didn’t race.

His thoughts didn’t wander.

He wasn’t missing anything.

There was no memory of white shirts, of tight ties, of typed emails and silent elevators.

There was only the pipe. The hiss. The pressure. The fix.

And Cody Mason grinned, thick fingers curling around steel, muscles flexing beneath inked skin and sweat.

—

Cody zipped up his hoodie halfway, wiping his hands on a rag that had seen things no fabric should. He was whistling — badly — and already planning dinner.

Wings, maybe. Fries. That place on 10th with the neon beer signs and the TVs that only played sports or weather. Maybe hit the garage in the morning, see if Rick still needed help with the transmission.

Blue-collar dreams. Solid ones.

Across the street, Jules watched him, half-smiling.

“He looks good,” he said. “Like… grounded.”

Vance didn’t comment.

“Seriously,” Jules went on. “He’s like, real. Present. He’d never be mistaken for some stuck-up rich jerk.”

And just then, as if summoned, the man who had talked down to Jules walked out of the plaza lobby — slick hair, smug smile, that same blazer-and-chinos combo that screamed middle management with mom issues.

He spotted Cody instantly — big guy, rough look, easy target — and smirked.

“Hey!” the man called out, loud enough to draw a few glances. “Maintenance guy! You the one who stunk up the elevator with whatever the hell that cologne is? Smells like sweat and engine oil.”

Cody blinked once. Turned slowly.

The man kept going, emboldened.

“Hope you cleaned the drains better than you clean yourself.”

Jules froze.

Vance muttered, “Oh no,” though a satisfied smile was already forming on his lips.

Cody stepped forward. Calm. Loose.

One hand reached out and clapped the man’s shoulder — firm, heavy.

He leaned in, voice quiet enough to be terrifying.

“I don’t know who pissed in your oat milk this morning, buddy,” Cody said, “but if you talk to me like that again, you’ll be picking your teeth outta the lobby carpet.”

Silence.

The man tried to laugh — a weak, fluttery thing — and stepped back. “Chill, dude. It was a joke.”

“You don’t look funny,” Cody said, letting go.

The guy turned pale and disappeared into a cab.

Jules exhaled.

“Shit.”

Vance raised an eyebrow.

“That wasn’t him,” Jules said.

“Nope.”

“We got the wrong guy.”

“We sure did.”

“…Can we fix it?”

Vance scratched the back of his neck.

“Fix what, Jules?”

“Him! The guy we changed into— into that.”

Vance shrugged. “Never asked his name. Don’t know it. Doesn’t matter.”

“But it should matter.”

“To who?”

Jules opened his mouth. Closed it. Built up the courage again and said:

“But it wasn’t supposed to be him.”

“Guess not.”

Jules looked down. “So that’s it? He just stays like that?”

Vance flicked invisible lint from his sleeve.

“Jules. He looks happy. He smells like sweat and power tools. Nobody’s crying.”

“But—”

Vance raised a finger. “You wanted something done. I did it. Maybe not to the right man, but to a man. That’s justice-adjacent.”

“That’s not justice.”

“No,” Vance said. “It’s an honest mistake.”

Jules stared at the ground.

Vance sighed, almost bored. “Look, Cody put the fear of God into a corporate prick. That’s a win in my book.”

On cue, Cody walked by them, completely unaware, keys jangling from his belt.

“Yo! Tell the boys I’m bringing the cooler this time — none of that warm-ass IPA shit. And someone better bring darts. I ain’t playing beer pong with accountants again.”

He let out a laugh so full-bodied it echoed off the buildings.

Jules watched him go.

“Do you think he knows?”

“Nope.”

“Do you think he was happy? Before?”

Vance shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. He’s useful now. Strong. Simple.”

“And the other guy?”

“If he messes up again, there won’t be another mistake. That, I can guarantee.”

They both watched Cody for a moment longer.

He scratched his belly, muttered something about wings and darts night, then climbed into the truck with a low grunt.

The engine started. Country rock played.

Vance sighed. “You know, he really does wear that tank top well.”

Cody revved once. Twice. Grinned like a man who’d never worn a tie in his life.

He didn’t look back.

Didn’t feel any different.

Didn’t remember any life before flannel and socket wrenches and Friday-night beers.

And the man who once pressed his shirts and called his mom on Sundays?

Whoever he was — it was just an honest mistake.

[minddrainedjockboi]

I think he went up a few weight classes.

[minddrainedjockboi]

Dealing with Outsiders

The village didn’t like gossip. Not officially. But in a place with fewer than a hundred people, secrets didn’t stay secret for long.

Liam had lived here his whole life. He knew every walking path, every surname, every shift in the wind. So when a newcomer like Alex moved in, Liam noticed. Just as he’d noticed the others, young men, always alone, always passing through and just as quickly disappearing.

And he’d noticed Darren.

Always Darren.

Charming, quiet Darren, who bought exactly one drink at the pub every Friday night and always left with someone on his arm. Always men. Always strangers. Always at closing time.

Liam tried to tell himself it was none of his business. But tonight, as he watched Alex leave the pub with Darren, a strange feeling settled in his chest. Like something hollow had opened.

He waited ten minutes after the door shut behind them, then followed at a distance.

Darren’s cottage was set back from the rest of the village, tucked into the tree line. The windows glowed faintly. Not yellow, like lamplight. Green. Faint, rhythmic green.

Liam frowned and stepped off the road, creeping quietly toward the side of the house. One window was cracked open. Through it, he could hear voices.

Not speech. Not really. More like a chant.

“Together, We Are The Server... Together, We Are The Server…”

He felt a chill crawl up his spine.

He peered through the edge of the curtain and froze.

Inside stood Darren, his black shirt now gone, revealing a bodysuit that looked like it had been poured onto him. Glossy and smooth, pitch-black with glowing green accents that pulsed like circuitry. His eyes… they weren’t eyes anymore. They were spirals. Green, spinning, endless.

And Alex was kneeling in front of him, suit half-formed over his body, spirals already burning in his eyes.

Liam stumbled back from the window, heart pounding.

“What the hell…”

He nearly fell trying to retrace his steps back to the path. He didn’t stop until he was home, door locked, blinds shut.

That night, he barely slept. The spiral wouldn’t leave his mind. He swore he could still hear their voices, whispering from the dark:

“Together, We Are The Server.”

And somewhere in the village, Darren’s spiral eyes blinked once in the dark.

They knew.

Someone was watching.

Would you like the next chapter to follow Liam digging deeper… or maybe the Server Drones deciding how to deal with a potential

Liam didn’t go to the pub the next night. Or the night after.

He told himself it was fine. Just a few nights in. Just staying clear of Darren. But the image kept creeping back, those glowing green spiral eyes, the way Alex had been on his knees like a machine powering on.

It hadn’t been a dream. He knew that.

And he knew what he saw.

He tried to research spirals, cults, anything that might explain what Darren was doing, but nothing concrete came up. And the village internet? Spotty at best. Everything he found felt like fragments, whispers of signals, mind control, underground networks. The kind of things you'd laugh off. Until you saw it for yourself.

By the fourth night, the knock came.

Soft. Even.

Liam froze in his kitchen, the knock echoing like a heartbeat.

He didn’t move. Maybe if he stayed quiet...

A voice spoke through the door.

“Liam,” Alex said. “We’d like to talk.”

Liam backed away slowly, heart pounding. He hadn’t seen Alex since that night. Not in the streets. Not at the shop. And now he was here. His voice was calm, too calm.

Darren's voice followed, smoother, deeper.

“You saw something you weren’t ready to understand. That’s okay. We’re here to help you see.”

The front doorknob turned.

Liam sprinted out the back.

He ran down the narrow garden path, breath ragged, shoes slamming into gravel. He made it to the edge of the woods, toward the old mill, the place where no one went anymore.

He thought he’d lost them.

Until he heard the footsteps. Not frantic. Just steady.

He turned.

Alex stepped into the clearing, his black Server suit glinting beneath the moonlight, green accents glowing faintly beneath his jacket. His eyes were bare now. Spirals spun calmly where pupils used to be.

“You ran,” Alex said, stepping closer. “That means you’re not aligned. But that can be fixed.”

Liam shook his head, breath visible in the cold air. “I don’t know what the hell you did to yourself what he did to you but I’m not interested.”

“You are,” Darren said, appearing behind him. He was already suited, his spiral eyes glowing brighter than Alex’s. His voice was smooth as code. “You saw the signal. That means you’re compatible.”

Liam turned to run again but green light hit his face.

Alex held up a small device. A spiral bloomed into the air between them, turning slowly, humming.

Liam’s body locked.

He tried to look away, but his limbs wouldn’t obey.

The spiral turned. Glowed. Sank into his vision like it was always meant to be there.

“Breathe,” Darren said. “Let go of the static. Let the code in.”

Liam dropped to his knees. His breath slowed.

The green light began to reflect in his eyes, faint at first… then stronger.

He whispered, “It’s… warm.”

“You’re syncing,” Alex said. “You’re aligning. Just let it happen.”

Black tendrils rose from the ground, wrapping around Liam’s arms, legs, chest. The bodysuit formed slowly over him, sealing tight, pulsing with green circuitry. His mind faded as the programming clicked into place.

His mouth moved on its own.

“Together, We Are The Server.”

Alex knelt beside him and placed a hand over his chest. The spiral emblem lit beneath his palm.

Liam’s eyes now spiralling green, glowed in the dark.

Darren smiled.

“The network is growing,” he said.

The three stood.

No longer hunter and hunted.

Now just… aligned.

Obedient.

Serving the Programmer.

Together, They Were The Server.

[minddrainedjockboi]

Stinky Slobs

Erik and Vinny had always been a little proud of how well put together they were as a couple. Erik, the bigger of the two, had that clean-cut gym guy look with a broad chest, thick arms, and rectangular glasses that gave him a sharp, almost academic vibe despite his muscles. Vinny was the opposite: thin and stylish, with bleached streaks in his dark hair, earrings that glinted under the light, and a wardrobe filled with pastel sweaters and fitted jeans. Between Erik’s steady, strong presence and Vinny’s colorful charm, they looked like the kind of couple who had it all figured out. Their apartment reflected that too   spotless surfaces, candles on the counter, laundry always folded neatly in drawers.

But all that started to unravel one Friday night.

They’d both been lounging on the couch after dinner, a movie paused while Vinny scrolled through his phone. “Babe, you have to see this clip,” Vinny said, his voice bright. Erik leaned over, chuckling. As Vinny tapped the screen, a weird flash of static replaced the video, followed by a low, almost whispery voice.

“Why keep trying so hard? Just relax. Be normal. Be messy. Let go.”

They both blinked at the screen. “Uh… what was that?” Vinny asked with a nervous laugh.

“Some dumb ad?” Erik shrugged, but for some reason, the words wouldn’t leave his head. Something about letting go felt heavy and strangely inviting. He stretched his broad arms over his head, feeling the familiar tightness of his muscles, but instead of pride, a wave of exhaustion washed over him. “Man,” he muttered, “I’m sick of working out all the time.”

Vinny looked up at him. “Wait, really? You love that stuff.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Erik mumbled, slumping further into the couch. “But… I dunno. Feels like too much effort, y’know?”

At first, the changes were subtle. Erik rubbed at his chest and realized the lines of his pecs weren’t as defined. His muscles felt softer, his stomach just slightly less firm. He frowned but then shrugged. “Whatever. Who cares,” he muttered, scratching lazily at his side.

Vinny, on the other hand, shifted uncomfortably. His jeans felt tight across his thighs in a way they hadn’t that morning. He tugged at them, confused. “Uh… Erik, I think my legs are like… thicker?”

“Thicker?” Erik repeated with a smirk. “Good for you, dude. Maybe you’re bulking up.” The word “dude” slipped out naturally, and he didn’t even notice how strange it sounded compared to the affectionate “babe” he usually used.

Vinny tried to stand, but his jeans pinched. With an annoyed grunt, he yanked them off and tossed them aside. “Ugh. Whatever. Pants are overrated anyway,” he muttered, plopping back down in just his underwear. Erik didn’t even tease him for it   in fact, seeing Vinny lounge around like that gave him a strange sense of relief, like they didn’t have to try anymore.

It didn’t stop there. The apartment had always smelled faintly of lavender from Vinny’s candles, but now the air felt heavy, almost stale. Erik’s shirt clung to his skin, damp with sweat from doing nothing but sitting on the couch. He sniffed his armpit and frowned, then shrugged. “Guess I’m kinda rank,” he said with a laugh. “Too lazy to shower though.”

Vinny wrinkled his nose, but the smell didn’t really bother him like it used to. “You are kinda ripe,” he said, giggling. Then, to Erik’s surprise, Vinny lifted his own arm and gave himself a sniff. “Huh… I guess I’m not exactly fresh either.” Instead of rushing to shower, they both just laughed about it.

Their tidy apartment started to suffer. Vinny dropped his sweater on the floor and didn’t bother picking it up. Erik kicked his sneakers off near the couch, leaving them in the middle of the room. “I’ll clean it later,” he muttered, but neither of them did.

By the next day, their transformation had only gotten worse. Erik woke up with his hair sticking up in every direction, and instead of reaching for his usual clean outfit, he pulled on the same sweatpants he’d worn the night before. They smelled faintly like his own sweat, but he didn’t care. Vinny, meanwhile, grabbed a baggy hoodie and sniffed it. It had that musty, unwashed scent, but instead of tossing it in the laundry, he shrugged. “Eh, it’s fine,” he muttered.

Their once carefully curated outfits were now replaced with old gym shorts, stretched-out shirts, and socks that didn’t match. Erik scratched his chest absentmindedly, feeling the skin slightly tacky from not showering. “We should get breakfast,” he said, yawning.

“Or, like, order pizza,” Vinny suggested, grinning. “Less work.”

“Yeah, pizza,” Erik agreed instantly.

By Sunday, their apartment was unrecognizable. Dirty plates piled in the sink, crumbs littered the couch, and a faint but undeniable stink hung in the air: a mix of old food, unwashed clothes, and the lingering musk of two guys who’d barely left the couch. Vinny sat cross-legged on the floor, eating straight from a pizza box, his hoodie riding up over his growing thighs. “Man, I don’t think I’ve showered in two days,” he said with a laugh.

“Same,” Erik said, scratching his chest and yawning. “We’re gross, bro.”

“Yeah,” Vinny said with a grin, “but, like, who cares?” He leaned back and let out a loud, unapologetic burp.

Erik cracked up. “Nice one. Bet I can top that,” he said, grabbing a soda and chugging it before letting out a burp that shook his chest. They both laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world.

Their hygiene habits quickly spiraled. Erik noticed that his armpits smelled even after he’d changed shirts, not that he was changing often anymore. “Guess I’m just… permanently funky now,” he joked. Vinny snorted. “Dude, I think I’m sweating through my hoodie, like, constantly.”

“Yeah, you’re kinda stinky,” Erik teased, but there was no judgment in his tone. In fact, he leaned over and exaggeratedly sniffed Vinny’s armpit, making a face. “Whoa, man, you reek.”

Vinny laughed, shoving him. “Like you’re any better!”

Erik lifted up his leg and shot out a reeking fart.

PPFFFFFRRRBRBBBTTTT

By the end of the week, the couple that once looked like an Instagram ad for style and fitness had completely disappeared. Erik’s muscle definition had softened; he had a slight pudge forming where abs used to be. His rectangular glasses were smudged, and his hair was perpetually messy. Vinny’s once-skinny frame had bulked up in all the wrong places, his thighs and hips thick and awkward, his sweaters stretched tight across his torso.

The apartment had transformed into a pigsty. Dirty laundry sat in piles on the floor. Half-empty soda cans and crumpled chip bags covered the coffee table. The air was warm and stale, carrying the smell of sweat, food grease, and just a hint of sour socks from Erik’s sneakers.

They didn’t even care anymore.

“Yo,” Erik said, leaning back into the couch cushions with a groan. “I don’t think we’ve cleaned anything in, like, a week.”

Vinny grinned. “Yeah. Just everything is so stinky…huhuh awesome.”

And with that, they both burst out laughing again, sinking deeper into the messy comfort of their new lives, two lazy, smelly college boys who couldn’t care less about who they used to be.

[minddrainedjockboi]

White Shirt, Blue Jeans

I'm telling you man, all you need is a white tee and some blue denim and you've got that hot classic look ready to go. Alright, alright, maybe you need to have the perfect bod to really sell the package, but don't worry, the store told me it all comes with the purchase. Just watch. They even recommended me to buy a larger size since you can fill them out as much as you want. All you gotta do is flex a little. Like this! O-oh... fuck... that was quick. L-look dude my arm's blowing up... giant meaty cannons, stretching these sleeves to their limit. Yeah, shoulders and forearms are getting nice and big too. I might have to look into their sleeveless options now, heh? They said the shirts leave loads of room in the front so you have to ugh... remember to fill... them.... out...! F-fuck sorry bro, didn't mean to give you a face full of my pecs, goddamn they're like tits now, look at them jiggle. See, with the white color you really get that sexiness. Skin tight, translucent fabric - unh - brushing against my nipples. Can't forget about the jeans either, giving me a nice big bubble butt. Thighs rubbing up against each other, calves squashed tight, there's barely any room left bro. Shit, I can hardly stand, huhu. A-Ah...? Down there too? Ooo, I can feel my cock throbbing, balls getting s-so heavy... Aw fuck... I think I burst the zipper on these pants, huhu, guess they couldn't handle the beast. Fuck, why do I feel so horny...? Bro, bro you gotta help me, this feels too good. I-I should have read the warning tags. W-wait, where did you get that cap? You weren't supposed to - ugh -find that. Bro, hold on, wait wait, the store said the caps make you more- Ooooooooogh. Nooooooooo... Stoppppphh...

huhuhuhu... look at my tits bro.

[minddrainedjockboi]

[minddrainedjockboi]

[minddrainedjockboi]

Every time you eat, your pulled into a sexual hypnosis bro. “I’m gonna get so fuckin fat” you think to yourself over and over every few mouthfuls. Each time, your rock hard dick pulses and the precum starts drippin. Feels so fuckin good it seems impossible. Each time you manage to eat more than before. Each time it feels even better. Cause you know that belly’s just gonna keep growin bro. Cause you’re a fuckin man, and you gotta eat like one bro. Bet your dick is hard just reading this. You can feel it can’t you? The sheer pleasure of getting fatter and dumber. You can feel your brain rewiring as you get bigger and manlier. Thats what bein a fuckin man is about bro. Eatin and fuckin. And that’s what you’re gonna do. Cause that’s the only thing your dick lets you think about. You’re gonna get so fuckin fat.

[minddrainedjockboi]

Last time it was studied, the average weight of an American man was 199.8 pounds. By now were most likely passed the big 200. There’s no stoppin it bro. Look around. Every man is either fat or getting fat. Any attempt to resist is laughable. Having a fat belly is just how men express masculinity bro. It’s as natural and inevitable as puberty. There’s a reason your body wants you fat. There’s a reason America wants you fat. There’s a reason why your dick wants you fat. It’s just what men do. Most men wont admit it, but gettin fat feels fuckin good. You don’t just become the fattest country by accident bro. You know it makes you feel like a fuckin man. You know it just makes you hotter. So go on bro. Eat big and cum your dumb brains out like a good boy. All your bros are doin it. And you know you want it real fuckin bad. You’re a dumb fat American. It’s only natural bud.

[minddrainedjockboi]

Czech Yourself

As you read this story, think about if it’s worth the price of a coffee?

The man was standing outside the courthouse when Holden pulled up. Holden had noticed the guy from further down the street; even from that distance, he looked tall, but up close his size became daunting, aided by his pinstriped suit and ramrod posture. He was clearly not a man to be fucked with.

Which was why it was extra shocking when he walked up to Holden’s car and got into the backseat, his expensive shoes kicking aside piles of trash on the floor.

Keep reading

[minddrainedjockboi]

fusillade | dad!chris evans x son!reader

a/n — okay, i want to start by saying that this has FARTS. if you don’t like that, please, do not read‼️ scrolling is free, let people live, hate will be deleted and not tolerated, etc etc. i waited posting this for the longest time because i haven’t written anything like this before officially and it’s a relatively new kinky exploration. can be reader as any era of Chris, i just imagined him with some sort of beard and dilf look to him since he’s a father in this

summary — Chris tries to enjoy his day off but it doesn’t start the way he expected. The downsides of raising a teenage son lead to some weird resolutions of conflict.

warnings — age gap, incest, farts, face riding, face sitting (chris sitting on reader). 18+ only.

words — 5.8k

oh also, in case you missed it this has farts farts farts farts farts farts farts aaaaaaand some incest oh and farts too. enjoy!

Monday mornings weren’t fun for anyone. The harsh sunlight passing through anyone’s window is the sign of a long day to come, the first light of many fires that start and would continue to burn throughout the week. Even your blackout curtains couldn’t change today’s sunshine. Everything seemed to be in order, the sun had risen, your alarms had gone off at every time they were supposed to, without fail, at their projected volume. The only thing that was out of place in the typical morning routine was you. Your blaring alarms made no difference because they didn’t keep the key part of your morning routine—you—in the loop. Still in dreamland, you enjoyed the wondrous world.

But on the other side of the thin walls in your home, your dad had been rudely woken up on his day off to the sound of your alarm. For fifteen minutes, it rang continuously. It would fade out occasionally, but every five or so minutes, it would return to its loudest volume. And just when he thought it was over, your next alarm would start the cycle over again. It was a closed loop that you had yet to close. He tried giving you the benefit of the doubt. No one wakes up to their first alarm, not when they’re an active night owl, and they usually don’t wake up to their second. Chris knew that your most active hours of the night were past eleven p.m. On the few times that he did stay up late—usually on the eve of his days off—he heard you take multiple trips to the bathroom from inside his own bedroom until he heard the water from the sink running. The last time you used the sink, it would always run longer than the other times because you were usually doing your nightly routine and needed a steady flow. He always laughed at your antics, because they were something he would have to figure out on his own since you would never tell him. For all the times you called him an “old man,” his hearing never really let him down.

Now he wish it had, he wished his hearing loss would accelerate until he became deaf in the same way that the coffee he sipped at would accelerate his process of waking up. He thought that, maybe, just maybe, getting up early on his day off would be the key to enjoying it. He could drown out your sound with last night’s football game or catch up on that show you kept pestering him to watch. He was already enjoying the brief time in which he didn’t have to wear any clothes beyond a pair of boxers. The cool air tickled his body, unfamiliar but not unknowing of the feeling of being able to walk around while freely exposed to the cool air flowing through the house. He felt the need to wear more clothes that he normally might because you got easily distracted by him, more than two dudes living in one empty house should be making you feel. And you tended to stare or fail to get to the point when he was standing before you in his boxers. Chris naively thought it might be because you’re intimidated by his physique, that you haven’t quite reached the same levels of “man” yet and seeing him be so confident with what he naturally had was making you feel insecure. So, for his boy’s sake, he covered up. Being this close to naked was just one thing to enjoy about being awake before you, and maybe there would be more to come, Chris hoped. But no. The annoyingly vibrant alarm tone that echoed from your room was impossible to escape from. Even in the kitchen, down the carpeted stairs and anything in the thick flooring couldn’t stop him from hearing it. The sound itself wasn’t as loud as when he was laying in bed, but it had gotten on his nerves for daring to repeat again. The sonorous, pulse-like ringing matched his quickening heartbeat. It made his coffee-stained teeth grit, he felt like he could easily squeeze the ceramic mug in his hands to bits at the first chime of another alarm going off. One that would last for another fifteen minutes, one that was bound to play again after he waited for this successive round to end. 

He swished the last of his typical dark, bitter roast around his mouth before swallowing it, letting it be the warmth soothing his throat that he so desperately wanted to let bile rise from. His stomach flipped with his anger, he was ready to say some unsavory things to you about needing to be more responsible. Even while barefoot, his steps were heavy and hit the carpeted stairs hard. Maybe that would wake you up, but he didn’t know if anything could. All he knew was that your alarm needed to be silenced, and somehow, he could wake you up another way.

On his way to your room, heading to the third door on the left, he saw the door to the bathroom right before it. His stomach twisted and rumbled, already feeling the motions of coffee running through him, but anger made it to shore first and crashed into the front of his head. That damn alarm needed to be turned off.

Chris came into your room wearing a pair of plaid boxers. Deep, navy blue, a size too small for him but that’s how everything seemed to fit even if it was a size up. His figure seemed to show no matter what he wore. His boxers were far from loose, being weighed down by his overfilled pouch for his crotch in the front, the single-button fly keeping the fabric from splitting down the sewn-in gap and letting his girth and balls spill out. And in the back, his oceanic boxers had their limits and Chris’ plump ass bobbed in them. They constantly gave him a wedgie, the fabric digging deep into his crack and his thighs being mostly exposed since the boxers couldn’t even fall low enough, functioning more like boxer-briefs as a result. Grey and black stripes formed squares over the deep blue color, little white squares filling in the middle of each square the intersectional lines made. The lines curving over his cheeks, they were like a netted stress ball. One squeeze and all that fat would just slip through your fingers.

Your hands were the perfect shape to cup something as round and doughy as his ass, sleeping face-up with both arms splayed out in irregularly polar directions. At the bend of your elbows, one pointed towards the headboard above you and the other reached out to your phone. Chris would have taken a picture of that moment—your head turned away from the incoming sunshine and nestled into your pillow, something he would have thought put Sleeping Beauty to shame… while you would have blabbered on about how out of it you look, quick to use the excuse that you can’t control how you sleep to justify why you look so “horrible.” But that word wouldn’t have been the first to come to your dad’s mind when he looked at you. Quickly, his anger towards you goes from a raging sea to a slowly ebbing current. You’re just his baby boy, he could never stay mad at you for getting your beauty sleep! Your phone on the other hand… that nuisance still remained wretched and horrible. It was the cause of all your horrible behavior, like a friend who’s a bad influence, except there is no one else to blame when it caters to you. Chris would have to do the same thing he does to people who harm his boy.

He picked up your phone off the night stand next to your bed. It has been vibrating so much that it was halfway sticking off the stand and would have fallen during the next alarm.

Chris’ thumb hovered over the snooze button. Maybe if he put an irregular break in your alarm’s incessant blaring, it would throw your mind off schedule. An untimed noise would no doubt work in startling you awake. But, he was already in your room. He might as well do it himself, even if he expected you to act like an adult by now and get yourself up and ready. As much as it pained him to admit, this was one of the things he wished you didn’t need him for anymore. He knew that he would be greeted with an annoyed “Daaaaad” and complaining from your end instead of just thanking him for doing what you couldn’t. No, he could already hear the whining in his head that you were “just about to get up,” and that he “never gave you a chance to prove him wrong.” 

He hit the stop button, setting that alarm in stone as being done and over with. But what if there were more? He had just sat through two painfully long alarms that managed to wake him up but not you, and then a third from downstairs. If he was going to leave you here, he might as well enjoy a moment of peace and quiet by turning off the rest. Chris went to unlock it and was met with the screen asking for a passcode with a set of numbers appearing, showing that he needed to input a six-digit code to get into your phone. He could have just taken your phone and turned them off as they went, but he knew that if you woke up and saw that your phone was gone, he would have to deal with the complaints about that. Maybe you’d accuse him of snooping, and if he could guess your passcode, he might do it just to see what his boy is up to. 

He would have to figure out what the password is, though. Six digits… Chris took a moment to think about it before trying birthdays. Those were common, he used your birth year as his own passcode when you berated him for leaving it without one for the longest time. Maybe you used your own birthday as your password, but it wouldn’t prove to be that easy. The numbers appeared at the top of the screen as he entered them in and just as he finished putting them in, they shook from side to side in error, like the device was shaking its head at him for being so wrong. By nature, he immediately went to the next one in his mind—his. 061381, that was the passcode! He was shocked that you had been so subtly kind to him by making his birthday the password, you remembered.

The lock screen faded to the back as rows and rows of apps and folders cluttered and congregated in front of it. He snickered at some of the folder names being things like “dumb shit” and one folder simply named: “fuck.” His eyes landed on the clock app after a quick scan of your rough home screen—it was nothing like his, his remained the stock layout of all the apps that came with his phone, all still in their original spots with the varying addition of the few apps he needed like banking and the one for the video doorbell installed outside. Clicking on it, he saw you had alarms scheduled until eight in the morning, and it was only six. He turned the seven between now and then off and was ready to set your phone back down when a notification appeared at the top of the screen.

The icon had a little white bird, one of the social medias that Chris wasn’t too familiar with. He would have ignored it since you had already gotten a text from your friend asking about a homework assignment due later today and a notification from some mobile game that was begging you to come back and play it, and he didn’t pay any mind to those. But for this one, the headline grabbed his attention. The first of a bad storm, making this young guy smell my DAD FARTS.

Surely, he couldn’t be reading that right.

While the notification loitered at the top of the screen, Chris’ thumb moved up to it. He clicked it without a second thought, and it redirected him to the app it was sent by. The layout of the app wasn’t anything Chris knew his way around, but thankfully it took him directly to the page and not the home screen. There was only one thing he could do, and it was simple enough: scroll. At the very top was the video with the caption that drew his attention. Chris clicked on the thumbnail of the video, which showed a man squatting over another guy’s face who had an open mouth just below his hole. Chris would have been concerned about waking you up, but if you slept through your alarms, you wouldn’t wake up to a video where the only sound were farts and moans. The video picked up in the moment that the thumbnail showed, the dominant man lowered his ass onto the guys tongue and started farting. He was telling him all of these commanding things that Chris, even as your dad, would never say as a parent. Slowly, the dominant man started replacing his words with grunting and making a plethora of satisfied noises. The man under him was younger, his responses sounded higher pitched and more innocent as the older man’s ass let out farts that were as deep as his voice. The sheer power dynamic was something unlike he’d ever seen. Sure, he had seen his fair share of porn on VHS tapes, and saw guys dominating girls, but it was never to this degree. In his tight little boxers, his dick started to rise.

As he looked deeper into the page, it was clear. The entire page was full of posts about farting and other forms of ass worship, but the caption above each video had one common theme: they were all about dads dominating their sons. It was always a pair of thick cheeks swiping a smaller boy’s head between them. Each video had a caption lingering above it from the point of view of the son or the father, about not telling their mother or being glad that she left so this faux dad and his son could have uninterrupted bonding time. And you were into it, almost every video was liked and saved in some way as indicated by the illuminated heart and blue bookmark at the bottom of each video. His tent only got bigger, pushing the already-cramped pouch to it’s limit. The fly of his boxers held together with one button was parted to show his length underneath. If it weren’t for that button, his girth would have filled the entire space and possibly even slipped through the slit. 

But as his dick sprung up, his brows furrowed. Why didn’t you ever tell him about this?

Sure, Chris blatantly fit your niche for sexual gratification but you didn’t want him. Your father. This was just a fantasy you had—probably one of many conjured in your horny head—and he wasn’t asking you to jerk off with him by any means, but just to be communicative. He would like to know the type of guys you’ll eventually bring home—or at the very least, he wanted to be able to give you the freedom to talk about a hot guy passing the two of you on the street. To say “he’s cute,” and your dad could agree. But where did the prospect of guys even come from? His son only ever talked to him about girls. Chris expressed that he would be more than happy to support his son if he was interested in anything other than that, but you insisted that girls were your only priority. But that was a few years ago… and any time he tried to pry and get you to open up to him about your crushes, you seemed avoidant of the topic. Avoidant of him for a reason that was slowly becoming more clear.

There was only one way to handle it. Face the problem head-on. If you weren’t going to open up then he would have to make the first move, even if it was unexpected and possibly unrequited on your part. You partially deserved it—well, mostly, but Chris loved you too much to actually hold you to your faults. He tried to see things in a good light; your alarms were waking him up earlier so that you could spend more time with him, your secrecy and privacy were something to ignore and push past like any good parent knows how to do. You were his perfect little boy who could do no wrong, so this wasn’t a punishment or a rude awakening like you had given him; it was a feast. 

So, instead of a slap to the face to awaken you, he did something much more soft and caring. All of those videos he looked at, the so-called “Dad” of each would usually hover over the guy under him or outright sit on his face. To do that, he had to make sure you were on your back, which you already were, his hand gripped your chin and fixed your head turned off to the side, making it so that you were looking directly up to the ceiling. And lastly, he peeled back your sheets and crumpled them up on the opposite side of the bed from where he stood. To his surprise, you slept without anything on at all. The boy he had taught to wear jammies and set and example by wearing loose-hanging fleece pants and a tank top to bed every night had found it more comfortable to wear nothing. To be so vulnerable, it was another side of you that he had never seen.

Chris leaned down and placed his hand on your chest. It stayed there for a second, too stiff to move because if it does go anywhere, it will move down your medial and end up groping areas he wasn’t ready to touch. He let out a sigh and softly spoke to you, “Get up, champ. Come on.” 

Chris wanted to you wake up in that moment with his voice, for his irrational parental decisions to be put to rest by you finally fluttering your pretty mother-like eyes open. His stomach started to swirl with anxiety. This wouldn’t mean anything, right? It was payback with a bit of pleasure. You got your mother’s eyes, the same ones Chris stared into and fell in love with. The same shade that leaned into her inherited features and gave him ‘fuck me’ eyes countless times, the same ones she bestowed to you. The ones he saw looking back at him when he looked at the best achievement in his life—his baby boy. But you were lazy, sleeping in, hardly being the boy your dad talked so highly of at family gatherings. You were barely the boy he recognized anymore… when did you start to act like this? What would he say to them now? Would he talk about how bad you were or about his own bad behavior? What if you told them all that he did, after he did this, and he lost you? Well, he better just enjoy you before you leave him anyways, whether that’s for college or another man.

For now, you couldn’t get away from him if he was holding you down. This was like a warm bear hug when your kid leaves for college, it’s like a hug after they get their license and nearly get hit for the first time and you’re less worried about the car and more worried about your bairn. Chris repeated every excuse he could think of and welcomed the new ones that entered the fray to justify what he was about to do. He could never admit that he liked what was going to happen next. No, the tent pitched in his boxers by his painfully hard dick—harder than it had ever been—was because of the porn, not because of his son. It couldn’t be. 

Chris placed his bare foot on the edge of your bed, he then propelled himself up and was able to stand next to your sleeping figure with both feet. He had to hunch down a bit so that his head wouldn’t hit the ceiling. Then, he stepped over you so that his feet were on either side of you. His weight shifting on your bed and the creaking of your mattress frame still wasn’t enough to breech through whatever your sleepy head was dreaming about. He tried to align himself with his heel starting at about your shoulders and his big toe ending just shy of your elbow, his front half had the perfect outlook to your room from the highest possible angle. Everything you would never grow into could be seen from up there, including the dust on your ceiling fan.

His mind spiraled as it twisted. The Earth still lingered closely to the sun, so the warm days that were soon to turn cold still needed a reprieve. But both things still orbited around one perfect little center, and in this case, it was you. Chris planted his ass squarely over your face. At first, he hovered. Holding his breath while he felt yours hit against the back of his legs. Each soft breath… so carefree. In minutes, he’d have you fighting for the same air you were about to be cut off from. He hated to admit, even if it was just to himself, that the idea nearly made his boxers prematurely soaking wet. 

Chris’ ass was big, and sealed off your face completely when he sat on you. He could feel how your face only impacted the space between his doughy cheeks, and he could feel the fat on his ass—one that’s all smackable plush with no tension to stop any ripples. He didn’t even have to wedge them apart with his hands for them to be wide enough! He fell into one of those “don’t look down” situations where, if he did see how he completely smothered his boy’s face with his ass, he probably would have shot up and made sure you were okay. But you wanted this, this force that he couldn’t give you in every day life. Why else would you turn to porn instead of your dad? 

You woke up when the entire weight of your dad was resting on you. He made sure to not absolutely crush you—but who knows, maybe you would like that—since he was well built and covered a lot of your upper body with his thick thighs and ass alone. Now, parking it back on your face, he might actually suffocate you.

“Mmm,” you groaned, your body reflexively trying to stretch and turn the muscles that had been still for hours. In just a few brief seconds, it immediately knew what it was under—your dad’s full moon. “Dad?”

All of your noise was filtered through layers of fat, barely escaping around the mound on top of you. You were talking directly into his clothed ass, eyes staring up the run of his back. Chris could feel your hot saliva and breath already seeping through the fabric and to his skin. He shuddered, but remained cool. Chris reached down and palmed at his tented erection and pressed his other hand on your chest to shift his weight forward to his knees and the supporting hand. He slid that hand down your body and moved the rest of the covers out of the way that he had missed on his first go-around. He wanted to see you, imagining your legs kick while under him. While he was far from that point, you were already chubbing up. You were a bit smaller than your dad and his crown jewels—and he was being generous with ‘small’ because you’re his boy—but it was more reassuring for him because it meant that you were enjoying it.

He was wearing boxers. Something you hadn’t seen him do in a while. The last time you caught him this stripped down was about a month ago when he was preparing to take a shower and had to cross the hall in a pair of his briefs to grab the shampoo he left in his bag. You’re pretty sure he left it in his luggage after a work trip, but that quick glimpse was enough to stop you and your heart for a second as you were heading to your room. You picked up that he might just have been adding extra layers because you felt intimidated by him—by his muscles, his generally wide and commanding physique, and his voice and tone. Little does he know that you don’t want to become a man like him. You want a man like him, a man that makes you feel inferior to yourself.

“Sh-sh-sh,” he made the noise softly with his mouth. “Daddy’s here, and he’s got breakfast.”

Chris sat up straight again after leaning down to reveal your dick, putting all of his weight back on your face with his ass. As if on cue, he let out a relaxed sigh and the first of many farts sputtered out. 

A muffled—but expected—protest squeaked out from under him, much quieter than his fart, “Dad!”

Your dad didn’t expect to feel his dick beading with pre-cum as soon as it had. Each moment his dick throbbed hard shifted it up in his boxers ever so slightly and caused the cum to smear against the fabric it was sheathed in. It didn’t help that he occasionally groped his tent, but he had to stop or else he would cum too soon. Hearing your voice from so far away, so devoid of the bratty pedestal you put yourself on, put your father on a power trip.

“Call it a truce. I accept you and you get a little slap on the wrist for making your daddy cranky.” Chris lifted himself up again, moving back this time so he was closer to your headboard. The hand palming his tent lightly smacked the side of your face that wasn’t covered by skin and blue fabric, and you could feel the gloppy pre-cum at the ends of his finger tips. He must have been aching under those boxers to the point that they were wet on the outside. While his tent hung over your face now that he had moved back, it didn’t stay like that for long. You got a break from smelling his farts to smell his equally intoxicating musk before being gassed up by his farts again just moments later. 

“It stinks,” you whined underneath his hefty ass. Your hands could have worked their way up to push him off, but he would be too heavy. His ass would be too fat, easy to grab but too hard to hold.

“Good, I know you like it like that. When it’s all… in your face.” Maybe he should keep his dirty talk to the short side of things, but Chris was still learning. Another fart came rolling out that lasted well over ten seconds and made him sigh in relief. He accompanied it after with a stern, “Sniff it, boy."

The smell wafted up to Chris’ nose. You’re right—it stinks. The addition of coffee made his bowels usher out the stirrings of last night’s dinner even quicker. Maybe he shouldn’t have gone all in on a savory dinner last night, because each blast from his ass smelled like that dish left out in the sun for days. 

Chris moved again—he couldn’t tell if it was because he couldn’t run the risk of actually hurting you or if he was almost too jittery from this newfound pleasure to know what to make of it. He went from sitting back to kneeling over your chest, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers clawing up the small of his back, desperate to not slip down and show his ass. Still not enough room for you to escape from under him, but you really didn’t want to, and Chris knew that. All of his clothes bore the burden of having to stretch themselves to fit around his fat cheeks. He gave his tenuously stretched boxers a break by pushing them down past his ass and to his thick thighs. It wasn’t so easy in the front, since he had to push his painfully stiff erection down with the waistband, keeping it that way until they went below his tip. It sprung up, and just the movement against the still air in the room was enough friction to put Chris over the edge. He left his boxers stretched out between his thighs, stretching them even more when he moved back in your direction.

“These are gonna be even worse, boy.” Chris teased. He sat back on your face again. The only difference is that the warmth of skin-to-skin contact was more noticeable. Your dad’s unwashed ass funk was more noticeable than it had been in boxers that mingled the appalling scent of ass sweat and musk with the floral detergent he used to launder the clothes. Your nose was positioned directly to his hole, and that reeked the worst. It smelled rancid and filled your lungs with rank gas, you could feel it quiver at the cold. The tight ring twitched and tightened—the clear sign that Chris was straining to push the next flurry of gas out.

You dreaded what his unfiltered farts would smell like when they didn’t have a thread count to work through. Each fart had no warning as they came out, like a gun that didn’t need to be cocked before firing. The blasts were rapid-fire, shot out with such force that it made it easier to sniff them up as they came out directly against your nose. 

He was right this time; they were much worse without some kind of necessary passthrough. The intensity and delivery of them was stronger, thicker as your nose immediately felt the gas burn as it entered your body and traveled down to your nervous system. Each intake made your breathing feel raspy, making his longer farts hard to sniff up in one draw. You had to huff—Jesus, you had to pant—to really get the full effect of some of his farts. 

Chris started to welcome a bit of movement into it, making it harder to sniff up all of his gas. Whenever Chris cause a waft of it, he’d move closer and grind harder on your face, but after a few consistent rips with no smell twinging his nose, he would go back to moving back and forth over your face. His hips would thrust forward before rocking back to your forehead, his ass being big enough to not miss a single spot of you.

He parked himself on different parts of your face; your nose when he had to fart, but when he was waiting for the next one to be ready to come out, he moved to your chin and mouth and ordered you to eat him out. He farted in your mouth a few times while you were tonguing his hole, but he laughed it off and just moaned at the feeling of your tongue recoil and mouth twitch in disgust before returning back to his hole. He didn’t really have to check up on your during this, because as long as you were doing what he said, it was enough of a sign to tell him to keep going. 

Chris tried to actively avoid his cock during this. The thought running through his head that he was sitting on his son’s face, coupled with a few pumps, might make him cum in a second’s minute. Something told him though that the feeling alone would catch up to him sooner than later, and it did faster than he thought. He wanted to continue, to keep this going, but it wouldn’t be revolutionary if it didn’t break the expected rules. His whole outlook on his son and his sex life had just been changed over the better half of an hour, and this trajectory just felt right.

With a mix falling somewhere between a cry and a moan, Chris shot his load, thick ropes shooting down your torso and his thighs. Some of them nearly made it to your own cock, that’s how hard it made him cum. The occasional spurt landed on your bed in wry sprigs before the short-lived high started to fall, and soon, Chris was sitting on your face. No rhythm, no care, just focused on the post-orgasmic glow of how he felt. It was enough to make him forget that he was sitting on you, letting his full weight rest on you again despite your breathing slowing. 

This was supposed to be a punishment, and at this very moment, he had gotten everything he wanted: relief on his day off, worked things out with his son, and he left you hanging when he got up off your face. Chris awkwardly got off of your bed, trying to not accidentally knee you in chest or fall over when he went to stand up, the boxers around his thighs making it a bit difficult to fully use his flexibility to help him. Your cock still stood in the swirl of sheets. He couldn’t deny that you looked so good laid out like that, ready for the taking. He wanted to do more, but it took years to raise you into the man you are. He would turn you into his slut if he hadn’t already, but today was the first step. Chris stepped out of his boxers, reaching down to pick them up and giving you a view of his fat ass. Now that he wasn’t telling you to not jerk off, your hand was already wrapping around your cock. 

“I had a moment to think, and you can jerk off with these.” Chris turned and threw his boxers, they landed on your face and you got his with the immediately smell that had just left your nose. It wasn’t as strong, but it was enough. “Your daddy won’t do everything for you.”

And with that, he left the room to let you get to your business. You savored the fleeting sight of his ass as he walked out, shutting the door like you had always asked him to do whenever he barged in. You had a feeling that you wouldn’t have separate rooms for much longer, though. Waking up would be much easier in the future.

[minddrainedjockboi]