radtf69

[radtf69]

Traditional Too

You can't stop staring at your phone.

It’s 11:23 PM on a Thursday, and Brandon’s already gone to bed—again. No “goodnight kiss,” no cuddling, not even a half-hearted grope under the covers. Just a mumbled “g’night” and the creak of the bedroom door closing.

You sit alone on the couch, in your stretched-out sweatpants, a beer in one hand and your phone in the other, watching TikToks you don’t even like anymore. Your back aches from another hellish day at the office. Your boss is a micromanaging prick, your coworkers are fake as hell, and your inbox is a war zone. You’re too tired to work out, too tired to jerk off, too tired to do anything except sit there and stew.

Five years with Brandon. Five.

You used to think it was perfect. You both had decent bodies back then—Brandon used to be stocky, always lifting, and you were wiry, lean, more of a runner. Sex used to be fun, spontaneous, messy. Now it’s once a week, if you’re lucky, and it always ends with one of you pretending to enjoy it for the other’s sake.

You’ve talked about trying new things. A third. “Opening up.” But the idea makes you nauseous. The thought of coordinating it, talking about it, sharing Brandon? Exhausting.

You just want things to go back to normal. Before all this. Before work stress. Before the silence at dinner. Before Brandon started obsessing about marathons and keto, and you started fantasizing about simpler lives, simpler roles. Clearer roles.

That’s when you remember the website.

It was a blur, that late night, two months ago. You were drunk, lying in bed after another failed attempt to get Brandon hard. You were browsing forums—relationship advice, supplements, porn—until you ended up on some shady link called “TRADLOVE—Restore the Natural Order”.

You clicked it.

The page was black with glowing red text. Janky, almost threatening. You barely remember the words, but one thing stuck with you:

LOVE LOTION Apply together. Return to True Roles. One Love. One Bond. One Path. No returns. No refunds.

You ordered it on impulse. No price. No confirmation. Just typed your address and hit send. You assumed it was a scam.

But now, staring at the package in front of you, you’re not so sure.

It arrived today, crammed into your mailbox in a beat-up box soaked with some kind of sticky residue, like someone sneezed on it. No label. No instructions. Just your name scribbled in red ink on the side like a threat.

You picked it up this morning, gagged at the sour, chemical stench, and tossed it into the kitchen drawer. But now—alone, horny, restless—you open it.

Inside is a small glass jar, the contents thick, green, and bubbling, like it’s breathing. LOVE LOTION is written on the lid in blocky black Sharpie. You unscrew it.

The smell hits you hard—sweat, bleach, and something fermented, like a locker room towel left in the sun. You recoil but… something about it keeps you from throwing it out.

Instead, you stare at it. And a thought worms its way in:

What if it works?

You don’t tell Brandon.

The next day, Friday, you set the scene. You leave work early, pick up candles, cheap wine, even rose petals from that awful dollar store. You cook dinner—burn it, but whatever. You just want to try.

Brandon walks in, sweaty from a run, his tank top clinging to his too-lean torso. He smiles when he sees the table, surprised.

“What’s the occasion?”

“Us,” you say, heart racing. “Thought we could… reconnect.”

That night, after a tense dinner and a bottle of wine, you pull out the jar.

Brandon grimaces. “What the hell is that?”

You grin, trying to be charming. “It’s a couples’ thing. Some… massage oil. Thought it might help.”

He raises an eyebrow but shrugs. “Can’t hurt.”

You both strip down. You lay on the bed, petals scattered like a parody of romance. You unscrew the jar again—the smell is worse now, thicker, like sweat, cheap cologne, and church incense. Your stomach churns.

But you dip your fingers in.

It’s slimy, greasy, hot to the touch, like it’s burning your skin on contact. You smear it on Brandon’s shoulders, rubbing it into his skin as he winces.

“Jesus, it stinks,” he mutters.

“You’ll get used to it.”

He takes the jar, rubs some on your chest. It tingles. Then it burns. You hiss.

“Dude, are you okay?” Brandon asks, pulling back.

You nod, trying to play it off, but your skin feels like it’s buzzing, like it’s crawling from the inside.

You keep rubbing the lotion in. His hands are on your arms now, sliding over your biceps, down to your stomach. His touch feels… weird. Too soft. Too delicate.

Your heart is pounding.

Then it starts.

At first it’s just a tightness in your chest. Your breath shortens. You sit up, rubbing your pecs—and freeze. Your chest is swollen, muscles tightening, hardening, as if someone’s pumping them full of air.

“Babe… what’s happening?” you ask, voice lower, rougher.

Brandon stares, eyes wide.

“Your… your arms…” he stammers.

You look down. Your arms are thicker, veins rising, shoulders bulging under your skin. Your stomach cramps—you groan—and a six-pack presses forward, tight, ripped, gleaming with sweat.

The burning intensifies. Your skin itches, and you claw at your chest, fingers pulling loose dark hairs that weren’t there before.

Your jaw cracks, widening, reshaping—your face growing square, strong, a shadow of stubble prickling your cheeks. You stumble to the mirror.

A stranger stares back. Lean, muscular, with short, dark hair, perfectly faded at the sides, a smug, cocky expression you can’t stop making.

“Fuck…” you groan.

Behind you, Brandon gasps—and then moans.

You turn.

His hair is longer now, blonde, falling over his softer face. His hips are rounding, chest smooth, his eyes wide, bright blue. His lips plump, parted.

He looks… hot. But… different.

“What’s going on?” he whimpers.

You step toward him. Your legs are thicker, every step heavy, your cock hardening, massive, leaking.

Your brain swims.

Lead. Provide. Dominate. Protect. Breed.

You reach for Brandon—no, your wife—and pull him close.

“Don’t worry, babe,” you say, voice deep, slow, commanding.

“I’ve got us now.”

The room stinks.

It’s not the lotion anymore—it’s you. The sweat pouring off your body, the musky tang of your pits, the cheap cologne smell that somehow wasn’t there before. You can taste it in the air—sour, spicy, male.

You’re pacing the bedroom, panting like a beast, your thick, heavy cock slapping against your thigh, dripping pre-cum with every step. The weight of it, the heat in your core, it’s all wrong but so right. Your whole body is buzzing, tight, every muscle tense, pumped.

Your skin is red, slick, veiny, twitching with little spasms. You keep running your hands over your pecs, pinching your hard nipples, flexing your biceps just to feel how big you’ve gotten.

Brandon—no, "Bree"—is curled up on the bed now. His blonde hair falls over his face in soft, perfect curls. His eyes are glazed, dazed, fluttering as he shifts his now-slimmer body under the covers. His hips are wider, waist tight, chest hairless, the faint outline of small, perky tits forming beneath his pale skin.

You stare at him—at her—and feel something inside you snap.

Not love. Not even lust.

Possession. Ownership. God-given responsibility.

You don’t even think about it—you just act. You crawl on top of Bree, your huge frame dwarfing hers now. She looks up at you with big, submissive eyes, her lips plump, glossy, trembling.

“W-what’s happening to us?” she whispers, voice light, airy, almost bubbly now.

You smirk. That same cocky grin you’d always hated on frat bros at the bar. Now it’s yours.

“We’re fixin’ things, babe,” you grunt, the words spilling out of your mouth like they’ve always been there. “Becoming what we’re meant to be. What God wants us to be.”

Your brain flickers. You want to laugh at that thought, but it doesn’t feel funny. It feels real. Your cock pulses with that thought—God wants this. God made man to lead… and woman to obey.

You roll your neck, and crack—your traps bulk out, your neck thickens, veins bulge across your shoulders. Your voice rumbles, deeper, like a meathead’s—slower, a bit stupid, but confident, loud.

Your thoughts are simplifying.

It’s like someone’s turning down the noise in your head, the doubts, the anxiety, the endless thinking. All that gay shit, all the complex emotions, the “relationship problems,” the therapy, the talk of “equality”—it’s all melting away, replaced by clarity, purpose.

You’re the man. That’s it.

You shove your face into Bree’s neck, inhaling her scent—sweet, vanilla, feminine—and grind against her soft body. She moans, high-pitched and submissive, giggling as you pin her down.

“Daddy…” she gasps.

That word hits you like a shot of adrenaline.

Daddy.

Your cock throbs, pounds, your hips jerk, and for a second, you almost blow your load right there.

You grip Bree’s wrist tight, pulling her arms above her head. Your hands are huge, calloused, powerful. She squirms, but not in fear. In eager submission.

“This is how it’s s’posed to be,” you growl, voice thick, like you’re chewing every word. “Man in charge. Woman on her back. Just like God intended.”

Bree whimpers. “Yes, Daddy… yes…”

You slam your hand against the headboard—it cracks, but you don’t care. You feel invincible.

And then—your mind jolts.

Suddenly, you’re thinking about church. About Sunday suits, Bible studies, grace before meals. You see yourself there, standing tall in a crisp shirt, Bree on your arm in a modest floral dress, smiling up at you, obedient, proud.

The American flag. Family values. Leading your household. Protecting her purity. Raising kids right. No degeneracy. No perversion.

You grunt, eyes rolling back, images pounding into your brain.

You want to pray.

You want to breed.

You want to fight for your country, vote red, and build your fortune. You want to own a truck, work with your hands, and fuck your wife every night like a real man.

You are becoming him—the guy you hated, mocked, feared.

You are him.

A God-fearing, alpha male, patriotic, Christian, Republican, bro.

You snarl, baring your teeth.

And Bree—your perfect little tradwife—moans, spreads her legs, and giggles.

You wake up with a snort, your mouth dry, your throat scratchy. Sunlight is pouring through a window—huge, with American flag curtains. You blink, confused, scratching your itchy chest as you sit up in bed.

But it’s not your bed.

It’s massive, with white sheets, pillows embroidered with Bible verses, and a wooden headboard carved with “Chad & Bree, Est. 2024.”

Your heart beats a little faster, but you’re not… scared. Just groggy. Hungover, maybe. You stretch, yawning, and as your arms rise, you freeze.

Your pecs are huge. Round, hard, veiny, and covered in coarse dark hair. Your nipple sticks out, fat and erect, and you can feel the weight of your chest with every breath.

You glance down.

Your abs ripple, deep-cut, your obliques sharp like blades. You run a massive, calloused hand over your stomach, grinning without realizing it.

“Fuck yeah,” you murmur, voice deep, gravelly, almost dumb-sounding, but confident. Proud.

You flex your arms—biceps bulge, veins popping, your forearms thick and meaty, covered in dark hair. You feel powerful, masculine, perfect.

“Morning, babe!” a voice chirps.

You turn—and there’s Bree, bouncing toward you in a tiny pink sports bra and short shorts, her huge blonde curls pulled into a perky ponytail. Her boobs bounce with every step, round and tight under the bra. Her blue eyes are bright, her lips glossy, smiling wide.

You feel your cock twitch, already hard.

“Damn, baby,” you grunt, running your hand over your pec again. “You’re lookin’ hot. These tits... fuck.”

Bree giggles, crawling onto the bed and straddling you, her manicured hands running over your chest.

“Your pecs are soooo big, Chad,” she moans, squeezing them like she’s worshipping you. “You’ve been working out so hard for me.”

You smirk, flexing under her touch.

“Gotta stay jacked for my girl,” you say, grabbing her waist, gripping firm ass cheeks in your hands. “God made me strong to take care’a you, babe.”

Your cock pulses, thick and heavy, pressing against her. She gasps, grinding against it.

“Mmmm, Daddy, you feel so big…”

“Damn right I do.”

You flip her onto her back, pinning her with one hand. You lean over her, sniffing her vanilla perfume, watching her stare up at you with adoring eyes.

This is your life. Perfect.

Your name is Chad Walker, 22, Republican, Christian, Alpha Male. You own a home gym business, drive a jacked-up truck, vote red, and spend every Sunday at Victory Church, praising Jesus and thanking Him for your tradwife.

You work out twice a day, eat clean, and bang Bree every night to fulfill your God-given duty.

You kiss her neck, your voice rough.

“Gotta keep breedin’ ya, babe. Gotta make us a real American family.”

Bree moans, gripping your arms.

“Yes, Daddy. I wanna be your good little wife forever.”

You growl, hips grinding against her.

God. Country. Control.

You’re Chad now.

And there’s no going back.

You slam the barbell back onto the rack with a grunt, sweat pouring down your face. Your pecs heave, rising and falling, thick with pumped blood, your tank top soaked, clinging to every vein, every cut, every hard-earned inch of muscle.

The garage gym smells like iron, protein powder, and your own ripe pits—you haven't bothered with deodorant yet. Why should you? Bree loves it when you come in dripping, reeking of man.

You flex in the mirror—your favorite part of the day—admiring your square jaw, buzzed sides, and perfect fade. You wink at yourself, phone in hand, tapping record.

“Morning grind, baby,” you grunt into the camera. “If you ain’t lifting for God, Country, and your Wife, what the hell are you doin’ with your life?”

You flex your biceps, your veiny forearms, your shredded abs, and smirk.

“Chad Walker here—blessed, jacked, and ready to f***ing dominate.”

You post it to your 2 million followers on TrueBro, your favorite patriotic social media app. Your followers eat it up. Comments flood in:

“Preach, bro 💪🇺🇸🙏” “King of gains and gospel 🔥” “Breed that tradwife, brother.”

You grin, proud. Alpha energy. All day.

After a protein shake and a quick shower, you throw on your flag-print shorts, tight polo, and head downstairs, where Bree’s waiting at the counter, frying up bacon and eggs in just a little floral apron, her tits bouncing as she flips the pan.

“Mornin’, Daddy,” she chirps, turning and planting a kiss on your pec. “Breakfast for my man.”

You grab her ass, hard, pulling her close.

“Damn, baby. Lookin’ like a whole snack.”

She giggles, biting her lip, pressing into you.

“Just tryna keep my man fed… and full.”

You slap her ass, and she squeals.

“Damn right. Gotta keep breedin’ ya, babe. Can’t let these hips go to waste.”

You sit down, devouring the food—six eggs, half a pack of bacon, protein pancakes—and sip your black coffee from your “Let’s Go Brandon” mug. On the wall, a framed Bible verse hangs beside your NRA certificate and a massive American flag.

After breakfast, it’s Bible study with Bree. You lead, reading from Ephesians, talking about submission, duty, marriage, and God’s plan.

“Wives submit to your husbands, as unto the Lord,” you read aloud, your deep voice steady, commanding.

Bree sighs, eyes wide, nodding.

“Yes, Daddy… I want to obey you forever.”

By midday, you’re out in your jacked-up F-150, country music blasting, heading to your gun range, waving at neighbors who admire you—strong, successful, clean-living. You post another selfie: sunglasses on, flag hat, holding a rifle.

“Chad Walker—armed, faithful, American. God bless the USA.”

You believe it with your whole heart. You don't remember ever not being this man.

You don't remember what life was like before Bree, before the gym, before Jesus.

You don't remember ever being gay, ever feeling weak, ever questioning your purpose.

You’re Chad. This is who you are.

At night, you return home, shirt off, sweating, cock hard, and Bree’s already in bed—naked, smiling, ready to be bred.

You climb on top of her, grip her hips, and thrust in with a grunt.

“Time to give you a real American baby, babe.”

She moans, wrapping her legs around you.

“Yes, Daddy… fill me up…”

You fuck her hard, deep, like it’s your duty, your God-given right.

You’re Chad Walker.

Husband. Breeder. Patriot.

And you’ve never been happier.

[radtf69]

There's this guy in my class that I have like the biggest crush on. I know he's gay too, which is perfect. He's really sweet, has a great smile, and honestly I've seen him around campus jogging shirtless and he's gorgeous. He invited our study group over to his place and I was sad to learn he has a boyfriend. They're such a perfect couple and maybe I'm jealous but I wish that he was single.

You never thought you’d end up here — cross-legged on the carpet of Ryan’s apartment, textbook in front of you, pretending to care about “group study.”

Ryan. The guy you’ve had the biggest crush on since the first week of class. The guy you’ve seen jogging shirtless around campus, earbuds in, abs catching the afternoon light like something out of a thirst-trap commercial. The guy you know is gay — not guessing, not hoping — you’ve known for months.

Which should be perfect. But it’s not. Because now that you’re here, you’ve met his boyfriend.

Evan. Of course his name’s Evan. And of course they’re perfect together. Matching coffee mugs in the kitchen. A fuzzy cream blanket draped over the couch. Framed vacation photos where they’re cheek-to-cheek and sunburnt at the Grand Canyon. You can’t look at them without feeling something sour creep up in your chest.

He should be single. That thought hits you hard. He should.

The moment it forms in your head, there’s this weird… pulse. Not sound, not exactly a feeling, but something in your ribs goes tight. Like the air’s shifted.

The group drones on about thematic structure in the novel, but you can’t stop watching Ryan. He’s tapping his pencil against the edge of the page, smiling just a little. Then he stops, squints at the paper like it’s suddenly harder to read.

“Uh… what’s… the word for that thing again?” His voice dips, brow furrowing.

Evan leans in and whispers the answer with a smile, but Ryan just nods vaguely.

A few minutes later, he interrupts again. “Wait… what were we saying? I, uh… totally spaced.” He laughs, but it’s slower, looser.

No one else seems to notice. But you do. The way his posture changes. He starts leaning back in his chair, rolling his shoulders like he’s stretching. His t-shirt pulls tighter across his chest, the fabric curving over pecs you’re pretty sure weren’t that full when you walked in.

And then you smell it. Not strong. Not bad. Just… different. Warm. Musky. Like he went for a run before you got here and didn’t shower.

His sentences get lazier, words stretched like chewing gum. “Yo, uh… what’s that thing mean again? I knew it, but… like… it’s gone now.”

Evan gives him a soft pat on the leg, the kind you’d give a tired kid. But his leg isn’t still — it’s bouncing now, muscles flexing with every jitter, veins starting to rope along his forearms.

You should look away. You don’t. You just keep staring as Ryan scratches at his temple, rubs the back of his neck, fingers pressing into the muscle there like he’s trying to work out some new, heavy tension.

He catches your eyes. Smiles at you — lazy, unfocused, and somehow different. “Yo… you good, man?”

Your mouth’s dry. You nod. And in your head, you keep wishing.

You keep telling yourself it’s in your head. That it’s just the light, or the angle, or the way he’s sitting.

But then Ryan shifts in his chair and the wood creaks under him, and you realize it’s not just in your head. His shoulders are pushing further out from the seat back now, traps bunching up near his neck. The sleeves of his shirt ride higher, clinging tight against swelling arms, and the faint veins from before have thickened into blue ropes.

He scratches under his jaw and you hear it — a faint rip at the seam of his sleeve. He doesn’t notice.

Evan does. His eyes dart to the stretched fabric, then to Ryan’s face. “Uh… babe, you okay? You’re… flushed.”

Ryan grins at him, but it’s lazy, unfocused. “Nah, I’m chillin’, bro. Just—uh—gettin’ warm or somethin’.”

And God, that smell. It’s stronger now. Rich, humid, male. The kind of smell you’d get walking into the campus gym right after a football practice. You watch the rest of the group start subtly leaning away, but you can’t. It’s like you’re locked there.

Ryan leans forward to grab a pen off the coffee table, and his shirt rides up — just enough for you to see a dark line of hair trailing down from his navel. It wasn’t there before. His waist is thicker too, not soft but solid, the kind of bulk that forces pants to fit tighter.

He grabs the pen, and when he sits back, the chair groans again. “Yo, uh… what chapter we on?”

One of the girls laughs nervously. “Uh, same one we’ve been on for the last half hour?”

Ryan blinks at her, confused for a beat, then chuckles. “Heh, yeah, true, true.” He sprawls back even more, legs spread wide, taking up twice as much space as before. His thigh presses into Evan’s.

Evan shifts away slightly, giving him a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You sure you’re feeling okay? You’re acting… different.”

Ryan just shrugs, grabs a handful of pretzels, and shoves them in his mouth all at once, chewing loudly, mouth open. Crumbs fall onto his shirt. He doesn’t care.

The smell intensifies with his movement — sweat, pretzels, something faintly sour. And then, under the table, you hear it.

Brrrfffffffllllttt.

Wet. Low.

Ryan grins. “Oops. Guess that protein shake’s hittin’.” He laughs, deep and unashamed, while Evan’s face tightens in embarrassment.

You see the first flicker of something in Evan’s eyes — not amusement, not affection — worry.

Ryan scratches at his chest through the shirt, and you swear you hear another faint rip. He tugs at the collar, exposing more of that dark hair matting across pecs that look like they’ve doubled in size in the past twenty minutes. His jaw’s squarer now too, a shadow of stubble pushing through skin that had been clean-shaven earlier.

“Yo, bro,” he says suddenly, looking right at you, “you lift? You got that look, man.”

You almost laugh — you lift? But his grin is too wide, too friendly, too unaware of how much he’s changing.

Evan swallows hard, glancing between you and him. “Ryan… I think we should—”

But Ryan’s already reaching for another fistful of pretzels, legs spread wider, sweat darkening the pits of his shirt, that musky heat rolling off him like a physical wave.

And you just keep watching, wishing, as Evan’s perfect boyfriend slowly slips away.

By the time the others in the group start making excuses to leave, Ryan’s shirt is hanging off him in tatters, stretched to hell over a body that doesn’t belong to the guy who opened the door an hour ago. His voice has dropped, rough and lazy, every word dripping with that cocky bro drawl that makes you want to laugh and gag at the same time.

Evan’s still here, but barely. He’s sitting on the far end of the couch now, arms folded, looking at Ryan like he’s a stranger.

Ryan stands up to see them out, and you watch Evan’s eyes widen. The t-shirt rides up and catches on his chest — you see the thick slab of muscle underneath, the dense, dark hair spreading across pecs inked with fresh tattoos. One is a huge cross that wasn’t there before, shaded in black and grey, covering half his upper pec. Another winds around his right bicep — barbed wire that wraps down to his forearm.

The smell hits harder now that he’s moving. Sweat. Cologne he never owned before. And something rawer, muskier, like the inside of a gym bag left in the sun.

As the last guest leaves, Ryan grabs the bottom of his shredded shirt and peels it off in one quick motion. The veins in his forearms swell as he does, abs flexing under a thick trail of hair down to his waistband.

He’s grinning at you like you’re both in on some joke. “Man, feels good not wearin’ that tight crap. Yo, you ever get into CKs? Best underwear, no cap.”

And he proves it — popping the button on his jeans, shoving them down just far enough to reveal white Calvin Klein boxer briefs stretched indecently tight over a heavy bulge. The band rides low, showing off the “Psalm 18:34” tattoo now curling around his hip.

Evan’s voice cracks. “Ryan, what the fuck is happening to you?”

Ryan just laughs, a deep belly sound. “Happenin’? Bro, this is me. Like, the real me. God don’t make mistakes, you know?” He grabs a beer from the fridge without asking, chugs half of it in one pull, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Evan stands up. “I… I can’t—”

But Ryan cuts him off by leaning one leg up on the couch and letting out a long, wet BRRRFFFFLLLTTPPT. He’s grinning the whole time, eyes locked on Evan like he’s daring him to react.

The smell hits fast. Hot. Rank. Animal. You see Evan’s face twist, his shoulders hunch — and then something happens. His brow slackens. His arms drop. His eyes glaze over just slightly, and he lets out a small, stupid laugh.

Ryan slaps him on the back. “Yeah, that’s it, bro. You’ll get it. Nothin’ wrong with lovin’ pussy, man — that’s how God made us.”

You just sit there, heart pounding, as it sinks in. This isn’t just a change in Ryan. He’s… contagious.

Ryan flops back onto the couch next to you, legs wide, one arm draped over the backrest. The silver cross necklace catches the light as it swings against his sweaty chest. He takes another long swig of beer, then smirks at you — that same lazy, cocky smirk you’ve seen on too many straight guys who know they own the room.

“You’re next, bro,” he says, voice low and amused. “Ain’t no homo safe when I’m around.”

Another brrrfffllllpppttt rattles the cushions. The heat rolls over you. And you feel it start.

[radtf69]

The Bro Translator

Speak like a bro! Your new gym rat life. Alex had been scrolling through his socials when he found a text translator that made you sound like a stereotypical meathead. One that talked in slow, dull sounds, buffering every word with 'bro' or 'dude' like it was the only word vocabulary. He thought it looked like a dumb internet thing, though he couldn't help but click the link.

He opened up the website, a text box and some pictures of dudes flexing at the top with their dumb grins greeted him, spouting obnoxious bro quotes in his head. His face scrunched up, remembering all the times he bumped into those kinds of gym bros on the way to class, their sweaty bodies and lumbering gaits taking up the entire walkway.

Yo, before we start, we gotta grab your name, bro. Helps us initiate ya into the brohood.

He typed his full name, Alex Jung, unable to stop himself from rolling his eyes at the overt bro talk. But his assignments were already done, and he was weeks ahead on the required reading, so he could afford some relaxation, even if it was laughing at some dumb bro speak.

In an instant his new username popped up, AJ.

Of course, even the translator knew how to make his name sound like a douchebag. But it kind of made sense, kids back in school would call him AJ sometimes.

Beginning to type, Alex started with generic sentences, giggling to himself at all the idiotic bro dialogue the website spat out. Normal sentences became tinged with slang and humor, he pictured the kind of guys that engaged in this bro-speak, ones with arms bigger than their head. Alex adjusted his glasses, thinking of ways to make it more fun, and the thought of him - the straight A student - living like a bro was so laughable he wondered how the translator would change it.

My name's Alex, graduated top of my class in high school and even got a scholarship to show. Currently doing my degree in Biological Sciences with a perfect record for valedictorian.

He couldn't help but feel satisfied typing some of his achievements out. Alex lived for a 4.0 GPA, the trophies and certificates plastered around his dorm room served as a not-so-humble display of his intelligence. The 21 year old's efforts made him the perfect model student, his sharp clothes, styled hair, and good hygiene were his essentials for making a good impression at the lab.

It's AJ bro, totally bombed college but who needs that sciencey shit when you’ve got a phD in pumping iron, getting laid and partied out all day babyyy. At 25 and fucking hot bro!

As if responding to his academic arrogance, the translator did a complete 180 on his words, making him cringe at the stereotypical description. Though he was slightly impressed the translator guessed his age, he did turn 25 recently. There were pictures of him and his friends throughout the years, accompanying participation certificates and an average degree on the shelf. Catching a glimpse of his reflection in the picture frame, AJ furrowed his brows, adjusting his glasses. His blocky lantern jaw, thick chin, and plump lips were still the same, but he felt something was off. Maybe it was his new haircut, it was pretty messy and long, but he wasn't too bothered, he looked hot as hell.

AJ continued typing, moving onto his workplace. It was kinda hard for him to get a job after graduation, university felt surprisingly difficult, finding it easier to just relax and chill, drink some beer and get dirty in the bedroom. His wide features grinning with lust at the end of every night, his friends calling him their handsome idiot. But it wasn't like he was completely dumb, sure he had a few C's here and there, yet he still landed a job, even if it was just as an assistant.

I currently work an office job, y'know your typical businessman with collared shirts and dress pants. I'm only an assistant and it's hard to understand all the techy jumbo but I can manage.

AJ shifted in his seat, stretching his long legs out under his office wear. He played with his shirt's buttons, he was usually in charge of all the grunt work, but he didn't mind, plus it was just free exercise with all the manual labor.

Became a Grade A meathead after ditching school, and its epic brah! Getting to pump iron all day and talking with the bros, huhu.

"Huhu," the words unconsciously left his lips as soon as he saw the translation, not even registering the deep voice that came out, or how his neck thickened with each rumble. It was strange, he felt a weird connection to the text, almost thinking it described him. He habitually tried to adjust his glasses, his large hands only finding a thick nose where it once was. Though he didn't seem to mind, immediately turning back to the translator, and plopping his meaty hands back on the keyboard. But after many typos and confused groans, AJ slammed the keys in frustration, his fingers unable to type anything resembling a sentence, not even realizing he turned on the voice transcription. "Bro, my fingers are too huge for this tiny keyboard."

Bro, I feel like these massive paws are better for jacking my monster cock than slinging some keys.

Adding another sentence on its own, the translator barely gave him any time to notice when a loud burst of pressure hit his cock. AJ groaned, his hands gripping tightly onto the chair for support, almost denting it with his sheer strength. His dick was acting up again, fuck, he knew he should have worn looser pants for the office. It was as if someone was vigorously jerking his dick up and down, pulling it longer and fatter with each upward motion. His eyes glazed over with pleasure, the pressure of the tight pants felt too good against his growing cock, burning his thigh with heat as his zipper started to give up. With a loud rip, his cock tore through his pants and out the front of his underwear, a monster on its own, veiny and spilling precum all over the chair. "Bro, my dick is too huge, huhu. I'm leaking everywhere."

Unhh, my cock is huge bro. Who the fuck needs juice when your body is naturally roided out. Fucking bull nuts, so fat, so heavy, pumping test everywhere...

Reaching its full erection, his nuts became pumped full of pure unbridled testosterone, sending it throughout his body with a purpose. Heavy, swollen balls gave way to pounds after pounds of muscles, stretching his loose office wear to its limits. Each pop and split came with a new memory, a new exercise in the gym, bench presses for his chest, dumbbell curls for his arms, and barbell squats for his quads. Full body workout days always left him sore, but the growth was always worth it. "Aw yeah, gym pump on fire, dude!"

Blowing up like a beast bro, arms so huge, pecs so juicy, legs like steel, fuck I can barely wash my back nowadays huhu. So much beef all the time.

Thousands of pullup exercises and back rows condensed themselves into mere seconds, exploding his lats with muscle and doubling his width, tearing a seam in the back of his shirt. His turtle shell back was so wide and thick that he had to buy a fucking loofah to even clean it in the shower, taking up more space each time. He couldn't help but flex his biceps compulsively, hypnotized by watching them peak higher each time, his goals in life becoming clearer and clearer as his eyes dulled in tandem. Bringing his arms together, he redirected the focus to his chest, squeezing his pecs tight as they tore and regrew bigger. With each bursting button, another variation of chest flys and bench presses puffed them out into existence and into his workout routine. AJ repeated this motion until there was nothing left, his bouncy pecs free to jiggle in the musk filled air, and his six-pack abs surrounded by a sea of fallen fabric. Bruh, why did he even bother with buttons today, his clumsy fingers could barely grip those tiny shits.

Finally free from his cycle of flexing, AJ groped his still hard cock, sending shivers down his spine as precum leaked all over his fingers. He wanted to cum, badly. With each stroke, he spread his legs wider, giving his package as much room as he could, the chair almost buckling under his weight. The last rip of his office pants allowed his beefy thighs to stretch without care, manspreading like a bro would, as his ass and balls slapped against the seat, leaving a sweaty smelly imprint for years to come. "Fuckkkk, who even gives a shit about clothes..." AJ moaned, his eyes glazing over in satisfaction as he stroked his bottle sized cock, flinging his feet around and knocking over some empty beer cans on the ground.

Bro, who the fuck gives a rat's ass about clothes. Ever since I started grinding at the gym it's all about tanks and sweats, man. Comfy, tight, and fucking stinky in all the right spots.

AJ continued his mindless stroking - the translator pushed far back into his tiny mind - pumping his angry cock up and down, as the sound echoed in his room full of gym equipment and dirty laundry. Blue button-ups and black pants became tank tops and grey sweats, implanting themselves into his wardrobe and daily life. Their arm holes would always be stretched to their maximum limit, and a permanent wet spot would be there in every jockstrap and gym short he wore. Working out with the bros, flexing in the mirror, partying at night. Theres was nothing else AJ fucking loved, nothing more than seeing his dick get hard in the locker room mirror, his dumb grin in any reflection, and how his balls were always ready for another round.

He didn't care about his smell. About his gym obsession. About his way of talking. He was an absolute bro, and all he needed was to fucking...

With one final thrust he came, erupting like a geyser everywhere on his nude body, landing in between the grooves of his pecs and abs as the final fat smelly wad of cum landed on his laptop.

ERROR: Translation Tokens Finished. Thank you for using our Bro Language Translator.

AJ barely noticed the website closing itself, still recovering from horniness as his eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling, his cock lightly spurting the remaining load onto his abs. Barely retaining his senses, he tried his best to clean up the obvious cum streak on the laptop screen. "Shitttt, hope I didn't break it, huhu," he said, carelessly tossing the paper into the overfilled trash bin of condoms and tissue.

Stretching his sore muscles, AJ went to the pile of clothes, grabbing whatever smelled the least rank to wear, doing a deep sniff check to make sure, reveling in his musk. Luckily, his cock calmed down just enough to fit into sweats, adjusting his bulge to make sure it wouldn't slap against his thigh all day. Glancing at the mirror again, his lips turned upwards in a goofy grin, realizing there was some remaining cum drops on his chest. He brought it to his lips. Fuck, he tasted good, but he knew his bros tasted better. Speaking of them, he needed to hang with them at the party later, who's party? He didn't fucking care, all he needed were the free drinks and juicy holes he'd find roaming around, cause that's what life is about. Heading out the door, he gripped his crotch, tonight was gonna be wild, bro.

[radtf69]

my boyfriend and I just got engaged and I thought everyone would be really happy. He’s the love of my life. Well, let’s just say when we broke the news to his older sister, she was pissed. So was his side of the family. She’s always been spoiled and apparently her little brother getting married before her is incredibly problematic. We’re going over there for dinner to try to calm things down a bit, wish me luck.

You grip Noah’s hand the whole walk from the car to the front door, your stomach tight and cold despite the warm September air. This was supposed to be a peace offering — your first dinner with his family since announcing the engagement. You told yourself his sister would have had time to cool off by now, that the screaming phone call she’d made the night you posted the ring photo was just heat-of-the-moment, not a declaration of war.

The porch light spills gold over the white columns, the kind of Southern-suburban elegance that screams money without ever saying the number. You can already see her silhouette moving behind the glass — tall, lean, perfect posture, every inch calculated.

The door swings open before you even knock.

“Well, well,” she says, her voice syrupy-sweet, her lips curling into something that isn’t quite a smile. “The happy couple.”

She’s in a pale pink dress that hugs her body like it was tailored in Paris, diamond studs in her ears, a gold cross necklace resting against flawless skin. The smell of her perfume — powdery and faintly citrus — seems to wrap around you, cloying. She holds the door wide, but her eyes are on you, sharp and assessing, scanning you the way an art collector might inspect a forgery.

You try to smile. “Thanks for having us—”

“Oh, honey,” she interrupts, one manicured hand brushing the air. “You’re family now. Of course I’m having you.”

Her nails are a deep, glossy red. When she touches your arm to guide you inside, her fingers linger a little too long, her thumb pressing in just enough to make you feel the warmth of her skin. A little shiver runs through you.

The living room is all soft beige furniture and silver-framed family photos. Her parents — polite, warm, the type who’ll never admit they’re judging you — greet you with hugs. But your eyes keep flicking back to her. She moves with that infuriating confidence that says she’s always in control of the room. She talks to Noah about his drive down, about the weather, about anything that isn’t you, but you can feel her gaze brushing over you, a faint static in the air every time she looks your way.

You notice she keeps playing with her cross necklace — turning it between her fingers, running the chain back and forth. Her lips purse briefly, and then she says, “You know, I just love that Noah’s settling down. Always thought he needed someone to… shape him up a bit.” Her eyes cut to you as she says it, the faintest trace of something wicked in them.

The comment lodges in your chest like a burr. You tell yourself you’re imagining it, but your shoulders feel heavier somehow, like there’s a weight pressing down between your shoulder blades.

“Come on,” she says, her voice warm but firm. “Let’s sit down. We’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

Her hand finds the small of your back as she leads you toward the dining room, the cross pendant still swinging faintly against her chest.

You can’t shake the feeling that you’ve just stepped onto a stage, and she’s already got the script written.

The dining room smells like rosemary, garlic, and something faintly sweet — but the air feels heavy, close. The chandelier light pools golden on the white tablecloth, catching in the crystal stemware, the silver cutlery polished so perfectly you could check your hair in it.

You take your seat beside Noah. She sits across from you, her elbows resting lightly on the table, her gold cross just brushing the neckline of her dress. She doesn’t look at you directly at first — just smiles faintly as she tops off your wine.

“So,” she begins, spearing a roasted carrot, “I heard you’re an… artist?” The pause before the word is deliberate, like she’s tasting it and finding it bland.

Your fork freezes halfway to your mouth. “Yeah,” you say, trying to keep your voice even. “Mostly—”

“Mmm,” she hums, tilting her head. “I always thought it was… nice when people had hobbies. Gives them something to do before they get a real career.”

You try to laugh it off, but the sound that comes out is deeper than you expect — a low rumble in your chest. You swallow, and your throat feels tight, your Adam’s apple dragging lower as you move. The collar of your shirt tugs faintly against your neck.

She chats idly with her parents, but every now and then, she throws you another line, casual as a cat flicking its tail.

“You know, Noah’s always been such a… free spirit. But I think it’s good for a man to have structure. To know his role. Don’t you?”

Your posture stiffens before you can answer, your shoulders squaring. There’s a strange tension in your back — not unpleasant, but solid, like something’s knitting thicker under your skin.

“I mean,” she continues, swirling her wine, “in a marriage, the man should be… decisive. Steady. Not all over the place chasing feelings. Don’t you agree?”

The fork feels smaller in your hand now, the handle pressing against a palm that seems broader, rougher. You notice the veins in your forearm standing out under the light, a faint corded rope you don’t remember being there.

You nod without meaning to. “Yeah,” you hear yourself say, your voice a shade lower again. “Makes sense.”

She smiles then — really smiles — and the satisfaction in her eyes sends a crawl of heat down your spine.

All through the meal, she keeps doing it.

“You know, it’s a shame more men don’t take care of themselves. You’ve got good bones — you could really fill out with some discipline.” The fabric of your shirt is tighter over your chest by the time you’re halfway through the chicken.

“My fiancé works hard. He doesn’t waste time on… artsy nonsense. He provides.” Your wrists feel heavier, thicker — the cuff of your sleeve is tight around them now.

“A real man knows there’s a natural order to things. We don’t have to reinvent the wheel just to make everyone feel special.” Something in your gut clenches — not with anger, but agreement. A warm, smug certainty creeps in at the edges of your thoughts.

You glance down at your plate during dessert and nearly drop your spoon. The polished silver holds a warped reflection of a man whose jaw looks sharper, whose hair seems darker and shorter, whose eyes carry a lazily confident glint. Your shoulders are broad enough now that your chair feels narrower.

Noah’s chatting with his father, oblivious. Across from you, she tips her head slightly, her eyes flicking from your hands to your chest, measuring her progress. One manicured nail drags along the rim of her glass as if she’s drawing a line under the word mine.

By the time the tiramisu is cleared away, your shirt buttons are holding on with visible strain, your thighs press against the underside of the table, and you can’t remember why you ever felt small in this house.

She rises smoothly, gathering her wine. “Shall we have a drink in the sitting room?”

It doesn’t feel like an invitation.

The sitting room smells faintly of brandy and leather — the kind of space meant for slow, confident conversations and expensive glasses clinking. A fire smolders in the grate, casting a low amber light over everything. She’s already there, curled in the corner of a deep armchair, a crystal glass in hand.

You follow her in, your thighs brushing as you pass through the narrow doorway. Your shirt is pulled so taut across your chest now that each step makes the fabric whisper against your pecs. The buttons are straining, but you feel good — heavy, grounded, aware of the way your frame fills the space.

She gestures for you to take the chair opposite her. Noah sits on the couch beside his parents, chatting about a neighbor’s new boat. She doesn’t look at them — only at you.

“You carry yourself differently now,” she says, swirling her drink. “Not so… skittish. I like that.”

The words land warm in your chest, a coil of pride unfurling there. You lean back without thinking, spreading your legs slightly, your shoulders loose but taking up more room.

She tilts her head, her eyes locked on yours. “You know, Noah’s always been the… sensitive one. But I think you’ve got it in you to be something steadier. Stronger. The man who sets the tone.”

Your jaw feels tight, your teeth pressing together in a slow grind. You nod, and the movement feels… natural. Expected.

She keeps going, her voice like honey laced with something darker.

“Sensitive men are sweet. But sweet gets eaten alive. A husband should be decisive. Firm. Not afraid to make the call.” Your hands curl around your glass — bigger now, heavier, the knuckles broad and pronounced. You take a sip, and your voice when you speak is deep enough that it seems to settle into the room. “Yeah. You’re right.”

She smiles faintly — victory disguised as politeness.

“Marriage is about tradition. About knowing your place. A wife supports, a husband provides. And protects.” Your spine straightens another inch, your chest pushing forward. You can feel the swell of muscle under your shirt, the solid weight of your arms resting on the chair’s arms.

“And real men,” she says softly, “don’t get distracted by nonsense. No chasing after… art projects, or feelings, or drama. You keep your eyes on the prize.” A smirk tugs at your mouth. The thought of wasting time on that stuff feels absurd now — like something a kid would do.

She leans forward then, resting her elbows on her knees, her cross swinging in the firelight. “Most importantly… you know who you are. You’re not confused. You’re not… chasing fads. You’re a man. My man.”

The last words hit hard, like a hook behind your sternum. A deep, molten certainty floods your head, melting away stray doubts, smoothing over memories that don’t fit. In your mind’s eye, you see yourself beside her at some black-tie event — your arm around her waist, the cameras catching the perfect picture of a power couple. Not a flicker of that other life intrudes.

She stands, crossing the room. One manicured hand rests on your shoulder — warm, possessive. “Why don’t you freshen up before we head out to the patio? Down the hall, second door.”

You rise. The floor seems smaller under your feet now, the room tighter, your body big. Your shirt rides high enough to show a strip of tan skin above your waistband.

The bathroom is bright, the light bouncing off tile and mirror. You plant your hands on the sink and look up.

The man staring back is broad-shouldered, thick-armed, his neck solid, his jaw square and dusted with the start of stubble. Dark hair, perfectly tousled, sharp eyes half-lidded in lazy confidence. An American flag stretches across your boxer briefs — stars on one hip, stripes on the other — hugging your thighs. A gold chain rests against the warm rise of your chest, the cross gleaming. Bold tattoos curl over your forearm and stab down your bicep.

You turn slightly, taking yourself in from every angle — the V of your torso, the slope of your traps, the way your posture radiates a casual owning of the room. You flex absently, watching the way your pecs jump.

You grin — not the shy, careful smile you once had, but a smirk with weight behind it. You look like the kind of man who doesn’t need to explain himself.

And in your head, her voice is there, clear as glass: Good boy. Mine now.

You don’t even think of Noah.

The bathroom door clicks shut behind you, sealing off the past like a whispered secret. The hallway stretches ahead, but you don’t hesitate — every step feels deliberate, heavy, like the pounding of a drum calling you to claim what’s yours. Your new body moves with a confident weight you barely recognize as your own, but it thrills you, fires you up from the inside out.

Her hand finds yours, fingers slipping between yours with a quiet command. The touch is electric, a jolt that shoots straight to your core. You squeeze back, letting that slow, satisfied grin spread across your lips — the kind of grin only a man who knows exactly what he wants can wear.

She glances at you, that damn smirk curling on her lips, eyes sparkling with wicked promise. “I’ve waited for this,” she murmurs, voice low and thick like velvet draped over steel.

Your heart hammers in your chest, the steady rhythm syncing with the rapid pulse thrumming between your legs. “So have I,” you growl, voice deeper than you ever thought possible, rough and hungry with need. “Ready to show you exactly what a real man can do.”

The master bedroom door swings open, and the scent of her — faint jasmine mixed with something sharp and intoxicating — hits you like a tidal wave. You pull her close, the heat of your body pressing hard against hers, your hands tracing every exquisite curve, memorizing the softness beneath the satin of her dress.

Her breath hitches, warm against your throat as your lips ghost over the sensitive skin there. Teeth graze just enough to make her shiver, your fingers threading through the silky strands of her hair, anchoring her to you. Every inch of you is ablaze, your muscles coiling, aching to claim her fully.

Time slows to a maddening crawl. The space between you tightens until it’s just the two of you, breath mingling, pulses racing in a perfect storm of anticipation.

Then, without hesitation, you take her — fierce, possessive, claiming every part of her with a growl that rumbles deep in your chest.

This moment, this woman, this new life — it’s yours.

And as you lose yourself to the fire of her, every fragment of your old self dissolves into nothing but ash.

Your hands grip her hips, pulling her impossibly close as your bodies move in perfect, primal rhythm. The world narrows down to the slick heat of skin against skin, the slick slide of satin and muscle, and the sound of your breathing — rough, ragged, urgent.

As you lose yourself in the moment, something deeper stirs beneath the surface — memories, a life that isn’t just now, but was always meant to be.

Your name is Chase. Chase Whitaker. Born into a family that built its empire on old money and sharper edges. You’re the heir to a fortune, a legacy carved through boardrooms and backroom deals. You remember the scent of mahogany and whiskey in your father’s study, the cold firmness of a handshake that sealed your future long before you even understood it.

You’re twenty-seven — a little older than before — with a body honed in early mornings at the gym, where discipline shapes every fiber. You play varsity football in college, captain of the team, a natural leader, the kind of man who commands respect without raising his voice.

Your days are mapped out with precision — meetings with CEOs, charity galas with her by your side, dinners with influential politicians. You’re the perfect balance of polished power and effortless charm. A Republican through and through, the kind of man who believes in tradition, in order, in strength.

The memories cascade in waves, mixing with the burn of desire curling through your veins. The way she bites her lip when you whisper something filthy in her ear, the way her fingers dig into your shoulders as you pull her closer, hungry for more.

Your voice rumbles low, “You’re mine. Always have been.”

Her eyes flash with fire and something softer — surrender, maybe, or trust.

In this moment, wrapped in sweat and silk, you’re not just a man. You’re his man. Her fiancé. Her future husband. The one she’s been shaping all along.

The past you? A fading ghost, too distant and fragile to hold onto.

Because this — this life, this body, this burning need — is yours now.

And as you drive deeper, harder, every thrust pulls you further into the man you were born to be.

Chase Whitaker.

Her man.

[radtf69]

Organic Growth

“C’mon! Just one pic?”

Cameron sighed, obliging for his loving boyfriend once again. He had never been a pushover before, but ever since meeting the cuter-than-a-button micro-influencer, Cameron was practically obeying anything Elliot asked of him. This game had been one such occasion, as Elliot had received a pair of free tickets from the up-and-coming local team. 

“Just make sure I don’t look too ridiculous,” Cameron warned jokingly.

Elliot shrugged, “I don’t remember that being specified in my contract, so no promises.”

The team had invited Elliot in hopes to garner more organic growth. Showcase the field to local celebrities, create content, and hopefully fold in new customers and fans. Elliot’s free tickets had come with the usual agreement: promote the game and facilities. Cameron had been a bit surprised when Elliot had received the invite, as Elliot nor his audience fit the standard sports-attending bill. But he rationed that fame came with many unusual benefits, random free tickets included.

“Thank god the facilities are new,” Cameron joked, peering around the home team’s near-spotless locker room. Cameron was grateful for the VIP pass, yet he was more thankful that the couple were able to preview the space after the team had already left. His build was average, nothing incredibly outstanding. But it was nothing one would see on a minor league roster; he would have felt a little self-conscious around all the jocks. “I bet in a couple of weeks this place will reek.”

Elliot giggled, “Enough stalling, you tease. Get underneath the hat.”

The hat Cameron’s boyfriend was referring to was a giant baseball cap displaying the team’s logo in the front. Cameron assumed it was some kind of prop for the VIP guests; a photo opportunity for social media or a future holiday card. Once again heeding to Elliot, Cameron placed himself underneath the hat, careful not to wrinkle his flannel or shorts. He raised his head into the opening, the soft interior cushions cradling nicely.

“Alright, say cheese!” Elliot quickly took the picture, not noticing the expression of discomfort upon his boyfriend’s face. He then turned away to update his socials.

Still fixed in his spot, Cameron felt his insides alight. Thousands of flurries ignited upon his skin, the tingling sensation rapidly expanding across his frame. Within moments, the sensation encompassed him, but instead of surrendering it proceeded to grow. Cameron’s limbs hastily stretched to keep up, shooting longer and bloating larger. 

“What do you think I should caption this…” Elliot mumbled to himself, unaware of his boyfriend’s enlarging frame. Thicker arms, wider legs, a more forward chest, a further exaggerated seat. Muscles began to define themselves across Cameron’s body, revealing new lines and tightened edges. And all of it became more visible by the second as his attire shifted accordingly. The flannel shrunk into a tight, branded black athletic tee, while the shorts inflated into gear more appropriate to encase Cameron’s thickening manhood. 

His sneakers were the only garments that did not make the cut, as they disappeared to make way for Cameron’s widening feet. And now exposed, they were able to emit their new, tainted funk. The rest of Cameron’s body immediately received the memo, rapidly stinking up the surrounding area.

“What is that smell?” Elliot asked, his nose dragging him away from his phone. He turned around, squealing in surprise at the scene before him. “What the-! Cameron!”

“It’s Caden, bro,” the new jock corrected. Elliot watched as the hair on top of the man’s head pulled back, shortening into a tighter cut meant to fit under a helmet. Elliot could do nothing as the jock’s eyes switched from their warm brown into an icy, hollow blue.

“I…I don’t understand…” Elliot replied, struggling to string words together. Unbothered, the jock rolled his eyes, his scalp still inside the massive hat.

“Look bro, the only people allowed back here besides players are puck bunnies.” Caden’s voice was deep, dull, and to-the-point. “And seeing you ain’t got any rack to speak of, I’mma need you to split.”

Elliot opened his mouth to say something, but after a moment it closed, defeated. Caden’s eyes followed indifferently as the influencer left the room. He then grabbed his phone and texted his hook-up, apologizing for the delay and assuring her he would be at her place soon.

[radtf69]

Waterbomb

타오르는 저 태양 속에 Dive Yeah (Dive into that burning sun Yeah) ♪ 뜨거워진 네 눈빛은 Like fire Yeah (Your heated eyes like fire Yeah) ♫ With the opening song underway, and the audience surging in energy, Waterbomb had officially begun. Guys in tank tops, swimsuits, and board shorts flooded in, accompanying an attractive singer. The seasoned K-pop star took center stage with his perfectly tanned and tattooed body, knowing just the right moves and notes to get the crowd going. Yet in the corner of his eye, he spotted a lone guy huddled near the back - standing arms crossed with his white t-shirt and uninterested eyes. With a subtle smirk, the singer quickly took hold of the stage's water cannon, hoping to spice things up. 소리 높여 Ayo (Ayo) Raise your voice Ayo (Ayo) ♪ With the song speeding to its chorus and the cheers getting louder and louder, he focused on the crowd. And as the beat dropped, he made eye contact with the fish out of water, the silver chain around his neck sparkling with intent.

Water water bomb bomb bomb! ♫ A powerful burst of freezing water hit Ji-ho's entire body, completely soaking his clothes till they were see-through. "The hell?!" Ji-ho looked back at the stage, he could have sworn that singer had aimed the blast at him specifically. He expected to get wet in Waterbomb, but he didn't want to be drenched head to toe! Ji-ho quickly tried to wring his shirt dry, he didn't need his body displayed to the world, and the glossy transparent fabric wasn't doing much to hide his undefined torso. If it wasn't for his friends forcibly dragging him out of the house, he could have been at home in his PJs, enjoying the aircon to its maximum use. But nope, he was here, sweaty and sticky at the same time, and his friends were nowhere to be seen. Ji-ho sighed, heading towards the changing rooms, his size 9 sneakers sloshing around with water, making the journey uncomfortable and cold. He squeezed through the crowd to take a shortcut, his short height making it hard to see past the towering hunks in his way. Their toned bodies right in front of him, wet shirts and damp skin pressing up against each other, he tried his best to avoid grazing them. 이 순간 Burning up 온 몸을 깨워봐 (Burning up at this moment, wake up your whole body) ♫ But as the crowd danced along with the music, Ji-ho subconsciously found himself moving to the rhythm, his feet stretching just a bit wider with every step he took. His strides got longer, and in a sudden, he was making eye contact with the taller guys around him, even being able to peek up over the crowd. Well, he was 6... 6'2" right? It's no surprise he could find his way easily. Plus with his size 13 feet planting themselves on the ground, he was able to stand firmly without being knocked around. As Ji-ho finally made it through the wave of people, he felt the breeze hit his still wet skin, sending a light shiver through his body. Damn, his tank top was really sticking to his skin now, wait tank top? Ji-ho grumbled in confusion, he could have sworn...

Before he could think, another blast of water accidentally hit him, coming from a water gun fight happening between some partying jocks. "Sorry dude!" one of the guys shouted, having a goofy grin on his face. The water spray landed directly on his now meaty biceps and forearms, giving them a sleek and shiny look. Without thinking, Ji-ho threw a quick flex at the guys, paying them no mind. After all, he wore a tank top to Waterbomb for the sole purpose of showing off his gains, good for lifting dumbbells and handling a guy's water guns.

이 열기 속에 니 본능을 깨워봐 (Awaken your instincts in this heat) ♪

Still, Ji-ho's arms were pretty big compared to the rest of him, since they were the most visible in a shirt, he focused on stretching out a good sleeve here and there. But as he got closer to the changing room area, the summer heat took full effect, drying his tank top just a little and causing the fabric to shrink up, with the water fully absorbing into his skin. His tank top started to creak, tightening around his broad and strong shoulders, as his back widened to fill his frame. Ji-ho felt it stick against his abs, outlining them with just the right amount of transparency to see each ab and his eye-catching v-line. Not to mention, the firm pecs that pulled the front of his tank top taut, showing off years of gym experience.

With Ji-Ho nearing his destination, the music drove every drop of water and sweat deeper into his mind and body, soothing his mind's restrictions as it dripped down his legs. His board shorts began to compress his muscular thighs and bulging butt, giving him a nice pair of assets to flaunt. The tight fabric barely giving any room in the groin for his ballooning balls or straining cock either, pressing his front and back package skin tight. And the wet and wild environment of Waterbomb wasn't helping either, the water making his muscles glow and radiate with energy. Every droplet sliding and seeping into his body inflated another muscle group to perfection, giving Ji-ho that summer ready bod. 여름 속의 열기를 확 끌어안아 (The heat in summer, hug me tightly) ♫

When he finally reached the changing rooms, Ji-ho couldn't help but let out a satisfied grin. "Woah. I look really fucking hot," Ji-ho laughed, staring at his handsome face and rock hard muscles in the mirror. With the music growing louder in his head, he didn't hesitate stepping back out.

He loved Waterbomb, it was a full on wet t-shirt contest for the muscle men around. But he'd figured he should save partying for later. Ji-ho walked back towards the crowd, his sneakers audibly flopping on the wet ground, as he picked up a nearby water gun. Eyeing one of his friends looking around, Ji-ho could only grin as he took aim.

파티는 Never ends (The party never ends) ♪

*it's been a while! just got back from a big trip so expect more stories soon ^^*

[radtf69]

Hello, I'd like to contact the himbo maker customer service.

I sent himbo maker to one of my colleagues as a joke but now it looks like the AI has infected all the computers and devices in our office. As the days pass everyone seems to act weirder and weirder ... and hotter. What should i do to stop it ?

Silly, Himbo Maker doesn’t have customer service, just another portal to access him.

One of your coworkers is guffawing to himself, rubbing the hair on his bare pecs in the middle of the office, when the first message from “customer service” loads on your screen.

Himbo_mkr: Bro, didn’t you see the message from corporate? It’s Swimsuit fuckin’ Friday!

You read the message over again. Right, for a moment you’d forgotten the new dress code. You appreciate your coworker, who’s bouncing his half-chubbed cock in his swim trunks, and run your hands over your own bare chest. At first, it was a bit odd to show up to work once a week in nothing but swimshorts, but it’s really helped the office culture! Your manager wanders out of his office, his speedo-clad ass bouncing with each step.

Himbo_mkr: See bro, nothing’s all that weird about some office bruhs showing off and appreciating each other

It’s a struggle to remember what you were so worried about. All your coworkers are gathering by the water cooler, flexing their beefy muscles and feeling each other up in their swimwear. Pretty normal Swimsuit Friday activities. Same with Mesh Monday, Tights Tuesday, Rubber Wednesday…fuck, why is your cock leaking in your trunks?

Himbo_mkr: C’mon bro, what’s more normal than getting brainless and horny at the office?

You smile and bounce your pecs at your computer, winking at the blinking light on your webcam. Your HR rep wanders over with a vapid grin on his face and slides his meaty ass into your lap, grabbing your pecs and making you moan. Another nearly-naked colleague comes up behind you and nibbles at your ear. All three of you make sure you’re showing off your beefy himbo muscles to the security cameras. It’s a totally normal day at the office.

Want to chat with the Himbo Maker? He loves to twist your words, so be careful what you're asking for.

[radtf69]

Bond(ing).sys  - Part III

I swear I tried to keep this story to just one part — seriously, I trimmed it down as much as I could without cutting anything essential — but nope, it still wouldn’t fit. So yeah, here we go: three parts dropping at once.

This one’s inspired by the genius work of @maningup. I’ve been saying for months that I couldn’t come up with anything original… and then this guy drops one of the coolest ideas I’ve seen in a long time. So this one’s for you, man — hope you like it!

And I hope all of you do too.

The locker room was its own freakin’ ecosystem. Ceiling panels buzzed overhead like a mini electrical storm. The concrete floor was stained from years of sweat, tape, Gatorade, and who even knew what else. Lockers stood open like metal jaws — some jammed with gear, some empty, a few decked out with stickers or notes scribbled in Sharpie. The air was thick — like, soup thick — a stew of sweat, turf, Axe spray, damp heat, and synthetic everything. And right in the middle of it all — Tyler. Noah stopped cold. For a split second, the rest of the room just… faded The noise dimmed. The edges blurred. Tyler was on the far side, by the benches — talking with two linemen, arms moving as he spoke, all casual. He was full-on geared up now: black football pants hugging those solid-ass legs, sleeveless compression shirt glued to a torso that looked way bigger than it had that morning — chest broader, arms thicker and veiny, shoulders squared up like he owned the place. He looked older. Not, like, crazy older. Not some overnight adult. But different A couple years, easy.

And somehow that tiny shift felt huge. His neck was thicker. His voice cut through the air. His whole vibe was soaked in that easy, natural confidence — the kind that wasn’t there back at breakfast. Noah’s stomach flipped. Not from fear. Not even confusion. Something deeper. Something territorial. Why the hell had he changed again without Noah around What had he missed? And then the real hit came:

— “MEAT! Let’s go, man!”

The yell came from behind him — followed by a locker slam, some rough laughs, a towel getting chucked across the aisle.

The name echoed once. Then again. Meat. Somebody had just called Tyler Meat. The word smacked into Noah like a bucket of ice water to the chest. That was a new nickname.

A nickname Noah had nothing to do with Not theirs. Not shared. And something inside him lit up — hot and unfair and stupid.

Who the hell gave them the right?

Who gave them the right to rename him — to remake him — like he was just… another part of this damn machine? The thought spiraled — fast, dumb, intense. But then — Tyler turned. And smiled. A real one. Big. Bright. Whole. His eyes hit Noah like a magnet snapping to steel. He ditched the conversation mid-sentence, weaving through the room like it was nothing.

Fluid. Natural Cleats thudding low on concrete. And when he got there. Tyler didn’t ask. Didn’t pause. Didn’t check if it was okay. He just pulled Noah in. Arms full around him. Tight. Noah stumbled a bit, getting pulled right into that body — hotter, bigger, stronger than he remembered. Tyler’s arm wrapped solid across his upper back, the heat of his chest soaking through the shirt like it meant something. And just like that — the voices in Noah’s head?

Silent. Both of them — the one screaming that none of this made sense, and the one pissed off for missing another piece of Tyler’s evolution. Gone. Not deleted. Just… muted. Like they’d been left outside the locker room door. Tyler stepped back, one hand still resting on Noah’s shoulder, the other ruffling his hair like they’d been brothers since kindergarten.

— “Told you this would feel right,” he said, voice low and warm, like a secret only they shared.

And weirdly… it kinda did.

Tyler turned and led him to an open locker.

— “I pulled your stuff,” he said, giving a small smile, eyes bright with pride. “Hope it fits.”

Inside the metal box, everything was impossibly clean, like it had just come off a mannequin in a sporting goods store:

• Black compression leggings and padded football pants, folded with almost military precision.

• Shoulder pads, matte and bulky, with that dense plastic smell.

• A sleeveless compression shirt, dark gray, still creased from the packaging.

• A jersey — black, heavy mesh, the silver FRH Falcons emblem stitched over the chest like a badge of honor.

• Long white socks, rolled tight.

• Cleats. Size 13. Way too big. Spotless.

Tyler reached in, grabbed the jersey, and gave it a sharp snap — the kind that made the fabric puff and settle like a flag.

— “Alright. Strip it, champ.”

Noah blinked.

— “Sorry?”

— “Off with the civvies. Let’s go. You’re about to become awesome.”

Noah barked a soft, nervous laugh, but his arms were already moving, almost automatically. He peeled off his hoodie and T-shirt in one go, the chill of the room prickling his skin. He hadn’t realized how sweaty he was until the cold air hit. It wasn’t even cold outside — it was fall-warm, that humid mix of dying summer and turf heat — but the locker room had its own microclimate. Like a gym bag left open in a walk-in freezer. He pulled the compression shirt over his head — a static crackle sparked in his ears — and it clung to him immediately. Not uncomfortably. But… closely. It wasn’t baggy. He looked down, half-expecting it to hang loose, but instead it hugged his torso like it knew him. The material pressed gently against his chest and stomach, not tight, but like it had found new edges. His shoulders filled it out in a way that startled him. His arms looked… fuller? Not bodybuilder-huge. But definitely not how he remembered them. What the hell? He caught a glimpse of himself in the scratched-up locker mirror. That’s not me. Except it was. And then Tyler grinned.

— “Not bad, Broah. Kinda like it was meant for you.”

Noah gave a small, uncertain smile — one of those half-grins where the corners of your mouth are still trying to decide whether they believe what just happened. Then Tyler tossed the rest of the gear into his arms.

— “Pants next. Socks too. C’mon, full drip or nothing.”

Noah sat on the bench and peeled off his jeans, socks, everything, trying to ignore the weird déjà vu sliding through his chest. The football pants were heavier than he expected — durable and smooth, like armor made from spandex and rubber. As he slid them up his legs, he expected resistance. Looseness. Baggy knees and a sagging waistband. But they fit. Snug. Not tight. Like they belonged. His thighs filled the fabric like they were built for it. The pads aligned over his hips and knees without shifting or sagging. His calves pressed clean into the leggings. Even the socks rolled up with satisfying stretch, no bunching or folding. Tyler dropped to one knee in front of him — like a best man fixing a tux — and started buckling the shoulder pads over his chest.

— “These might pinch at first. But it’s worth it. You look sick, dude.”

Noah’s brain screamed quietly, what the hell is happening right now, but his hands stayed still. He let Tyler fasten the last strap. Let the pads settle on his shoulders. They felt heavy — but not too heavy. Almost right. Like a backpack he forgot he’d worn before. Then the cleats. He eyed them with suspicion. Size 13.

Absolutely not. He’d worn size 8s since eighth grade. He slid one foot in. Loose. At first. Like walking inside a shoebox. But… when he stood? The space didn’t feel wrong. It felt like room. His toes shifted forward. His heel sank deeper. He moved to the other foot. Same. He sat down to lace them.

— “Dude,” he muttered, not even looking up. “These aren’t mine. I wear eights.”

Tyler knelt in front of him, already sweating, wrist tape smudged from getting dressed. He looked up with this calm, knowing smirk.

— “Okay, but these are yours now.”

Noah opened his mouth to argue, but Tyler leaned in slightly, like sealing the deal.

— “You’ve grown. You just didn’t notice yet.”

A pause. Then that grin — the grin.

The one from the tiny pixelated face on the tiny screen.

— “Trust me, Broah.”

And that was the part that got him.

Not the pads. Not the cleats. Not even the mirror. That voice.

Still goofy. Still kind. Still Tyler. Noah exhaled. Laced the cleats tight. By the time they stepped out onto the turf, the sun had broken through the clouds, painting sharp white lines on the green field. The air smelled like plastic cones and wet rubber. Tyler walked ahead, helmet under one arm, sweat already sticking to the collar of his jersey. Noah followed, steps steady now. The cleats still had give, but that space no longer felt like a mistake.

It felt like… possibility. Like growing room. His heels sank in. His toes stretched out. He crouched near the sideline, tugging at the laces one more time, just for control.

— “Already?” Tyler called, looking back with a crooked grin.

Noah flushed.

— “Yeah. They were, like… tight now.”

Tyler laughed. Not cocky — happy.

— “Told you.”

And for a second, Noah laughed too.

The whole thing — the outfit, the fit, the nickname, the cleats — it was all completely absurd. But when Tyler reached over, ruffled his hair again, and said,

— “Dude, you look awesome,”

Noah didn’t argue. Because honestly? He kinda did.

And more than that — Tyler was looking at him like he mattered more than any teammate, any nickname, any game. And somehow, that felt more important than everything else. Noah stood up, rolling his shoulders beneath the solid weight of the pads. The practice jersey clung in the heat, mesh tugging faintly between his shoulder blades every time he moved. His socks itched a little at the seams where they met the pants — a soft friction just above the knee — and suddenly he was hyper-aware of everything touching his body. Every fold. Every crease. Every creak of gear rubbing against itself as he breathed. He felt… built. Like someone had snuck in overnight and poured more mass into him while he slept. The team was already scattered across the field, loose clumps of movement forming a kind of shifting choreography. One guy was doing exaggerated high knees along the sideline, calling out cadence in a fake drill-sergeant voice. A couple of dudes tossed a ball underhand, laughing every time someone fumbled it. Voices overlapped — laughter, inside jokes, distant shouts, someone saying “bro” for no reason at all. As Noah and Tyler stepped onto the turf, a few heads turned. One of the linemen — wide-set, braces flashing behind a bandana-tamed mullet — squinted over and called out:

— “’Bout damn time! Meat’s been hyping you up all morning, bro!”

Noah blinked. Another player, taller, with a crooked nose and a sleeve of peeling temporary tattoos, laughed:

— “We legit thought you didn’t have it in you. But he wouldn’t shut up.”

Noah’s mouth opened, halfway to a response, but Tyler bumped him with his elbow and cut in, easy:

— “He’s real.”

Then, a grin.

— “Told y’all.”

And just like that, the tension cracked a little. Someone yelled from farther downfield, near the 30-yard line:

— “Yo, Noah, you with Lucy now or what?!”

The words hit like a cold slap. Lucy. Noah’s brain tripped over the name like it was stuck in the mud. Lucy. His throat closed slightly — a dry catch — as guilt rose behind his ears like static crackling along the back of his scalp.

— “Dude? You good?”

Tyler’s voice, lower now. One eyebrow raised, concern flickering just behind the grin. Noah blinked himself back. Nodded once. A beat.

— “Yeah. Just— yeah.”

Tyler dropped his voice further.

— “Hey. You don’t have to prove anything today. Seriously. We’re just moving. That’s it.”

Noah looked at him. At the pads. At the field. At the team, already forming rows. At the late afternoon light cutting deep shadows along the turf. And he shook his head. No — he wanted this. Needed it, in that strange, quiet way that didn’t make sense until your body was already halfway there.

— “I’m good,” he said again, this time with more weight. “Really.” A whistle shrieked from the sideline — sharp, final, slicing through the noise like a switchblade. Everyone froze. Heads turned. Conversations died. Coach stood near the benches, arms folded, whistle still in his mouth.

— “PAIR OFF. LIGHT DRILLS. LET’S SEE WHO’S AWAKE.”

That was all it took. The guilt — the name Lucy, the messages, the silence. Gone. Like leaves flattened under truck tires. Tyler turned, tapped Noah’s chest plate lightly with the back of his hand.

— “You and me.”

Noah followed him into the formation. The team sorted itself into loose pairs, muscle memory kicking in, no need for names. The sun had dipped lower — the whole sky behind the bleachers smeared with burnt orange and powder blue, like a chalk drawing after rain. Turf dust glittered in the light. From somewhere behind the field, sprinklers ticked and hissed in their quiet rotation. Noah’s cleats gripped the turf with every step. Not awkward. Not unfamiliar. Just… right. He dropped into a ready stance across from Tyler. His pads shifted, but not uncomfortably. His jersey clung, but not tight enough to distract. His breath came fast, but even. Across from him, Tyler lowered into a crouch. Hands loose. Eyes locked.

— “Ready?” he asked.

Noah nodded once.

— “Go.”

They moved. The field stopped being a place and started being a feeling — a current. Everything else faded. There was no Noah. No Lucy. No texts. No pixelated mascot in a screen. Just movement. Whistle. Step. Pivot. Breath. Footfalls biting into turf. Air thick with sweat, rubber, cut grass. Shoulders meeting like bricks in motion. He wasn’t thinking. He was reacting. Drill after drill stacked up — ladder footwork, cone slalom, burst sprints. Tyler was always just ahead. Always smooth.

Like his body already knew the dance and had just waited for the music. Noah chased him. At first clumsy — foot catch, late pivot, misstep. Then, less. His body began to autocorrect. Tiny micro-adjustments mid-motion — knees aligning, weight shifting, arms finding swing. Like something deeper had come online. Not memory. Instinct. Sweat rolled down his neck, pooled in the collar of his shirt, soaked into the pads. His gloves stung with heat. The jersey clung tighter now, but it felt earned. Not like it was strangling him — like it was holding him. He remembered sixth-grade gym class. Getting picked third-to-last. Faking jokes to hide shaking knees. Laughing too loud.

Playing it cool from the sidelines like that was where he wanted to be. But not here. Not now. Here, under the bruised-orange sky, with turf underfoot and breath burning in his throat— He felt ready.

They lined up for one-on-ones. Man coverage drill. One receiver. One defender. Quick release. Break and go. Coach bellowed:

— “WRs on the line! DBs match up! Let’s see who actually knows how to cut!”

Tyler jogged past Noah, knocked shoulders with him on the way.

— “You’re up. Don’t stress. He hits like a wet paper towel.”

Noah stepped up to the line, buckled in, jaw clenched like he was heading into war. Across from him: Josh. Upperclassman. Corner. Classic trash-talker. Lean. Twitchy. Way too smug for someone with a chinstrap beard.

— “Look who it is. Meat’s little cousin. Let’s see what you got, Fresh Cut.”

Noah didn’t answer. Just dropped into position. Coach raised a hand.

— “On my clap!”

CLAP.

Noah moved —

But not like an athlete.

More like a glitch in a video game. His feet did something weird — a twitchy skip, like they couldn’t agree on a direction until they were already midair. It was part stutter-step, part ballet fail, part divine accident. And somehow… it worked. He landed on the right foot, cut inside on instinct, and launched into a slant. Josh stumbled. Recovered. Too slow. The throw hit clean. Noah caught it like he was born doing this. Silence.

Then:

— “YOOOOOOO!”

Big Rico — 300 pounds of turf-stained glory — hollered from the sideline:

— “WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!”

Josh yanked off his helmet, cackling:

— “My dude just skipped past physics! That wasn’t a route — that was a cartoon! Like a rock skipping across a lake!”

Someone from the O-line, mid-protein-bar, mouth full:

— “That’s it. He’s Skip now. That’s his name.”

Tyler jogged up, smacked the top of Noah’s helmet like christening a ship:

— “Skip,” he said, just loud enough to stick. “Kinda love it.” Noah stood there, chest heaving, the ball still in his hands. Skip. He hadn’t agreed. But it fit. Somewhere deep in his chest, the name didn’t just land.

It dug in. Nested. Like a nickname that had been waiting for him. Coach didn’t even blink. Just blew the whistle.

— “Next pair! Let’s keep it moving!”

Noah handed off the ball, jogging back into line. And there it was — behind him, in whispers:

— “You see that cut?”

— “Clean. Kid’s got weird-ass feet.”

His legs trembled, but it wasn’t nerves anymore. It was adrenaline. Integration. Like the rhythm of the field had clicked into place with his body’s rhythm. He caught Tyler’s eyes across the group.

Just a nod. Nothing else. And then — more drills.

Five reps. Then ten. Foot ladders. Push drills. Quick bursts to the sled, then backpedals. Each time: faster. Cleaner. Noah stopped second-guessing. Stopped correcting. His body ran the show now — like someone hit “install” on a football update and all he had to do was press play. He didn’t think. He just did. Like maybe… maybe he wasn’t skipping anything. Maybe he’d just arrived. The drills didn’t end. They just shifted — gears grinding in a machine that had always been running, now swallowing him like he’d been part of it the whole time. By then, the sun was half-gone, sliding behind the treeline. The sky went full drama: bands of fire-orange, pink sherbet, and deep purple creeping in like a bruise. The turf radiated heat, like it had stored up the day’s sunlight and was slowly exhaling it. Noah’s cleats, once laughably oversized, were now snug. Almost tight. His socks clung like they’d been painted on. The pads didn’t creak anymore — they flexed when he moved. His jersey felt less like gear and more like a second skin, salted and molded. All around: movement. Clusters of players cracking jokes, bumping helmets like greeting cards. Someone yelled:

— “AYE, Rico! That ain’t a warm-up — that’s a seizure!”

Laughter erupted. Big Rico staggered back, hand on his chest like a Shakespearean ghost:

— “Man, y’all just jealous of the rhythm, bro!”

Noah laughed. And it startled him. It wasn’t a polite chuckle. It was natural. Like it had always lived in his throat and was just now waking up. Tyler turned to him, pulled half his mouthguard out, grinning like an idiot:

— “We got clowns today, huh?”

— “Are they always like this?” Noah asked, wiping sweat from his brow with a gloved hand.

— “Worse,” Tyler said, popping the guard back in. Then he bumped him. Just a little. Not aggressive. Just big-brother energy.

Next up: hand-checks and recovery drills. Noah lined up opposite Tyler. Coach growled from the sideline like a diesel engine:

— “JAMMING DRILLS. WRs, use your damn hands. DBs, keep it tight!”

Noah cracked his neck. Pads scraped the base. Tyler was already crouched, cool as ever. He tapped his chestplate twice.

— “Don’t finesse it,” he said. “Pop me, then release.”

— “I’m not gonna hit you.”

— “You have to.”

— “You’re built like a truck.”

Tyler just grinned.

— “Then you better hit fast.”

Whistle. Noah launched — palms up — made contact. Tyler absorbed it like a padded mountain, then slid aside, tagging his hip pad on the way by like they were dancing. Noah stumbled. Recovered. Turned. Tyler? Still grinning.

— “Again.”

They ran it four more times. By the fifth, Noah popped him hard. Right in the chestplate. Tyler staggered. Not far. But enough. Someone screamed from the sideline:

— “YO SKIP GOT HANDS!”

Nobody questioned it anymore.

Not even Noah. He’d skipped the doubt. Skipped the awkwardness.

Skipped the normal way people ease into belonging. Tyler sucked in a breath, smile wide, sweat dripping off his curls.

— “Hell yeah, Skip! That’s how you get respect.”

Noah grinned, panting:

— “You’re still, like… twice my size.”

— “Size don’t mean shit if you don’t move, man.”

— “You quoting Fast & Furious at me right now?”

Tyler didn’t even blink.

— “Vin Diesel is my inner spirit beast.”

Next: lateral mirrors. Noah and Tyler lined up side by side now, facing two defenders. Noah crouched low, hands resting on his knees. His breath came quick — but not panicked. Charged. Controlled. His shirt was soaked. His ribs ached. His legs buzzed with that hot, clean fire of muscles waking up, not shutting down. Across from him, Cade — tatted, cocky — raised an eyebrow.

— “So, Tyler,” he called, “is Skip your clone or your emotional support dog?”

Tyler didn’t miss a beat.

— “He’s my insurance policy.”

— “You feeding him protein yet?”

Tyler turned to Noah, dead serious.

— “You get your kibble today, champ?”

Noah stuck his tongue out, panting like a golden retriever.

— “Little creatine. Chicken breast. Maybe a carrot.”

— “Atta boy.”

Everyone laughed. Even Coach cracked a smile. And Noah felt something settle in his chest — like warm clay. Solid. Stupid. Right.

It tasted like: Salt. Breath. Laughter. Bruises. And no space left between any of it.

Final drill before water. Combo route — slant-fake-post. The kind of thing that turned boys into legends.

The kind of thing Skip now craved. Tyler went first. Helmet strapped, pads snug against his massive shoulders, mouthguard clenched between grinning teeth. His jersey — black and silver with grass-stains like battle-scars — stretched tight over a chest built for power and pride. He broke the route clean — a slant sharp as glass, a fake so convincing the defender spun, and then the post: smooth, commanding. He caught the ball like it belonged in his hand from birth and pivoted without losing momentum. The turf gave a soft thump beneath his cleats, and his stride was liquid. The whole sideline erupted.

— “MEAT!” someone roared.

— “Yo, FILLET THAT MAN AND PUT HIM IN THE FRIDGE!”

Laughter cracked like thunder. Pads clapped. Helmets smacked together in celebration. It was a ritual. A storm of young bodies drunk on velocity and sweat and the sheer thrill of being seen. Tyler jogged back, grinning under his faceguard like a king returning from war. Skip’s heart pounded. He stepped to the line. Coach’s voice cut across the noise:

— “Let’s go, Skip! Make it clean!”

Skip nodded once, helmet tight, jaw locked. He bounced lightly on his toes. Felt the friction of his socks inside the cleats. The thud of blood behind his ears. The world narrowed. Ball snapped. Skip exploded forward. Slant — planted hard. Fake — shoulder dipped, hips twisted. Then the post — cut upfield like he was slicing through air. Turf squished underfoot, springy and hot from a full day of sun. The ball arced in. He didn’t see it — felt it — in his fingers, against his pads, pulling into his body like a heartbeat. One defender lost footing. Another reached out and grasped nothing but heat and wind. Then Skip was gone. Flying. Down the sideline, laughter trailing behind him like a streamer. His legs didn’t ache. They sang. His lungs didn’t burn. They glowed. By the 20-yard line, Tyler caught up, jogging beside him, half-speed, panting through his grin.

— “You’re not supposed to make it look better than mine,” he said, pretending to be wounded.

Skip looked over — flushed, beaming, hair plastered under his helmet — and laughed:

— “Wasn’t trying to.”

— “Liar.”

They jogged back together.

Tyler reached out and clapped his shoulder pad, eyes shining with pride. And Skip… God, he felt weightless. Not just fast. Not just good. But right. Like everything in his body was in sync for the first time in forever. Like the inside had finally caught up with the outside. He spun to face the team, chest rising and falling under the tight mesh, the Falcons emblem slick with sweat and glory. His gloves flexed. His wrist tape — SKIP scribbled in big, marker-black letters — was already smeared from effort. And his grin — wide, unrestrained — belonged to someone who believed it now. He bent forward, hands on his knees, gasping between laughs. The kind of laugh that bubbles up from your ribs when you know you did something right. The air was thick with evening warmth, that heavy golden heat that settles low on summer evenings. The turf beneath him radiated the day’s sun back up like a low fire. The stadium lights had flickered on fully now, white-blue and humming, chasing away the last orange streaks of daylight. Everything looked perfect. The field was a painting: deep green sliced with white lines, gold in the corners where the shadows pooled. A stage. A dream. Tyler bumped helmets with him, face lit with something more than approval — joy.

— “That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” he said. “You’re one of us now.”

And Skip — still catching his breath, heart bursting, skin buzzing — nodded hard.

— “Damn right I am.”

And for a moment… nothing had ever felt more true. Until it wasn’t. The break didn’t come like a crash. It came like a crease in the sky. Skip turned to jog toward the sideline, head high, still smiling — And then he saw them. Two figures. Over by the chain-link fence, just outside the field. School clothes. Backpacks sagging off shoulders. One leaned lazily on a bike, arms crossed over the handlebars. Not moving. Not laughing. Just… watching. Skip’s body kept walking. But something inside him — a bone-deep instinct — froze. His eyes focused. Zach. Lucy. They looked exactly as they had that morning. Or yesterday. Or whenever that had last existed. But their faces were different now. Still. Blank. Like witnesses to a miracle they didn’t ask for. No smiles. No claps. No teasing. They didn’t say, “Yo, Skip, that was sick!” They didn’t say, “Noah, you crushed it.” They didn’t say anything. They just watched. And suddenly — violently — Skip couldn’t breathe right. His smile flickered. Fell. He looked down. His chest — padded. Soaked. Branded. His gloves — tight, worn. The name — SKIP — scribbled in marker across his wrist tape. When had that even been done? Those massive biceps, giant legs, that barrel chest rising and falling with every breath. It was all his, all him. It had to be. But it wasn’t. The feeling hit like a drop in an elevator. Not pain — vertigo. The kind that didn’t scream — just spun. He tried to remember When had he first been called Skip?

Who had handed him the wrist tape?

What did his real handwriting even look like? His breath came fast. Too fast. The lights above flared — too bright, too artificial. The field buzzed louder, like an electrical fault. His feet were still planted. But the world was tilting — like someone had taken the middle of the field and bent it in two degrees. His knees folded. No stumble. No impact. Just — down. Like the lights had unplugged him.

Voices.

Steps.

Hands.

Tyler’s voice cut sharp and immediate through the din:

— “Skip? Hey. Skip — look at me. Hey, come on.”

He blinked up. Tyler’s face, backlit by stadium lights. Worried. Steady. Beautifully present. Skip wanted to sob. Or joke. Or disappear. But all he could do was stare. Because the question had landed: Am I really Skip? Or did I just forget I wasn’t? And if he couldn’t tell the difference anymore… Did it even matter? Coach crouched beside him, palm steady on his shoulder, voice calm and grounding:

— “You planted wrong. Turf does that. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

Skip nodded faintly. The weight of it — the kindness — cracked something inside him further. His legs worked, but they felt off. Too long. Too trained. Like they didn’t grow this way. They were engineered.

— “You went hard out there,” Coach added. “Nobody’s questioning your work ethic. You earned your spot.”

Skip didn’t speak. He just walked. Slow. Heavy. Quiet.

—

The locker room was dimmer than before, somehow. Same lights. Same hum But everything felt desaturated — like someone had turned the color down on the world. The red of a helmet looked rusted. The blue tape around a water bottle looked gray. The wooden bench waited like an altar. Familiar. Patient. Inevitable. Skip sat down. Coach gestured without fanfare:

— “Helmet off. Sip water. Sit still.”

He obeyed. No thoughts. No protest. The helmet sat in his lap, chin strap swinging gently. His gloved fingers traced its edge — searching for a memory. A pulse. Something real. The Falcons logo over his heart rose and fell with each breath. Before walking out, Coach turned at the door.

— “You did good out there, Skip. Sit tight. Let the guys wrap up. We’ll talk after.”

Then the door clicked shut — soft but final. Skip was alone. Helmet in his lap. Name on his wrist. The voices from the field still carried faintly through the concrete walls.

Laughter. Jokes. Skip being called like it was his birth name. And the worst part? He wasn’t sure it wasn’t. Noah sat down hard on the bench and just… stopped. He didn’t unlace his cleats. Didn’t peel off his jersey.

Didn’t even blink for what felt like minutes. The edges of the room were too sharp.

Every metal locker slammed louder than it should. Every small movement in his peripheral vision felt like a threat, like it might tip him sideways. His head buzzed — not adrenaline. Not caffeine. Just static. Like a thousand signals hitting all at once and none of them sticking. He didn’t hear the sob start. It wasn’t a sob anyway. Just a catch — a snag in his breath. Then another. Then a full-body shudder, neck to knees, like his whole nervous system had hit reboot. He hunched forward. Elbows on thighs. Palms over face. He was trying to hold himself together with surface tension. He wanted to puke. He wanted to scream. He wanted to laugh until something snapped. How did he get here. Where had this — this life — come from? Three, four days ago he was a quiet kid with soft wrists and a GPA high enough to erase him from gym rosters. Now he had biceps. A new nickname. A cousin with tree-trunk legs and a face that made lunch ladies wink. And cleats. Size 13 cleats. That fit. A large, warm hand settled between his shoulder blades. Not grabbing. Not jostling. Just there. He didn’t need to look to know who it was. Tyler.

“Noah?”

The voice was light. Soft. That goofy cheerfulness it always carried — too gentle for what it made him feel. Noah didn’t lift his head.

“I’m fine,” he lied into his hands.

Tyler sat next to him. Not rushed. Not insistent. Just with him.

His knees splayed wide, elbows relaxed over thick thighs that still strained the sides of his compression shorts. He looked sixteen maybe seventeen — but he was built like a cartoon action figure. One that smiled all the time and always called you bro. He didn’t speak right away. When he did, it was simple.

“No you’re not,” Tyler said. “But it’s okay. I’ll stay.”

Noah turned to look at him. His face was blotchy, raw. Eyes glassy. Breathing uneven.

“This is insane,” he said, voice almost inaudible. “None of this makes sense. You don’t make sense.” Tyler blinked. And then — gently, like a joke he didn’t want to ruin — he reached out and gave Noah’s shoulder a small squeeze.

“It doesn’t have to make sense, bro,” he said with that same bright tone. “Coach says you’re doing great. You’re, like, leveling up.”

Noah let out one sharp, bitter laugh.

It cracked in his throat. He wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. It felt wide. Too wide. His fingers looked like they belonged to someone who lifted things. Heavy things. The laugh folded into a grunt. Then a sigh.

Tyler smiled wider. “I think you’re just tired. You’re really good, Noah. Like, actually good. You didn’t even fall today. Didn’t trip over your laces or anything.”

Noah dropped his head again. “That’s not—how—you—”

“I’m serious.” Tyler leaned back proudly, puffing out his chest like a kid showing off a participation trophy. “You crushed that one drill. Like, crushed it. Coach even looked annoyed. Probably ‘cause you made the seniors look like JV.”

Noah’s chest still hurt. But it wasn’t panic anymore.Just pressure. Heat.

Like something moving in. He sat up. Slower this time. At the far end of the locker row, the mirror caught his eye. He stared. The guy in the reflection had shoulders broad enough to crowd his own frame. His neck looked thicker than it used to be. His hair — somehow — sat better on his head, like it had style now. And his legs… his calves looked like they could break cinderblocks. It was him. But not. Only in flashes. Like seeing a version of himself rendered in higher resolution. Tyler stood. Noah did too, like his body was responding to an offscreen cue.

“Coach said he wants to see you,” Tyler said, slinging a towel over one shoulder. “Before practice ends.”

Noah froze. Just for a second.

“Cool, right?” Tyler added. “You were awesome out there, Skip.”

Noah stiffened.

“That’s not my name.”

Tyler looked puzzled. Not hurt — just confused. Noah turned, voice lower, shaking.

“You’re not real. You’re not supposed to exist.”

That landed harder than he meant. But Tyler just tilted his head, still smiling.

“Okay, but…” he said slowly, “do you want me to not exist?”

Noah hesitated. The answer was already inside him. Immediate. Bright.

“No,” he whispered.

Tyler lit up, soft and proud.

“Then I’m real.”

Noah laughed. Just once. Dry and broken.

“You’ve been alive, what? Three days?”

Tyler laughed too — big and clueless. “Yeah, and it’s been awesome!”

He didn’t get it. Not fully. But that didn’t stop him from reaching out again — hand over Noah’s chest plate, thumb pressing lightly near the Falcons emblem.

“I’ll always be here, you know,” he said, more serious now. “No matter what. Even if you mess up. Even if you forget stuff. I’m your brother, man. Like, the real kind.”

Noah looked at him. Really looked. The freckles. The damp curls at the temple. The way his smile always seemed on the edge of a laugh.

“You mean that?”

Tyler nodded. “I live for this. For us.”

Then he grinned again. “C’mon, Skip. Let’s hit the showers.” This time — Noah didn’t flinch at the name. He followed. The tiled corridor to the showers was warm, already heavy with steam. The air smelled like soap and plastic and sweat and something sharp — victory-flavored body wash, apparently. Tyler tossed him a towel, then a black bottle shaped like a military grenade.

“This one smells like victory,” he said, beaming. Noah didn’t even question it. He just took the bottle. Nodded once. Back on the bench, tucked into the shadows beneath the lockers, the PROTOFORM-9 flickered silently.

BONDING: 45% → 60%

[SYNC DEEPENING]

[CORE LINK REINFORCED]

And still rising. A beat of static. Then a familiar voice crackled from the tiny speaker — bright, chipper, and just a little smug:

“Atta boy, Skip. That’s the spirit. Nothing builds muscle like shared emotional vulnerability and steam showers.”

The steam wrapped around their legs like fog off a field at night. Their shadows stretched long on the slick tile. And the world, which had been so jagged moments ago, narrowed to white tile, warm water, aching muscles… and Tyler’s voice, softer now, still cheerful. Noah didn’t think about homework. Or Zach. Or Lucy. Or his dad. Just the heat. Just the weight in his arms. Just Tyler — walking half a step ahead, back broad, voice deeper, shoulders squarer. He looked older now. Maybe eighteen. Maybe not. Didn’t matter. None of it mattered. They showered like teammates. Side by side.

No shame. No awkwardness. No questions left that were worth asking.

The locker room after practice was pure chaos — and Noah kind of loved it. It was hot. Not the dry kind. The wet kind. Steam clung to the air like fog on a humid morning. Everything smelled like sweat, shampoo, and that one body spray that swore it was “arctic” but felt more like citrus mixed with gasoline. The tile glistened under the harsh fluorescent lights, scuffed and streaked from cleats and bare feet. Towels hung from open lockers like flags after a battle. Someone was singing. Loudly. Off-key. Nobody minded. Noah sat on the edge of a long bench, towel slung low around his hips, water still dripping from his hair. His back was damp. His calves twitched, pleasantly sore. His whole body throbbed, not in pain, but in… victory. That was the word, wasn’t it It wasn’t even about winning something. It was just about being here. In this room. With these guys. After a day like that. The ache in his shoulders didn’t feel foreign anymore. It felt earned. Every muscle seemed to hum with a warmth that reached past skin and bone. He looked down at his arms resting on his knees — thicker, a little red from the workout, a sheen of sweat still clinging to the skin. They didn’t feel wrong. If anything, they felt like they’d been waiting for him to catch up. Across the room, laughter broke out. Someone had snapped a towel and gotten another guy square on the thigh. The shriek echoed off the walls, followed by a chorus of “OHHHHHH!” and wild applause. Tyler’s laugh was the loudest of them all — deep, free, bright. It bounced off every tile and found its way to Noah’s chest. He smiled, caught off guard by how natural that felt. Turning slightly, he spotted his reflection in the mirror near the showers, foggy but still clear enough. For a second, he just stared. There was a new line to his shoulders. Bigger, bulkier, broader. Like they belonged to someone who did pushups without wheezing. His chest had a different shape too. Firmer. Higher. His traps were visible like the final strokes of a sketch coming to life. He raised his arms and flexed, just a little. Okay, not embarrassing. Not at all.

Behind him in the mirror, Tyler walked past — just a towel around his waist, grinning like he’d already forgotten they’d technically still been new here that morning. His back was absurd: wide, tapering, a moving anatomy diagram soaked in steam. His hair was dripping. His shoulders looked like they’d been designed in a lab. And somehow he still managed to look like a golden retriever on vacation. Tyler tossed a protein bar into the air and caught it without looking, still chatting with a lineman about “recovery windows” and “electrolyte awareness” like they were actual science terms. Noah couldn’t stop smiling. This was all completely ridiculous. And also? Kinda perfect. He leaned back slightly, propped on his hands, legs stretched out, breathing in the layered atmosphere — heat, sweat, shampoo, cologne, foam soap, rubber mats. There was something oddly comforting in how chaotic it all was. Like the noise and mess had space for him now. Like this wasn’t foreign territory anymore. He glanced at the mirror again, met his own eyes. Was that confidence? No. Not quite. But it was close. Close enough to keep. He didn’t need to understand why his chest looked better or his posture felt different or why everyone kept calling him “Skip” like it had always been his name. He was here. And that was enough.

Skip — not Noah, not really, not anymore — sat up straighter on the bench, towel still around his waist, watching as the whole team came alive around him. Greg was talking trash near the lockers, still shirtless, arms crossed over a stomach that clearly hadn’t skipped leg day since sophomore year. “I’m just saying,” he announced to no one and everyone, “Meat’s traps look like they could file taxes independently.”

Laughter broke like a wave. Tyler — Meat — grinned and flexed both arms with fake seriousness. “I claim ‘em as dependents. You should see the write-offs, bro.” Skip barked a laugh. He didn’t mean to. It just happened. Someone clapped him on the back.

“Yo, Skip’s got a sense of humor,” said one of the juniors, hair still frosted with shampoo foam.

“You sure this ain’t his evil twin or something?” asked another.

“Nah,” Greg chimed in. “Evil twins don’t have traps like those.”

More laughter.

“Bro, you should’ve seen the dumb crap the dude pulled in history class earlier! Man, I thought old man Larmer was gonna lose it on us for all the dumb stuff we said.”

Skip blushed — but it was the kind of blush that stayed. That didn’t crawl away in shame. His skin was warm, already flushed from the heat, and the sting of those words was oddly sweet. He flexed his shoulder just slightly, testing it. The muscle popped into shadow. Okay. Okay, yeah. That was real.

“I guess I just… never showed up before,” he offered, voice casual, but steady.

The response was instant — a few “Damn straight” and “Well you here now” and one dramatic “Welcome to the gun show, Skip”.

Meat winked across the room, towel hanging dangerously low on his hips. “That’s my boy.”

Skip felt it then — a click, not physical, not magical, but real. A moment of fit. He wasn’t just the quiet kid on the edge of the bench anymore. He wasn’t the weirdo with the device in his bag. He wasn’t even the guy wondering what the hell had happened this week. He was one of them.

And maybe, he thought as his leg brushed Meat’s when he stood and they shoulder-checked each other mid-laugh, maybe he always had been. He just hadn’t been awake to it. The talk kept coming — jokes about thighs so big the jeans screamed for mercy, comments about whose junk took up more locker space (purely hypothetical), arguments over whether “No Pain No Pizza” was a motivational quote or a personal attack. Skip threw in a jab here and there. A joke about Tyler’s hair product. A fake complaint that his towel had gotten “emotionally attached” to his glutes. They responded without hesitation — slaps on the shoulder, mock outrage, towels snapped in retaliation. The noise was constant, but it didn’t overwhelm. It carried him. And when he looked at Meat — hair wet, neck flushed, abs gleaming with aftershower sweat — he didn’t see the weird thing from a strange device. He saw his teammate. His brother. Someone with him, not because of him. Someone who had always been with him. Somehow. Skip tilted his head back and let the air hit his chest — it was hot, humid, and laced with cologne, but it felt like belonging. Like home, but louder. Stronger. Better. When the joke about Tyler juicing came (and it did come), Tyler raised both arms like a gladiator and yelled, “Creatine, sunshine, and discipline, baby.”Someone chucked a protein bar at him. He caught it one-handed and bit into it like a trophy. Skip laughed so hard he choked.

The locker room had thinned out a bit — most of the team had already hit the showers, thrown on clothes, and strutted out with the leftover swagger of post-practice testosterone. The air was still thick with humidity and the remnants of sixteen different brands of body spray, all battling for dominance. It smelled like victory, defeat, sugar-free gum, and someone’s suspiciously tropical shampoo.

Skip stood by the bench, towel still knotted low on his hips, hair damp and curling at the edges. His skin glowed pink from the heat, chest rising slow, steady. He felt warm and sore and weirdly… happy. Like his body had finally synced with something, and that something had legs, lats, and a best friend named Tyler.

Said best friend dropped a pile of clothes onto the bench with dramatic flair. “Suit up, soldier,” Tyler said, grinning like he was presenting holy relics. Skip looked down.

A pair of jeans. A very snug t-shirt that read No Pain, No Pizza. And a pair of gleaming white size 15 sneakers that looked like they belonged to a minor deity of protein powder.

“Bro,” Skip laughed, holding the jeans up by the waistband. “These are massive. You get these from a scarecrow or a fridge?”

Tyler tossed his damp towel over his shoulder like a cape. “Nah, Greg’s old pair. Trust me. You’ll fill ’em.”

Skip gave him a skeptical squint but couldn’t stop smiling. “Pretty sure I’ll drown in these. Like, lose circulation or dignity or both.”

“Just try ’em, bro.” Tyler leaned in, exaggerated whisper. “They’re magic. Brotherhood-activated.”

Skip stepped into them. The denim felt thick, worn in, stretched in all the right places — but stubborn. At first, it really did seem hopeless. The waistband hung low, the legs bagged around his calves like clown pants.

“See?” he said, laughing. “I look like an eighth grader in his dad’s jeans.”

“Patience, grasshopper,” Tyler said, crouching in front of him like a tailor who’d been raised on gym culture and slapstick. “Alright, knee up. Wiggle your hips. Stretch your toes like you’re stomping grapes.”

Skip obeyed with mock seriousness, snorting laughter as he nearly lost balance. Tyler pulled and adjusted and yanked the waistband up with expert precision, somehow bypassing all laws of physics. The denim caught, then cinched, then hugged. Skip blinked down.

“…Wait. These fit?” He turned to the mirror. “These actually fit?”

Not just fit — hugged. The jeans wrapped around his thighs like they were made for them, contouring thick quads that felt earned. Not fake. Not borrowed. Real. Tyler smacked him on the back. “Boom. Told ya. Brotherhood magic.”

“I thought they were huge,” Skip said, twisting at the waist to check the back. “Turns out they’re just… perfectly tight in every dimension.”

Tyler nodded sagely. “Like your destiny, bro.”

Next came the shirt. It didn’t even pretend to go on easy. The cotton stuck halfway over Skip’s head before catching on his shoulders. “Bro, I think this shirt’s trying to kill me.”

“Arms up! Twist your torso like you’re dodging accusations.”

Skip wiggled, flexed, and finally broke through, the fabric snapping down over his torso like it had been vacuum-sealed to his chest. The sleeves grabbed onto his biceps like clingy girlfriends. The collar sat proud around his neck, like it had something to say.

“Okay,” Skip breathed. “This is… tight.”

“Bro, it’s perfect,” Tyler said, smoothing the shirt down the front like he was proud of it. “Your delts are singing. Your pecs are throwing a party. Your abs are, like, slightly RSVP-ing.”

They both burst into laughter. Then came the shoes. The size-15 monsters sat on the bench like stone tablets. Skip stared at them.

“There’s no way. My feet aren’t that big. No chance.”

Tyler raised an eyebrow, cocky as hell. “You gonna disrespect my shoe judgment, bro?”

“I’m just saying, these belong to, like, a clown.”

“Put. ‘Em. On.”

Skip sat, tugged one on. Nothing. Then Tyler crouched, loosened the laces, guided his foot in, and said, “Now stretch your toes. Like you’re reaching for greatness.”

With one satisfying shove — pop — the heel slipped in. Skip stared. The shoe fit. Perfectly.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“Told you,” Tyler said, pointing a thumb at his own matching sneakers. “Same size. We’re synced. You really gotta trust me more.”

Skip looked up, grinning, eyes wide with disbelief. “I do trust you.”

Tyler leaned in, mischievous sparkle in his eye. “Yeah, well, wait ‘til you see the stuff I’m gonna make you do at the party tonight. Might wanna retract that statement.”

Skip burst out laughing. “Never. Full trust, full send.”

They stood, shoulder to shoulder in the mirror now. Matching jeans. Matching swagger. Twin smiles that could light up a food court. Skip fluffed his still-damp hair, tilting his head.

“You think I look okay?”

Tyler smacked his own chest. “You look dangerous, bro. Like if sunshine joined a frat.”

“I’ll take it.”

And then, as if on cue, Tyler whipped out a bottle of body spray — Victory Rush Xtreme — and unleashed a full five-second blast over both of them like he was blessing a congregation.

Skip coughed into his shoulder. “Holy crap, dude! That stuff has bite.”

Tyler fanned the cloud dramatically. “Remember, bro — always smells like winning.”

They laughed again — loud, bright, full-body laughter that echoed off the tile like celebration. Somewhere behind them, in the quiet shadows beneath the lockers, the PROTOFORM-9 pulsed with blue light.

BONDING: 80%

[SYNC LOCKED]

[DUAL PROFILE ALIGNMENT: 96%]

The screen flashed a single line:

“Dumb, loud, charming. Perfect configuration.”

And the door to the outside world opened wide. Skip and Meat — dressed, amped, brothers in everything but blood — stepped into the hallway. Same height. Same build. Same wide-shouldered, narrow-waisted silhouette. Their movements almost mirrored. The only difference, if someone really looked, was in the hair: Tyler’s was light blond, sun-kissed and tousled like a beach volleyball ad; Skip’s was a rich coppery brown, darker but with golden strands catching in the light, the kind of color that made you think of bonfires and autumn games.

A few players passed by, laughing, tossing out lines:

“Yo, the twins are loose!”

“Golden hour bros!”

“Somebody stop these two before they steal all the attention!”

Tyler and Skip just grinned wider, exchanging mock-serious nods like yeah, they would be a problem if unleashed unsupervised. And honestly? They kind of were. Skip felt something rise inside him — not adrenaline, not anxiety, just this… buzz. A happy hum under his skin. His legs felt light. His shoulders felt wide. He remembered earlier in the week, hiding in the back of gym class, hoodie up, head down. Not invisible exactly. Just… background. And now? Now he felt loud in the best way. Tyler slapped his chest, then Skip’s. “We look dangerous.”

Skip flexed his arms, the sleeves of his shirt straining slightly at the seams. “We look like we’d win the dance-off and the fight in the parking lot.” Tyler burst out laughing. “That’s my dude.”

⸻

The sunlight had claws. It scraped through the blinds in hot, diagonal stripes, cutting across the warped wooden floor and crawling up the rumpled bed like it meant to drag someone out of sleep by force. No apologies. No softness. Just the brutal honesty of a Saturday morning in late summer — dry air, scorched silence, and the relentless brightness of a sun that had no idea what kind of night came before. Skip blinked once, then again, then squinted at the ceiling as if it had betrayed him.

His head was cotton-wrapped static. His mouth was a patch of arid land left to crack and split. His stomach, a slow-turning barrel of regret. He let out a low groan, pressing the heel of his hand into his eye socket, as if pressure could push memory back into place. Something had happened. Something big. But the details came like half-torn receipts — flashes of music too loud, Tyler’s voice shouting “Let’s gooo!” in a sea of bodies, warm beer on his shirt, laughter that sounded like his but didn’t feel like his. And the name, his nickname— Skip. Chanted. Echoed. Branded into his ears. He shifted under the sheet.

The bed beside him was empty now, but warm. Still heavy with the shape of someone who’d only just gotten up. Someone bigger. Skip sat up slowly.

The room looked the same. And yet… not. His clothes were piled in a corner like they’d been peeled off mid-race. The Protoform-9 sat silently on the nightstand, its screen dark, innocent. A half-empty water bottle rested on top of a physics textbook he didn’t remember opening. Something about the air felt… rewired. Like the room belonged to someone slightly different than it had the day before.

From the kitchen: clatter. A burst of sizzling. A voice humming something upbeat and weirdly wholesome. He dragged himself out of bed, stumbling into a pair of boxers and the oversized shirt slung over the chair. His knees popped as he stood. His reflection in the hallway mirror looked older somehow — not dramatically, just slightly off-center.

The kitchen was soaked in warm light. It spilled in through the open window above the sink, touching the edges of everything — the white tile, the countertop cluttered with egg cartons and protein powder, the two mismatched mugs steaming side by side. And then there was Tyler. Shirtless. Tan. Hair damp and combed back like he’d just stepped out of a gym shower. He stood over the stove like he belonged there, flipping a pancake with one hand, balancing a glass of something green in the other. His back was to Skip — wide and cut, lats flaring slightly as he shifted. A faint scar traced his right shoulder blade. Skip didn’t know if it had always been there. He turned, grinning.

“Morning, bro. You look like someone ran over your frontal lobe.”

Noah tried to laugh. “That… tracks.”

Tyler slid a plate across the counter. “Pancakes. Eggs. Rehydration smoothie. You earned it.”

Skip squinted. “I don’t remember earning anything.”

Tyler raised an eyebrow, lifting his glass in a half-toast. “You don’t remember beer pong domination? You don’t remember body-slamming Derek into the kiddie pool? Bro. You were on fire.”

Skip pulled out a chair and sat slowly. The wood creaked under him. “I barely remember getting to the party.”

Tyler’s grin widened. “That’s what makes it legendary. You were in the zone, Skip. Crowd loved it. Everybody wanted to take pics with us. Said we were ‘the ideal duo.’ Like high school Meat and Skip but, you know, level 99.”

Noah let out a quiet breath, more reflex than amusement. Tyler said it like high school was some far-off chapter. Like Meat and Skip belonged to a different lifetime. Something in his chest shifted.

He glanced down at the shirt Tyler had tossed over the back of a dining chair — a white tank top, its cracked red letters still spelling MEAT across the chest. It looked like it had survived years of abuse: teenage sweat, half the states in the country, and god knows what else. Now it seemed ready to retire — wherever old clothes go when they’ve earned their rest. Tyler caught the look and followed his eyes, then gave a small, crooked smile.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding at the tank like it was a washed-up rockstar. “Pretty sure that nickname just wrapped its farewell tour. Last show, sweaty encore, sold-out crowd of zero.”

He let out a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Still… felt kinda good hearing that again.”

Noah looked up at him. Tyler’s face — the same boyish joy, but now housed in a jawline that looked sharp enough to file metal. His eyes had laugh lines. His traps pulled the skin of his neck tight when he moved. He looked older. Not older like a high school senior after summer break. Older like someone who’d paid rent and had opinions about taxes. Older like a man who could sign his own insurance forms. Noah swallowed hard.

“So what are you now, then?” he asked, keeping his voice light.

Tyler spun the spatula once, then gave him a look — not smug, just obvious.

“You know what I am,” he said with a shrug. “Ty. Coach. Lifeguard. Big bro. Pick your favorite.”

He turned back to the stove like the question didn’t matter. But to Noah, it did. Because if Meat was gone… and Skip was still here… what did that make them? The silence stretched, not awkward, but wide. Like a hallway that led somewhere neither of them had ever walked down before. Tyler broke it.

“Anyway. I’m hitting the gym before the shift. You in?”

Noah blinked. “The gym?”

Tyler tossed him a fresh tee — black, snug, with a tiny logo on the chest that looked suspiciously like something from a fitness influencer’s merch drop. “C’mon. You always lift with me Saturday mornings. Gotta keep tradition, right?”

Noah caught the shirt on reflex. It smelled like clean sweat and citrus. He looked back at Tyler — bigger, brighter, more distant in a way he couldn’t name. And he nodded. Because whatever this was — memory, fabrication, mission, dream — the worst thing he could imagine was watching Tyler walk out that door and not be part of it. Even if the story was being rewritten line by line, Skip wanted to stay in the chapter.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s lift.”

⸻

Skip stepped out behind Tyler, blinking against the brightness. The sunlight poured down without a trace of apology. It baked the sidewalk in dull white sheen, cast long, sharp-edged shadows beneath the trees, and made every color hum with artificial vividness — the red of Tyler’s gym shorts, the neon green of his shaker bottle, the soft cobalt of the truck parked in front of the house. Everything felt real. And also, just slightly… staged. Like a memory being replayed with better lighting. Skip adjusted the black tee clinging to his chest. It felt tight, like it had shrunk since breakfast — or like he’d somehow grown again without noticing. The joggers hugged his thighs with assertive familiarity, the waistband higher than he remembered. And the shoes… they squeaked faintly on the sidewalk. White, boxy, brand-new. A size that had once been too big. Tyler walked beside him, whistling something tuneless. His tank top — white, loose around the chest, tight around the arms — was soaked with light. His golden-blond hair was damp at the temples. He smelled like citrus body spray and fresh laundry. There was a slow confidence in his stride, the kind that belonged to people who’d been popular long enough to stop trying. They looked the same height now. Same broad shoulders, same gym-cut silhouette. If you passed them on the street, you might think: teammates. Fraternity brothers. Maybe even twins. But Noah felt the difference. It lived in the space behind Tyler’s smile. In the casual way he walked and talked — and in the memory of a life Skip couldn’t quite remember.

“You ready?” Tyler said, tossing his keys into the air and catching them with one hand. Skip shrugged. “As I’ll ever be.”

They climbed into the truck — Tyler’s truck, apparently — and the inside smelled like leather and vanilla protein powder. The AC hummed to life, filling the cab with artificial cold. The world outside blurred through tinted windows, summer heat smearing the edges of trees and stop signs into streaks of green and white. For a while, neither of them spoke. Skip hated that silence, but he didn’t know how to speak, how to start a conversation — and it ate him up inside. Things weren’t supposed to be like this. He stared at his reflection in the side window. The faint double of his jawline looked sharper today. His neck looked thicker. And still — he didn’t feel older. Not the way Tyler looked. Not the way Tyler was. It was Tyler — always Tyler — who noticed the weird tension and broke the awkward silence.

“You okay?” Tyler asked suddenly, eyes flicking toward him.

“Yeah. Just tired.”

Tyler nodded, eyes back on the road. “Big night. Legendary, honestly.”

Noah hesitated. “You said… it reminded you of high school?”

Tyler grinned. “Totally. Everyone calling me Meat again. Felt like senior year all over.”

Noah went quiet, lips parted just slightly — like he was trying to map out the timeline in his head, to understand what that really meant. Afraid of what he might uncover if he followed that thread too far. But he didn’t get the chance. Tyler turned into a parking lot flanked by mirrored windows and vinyl banners: Sunhill Club Fitness Center – Strength Starts Here. Beyond the glass: rows of cardio machines, racks of iron weights, glistening bodies in motion under fluorescent lights.

Tyler killed the engine and turned to him, already unbuckling.

“C’mon. We’ve got time to get chest and arms in.”

He tossed a towel into Skip’s lap. He caught it reflexively. Something loosened in his chest. Maybe it was the way Tyler said we, like they still moved in the same rhythm. Like the new job, the new body, the new role didn’t change the fact that this was what they did. Together. He followed Tyler out of the truck and into the gym. For now — whatever else was happening — they were still on the same team. Still bros. Still Skip and someone he could follow.

The gym smelled like effort. Rubber floors warmed by hundreds of soles. A sharp tang of metal from plates clinking against bars. The sugary bite of pre-workout in the air, mixed with the neutral detergent scent of over-washed towels. It was all so ordinary that it circled back around to surreal — like stepping into a dream about someone else’s routine.

The club fitness center stood under the midday sun like a temple to the body: tinted glass glinting pale blue, the logo stylized in chrome against the white stucco wall. Inside, the lighting was cool and surgical — rows of fluorescents humming softly above the machines. The AC was strong, drying sweat before it had time to settle. Pop remixes thumped from unseen speakers, underscored by the rhythmic rattle of cable pulleys and the occasional grunt from the free weights section. Tyler clapped him on the back. “Chest and tris, bro. Let’s kill it.”

They started with bench. Tyler loaded 185 pounds like it was nothing, lay back, and cranked out twelve reps — steady, clean, no ego. Noah took position next, and the bar felt natural in his grip. Too natural. He lowered it, controlled, pressed it back up with a grunt. Eight. Nine. Ten.

His triceps trembled but held. Eleven. Twelve.

“Hell yeah,” Tyler said, grinning. “That’s the Skip I remember.”

Noah exhaled, sitting up. “You keep saying that.”

“What?”

“‘Remember.’”

Tyler grabbed the shaker bottle and shrugged. “Don’t you?”

Noah hesitated. At first he meant to say no. But his mind offered a fragment: himself in a gray college hoodie, Tyler beside him, both sweaty and laughing, post-set. Red mats. A “Go Sunhill Tigers” banner.

It wasn’t clear. It wasn’t real.

But it felt good. It felt… true enough.

“Sort of,” he said, wiping sweat from his forehead. Tyler laughed. “Man, freshman year we were so dumb. You remember? You tried to impress that senior girl — what was her name, Casey? Cassie? — by maxing out on incline. Almost crushed your sternum.”

Noah blinked. The name didn’t mean anything. But the emotion did. That hot, reckless pride. A sense of ritual embarrassment shared between teammates. He could almost hear it — Tyler laughing, calling him a dumbass, helping rack the bar.

He smiled. “Guess I learned.”

Tyler offered the bottle. “Nah. We just got better.”

They rotated through machines — cable flys, dips, pushdowns — the kind of pacing only guys with shared muscle memory and inside jokes could maintain. Tyler kept the banter light: mimicking bad form he saw around them, doing bro-voice impressions of influencers, ribbing Noah every time he adjusted the weight up.

“Slow down, Skip. Leave some iron for the rest of us.”

But it wasn’t mocking. It was ritual. By the time they finished triceps, both had sweat darkening their tanks. Tyler’s golden hair stuck to his temples. Noah’s face was flushed, freckles blooming deeper across his cheeks. Their arms looked pumped, swollen with blood, glistening under the fluorescents like action figures pulled from packaging. They flopped onto a bench near the window, both breathing heavy but smiling. Outside, the sun painted long diagonal bars across the parking lot. Dust floated in the light like particles of a memory. Tyler leaned back, arms resting along the back of the bench like a king on his throne.

“Man,” he said, stretching his legs. “Feels good, huh?”

Noah nodded, chest rising and falling. “Yeah. Real good.” Tyler bumped his knee against Noah’s.

“Just like old times.”

Noah turned to look at him. And for a second, he wasn’t sure which memory Tyler meant. Was it yesterday? Freshman year? A party they hadn’t thrown yet?

He didn’t care. He just nodded, smiling wide.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just like old times.”

In the bottom of his gym bag, under the shaker and towel, the PROTOFORM-9 lit up. The screen pulsed with a soft green glow, quiet as a heartbeat.

  [BOND: 96%]

  [MEMORY MERGE: STABILIZING]

  [FINAL PHASE READY]

And Noah didn’t even notice. He was too busy laughing at something Tyler had just said — some ridiculous comment about how that’s just what brothers do.

⸻

They arrived at the pool just before noon. Skip didn’t know if it was their first day there, or maybe their last. He didn’t know — and he didn’t care. His memories were a mess. His body. The way he called himself. Scrambled like the twelve eggs he ceremoniously ate every morning. And still, none of it mattered. Because he and Tyler were together.

The air was sharp with heat — not gentle, not lazy. A high-noon kind of heat, dry and merciless, like the sun had been waiting all morning just to strike. Waves of it rose off the pavement in thin distortions, making the white concrete around the pool shimmer like something imagined. The tiles, slick with evaporated water and sunscreen, could sear the bottoms of your feet if you stopped walking too long.

Whistles cut through the roar of summer voices. Water slapped against the pool walls in soft rhythmic pulses. There was a constant undertone of laughter — explosive, rising and falling, carried by teenage boys, sunburned dads, shrieking kids. Over all of it, the faint stench of chlorine, grilled hot dogs, and ego-inflated cologne drifted like a flag.

Tyler walked like he owned the place. And maybe he did. He dropped his bag by the break room, already sliding into uniform — red trunks, white tank, aviators perched on his head like a crown. His whistle bounced once against his chest before he caught it with two fingers and spun it in a practiced motion. The lanyard, red and white, caught the light. His skin gleamed bronze under the sun, each muscle on his torso catching a different angle of brightness. You could’ve mistaken him for an ad campaign. Or a memory with perfect lighting.

“You ready?” he asked, slapping Skip’s back in passing. He turned. He was in uniform too. That stopped him cold. Blue trunks. White tee. The same logo across the chest in clean block letters. A whistle hanging from his neck, the plastic resting against his collarbone. There was a laminated tag pinned crookedly to the front of his shirt:

Nate.

For a second, the name glared back at him like a dare. He didn’t remember putting it on. Didn’t remember applying. Didn’t remember signing anything. But the shirt fit. The trunks hugged his thighs just right. The whistle in his hand had weight and wear, like it had been used all summer. His feet moved before his brain caught up — toward the far end of the deck, near the shallows, past a row of floaties and plastic cones. The water sparkled beneath him. Sunlight fractured across the surface in a thousand bright flickers. He adjusted his sunglasses. Took a breath. And began scanning the pool. The sun pressed down like a warm metal plate on his back — not punishing, but final. The smell of chlorine was grounding. The shrieks of play and distant thunder of cannonballs fell into place around him like ambient sound in a life already happening. He didn’t notice when the Protoform-9 stopped glowing in his bag or when the name Noah slid behind a wall in his mind, no longer useful, no longer attached to anything. Like an old online handle. Or a middle name you never liked. But he noticed the way Tyler looked at him. From across the pool, his brother raised two fingers in a mock salute, his lips curled in that cocky, lazy smile — the one that said we’ve done this a hundred times before. And maybe they had. Maybe they always had. And Skip - Nate - smiled back. Wide. At ease.

By 2:15 PM, the pool was a blinding mirror. The sun had climbed to its loudest point, turning the chlorinated water into a mosaic of liquid glass — thousands of tiny flashbangs bouncing off the surface and splashing across every reflective thing in sight. Speakers hidden behind hedges piped in lazy pop songs, bass-thinned and overcompressed. Children screamed and laughed in every direction, their limbs slick with sunscreen and uncoordinated energy. Somewhere near the deep end, a lifeguard blew a whistle, and two boys — all knees and elbows — went still like guilty puppies. The air smelled like coconut lotion and metal railings, and the concrete under Nate’s bare feet radiated heat with the consistency of a preheated oven tray. He shifted slightly in the white lifeguard chair, wincing as the plastic stuck briefly to the back of his thighs. He twirled his whistle around his fingers. The cord was slightly damp. The motion? Instinctual.

A few meters away, Tyler stood near the diving board, arms crossed. His posture was relaxed, but there was authority in it — the kind people don’t fake, the kind that’s earned over long shifts and longer summers. His white tank clung to his back in three perfect sweat lines. His sunglasses mirrored the water. Someone giggled nearby. A girl waved. He nodded back without looking. Nate glanced down at his own chest. His shirt fit differently than it had that morning — tighter across the upper pecs, sleeves shorter, higher. His biceps felt firm beneath the fabric, compact and warm in the sun. Not massive. But… real. Tyler turned toward him with a short whistle burst. “Yo! Water break? Nate nodded, hopping off the chair in a fluid motion. His legs landed strong. Even. His shadow looked solid in the concrete — shoulders square, posture straight.

They cut through the humid afternoon toward the back of the snack bar, into the small STAFF ONLY building. It was dim inside — concrete floors, low ceiling, metal shelving stacked with towels, coolers, old radios. A faint hum of a broken fan. It smelled like Gatorade powder, wet neoprene, and a lingering trace of body spray. Tyler tossed a cold bottle his way without turning.

“You’re getting better, bro.”

Nate caught it by the neck. Unscrewed the cap slowly.

“Better at what?”

Tyler leaned on the counter, arms folded, one foot resting against a shelf. “At being you.”

The bottle paused halfway to Nate’s lips. Tyler was still grinning, but there was something almost… nostalgic in his face.

“You used to overthink everything,” he said. “Remember? When you kept checking your reflection, biting your nails, asking if people were watching you weird?”

Nate blinked. “I— I don’t think I—”

“You did,” Tyler said, gently but firmly. “You’re different now. Stable. Chill. I like that.”

The sun had softened by the time they left the pool, but the heat still pressed like a slow exhale against the windshield. Shadows stretched across the pavement, long and golden, blurring the edges of the sidewalk and melting into the low hum of lawnmowers and cicadas. Tyler drove one-handed, his elbow resting out the window, salt-crusted sunglasses still perched on his nose. Nate sat in the passenger seat, a towel draped around his neck, skin warm and tight from the sun. The air inside the truck was thick with chlorine, coconut sunscreen, and something faintly metallic — the smell of sweat soaked into cloth seats and iron weight plates. His phone buzzed in his lap. A new thread lit up the screen.

Varsity Jocks 🏈🔥🔥

Bro u and Ty pulling up Monday?

Coach wants to know if u got eligibility lol

U both went OFF last night

Lowkey didn’t know u were that funny Skip

Off-season Friday nights = elite

Nate stared at the messages. He remembered the party. Mostly. The players were younger — some of them barely juniors. They’d been wide-eyed and loud, already drunk by the time he and Tyler showed up, still damp from the late shift. Someone handed them drinks. Someone else shouted “yo, lifeguards incoming!” and laughter cracked open the tension like a beer can. They’d played lawn football under the porch lights. Tyler had tackled someone into a kiddie pool. Nate had ended up arm-wrestling two guys at once on the porch table. He remembered someone chanting “Skip! Skip! Skip!” in rhythm with the pop music. It had felt… natural. Like they were exactly where they were supposed to be.

Except…

He swiped up from the bottom of the screen. No new messages.

Just one from his dad.

Hey, I’ll be away this weekend. You good?

Don’t forget to water the thing.

Love you.

Nate looked at the dashboard. Then at his reflection in the side window. Broad shoulders. Tanned skin. A jawline that looked sharper than it used to. He rubbed the back of his neck. The staff tee clung a little tighter than it had that morning. The tag still read Nate, slightly bent. The hum of the truck engine filled the silence. Outside, everything glowed with that golden hour hue — too perfect, too staged, like a memory trying too hard to be beautiful. Then— Clatter. Something tumbled from the side pocket of his bag, landing near his foot. The Protoform-9. He blinked. Hadn’t that been— He reached down, fingers brushing the plastic surface. It was warm. The screen lit up. Green. Bright. Pixel-clear. There he was: Coach. The same square face, same pixelated smile, eyes wide with pride. But now his cheeks were streaked with little 16-bit tears, dripping from the corners of his tiny cartoon eyes.

“Look at you boys…”

“God, you’ve grown.”

“You did it. Almost there.”

“I’m proud of you, champ.”

 [BOND 98%]

 [IDENTITY LINK: SECURE]

[FULL ASSIMILATION IMMINENT]

Coach sniffled, raised one trembling thumb, then the other. A proud parent in 64 pixels. Nate couldn’t speak. Ty glanced over, squinting behind his shades. “What fell?”

Nate quickly cupped the Protoform in his hand, tucking it against his thigh. “Just a thing.”

Ty didn’t push. He just nodded, flicked on the blinker, and turned toward home. A small silence settled between them. Outside, the breeze danced with dead leaves. Music played softly through the car speakers — something acoustic, distant. The kind of song you knew but couldn’t name. And inside Nate’s chest, something moved. It wasn’t fear. Not quite. It was more like a tug. A hollow echo. The Coach had smiled. The bar had read 98%. That should’ve meant something good. That should’ve felt like arrival. But instead a tightness bloomed beneath his ribs. A weight. A question with no language. Nate shifted in his seat. Glanced again at the name on his shirt. Nate. It fit. Didn’t it? His reflection nodded back from the window. But his stomach— his chest his breath— all whispered something else. And he didn’t know why.

⸻

The sun was already behind the rooftops when they returned. The street was dipped in that bruised pink-gray that summer invents on Saturday evenings — not quite day, not quite night. The kind of light that made everything feel dustier, smaller, worn out by time. Their sneakers creaked against the pavement. The gate groaned its usual metallic sigh. The mailbox still bore the name Caldwell, its blue paint flaking around the letters. Everything looked the same. But something was wrong. Nate turned the key in the lock and felt a flicker of dissonance. It slid in easily. Too easily. The door opened with its familiar soft clack. The house even smelled the same: detergent, old books, and the dry air of an A/C that never worked quite right. And still, it felt… off. He stepped inside. The carpet under his shoes. The half-sunken couch. The crooked photo frames along the wall. All of it was real. It was. But it felt like a replica. Like someone had recreated the house from memory, down to the way the fridge made that rattling cough every five minutes. Accurate. But shallow. Like walking through the memory of your childhood home in a dream. Tyler didn’t hesitate. He tossed his bag onto the couch and peeled off his lifeguard tee, rolling his shoulders with a satisfied grunt.

“Good shift,” he said casually. “Muscles need recovery time.”

Nate didn’t answer. He was still by the door, staring into the living room. Something cold settled behind his ribs. Something old. The house felt smaller. He moved slowly down the hall, each step met with a creak that seemed louder than it used to be. On the wall: photos. A younger version of himself beside Craig in a park. A birthday. A science fair. A smile that didn’t look like his anymore. That boy had thinner arms. Softer skin. Rounder cheeks. Eyes that looked up to people. He wasn’t Nate. Upstairs, his room waited — unchanged. The same desk, same posters, same hoodie he’d sworn never to wash. But the walls leaned inward. The bed looked narrow. The doorframe was too low. He ducked without thinking. In the mirror, he didn’t recognize the boy who used to live here.

His reflection stared back: older, harder. Shoulders broader. The white tee pulled across his chest. The name tag long since removed.

His jaw clenched. He stepped back.

A knock on the door. Tyler. Now barefoot, now dressed in only mesh shorts, a glass of water in each hand. He leaned against the doorframe, backlit by hallway light.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

Nate didn’t answer right away. He looked around the room again. Looked for evidence. For something that would tie him back. His drawings. The band shirt. The chemistry notes. All right there. All his. But they didn’t feel earned. They felt… left behind. He sat on the edge of the bed.

“This…” he said quietly, “this used to be my room.”

Tyler stepped closer, placed a glass on the desk. “Still is.”

“But it doesn’t feel like mine.”

A long pause.

“Because you outgrew it,” Tyler said. “We both did.”

Noah swallowed.

“We’re not brothers,” he whispered. “None of this makes sense.”

Tyler’s smile didn’t falter. But it didn’t reach his eyes.

“You think I don’t know that?” he said. And there was something in his voice. A crack — not of anger. Of heartbreak. He sat beside Nate, close but not touching. Then, gently, he took Nate’s hand and placed it against his own chest. Heat. Heartbeat. Bone. Sweat. Flesh.

“Tell me this isn’t real,” he said.

Nate didn’t pull away.

“Tell me I’m not real when I wait for your door to open every morning.”

He turned his head, eyes shining.

“Tell me it’s not real when we sit in the truck after practice, and you laugh at the dumbest stuff, and I think… yeah. this is it.”

“Tell me it’s not real when you forget to flinch. When you forget to hide.”

Nate - Noah - couldn’t breathe.

He stood, staggering back toward the desk. His hand hit the lamp. Then the notebook. Then—

A dull click. The PROTOFORM-9 screen flickered on. A dim, blue glow filled the room. Pixels sluggish. Audio compressed. Coach appeared.

Not smiling. Not triumphant.

Just… tired.

“Recruit.”

Noah stared, throat dry. “You can hear me?”

Coach nodded.

“Bond at 99.8%,” he said.

“Final decision required.”

The numbers pulsed on-screen.

Noah’s voice shook. “What happens if I say no?”

The Coach didn’t blink. But the glow dimmed further.

“We disengage.

Memory fragments remain.

Muscle structure resets.

Emotional tether… breaks.”

Noah looked at Tyler.

His chest rose and fell. Quietly. Bravely.

“What about him?” Noah asked.

“Tyler reverts to pre-material phase.

Data retained.

Body… discontinued.”

Noah staggered. His pulse was thundering in his ears. The room spun. He turned to Tyler. “Did you know?”

Tyler’s eyes were wet. But steady.

“I am real,” he said. “I don’t care what built me. But… I don’t want to go back to not being.”

The silence pressed down like weight on wet sand. Noah’s mind raced.

Memories. Not memories. Feelings. Impressions. Craig’s voice. A science teacher’s laugh. The way Lucy looked when she teased him. A dog that might’ve been his. None of them felt stronger than Tyler’s hand on his shoulder. Than Tyler’s voice calling him “bro.” Than the sound of two water bottles clinking after a long shift. Coach’s voice returned. Crackled.

“Choose.” Nate looked down at his own hands. Callused. Stronger.

He looked at the room one more time. And spoke. For the first time in many days — maybe weeks — maybe lifetimes — Noah, who had been Skip, who had become Nate, who had circled back into someone new altogether… Spoke.

— “Shut up.”

His voice came low. Heavy. Not angry. But final. Not to Tyler. Not even to himself. To the Coach. To that voice that had always been inside the screen. And now had no right to be. The display went dark. No flicker. No protest. Just silence.

And in that silence, Noah turned. The room felt smaller. Too soft. Too quiet. The air too dry, the walls too narrow. His sleeves clung to the wrong places. His collar sat too close. He was too large for this memory. Tyler didn’t move. He just watched. And then came the first wave:

heat. Not from outside. From within. A current rising behind the ribs — down the arms, across the chest — like blood finally waking up and finding a better map of the body. His shoulders buzzed. His spine straightened. His skin felt alert. He breathed. And everything aligned. Then the second: air. Deeper now. Sharper. His lungs took in more space than before — with a sound like a vacuum-seal breaking open. The taste of oxygen was richer. It smelled of salt and sun and damp towels drying in a backseat. It smelled like Tyler. And it smelled like himself — not old sweat and detergent, but skin and heat and testosterone, pulsing. Then the third: skin. The shirt was wrong. He tugged at the collar. The sleeves. They bit into his arms like paper. He pulled — and the fabric tore down the seams with a sound like an old book cracking open. The shirt slid off in two uneven halves.

Not because he was too big for it.

But because the boy it had belonged to was gone. Gone completely. Tyler took one step forward. His chest rose slowly. His mouth parted slightly — like he was about to laugh, or cry, or maybe both. But he didn’t speak. Not yet. Nate — because there was no question anymore — flexed one hand. His fingers felt broader. The bones taller. He looked at his reflection, step by step, like approaching a photograph he hadn’t seen in years. And this time, the image didn’t unsettle him. It fit. The chest: wide, not for show, but for function. The kind that took up doorframes. The abs weren’t sculpted — they were useful, tracking every breath. His delts sat high, naturally. His traps formed arcs beneath the neck. The weight of him — the way he carried himself — was heavier, grounded. The jaw… had changed. It was firmer now. Intentional. Less suggestion, more declaration. He dragged a hand across the line of his face — and felt stubble. Real. Gritty. Earned. And then came the smile. Not a grin. Not relief. But something like inevitability. A curve in the corner of his mouth. Like a puzzle finally snapping into place. Tyler stepped into the light. Now fully composed: tan lines, bare torso, solid frame. The look on his face wasn’t joy. It was recognition. As if something sacred had finally been restored.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, almost reverent. Nate nodded once. No need for words. Tyler reached behind the door, pulled out a clean white t-shirt. No logo. No school name. Just cotton. Size: perfect. Nate slipped it on. The hem fell clean across his waist. The sleeves hugged the curve of his shoulders. The collar framed his neck. Like it had been waiting. The Coach did not return. Didn’t need to. On the desk, the PROTOFORM-9 buzzed once — quietly. The screen lit up. No voice this time. Just words.

SYNC 100%

STATUS: NATE ONLINE

USER LOCKED.

And then it dimmed. The house stood still. Noah Caldwell had lived here once. But Nate Carson? He’d outgrown it. He walked toward the stairs. Tyler followed, one step behind — not as guide, not as witness, but as twin flame. As brother. The one who had waited. They didn’t look at the family photos. They didn’t glance at the bookshelf. Craig wasn’t home. Or maybe he was. But he no longer mattered to the active system memory. At the front door, they paused. The handle still creaked. The air still smelled like rust and summer grass. But the house behind them felt borrowed now. Like a place between chapters. Nate opened the door. And outside, the world met him differently. The light hit his face — and this time, he didn’t flinch. He stepped out. Tyler joined him. And when the door clicked shut behind them, it didn’t slam. It echoed. Like the final syllable of a name no longer in use.

Location: Northern Thailand – 9:12 AM – Filming Day #395

The jungle was a sauna with a superiority complex. Humidity clung to every surface like it paid rent. Vines wrapped trees in slow-motion strangulation. The air buzzed with a thousand insects who all thought they were the main character. Sunlight punched through the green canopy in heavy shafts, steaming off the wet earth like breath from a mythological beast.

Skip — which is to say, Nate, but no one really called him that anymore —again! — stood barefoot in the mud, GoPro strapped across his chest like a badge of recklessness. His swim trunks were a shade of red that used to be vibrant before almost two hundred days of fieldwork, and his tank top was so wet it had achieved a kind of permanent clinging state, as if it had emotionally bonded with his torso. He looked like a sponsored jungle demigod. Skin sunbaked to gold, hair pushed back in messy blondish tufts, posture loose and unbothered. He grinned at the camera.

— “Alright,” he said, gesturing toward the river behind him. “Today, Ty says we’re spearfishing. What he means is we’re gonna flail around in muddy water for forty minutes and then eat peanut butter out of a squeeze pouch.”

Behind him, Ty — shirtless, because of course — emerged from the trees, grinning like a man with too many ideas and not enough adult supervision. His body was a textbook on muscle memory. Shoulders so wide they had weather patterns. Shorts low on his hips, half-drenched. His curls were stuck to his forehead in wet, defiant tangles, and his left arm held a handmade spear that looked about 12% dangerous, 88% optimism.

— “Don’t knock the squeeze pouch. That’s gourmet trail fuel, bro.”

— “Is it? Because it tastes like regret.”

Ty smirked. “Don’t be a coward, Skip.”

Nate rolled his eyes so hard the GoPro probably captured orbital footage.

— “Oh, okay, Meat. Let’s just trust the man who once ate expired squid jerky because the package said ‘a hint of lemon’.”

— “It had a hint of lemon.”

— “It had botulism, Ty.”

Ty lunged. There was no warning. Just a blur of muscle and mud, and then they were both in the water — arms flailing, camera jerking sideways, muddy splashes swallowing most of the frame. The GoPro caught Tyler trying to trap Nate in a chokehold while shouting something about “dominance rituals.” Nate, gasping and laughing, retaliated by grabbing a fistful of river weed and declaring it “jungle seaweed salad.”

They broke the surface still wheezing. Nate floated on his back, tank top now a distant memory. Ty paddled next to him, grinning with that stupid older-brother confidence.

— “That count as lunch?” Skip asked, spitting water.

— “Nah. I think I saw something move under that rock.”

— “Cool. You go eat it. I’ll film the eulogy.”

Ty shrugged. “Better than that tarantula we grilled in Malaysia.”

— “That was your fault and your recipe.”

— “I stand by the spice rub.”

Skip wiped his face with one hand and let out a long, happy sigh. It was disgusting how content they looked — two grown men floating half-naked in a possibly cursed river, exchanging insults like it was currency.

A drone pulled away overhead, the camera rising past the canopy, revealing the wild sprawl of jungle around the glinting river. Two sun-darkened bodies drifted in the water below, limbs outstretched, laughter echoing like music through the heat.

Voiceover (Skip, in post):

“We didn’t catch a fish. Ty did wrestle something that might’ve been a log or might’ve been a demon crab. He lost, either way.”

Ty (off-mic, background): “That crab had intentions.”

Skip:

“I ended up with a cut on my knee and a tan so uneven it looks like I’m wearing beige thigh-highs. But hey — protein bar dinner by firelight hits different when you’ve been emotionally betrayed by the ecosystem.”

“Next week: Patagonia. Hang gliders. Wild goats. And a bet involving altitude sickness and a can of Monster Energy I am legally not allowed to describe in detail.”

🎵 Cue synth jingle

🟢 LIKE & SUBSCRIBE

🎥 Next Episode: “Altitude Bros – The High Road to Goat Town”

🐐 Starring: Skip, Ty, and a goat with a grudge.

⸻

The living room was dark, lit only by the pale glow of the TV. Craig Caldwell sat motionless on the couch, head buried in his hands, elbows digging into his knees. Around him: open soda cans, cold leftovers, and a disorganized pile of incident reports, screenshots, and notes scrawled in red ink and raw anxiety. Across the room, a half-open cardboard box still held Noah’s belongings. It had taken Craig weeks to even look at it. Now, everything was out of place — books, sneakers, taped-up collages, socks, and small, worthless trinkets — except one.

On the coffee table, spinning slowly between his fingers like a cursed coin, sat a small yellow device, oval-shaped, screen scratched and dim. It had taken him most of the past year to get that cursed thing back in his hands. But today, finally, he had it. The police had taken it, returned it, opened it, scanned it.

Nothing. No signal, no tracking chip, no record of manufacture.

The thing wouldn’t even turn on.

They said it was probably an old toy. That it meant nothing. But Craig knew better. The device was the only constant. The common denominator — besides Craig himself. So if that particular brand of hell had come back to life… it had to start here.

He didn’t know how. He didn’t know why. But he knew.

The police used all the usual phrases: “voluntary absence,” “runaway minor,” “potential romantic involvement,” “external influence. The mysterious boy — Tyler — had school records, a birth certificate, but no legal guardian, no real presence. And Noah was the one who’d introduced him. His closest friends said it started with the stupid device — that Noah got obsessed with it, and then with the “cousin.” His behavior turned erratic. Craig should’ve noticed. Should’ve known.

But he’d been absent… again…

He’d been absent for a long time, even when they sat side by side at breakfast or in the car. Odd, really — how he felt closer to his son now that real distance sat between them. No. He couldn’t go down that path again.

He felt guilty, of course — how could he not?

But not all the guilt belonged to him. The problem was, he had nothing left No usable security footage.

Just a name: Tyler Carson. But the boy had vanished off the face of the earth — and with him, Craig’s son. There was another Tyler Carson, of course Except that Tyler Carson was older. A traveler. He hadn’t even been in the city during the days leading up to Noah’s disappearance. There were videos proving he and his channel partner, Nathan Carson, had been somewhere in Sub-Saharan Africa wrestling orangutans. Still… the coincidences were staggering.

There were reports from Noah’s final days — from the football team boys (when had he ever shown the slightest interest in the sport, Craig wondered) — calling him “Skip.”

Just like Nate Carson was called. But to the police, that was all the more proof that the whole thing might’ve been staged Just some fan stunt. The cops laughed. “Maybe they were just superfans trying to impersonate their heroes.” Craig didn’t laugh.

The story spread like venom. True crime channels unearthed a name that had faded into myth. Liam Caldwell. Missing since 1998. Age 16. Craig’s younger brother. Another “promising boy” who vanished into thin air. Another teenager who walked out the door one afternoon and never came back. Never found. Of course, Craig had been questioned then. He was questioned now, too. People whispered in video comments: Two disappearances in the same family? You’re kidding me. That guy’s clearly the common denominator. First his brother, now his kid? Connect the dots already.

Craig stopped going outside. Stopped eating right. Stopped looking in mirrors. He started watching every video of the Carsons channel:

Carson Bros: Worldwide.

The algorithm learned fast.

Craig had watched everything there was to watch. From the rare interviews the Carson brothers gave, to their fitness apparel line that funded their nomadic lifestyle.

The now-famous segment where they met Bear Grylls — both of them tackling the older explorer like he was the quarterback on a rival team, though they were grinning through tears as they did it. Craig watched it all. Every single piece of content the mysterious bros had ever posted.

Every theory — were they really brothers? Or, as some fans speculated, actually a couple? Craig dug deeper than any fan ever had.

He scoured the Carsons’ lives. They weren’t actual brothers — despite sharing the same last name.

Craig couldn’t find the exact link between them. Maybe distant cousins, or just another odd coincidence stacked on top of so many others. School records led him to a small coastal town in California.

Football team photos from 2014 showed them side by side. But when Craig tracked down former teammates, no one could remember them clearly. The answers were vague, generic. Same with college. They’d both attended the same Florida school — Atlantic State University — on football scholarships. It was all there: records, photos, videos, documents.

And yet… it all felt flat. As if something essential — something human — was missing beneath the surface. Desperate, Craig even messaged their YouTube channel.

To his surprise, a reply came after weeks of silence — an apology, explaining they’d been in Siberia without Wi-Fi. The response was polite and sympathetic. They said they were sorry to hear his son might have tried to follow in their footsteps and disappeared. Shortly after, the Carsons posted a video plea asking for Noah — and the younger, mysterious Tyler Carson — to return. But nothing came of it. No leads. No breakthroughs. These days, Craig kept watching their channel more out of habit than anything else. And yet… sometimes, when Nate Carson appeared on screen, Craig felt a strange buzz under his skin. Something in the way the man yawned. The way he drew breath before breaking into that full-bodied, unfiltered laugh. Even if Craig had to admit — in the years since his wife’s death — there had been few of those laughs from his son. Still…

The video showed up with no sound — just another suggested link. Just another thumbnail. Craig almost scrolled past it. Until he heard:

— “We knew the raft wasn’t gonna make it, but Tyler said it was inflatable, not reliable!”

Laughter. Craig froze. That laugh. That exact laugh. Then something else pulled his attention. It was the device. The device was glowing. And when he turned it toward himself, the screen was no longer dark.

[PROTOFORM-9]

USER: Noah —> Nate

STATUS: LOCKED

The laugh echoed again — this time louder, closer — and the screen shifted to a GoPro angle. The younger brother turned and looked directly at the lens. And Craig saw it.

Noah.

Noah — in the way his brow tilted. Noah — in the way he moved, the rhythm of his shoulders, the twitch of a smile that pulled slightly more on the right. Older. Broader. Transformed. But not gone. He didn’t even feel himself breathe. The device pulsed softly in his palm. It felt heavier than before. Thicker.

[PROTOFORM-9]

USER: Noah —> Nate

STATUS: LOCKED

Craig stared. He didn’t move. But his body had already made the decision. His thumb pressed the button. The screen faded to black. Then lit again:

Confirm reactivation?

[Y] / [N]

No explanation. No manual. No “back” button. No “return to Noah.” Only forward. Craig’s hand trembled. His chest rose once, sharply, as if his breath remembered something his mind couldn’t. The voice of the boy on-screen still rang in his ears. The boy who was no longer a boy. The son who had become someone else.

He pressed.

[Y]

The glow on the screen brightened.

A faint hiss. A brief crackle. Static and white light. Then silence. And then — “Well, well…” The voice was unfamiliar. Digital. Small. Smug.

— “What a surprise, Craig Caldwell. But then again…”

— “…you’re never too old to optimize, are ya?”

[radtf69]

Judah the Jock

Judah had always loved the nightlife , the pulse of music vibrating through the floor, the neon lights that flickered like a secret code, the way the crowd moved as one living thing. Being out at the club was like stepping into a world where he could be entirely himself, with no filters, no judgment. His sharp eye for fashion, his effortless charm, and his genuine confidence made him stand out in the best possible way.

Tonight, Judah wore a fitted black shirt , paired with dark jeans and polished boots. His face carefully made up with a "no-makeup" makeup look that emphasized his bright eyes. When he laughed, the whole club seemed to light up. His friends had drifted off to dance somewhere else, so Judah decided to take a quick break and head to the bathroom to freshen up.

As he pushed open the heavy door, the sudden change in atmosphere hit him immediately. The bathroom was stark and fluorescent, a far cry from the colorful, throbbing energy outside. Judah wrinkled his nose as a strange smell hit him , pungent, sour, something almost sickening. He frowned and moved toward the sinks, but then caught sight of something he absolutely wasn’t expecting.

Near the far corner, a very straight-looking guy was standing over a passed-out young man sprawled on the floor. The “straight guy” looked like he had stepped right out of a fraternity recruitment poster, baseball cap worn backward, a plain white T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders, a cocky grin plastered on his face. Judah blinked, confused.

Then, without warning, the straight guy lifted his leg and let out an enormous, loud fart, a rancid greenish cloud that rolled directly into the unconscious guy’s face. The passed-out young man didn’t stir, but the smell was so foul that Judah felt himself gag.

“What on earth?” Judah whispered, staring in disbelief.

The straight guy noticed him. His grin twisted into something darker. “Well, well,” he said, locking the bathroom door with a sharp click. “Looks like you saw something you weren’t supposed to.”

Judah stepped back, hands raised defensively. “I don’t want any trouble. I just… I don’t understand what’s going on.”

The straight guy, Brock, narrowed his eyes. “You’re gonna forget you ever saw that. Got it?”

“No,” Judah said firmly. “I’m not forgetting anything. What you’re doing is ridiculous.”

Brock smirked, reached out, and grabbed Judah’s arm. It was surprisingly strong. “You don’t have a choice.”

Before Judah could react, Brock shoved him to his knees and, without hesitation, unleashed another loud blast right in Judah’s face. The rancid green cloud rolled over him, making Judah gag and cough.

“Huh,” Brock said with a cruel grin. “Usually, your kind passes out after the first one.”

Judah wiped his eyes, gasping. “Your kind? What does that mean?”

Brock didn’t answer. Instead, his eyes flicked toward the passed-out guy on the floor. Slowly, Judah noticed the guy’s body beginning to shift. His limbs grew bulkier, his posture straightened, and the soft features he’d seen moments before melted into the stereotypical image of a meathead jock , square jaw, thick neck, muscular arms.

Judah’s head spun. This was insane. “What’s happening?” he asked, voice trembling.

Brock chuckled. “It’s a little transformation. Some people just need a reboot.”

Judah’s mind raced. He tried to stand, but dizziness made him sway. “No. I’m not part of this. I’m not going to… change.”

Brock crouched down in front of him, the smirk never leaving his face. “Oh, you’re already changing. You just don’t know it yet.”

Judah swallowed hard, fighting the sudden urge to lose control. The smell thickened, curling around his senses like a dense fog. His body felt strange , his muscles twitched involuntarily, his hair seemed less styled, his face felt different, less sharp, less him.

“No,” Judah whispered fiercely. “I won’t let this happen.”

Brock’s eyes gleamed. “You can fight it all you want, but it’s gonna happen whether you like it or not.”

Judah’s heart pounded as the reality sunk in. He was trapped in this bathroom with a guy who seemed to be some bizarre agent of change, a guy who believed Judah needed to become something he wasn’t. The smell, the shifting sensations, the dizzying fog , all working together to erase who he was.

But Judah refused to give up. He gritted his teeth, pulling at the parts of his mind that held onto dance routines, fashion magazines, and everything he loved. He focused on the faces of his friends, the pride he felt in his identity.

“No,” he repeated, voice shaking but resolute. “I’m not giving up on myself.”

Brock only laughed. “We’ll see about that.”

Judah’s stomach rumbled, and despite his efforts, a sudden burst of foul gas escaped him, filling the bathroom with the same rancid green cloud. He closed his eyes in humiliation but refused to let the transformation win.

His muscles twitched again, feet feeling heavier in his boots, his armpits prickling with the first signs of coarse hair. His brain fogged as simpler thoughts pushed forward , football games, barbecues, hanging out with “the guys.” Yet somewhere deep inside, the vibrant Judah clung on.

He was determined to fight. To resist. To be himself , no matter what.

Judah blinked rapidly, trying to clear the thick haze clouding his mind. The rancid smell still lingered, wrapping itself around the cramped bathroom like an unwelcome fog. His throat burned from the earlier blasts, and every breath felt like inhaling something heavy and toxic. But more disconcerting than the smell was the strange feeling creeping over his body , like his muscles were tightening on their own, his hair losing its carefully styled shape, and a dull fuzziness settling into his normally sharp thoughts.

He shook his head, gripping the edge of the sink to steady himself. “This… this isn’t me,” he muttered fiercely. “I’m not… changing.”

But his reflection in the grimy mirror told a different story. His features looked subtly different,less defined, more rugged. His usually stylish hair was tousled in a way that made him look unkempt. His eyes, though still bright, seemed clouded with confusion and exhaustion.

Judah swallowed hard. “I’m not giving in. Not to this.”

But the fog inside his brain was relentless. Memories of the latest runway shows, intricate dance choreography, and the friendly faces of his closest friends began to slip away, replaced by flashes of football games, the smell of fresh-cut grass, and conversations about beer brands and barbecues. These new thoughts crowded his mind, simple and repetitive, like a playlist stuck on loop.

He tried to push them out, but each time he fought back, the new thoughts grew stronger, as if his brain was rewiring itself without permission.

Judah groaned and sank to the floor, wrapping his arms around his knees. “Why is this happening to me? I’m not like them. I’m me.”

The green haze in the room thickened, almost pulsating, as if alive. Then, without warning, his stomach gurgled fiercely. Before he could stop it, a sudden, loud burst escaped him , another wave of that unmistakably foul gas. Judah’s cheeks burned with embarrassment and frustration.

Brock, standing nearby with arms crossed and a smug grin, chuckled. “See? Your body’s already working with it. The mind’s just gotta catch up.”

Judah shot him a glare. “You think this is some joke? This is humiliating.”

Brock shrugged. “Life’s messy. You can fight it, or you can learn to roll with it.”

Judah clenched his fists, unwilling to accept this strange new reality. His body was betraying him , muscles growing heavier, feet feeling awkwardly larger inside his shoes, his skin prickling where rougher, darker hairs were beginning to sprout under his arms. Yet his heart still beat defiantly.

“I’m not done fighting,” Judah whispered.

The transformation was more than physical. He could feel his thoughts rearranging themselves , the complex tapestry of his interests unraveling thread by thread, replaced by a simpler, more primal mindset.

But Judah refused to surrender. He forced himself to recall his favorite memories , the joy of a perfectly executed dance routine, the thrill of putting together a flawless outfit, the warmth of friendship and acceptance. Those memories anchored him.

Suddenly, Brock stepped forward, looming over him. “You know, it’s easier if you just give in. The world’s simpler when you stop overthinking.”

Judah looked up, eyes blazing with determination. “I don’t want your world.”

The tension in the air thickened, but Judah’s resolve burned brighter than the fog suffocating him.

For now, the fight was far from over.

Judah sat on the cold tile floor, his back pressed against the wall, trying desperately to hold onto who he was. But the thick haze swirling in the cramped bathroom seemed to seep into his very bones. His limbs felt heavier, his once nimble fingers clumsier. Every breath was laced with the rancid scent Brock had unleashed, and it clung to him like a second skin.

The transformation wasn’t just physical,it was a slow erosion of everything Judah cherished about himself. The sharp fashion sense, the quick wit, the joy in dance and creativity,all now muffled beneath a growing fog of simpler, more primal thoughts.

He clenched his jaw. “I’m not giving up. Not like this.”

But the moments of resistance grew shorter, weaker. As the greenish cloud thickened, Judah’s mind began to betray him. Memories of football games, grilling in the backyard, and easy camaraderie flashed unbidden in his thoughts. He shook his head violently, trying to push them away.

“No. This isn’t me,” he whispered fiercely.

But even as he denied it, a strange part of him found comfort in the simplicity of these new images,the ease of belonging, the camaraderie, the straightforwardness. It was like a dull ache that begged to be soothed.

His body betrayed him next. His arms, once lean and graceful, felt fuller, muscles twitching with unfamiliar strength. His hands looked larger, coarser. His hair, once carefully styled, now lay in a rougher, messier tangle. He caught a glimpse in the mirror , the reflection looked like a different man, someone less familiar, someone stripped down.

His armpits prickled, and he realized new hair had begun to grow, thick and wild. A faint, earthy scent rose from his skin , raw and unpolished. He grimaced but couldn’t deny the strange sense of grounding it gave him.

Judah’s stomach rumbled fiercely, and before he could stop it, a sudden blast of foul air escaped him, thickening the green fog even more.

He lowered his head in shame. “This isn’t me.”

Brock approached, his grin wide and triumphant. “You’re starting to get it. You feel it, don’t you? The clarity beneath the fog.”

Judah shook his head. “No. I’m losing myself.”

Brock’s voice softened, almost coaxing. “Sometimes losing a part of who you are lets you find someone stronger.”

Judah wanted to scream. Instead, he just sat, the fight draining out of him like water slipping through clenched fingers.

Inside, a part of him was terrified. But another part,the part Brock was nurturing,was beginning to accept. Reluctantly.

He looked up, eyes glazed but still defiant. “I don’t want this.”

“Not yet,” Brock said. “But soon, you’ll see it’s not so bad.”

The transformation was no longer a distant threat,it was happening. And Judah was caught in the middle, torn between who he was and who he was becoming.

Judah’s world grew smaller , shrinking down to the hazy, stinking bathroom where the green fog clung like a living thing. His body felt heavier, slower, but it was the creeping shift in his mind that terrified him most.

The thoughts he’d once treasured , intricate fashion details, dance steps memorized after hours of practice, witty banter with friends , all began to fray at the edges, as if a slow eraser was wiping away the delicate layers of who he was.

Instead, his brain was filling with simpler, cruder images: the rhythmic pounding of a football on a grassy field, the crackle of a grill fired up for a barbecue, laughter echoing around a bonfire with “the guys.” The complex patterns of his past interests dissolved, replaced by straightforward, often repetitive thoughts.

Judah caught himself staring blankly at the mirror, watching as his face lost its familiar contours, settling into a more rugged, square-jawed shape. His eyes , once sparkling with vivacity , now held a duller, more focused gleam.

“No,” he whispered fiercely, fists clenched tight. “This isn’t me. This can’t be me.”

But the fog pressed harder, like a tide washing over him. Images flooded his mind: conversations about yard work and beer, memories of long afternoons spent shooting hoops, a deep sense of brotherhood and belonging he had never known but suddenly felt he needed.

He fought to push the memories back, to hold on to his old self, but the new thoughts came with a strange warmth, a pull he could not deny.

Judah’s stomach churned violently, and before he could stop it, a sharp release of the foul-smelling gas erupted again, thickening the fog. He gagged, his face burning with shame.

Brock leaned close, voice low but insistent. “Let it go. You’re not losing yourself , you’re shedding what you don’t need. The mind is a garden. Sometimes you’ve got to pull the weeds to let the strong roots grow.”

Judah’s eyes stung with tears of frustration and fear. “I don’t want to lose who I am.”

“You won’t,” Brock said. “You’ll become something new. Something real.”

The battle inside Judah raged fiercely, but the fog was winning. His memories scattered like leaves on the wind, replaced by simpler, more primal scripts. The mental tapes that once played his life’s passions were being overwritten with a new soundtrack , one of simplicity, strength, and belonging.

Judah’s voice cracked as he whispered, “I’m still me… I have to be…”

But the green fog swallowed his words, filling the space with the heavy scent of change.

The green fog hung thick in the bathroom air, a tangible presence now , a heavy, suffocating cloud that wrapped itself around Judah like a shroud. His breath came shallow, each inhale filling his lungs with the sour, pungent stench that seemed to seep deep into his skin. His body felt both heavier and strangely numb, as if some vital part of him was slipping away with every passing moment.

Judah stared into the mirror, eyes wide with fear and disbelief. The reflection no longer looked like him. His face was broader, rougher; the sharpness and finesse that once defined him had softened into something altogether different. His posture was sturdier now, less poised and more grounded, his muscles bulkier under the fabric of his shirt.

Inside, his mind teetered on the edge of something irreversible.

All the beautiful complexities of his identity , his passions, memories, hopes, and the very essence of who he believed himself to be , began to dissolve. Like shards of glass falling away, his old self fractured, scattering into the dense fog.

He felt a deep, agonizing emptiness , an identity death. The bright, creative spirit that had danced through life was fading, replaced by something primal, simple, and raw.

A voice echoed in his head, indistinct but insistent, whispering of football games, weekend barbecues, hanging out with the guys, and the straightforwardness of a life stripped down to basics. The tangled layers of choreography, fashion, and artistry were unspooling, replaced by rough laughter and the easy camaraderie of a super straight jock world.

Judah’s stomach churned violently again, releasing another thick cloud into the stale air. He gagged, but this time there was no fight left in him , only surrender.

His body moved with new confidence, clumsy but assertive. His feet, larger and heavier, planted firmly on the tile floor. His arms flexed unconsciously, muscles standing out like armor. Coarse hair sprouted thicker under his arms, and the earthy musk rising from his skin was undeniable.

And yet beneath it all, a faint ember of the old Judah smoldered , quiet, distant, almost forgotten.

Brock stepped forward, a knowing smile on his face. “Welcome to your new life. It’s simpler, stronger, and real.”

Judah’s lips parted, but no words came. Instead, a slow, idiotic grin spread across his face.

Judah took a deep breath, the stench still putrid but now a part of him. In this strange new form, he found a peculiar kind of freedom: the freedom to be uncomplicated, to belong, to start fresh.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

The bass thumped through the club like a second heartbeat, lights flashing in a chaotic rhythm. Judah pushed through the crowd with easy swagger, a loose tank top stretched over thick arms and a backwards cap perched low on his head. Gone was the carefully styled hair and polished look of the past , now, his tousled hair and rough stubble gave him the unmistakable vibe of a bro who owned the room.

He laughed loudly, slapping a guy on the back as they navigated toward the bar. “Bro, did you see that tackle last weekend? Total beast mode.”

The group around him erupted in cheers and hollers. Judah’s voice was booming, filled with confidence and just a hint of arrogance. His old self , the thoughtful, stylish, sensitive Judah , felt like a distant memory, buried under layers of bravado and muscle.

He caught sight of a few familiar faces from his old crowd. They looked at him with a mix of surprise and something else , pity, maybe, or disbelief. Judah didn’t care. He tossed back a shot without hesitation and grinned.

When a group of guys started talking about a party later, Judah was the first to jump in. “Count me in, boys. Let’s tear this place up.”

The scent of sweat, beer, and that unmistakable musk clung to him , a badge of the life he’d fully embraced. No more glitter, no more curated perfection. Just raw, untamed energy and the simple pleasures of the “bro” world.

As the music pulsed around him and the crowd surged, Judah raised his drink and shouted, “To the squad, to the night, and to never looking back!”

And with that, the old Judah was gone for good. The club echoed with his booming laughter, the sound of a new man who’d found his place, loud, proud, and unapologetically himself.

[radtf69]

Bond(ing).sys  - Part II

I swear I tried to keep this story to just one part — seriously, I trimmed it down as much as I could without cutting anything essential — but nope, it still wouldn’t fit. So yeah, here we go: three parts dropping at once.

This one’s inspired by the genius work of @maningup. I’ve been saying for months that I couldn’t come up with anything original… and then this guy drops one of the coolest ideas I’ve seen in a long time. So this one’s for you, man — hope you like it!

And I hope all of you do too.

The bedroom felt like it had been sealed shut for hours — stale air clung to the walls, thick and warm, just shy of oppressive. Outside, the late-summer sun had begun to set, filtering through the slats of the half-bent window blind in strips of dull gold and dusty orange. Each beam landed across the room like a spotlight, catching flecks of lint in the air, turning them into tiny floating ghosts. Noah sat at his desk in a loose, gray T-shirt that stuck to his back in a way that made him want to scream. The collar was stretched from tugging. His damp hair, freshly towel-dried from a shower that barely cooled him down, still clung to his forehead in sharp, uneven clumps. The fan on the floor oscillated like it resented the job — its wheezing buzz just loud enough to be annoying, just weak enough to be ineffective. A math worksheet lay flat in front of him, edges curled slightly from being jammed in his backpack all day. His pencil tapped against the wood in a slow, irregular rhythm. His handwriting was decent for the first two questions. Sloppier by the third. By the fifth, it looked like someone had been possessed by a sleep-deprived cryptographer. He rubbed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried again. Behind him, there was a thump — not loud, just distinct. Noah didn’t turn. He knows better. Then came the voice:

“This is boring.”

Noah’s shoulders tensed. Tyler was on the bed, shirtless now, in just his gray shorts — which seemed slightly tighter than they had that morning. He was lying on his stomach across the quilt, abs pressed to the fabric, legs bent at the knees, feet swinging lazily in the air like he was starring in some kind of 90s sitcom parody. His hair, as usual, was perfectly tousled in a way that suggested calculated chaos. There was a sheen to his skin — that post-shower, post-sweat, post-football glow — and a pink hue on his cheeks that hadn’t been there before. He was tossing a foam ball into the air and catching it one-handed. Noah didn’t look back. “It’s due tomorrow.”

Tyler groaned, flopping dramatically onto his back like a collapsed action figure. “It’s numbers. Who cares?”

“I do,” Noah said. Then paused. “Also my GPA. Also the state of my mental health. Also—”

“You promised.”

Noah turned slightly in his chair, just enough to make eye contact over his shoulder. “You promised first. Remember? ‘I’ll stay home, be good, don’t worry big bro.’ Then you show up at my school like you’re guest-starring in a CW reboot.” Tyler blinked, unbothered. “That’s not fair. I only went to see you.”

“You don’t even go there!”

“That’s not my fault. I’m not officially enrolled. Yet.”

Noah closed his eyes. Counted to five. Tyler sat up cross-legged, foam ball forgotten. His eyes glinted with a kind of stubborn glee. “You said we’d train together. That was the deal.”

“That was after you stayed out of trouble. Which you didn’t.”

“I helped you. You impressed the coach… I think.”

“I lied about your identity!”

“Still counts.”

Noah sighed. He dropped his pencil. Leaned back in his chair. The wood creaked under the shift in weight. His body was sore in strange new places — thighs, lower back, the inside of his shoulders. The fan hummed behind his leg like a lazy bee.

“I just want one night,” he said quietly, “where I get to sit down, breathe, and be normal.”

Tyler stood up. Stretched his arms overhead. His spine cracked audibly. Noah tried not to notice how solid his back looked — how broad his shoulders had become, how even the curve of his triceps caught the fading sunlight. He walked over slowly, barefoot on the creaky wood floor, and crouched beside Noah’s chair.

“Please?” he asked, voice softened. “Just thirty minutes. In the yard. We don’t even need equipment. Just you and me. Throwing passes.”

Noah didn’t respond. Tyler nudged the chair gently with his knee. “You’re not gonna focus anyway. You’re already mad. Might as well get sweaty and distracted with purpose.”

Noah looked at him — really looked — and something flickered in his chest. He couldn’t name it. Couldn’t justify it. Just that odd, low warmth again. Like Tyler wasn’t just a glitch in the system anymore. Like he was his glitch.

“I finish this first,” Noah said finally, turning back to his worksheet.

Tyler didn’t even argue. He grinned.

“Deal,” he said. “I’ll get the ball.”

And just like that, he padded off toward the closet — like this was the most natural thing in the world. Like he belonged there.

⸻

The backyard looked smaller than Noah remembered. Maybe it was the way the light hit it now — low and golden, bleeding through the trees like the end of something important. Maybe it was the tall grass that hadn’t been mowed in weeks, curling at the edges of the patio like it was trying to crawl back into the soil. Or maybe it was Tyler, already out there, barefoot on the uneven lawn, spinning a football between his palms like it had always belonged to him. The air was humid, warm in that suffocating late-summer way. It clung to Noah’s skin as he stepped outside, thick as honey. The sun hovered low, swollen and orange behind the house, casting long, crooked shadows across the fence. Somewhere, a sprinkler clicked uselessly in a neighboring yard, hissing against dry concrete. Noah hesitated on the porch. He wore a faded gray T-shirt that stuck to his back, and his softest pair of joggers — the kind that used to hang loose but now tugged a little at the calves. His sneakers felt tight. Not painful, just… full. As if his feet were starting to outgrow them. Tyler stood barefoot in the grass, in the same white tank top and shorts from earlier — though now, the tank looked snug around his chest, and the shorts rode higher on thicker thighs. His skin glowed, damp with sweat or humidity or both. His hair caught the last light of day like something animated. He tossed the football into the air lazily, then caught it against his hip with one hand. Noah watched him from the steps. And for a flicker of a second, he thought of his dad. Not the dad of now — tired, distant, stretched thin by grief and work and things neither of them talked about anymore. But the before version. The one who used to wear baseball caps backward and grill steaks on Sundays. The one who taught him how to throw a spiral in this very yard, years ago, when the grass was shorter and the shadows seemed smaller. He could still hear his voice:

“Thumbs together. Aim for the chest. Don’t overthink it — feel it.”

Noah didn’t remember if the pass had landed. Just the laugh that followed. He hadn’t heard that laugh in years.

“Ready?” Tyler called, spinning the ball. His voice had a new depth to it — not deep, exactly, but fuller. Confident.

Noah took a breath and stepped down into the yard. “Let’s just get this over with.”

The first throw hit his chest hard and clumsy — not painful, but surprising. He caught it by instinct, more hugging it than receiving it, and stumbled back a step. Tyler snorted. “Okay, so… we’re starting from zero.”

“I caught it,” Noah muttered.

“Barely.”

He threw it back — a spiraling duck, flapping through the air like it had second thoughts. Tyler caught it effortlessly. “That was… gravity-defiant.”

“Shut up and throw.”

The second throw was marginally better. The third was worse. The fourth hit Tyler square in the stomach — which he pretended not to notice. They kept going. Back and forth. Back and forth. Noah missed. Tyler coached. Noah missed again. Tyler slowed it down. He showed how to plant his feet, how to move from the hips, how not to panic when the ball was in the air. And slowly — impossibly — Noah improved. He managed a catch. Then a solid throw. Then a sprint across the lawn, catching the ball mid-stride with a surprised laugh that almost startled him. They kept playing as the sky turned purple. As the heat sank into the ground and the breeze finally returned — soft and brief, rustling through the untrimmed hedges. The house behind them lit up with the warm yellow glow of porch lights and kitchen windows. Noah was sweating through his shirt, lungs burning, legs aching. But he was smiling. He hadn’t smiled like that in months. Not at school. Not at home. Not anywhere that counted. At one point, he tripped in the grass and landed flat on his back. The football rolled off into a patch of weeds. He didn’t move. Tyler dropped down beside him, hands behind his head, eyes on the sky.

“That slide was… elegant,” he said.

“Shut up,” Noah replied, breathless.

“Real dolphin energy.”

“I said shut up.”

They play for almost two hours. The sun dipped behind the fence. The sky grew soft.

And Tyler said, “Pizza?”

Noah turned his head slowly.

“With meat.”

“Like… a lot of meat.”

“And milk.”

“…You want pizza with milk?”

“Bulking, bro.”

Noah laughed. Loud and stupid and full-bodied. His chest shook. His legs kicked the grass. It wasn’t just funny. It was relief. It was stupid, impossible, absurd — and it was also real.

But this — this — wasn’t the same. There was no effort here. No chaos. No edge. Tyler, who didn’t belong in this world, but somehow fit into Noah’s space like it had been carved for him. Tyler, who ate like an animal and grinned like a cartoon and threw footballs like dreams meant something. It was new. It was weird. It was… comfortable. Like breathing easier for the first time in years and not realizing you’d been holding your breath. The living room had quieted into a lazy sprawl of leftovers and sweat. The TV still muttered reruns to no one in particular — Bear Grylls now somewhere tropical, shirt torn, holding a snake like it owed him money. The fan above ticked in slow circles, slicing the warm, late-summer air into useless pieces. The pizza boxes on the coffee table glistened under the soft yellow light from the hallway, slick with pepperoni grease and dotted with half-finished crusts. The milk jug leaned sideways in defeat. Noah sat back on the couch, body limp with saturation. His T-shirt clung to the soft dome of his stomach, his eyelids were heavy, and there was an almost holy silence between them — the kind of silence that only happened after too much food and too much laughter. Tyler lay nearby, legs sprawled, hair fluffed and messy from too much movement and not enough care. He looked like a dog after a long run and a meal, which was honestly not far from the truth.

Noah sighed, dragged a hand over his face, and announced, “Okay. Time to sleep.”

Tyler didn’t move. Then, without even opening his eyes, he muttered, “Gonna be a tight squeeze in your bed.”

Noah froze. He turned his head very slowly. “What did you just say?”

Tyler opened one eye. “I said,” he repeated, as if it were the most casual thing in the world, “it’s gonna be tight, but I’ll manage.”

Noah stared. “You are not sleeping in my bed.”

Tyler rolled onto his side, propped up on an elbow, and blinked at him innocently. “Why not? I slept there last night.”

Noah opened his mouth. Closed it. Reopened it. Then finally blurted, “You were inside an egg. In a digital device. The size of a match box.”

Tyler squinted, then grinned. “Still counts.”

Noah just shook his head, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like what even is my life. Then Tyler sat up fully, cracked his neck, and clapped his hands once.

“Alright then. Whoever gets there first claims the bed.”

“What—” Noah blinked. “No, absolutely not.”

Tyler was already on his feet.

“Tyler.”

“Three—”

“No.”

“Two—”

“I swear—”

“One—GO!”

He was off like a missile, bare feet slapping across the hardwood with zero dignity. Noah scrambled to stand, nearly tripped on an empty pizza box, and chased after him, heart pounding more from disbelief than actual effort.

“TYLER! That’s NOT how beds work!”

“I’m making it how they work!” Tyler laughed, whipping around the hallway corner. They crashed through the hallway like two very loud children who’d never been taught about personal space or boundaries. Noah caught the back of Tyler’s shorts once — for half a second — but it slipped from his grip like it was greased.

“I hate you!” he shouted, gaining on him.

Tyler grinned over his shoulder. “Impossible! I’m loveable!”

He body-checked the doorframe as he turned and hurled himself onto Noah’s bed with a full-body leap. He landed with a heavy WHUMP, the mattress audibly wheezing beneath his weight. One of the support slats beneath cracked with a very specific kind of dangerous noise. Noah stumbled into the room seconds later, wide-eyed. “ARE YOU SERIOUS?!”

Tyler spread out like a king. “Already warm.”

“You’re gonna break it.”

“It’s just making room for the muscle.”

Noah threw his arms in the air. “Get. Off.”

Tyler folded his hands behind his head, smiling like a billboard. “Nope.”

“I will drag you.”

“You already tried earlier. Didn’t work, remember?”

Before he could talk himself out of it—before the voice in his head could shout “What are you doing?”—Noah lunged. They collided like drunks in a mosh pit, all knees and elbows and grunted insults. The bed bounced like a trampoline, the springs protesting in loud metallic squeals. Noah got one arm around Tyler’s middle, tried to pull him off, but Tyler twisted with ease, flipped him like a pancake, and yelled, “Misdirection, baby!”

They rolled, legs tangled, knocking pillows and half the blanket onto the floor.

“Get OFF—!”

“You started this!”

“I swear to God—!”

Then, with a loud double-thump, they rolled off the bed and hit the hardwood floor. Silence. Then laughter. Uncontrolled, breathless, stupid laughter. Noah was on his back, one leg still half-hooked over the edge of the mattress. Tyler lay beside him, arms out like he’d just completed a trust fall with the universe. Both of them were sweaty, rumpled, and red-faced.

“You’re insane,” Noah said between gasps.

“You tackled me, dude!”

“You stole my BED!”

“You who couldn't win over.”

“You smell like pizza and poor decisions.”

“You love it,” Tyler said smugly.

Noah didn’t answer.

He just rolled onto his stomach, pushed himself up—and bolted. Tyler yelped, too slow. By the time he scrambled back to his feet, Noah had already claimed the high ground—sprawled across the center of the bed, wrapped in the blanket like a smug human burrito.

“Victory,” Noah whispered, eyes closed. Tyler stood at the foot of the bed, panting. Then squinted. “This is war.”

Noah didn’t move. “You can sleep on the floor. Peasant.”

Tyler stuck out his tongue. “Unjust.”

“You want in, you sleep beside. Not with.”

There was a beat of mock outrage.

Then surrender.

“Okay! Hey! Where are you going?” Asked Tyler, seeing Noah rise from the object of their dispute as if it were no big deal.

“To get the mattress, obviously!” Noah shouted over his shoulder. “If you’re on my bed when I get back—”

He paused at the door.

“—I’m cutting your protein intake for. I’ll swap your post-workout shake for almond milk and kale. Don’t test me.”

Tyler gasped like he’d been shot. “You monster.”

Noah didn’t answer. He crossed the hallway in search of the guest room mattress. The thing hit the bedroom floor with a whump of finality. Foam meeting wood. No drama, no struggle. Noah blinked. He had expected to wrestle with it— to grunt, maybe bump a knee, curse about narrow doorframes and old house angles. But the rolled pad, awkward in shape and size, had slid through his arms like it weighed nothing. Weird, he thought briefly, but dismissed it. Everything had been weird this week. One more thing on the pile.

Across the room, kept his word and waited for him, sitting quietly (almost) at the study table chair. He raised a lazy eyebrow as Noah returned.

“You were gone forever, man.”

“I was gone two minutes.”

“I almost died of loneliness.”

Noah shot him a look as he dropped a folded sheet on top of the mattress. “You sound like a golden retriever.”

“Compliment accepted.”

Noah bent to smooth the bedding, back cracking slightly with the movement — and caught Tyler’s eyes on him again.

“What?” Noah asked, without looking up.

“You carry stuff different now,” Tyler said casually, as if noting cloud shapes. Noah snorted. “You’re delirious from dairy.”

Tyler grinned peering down at his new floor throne. “That’s my bed?”

“Yeah,” Noah replied. “Enjoy your peasant suite.”

“Betrayal,” Tyler said, voice heavy with theatrical despair. “After all we’ve been through.”

Noah flopped onto his own bed, the blanket already halfway over his shoulder. “File a complaint with Protoformer Customer Support. And if you find their number, let me know — I’ve got a few things to report myself.”

Tyler sighed, muttered something about “brotherhood violations,” and slid down with exaggerated suffering onto the mattress, limbs sprawling like someone being crucified for crimes against comfort. The room quieted. For the first time in hours, there was no pizza, no shouting, no thuds or sports commentary. Just crickets outside the window. The low hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen. The fan turning slowly above, blades squeaking like an old songbird. Noah adjusted the pillow under his head and stared at the ceiling, thoughts floating but not quite forming. That quiet should’ve been sleep. But of course, Tyler wasn’t done.

“Hey, Noah?”

Noah sighed through his nose. “What now.”

Tyler shifted under his blanket. “Do you think Bear Grylls ever had a brother?”

“Oh my God.”

“I just think, like, if I had a brother, we’d totally survive in the wild.”

“You wouldn’t last an hour without cheese.”

“You say that like it’s not a core nutrient.”

Noah grabbed the spare pillow at his side and flung it down in a single practiced arc. It landed square on Tyler’s face with a satisfying thwump.

“Sleep.”

“Mmph.”

“I swear to God—”

“Fine, fine!” Tyler chuckled, tossing the pillow back without force. “Just saying, if a bear attacks, I’m saving you first.”

“That’s comforting.”

“I’d avenge you. Like, real dramatic. Eye-for-an-eye stuff.”

“Tyler.”

“Yeah?”

“Sleep. Tryout’s tomorrow. You want to impress the coach, right?”

A beat of silence. Then, a quiet “…yeah.”

Another sigh, but this one gentler. Blankets rustled. Limbs stilled. Tyler curled toward the wall, one arm tucked under his head. His breathing evened out almost instantly. And then… the snoring began. Not obnoxious. Not even loud. Just… steady. A low, warm rhythm. Real and present and stupidly reassuring. Noah stayed awake a little longer. He listened. Not to the house, not to his thoughts — but to that. That sound. That weight beside him on the floor. That impossible boy, who two days ago didn’t exist, and now had pizza grease on his shirt and dreams under his breath. He thought about Lucy — sharp and rebellious, with a brain wired for defiance. And Zach, wild and unfiltered like a sitcom character come to life. He loved them. But this? This was different. This wasn’t laughter at the world. It was laughter with it.

He Knew Tyler’s presence was Impossible. And yet he hadn’t even tried to understand it today. He hadn’t called anyone. Hadn’t asked what Tyler was. Hadn’t planned an escape or a confrontation or a logical solution. He had just lived.

And now, he breathed beside him like he belonged there. Noah closed his eyes. And the last thing he heard before sleep folded him in? Tyler’s soft snore — like the engine of some strange, ridiculous new life — gently thrumming through the room.

Friday morning. Painfully early. And something had pulled him out of sleep.

Noah’s eyes fluttered open to golden stripes of sunlight cutting across the room in diagonal bands, turning floating dust into glitter. The fan was off. The air felt still, like it had given up trying to circulate. It smelled like sweat, old cotton, and faintly — absurdly — like scrambled eggs. And there was weight. Warm, heavy, human weight. Pressed against his side. Noah blinked hard, then turned his head with a growing sense of dread.

No. No way. He wouldn’t.

I told him not to.

Tyler was curled against him like a content Labrador. One arm draped casually over Noah’s waist, one long leg flopped over both of his like this was some kind of sleepover from a forgotten childhood cartoon. He looked ridiculously peaceful. Noah shot upright.

“Tyler—!” he hissed. “I told you to sleep on the floor.”

Tyler groaned, rolling onto his back and blinking up at him. “I did. I was on the floor. I swear. But it got cold. And lonely.”

“You had a blanket, man! And a pillow! You had a whole setup!”

Tyler sat up now, rubbing one eye and yawning wide. “Yeah, but the carpet’s weird. And I woke up early. Real early. Made us breakfast. Then you looked cold and…”

He grinned. “I upgraded to mattress proximity.”

Noah squinted. “You mean you crawled back in here.”

“Not crawled. Climbed. Casually. With respect.”

He patted Noah’s knee. “Good morning, by the way. Big day.”

Noah just groaned and flopped back down.

This is insanity. I’m living with an AI-generated Labrador retriever in human form.

Tyler was already up, hoodie bunched around his waist, boxer briefs clinging to thighs that looked genetically engineered. He padded out of the room with a spring in his step. Noah dragged himself up, blinking against the heat. The morning air already clung to his skin like syrup. His shirt — same one from yesterday — felt even tighter. He tugged it down and muttered, “This better be a dream or a brain tumor.”

Downstairs, the house smelled like a breakfast commercial. Coffee, bacon, and — yes — scrambled eggs. The kitchen glowed with late morning light, everything too bright and real. The open window let in a slow wave of summer warmth. Tyler stood at the stove with one foot tapping to a beat only he could hear, spatula in hand, flipping eggs with practiced confidence.

“You’re up! Plates almost ready,” he said. “Didn’t wanna wake you, but we gotta eat fast if we’re gonna crush that tryout.”

Noah rubbed his face. “You’re gonna crush it. I’m gonna sit in the bleachers and have a panic attack.”

Tyler turned and gave him a grin so genuine it made Noah wince.

“You’re coming. Coach said early’s best. We show up early, we show we care.”

Noah raised an eyebrow. “Tyler… how do you even know what Coach said?”

Tyler flipped the eggs again with a wink. “Let’s just say the Coach and I are… synced.”

At the table, two plates were waiting. Perfect symmetry. Eggs, toast, bacon, half an avocado. And next to each: a shaker bottle filled with beige liquid.

Noah squinted at them. “Do we own those?”

Tyler shook his head. “Found ‘em by the sink.”

A beep sounded.

PROTOFORM-9 sat upright by the salt, screen glowing.

Coach:

“Protein consumed in the first 30 minutes after waking improves absorption. Get to it, recruit.”

Noah exhaled slowly. “I am not discussing protein metabolism with a 16-bit hallucination before 9 a.m.”

Coach:

“Well maybe that’s why your max bench is emotional disappointment, sweetheart.”

Tyler choked on his toast from laughing.

Noah stared at the bottle. He drank.

It wasn’t bad. He hated that it wasn’t bad.

I’ve lost control of my life.

I’m letting a bootleg Tamagotchi bully me into nutrition.

After breakfast, Tyler brushed his teeth using Noah’s toothbrush.

“Are you serious?” Noah snapped.

Tyler shrugged, toothpaste foam in his grin. “What’s mine is yours, right?”

“And those shoes?” Noah pointed.

Pristine sneakers, perfectly fitted, no brand visible.

Tyler looked down. “No idea. I woke up and they were just… there.”

Noah stared at him.

They match his outfit.

He has an outfit.

Tyler picked up the device, screen blinking with new alerts.

“Coach gets what’s necessary,” he said simply.

⸻

Fairview Ridge High – 6:41 a.m.

The passenger seat of a silver ’09 Ford Focus smells like old fries and regret.

Noah griped the steering wheel like he was driving a getaway car, even though they were crawling through the school parking lot at an aggressively uncool 12 miles per hour. The dashboard rattled. The AC made a wheezing noise every time it exhaled. And somewhere under the passenger seat, something metallic clinked whenever they hit a bump — possibly a wrench, possibly a ghost. In the passenger seat, Tyler was trying to buckle his cleats.

“Dude, do you even own a gym bag?” Noah snapped, eyes flicking between the road and Tyler’s knees, which were halfway in his lap. “You can’t just lace up in a moving vehicle!”

“I can and I am,” Tyler said, jamming the tip of a black cleat against the glove box. “Also, this car smells like McSadness.”

“It’s my dad’s. Emergency use only. You were the emergency, remember?”

Noah made a strangled noise and pulled into the last open parking spot, skidding the front tires into the curb with a soft but accusatory thud. Both boys jolted forward slightly in their seats, the momentum of adolescent bad decisions catching up to them. For a second, there was silence. Then Tyler, completely unfazed, reached for a half-crushed banana from the cup holder and took a bite.

Noah stared at him.

“That was from at least monday.”

“Flavor improves with age.”

“You’re going to throw up on the field and Coach DeWitt’s gonna make me clean it.”

Tyler chewed thoughtfully. “Worth it.”

——

The sun was already unapologetic. The sky above was crystal blue, with a single menacing hawk circling like it had money on the game. The turf shimmered. The air felt thick — not swampy, exactly, but dense, like someone had set the humidity to “microwave popcorn bag” and walked away.

Noah jogged beside Tyler toward the field, squinting through the heat shimmer. The bleachers were half-empty, scattered with gear bags and a few upperclassmen players stretching lazily in the shade. Somewhere near midfield, Coach DeWitt stood like a boulder in a visor.

Tyler stopped, hands on his hips, and took it all in with a huge grin. His white tank top, already damp at the collar, bore the number 89 in what looked like a mix of Sharpie and divine prophecy. His mesh shorts hung loose but clean, and somehow even his mismatched cleats looked deliberate — like he was trying to start a trend.

“Okay,” he said, bouncing on his heels. “On a scale from one to America, how football do I look?”

“You look like a cartoon character from a cereal box that got kicked out of the Olympics,” Noah muttered.

“I’ll take that as a 9.5.”

Tyler turned and smacked Noah lightly on the butt with the back of his hand.

“Hey!” Noah flinched. “Hands off the emotional support introvert.”

“Just spreading the game-day spirit, man.”

From across the field, Coach DeWitt blew his whistle and gestured them over with a half-wave, half-swatting motion. A couple linemen looked up from their stretches and exchanged glances.

Noah glanced sideways at Tyler. “Okay. Just don’t show off too much.”

“No promises.”

“Seriously.”

Tyler grinned and whispered: “I’m gonna show off so hard.”

They jogged the last stretch onto the field together, turf blades crunching faintly underfoot.

Noah stood on the sideline, arms folded, the fabric of his shirt sticking to his lower back. His jeans were a bad idea. So were the socks. But he wasn’t thinking about that. His eyes were locked on the field. On Tyler. The first drill was a speed ladder, and Tyler ate it alive. He moved through the rungs like his bones had springs. Feet tapped in rhythm — left-right-left-right-pop-pop-pop — faster than seemed reasonable. He didn’t flail. He didn’t stumble. His shoulders were relaxed, his arms moved in tight arcs, and when he reached the end of the ladder, he stuck the landing like a gymnast in sneakers.

“Fast twitch response is stupid good,” muttered one of the linebackers watching. “That kid even blink?”

Coach DeWitt grunted, scribbling something on his clipboard with aggressive enthusiasm. The moment Tyler looked over and spotted Noah watching, he threw him a peace sign and winked, his face gleaming with sweat and joy. Not cocky joy. Honest joy. The kind of smile that lit up his whole face and made his eyes squint unevenly, like a kid who didn’t know he was being cool. Noah didn’t smile back — not externally, anyway. But something deep in his chest shifted. Not jealousy. Not confusion. Pride. That was it. Pride, spiked with the strangest twinge of secondhand euphoria. He looks like he belongs here, Noah thought. Like he was made for this field.

And I got to watch him hatch.

I fed him pixel broccolli.

“Alright, stretch and reset!” barked Coach DeWitt. “We’re doing corner cone drills. See how he reads the changes.”

The team scattered to make space. Orange cones were placed in a crooked zigzag, about 20 yards long. Tyler stepped into position like he already knew what was expected. DeWitt hadn’t said a word to him, but Tyler crouched slightly, neck loose, arms relaxed — and waited for the whistle.

Tweet!

He was off. Noah couldn’t breathe. Tyler exploded from the line, cutting around each cone with the smooth, rounding gait of a racehorse, not a teenager. His cuts were sharp, but not panicked — it looked almost choreographed. Like his hips had an internal gyroscope and his center of gravity was preternaturally locked. The coach called an audible route shift mid-drill, and Tyler responded before the sentence finished, shifting diagonally and still managing to plant on his outside foot. He ran like someone had written his movements into the script of the day. And he never once looked rushed. At the end of the drill, he skidded to a stop, panting, a smear of green-black rubber stuck to his shin.

“Again,” said DeWitt, eyes sharp. “Same course. This time backwards.”

Noah winced. That was brutal. Side-stepping the cones in reverse was where most guys tripped up. The mental map had to be flipped — you couldn’t just memorize steps. You had to feel it. Tyler did it better the second time. No flinch. No hesitation. Just momentum, control, and a jaw clenched in focus that Noah had never seen on him before. The guy who wore a banana peel as a hat minutes ago now moved like he was being recruited for a combine showcase. When the drill ended, the players clapped. Not ironically.

“Okay,” said DeWitt, his voice louder now. “Let’s try receiving. Jacobs, throw.”

The quarterback — a junior with sun-bleached curls and linebacker shoulders — tossed Tyler a set of gloves. “Better not drop my passes, fresh meat.”

Tyler caught them one-handed and grinned. “Only thing I drop is people’s jaws.”

“God, he’s unbearable,” Noah whispered, unable to look away. They ran a set of five slant routes, then an out route, then a quick post. Tyler caught every single ball. Chest catches. Fingertip grabs. One dive into the turf with a spin roll at the end that left even the QB muttering “damn.”

Coach DeWitt didn’t clap. But his eyebrow twitched, and he muttered: “Kid’s an animal.”

Noah stood there, sweat pooling at the base of his spine, mouth slightly open. When Tyler jogged over to the sideline for water, his face was beet-red, and he was glistening with effort.

“Hey,” he gasped. “Was that… okay?”

Noah blinked at him. “You just won the entire morning.”

Tyler grinned crookedly, sweat dripping from his chin. “Cool. Because now I’m gonna die. If you want my stuff, take it now. Leave the cleats.”

“Shut up, you’re up for more,” Noah said, and tried to sound annoyed. He wasn’t. He was buzzing.

After another punishing round of drive block reps, mirror slides, double-team combo drills, and kick-step pass protection sets, the coach finally looked satisfied. His eyes lit up like a veteran lineman who’d just found water and a blackjack table in the middle of the Mojave. Tyler stood beside him, flushed and glowing, chugging water from a red plastic bottle. His chest rose and fell rhythmically. His tank top was soaked through the spine and clung to his torso like wet gauze, outlining the taper of his back. His hair stuck up in chaotic tufts. Sunlight turned the ends almost gold. Noah, by contrast, felt like a scarecrow made of damp paper towels. His windbreaker clung to him like an accusation. His jeans — still rolled at the ankle — were the worst idea he’d had since that time he tried to dye his eyebrows freshman year.

The coach clapped his hands once, loud and sharp.

“Give me a few more like you on the O-line and D-line,” he said, voice gravelly with heat and satisfaction, “and I could sleepwalk my way to state.”

Tyler, dripping with sweat and water trailing from the corner of his mouth after another long pull from the bottle, wiped his chin with the back of his hand.

“Can’t give you a few more,” he said, breath still heavy. “But I might be able to get you one more.”

He jerked his thumb toward Noah without even looking.

The coach followed the gesture, gaze landing hard on Noah like a slab of concrete. He gave him a long, assessing look — eyes narrowing, lip curling just slightly. Then, almost as if challenging himself, he gave a single nod.

“Alright. Let’s see what he’s got.”

Noah blinked. “Wait—what?”

Tyler grinned at him. “C’mon, man. Don’t be a wuss.”

Coach DeWitt gave an exasperated sigh and pointed toward the first set of cones.

“Ladder, then corner cuts. Let’s see if you know how to move your feet.”

Noah stepped forward, feeling like he was about to retake a math test he hadn’t studied for. His shirt stuck to his chest. His thighs felt stiff already. The sun seemed louder now, if that was possible — buzzing in his ears like a fluorescent bulb going bad.

You’re gonna trip. You’re gonna mess up. They’re all watching.

The whistle blew. He started. And immediately stepped on the first rung of the speed ladder. Plastic slapped rubber. His ankle rolled slightly. He caught himself with a flail of arms that looked more like interpretive dance than athletic movement. A few chuckles rippled across the field. Not cruel, but audible. Noah’s cheeks flamed. His breath caught in his throat.

“Again,” barked the coach.

He started again. Slower this time. Tap. Tap. Tap. Wrong rhythm. Too cautious. His arms moved too wide, his steps hesitated at every junction. He cleared the ladder but didn’t look like he belonged near it. He stopped at the end and looked down.

“I told you I didn’t sign up for this,” he muttered to no one.

“Hey.”

He turned. Tyler jogged over, still panting from his own drills, and placed both hands on Noah’s shoulders.

“Listen,” he said, eyes locked on his, voice low enough to drown out the others. “You’re doing fine. You’re not here to win. You’re here to move.”

Noah blinked. “What does that even mean?”

“It means just… move like you. Not like anyone else. Stop thinking.”

Easy for you to say, Noah thought. You were practically born in a Nike commercial. But the warmth of Tyler’s hands stayed on his shoulders even after he jogged back. It grounded something. The coach set the cones again. This time, corner drills.

“Let’s see some lateral work. Open hips, tight turns. Go!”

Noah took off.

First turn — wide. Second — tighter. Third — okay, that one was solid. Fourth — he caught his balance just as he slipped, righted himself. He could hear someone shout: “Nice save!” Tyler’s voice. Always Tyler. By the sixth cone, something began to click. The weight in his limbs stopped fighting him. His elbows tucked. His knees bent more naturally. His eyes stopped darting. By the final cut, he was almost — almost — in rhythm. He finished, panting, hands on knees. Coach DeWitt whistled. “Alright, alright. There’s a spine in there somewhere.” Noah glanced up. The coach looked neither impressed nor disappointed. Just… curious.

“We’ll throw you some routes,” said DeWitt. “Not quarterback drills. Let’s see your instincts.”

Noah blinked. “Wait, you want me to catch the ball?”

“He’s got hands!” Tyler shouted. “Best hands in the entire Tri-County Band Club!”

That got actual laughter. Noah stepped up. The QB — Jacobs — gave him a skeptical once-over. “You drop this, and you’re carrying my pads.”

The ball flew. A quick slant. Noah caught it. He actually caught it. The next was a curl route. A little wide, but he adjusted. Third was a deep post — he mistimed the jump but tipped it enough to claim partial credit. Fourth — he dove. Face-first into turf. But the ball was in his hands. Cheers. Scattered, half-ironic, but real. Noah lay there a second longer than necessary, breathing in the scent of warm plastic and sweat, of turf rubber and sunblock and distant burgers from the cafeteria grill. He sat up. Tyler was grinning at him from the sideline.

He grinned back. He could feel it, like a dam cracked in his ribs. He was doing it. He was really doing it.

The drills were over. But the air still hummed. It wasn’t from movement — no more cleats tearing turf, no whistles slicing the silence — but from expectative. Coach DeWitt stood near the 50-yard line, clipboard under one arm, sunglasses perched on his sunburned nose. His polo clung to his back in wide damp patches, and the white letters of “FAIRVIEW RIDGE ATHLETICS” had grayed slightly with sweat. A whistle hung around his neck like a dog tag — too quiet for now, but heavy with implied authority. Noah and Tyler approached side by side. Tyler was still glowing — his cheeks red, curls damp, jaw tight with endorphins. His tank now hung from his shoulder, and sweat traced thin lines down his ribs. Every muscle looked warmed and expanded, like he’d been stretched open and then stitched back tighter. Noah, in contrast, felt the dry crust of sunbaked effort beginning to cool on his arms. His T-shirt stuck to him unevenly, one sleeve rolled up slightly from yanking it mid-sprint. His shoes were no longer clean — a smudge of turf dye ran along the sole of the left — and his calves ached in a way that felt earned. That mattered. Coach DeWitt looked at both boys with the same kind of thoughtful squint you’d give a half-solved jigsaw puzzle.

“Alright,” he said, finally. “Let’s talk.”

The three of them moved off the field to a strip of shade near the equipment bench. The heat dropped barely a degree, but it was enough to notice. The metal bench hissed faintly as the sun retreated behind a slow-moving cloud — brief mercy. DeWitt leaned forward, elbows on knees, the clipboard now face-up on his thighs. His pen tapped once.

“You boys got something.”

Tyler grinned. “That a good something or a bad something?”

DeWitt’s lips twitched, but didn’t smile. “Means you’re not wasting my time.”

Noah felt a sudden knot twist behind his sternum. He didn’t realize how hard he was holding his breath until Tyler nudged his arm — a small bump of his shoulder, grounding. Familiar. DeWitt flipped the clipboard. Pulled out a plastic folder from beneath. Opened it slowly. Inside: forms. Printed. Signed. Stapled. He turned the first sheet toward them. And there it was.

“TYLER R. CARSON – TRANSFER STUDENT FILE – FAIRVIEW RIDGE HS”

Noah’s stomach flipped. The paper had a header. A barcode. An official district stamp. A class schedule stapled to the back. Photo ID. Address. Emergency contact. Even an immunization record. This wasn’t some forged joke. It wasn’t a prank. This was real. Permanent-record real.

“Where’d you get all that?” Noah asked, voice flat. DeWitt raised a brow. “Didn’t come from me. But it came through the right channel. Registrar signed off yesterday.”

“Yesterday?!”

“Somebody pulled strings,” said the coach, voice neutral. “You know how hard it is to get clearance late-semester like this? This isn’t a casual move.”

Noah’s mind raced. His throat went dry. The device. The Coach. The weird menus. The evolving kid in his bedroom just yesterday making burnt toast. Who’s doing this? And why does it keep working?

He looked at Tyler. But Tyler just grinned like it was Christmas.

“Guess I’m your teammate now.”

Noah didn’t smile back. He felt the ache settle in again — not in his body, but behind his eyes. Something about losing control. Something about not knowing who was driving anymore.

“Here’s what we’re doing,” DeWitt said, tapping the forms. “This kid—” he gestured at Tyler with his pen, “—he’s raw, but he’s got talent. Reads zones like he’s got film study built into his spine. I wanna see him in different positions. Flex. Coverage. Slot. Maybe linebacker. So I’m keeping him for more training. Off-book. Evaluation mode.”

“But he’s not— I mean, it’s not official until—” Noah began.

“It is now,” the coach cut in. “You got school. Back to fifth period. But after lunch, I want you back on the field. Consider yourself pulled from art and health for the rest of the day.”

Noah blinked. “You can do that?”

“I just did. Talked to the principal. Told her we’re testing the new line. She’s got your name down. You’re excused.”

“But—Tyler’ll be alone?”

“He’ll be with me. With the team. You’re not his babysitter.”

Noah flinched. Tyler shrugged, still glowing from the praise. “I’ll be fine, man.”

Noah didn’t answer.

Coach DeWitt stood, brushed his shorts, snapped the clipboard closed.

“One more thing. Get yourself some cleats. Both of you. Uniforms too. I’ll leave some sizes in the locker room. You’re not running this field in jeans again.”

And with that, he was gone. Walking back toward the gym building, heat bouncing off his calves. Silence settled between them. The cloud moved on. The sun came back. Noah turned slowly. Tyler looked… radiant. Confident. Like he’d found his place and decided he deserved it. And maybe he did. But Noah couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t shake the gnawing. Something was moving faster than it should. Faster than logic. Than paperwork. Than time itself. And it was wearing his friend’s face. He looked away.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked.

Tyler nodded. “Never better.”

The whistle blew again in the distance — some other team, some other hour. Noah took a step toward the school. Each one felt like he was walking away from something fragile. Something that might break if left in the sun too long.

⸻

Room 214 was too bright for how heavy the air felt. Sunlight slanted through the tall windows in gold-tinted shafts, hitting dust motes that swirled with lazy authority above scratched desks and flickering overhead fluorescents. The industrial fan in the back corner whirred like an old lawnmower, managing to stir only the edges of heat radiating off the concrete floor.

Noah slipped into the room just after the bell. His shirt clung to his back, warm and damp from shoulder to spine. His jeans pinched at his calves — tight, just tight, like maybe he was finally breaking out of the discount-boy-body he’d worn for seventeen years.

Lucy was already seated. Zack too. Their table by the window looked like a still frame — Lucy staring outside, face unreadable; Zack thumbing his phone like the screen owed him something. Neither glanced up.

Noah hesitated. His fingers gripped the back of a desk near the front, long enough that a braver person might’ve said hi.

He didn’t. Instead, his feet moved like they had plans of their own.

He drifted sideways. Toward the other side of the room. Toward Evan — or maybe it was Bryce — one of the jocks from earlier, who looked up with a flicker of recognition and scooted his leg over to make room.

“Yo,” the guy muttered, nodding. “At least you don’t look like you died after tryouts.”

Noah gave a tight smile, slid into the desk. “I came close.”

Their teacher, Mr. Lerner — balding, big forearms, tucked-in white shirt doing a losing battle against pit stains — was already lecturing. He circled the lectern like a buzzard, gesturing broadly as he talked.

“Children as young as eight worked twelve-hour shifts in textile mills,” he said. “Boys in coal mines lost limbs. Girls inhaled lint until their lungs collapsed. Wages were pennies. Hours were endless. Conditions were—”

Bryce (or Evan) leaned toward Noah, voice low but not low enough:

“Damn. At least they didn’t have to sit here learning about it.”

Noah choked.

The laugh burst out — sharp, involuntary — like someone had poked a balloon just under his ribs.

The jock laughed too. Loud. Open. Zero survival instinct.

Mr. Lerner froze mid-step. Slowly turned. His eyebrows — wiry, dramatic, like aging hedgehogs — arched into disappointment incarnate.

“Gentlemen,” he said, voice clipped. “Do the suffering of children amuse you?”

Bryce/Evan muttered something like “my bad.” Noah sat straighter, lips pressed into a line, biting the inside of his cheek to stop the grin. He stared hard at his desk. There were deep scratches in the laminate. One looked like the word butt. It didn’t help.

Across the room, Lucy turned. Just her head.

Her eyes were cold. Not dramatic, not furious. Just… cold. Like she’d already figured out who he was becoming, and it wasn’t worth arguing about.

Noah didn’t look away. But he didn’t smile either.

Zack gave him a half-shrug and shook his head, like there it is.

The moment passed.

Lerner resumed. Something about Pullman strikes. Rail lines. Gilded lies.

Noah blinked back into focus, eyes skimming the overhead light’s flicker. Sweat itched at the edge of his spine. His jaw flexed. He rolled his shoulders once. The desk felt too small.

Then —

“Yo,” Bryce/Evan whispered, nudging him. “Seriously though, if that coal mine job’s still open…”

Noah snorted. Quiet this time.

He leaned closer, just enough, and whispered back:

“Only if it comes with dental.”

Bryce/Evan slammed his palm on the desk — trying to be quiet, failing — and buried his face in his elbow to muffle the laugh.

Mr. Lerner stopped again. Sighed audibly. “Unbelievable.”

Lucy stared.

Zack stared harder.

Noah stared at the grain of fake wood under his fingers and thought, What the hell am I doing.

Then again…

He hadn’t smiled this much in weeks.

He let himself smirk just a little, told himself he’d fix it at lunch, make it right somehow. Maybe.

⸻

The cafeteria was running hot.

The vinyl tile beneath Noah’s sneakers had a soft stick to it, like soda had dried there in slow layers over years. Tray in hand — rice, steamed broccoli, a dry chicken breast cut too thick to be edible — he hesitated at the edge of the chaos. He saw them immediately: Lucy and Zack, tucked into the usual corner table near the emergency exit, where the air was slightly less dense and the noise level survivable.

Zack had his hoodie pulled up despite the heat, arms crossed tight over his chest. Lucy was spinning her plastic fork in loops around a smear of ketchup on her tray, not eating, her expression pinched and unreadable. They didn’t see him at first — or pretended not to. Noah stepped forward, heart hitching. His tray rattled.

He made it halfway to the table before Zack’s eyes lifted. No smile. Just a long, flat look.

“You don’t have cousins, Noah.”

The words weren’t loud. But they landed like bricks.

Lucy looked up then — and it wasn’t surprise on her face. It was something more tired. More final.

Noah blinked. “What?”

“You. Don’t. Have. Cousins,” Zack said, spacing each word, pushing his tray forward like punctuation. “And even if you did, you think we wouldn’t know? You think we’re that stupid?”

Noah opened his mouth. Closed it. His hand tightened around the fork.

Lucy leaned in, voice low and sharp. “We messaged you. Called you. For days. Nothing. You vanish and then reappear with a guy who looks like a fitness model made in a lab and expect us to act like that’s normal?”

“I didn’t ask you to act like anything,” Noah said, the words dry in his mouth. “I just needed—” He stopped. Shook his head.

Zack cut in. “You needed to ghost your friends? Lie to us? Sit with them now?”

Noah’s voice dropped, barely audible. “You didn’t ask if I was okay.”

Lucy’s eyes flared. “We didn’t know you weren’t.”

“You didn’t want to know.”

There was a silence between them then — a crack in the concrete, small but unfixable. Lucy blinked twice, like trying to hold back something bitter.

“Fine,” she said, brushing her fork aside. “Go sit with your ogre friends. You seem happy there.”

Noah didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He just turned. Walked away slowly.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, saw the flood of unread messages from both of them — ignored. He tapped a quick reply to one from his dad: Yeah. Got it. Then shoved the phone away.

He didn’t look back.

⸻

“YO! RECRUIT!”

The shout cracked across the cafeteria like a dodgeball to the back of the head.

Noah blinked — and suddenly, the entire mood changed. One of the jocks — tall, blond, neck like a tree trunk — was waving him over with a packet of ranch dressing. The guy grinned, mouth full of pizza.

“You gonna make us beg or what?”

Noah hesitated, tray still balanced in his hands. Then, without consciously deciding, he moved.

The table was chaos incarnate. Someone was trying to flip an empty milk carton into a Gatorade bottle. Another kid — huge, shaved head, wearing sunglasses indoors — had a whistle in his mouth and was blowing it every time someone cursed. A third guy held his phone up to show a video of someone bench pressing a fridge with the caption THAT COUSIN ENERGY.

Noah sat down.

It was loud and humid and idiotic — and somehow easy. One of them fist-bumped him like it was habit. Another slid over a bottle of orange Gatorade without comment.

“Dude,” said the one across from him — Dylan, maybe? — “you and your cousin are like varsity Moses and Aaron. Parting the Red Zone.”

“He’s not my—” Noah started. Then smiled. “Yeah.”

They laughed. It rolled over him like a wave. His shoulders dropped. His face warmed.

“We were just saying,” said another, “Tyler’s, like, straight-up unreal. He do, like, Navy SEAL training as a fetus or what?”

“I mean…” Noah shrugged. “We did our own little boot camp this morning.”

A pause.

“Real early,” he added. “Coach made us do suicides before sunrise.”

“Before sunrise?!” one of them howled. “This man’s built different!”

Noah laughed — and it felt real. His chest shook. He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.

They passed food back and forth. Someone threw a crouton at the ceiling. Another guy, Trent, leaned over and said, “Swear to God, Coach is gonna full-time your cousin before Thanksgiving. Maybe you too.”

Noah just grinned. “If he doesn’t, I’m deadlifting his car.”

They lost it.

For a minute — maybe five — it was all real. It didn’t matter what was true. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t spoken to Lucy or Zack. That his stomach was in knots. That his brain had been running a background panic process for four straight days.

Here, he was funny. He was wanted.

Then the bell rang. Noah stood, grabbing his tray.

“Where you goin’?” asked the guy to his right.

“Art class,” Noah said, still half-smiling.

There was a beat of silence.

Then:

“DUMBASS!” the guy shouted, smacking his tray. “You got practice, not f—ing crayons!”

The table howled.

“What the hell you think Coach’s gonna do if you skip?” another laughed. “You trying to die before your cousin even gets signed?”

Someone else stood and clapped Noah’s back. “Let’s move, Picasso. Time to hit the turf.”

As the pack rose around him, noise echoing like war drums, Noah couldn’t help laughing again — a little louder, a little looser.

He followed.

⸻

Halfway to the locker room, the noise of the guys still ringing in his ears, Noah’s smile started to fade.

His phone buzzed — one more message added to the growing pile of unread ones. Lucy. Zack. Three from his dad. All blinking quietly on the lock screen.

But that wasn’t him. At least, it hadn’t been — not until a few days ago.

And then there was Tyler.

The clothes. The ID card. The school records that had somehow updated themselves. The way he fit into Noah’s life like he’d always been there — like Noah had always had a jacked, sun-blond brother dragging him to football practice like it was normal.

And that was the kicker.

Football. Practice. With the goddamn school team. Like he belonged there.

He stopped walking. Stared at his reflection in the trophy case — the broadening shoulders, the shirt that fit too tight now.

“This is insane,” he muttered.

Jackson noticed, slowing down and turning with a frown. “Yo—Noah? You good?”

Noah blinked. “Yeah. Yeah, I just—” He clutched his stomach like it was contractually obligated. “Bathroom. Urgent.”

Jackson squinted. “Dude. Locker room has bathrooms.”

“I’m not using the team toilets on my first day,” Noah said flatly. “I’m not trying to go down in history as Radioactive Dump Guy.”

That got a round of groans and laughter from the guys ahead. Jackson shook his head, grinning. “Alright, man. Handle your… legacy.”

Noah didn’t wait for more commentary. He turned on his heel and ducked into the first bathroom he saw — a half-lit, rarely-used one near the old art wing, where the faucet leaked and the mirror was fogged with age.

He didn’t lock the stall.

He didn’t sit.

He just pulled the Protoformer out of his pocket, thumb already hovering over the center button.

Because what he needed wasn’t privacy. It was clarity. And a certain smug digital coach with way too many answers and not nearly enough explanations.

Noah reached into his pocket and pulled out the Protoformer.

Its surface was warm. Not hot — just warm enough to feel alive. He cupped it in both hands like it might run. The screen was black for only a heartbeat.

Then —

BZTT.

It lit up.

Pixels assembled themselves quickly, like iron shavings to a magnet. The Coach blinked into existence, whistle around his blocky neck, arms crossed in a stance of relaxed command. His eyebrows looked more like storm clouds now than thunderbolts.

“Well,” he said, voice cheerful and too loud for the silence. “Took you long enough.”

Noah stared at him. “Where are the documents coming from?”

The Coach tilted his head. “No warm-up? Straight to advanced questioning? That’s bold. I like it.”

“I’m not joking.”

“Noah,” he said, stepping closer within the frame, “neither am I. Everything you’ve requested has been routed through a requisition pipeline. Administrative integration. Identity alignment. File embedding. Nothing illegal. Just… efficient.”

“That doesn’t explain how Tyler got a locker. Or a school ID. Or a schedule.”

The Coach smiled like a man who’d just aced a polygraph. “The system is designed to trust authority. And I represent authority. Therefore, it trusts me.”

Noah���s heart ticked faster.

He pressed. “Why don’t you speak when I’m with the others?”

The Coach’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed — just slightly. Enough to feel like shadow under a doorframe.

“Because the bonding process requires uninterrupted natural integration. Every moment you feel accepted, your internal resistance drops. Every laugh shared, every fist bump, every story about Tyler? That’s progress. That’s growth. If I spoke too soon… you’d start questioning it again.”

“So I have to believe it?”

“Not just you.” The Coach tapped the screen, and it shimmered like heat. “They have to believe it too. Bonding isn’t about fooling people. It’s about harmonizing behavior and expectation until distinction becomes unnecessary.”

Noah was suddenly aware of how hot his palms were. He wiped them on his jeans.

“And if I don’t cooperate?”

The Coach didn’t blink. “Then bonding regresses. Fractures. You lose ground. And worse… Tyler might destabilize.”

Noah’s blood turned to slush. “What does that mean?”

“Instability during the bonding arc can manifest as behavioral inconsistency, social rejection, physiological dissonance, or even full system reset. His development depends on you staying connected. Emotionally. Logistically. Symbolically.”

A pause.

“You’re not just his operator anymore, Noah. You’re his anchor.”

Noah looked away. He focused on the graffiti on the inside of the stall door — BRAYDEN IS A WET SANDWICH scratched in penknife. His mouth felt dry. He swallowed and whispered:

“Are you threatening him?”

The Coach blinked. “Threat? Of course not. Just context. You wouldn’t cut power during surgery, would you? You wouldn’t delete an essay mid-save?”

He leaned closer to the edge of the screen.

“You wouldn’t turn off life support while someone was still learning to breathe.”

Noah felt something coil behind his ribs. He remembered Tyler’s face at breakfast — sticky from jam, smiling over pancakes, asking if “homework was a type of burpee.” He remembered how proud he looked on the field, how easily he’d slipped into the world that had always been closed to Noah.

He was so good at this.

So simple. So whole.

Noah’s hand clenched the Protoformer tighter.

He didn’t say goodbye. Just pressed the button hard until the screen went black.

He shoved the device into his hoodie pocket and sat there, unmoving, for nearly a full minute. The sounds outside felt far away — laughter in the locker room, the bang of metal against metal, the buzz of voices rising and falling in team rhythm.

It wasn’t his rhythm.

But it had Tyler in it.

He finally stood. Unlocked the stall.

Didn’t wash his hands. Didn’t meet his own eyes in the mirror.

Just pushed open the bathroom door, walked toward the gym wing, and told himself — again — that he was in control.

Even if he didn’t believe it.

⸻

[radtf69]

Bond(ing).sys  - Part I

I swear I tried to keep this story to just one part — seriously, I trimmed it down as much as I could without cutting anything essential — but nope, it still wouldn’t fit. So yeah, here we go: three parts dropping at once.

This one’s inspired by the genius work of @maningup. I’ve been saying for months that I couldn’t come up with anything original… and then this guy drops one of the coolest ideas I’ve seen in a long time. So this one’s for you, man — hope you like it!

And I hope all of you do too.

Briar Glen, Washington – October, 1998

The golden hour hit different in Briar Glen. It didn’t just shine — it seeped. Through the crooked blinds. Across the popcorn ceiling. Onto the cluttered carpet of a teenage bedroom still full of breath and boredom. The air smelled like grape soda, carpet cleaner, and warm plastic — a scent that hadn’t changed in years, and never would. The room was alive. Lived-in.

The kind of place where a kid would lose three pens, a CD case, and the concept of time. A lava lamp bubbled on the dresser. Posters lined the walls — Gundam Wing, Bill Nye, one vintage Street Sharks print clinging for dear life. On the desk, a science fair ribbon lay half-buried under Pokémon cards and folded math worksheets. A corner bookshelf sagged with Animorphs and a worn Scientific American subscription.

And there, in the middle of a pillowcase printed with rocket ships and dinosaurs, sat a yellowed, egg-sized device. The screen blinked once. Then again. Faint green glow. No music. No chime. Just quiet confirmation.

Standing at the center of the room, freshly formed, was someone who absolutely did not belong to any of this. He was tall. Broad. Ridiculously well-proportioned. Sun-gold skin stretched over muscle that looked sculpted, but loose in a natural way — not gym-tight, just… easy. His abs rolled like bricks under a thin layer of skin, and his legs, long and powerful, were bare save for a too-tight, low-riding pair of black nylon swim trunks. The waistband dug just slightly into his hips.

He moved with comfortable arrogance, scanning the room slowly. No recognition. No pause. Just… curiosity, tinged with amusement. Like walking through a thrift store and wondering who used to own all this weird stuff.

A knock at the door. Then it opened without waiting. “Bro, there you are!” came a voice — bright, friendly, full of sunshine. The blond man who stepped in was all smiles and motion. Messy hair. White ringer tee with blue trim, tucked into light-wash jeans that clung in the right places. His sneakers were spotless. His energy? Like someone who had never been truly worried a day in his life. His name — Wes — fit him like his grin did: loose, easy, and impossible to take too seriously. He unzipped a sports duffel bag and pulled out a folded pile of clothes, one piece at a time, careful not to wrinkle them.

“Okay, okay,” he said, tossing the clothes onto the bed, “tell me that isn’t the best version yet.”

The shirtless man — Troy — looked at him. Just looked. And smiled. It was a big, toothy, goddamn perfect smile. His biceps flexed as he pulled on the powder-blue tank top. The fabric hugged him like it was grateful.

“Oh yeah,” Troy said, voice smooth and a little rough at the end. “That’s more like it.” He pulled on the tearaway pants next — shiny black nylon, retro-futuristic and ridiculously flattering. Wes laughed, clapping his hands once like a proud coach.

“I knew it. Knew you’d look fire.”

“Course I do,” Troy replied, admiring his reflection in the glass of the lava lamp. He flexed one arm just to check. It looked good. Wes gave him a little bow, ironic and exaggerated.

“You’re the boss, bro.”

Troy’s tone softened slightly, but his grin stayed cocky. He stepped closer and bumped Wes with a shoulder.

“Damn right.”

There was an unspoken rhythm between them — Wes the eager sparkplug, Troy the relaxed stormfront. Neither seemed surprised by this arrangement.

“What is this place anyway?” Troy asked, nodding toward the cluttered room. He picked up a photo of a smiling, pale-skinned boy in large glasses and a junior robotics club tee. “Any of this supposed to mean something?”

Wes glanced around. His smile faltered, just a little.

“Eh,” he said. “Does it matter?”

Troy shrugged. He didn’t care either way. But something still felt… weird. Not bad. Just loose at the edges, like the feeling you get when you forget what day it is and you’re okay with that. Wes opened the bag again and pulled out two crisp papers.

Olympia Fire Department

Probationary Acceptance – Station 14

He held them up like golden tickets.

“Let’s get outta here, yeah? You and me — new place, new gig, new everything.” Troy’s eyes lit up.

“Hell yeah.”

They clapped hands — a heavy, brotherly slap — and headed down the stairs together, laughing at something Troy said about “hosing down real emergencies this time.”

Outside, the sky was darkening, but the streetlights hadn’t come on yet. The dusk air was cool on their arms, but the engine of the ’93 Camaro Z28 still radiated heat. It waited for them in the driveway — red and cocky. Troy swung into the driver’s seat without asking. Wes hopped in beside him, punching the dashboard until Tears for Fears started playing. They peeled out two seconds later, windows down, grinning like they’d stolen something valuable — and maybe they had. Back upstairs, the room remained full of silence. Until the cops showed up.

**

The next morning, the police arrived to question the sudden disappearance of a local teenager — Liam Caldwell — reported missing by his older brother, Craig. They combed the house. Took notes. Interviewed neighbors.

One officer found the plastic device on the bed. He picked it up with gloves, examined the yellowed plastic. No prints. No serial number. No response when tapped. A weak beep, then black again.

The detective shrugged.”Old toy,” he muttered. “No relevance.” They tagged it as miscellaneous. Later, Craig placed it carefully inside a box along with old notebooks, participation ribbons, and a photo strip from a museum trip long forgotten. He labeled the box in Sharpie:

LIAM – SCHOOL / SCIENCE STUFF

It would sit untouched for the next twenty-seven years. Waiting. Just waiting.

⸻

Briar Glen, Washington – June, 2025

The attic smelled like dust and insulation. It was the kind of dry heat that scratched the throat — not hot enough to sweat, but heavy enough to slow the breath. A single bulb dangled overhead, casting an amber cone of light that didn’t quite reach the corners. The air was stale, untouched, like the house had been holding its breath for years.

Noah wiped his palms on his shorts. The ladder creaked behind him as his father shifted his weight.

“Won’t be long,” Craig said from below. “Just grab whatever looks like it’s relevant.” Noah nodded, not bothering to answer. He stepped carefully between the boxes, trying not to think about raccoons, spiders, or asbestos.

It was a quiet neighborhood. One of those older streets tucked away behind the high school, where every house looked like it hadn’t been painted since the ’80s and the sidewalks were cracked from tree roots. The sky outside was colorless — a flat, white summer ceiling. Not hot, exactly. Just… bleached. Like nothing wanted to bloom.

They were only here to clean out what was left. His grandparents had passed years ago, but the property had lingered in limbo — too sentimental to sell, too useless to keep. Now it was going. One last trip to Briar Glen. One last goodbye to a place Noah barely remembered.

He crouched near a stack of cardboard boxes labeled in faded black ink:

TRAVIS – TOOLS

CRAIG – COLLEGE

KITCHEN – DONATE

And then:

LIAM – SCHOOL / SCIENCE STUFF

That one wasn’t crossed out.

Noah hesitated.

He didn’t know Liam.

He’d heard the name once or twice — maybe — slipped into the frayed silence between arguments, or caught in the way his dad’s jaw would clench like something got stuck there. But no photos. No stories. Just a name that felt like static. Forbidden, even. Noah had pieced it together the way you do with old rumors — in fragments, in overheard sentences, in things not said. He learned more from other people than from his own father. What had happened to his uncle — the one he never met — had shaped everything. His dad’s moods. The weird house rules. That heaviness he sometimes carried without knowing why.

Noah pulled the box toward the light. It was sealed, but the tape had loosened. Inside: a tangle of objects that didn’t belong together. A pencil case shaped like a rocket. Old magazines with holographic covers. A spiral notebook with bubble-letter doodles and messy formulas in the margins. A bent calculator. A pair of glasses with one arm snapped off.

And on top, resting like it had floated to the surface of memory itself:

A small yellow plastic device. Oval. Cracked. Faint LCD screen beneath dusty plastic. Noah picked it up carefully. It was warm. That didn’t make sense. The attic was cool — unnaturally so, despite the season — but the plastic buzzed with a low, retained heat, like a battery that hadn’t died right. He wiped the screen with his sleeve. Nothing. Just a smudge. He pressed the only visible button. For a moment, he thought it was broken. Then — blink.

A pixel lit. Then another. Then a face.

A squat, blocky cartoon man stood in the center of the screen, wearing a little tank top and tiny sunglasses. He grinned and saluted with a single, jagged arm. No words. Just a ping. Noah snorted.

“What the hell…”

It looked like something out of a forgotten cereal promotion. He turned it over. No branding, no charging port. Just a single port for a cord that didn’t exist anymore and a faded sticker with writing too small to read. He stood up. From below, Craig called: “You find anything useful?”

Noah looked at the device. It blinked once. Then settled into an idle animation — the tiny man doing jumping jacks, pixel limbs flailing with low-res enthusiasm.

“Nah,” Noah said. “Just junk.”

He pocketed the device. Outside, the sun broke through the clouds for the first time that day, casting a stripe of light across the old floorboards. Noah didn’t notice.

He was already heading down the ladder, box in arms, thoughts elsewhere. Far below, in the kitchen, Craig stood at the sink drinking lukewarm coffee and staring through the window, the way he always did when the town came back to him. His eyes tracked the maple tree in the yard.

He didn’t ask what Noah had found. Didn’t say the name out loud. Didn’t notice the attic bulb flicker — just once — behind him.

Fairview Ridge, 7:04 a.m. – The Week Everything Changed, Even If He Didn’t Know It Yet

The alarm buzzed with all the enthusiasm of a tired mosquito. Noah groaned from under a mass of blankets. He silenced the phone without even glancing at it, letting his eyes adjust to the grayish light leaking through the blinds.

Summer in Fairview Ridge was a lazy kind of relentless — not quite scorching, but hot enough that the air stuck to your skin and the floorboards felt tacky under bare feet. The breeze carried the mixed smells of cut grass, grill smoke, and sun-warmed asphalt. Somewhere down the street, a pickup rumbled to life with a mechanical cough, and Noah winced. Still wrapped in a hoodie too big for him and pajama pants that had cartoon frogs on them (a gift from Lucy, of course), he shuffled down the stairs. His hair was damp from the world’s shortest shower — he refused to start Mondays smelling like teenage boy despair, even if no one cared.

The kitchen wasn’t cold, exactly. But it held a quiet chill — not from the air, but from absence. The window above the sink let in the soft light of a reluctant morning, pale and hazy like the sky hadn’t quite decided whether it would commit to sun or stay wrapped in clouds. Outside, the lawn was wet with dew and bordered by hedges that had grown just enough to need trimming again, something neither of them would mention until it became impossible to ignore. The refrigerator hummed, steady and low, the only sound filling the space between clinks of silverware and the soft scrape of toast against plate.

Craig was already at the table, in his usual spot — back straight, shoulders slightly hunched forward, reading glasses perched halfway down his nose like they were halfway to resignation. His button-down shirt was ironed, sleeves rolled to the elbow in neat cuffs, forearms dusted with gray-blond hair, veins pronounced like branches of a riverbed in drought. His face was clean-shaven, composed, bearing the quiet restraint of someone who’d lived too long with sorrow to show it anymore. A single fried egg, yolk broken, sat beside dry toast that was burnt on one edge and barely warm. A mug of black coffee steamed quietly, untouched.

The TV on the counter played the morning news at a respectful murmur — just loud enough to fill the silence, not loud enough to compete with it. Noah’s backpack rested where he’d dropped it the night before, slumped against the fridge like a loyal dog. He stepped into the room wearing a hoodie too big for him — faded navy, cuffs chewed — and sweatpants that clung to one hip, socked feet whispering across the linoleum. His hair was flattened on one side from sleep, the rest sticking out like an overgrown fern.

Craig looked up only slightly, but his eyes softened. “Morning,” he said, not quite smiling, but almost. Noah nodded. “Morning.” He moved on autopilot — toast in the slot, peanut butter from the jar with a knife that was still wet from the night before. There was no jam. He didn’t ask if there was jam. There never was. He ate standing up, leaning into the counter like he didn’t plan to stay long. The toast was too dry, peanut butter too thick, sticking to the roof of his mouth. He chewed like someone working through insulation.

Craig sipped his coffee, eyes drifting back to the screen. A local anchor discussed construction delays on Route 21. Something about a sinkhole. Neither of them cared. The air smelled faintly of burnt crust and old lemon cleaner. A jacket — Craig’s — hung on the back of the kitchen chair, a familiar beige windbreaker that hadn’t been washed in at least a year but still smelled faintly like soap and car interiors. The clock above the fridge ticked too loud for how small it was.

Noah glanced at it. 7:18. He swallowed the last of the toast and rinsed his hands in the sink, wiping them on the same dishtowel they both used and both pretended wasn’t damp and a little sour. Then he slung his backpack over his shoulder and lingered near the door, unsure why. Craig finished his egg. Or tried to. Left a corner uneaten, stared at it for half a breath too long, then stood with a quiet scrape of chair legs.

He rinsed his plate. No words. Just routine. Quiet dignity. The love of a man who doesn’t know how to say I love you without dirtying a dish first. When he turned, Noah caught something in his father’s expression. Something like a pause — a blink too long. The ghost of someone else standing in Noah’s place. Maybe her. But the moment passed. Craig gestured to the door. “Let’s head out.” The garage was cold. Their footsteps echoed against cement as they climbed into the car — a silver Civic that had survived longer than any of them expected. The seats were clean. Craig’s car was always clean. Not sanitized — just neat. Everything had a place. The ride to school was fifteen minutes. Ten if Craig didn’t hit the red light in front of the church. They didn’t talk. Not because they didn’t want to, but because neither of them wanted to break the rhythm. The radio murmured classical piano — low, almost ambient. Noah stared out the window, watching the leaves sway under the pale light of early fall. The kind of orange that started from the tips and crawled inwards, slow like regret.

He remembered once — years ago — sitting in the backseat with his mother in the front passenger side, laughing at something Craig said. He couldn’t remember the joke. Only the laugh. It had filled the car like heat. That laugh hadn’t existed in this car for a long time. Now it was silence. Not hostile. Just… hollow. When they pulled up to Fairview Ridge High, Craig stopped at the usual drop-off zone. He didn’t say anything at first. Then, a glance. A nod.

“Have a good one.”

“You too.”

Noah stepped out. Closed the door gently. Didn’t look back. He walked toward the school building — three floors of glass and outdated brick, with banners fluttering in the breeze and a flagpole that always squeaked in the wind. He blended into the tide of backpacks and hoodies and half-awake teenagers.

Noah moved through the crowd like someone used to getting nudged — not bullied, just… drifted around. He kept his hood down, sleeves pushed up. His shirt — an old heathered green tee with a stretched neckline — clung slightly to one shoulder, revealing the edge of a faded birthmark near his collarbone. His jeans weren’t skinny, but they were tight enough to stay up without a belt. One shoelace was frayed. The other was always tied too tight. It was warm outside, but the school’s HVAC had no sense of empathy — cold in the morning, humid by noon, then inexplicably freezing again by last period. The air conditioning whirred like it was sighing on purpose.

He found his locker, opened it with practiced wrist-flicks, and exchanged textbooks with the resigned apathy of a kid who did his homework but never remembered turning it in. Someone bumped his shoulder. He didn’t look. Just closed the locker and slipped into the stream of bodies heading toward second period. He spotted Lucy before she saw him. She was leaning against the stairwell railing like she owned the gravitational rights to that space — flame-red hair cropped just above her jaw, two silver earrings on one ear, none on the other. Combat boots scuffed and tied tight. A charcoal denim jacket layered over a printed tee with some band logo that Noah vaguely recognized as anti-authority. Her expression was somewhere between amused and unimpressed — the natural resting face of someone who’d once gotten detention for starting a debate in English class that made the teacher cry. When she saw him, she grinned.

“There he is,” she said. “The Man. The Myth. The Almost-Late.”

“I’m on time,” Noah mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

She stepped in, looped her arm through his. “C’mon. Zach’s about to try convincing Mrs. Denton that Pluto is a metaphor for existential dread.”

Zach was seated already, somehow both too relaxed and too twitchy. He wore a hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, wireframe glasses constantly sliding down his nose. His sneakers were mismatched — one black Converse, one gray — and he smelled faintly of Twizzlers and highlighter ink. As soon as they sat down, he whispered, “Okay, but think about it. Pluto is ignored, isolated, downgraded—like, if that’s not a cosmic stand-in for the human condition, I don’t know what is.”

Lucy groaned but smiled. “You’re unbearable.” Noah let his head fall to the desk. They were ridiculous. His friends. His constants. Lucy made him laugh. Zach made him think — sometimes too hard. But with both of them, there was always the sense that part of him remained folded inward. He didn’t know if it was habit or caution. Maybe both.

Gym Class: The gym had that end-of-day glow — high windows leaking honey-colored light that struck the waxed floor in oblong patches, as if someone had left gold bricks melting across the hardwood. The lights overhead flickered slightly from age, fighting with the sunbeams for dominance. The air buzzed with humidity and the leftover charge of too many bodies crammed into too small a space. It was hot in that suffocating, too-many-armpits kind of way. The walls echoed everything — sneakers, laughter, groans, the sharp bark of the whistle — all bouncing and folding in on themselves like the gym was trying to remember what it used to be before kids started sweating inside it. Coach Reynolds stood at center court with a whistle in one hand and a half-deflated red ball in the other, like a prophet about to announce the apocalypse.

“Dodgeball,” he declared. “Two teams. No headshots. You get hit, you’re out. You catch it, they’re out. Don’t be stupid. Let’s move.”

Groans. Cheers. The usual chaos. Noah stood in the half-shade near the edge of the bleachers, already damp under the arms in his Fairview Ridge P.E. shirt — gray, oversized, cracked logo — and shorts that never quite fit right. His hair clung to his forehead. His sneakers squeaked when he shifted his weight. He hadn’t played dodgeball since middle school. Still, he drifted into the group. Neutral ground, always. That’s when Jackson spotted him.

“Yo, Noah, we’re short one on this side,” he said, thumbing toward the far end of the court. “You good?”

Noah blinked. “Uh. Sure.”

Jackson grinned. “Cool. Just don’t throw like it’s a library book.”

The game started with a whistle and a war cry. Everyone surged. Balls collided midair. Someone screamed for no reason. Travis rolled like he was in Call of Duty. A ball shot past Noah’s shoulder and slapped the bleachers with a sound like a gunshot. He flinched. Then reset. He dodged the next ball. Then another. His reflexes weren’t bad. If anything, they were… sharp. Quicker than he remembered. When he reached down and snatched a ball off the floor, it felt natural. Like his body knew what to do even if his brain hadn’t signed the paperwork. He pivoted. Scanned. A kid on the other side laughed too loudly — square in the open, mid-taunt. Noah threw. It wasn’t graceful. But it was fast. The ball hit square in the stomach.

“Oof—!”

The kid dropped. A few gasps. Someone muttered, “Damn.” Noah froze. Jackson laughed. “Yo! Ice in the veins, man.”

Noah gave a half-smile. His ears burned. His palms buzzed. The game kept going — faster now. Balls ricocheted off walls, off backs, off the poor guy who was already out but still caught another one to the shin. Noah weaved through it like a thread pulled through cloth. He wasn’t the fastest. Or the strongest. But he was good. And he didn’t mean to be. He caught another ball on instinct, barely even looking. Sent a wild curve that tagged someone mid-jump. Jackson hooted. “Dude! Seriously — you play?” Noah opened his mouth. Then hesitated. Lucy’s voice in his head again, mocking and familiar: “You? Please. You’re allergic to gym socks.” Zach too: “You only run when there’s a fire. And even then, you’d check the temperature first.” He smiled. Small. Flat. “Nah. Just lucky.” Jackson shrugged. “Still counts.” Noah felt it — a flicker. A tiny spark of something other than routine. But he snuffed it fast.

He spent the rest of the game playing quieter. Missing shots on purpose. Letting himself get tagged when too many eyes landed on him. Sat with his back to the wall afterward, legs stretched long, watching the others laugh and shove and towel off like gods of their own mythology. He could’ve belonged. He knew that. But he also knew what came with it. Eyes. Pressure. The risk of being seen. And that was something Noah had trained years to avoid. As the gym emptied, Coach called out scores no one wrote down. Someone tossed a towel onto Jackson’s head. He joked about Noah going pro. Noah smiled, said nothing, and walked toward the locker room with the low throb of sweat on his back and something strange blooming under his ribs.

The bus dropped him two blocks from home. The sky had mellowed into a buttery haze, warm but no longer sharp, the kind of afternoon light that made every suburban street look like a movie set right before the big emotional reveal. The air smelled faintly of lawn clippings and car wax. Somewhere nearby, a sprinkler clicked to life, punctuating the silence with mechanical precision. Noah walked slowly. His backpack hung on one shoulder. The mesh from gym class still clung to his skin. His shirt, now cold and faintly stiff with sweat, stuck to his lower back. His hair — never really styled — had gone from damp to stubbornly flattened. He passed the same mailbox with the dent on the side. The same hedge trimmed too perfectly. The same sidewalk crack that once tripped his mother in flip-flops. Inside the house the air was cooler — not from air conditioning, just from being sealed off all day. A place paused. He dropped his backpack by the stairs with a dull thud, toed off his sneakers with practiced movements, and padded up to his room on socked feet. Every step on the stairs creaked the same way it always had. The fourth one groaned. The seventh didn’t. The last gave a little hiss, like it resented having to participate. His bedroom door opened to reveal exactly what he expected. Not messy. But it wasn’t clean either. It was lived-in — carefully curated chaos. Posters on the wall (half music, half cryptids), a stack of graphic novels leaning dangerously on the edge of his desk, a swivel chair that hadn’t swiveled smoothly since eighth grade. One sneaker under the bed. One hoodie slung over the back of the chair. But something felt… off.

Noah tugged off his gym shirt and dropped it in the hamper. Peeled the socks from his feet. His toes curled against the wood floor, still faintly warm from the sun that had poured in earlier. He scratched the back of his neck absently and turned toward his desk. And stopped.

Sitting on his desk like it had always been there — but it hadn’t — was the device.

Yellowed plastic, a little scratched on the edges. A small screen with nothing on it yet. Noah blinked at it, confused. He didn’t remember unpacking it. He didn’t even remember taking it from the attic. Had Craig brought it?

He picked it up. It was heavier than expected. Noah sat on the bed, thumb hovering over the center button. A twitch. A flicker.

PROTOFORM-9

USER: LIAM —> TROY

STATUS: LOCKED

SYSTEM STANDBY

“Liam?” he muttered aloud. Wasn’t that…?

His thumb pressed the button. The screen faded to black. Then lit again:

Confirm reactivation?

[Y] / [N]

The button clicked.

The screen faded to black—then lit again, brighter this time.

Reactivating…

BZZZT. The screen blinked. A pixelated burst of light exploded outward, revealing a litle… Coach — all 16-bit, square-jawed, with a digital whistle around his neck and eyebrows like thunderbolts.

“WELCOME RECRUIT.”

Noah nearly dropped the thing.

“New protocol initializing. Core values: Strength. Discipline. Aesthetic Excellence.”

The coach flexed in place and pointed directly out of the screen.

“Posture, soldier. Sit up straight. Hydrate. Look at yourself. When’s the last time you gave those abs a proper hello?”

Noah blinked. “What the—?”

“Not acceptable.” The coach snapped his fingers. “Engage core! Chin up! Breath with intention. That’s better. Now say it with me: I am a project worth building.”

“…I am a—what?”

“Close enough.”

The screen flashed. A digital egg appeared, floating mid-screen with a subtle throb of ambient glow. Amber, round, twitching slightly. A soft, thumping beat pulsed behind it.

STAGE: INCUBATION INITIATED.

Noah stared. “Wait… is that—?”

“Every transformation starts with commitment,” the coach intoned. “This is your partner. Your evolution. Your challenge. Get attached. You’re in this together.”

Noah tilted his head, skeptical. “It’s just a game.”

“Is it?” the coach asked, ominously casual just before the screen turned off by itself.

"What the hell was that crazy stuff straight out of a Black Mirror episode?" Noah thought, staring at the Device before tossing it back on the desk.

Later Noah sat cross-legged on his bed with a science textbook open across his lap, the highlighter in his hand already half-dried and clicking out a slow, repetitive rhythm. His notebook sat open beside him, but the notes had stalled somewhere around “ATP synthesis.” His eyes, instead, drifted back — again — to the desk. The device hadn’t moved. Neither had the egg. It just sat there, nestled in that shallow patch of desk light, pulsing softly like a sleeping heart. He clicked the highlighter one more time, harder. Then forced himself back to the textbook. Mitochondria, cellular respiration, enzymes… He underlined something at random just to feel productive.

Three sentences later, his gaze slipped sideways again. Still nothing.

Still just the glow. Still just that vague hum — low, like something deep underwater calling only to him.

And then— “Posture, soldier!”

Noah startled so hard he knocked his pen off the bed. The Coach had reappeared — square-jawed, brows thunderous, hands on hips like a pixelated drill sergeant with nowhere better to be.

“Slouching like that is a direct assault on your spinal integrity,” the Coach snapped. “Straighten up! Engage that core! You wanna grow into a tree or a limp linguini noodle?”

Noah blinked at the screen. “I’m studying.”

“Poorly. And what in the name of swole supremacy is that?”

Noah followed the Coach’s exaggerated point — to the paper plate on his nightstand. A granola bar. Half-melted chocolate chips. And a peach Snapple.

“It’s dinner,” he muttered.

The Coach looked physically ill. “You’re feeding your future gains sugar paste and juice tea?”

“Technically it’s fruit—”

“Technically you have the arms of a Victorian orphan and the posture of a grief-stricken scarecrow.”

Noah threw the highlighter down. “Oh my God.”

“God won’t fix your biceps, recruit.”

That got a laugh. Sharp. Tired. And just a little confused.

Noah flopped onto his back with a whump, arms spread wide across the bed. He stared at the ceiling, breathing out slowly.

“Alright,” he said to no one. “You win. You’re weird, you’re loud, and you’re somehow the most judgmental toaster I’ve ever met.”

The Coach folded his arms smugly.

“But you know what?” Noah continued, dragging his phone off the bed. “You’re not real. You’re some old junk someone left in the attic. And you know what else?” He opened a browser and started typing, voice rising a little. “I’m gonna figure out who made you and report them for emotional damage.”

Search: PROTOFORM-9 Nothing. Search: "Protoform" retro device plastic yellow egg AI Still nothing.

“Seriously?” Noah frowned, scrolling. The most he found was a 2008 Pokémon fan wiki and some unrelated military training app. No images. No Reddit threads. No memes. Not even an ancient forum rant from a bored tech nerd.

He looked at the device again. That couldn’t be right. The thing had a coach. A responsive, mildly unhinged coach who could process sarcasm, read body language, and make context-based insults in real time. That wasn’t 2000s Tamagotchi. That was… AI. Like, real AI. Weirdly advanced AI. He picked the device up again, turning it slowly in his hands.

“How the hell do you exist?” he muttered.

“Bigger question,” said the Coach from the screen, now squatting mid-frame and flexing one arm. “Why do you exist with those spaghetti twigs for arms?” Noah groaned. “You’re obsessed.”

“Correction: You’re the obsession. I’ve been pre-coded for success, son, and you are the clay.”

“Okay Michelangelo,” Noah muttered. “Go to sleep.”

“I don’t sleep. I plan. You should try it. Step one: eat actual protein. Step two: develop a work ethic. Step three—” Noah pressed the volume down button. The Coach’s mouth kept moving silently. He set the device back on the desk — carefully, like it might bite him — and flopped again onto his back. The egg pulsed once. Twice. Still the same amber throb. He set the device on the nightstand but picked it up again before turning out the light. The egg gave off a faint glow. Soothing, somehow. He pulled the blanket up and rolled to his side, cradling the device in one hand, thumb resting on the worn-down “A” button. Outside, the wind picked up. The maple tree near his window rattled gently. The stars flickered like broken LEDs. In the dark, the screen flickered once. Then again. Then the egg pulsed — a sharp, hairline crack forming across the top. Noah, already asleep, didn’t notice.

But the process had begun. And something — or someone — was about to hatch.

Tuesday morning and the house smelled faintly of stale coffee and fabric softener — warm, but muted. Somewhere in the background, the old coffee maker gurgled through the final stretch of a brew cycle, sending up one last, exhausted puff of steam. A blue travel mug sat waiting on the counter like a silent goodbye note. Noah descended the stairs with socked feet and an awkward rhythm, each step a muffled thud. He was wearing a wrinkled Interpol t-shirt, its collar slightly stretched, hanging half off one shoulder. His plaid pajama pants — threadbare and uneven at the cuffs — swished softly against his ankles. His brown hair stuck out defiantly on one side, flattened on the other, as if his dreams had staged a mutiny during the night. His face, still puffy with sleep, looked blank at first glance — but under the surface, his thoughts dragged behind him like a fogged-up windshield. He didn’t feel awake so much as reluctantly present. Craig stood by the counter, dressed in a light blue button-down and khaki slacks that made him look like a reluctant substitute teacher. He was already clean-shaven, glasses perched low on his nose, staring at his watch like it owed him something.

“Gotta make a trip,” Craig said without looking up. His voice was neutral, the kind of voice people use for shipping delays or weather updates. “Denver. Back by Friday.”

Noah blinked. “Today?”

“This morning.” A sip of coffee. “You’ve got food, right?”

“Yeah.”

That was it. That was the exchange. No drama, no emotion. Just two people maintaining the same well-worn ritual of disengagement they’d practiced for years — efficient, quiet, and politely distant. Craig grabbed his duffel bag from beside the fridge, slung it over one shoulder, then paused. For a second, Noah thought he might say something else. Something human. But instead, Craig checked his keys, nodded once, and headed for the door. The house swallowed the sound of it shutting behind him like a sigh. Noah stared at the empty doorway for a beat longer than necessary, then turned to the microwave, reheated the coffee left in the pot, and took a sip. Bitter. He didn’t care.

By the time he made it to school, the sky had faded into a bleached, cloudless blue, and the sun was already heating the pavement to a low simmer. The building’s ancient AC coughed and wheezed overhead like a dying dragon. The hallway smelled like warm plastic, old textbooks, and whatever cafeteria mystery meat was already being cooked for lunch. Noah shuffled to his locker, eyes half-lidded, shoulders forward. He wasn’t tired anymore, just suspended in that pre-lunch autopilot where time dissolved. Students moved around him in slow-motion blurs of deodorant, laughter, and sneaker scuffs. Lucy showed up to history in a washed-out Donnie Darko tee, denim vest covered in pins, and an unapologetically neon juice box that she sipped with the aggressive grace of a raccoon. She flopped into her seat beside him and said something scathing about the teacher’s lack of charisma. Noah smiled without looking up. Zach wandered in with a bag of off-brand potato chips already half crushed in his hoodie pocket, holding it out like a sacred offering. “It’s salt and vinegar,” he whispered like it was a confession. Noah took one without question. “Bless you.” They didn’t need to talk much. That was the comfort of it. They were the kind of friends who existed in the same orbit, rotating silently and steadily, not asking for more than presence. Noah liked that. Needed that. But at 10:27 a.m., while algebra dragged on like molasses in January, Noah felt something in his backpack — not a vibration, exactly. More like… a presence. He glanced at the teacher. Her back was turned, writing equations on the board. He moved slowly, carefully, unzipping the side pocket with a finger hooked through the pull tab. The device was still there. Yellow plastic, scratched edges, faint warmth against his palm. And the screen — the screen was on. A low amber glow pulsed from the center of the screen. It wasn’t static. It was rhythmic. A soft, steady throb — just enough to make his own heartbeat sync to it without meaning to. The digital egg was trembling. Not shaking wildly, but just enough to suggest something inside was ready. Not yet. But close. Noah blinked, staring at the tiny pulse like it had spoken. He wasn’t afraid, exactly. Just… off balance. Something about it made the fluorescent classroom feel farther away, like it had receded behind a pane of soundproof glass. He shoved it back into the bag quickly, heart picking up pace. Lucy turned to say something just then, but he waved her off and mouthed “headache” without making eye contact.

He tried to ignore it, but his curiosity got the better of him. Adjusting in his chair, he glanced around. Lucy was leaning forward on her desk, her hair falling like a curtain over her eyes as she doodled in the margins of her worksheet. One of her earbuds dangled half-connected, faint noise leaking out — something probably depressing and British. Zach, on the other side, was chewing his pen like it owed him money. His hoodie sleeves were pulled over his hands, and he looked genuinely offended by whatever equation had just appeared on the projector. Noah exhaled through his nose and slipped a hand into his backpack. The device’s screen was glowing brighter now — not alarming, but… assertive. The digital egg in the center pulsed like a radioactive avocado. Then it twitched. His eyes widened. The screen flickered — once, twice — and then exploded in a cascade of pixelated glitter. A chiptune fanfare blasted from the speaker, warped and compressed like a trumpet playing underwater. He flinched. Lucy looked over.

“Was that you?”

“Nope,” Noah said immediately, voice a bit too high, shoving the device behind his math textbook. “My stomach.”

“Gross,” she muttered, unimpressed, and turned back to her doodles. Noah angled the screen toward himself, heart pounding like he’d just cheated on a test. The egg was cracking. Fractures spread across the digital shell with dramatic zigzags, and then — with a cartoonish pop — it split open like a fortune cookie. Out crawled the most ridiculous creature Noah had ever seen. A baby. At least, he assumed it was a baby. It had the proportions of one — oversized head, chubby limbs, impossibly large eyes. But it was also… shredded. Like… tiny abs. Mini biceps. It wore bright blue briefs and matching sweatbands around its wrists. Its hair was windswept in a dramatic swirl, and it immediately struck a front-double-biceps pose, grinning like a toothpaste model for toddlers.

“What in the off-brand Pokémon hell…” Then came the voice. Not the baby’s — it just gurgled and flexed — but the Coach. The same 16-bit, block-jawed, pixelated figure from before popped into the corner of the screen with a whistle around his neck and eyebrows shaped like lightning bolts.

“Congratulations, Recruit.

You have successfully hatched a Level 1 Growlet™.

Mission: Raise with structure. Fuel with care.

Rule #1: No Growlet thrives in a world of self-doubt.”

Noah stared at it.

“I’m hallucinating,” he whispered. “I fell asleep in algebra and this is a coma dream.”

The Growlet baby burped triumphantly and tried to lift a comically oversized dumbbell — which fell and squashed him flat for a second before he popped back up, still smiling. Noah covered his mouth with one hand to hide the laugh that punched its way up his throat.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” he muttered, eyes darting toward the teacher, who was thankfully too focused on a malfunctioning projector cable to notice.

Another message box appeared:

“Feeding required: High-protein mush.

Confidence required: Yours.

Stand up straight. You’re the example.”

Noah rolled his eyes but sat up straighter.

He didn’t know why. It wasn’t logical. But the moment he adjusted his spine, he felt… a little less like a dishrag. The Growlet clapped its stubby hands in approval. Another chime.

“Posture achieved. Charisma +1.”

He covered the screen with his hand like it was a forbidden romance novel.

For the rest of the class, the device kept buzzing. Every ten minutes or so, a new notification appeared:

“Growlet tired. Needs affirmations.”

“Growlet uncertain. Project confidence.”

“Growlet admires your energy. Are you admiring yourself yet?”

At one point, Zach tried to peek.

“What are you doing?”

“Math,” Noah said too quickly.

Zach blinked. “Okay. But your calculator’s… blinking at you.”

“It’s a— graphing app. You wouldn’t get it.”

Zach shrugged, bored, and returned to chewing his pen. The Growlet did a tiny push-up, fell over, then farted a glittering heart. Noah couldn’t help it — he laughed again. This time louder. A few students turned. He slapped his notebook over the device and stared at the board, face burning. The baby inside the screen gave him a thumbs-up with fingers the size of jellybeans.

Back on the bus after school, Noah sat near the window, the device balanced on his lap under his jacket. The air smelled like vinyl, gum wrappers, and adolescence. As the vehicle jolted through a pothole, he looked down at the screen. The Growlet was asleep now, hugging a pixelated dumbell like a teddy bear. The Coach stood beside him, tapping a clipboard.

“Growth log: Day 1.

Physical: Stable.

Confidence Transfer: Initiated.”

“Reminder: You are being watched. By yourself.

Be worth watching.”

Noah frowned. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

The Coach answered immediately, as if listening:

“Neither does self-loathing. But you do that anyway.”

Noah scoffed. “Are you seriously coming for me right now?”

The Coach raised an eyebrow in silent, digital judgment.

Noah muttered, “This is idiotic.”

The Coach said nothing. The Growlet let out a tiny snore and flexed in his sleep. Noah watched them both. Then, after a long pause, he adjusted the strap on his backpack, lifted his chin slightly, and whispered:

“…Whatever.”

But he kept the device in his lap all the way home.

Noah shoved the front door open with his shoulder, backpack slung over one arm, left shoelace dragging behind him like a white tail. He tossed his keys onto the counter with more force than necessary, fished a frozen lasagna from the freezer, and shoved it into the microwave without checking the instructions. He punched in a number at random. The machine beeped back indifferently. While the dull hum of rotating pasta filled the room, Noah set the PROTOFORM-9 down gently on the kitchen table. The screen was already glowing — which was strange, because he hadn’t touched a thing. But that wasn’t bothering him as much as it should. It was just… part of how things worked now. On the screen, the Growlet stood upright. Still cartoonishly small and clumsy, its head slightly too big for its square little body, but now its arms looked… chunkier. More defined. Beside it, the Coach held a see-through clipboard, eyebrows raised to maximum judgment. The little 16-bit jaw clenched with comic intensity. As Noah slumped into the chair, soda in hand, the Coach raised one rectangular eyebrow even higher.

— Feeding protocol delayed by forty-seven minutes, he said flatly. Suboptimal. But acceptable, considering the recruit’s emotional inconsistency.

Noah groaned and took a long sip.

— He doesn’t even eat. He doesn’t even have a mouth.

— Incorrect. Nutrition isn’t consumption. It’s commitment. It’s presence. It’s… bonding.

The word BONDING flashed across the screen in bold capitals, accompanied by a chime that sounded suspiciously like a church bell. Noah rolled his eyes, but pulled the chair in closer. The microwave beeped in the background, but he ignored it. He picked up the device and fed the baby inside it with a bottle full of protein shake. New text appeared:

“FEEDING APPROVED. BOND: 7%. TARGET: 100%.”

The Coach crossed his arms with a smug nod.

— Keep feeding. Keep believing. Keep showing up.

— This is so stupid, Noah muttered.

But he didn’t stop looking at it.

His room was already half-dark. Only the amber bedside lamp cast a glow across the floor, illuminating stacks of books that leaned like tired guards, and faded posters of bands he no longer listened to. His bed was a mess of tangled sheets and a half-folded hoodie. Noah sat cross-legged in the middle. He set the PROTOFORM-9 down with the kind of care usually reserved for pets or precious rocks. Onscreen, the Growlet had switched to pushups now, its tiny arms pumping like hydraulic pistons. The Coach, ever-watchful, blew his pixelated whistle with every repetition.

— Mental reinforcement time, recruit, the Coach barked. Prepare your affirmation. Noah groaned. Of course it was affirmation time.

The screen lit up:

“THE MUSCLE OF TOMORROW BEGINS WITH THE MIND OF TODAY.”

Then, as if it had been waiting all day to say it:

“TODAY’S AFFIRMATION: I AM THE KIND OF GUY WHO SHOWS UP.”

Noah let out a sharp laugh through his nose.

— I’m the kind of guy who disappears during PE, he muttered.

— NEGATIVE, the Coach snapped. Repeat it.

He stared at the ceiling. Then at the Coach. Then at the Growlet, who was now doing plank. And finally, reluctantly:

— I… show up.

Nothing.

— I show up, he said again, a little louder.

The Growlet stopped moving. Sat down. Smiled — or whatever passed for a smile on a 16-bit muscle baby.

New message:

“BOND IN PROGRESS. TRUST LEVEL: 10%. KEEP BUILDING.”

Noah blinked. Something weird and warm unfolded in his chest — a faint flutter of pride, which he immediately crushed like a bug. He stayed there for a while, head resting on one hand, the other tracing the edge of the screen. The Growlet yawned. Like, fully animated yawn. A little droplet even flew out of its mouth in a pixel arc. It curled up onto a tiny digital yoga mat, pulled a blanket over itself from literal nowhere, and closed its eyes. Z’s floated above its head like cartoon ghosts. The screen dimmed slowly. It didn’t shut off — just went soft, like a heartbeat under a pillow. Noah turned off the lamp. Lay down on his side. The device still in his hand, as if it belonged there now. The night breeze stirred his window curtain. Noah smiled without realizing it. Then tapped the screen with his finger.

“Night, little freak.”

The room went dark. The whole house seemed to hold its breath. The screen stayed on a few seconds longer, lighting up Noah’s sleeping face. On the screen, the baby was asleep too — head resting on a tiny dumbbell-shaped pixel pillow. And while he slept, like all good boys… he grew.

⸻

Wednesday began with the smell of burnt waffles. Not real waffles. Not the warm, fluffy kind that come with syrup and serotonin. These were phantom waffles — trauma waffles — summoned into existence by a microwave with PTSD. The old beige beast had apparently decided to relive a personal tragedy from two months ago and was now coughing out smoke like a depressed steam train. Noah, still in sweatpants and a t-shirt from a 5K he never actually ran, lunged for the kitchen window like a man escaping a fire drill. He waved the smoke away with his chemistry notebook and coughed like a sitcom side character — hair sticking out in directions that defied gravity and common sense. Craig was still in Denver. The house was empty. Silent. Luxuriously so. Noah scratched his stomach, squinted into the light filtering through the crooked blinds, and said to no one:

— “This day’s gonna suck.”

Across the table, glowing softly like some forbidden relic from the 90s, the PROTOFORM-9 blinked to life. BZZZT. The screen lit up. A pixelated five-year-old with boulder shoulders and a forehead the size of Nebraska bounced into frame, wearing a tank top that said “HUSTLE” in flaming letters. He was doing jumping jacks. Violently.

“Level Up Achieved.

Age Progression: 5 years.

Emotional Bond: 13%

Cognitive Trust: Stabilizing.”

Noah squinted at the screen.

“Cognitive what now?”

“Don’t worry about it, champ,” said the Coach. “Today’s about bonding. Trust falls. Spiritual gainz.”

“…Huh?”

“BROOOOAHHH!!” The Growlet screamed. “BREAKFAST IS FUEL, BROAH!” Noah froze.

— “Nope. No. Not today.”

The little guy on screen looked up with eyes big enough to qualify as their own moons.

“Broah,” he whined, “I’m hungryyy.”

Noah sighed. Loudly. Dramatically. Theatrically.

“Great. I’m raising a virtual meat goblin.”

He opened the fridge and stared into it like a man facing his destiny. One banana. Half a container of almond milk. An oatmeal packet from the Clinton administration.

“Perfect,” he muttered.

As the oatmeal spun in the microwave, Noah found himself — against every instinct — doing shoulder rolls.

“Why am I stretching?” he whispered, horrified.

“Thoracic mobility,” the Coach replied. “Respect.”

Noah pointed a spoon at the screen. “You’re a glitchy children’s toy. You don’t get to say ‘thoracic.’”

“Say it with your diaphragm!”

“I will throw you in the garbage.”

“You don’t even take the garbage out.”

“…Touché.”

The microwave dinged. Noah scooped the steaming slop into a chipped blue bowl, added the banana like some kind of domestic god, and plopped down at the table.

The pixel-boy clapped wildly.

“Broah!! That’s a COMPLEX CARBO!!”

Noah rolled his eyes, but he added a dash of cinnamon. For reasons. He took a bite. It wasn’t terrible. To Noah's astonishment, without giving any command, the kid in the device was eating a similar mix from a small pixelated bowl white his eyes beamed like Noah had just discovered fire. His face now had freckles. His arms looked more defined than before — or maybe that was just Noah’s imagination. Either way, the Coach chimed in:

“Positive reinforcement logged. Emotional Bond: 12%. Primary Figure status initializing.”

Noah narrowed his eyes. “This is a cult. I’m in a cult.” The child bounced in place.

“A cult of LOVE AND CORE STABILITY!”

Noah laughed. He couldn’t help it. The spoon wobbled in his hand.

“I’m feeding a digital orphan with delts,” he muttered. He rubbed his thumb over the screen. Absentmindedly. Affectionately. The Coach noticed.

“Physical affection logged. Emotional Bond: 13%. Cognitive Trust: Stabilizing.”

Noah squinted. “Stabilizing for who, exactly?”

“Don’t worry about it, champ,” the Coach winked. “Just focus on getting those reps in.”

“I have school.”

“Education is a part of the grindset.”

“You’re not real.”

“And yet, I live in your pocket.”

Noah didn't respond; he just did what he was accused of: shoved the device into his pants pocket, and walked out the door a little taller than he had on Tuesday.

⸻

At school, Noah kept the device in his pocket—but he felt it the whole time. Buzzing. Heating up. Occasionally blurting out stuff like:

“You got this, bro!”

Lucy rolled her eyes.

Zach assumed it was some bizarre meditation app. At lunch, Noah pulled it out of his backpack, just to check.

The Growlet now looked around seven. Taller. Wearing a tank top with FLEX BUDDY printed in flaming letters. He called Noah “Broah. Yeah. Broah.

At lunch Noah stood in the line, tray in hand, watching someone ahead of him argue about chocolate milk. He wasn’t really paying attention. His fingers hovered near his pocket. He could feel the device — PROTOFORM-9 — pulsing gently like it had a heartbeat.

He sat with Lucy and Zach at their usual table near the corner — the one by the wall of windows that looked out onto the dry patch of grass they called a courtyard. The blinds were half-drawn, slicing the sunlight into thin diagonal bands across the lunch trays. Lucy poked at a cup of fruit cocktail like it had insulted her. Zach was already scrolling through something on his phone, earbuds in, one half of his sandwich hanging from his mouth. Noah tried to sit like normal. He failed. His legs didn’t fit under the table like they usually did. His tray felt smaller. His shirt — the same worn Fairview Ridge PE shirt — clung tighter to his chest than it had yesterday. He tugged at the hem, suddenly self-conscious. They didn’t notice. Or maybe they did. Lucy looked up.

“You okay?” she asked, blinking once. Her eyeliner had started to smudge. Noah nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Totally. Why?”

“You’re acting weird.”

“I’m always weird.”

“Yeah, but this is, like… extra. You’ve been zoning out all day.”

Zach chimed in without looking up: “Is it that dumb Tamagotchi thing?”

“It’s not dumb,” Noah snapped. Louder than he meant to. “And it’s not a Tamagotchi.”

They both froze. Noah realized his fingers had already pulled the device halfway out of his pocket. He shoved it back.

Lucy raised a slow eyebrow. “Okay… then what is it?”

Noah didn’t answer. His throat felt tight. Too dry. Zach leaned forward, lips twisted into the kind of grin people only make when they think they sound reasonable. “Dude, you’ve been talking to a cartoon baby and muttering about chest day. Just… come back to Earth, alright?”

Noah stood. Just like that. Chair scraping. Tray thudding. His voice didn’t shake, though he expected it to.

“I don’t have to explain it to you. If I wanna play a game or—whatever—talk to my phone, I will. You don’t get to tell me who I am.”

Lucy blinked. Once. Twice. Zach stared at him like he’d grown antlers. Noah didn’t wait for a response. He grabbed his tray and walked. His pulse pounded in his ears, but his back was straight. Shoulders a little squared. Just like the Coach said.

Spine: committed. Stance: honorable. Social Resistance: maxed out.

He wasn’t even halfway across the cafeteria when he realized:

He had no idea where he was going. But someone whistled. A friendly whistle — the kind people use to call over a dog or a buddy. Noah turned instinctively. The table near the center of the room — the one he’d never approached, the one orbiting with bright-letterman jackets and giant sports duffels and cleats hanging from bags like trophies — had space. And someone waved him over.

Specifically, Jackson from monday P.E. Class. Linebacker. Probably 6’3”, jaw like a Dorito.

“Yo, dodgeboy! You’re looking tall today. Sit down, bro!”

Noah laughed nervously. But he sat. He didn’t know how the conversation started — something about bench presses, then energy drinks, then a heated debate about whether pre-workout should taste like battery acid or birthday cake.

Noah didn’t contribute. He just listened. The guys talked fast, loud, over each other. They leaned in when they joked. Slapped shoulders. Threw fries like currency. But weirdly — impossibly — it wasn’t hard to follow. He found himself nodding. Then chuckling. Then actually chiming in.

“Wait, wait,” he said, somewhere mid-sentence, “you actually tried to microwave creatine?”

Brandon grinned. “Bro, I thought it’d dissolve faster.”

The Growlet would’ve loved this.

The thought hit hard and sudden — like someone tapping a part of his brain he didn’t know had feelings. Noah’s hand drifted toward his pocket. Quiet. But warm. Then someone beside him — Tanner? Maybe Blake? — squinted at him.

“Yo, not to be weird or anything, but you been lifting?”

Noah blinked.

“What? No.”

“You sure?” The guy tilted his head. “You’re definitely taller than last week. And, like—no offense—you’ve got traps now, man.”

Noah looked down at himself. At his sleeves. At his forearms. He swallowed. Was he getting bigger? And more terrifying: Had he wanted that? Had he liked hearing it? Before he could answer, Jackson laughed and leaned back. “Puberty, man. That late-stage supernova kind. You wake up one morning and your kneecaps don’t fit anymore.”

Everyone laughed. Noah laughed too. But it was delayed. Like he was waiting for permission. He didn’t even notice the tension in his shoulders until it was gone. It was weird. It was sudden. But for the first time in forever… He didn’t feel out of place. And for the first time that day, the device in his pocket didn’t say a word. Noah left the cafeteria with a smile twitching at the edge of his mouth — and a shadow of guilt gnawing somewhere behind it.

⸻

Classes had ended, but the hallways of Fairview Ridge were still humming — lockers slamming, sneaker soles squeaking on vinyl floors, fragments of teenage laughter bouncing off cinderblock walls. Outside, the late-afternoon sun clung low and golden, casting elongated shadows that bled across the cracked pavement. Noah wasn’t walking home. He should have been. Backpack slung over one shoulder, water bottle loose in his hand, he moved without urgency. Past the main office. Past the vending machines. Past the double doors that led to the student lot. His feet took him — almost stubbornly — in the opposite direction. Toward the far end of the athletic wing. Toward the old gym. He didn’t even know why. Not exactly. Just… a nudge. A pull behind the eyes. Like something unsaid had been waiting there all day, and now it was time. The school’s weight room wasn’t impressive. It wasn’t even technically a room. It was more like a repurposed storage box — low ceiling, bad lighting, and the kind of industrial carpet that always felt faintly damp no matter how many dehumidifiers buzzed in the background. The walls were painted a sickly beige and patched with motivational posters whose edges had curled with humidity.

YOU DON’T FIND WILLPOWER.

YOU BUILD IT.

HARD WORK BEATS TALENT

WHEN TALENT WON’T WORK HARD.

The door was already propped open with a kettlebell. Noah stepped inside. The air hit him like a warm sock — dense with sweat, rubber, and chalk dust. Somewhere deep in the vents, the ghost of a moldy towel still lived and refused to die. Most of the equipment looked older than him. Iron plates with chipped enamel. Bent barbells. One of the benches had a duct-taped tear right where your spine would go. Overhead, a ceiling fan rotated in slow agony, doing its best to shift air that didn’t want to move. Noah stood in the middle of it. Motionless. He wore a faded T-shirt that clung to his chest — more than it had last week. Gray gym shorts with a frayed drawstring. His sneakers had holes in the heel linings, and he hadn’t worn socks. Again. He glanced around. The place was empty. Then he pulled out the device. PROTOFORM-9 blinked awake in his hand, screen glowing electric blue. There was a flicker. A shimmer. And then: Growlet, age 8 — or, as the interface now labeled him, “Bulklet” — was onscreen, mid push-up. Not cartoonish anymore, not really. Still pixelated, still 16-bit, but the proportions had shifted. Broad shoulders, square chin, spiky hair frozen in permanent bounce.

“Yo Broah!” Bulklet shouted, mid-plank. “Felt you coming! Let’s get that pump, bay-bee!”

A familiar whistle echoed — not real, but not imaginary either — as the Coach materialized on screen. Arms folded. Jaw tight.

“Late start, but it’ll do. Today’s agenda: Back and Bi.

Effort: 110%. Sweat: Mandatory.”

Noah blinked. His own face in the mirror — cracked glass over the squat rack — stared back at him, unsympathetic. He looked… tired. Flushed. His hair clung to his temples. But there was something else, too. A twitch of tension in his shoulders. The angle of his collarbones. The way his arms looked just a bit fuller. Just a bit straighter. He stepped up to the dumbbells. They were in disarray. A few had mismatched pairs. Most were rusty around the handles. He chose the fifteens, hesitated, then picked up the twenties instead. His grip surprised him. Not easy. Not impossible. Just… right. Bulklet shouted, “EZ CURLS, BROAH! NO SWINGING!” He tried not to laugh. He tried not to feel proud. But he did the set. Ten reps. Then ten more. His arms trembled, but his posture stayed solid. He didn’t know where the form came from. He just… followed. He did rows next. Then pull-ups. Only three, and the last one was a disaster, but still. He managed three. The Coach piped in after each:

“Back tight! Chest proud! Look like you mean it!”

His shirt stuck to him. His breathing slowed. Time lost shape. And then — at the corner of the mirror — he saw it.

A flash of motion. Not in the room. On the screen. Bulklet, now a full ten years old, doing the same exercises in perfect sync. When Noah paused, he paused. When Noah winced, he grimaced. It wasn’t mimicry anymore. It was… mirroring. Noah swallowed. His throat felt raw. He dropped the weights. They clanged, echoing louder than they should have. His hands were shaking. Not from exertion. From something else. Like his body was remembering a future he hadn’t lived yet.

He sat on the bench — the one with the duct tape — elbows on knees, device in both palms. The Coach appeared, arms still crossed, but his eyes — pixelated though they were — looked almost proud.

“Not bad, Recruit.

Emotional Bond: 17%

Neuromuscular Feedback: Strengthening.”

Noah exhaled. Long. Slow. Sticky with something he couldn’t name. He felt tired. But not the kind that made you want to lie down. The kind that made you want to keep going. Outside, the sun had dropped behind the gym roof, staining the horizon the color of cooling lava. Cicadas buzzed somewhere beyond the track. The air tasted like steel and soil. Noah stood. Walked slowly to the exit. He didn’t say anything. But as he passed through the doorway, he heard Bulklet’s voice one last time:

“Nice pull-ups, Broah. For real.”

And Noah… smiled. For real.

⸻

Dinner was—against all odds—healthy.

A lukewarm bowl of white rice, steamed broccoli, and dry grilled chicken breast sat on Noah’s lap as he hunched on the couch in his oversized hoodie, bare feet tucked under him. The room was dim except for the glow of a single floor lamp and the soft bluish light from the device resting beside his plate. Onscreen, Bulklet—now a fully energetic 10-year-old avatar in pixelated gym shorts and a sleeveless neon tank top—stood behind a squat digital table, waiting expectantly with fork in hand.

“You gonna share that, or what?” he chirped.

With a sigh and a smirk, Noah tapped the touchpad. Tiny digital broccoli materialized on Bulklet’s plate. Then rice. Then a chunk of indistinctly beige protein. Bulklet raised both arms in triumph. “BROAH’S FEEDIN’ THE GAINS!”

From the screen’s top corner, the Coach descended dramatically in a swirl of pixelated sparkles—arms folded, whistle glowing, eyebrows looking somehow even more judgmental than usual.

“Now that’s fuel,” he barked. “None of that soy-sauce-drenched garbage from the caf. Quality macros. Balanced plate. Optimal timing.”

Noah rolled his eyes and shoveled a forkful of dry chicken into his mouth. It squeaked against his teeth like sandpaper.

“Yeah, okay, Coach,” he mumbled, chewing like someone punishing themselves on purpose. “You win.”

“This isn’t a game, champ,” the Coach snapped. “This is a lifestyle shift.”

Onscreen, Bulklet clumsily stabbed a broccoli floret and gave it an enthusiastic, ketchup-covered bite. Then he gagged theatrically, chewed through it anyway, and flashed a thumbs up with a green-speckled smile. Noah couldn’t help it. He laughed. Genuinely. The kind that crinkled his nose and made his shoulders shake. The Coach—clearly unused to being ignored—cleared his throat.

“Ahem. Now that Phase One is complete, we will be entering a new developmental window. Expect enhanced neuromotor reinforcement, visual calibration, and reflexive adaptation routines.”

“…Cool,” Noah muttered, eyes still on Bulklet, who had now put a leftover rice grain up each nostril and was attempting a squat. “Good luck with that.”

“This is serious, recruit. We’re initiating—”

But the Coach’s voice was drowned out by Bulklet sneezing rice everywhere and then laughing so hard he fell over sideways. Noah set his plate on the coffee table and collapsed backward into the cushions, snickering. “Yeah. Real serious.”

At bedtime he pulled a blanket over himself with one arm, PROTOFORM-9 still glowing on his chest. Bulklet crawled back into his little pixelated bunk bed onscreen, wrapped himself in a digital camo-print blanket, and gave a sleepy “Night, Broah.” The Coach said something else—something about muscle recovery and circadian alignment—but Noah didn’t hear it. He was already fading, his thumb loosely brushing the side of the device like it was a comfort object he hadn’t meant to bond with. He fell asleep smiling.

⸻

Noah woke up to the smell of coffee. Real coffee. Not the kind that came in pods or was brewed by baristas with ironic mustaches. This was drip, dark and aggressive — the kind of smell that made you briefly think maybe adulthood wasn’t a scam. He sat up with a grunt, blinking into the sunlight slicing through the crooked blinds. His Interpol shirt clung to one side of his chest with sweat, the other already dry, like his body had been trying to choose a temperature all night and failed. His feet hit the floor. There were sounds. Kitchen sounds. Someone moving. Something sizzling. He stood, cautiously, tugging the hem of his shirt down like it might shield him from reality. He descended the stairs with slow and deliberate steps, gradually approaching the kitchen door. And then he saw it. A kid was in the kitchen. Not a dream, not a hallucination. A damn boy! Just standing there, barefoot, next to the stove, like this was his kitchen. White tank top barely clinging to a set of abs that no twelve-year-old should have. Gray shorts hanging low over thighs, actual developed thighs. His tan skin steamed faintly at the shoulders, like he was fresh out of a workout montage. His blond hair stuck up in every direction, like someone had paused his anime transformation sequence halfway through. And his face — not soft or round like a kid’s — was all angles and structure, a jawline that probably required building permits. The boy turned, eyes bright. “Oh hey! You’re up!” he grinned, like this was just any ol’ Thursday morning and not the start of a cosmic breakdown.

Noah opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. The kid didn’t wait. He picked up two mugs from the counter, filled with black coffee, and handed one to Noah with all the grace of a barista in a commercial. “No cream, no sugar,” he said cheerfully. “Better for testosterone.” Noah took it like it was radioactive. “Who are you?”

“I’m your bro! From The egg” the kid beamed. “Hatched while you were sleeping. Feeling good. Feeling strong. Wanna see my traps?”

That was the most disturbing sentence Noah had ever heard in his life, and he had already watched all the seasons of Real Housewives—ironically, of course—with Lucy. But before Noah could answer, the PROTOFORM-9 on the counter lit up with a cheerful BZZZT. The little 16-bit Coach bounced into view, eyes squinting with cartoon menace.

“BREAKFAST IS THE FOUNDATION OF LEGEND.”

“NO FUEL, NO GAINS.”

“AND PUT ON SOME DAMN PANTS, SLACKER.”

Noah looked down. He was, in fact, still in his boxers. He took a sip of the coffee. It was… strong. Bitter. Burned a little. Which somehow grounded him. Then he looked back at the stove.

The kid had made a platter of scrambled eggs. Not a plate. A platter. It looked like something you’d bring to a high school football team’s post-game brunch. Piled high. Perfectly fluffed. Somehow glistening. Noah sat down. He didn’t decide to sit down. He just… did. The kid placed a fork in front of him. “Eat up, big bro. Gotta feed that frame.” And for obscure reasons Noah ate. Forkful after forkful. Salty. Buttery. Perfect texture. His stomach should’ve rebelled, but it didn’t. If anything, it demanded more. He blinked. “I don’t even like eggs.” The kid grinned. “You do now.”

Noah tried again. “Okay. No. What is this? What are you? Why are you here? Why am I eating like I’ve been bulking for a competition—?”

“NO THINKING WHILE YOU’RE CHEWING,” the Coach barked from the device.

“CHEW, SWALLOW, THRIVE. SAVE THE EXISTENTIAL CRISIS FOR LEG DAY.”

Noah turned to the screen, fork midair. “You can’t just—”

“FOCUS, CHAMP. YOUR GAINS ARE BLEEDING OUT YOUR MOUTH WHILE YOU FLAP IT.”

He opened his mouth again. Paused. Looked at the eggs. Took another bite. Every time he tried to formulate a question — a real, grounded, logical line of reasoning — the Coach would interrupt with some buzzword-laced slogan and his brain would short out like someone had unplugged his frontal lobe. Noah massaged his temple. “This isn’t real.”

The kid offered more eggs. He took them. There was no winning here. Just eating. And slowly, like watching your own reflection morph in a funhouse mirror, Noah realized something: He wasn’t even fighting it anymore.

Upstairs, Noah stood in front of the mirror, shirt half off, staring at his own reflection like it was a suspicious roommate he hadn’t properly met. His hair stuck out like brittle straw, sleep-flattened on one side, wind-tossed on the other. His Interpol shirt hung limp over boxers with an elastic that had clearly given up mid-decade. He looked… in-progress. Like a half-rendered version of himself. Maybe someone else entirely if you tilted your head and squinted. There was a smear of egg on his jaw. He wiped it away mechanically.

Then— “You’re kinda soft,” said a voice behind him. He jumped like someone had hit a cymbal behind his ear.Spinning around, he saw him — the boy — standing barefoot in the doorway, sipping what should’ve been the last of the coffee. Still in that white tank top, still glowing with that post-hatch radiance like a fitness angel from a low-budget dream. “I mean, for a big brother,” the boy added, thoughtful, as if cataloguing data. “But it’s okay. You’ve got potential.”

“I—okay—out,” Noah said, pointing. “I need to change. Alone. Privately. With no commentary on my softness.” The kid walked in anyway and sat cross-legged on the bed, like this was a sleepover and not a psychological hostage situation. “I can help,” he said, bright-eyed. “We should pick something athletic. Shows off your frame.”

“I don’t have a frame.”

“You will. Coach says it’s all about mindset.”

BZZZT. The PROTOFORM-9 screen lit up on the nightstand like it had always been there.

“AESTHETICS DON’T BUILD THEMSELVES, BRO.”

“EVERY MORNING IS A DRESS REHEARSAL FOR DOMINANCE.”

“WAKE UP OR FALL OFF.”

Noah blinked at the screen. Then at the boy. Then back at the screen. “You guys are like a TED Talk had a stroke.” He reached into the drawer and yanked out a pair of jeans. Tried to pull them on too fast. Fell over the edge of the bed. Landed on his knee. Cursed in lowercase. The boy watched, unbothered.

“You go to school looking like that?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at Noah’s torso.

“I look normal.”

“You look like someone’s tired cousin.”

“CORRECT.”

“YOUR SPINE IS A QUESTION MARK.”

“STAND UP STRAIGHT OR GET EATEN BY LIFE.”

Noah gritted his teeth and slowly straightened. Shoulder blades back. Chin up. Chest forward. He looked like a reluctant military recruit in a department store mirror.

“Better,” the boy said cheerfully. “You’ve got older brother energy now.”

“Stop saying that like it’s a job title!”

“But it is,” the kid replied, bouncing a little. “You lead, I follow. That’s how brothers work.”

Noah turned to his pile of shirts. Grabbed one. Stared at it. Put it on. Paused. Took it off. Grabbed another one — one that didn’t make his arms look like wet linguine. He didn’t comment on the switch. But he noticed the boy’s approving nod. He sat on the floor to put on socks and shoes. Size eight. Slightly worn. Standard. Then the boy squinted. “You wear a size eight?” he asked, pointing.

“What? Yeah.”

“Huh. That’s… really small. I think.”

Noah froze.

“Are you—are you foot-shaming me now?”

“Not shaming!” the kid said quickly. “Just surprised. You’re a big brother. Kinda expected… you know. Bigger steps.”

BZZZT.

“TINY FEET, TINY PRESENCE.”

“WE’LL FIX THAT, CHAMP.”

“REAL LEADERS STOMP.”

Noah stared at the screen like it had personally betrayed him. Then looked down at his own shoes like they had done something to deserve this.

“This is the most deranged conversation I’ve ever had,” he muttered, tying his laces with slightly too much force. “Including the time I live-texted Pretty Little Liars season five while on cold medicine.”

The Coach laughed. A genuine, glitchy, belly-laughing 16-bit cackle.

“HE SAID ‘PRETTY LITTLE LIARS.’”

“BRO, GET THIS MAN A THERAPIST.”

“AND SOME SIZE Thirteens.”

Noah stood, shoulders already back, spine unintentionally straight. He grabbed his backpack. The kid clapped like it was opening night.

“Looking strong, bro.”

Noah sighed deeply. The air was thick in the hallway — warmer near the stairs, like the sun was already testing its angle through the windows. Outside, birds chirped like nothing was wrong. Like this wasn’t wrong. He checked the time. He had to go. He was late. For normalcy. For math. For school hallways and bad vending machines and not this. Behind him, the boy rose to his feet.

Straighter now. Taller, maybe And smiling. Expectant.

Like Noah was about to say something important. He wasn’t.

He opened the front door. Heat hit his face like a lazy slap.

He adjusted his backpack. One strap had already started to bite into his shoulder. His sneakers — now officially tiny, thanks to unsolicited commentary — squeaked faintly on the concrete as he shifted his weight. One deep breath. Two steps forward.

And then— “Wait! You forgot me!”

The voice cut through the quiet like a Nerf dart to the temple — bright, eager, completely uninvited. Noah turned slowly, like someone being hunted in a nature documentary. The boy stood in the doorway, still barefoot, still wearing that same tank top and shorts combo like it was gym class picture day. His golden-tan skin glowed under the porch light. His arms were crossed. His smile was huge.

“I’m ready!”

“For… what,” Noah said flatly. “To ruin me emotionally?”

“To come with you!” the boy said, as if that were obvious. “We could train before school. Just a quick session! You can show me your routine, I’ll spot you — it’ll be legendary.”

Noah blinked. “You want to train? With me? At a gym?”

“Well… yeah!” The kid’s eyes sparkled. “I’m ready to start bulking. Coach says my growth curve is expo… expon…. It’s like… destiny.”

BZZZT.

“TRAINING OPPORTUNITY IDENTIFIED.”

“YOUNG LIFTER SEEKS GUIDANCE.”

“DO NOT BE A COWARD, NOAH.”

Noah’s jaw dropped slightly. He looked between the boy and the screen in the hallway, now glowing like the Eye of Sauron with motivational fury.

“I’m not taking a twelve-year-old mutant to the gym.”

“I’m not twelve,” the kid said, with an adorably serious frown. “I’m twelve-ish. That’s like a growth window.”

“Growth window,” Noah repeated, deadpan. “You’re literally barefoot. You hatched yesterday. You are not cleared for public facilities.”

The kid’s face fell. Just a little.

“I thought you were my big bro.”

“I’m not your—!” Noah caught himself. His voice cracked like a panicked substitute teacher. “I mean—look—I didn’t agree to any of this. I don’t know how any of this works. You just… showed up. And now there’s eggs and coffee and life advice from a pixelated linebacker and I swear I should be calling child protective services or NASA or something.”

“NOAH.”

“FOCUS.”

“YOU’RE LOSING THE MOMENTUM.”

“ALSO YOUR STANCE IS COLLAPSING.”

Noah reflexively squared his feet. Then immediately regretted it. The boy’s lip wobbled. Literal wobble. Like he was made of vulnerable protein.

“I just thought… we’d do it together. Like real brothers do. You’d show me stuff. Like how to warm up. How to hit chest day right.” Noah stared at him. Mouth half open. His internal monologue was losing patience with itself. He knew this wasn’t normal. He knew this wasn’t safe. He knew he should have locked the door, unplugged the Coach, and called literally anyone — a therapist, a biologist, the FBI. But he hadn’t. And he wasn’t. And he didn’t know why. Instead, he said, “You… can’t come. But—if you stay here, quiet, no experiments, no eggs, no Coach lectures—”

“HEY.”

“MOTIVATION IS NOT A CRIME.”

“—then, maybe—maybe—we can do some dumb little push-ups together later. Maybe. Okay?” The kid brightened. Beamed. Like Noah had promised him Disneyland and a protein sponsorship in one sentence.

“You mean it?”

“Sure,” Noah lied. “Later.”

“Okay!” The kid nodded hard, already planning an imaginary workout. “We’ll hit chest and tris. I’ve got ideas.” Noah turned, stepped off the porch. The sun slapped him in the face like a towel in a locker room. He didn’t look back. Not when the door creaked closed behind him. Not when the Coach muttered something about discipline and promise-keeping. Not even when his phone buzzed in his pocket — probably a text from actual reality, trying to pull him back. He didn’t look back because if he did, he might stay. And if he stayed, he might start believing it. That he really was someone’s big brother. That he really was supposed to lead. That maybe, just maybe, that thing in his chest that kept vibrating wasn’t panic. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was the first hint of delts.

As soon as he stepped outside, he had to run to catch the bus. It was muggy out there, like the whole city was stewing in its own juices. The asphalt shimmered. The trees didn’t move. The sky was a solid shade of blue — almost fake-looking. Inside the bus, the AC blew warm air that smelled like old vinyl.

Noah pressed his forehead against the window and took a deep breath. He was sweating. His T-shirt clung to his back in a new kind of way. He pulled out his phone and snapped a quick selfie, but didn’t have the guts to look at it. Instead, he opened his chat with Zach.

[8:52 AM] Noah: dude

[8:52 AM] Noah: long story

[8:53 AM] Noah: don’t come over today

⸻

English class felt like a torture chamber. The fluorescent lights buzzed over the desks, the teacher was talking about modernist poetry with the kind of enthusiasm that bordered on hysteria, and Noah could barely sit still. His shirt felt tighter. His jeans were snug. He didn't have classes with Zach and Lucy until after lunch. This was, in a way, both a curse and a blessing, as he wasn't quite sure how to handle the situation with the two of them.

During the break, Noah passed by the bathroom mirror and stopped.

Was his jaw squarer? Or was that just a shadow? His jawline looked… sharper. And something about his arms too. Not defined exactly, but… bulkier? He rolled up his sleeve. There was a bicep there. Shy. But there.

— What is happening?

No one answered. But when he stepped back into the hallway, he caught a whisper from a group of girls from art class:

— Has he always had those shoulders?

— Who?

— Noah. Think he’s been working out?

He picked up the pace.

**

It wasn’t until after fourth period that he looked out the window.

There, sitting casually on a bench in the courtyard like he belonged, was the boy. Same clothes as that morning — but he looked… bigger? Legs longer. Shoulders straighter. He was tossing something in the air — a bottle cap, maybe — and seemed completely unaware that he was at a school he wasn’t enrolled in.

Noah raised his hand halfway through the lecture, muttering something about a sudden stomach bug. The teacher gave a distracted nod, not even looking up from the whiteboard. Clutching his abdomen for dramatic effect, Noah slipped out the door and made a beeline down the hall — straight toward the boy, before things got completely out of hand.

The sun was harsh and white in the sky, hanging like a divine spotlight over the school campus. Noah hurried down the side steps of the classroom block and crossed the courtyard like it was a minefield. Every step felt too loud, every student seemed to brush past him — and when he reached the bench near the fence, the boy turned to him with a grin way too big for the situation.

— Hey, bro! You saw me?

— What are you doing here? — Noah sat beside him, whispering through clenched teeth. — You can’t just come to school. If anyone asks where you came from, I’m screwed!

The boy kicked his legs back and forth.

— I wanted to see you. I missed you.

Noah sighed. There was no arguing with someone who said something like that with eyes that bright.

— You… look bigger?

— I grow when you’re not looking, like a Pokémon.

— That’s not— — Noah raised a hand, then gave up on the sentence. Because he saw what the boy kept tossing into the air. It was the Protoformer. Noah nearly had a heart attack. He rushed over, snatched the device mid-air, and hissed, “We don’t know what could happen to you if something happens to this. So it stays with me.”

The Coach’s voice chirped up from the screen, smug as ever. “Big brother instincts kicking in. That’s what I like to see.”

“Shut up,” Noah snapped. “I knew you signed off on this little school field trip.”

The Coach didn’t deny it. “Boys in co-development phases need each other.”

Noah exhaled sharply and turned to the boy. “Go home. Now.”

— I don’t remember the way. And I wanted to play with them. — He pointed to the field. A group of football players was running defensive drills.

— No way — Noah said. — You can’t. You’re not even old enough!

The boy frowned, like it didn’t make sense.

— How old do I have to be?

— At least… I don’t know, fifteen? You gotta be in high school to play!

The boy crossed his arms. His eyes sparkled, but this time, it was different. There was something in the air. Something… dense. A soundless snap rippled through the space. The boy grew — right there in front of Noah. Not subtly. It was like the light flickered around him, and his body stretched in silence. He looked around fifteen now. His features lengthened. His voice, when he spoke, came out deeper:

— There.

Noah stepped back, nearly tripping.

— Oh, no.

— I’m gonna play. — The boy — now a teen — turned toward the field and took off running.

— No! — Noah chased after him.

But it was too late. The practice froze when the boy snatched a pass mid-drill, spun on his heel, and sprinted thirty yards like a pro. The coach — a guy in his fifties with a Dolphins cap and the bark of a drill sergeant — bellowed:

— Hey! HEY! Who the hell is that kid?!

The team stopped dead. Noah slipped through the fence, breathless.

— He’s… he’s my cousin! — he blurted. — From out of town. Just visiting. The coach looked from the ball to the boys, then back again.

— What’s his name?

The boy hesitated.

— Uh… — Noah swallowed hard. — Tyler. Tyler Carson.

The coach squinted. Then clicked his tongue.

“Good. ’Cause that Tyler’s got more talent than the rest of this damn team combined. And you—” he jabbed a finger at Noah, who had just sprinted like his life depended on it and, oddly enough, wasn’t even winded— “with a whole lotta effort, might get close to him someday. Maybe. If you stop walkin’ like you’ve got a ghost ridin’ your back.”

Noah stood there. Not exactly a compliment. But it stung… because it kinda made sense?

— Bring that kid tomorrow. Seven a.m. Let’s see if he can take a real hit.

Noah nodded slowly. Not knowing what to do with the boy, he did something he had never done before: he skipped the rest of his classes. The walk home was quiet.

The boy. Tyler — now fifteen, impressively tall, and walking with confidence — carried Noah’s backpack like it was part of a costume.

At home, the Coach popped up on the screen with his wide, pixelated grin.

“Mission accomplished. Congratulations, recruit. Now it’s time to structure your training routine.”

— Is this real? — Noah said out loud. — This isn’t really happening.

— Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing? — said Tyler (as he was now calling himself), dropping the backpack on the couch. — Playing football seems fun.

— Because you DIDN’T EXIST two days ago!

“Incorrect perspective, recruit. He always existed. In potential. You just unlocked him.”

— You’re a program! — Noah shouted at the screen.

“I’m a COACH. And if you don’t have the discipline to handle this, maybe you need more mental conditioning.”

Noah buried his face in his hands. Tyler stepped closer.

— You don’t like me?

The question came out small. Vulnerable.

Again, like a little brother just trying to be liked. Noah exhaled sharply. The guilt hit fast.

The kid had big hazel eyes flecked with green, and they shimmered like he might actually cry.

— I do like you. I just… don’t understand how any of this happened.

“Of course you do. You’re his trainer. And he’s a reflection of your progress.”

Noah stared at the Coach on the screen.

— That’s not true.

“Isn’t it? Look at you. Taller. Stronger. Confidence: developing. Focus? Redirected.”

Noah frowned. Was he… taller? He looked down at his own arms. At the veins on his forearm. At the muscles that hadn’t been there before.

At the thoughts that now seemed… heavier. Clearer. Less noise.

— I…

— Will you take me tomorrow? — Tyler asked.

Noah didn’t answer right away.

Then he nodded.

— Yeah. But… no promises. The boy smiled. The Coach on the screen lit up orange.

“Bond: 40%” The screen went dark. And Noah — without realizing — smiled back.

⸻

[radtf69]

The Sweatpants

You’re sitting in the breakroom, poking at your wilted salad with a plastic fork, wishing—not for the first time—that life felt like anything other than a spreadsheet-filled hamster wheel. You’ve got your MBA, a good downtown job in project management, and a perfectly respectable apartment with a view of the parking garage. You’re white, skinny, thirty, smart. Gay, liberal, kind. The kind of guy who goes to Pride, donates to causes, and reads The Atlantic on your lunch break.

But none of that stops you from feeling like something’s missing. Not just romance—you’ve been single since that barista ghosted you—but a sense of power, of presence. Guys like you don’t get noticed at the gym, and they sure as hell don’t get rich selling selfies.

You think of those cocky Instagram “fitness influencers”—Arab gym bros flexing shirtless in sweatshorts, dumb as bricks but raking in money, slapping girls’ asses and bragging about their gains. Disgusting, sure, but… God, life would be easy if you could be him, just for a bit.

You shouldn’t have stayed for the late night gym session, but you had energy to burn. Maybe that was your first mistake.

Your second mistake? Finding those sweatpants.

They were crumpled near the lockers, stained and damp, like some slob just peeled them off. Thick grey cotton, stained at the waistband, with “KASIM” scrawled in permanent marker. You wrinkle your nose. They reek of sweat and some awful cheap cologne, like AXE body spray and ass crack. You mean to toss them into lost and found, but the second your fingers graze the waistband—heat punches through you.

Your knees buckle. There’s a voice inside, soft, coaxing—Put them on, bro. Try ‘em. You want to laugh it off, but your hands are already undoing your gym shorts, and next thing you know, you're pulling those damp, nasty sweatpants up over your thighs.

They’re warm. Wet. Clingy.

And they fit.

The second the waistband snaps tight, pain lances through your thighs. You double over with a gasp as your legs start swelling—no, thickening. Your pale legs stretch wide, corded muscle pushing out from your skinny frame. You clutch the bench for support, eyes wide as your calves bulk up, hair vanishing as your skin takes on a darker, warmer hue.

“Fuck—fuck, no—” you whisper. You try to tear them off, but your fingers feel clumsy, dumb.

Your shirt’s soaked with sweat now—your sweat—but it smells... wrong. Like locker room stench. Like his stench.

Pain surges up your spine as your ass balloons, thighs thickening into solid, muscled trunks. The sweatpants are riding low now, waistband dipping below your hips, exposing your deepening V-cut.

And then, worse than the pain, comes the heat between your legs.

You moan—loud, dumb, deep. Your voice cracks, not high and nasally anymore but gravelly, like you've smoked a pack a day. Your balls drop, your cock swelling in the damp fabric, fat and heavy.

“What—what the fuck—”

You stumble to the mirror. What you see isn’t you.

You’ve never looked like this.

Your arms are huge, chest pumped, pecs twitching under your shirt—which you tear off instinctively, revealing abs so sharp they look carved. Your skin’s a rich bronze now, sweat beading on every ridge, and your pits reek like dude, pure, unfiltered gym bro. You gag on your own scent—but your cock pulses at it.

Your face—it’s morphing. Hair darkens, curls tight. Your nose broadens. Your jaw juts out, heavy with a thickening beard. You try to think, to remember your old self, but there’s a fog settling in, thick and heavy, like beer foam and cologne.

You mutter— “Nah, nah, I’m…I’m Ryan… no, no, I’m…” Your accent’s all wrong now. New Jersey? Slurred, dumb. “I’m fuckin’ KASIM, bro, y’know? Like, real fuckin’ man.”

You groan, grabbing your chest as your pecs bounce. You can’t stop flexing.

You need to lift.

You’re stumbling, staggering through the gym, your thick thighs chafing—fuck, they’re rubbing so bad—but the sweatpants cling like a second skin, grey cotton soaked dark with your musk. Every step makes your juicy ass bounce, heavy now, fat in a way that no gay man should ever want. You groan, gripping the lockers as your back arches and your glutes pulse, swelling.

You feel your underwear snap— fuck, you don’t wear underwear anymore. You never needed it. That ass is too thick, too greedy. It’s not for cock. Not anymore. Not ever again.

“Yo, why da fuck would any dude be stickin’ his dick up there, bro? Fuckin’ sick. Dat’s for SHITTIN’, bro. And maybe rippin’ some FAT fuckin’ farts when I’m PUMPIN’ iron!”

The voice screams in your skull, your voice, but twisted, LOUD, dumb. Every word echoes in your head with that awful thick Jersey Shore bro accent, like it’s bubbling up from your balls, not your brain.

You scream—but it comes out a grunt, deep, heavy, stupid.

Pain lances across your chest as your pecs jerk, pulse, and bulge, twitching like meat on a grill. You watch, horrified, as they bounce up and down on their own, soaked in a sheen of hot, rank sweat, your nipples darkening and thickening like two dime-sized targets. You grab them—instinct—but your hands are massive, fingers thick and rough with calluses. You used to have nice hands. Typing hands. Writer’s hands.

Now?

Just dumb meat-paws, perfect for gripping weights and grabbing pussy.

“Yo, chicks love gettin’ groped by these mitts, bro. You see how much I can bench, huh? You see this fuckin’ chest, bro?”

The voice again. Your voice—but dumber, cockier, LOUDER. Like a constant frat boy douchebag in your skull, pounding on your sanity, beating it out of you like it’s a fuckin’ keg at a party.

You slap your face, trying to hold on, trying to think.

Your name—what was it? Something smart. Clean.

David? Eric?

But your mouth’s already saying “Yo, it’s fuckin’ KASIM, bro! Da fuck you lookin’ at? I’m gonna hit some curls ‘n’ then take a fuckin’ protein shit, y’feel me?”

You grab your head, screaming as your scalp tingles—your dark curls growing thicker, greasier, perfectly trimmed into a bro fade. The beard’s thick now, sharp at the jawline, framing your face like a goddamn fuckboi.

You try to think about politics, about literature, about anything real, but your thoughts are slipping, draining like cum down a locker room drain.

You remember a guy you liked—he had a soft smile, a gentle voice.

“Yo, fuck that gay shit, bro, that’s fuckin’ DISGUSTIN’. I don’t even think ‘bout dudes, bro, makes me wanna puke.”

NO. That wasn’t you. That can’t be you.

But your dick’s hard in the sweatpants—thick, fat, and useless for anything but fucking chicks raw and pounding out a load. Your ass quivers, heavy, a meat shelf for squats and nothing else.

It rips a loud, wet fart.

You moan, horrified—but the Jersey bro voice in your skull laughs, shouting:

“Yo, fuckin’ RIPE, bro! Let that shit OUT, dawg. This ass ain’t for takin’ dicks, bro, it’s for SHITTIN’! Fuckin’ protein bombs all day, bro!”

Tears roll down your face—but they sting, evaporating in your fevered heat. Your skin’s glowing now, bronzed, oily with sweat. Your armpits reek, soaked and hairy. You lift your arm—and you smile.

It smells like dominance.

“Yo, lemme hit da gym, fuck some bitches, get wasted, and fart in some fag’s face, bro! USA, baby! CHRISTIAN POWER!”

The words spill from your mouth, the voice now yours, loud, dumb, cocky, unapologetic. You want to scream—but all that comes out is:

“Yo, I gotta lift, bro—dis pump ain’t gonna grow itself!”

You bounce your pecs in the mirror. They obey.

Your brain slips, melting under the pressure, and your last thought is:

Never again… never again a cock… this ass just for farts, sweat… and shits.

You can’t stop flexing.

You’re glued to the mirror, watching your obscene, sweaty reflection pose like some douchebag god. Your pecs bounce, twitching uncontrollably every time you even think about control. And you can’t think, not really. Not anymore.

There’s too much noise—LOUD Jersey bro noise—inside your skull. Thoughts don’t form, they just come out like shouts, burps, grunts.

You feel like you’re melting from the neck up, brain sloshing, dripping out your ears as your jaw pops, broadens, locking into a permanent smug smirk.

Your head jerks with each final twitch, skull pounding with every beat of your now massive, hairy heart. You used to care—about people, causes, ideas—but now the only thing pounding in your chest is a need to dominate, to be seen, to get your fuckin’ dick sucked by some tight-ass chick who knows you’re better than her.

Because you are.

“Bro… I’m fuckin’ PERFECT. Look at dis body, bruh! Ain’t nobody out there touchin’ these gains, yo.”

You shout it, loud, to no one—just your own reflection—but it echoes like a sermon.

You grab your dick through the sweatpants—it’s massive, throbbing, fat—and you laugh, dumb and LOUD.

You can’t even remember what it felt like to be gay. That life’s gone, erased. What the fuck kinda pussyboy was that? Books? Protests? Feelings?

“FUCKIN’ BITCH-ASS SHIT, BRO.”

You say it without thinking, because you don’t think.

Your tongue’s too busy licking your perfect, white teeth. Your lips curl into a cocky snarl, your beard itches like fuck, thick and greasy, and you love it. You smell like testosterone, cheap cologne, ass crack, and victory.

And then you fart—a loud, wet BLAAARRRT—that rips through the gym like a foghorn. It echoes. It lingers.

You moan.

“AWWWW FUCK YEAH, BRO—DAT’S HOW A REAL MAN DOES IT.”

You’re pounding your own chest now, thumping it like a gorilla. Your juicy, fat-ass cheeks clap with each bounce. You slap it, laugh, and let another fart rip. There’s no shame. Just pride.

This ass don’t take cock, bro.

You strut through the gym like you own it, grabbing your fat crotch with one hand, chugging a protein shake with the other. Every chick stares. Every dude steps back.

And you LOVE it.

Your necklace—a thick black cross—bounces against your sweaty pecs. You grin, flexing in the mirror, raising your arms in a bro-blessing.

“ALL GLORY TO CHRIST, BRO. GOD MADE ME PERFECT. ALPHA MALE. MUSCLE. PUSSY. BEER. GAINS. AMEN.”

You’ve ascended, bro.

No more thoughts. No more doubts. No more gay. Just KASIM, the thickest, straightest, loudest Arab Jersey douchebag on Earth.

And all you wanna do now... is rip a few more nasty farts, flex, and fuck bitches ‘til your balls are empty.

You grab your cock, spit on the floor, and growl:

“YO, WHO WANTS TO GET BRED BY THIS FUCKIN’ BEAST, BRO?!”

You own this gym.

Not on paper—nah, that shit’s for fags and nerds. You own it by presence. Every dumb bro moves when you walk in. Every chick stares—and today, she’s here.

Blonde. White. Tight-ass leggings. Perfect tits.

You see her squatting near the mirrors, sweat dripping between her cleavage, her little white sports bra barely containing those jugs. Her ponytail bounces as she pushes out another rep.

You grunt, loud.

“Daaamn, bitch, that ass is lookin’ THICK today.”

She turns—wide eyes, a little shocked—but you’re already there, hand on her hip, the other sliding right over that tight, peachy ass. You grab it, full meat grip, fingers digging in like she’s your property.

“Ayo, lil’ mama, I’m gonna fuck your brains out after this set,” you growl, hot breath in her ear, your funk washing over her like a tidal wave—BO sweat, cologne, dick stank, and a fresh fart still clinging to your ass.

She gags—but her eyes flutter. Her face flushes. Her breath hitches.

You see it start.

Her hair—blonde, sure—but now it’s getting blonder, turning platinum, silky, like some porn star barbie. Her lips plump, glossed, mouth falling open in a dumb smile.

“Omigod… you smell like… so manly,” she moans, tits swelling, her tan deepening, her nipples rock hard against the fabric.

You laugh, low, cocky.

“Yeah, you fuckin’ love it, huh? Can’t fuckin’ resist alpha stink, bitch. This scent? That’s breeder power, baby.”

She whimpers, grinding back into your hand. You slap her ass, hard, leaving a red print.

Her leggings tighten, her waist shrinking, ass bubbling out bigger, rounder. She’s moaning now, needy, staring up at you like a dumb little bimbo slut.

“Fuck… need your dick… daddy…”

You spit on the floor, flex your pecs, let out a wet fart right in her direction.

“Dumb bitch. I’ll wreck you. But you ain’t my girlfriend. You’re just a tight hole for my meat, ya feel me?”

She nods, eyes glazed, tits bouncing, body now pure bro-girl perfection.

You grab her ponytail, growl in her ear:

“Let’s go breed, slut.”

And you drag her to the locker room—your domain.

[radtf69]

The Shades

You didn’t plan to go inside. You were just walking, aimlessly. The sun was too bright, the streets too crowded, and your head throbbed faintly with that familiar cocktail of loneliness and caffeine withdrawal. It was late afternoon, a dull Tuesday, and you had wrapped up another shift at the Midtown Alliance for Housing Equity, or as your co-workers called it, Misery HQ. Another day of gray cubicles, polite email chains, endless reports nobody would read.

You weren’t unhappy, exactly. Not outwardly. Thirty-six, single, civil, and carefully forgettable — you’d spent most of your life making sure you didn’t offend, didn’t attract too much attention. You wore neat slacks, sensible shoes, and sweaters year-round, even in the muggy heat of August. You weren’t ugly, just ordinary, though the occasional Grindr date reminded you of what you weren’t: exciting, hot, or worth texting back.

So when you passed Sunset Thrift — a little dump of a store, squeezed between a liquor shop and a vape lounge — you turned inside without thinking, hoping to waste time. The air inside was musty, thick with the scent of mildewed cloth and dust baked in old heat. You ran your fingers along cracked leather jackets, chipped mugs, racks of clothes from forgotten decades.

It was the accessories bin that caught your eye.

There, buried under a pile of tangled belts and beaded necklaces, was a pair of sunglasses.

But not just any sunglasses.

These things were obscene.

Bright neon-orange frames, thick plastic that looked warped by years of sun and sweat. The lenses were mirrored gold, but smudged, as if someone had been pawing them with greasy fingers. The sides had weird little designs, vaguely tribal — like something you’d find at the gas station attached to a beach bar. They practically screamed douchebag.

You picked them up, grimacing. They felt warm in your hand, weirdly sticky, like someone had just worn them — like they’d been ripped off the face of some shirtless moron who reeked of Axe body spray and cheap beer. You turned them over, half expecting a crack, or some brand name — but there was nothing. Just plastic. Smudged, scratched, and pulsing with an odd kind of presence.

You should’ve put them down.

Instead, you slipped them on.

And time stopped.

The thrift store mirror across the aisle shimmered. Your breath caught in your throat.

Because staring back wasn’t you.

Not entirely.

It was… a version of you. Or rather, a version of something you hated. Someone you’d cross the street to avoid. A frat bro.

Tanned, stupidly tanned, like he’d baked himself under a tanning bed and then oiled up for good measure. His hair — your hair? — was buzzed tight on the sides, styled into a thick, messy quiff under a backwards cap. His face was smirking, cocky, with a square jaw, light stubble, and lips parted just slightly like he was always on the verge of saying something crude.

But it was the body.

Your sweater was gone. Instead, a tank top — tiny, skin-tight, stretched over muscles that didn’t make sense. Thick arms, veiny forearms, bulging pecs with the faintest sheen of sweat. His — your? — chest rose and fell with slow, lazy confidence, the kind of posture that said “I run this place.”

And the eyes — hidden behind those gold lenses — you couldn’t see them. You didn’t want to.

You yanked the sunglasses off, panting. The mirror showed you again: pale, thin, unremarkable.

But for a second, you’d felt something. Not just seen it — you’d felt the heat of the sun, the weight of those swollen muscles, the tug of testosterone in your blood, something cruder, heavier in your body. It had felt… filthy.

You shook your head, heart pounding, cheeks burning. What the hell was that?

You looked down at the glasses in your hands. Still warm. Still smudged. You should’ve put them back.

Instead, you heard yourself ask, softly, “How much for these?”

You stepped into the blinding afternoon sun, the shades tucked in a little paper bag, your hand clammy around them. The heat hit you like a wall — heavy, damp, invasive. You wiped your brow, annoyed. The store’s air-conditioning hadn’t done you any favors.

The sunglasses pressed against your side inside the bag, as if waiting.

You hesitated.

Then, without fully thinking, you slipped them back on.

And everything changed.

The world looked… off. Like someone had tinted reality. Everything was brighter, sharper, but also lower, like the volume of the world had dropped, except for certain sounds — the rev of a car engine, the bass thump of music from a passing car, the laugh of a woman walking down the street.

You looked at her.

Tight jeans, crop top, long legs, hair in a messy ponytail.

“Bet she loves gettin’ railed,” your brain whispered.

You froze.

What?

You didn’t think that.

She walked past, and you turned your head, eyes locking on her ass.

Your throat tightened.

“Daaaamn, baby’s got cake,” your inner voice groaned, unbidden, “Bet she knows how to bounce it.”

Your stomach turned. You ripped the sunglasses off, hand trembling.

Your vision blurred for a moment, and everything snapped back. Normal color. Normal noise.

You gasped, heart racing.

What the fuck was happening?

You stumbled home, sweating through your undershirt, the sunglasses clenched in your pocket like a cursed relic. Every few steps, you could feel them — radiating heat, pulsing against your thigh.

You tossed them on your kitchen table the moment you got inside. Slammed the door, locked it.

You sat on your sagging futon, staring at them.

They stared back.

You cracked a beer. It tasted off — metallic, sour. You couldn’t focus. The TV played, some PBS documentary on the Stonewall riots, something you normally cared about. But your eyes kept drifting to the table.

To the glasses.

And slowly, you started to sweat.

Your skin itched. Your neck felt tight. You stood, tugging at your collar, and caught your reflection in the TV screen.

Something looked… wrong.

Your arms.

The sleeves were snug. You pushed one up, squinting.

Had your biceps always been that… firm?

No. Impossible.

Your hand trembled. You reached for the sunglasses, fingers hovering.

Just one more look.

Just for a second.

You slipped them on.

And there he was again.

But now, it wasn’t just the mirror.

You saw yourself — shirtless, sweating, standing in a suburban driveway under the sun, your chest puffed out like it could knock down a wall. Your hands held an energy drink, dribbling down your chin, soaking your tan, flexed torso. Every part of you was massive, swollen, obscene. Your shorts hung low, barely hiding your junk, and your thick fingers scratched your crotch without shame.

You smirked.

You belched, loud and unapologetic.

And you loved it.

You yanked them off, gasping.

Your shirt was soaked. Your hands smelled. Your thighs ached.

You stared in horror as you realized you were hard — throbbing, leaking — and not thinking of men. Not thinking of tenderness or romance or dates.

You were thinking about tits.

Big, bouncing tits.

You staggered back, knocking over a lamp. The room seemed to spin. Your chest heaved.

You weren’t that man.

You weren’t him.

But deep inside, under your skin, something had begun to stir. And it wasn’t going to stop.

You wake with a start.

Your first breath tastes wrong—stale, thick, almost meaty. You sit up, confused, and immediately feel it: your skin is drenched, your sheets slick with sweat. Not the usual kind, not night sweats from anxiety or bad dreams. This is rank, animal sweat. Sticky, clinging, like your body’s been baking in your own stench all night.

Your fingers touch your chest—expecting skin, maybe a damp t-shirt—but your hand presses into flesh.

Firm flesh. Heavy.

You blink in the morning gloom. It’s too dark to see properly, but your hands explore—groping your own body with growing horror. Your chest is thicker. Your nipples—larger, swollen, rubbing uncomfortably against your sheets. You wince as you shift—every motion feels weighted, your limbs not quite yours.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed and groan.

Your legs feel like they’ve been hit with sandbags—heavy, sore, like you ran a marathon in your sleep. You look down.

Your thighs are huge.

Not fat—muscle. Dense, meaty, covered in dark hair you don’t recognize. You used to be hairless, kept yourself trimmed, clean. Now, coarse black hair mats your legs, curling against skin that looks darker, tanned, greasy.

You try to stand. Your knees crack, your lower back pops, and your feet thud to the floor with unfamiliar weight.

You catch your reflection in the mirror across the room.

You freeze.

What. The. Fuck.

Your torso—bigger. Not massive, not yet, but clearly bulking. Your pecs sit high and swollen, round, and... they bounce slightly when you shift your weight. You stare in disbelief at the faint shadows of abs pushing out against the soft skin of your stomach, like they’re forcing their way through.

But your face—

You stumble closer.

Your jaw is subtly different—blunter, wider. Your cheeks seem puffier, with a hint of color that wasn’t there before. You lean in. Your eyes—still yours—but... not right.

There’s a glint in them.

A cocky glint.

Like you’re mocking yourself.

You reach up, fingers trembling, to touch your hair.

It’s damp, slick, and your scalp itches like hell. You rake your fingers through it—and immediately recoil.

Grease.

Your hair is greasy, clumped into a messy, sweat-soaked quiff. You sniff your fingers and almost gag. Rank, like you spent the night partying, grinding, fucking—but you didn’t. You were alone.

You stink.

Your armpits reek, pungent and earthy, almost sour. You lift your arm to smell, and the muscle under your skin twitches.

Your biceps are tighter. Your arms—thicker.

You grab your phone to call someone—anyone—but your fingers struggle with the buttons.

Your fingers are too thick.

The screen smears with sweat as you fumble, and when your phone buzzes with a message from Ben—“Hey, wanna grab brunch today?”—you stare blankly.

Ben. Your co-worker. Nice guy. Maybe a crush?

Your cock twitches.

But not at Ben.

At the thought of brunch.

“Fuckin’ brunch is for pussies,” a voice growls in your mind.

You freeze.

You didn’t think that.

Yes, you did.

No.

You stumble to the bathroom, your body heavy, your skin itching. Every step is awkward. Your thighs rub together in a way they never used to, your feet slap on the floor, almost too big for your slippers.

In the mirror, under the harsh bathroom light, you see everything.

Your neck is thickening, your shoulders slowly widening, your collarbones vanishing under muscle. Your skin glistens, not with health—but with grease, sweat, testosterone.

You try to speak.

“Help…”

But your voice cracks, dropping a full octave.

“Fffffuck…”

You grab your throat. It’s sore, your Adam’s apple swollen.

You burp.

Loud. Wet. Vulgar.

It echoes in the tiny bathroom. Your breath smells, like protein powder, cheap beer, and unbrushed teeth. You cough, spit into the sink, and stare at the yellowish slime.

Your stomach gurgles. Loud. Obscene.

You fart—loud, wet, vibrating your thickening ass—and moan as it reeks.

Meat. Sweat. Rot.

You drop your boxers.

Your cock is hard.

Veiny, thicker, pulsing. Your balls hang low, heavy with sweat. Your crotch stinks—rank, primal.

You groan.

Your hand moves on its own.

Grabbing.

Stroking.

Fast. Crude.

You try to stop.

You can’t.

Your brain splits.

Half of you screams. The other half moans, lost in pussy, tits, ass—images flood your mind. Not men. Not romance.

Just raw, filthy fucking.

You climax, hard, grunting, spraying the sink, your body twitching as your legs wobble.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, gasping.

Your face is red.

Smirking.

Your nipples throb.

Your name—

You can’t remember it.

All you remember is the glasses.

They’re still on the table.

Calling you.

The sun blasted through the blinds, slicing golden bars across the room, igniting every bead of sweat that coated your skin like a second, greasy layer. You woke to a thick, heavy heat clinging to your body, sticky and suffocating. Your muscles ached, but it wasn’t soreness from exertion—it was the dull throb of something new, something wrong. Your skin felt slick, like you’d been doused in cheap tanning oil, that sickly sweet plastic smell rising up to curl in your nostrils.

Your mouth was dry, cracked at the corners. You swallowed, throat rough and raw, and a thick, guttural rasp tore from deep in your chest—not your voice. You cleared your throat, but only more rasp came out, heavier, lower, like a bruise turned sound. Your Adam’s apple bobbed in the mirror as you swallowed again, trying to recognize the stranger staring back at you.

You swung your legs over the edge of the bed and your feet hit the floor with a dull, heavy thud. The bed frame creaked under your weight. You blinked against the harsh light and shuffled over to the mirror hanging crooked on the wall.

Your reflection wasn’t yours anymore.

A square jaw jutted sharply beneath a scruffy layer of dark stubble, rough as sandpaper. Your once-neat hair was now a mess of oily spikes and tousled curls, plastered down unevenly as if styled with motor oil instead of gel. The skin on your face was bronzed, deeply tanned in an unnatural, sun-fried orange that glistened in the light.

Your lips—thick, almost swollen—twitched into a lopsided smirk that oozed swagger and stupid confidence. Hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, your eyes shimmered with a cocky, lazy arrogance. You could feel them sizing everything up, weighing every passerby like a prize to be owned.

You pulled off the cheap cotton shirt tangled around your torso and exposed what was underneath.

Every inch of your upper body was sculpted to absurd excess: thick, swollen pecs bulged under the greasy sheen of tanning oil, tiny droplets sliding down in slow, oily rivulets. The veins in your biceps throbbed visibly, thick cords pulsing like they had a life of their own, running up to arms that looked as if they’d been carved from marble but somehow also pumped full of steroids.

Your abs were sharp, deeply cut, carved like a six-pack made for magazine covers—but your skin glistened, sweaty and sticky. You flexed, watching the muscles ripple and swell as your veins throbbed with the effort, every movement screaming look at me.

Your hands lifted an aluminum can—a bright, glossy energy drink you hadn’t noticed before—its logo screaming with aggressive fonts and bright reds. You popped the tab open with a practiced flick and tilted the can back without hesitation, tipping it straight into your open mouth. The cold liquid gushed down your throat, but far more of it spilled over your chin, dribbling down your thick neck and onto the gleaming surface of your chest. You barely noticed. This wasn’t about hydration; it was a fucking performance.

You laughed—a loud, obnoxious bark that echoed in the small room. Your mouth hung open, and you flexed again, your silver chain bouncing lightly against your collarbone, gleaming as much as the oily skin beneath it. The sound of the laugh was deep and guttural, proud and brash, the kind of laugh that demanded attention.

A bright blue baseball cap was perched backward on your head, a perfect match for the shiny sports car parked outside that you could see through the window—the whole scene as curated and deliberate as a thirst trap. The cap’s fabric pressed against your scalp, framing your thick, sweaty quiff that poked out arrogantly from beneath.

You stood tall, chest puffed out like you owned the entire cul-de-sac. Every step you took felt like you were stomping down a runway, your boots hitting the pavement with swagger that screamed alpha. You ran your hand through your hair again, slicking it back with the same oily sweat coating your skin.

You caught sight of your reflection in a car window as you passed outside: a dumb, smug, deeply tanned meathead who oozed confidence, arrogance, and ignorance with every flex of his thick, veiny arms.

You noticed neighbors’ heads turning, eyes lingering—some with envy, others with thinly veiled disgust. But you didn’t care. You owned the attention, basked in it like a goddamn king.

Every drink you took was a protein shake in disguise, every glance was an invitation for admiration. Your grin was loud, obnoxious, absolutely deliberate. You were the embodiment of every frat bro stereotype, but you embraced it fully, like it was your true self finally waking up.

Your conversations were already starting to boil down to the usual nonsense: girls, gym, how much you bench, and politics—loud, crude, vulgar, and homophobic. The words came easier now, slipping off your tongue without thought or shame, and each one made your chest swell with a fierce, stupid pride.

You looked down at your massive, veiny arms flexing by your sides and smiled wide, teeth white and perfect. This was who you were now. No subtlety, no second guessing.

Just a dumb, loud, oiled, stinking, MAGA-loving, homophobic, sexist, protein-chugging, pussyhound meathead.

You laughed again, threw your head back, and slammed the empty energy drink can onto the driveway with a loud clank—more for show than anything.

[radtf69]

You Approve This Message: Domino

The buzz spread around the campus like wildfire, enabling the most toxic personality traits and thoughts of each students to the surface and molding them into an entirely different human being as reality shifted to adjust to the changes that happened

---

The dorm adjacent to Cas' experienced the most immediate impact. The soft-spoken and well-mannered Howie noticed the stink that his body produced as his sister pointed out about how his hair looked better when it's left growing and his physical transformation despite only been away for a year. That's when Howie realized that he no longer wears shirt and his long trainers already turned into a rather colorful short he would never pick up from the store. Looking at his screen and himself in horror, Harley is unable to stop his transformation into a long-haired stoner-skater that squeezed into the uni because his parents already sick with him and leveraged their donation to practically exile him away from the rest of the family. As the reality shift continues, the call also redirected from his sister to a fellow sophomore that he's been seeing for the past three weeks, when in reality the girl barely knew Harley. Yet, the message corrupted that reality and made sure Harley's seductive lies and toned skater body drive her wild and wet, she cannot think straight and simply fall to the temptation as she'll make the walk to Harley's dorm and let his 9 inchers monstrosity to wreck her hole

Harley's roommate also quickly affected by the message and as Harley turned around to tell his mates that the girl he's been seeing on and off is about to come by, all three of the now-stud just stared at Harley and scoffed

"And? Everything that walks through that door is ours to share bro, remember that?"

And Harley just grinned as the message coupled with the statement from Mario corrupted him even further as memories of them passing around girls that walked into their dorm room intensified in his brain, pretending to be real memories that Harley couldn't even decipher as mere manipulation of the corruptive message. Instead, he found his cock swells to its longest state, already leaking pre and ready to pounce as soon as she walks through the door

---

In the other room, Thomas the fat fuck lost his stubborn belly fat and his chubby face as his phone electrocuted him as soon as the message hit. As his eyes glitched after the fall and he tried to balance himself, reality shifted around him as his neatly organized room turned into a typical messy dorm belonged to an aspiring collegiate athlete with inconsistent discipline filled with cheat days, parties and all the good things that a charming jock can get just by using his face and his body. His form altered drastically from 6'2, 290lbs that mostly comprised of fat and water into a 5'11, 189lbs with merely 12% body fat.

His roommate Dexter and Joshua also got their fair share of transformation, both Political Science students getting a bit of an adjustment beyond their physique and mentality as their political ideology somehow corrupted by the message. The two climate activist recently dabbled into the kind of thinking more associated to the libertarian when it comes to the protection of Earth's from climate change. Yet, the message skewed that recent exploration into something much more sinister as the message turned them into full-blown libertarian with the foundational belief that government should not interfere with anything about private matters. Government should stay away from trying to mitigate climate crisis. Government should stop policing free speech. Government should stop trying to control gun ownership. Everything should involve government as little as possible, and Dax found it to be very easy to sell this idea to uninformed college jocks that has shaky political allegiance and can still be molded further into their cause. Dax got Josh to join the cause and now they are targeting Tommy to join their movement next, they just need to keep up with Tommy's insatiable lust for partying, fucking anything that moves and working out with his teammates, something both of them can definitely do as they are blessed with the right type of physicality and charm to blend in with Tommy's fit and a little bit airheaded crowd.

---

Spread further in the building, an innocent fit check in the bathroom by the preppy honor student Lukas turned into a thirst-trap sesh as he developed a set of rippling abs that looked like it's been carved by Michelangelo himself.

The snap he recently captured then found its way into the phones of the girls he used to have a crush on yet never dared to reach out, all zapped by the memory-altering selfie as all of them hit with the false memories of getting bred by Luke's uncut cock in their respective dorm. Now, with their long acrylic nails, they typed as fast as they can to be the one replying the first to Luke and get the privilege to be tossed around like a ragdoll by the swimming champion

In the other bathroom still in the same building but different wing, Shaun's preppy Ralph Lauren Oak Bluffs piece vanished into thin air and replaced by a tight black tank top that hugged his now massive pecs. His now-massive arms added some sense of dominance in his imposing stature, a testament of hard work that he put in the gym all throughout the years and he will only get bigger from now on. Memories of countless nights he spent solving math equation and physics formula replaced with brutal workout imposed by his wrestling coach in high school until he gained the full-ride scholarship to attend this uni. He of course chose Business Administration as his major, that's the easiest one to handle with his aspiration to become an Olympic wrestler for his beloved US of A by the time he graduated uni. But this is off-season now after a stellar first year here and he's interested to spend his nights out with some chicks that's been popping up in his DM's.

---

The entire occupants of the rec room stared at each other awkwardly as the message entered their inbox. The collective realization of the impending danger to their identity caused the message to respond with even more intensity, their entire surrounding vanished before they found themselves reappearing in the campus gym. Percy and Gerard flexed for a snap they sent to the cheerleaders that now they called as their girlfriend, informing them about their pump and how the girls better prepare their holes for a wild ride that will last all night long as both boys just got this experimental drug from the Coach that makes them horny as fuck!

In contrast to the boisterous nature shown by Perry and Gary, Giovanni and Samuel acted a bit more subtle in their approach. A nonchalant lean and a stoic expression while their muscle looking at its tip-top condition, the selfie ended up in their IG story that can only be accessed only by the people dumb enough to subscribe to their IG, desperate to have access to the more private views and visual of the two jocks. They shown the base of their cock once, teasing their mindless followers enough to send them to a frenzy, but only the most loyal and the one that they deemed hot enough have full access to worship their godly body. Calling themselves godly when both of them took minor in Religious Studies were ironic, but those were their old identities and they are no longer associating themselves with that past lives. The only thing that filled Joe's and Sam's mind now is how much money they will rack by the end of the month and what kind of things their devoted followers will buy for them so they don't need to use those cold, hard cash they earned for stuffs that their followers will get them.

These boys never resisted their message, what about you? What is the benefit of resisting the message other than missing out the fast lane to a life only you could dream of? If the message appears once more in your inbox, will you succumb to it and let it mold you into your ultimate, repressed desire? Or will you stupidly resist it once again?

---

Thank you @vindictivenerdcels for the input and one sub-plot here, appreciate your support that push me through to finish this draft that's been sitting since April and went through so many revisions.

[radtf69]

my friends been acting... different. i swore two weeks ago he showed no interest in the gym. he was skinny and weak. now he's somehow bigger than me! shoulders are wide, pecs bouncing at all times. he used to be smart too, unbearably so. he would go on and on about physics and calculus, or his newest graphic design project. now i catch him staring vacantly at nothing. drool trickling from his mouth as he sweats profusely. he looked like an idiot frat boy. what the fuck happened?? come to think of it he did say he got a weird message from the frat on campus, but i can't remember what he said about it. *ding* whos texting me at 12:30am?? "get ready to join ΒΩΒ, ur gonna love it bro"

It’s late. 1:08 a.m. Your eyes sting from the glow of your laptop screen. The cursor blinks back at you, taunting. You’re so close to finishing the final draft of your comparative politics paper—something about authoritarian regimes and social identity theory—but your brain’s foggy from exhaustion.

You rub your eyes and yawn, glancing at the wall. Your side of the dorm is clean, organized: bookcase stacked with The New Yorker, Chomsky, and Gender Trouble. Your rainbow Pride flag droops slightly in the still air.

Across the room: a sweaty mess.

Your roommate Kyle’s desk used to be a cluttered haven of design books, color swatches, and empty Red Bull cans. Now? It’s strewn with protein tubs, half-eaten chicken breasts, and a grimy shaker bottle. Your nose wrinkles—God, the smell. Thick, sour, like someone rubbed locker room stench into damp socks and left them to rot.

Kyle is sitting in his gaming chair, shirtless, wearing tight mesh gym shorts that barely cover his thick, hairy thighs. He’s drenched in sweat—beads clinging to his broad, suddenly wide shoulders and trickling down the deep cleft between his pecs.

Pecs? He never had pecs. Two weeks ago, Kyle was scrawny, like you. Lanky, pale, nerdy. You used to joke about being “twink soulmates.”

Now… he’s huge.

You swallow hard, throat tight.

“Kyle?” Your voice sounds too small. “You okay?”

His head turns. Slowly. There’s a beat before he responds—blank eyes struggling to focus.

“Huh? Uh… yeah, bro. Jus’... chillin’, y’know?” His voice is thick, like it’s being pulled through molasses. A string of drool hangs from the corner of his mouth and drips onto his sweaty chest. He doesn’t even notice.

You stare. “You’ve been... working out?”

Kyle grins, sluggish and dopey. “Yeah, bruh. Gym’s fuh... fuckin’ lit. I love gettin’ pumped, man.” He lifts an arm and flexes—his bicep bulges, a vein popping along the surface.

You feel sick.

This isn’t Kyle. Kyle used to talk your ear off about color theory, queer cinema, Bernie Sanders. You’d spend hours binging Drag Race and analyzing shots from Moonlight.

Now he’s... a frat slab. And that smell—his body odor—it’s thickening, filling the room, crawling up your nose. Feral. Tangy. Unwashed.

You cough. “Dude, are you… sick or something? You’re sweating so much.”

Kyle snorts. “Nah bro, I’m just, like, jacked now. Gotta sweat out the toxins, y’feel me?” He lets out a wet fart, then laughs, dumb and lazy.

You flinch. Your heart pounds. Something’s wrong.

“I’m gonna open a window,” you mutter, standing—only to trip over one of his discarded gym socks. The fabric’s stiff, reeking of feet and cum. You gag.

As you reach the window, Kyle’s voice cuts through the heavy air.

“Hey, bro... you get any texts lately? From, like... ΒΩΒ?”

You freeze. “What?”

Kyle scratches his crotch, absentminded. “I got some, like... two weeks ago. Said I should join, get... swole. Felt weird at first, but... s’fuckin’ awesome now.” He belches, then chuckles. “Can’t ‘member much ‘bout ‘em though... but they feel good, bro.”

You stare, skin crawling. “What do you mean ‘feel good’? Kyle, are you—”

DING.

Your phone buzzes.

You glance at the screen. 12:30 a.m. Unknown number.

“Get ready to join ΒΩΒ, ur gonna love it bro 😈🍻💪”

A shiver runs down your spine.

“Did they send... this?” you ask, voice trembling. You show Kyle the message.

He stares. Blank. A line of sweat runs down his temple.

“Dunno, man. Can’t really read much anymore... hurts my head.” He scratches his ass, then shrugs. “You’ll feel it soon. It’s dope.”

You back away. “No. No, this is... this is insane.”

DING.

Another text.

“First rule of ΒΩΒ: No thinkin’. Just chuggin’. 🧠❌🍻 Let go, bro.”

Suddenly, your head throbs. Your eyes blur. You clutch your temples.

“Nnngh... f-fuck... what...” You stagger, falling to your knees. Your brain buzzes, thoughts slipping away like water through your fingers. Your ears ring.

Kyle’s voice is distant, underwater. “It’s startin’, bro. Just relax.”

You can’t breathe. Your phone slides from your hand.

DING.

“Thinking is for nerds. Muscles don’t need thoughts. Let it go, Eliot. Become the bro. 💪💩🍻”

You scream—no, groan—as a wave of heat slams your chest. Your heartbeat feels heavy, pounding in your ears. Your shirt sticks to your skin—wet, suffocating. You tear at it.

Your fingers tremble. “No... I’m smart... I’m me... I’m not... not some... f-fucking...”

Your tongue feels thick, slurring your words.

“Bro,” Kyle whispers, crouching beside you, breath hot and rank, “just let it happen. You’ll love it.”

You sob. But deep inside, something... primal... pulses.

Your skin burns, your bones ache.

The texts... aren’t stopping.

You’re not stopping.

You’re on the floor. Cold tile pressing into your knees, your palms slick with sweat, trembling. Your lungs wheeze, each breath thick, labored — as if the air itself has become heavier.

Across the room, Kyle looms over you, his hulking frame casting a shadow in the pale moonlight spilling through the blinds. His pecs glisten, twitching with each slow, dumb breath he takes. The room smells like BO, feet, and something else — something animal, feral. Him.

Your phone buzzes again. DING.

You glance at the screen. You shouldn’t, but your fingers move on their own, drawn to the message.

“Time to get big, bro. Muscles first. Thoughts later. Gym shorts. No underwear. Let it all hang. 🏋️🦍🩳”

“F-fuck... n-no... I’m not... I’m not like him...” you whisper, voice hoarse. You try to stand, but your legs seize, a painful spasm twisting your thighs.

A sudden, burning heat erupts beneath your skin — like your muscles are boiling. You scream, falling forward, your chest slamming into the floor. You can feel your spine popping, your shoulders grinding, bones shifting under your skin.

“Ghhhuhhh... aAGHH!” you grunt, the sound alien, too low, too brutish.

Your shirt is drenched, clinging to you like plastic wrap. You claw at it, desperate, pulling until it rips, strands of fabric sticking to your sweaty, heaving chest.

You stare at your reflection in the mirror across the room.

Your nipples look... different. Puffy. Broader. Your pecs—once flat, slender—are swelling, pushing outward, rounding. You can feel them bounce with every panting breath.

“No... NO... this can’t... nghh... fuhhhck...” You try to form words, but they slur, muscle fog clouding your brain.

Kyle's watching, grinning, scratching his bare balls through his mesh shorts. “Told ya, bro... it’s gonna feel real good.”

You grab your jeans — they’re tight, unbearably so. Your thighs are thickening, the denim straining, creaking. Your calves bulge, veins surfacing, the fabric splitting at the seams.

POP. Your fly bursts.

RIIIIIP. The jeans explode around your sweaty legs, leaving only your boxers—which are soaked, stained, and struggling to contain your engorged, leaking cock.

You gasp, eyes wide. “What the fuck is happening to me!?”

DING.

Your phone buzzes again.

“No underwear, bro. Gym shorts only. Free the junk. Let that fat cock BREATHE. 🍆🩳💨”

“NO—!” you manage to scream, but the boxers dissolve on cue, literally disintegrating off your hips in wisps of smoke, leaving you naked, exposed, your dick throbbing, hanging heavy and dripping.

Then, fabric grows up your thighs — grey gym shorts, loose, stained, with a greasy waistband that rides low, way too low, your pubes thick and sweaty, visible over the top.

You stink. Like piss, sweat, and... cum. Your cock twitches, and you scratch your balls, groaning.

“H-huhhh... itchy... fuck... mmmn... balls... sweaty...”

You slap a hand over your mouth. That voice—gravelly, stupid. You try to think. Recite a poem. Remember a quote, anything.

“Ngh... Foucault said... fuh... fuh-cunt... wait... w-what? FUCK—!”

Your head throbs, your brain swelling, shrinking. Thoughts slip through your fingers.

You grab your phone.

The letters blur.

You can’t read the message.

You can’t read.

“No... no... NO! I’m... I’m smart... I’m—”

FART. A loud, wet ripper echoes off the tile. You moan, dazed.

Kyle laughs, dumb and loud. “Yo, sick one bro! You’re gonna be a fart machine by tomorrow.”

You reach back, hand pressed to your slick ass, ashamed — and horny?

“No... fuck no... I can’t be like this... I can’t be... a... a fuh... frat... bro...”

Your pecs bounce. Your cock drips.

Your brain buzzes, thoughts fading...

And the next text waits.

Waiting to break you.

You don’t know how long you’ve been crawling. The world is hot, sticky, and smells like ass.

You’re on all fours, your skin slick, your mouth open, panting. Your tongue feels fat, useless. Words try to form, but come out as dull groans.

“F-fuhh... guh... mnnghh... brohh...”

You feel like your brain has leaked out your ears. Everything’s blurry, like the air is thick with fog, and all you can feel is your body. It itches, it burns, it reeks. You can’t stop scratching, groaning, farting.

DING.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, but you can’t read the screen anymore. Letters don’t exist. They’re just squiggles.

Kyle grabs it for you, laughing dumbly.

“Heh... says yer name’s gone, bro. You’re Brick now. Fuckin’ tight.”

Brick. You grunt. That name... it feels right. Short. Thick. Stupid.

Your old name... what was it? Something gay... something smart...

You scratch your balls, sniff your fingers, and fart again, loud and wet.

“Ungh... Brick... fuhh... Brick fart... heh...”

You giggle, drool dripping down your chin.

You’re bigger now. Shoulders like boulders, pecs bouncing with each breath, gut slightly bloated from beer. You used to have a slim waist, but now you’ve got a solid, hairy slab of a belly. You smell like sour sweat, cheap deodorant, and cum.

The gym shorts are so stained, they look brown around the crotch. You’ve cum in them twice, but haven’t changed.

You don't change clothes anymore.

You don’t shower.

You just sweat, fart, jerk off, and hunt pussy.

You’re at a party now. Kyle led you here, told you it was time to breed. You don’t know where you are. You don’t care.

Music’s pounding. Your head bobs, dumbly. Every girl’s an object. Tits, ass, tits, ass. That’s all you see.

You spot her. Blonde. Tanned. Tight pink crop top, thick lips, huge tits bouncing as she dances.

Your cock throbs, leaving a wet streak down your leg.

You walk over, shoulders rolling, pecs bouncing, stink radiating from your pits.

“Uh... fuh... hey gurl... Brick... Brick wanna... fuh... smash?” you grunt, lips barely forming words.

She giggles, covering her nose.

“God, you stink... You a frat boy or something?”

You grin, flexing. “Brick... frat... fuh... big. Wanna... put cock... in hole.”

You grab your bulge, fart loudly. She laughs, eyes wide.

“Gross! You're nasty...”

You can’t stop sniffing her, grinding up behind her, cock pulsing, brain blank.

“Brick... need... breed... bad... cock heavy... full... fuhhh... nghhhh...”

She grabs your hand, giggling again.

“You’re a fuckin’ caveman. Let’s go.”

You’re in some random room, on a soiled couch, pants down, sweating bullets.

She’s straddling you, grinding, your cock buried deep inside her, balls slapping, your hands gripping her ass hard.

“Fuck! God, you’re huge!” she moans.

You can’t even think. You just grunt, drool, bounce her, your pecs flexing, your gut heaving.

“Unghh... Brick fuhh... Brick BREED... Brick FART—” PPPPPFFFFT.

She gasps, laughing, as your ass rips another one, the room reeking.

You thrust harder, deeper, your mind gone.

“Fuhhh... Brick... not fuh... fuhh... faggot... Brick straight... STRAIGHT... need cum... BREED...”

Your toes curl, your cock explodes, ropes of cum filling her. Your back arches, your mouth opens, and you moan like an animal, drooling, farting, cumming, sweating.

You collapse, panting, cock still twitching inside her.

She kisses your chest.

“Damn, Brick. You’re disgusting.”

You grin, dumbly. “Brick... smash... Brick fuck... again... soon... right?”

No reply.

You fart again, laughing.

You’re Brick now.

And you’ve never been happier.

No thoughts.

No shame.

Just muscle, cum, pussy, and farts.

[radtf69]

Thank God you’re back. I really need your help.

I’m flirting with this guy, and he’s perfect. But the thing is, we’re both tops. And it definitely won’t work out on that side. We’ve already discussed it and ended up arguing or just ignoring the fact that it wouldn’t work out. 

Could you please just turn him into a twink ? One that would be willing to submit, kinky enough to like my smell, farts etc ? Also making him thick and cute ? 

Thank you so much

You’d been lusting after Damian for weeks. Everything about him hit your type—tall, shredded, cocky as hell, with that perfect combo of smugness and swagger that made your knees weak. But there was one massive, throbbing problem.

You were both tops. And not just normal tops. You were both alpha as fuck, self-declared “OnlyTop4Top” on Grindr, and every time you made out, it felt like a dick-measuring contest instead of foreplay.

He'd shove you against the wall? You’d shove him harder. He’d grab your ass? You’d slap his away. It was a cold war of dominance, and neither of you was giving up control.

After yet another date—steaks rare, whiskey neat, both of you acting like you didn’t want to bite each other's throats out—you stumbled into your shared apartment.

Damian kicked off his designer boots, let out a loud beer burp, and sprawled on the couch, legs spread wide.

“This shit ain’t gonna work,” he muttered, scratching his bulge. “We’re the same fuckin’ dude.”

“Yeah, no shit,” you said, rolling your eyes. “Unless one of us grows a pussy, this is a waste of time.”

He snorted. “Or…”

From his jacket pocket, Damian pulled out a small black box—sleek, like some sketchy luxury perfume. He opened it. Two vials nestled inside: one pink, glowing faintly, and the other deep, electric blue.

“The fuck is that?” you asked, suspicious.

He grinned like a maniac. “**Poppers. Magic ones. Got ‘em from that weird dude at the bar—the one with the leather kilt and that rat on his shoulder. Said they ‘fix compatibility issues.’” He shook the box. “Pink for pussy, blue for… whatever the hell this is.”

You stared at him. “You’re joking.”

Damian popped the pink vial open and inhaled deeply, his eyes rolling back. “Mmmmfuck. That’s the shit.”

You blinked. “Fine. Gimme the blue.”

You snatched it, cracked it open, and took a massive hit.

It was like snorting fire, sweat, and locker room floor funk all at once. Your brain exploded with heat, your chest locked up, and you staggered back into the wall.

POP. POP.

Something snapped inside your skull, and your knees gave out. You hit the ground hard, gasping, your skin tingling, your balls aching like you’d just run ten miles naked in July.

“Fuuuck…” you groaned.

Then the smell hit.

Your own sweat, rank and ripe, suddenly tripled in intensity—like someone had wrung out a week’s worth of gym socks and shoved them in your face. You gagged. Then moaned.

“Shit… I smell like a fuckin’ jockstrap…” you gasped, but your voice was deeper, rougher, like someone had sandpapered your throat and filled your lungs with cheap beer and vape smoke.

You looked down—your shirt was splitting at the seams, shredded by thick slabs of muscle erupting from your frame. Your pecs swelled, veiny and greasy, your gut tightened into a rock-hard wall of abs, and your arms ballooned into veiny, hairy trunks.

“Yo… I’m gettin’ fuckin’ huge, bro…” you mumbled, flexing without thinking. Your biceps rippled, and you couldn’t stop sniffing your own pits, now oozing musky, sour stink like you hadn’t showered in days.

You belched, loud and wet. Damian—now curled up on the floor, trembling—moaned.

His voice was higher, shaky, desperate.

“O-oh god… you’re s-so f-fucking nasty now… I c-can’t… stop…”

You stared.

Damian’s jawline was gone, replaced by a soft, pouty face, lips plumped, eyes wide and fluttery. His body had shrunk, shoulders narrow, legs spindly, and his once-proud bulge had vanished into tight pink briefs that barely clung to his tiny, trembling frame.

You stood, towering over him now—barefoot, sweat-drenched, reeking like a high school locker room that got sealed shut for summer.

“You look like a fuckin’ sissy, dude,” you grunted, scratching your massive, hairy crotch.

Damian crawled toward you, licking his lips. “Y-you smell so… s-so good, bro. Let me… please…”

You didn’t stop him. You shoved your armpit in his face and let rip a thunderous, gut-wrenching fart—loud, wet, vibrating against his cheek.

Damian groaned in ecstasy, eyes rolling back. “Fuuuck yes…”

You couldn’t think straight. Every thought in your head was just tits, farts, gains, pussy, repeat. You reached down, scratched your sweaty, crusty balls, and spat on the floor.

“I ain’t doin’ fag shit, bro. But you? You can be my bitch roommate, clean my fuckin’ boxers, sniff my pits, do my fuckin’ homework—I failed outta Bio again.”

Damian nodded, eyes glassy. “I’ll do it, bro. Please. Let me s-serve you. Let me s-sniff your dirty jockstrap, I-I love it, dude…”

You laughed, brain melting into a fog of dumb, alpha confidence.

“Yeah, fuck it. Guess I got myself a nerdy lil bitchmaid now.”

You didn’t sleep that night.

Not because of guilt. Not because of confusion.

You didn’t sleep because you were too busy admiring yourself in the mirror. All night long.

“Shit, bro…” you grunted, flexing your massive arms, your shoulders broad as doorframes, thick muscle veins snaking down to your greasy, throbbing cock, which pulsed proudly, rock-hard and leaking like a goddamn faucet. “Fuckin’ beast mode, dude…”

You grunted, squeezed a pec, and burped, lips curling into a dumb, satisfied smirk as you caught another whiff of your own BO—thick, rank, fermented protein sweat, like you’d marinated in your gym bag for a week.

You hadn’t showered, of course. That was for nerds.

No. You’d ripped off your clothes, thrown on a cut-off tank top from your “Chad Beta Mu” frat (you didn’t even remember pledging?), and basketball shorts that did nothing to hide the stiffy you were proudly sporting 24/7.

And on the floor? Damian. Curled up like some kind of twink puppy, wearing nothing but your dirty jockstrap on his face like a mask.

“P-please, bro…” he sniffled, clutching a notebook full of your homework. “I finished your history paper, bro… now can I… c-can I lick your socks?”

You scratched your ass—fingers sinking into the swampy mess of your crack—and laughed, loud and brainless.

“Fuck yeah, dweeb. Do your job.”

You yanked off a sweat-soaked sock, thick with foot cheese and rank as hell, and slapped it across his face. Damian moaned, sniffing it like it was oxygen, tongue flicking out as he worshipped the crusted cotton.

“Fuckin’ love this life,” you grunted, grabbing your junk, jiggling it. “Gettin’ pussy, gettin’ worshipped, no homo.”

Frat Life, Bro Life

The next day, you stumbled into class late, reeking, hungover from twelve Natty Lites, a half-digested burrito rolling in your gut.

“Yo teach, suck it!” you bellowed, dropping into your seat, immediately farting loud and unapologetic, sending a toxic wave across the classroom.

Damian was there—front row, notebook in hand, squealing quietly, loving every second. He volunteered to be your “note taker”, of course.

You grinned, leaned over, and ripped another fart—wet, violent, gut-churning—right in his face.

He shuddered, scribbling faster.

After class? You hit the gym, grunting, sweating buckets, chugging protein shakes like a savage. No form. Just brute force.

“Ughhh… what’s up, sluts,” you grunted at the girls watching. “Bet you wanna ride this jock sausage.”

One of them actually giggled, and your cock twitched, drool leaking into your shorts.

Damian was there, of course, in the corner, carrying your duffel bag, folding your crusty tank tops, practically panting every time you dripped sweat.

“Yo, bitchboy!” you barked. “Wipe my pits!”

He sprinted over, pulling out your nasty towel, and dabbed your pits, inhaling deeply, nearly cumming in his pants.

“You’re the grossest, hottest alpha ever, bro,” he gasped.

“Damn right,” you laughed. “Smell my fuckin’ dominance, nerd.”

The Apartment – Your Kingdom

Your place was hell on earth now. Garbage everywhere, half-eaten food, socks stuck to walls, cum stains on the couch, and a permanent stench of BO, farts, and Axe body spray.

You sat on your throne—your gaming chair, sweat-stained and creaky—shirtless, scratching your hairy gut, burping like a god.

Damian crawled around on the floor in his tightest nerd undies, sniffing out dirty laundry, doing your homework, occasionally begging for “alpha air time” under your swamp ass.

And you?

You barely remembered who you used to be. A job? Politics? Being gay?

All that was gone, lost in a sea of frat parties, pussy, protein farts, and domination.

Your dick was always hard, your grades were Damian’s problem, and your brain was mush, but it felt so fuckin’ good.

“Yo, nerd,” you grunted one night, balls hanging loose in your shorts, “gimme another fuckin’ beer. And suck my toes while you’re down there.”

Damian scrambled, eager. “Y-yes sir, anything… just don’t kick me out, please…”

You belched, flexed, and let out the loudest fart yet, soaking the room in your alpha stink.

You scratched your balls, looked at your reflection—massive, stupid, smelly—and grinned.

“Fuck yeah. Life’s perfect.”

You and your pathetic bitchboy

[radtf69]

are you open to writing something that isn’t g2s? read ur story about devin’s curse and would love for that to happen to a proper gay twink who turns into a gay dumb himbo with a fat gassy ass who still loves to take it up the butt

You shouldn’t have read that story. You knew better. You always did this—go too deep into the weird side of the internet, chasing those cursed transformation fantasies. But Devin’s Curse… something about it stuck with you. You kept rereading it, again and again, imagining it was you. The smart, dorky gay twink with a big heart, a neat little tush, and a brain full of trivia… slowly, agonizingly becoming something… stupid. Thick. Slutty. You didn’t want to admit it, but the idea of it—the dumb giggles, the brain melting away, your bubble butt jiggling as you farted like a human whoopee cushion—it turned you on.

You couldn’t stop.

So when you logged onto Grindr that night, alone in your room with your laptop open and a bottle of lube next to your desk, you whispered it out loud:

“I wish that was me.”

You didn’t expect anything. You really didn’t. But as you were scrolling, a profile popped up. No pic. Just a username: “Tharnis”. Odd. You tapped it.

No message. Just… words flashing on your screen, like someone hacked the app.

“Wish Granted.”

Your whole body jolted like a static shock hit your spine. “Huh?” you muttered. But before you could even process it, your Grindr app crashed. You stared at your phone, then felt the first rumble in your gut.

PppppprrrrrRRRRRTTFFFFTTT

You farted. Loud. Juicy. “What the fuck…” you gasped, cheeks burning with shame.

Except… your fart smelled sweet. Like cotton candy laced with protein shake.

Your hand flew to your belly—softer now, puffier. And your fingers? No longer slender. They were pudgy, meatier, and as you pulled your phone up to your face again, your skin shimmered… golden tan spreading like syrup over your arms.

“No… no way… oh my gawd…”

Your voice cracked.

You squeaked.

You lisped.

“Ohhhhhh fuckkkk yassss~” you gasped, your voice raising half an octave. Your tongue felt too big for your mouth. And then your jaw popped—your whole face twitching as your cheeks puffed out into soft, dumb himbo chipmunk cheeks. Your nose shrank, pert and useless, while your lips… plumped.

You stumbled into the bathroom.

You needed a mirror. Needed to see.

“Shit—shit fuck—ooohhh~” you moaned, clutching your stomach. It was bloating out, round and heavy, pressing against the waistband of your sweats.

And then…

BOOOM.

Your ass exploded outward like two beachballs. BLORRRRRTTTPPFFTTT!

You fell against the counter as your sweats ripped open at the seams, your bubble butt jiggling like it was made of gelatin and sin. The stench hit you immediately—sour, musky, horny.

“UHHhh~ fuckkk my booty’s huuuge,” you giggled, slapping it with both hands.

Smack. Smack. FffffRRRTT.

You giggled harder. You couldn’t stop.

The mirror reflected a horror show of perfection. Your nerdy glasses snapped off your now-dumb himbo face. Your eyes were blue—glassy, vacant. Your hair turned blonde, cascading into floppy, styled surfer-boy locks.

“Brooo, like… I’m so hotttt…” you giggled, flexing your useless arms as they inflated, becoming thick and veiny. Your chest puffed outward, pecs bouncing as you moved.

And then… you looked down.

“Ohmygawwwd my dick is TINY~” you squealed with glee. Your once-modest package was now a joke—barely two inches, soft and limp.

“I’m like… a total bottom nowww~” you moaned, wiggling your bubble butt. “A stinky lil farty faggy dumbassss~”

PPPPFFFFFTTTTT!!!

You shuddered in pleasure. Your brain was melting fast. College degrees? Gone. Favorite books? What’s a book?? You couldn’t even spell your own name anymore.

You didn’t want to.

You didn’t care.

You just wanted dick.

Big. Fat. Dumb. Dick.

“Mmmm, daddy gonna fuck my bouncy stinky butt sooo gooood~” you cooed, prancing around your room naked, your dicklet flopping uselessly.

You were now Bryce, 27, himbo, dumb as shit, always horny, always gassy, and proud of it. Your Grindr? Popping off with messages. You giggled and farted and giggled again.

You would never be smart again.

And you loved it.