#nerd con

[suzypfonne]

Link

They saved a seat for Michael 🥹

[hard-times-paramore]

Some photos from me at GoGame, a nerd con I went to and used my first ever cosplay in!

I'm serious in all the photos because it's my character, but I was very bubbly that day

[gravitycoill]

lil comic i’ve had in my head for a bit

[fuctacles]

Steve Harrington's dyslexic ass showing up to Eddie Munson's Exorcising 101 in gym shorts.

[rainbowpopeworld]

(Quote from David Tennant is from this video and the photo is from Staged)

[b0nkedmehead]

Let her do her illegal brain surgeries in peace

Surprises underneath readmore :0]

[suzypfonne]

Bless this convention

IDK IF IT'S REAL BUT LET ME DREAM

[fratttymatty]

Nerd Out, Bro In

(All characters are 18+)

Victor was the quintessential nerd: thick glasses perched on his sharp nose, his dark, unruly curls always looking like he’d just pulled an all-nighter studying. At 5’7”, he was on the shorter side, hunched over his textbooks or computer screen. His voice carried that classic nerdy precision — deliberate, a little nasal, and definitely not the voice of someone who’d ever yell at a football game. His GPA? A pristine 4.0. His politics? Deeply liberal. His social life? Mostly online forums and debate club meetings.

Enter Jake, Chase, and Marcus — the golden trio of varsity jocks. They were tall, muscular, and wore their confidence like armor. One afternoon in the gym locker room, armed with nothing but a mischievous grin and some “hypnosis” tricks they picked up on YouTube, they cornered Victor. With a few suspiciously smooth words and some goofy hand gestures, they “hypnotized” him.

The effect was instant — Victor blinked and suddenly felt… different.

His glasses vanished as his hair straightened and lightened, shifting from dark curls to a sun-bleached, perfectly tousled mop. His 5’7” frame stretched suddenly, pushing him to a statuesque 6’2”. His lean nerdy build filled out into broad shoulders and bulging biceps from nowhere. His voice dropped into a deep, easygoing Californian drawl — like he’d just walked off a Venice Beach volleyball court.

His name? No more Victor. He was Daniel now.

Daniel’s personality flipped like a switch. The intellectual debates gave way to sports talk and protein shakes. His political views took a hard right turn, echoing the locker room banter about “hard work” and “self-reliance.” His old friends from the debate club? History. Now he hung out with Jake, Chase, Marcus, and the cheer captain, Mia — a charismatic blonde who immediately took Daniel under her wing.

Daniel’s days were filled with gym sessions, football practice, and awkwardly trying to throw around catchphrases like “dude” and “bro.” The old Victor would be horrified, especially when Daniel found himself a little uncomfortable around his former gay friends, even if the homophobia was more confused defensiveness than real hate.

The story ended with Daniel and Mia becoming the new power couple at school — football games, pep rallies, and a constant Instagram stream of gym selfies and beach trips. Victor was gone, replaced by a ridiculously stereotyped, dumb-but-lovable jock.

[mrrharper]

Neighborhood Association

Cale put down the last box and sighed. He could now officially state that he has moved. He looked around the living room and felt proud of himself, after working tirelessly for almost a week to turn this space into a home. The same couldn’t be said about his feeling towards the place his new home was located in.

He was forced to move after the rent in his last apartment was hiked by 25%. This was more than he could handle, so he decided right then and there that the would find a cheaper place to live. He went on Zillow and it didn’t take long before he found the place he was now living in. Gorgeous building, well-kept outside, spacious inside, with a stupidly low rent. He called the landlord first thing the following day. He signed the lease a week after that.

It was only then that his friends came up to him and made him realize what was the place he was about to move into. Pinewood, an outer suburb and the only Republican stronghold in the entire metro area. This was bad news for the young gay software engineer basically addicted to the queer city life. But he had already signed all the paperwork and he decided he would make this work. Each time he felt like this might not have been the best decision he reminded himself that even with the longer commute he was saving a lot of many. Yeah, maybe the town screamed “All-American conservative suburb”, but this was the price for financial stability, Cale told himself.

Cale heard a knock on the door. He walked up to the entrance and opened it. He was surprised to see no one in front of his house, not even a single person walking along the street. Then he looked down and saw a leaflet. Oh, that’s what this was about. He picked up the piece of paper and started reading as he went back inside. “The Pinewood East Neighborhood Association welcomes you in our area. We are glad you’ve decided to find your special place within our prosperous community and invite you to become an active member. Just scan the QR code and fill the form. FIND YOUR ROLE IN PINEWOOD.” Well, that’s nice, Cale thought to himself. He sat down on the couch and scanned the code on the leaflet. The form was pretty standard, for the most part. The only unusual part was the part where he was asked about hobbies. It was not an open question and Cale was forced to choose for only a couple of options. He rolled his eyes, who designed this form? He picked “morning runs and fitness”. He did try to get into he habit of running a year ago. And a year before running it was working out. So he guessed this was the option closest to the truth. He quickly finished filling up the whole form and sent it, quickly forgetting about the whole thing.

Two days later when he came back from work and walked up to his door he saw a package. He was surprised, he didn’t remember ordering anything. But as he looked closer he confirmed that the box was addressed to him. There was just one small typo, Caleb instead of Cale, but he was used to it. He picked the package up and took it inside to his living room. He then opened the box and saw a letter on top. It turned out it was a welcome package from the neighborhood association. Cale thought it was a nice gift, but didn’t care to see what was inside the package itself. The only thing he took out was the baseball cap with the association’s logo on it. When later that day he went out to run a few errands he put it on, because it was the closest to his hand as he was leaving the house. He came back late and after getting out of his clothes he went back to bed. He forgot to take the cap off.

Caleb slowly woke up. He stood up and stretched his arms. He felt a weird ache throughout his whole body, and he didn’t know why— damn, that sesh at the gym yesterday was rough. But that ache was the sign that it was working. He turned his head and watched his arm as he flexed his biceps.

He came up to his closet for something to wear. But he only saw a few faggy shirts and some tight pants. What the fuck, he thought. But then his mind was instantly covered by a weird fog and he walked into the living room and picked up a big box standing on the floor. He opened it and took out a black compression shirt and a pair of gym shorts. He quickly put them on and immediately felt better, his muscles filling up the clothes perfectly.

Right after, Caleb looked up to see a pride flag hanging from one of the walls and a feeling of disgust filled his fog-covered head. He jumped up to the wall and grabbed the piece of fabric, then threw it on the ground. Then he came back to the box and took out a ‘thin blue line’ flag. That fit him way better and he quickly put it on the wall.

He heard his phone ring. He took his phone and answered.

“Yeah?”

“Good morning, this is Cathy form the Pinewood East Neighborhood Association. Is this Cale?”

“Ugh” Caleb grunted. Stupid woman. “It’s Caleb.”

“Oh, of course, my apologies” Cathy answered, but she didn’t sound like she was really sorry. “I’m calling to ask a few questions before we accept you as a full member”

“Sure, whatever” Caleb’s interest in the phone call was dwindling fast and he started flexing once again, watching his biceps go up and down.

“What’s your profession?” Caleb’s mind, completely covered by fog, didn’t know what to say.

“Ughhhh, soft…ware… was it… wait a minute—”

“Is it security guard, Caleb?”

“What?” He did not expect the woman to be such a psychic. “Yeah, yeah, security guard, duh.”

“Great, thank you Caleb, and one more question. There’s a group that wants to organize a Pride event in out beautiful city. How would you respond to such a proposal?”

“Hell no, we don’t want no queer near our place, isn’t that right? Bunch of degenerates” Caleb barked at the phone.

“I understand Caleb, and we agree, you’re absolutely right” The woman on the other side sounded almost… proud? “I won’t hold you any further, you have a job to go to. I’m glad you are fulfilling your role within our community. See you soon.” And then Cathy ended the call. Caleb shrugged, he wasn’t sure what was the deal with all this neighborhood shit, but why should he care? He was here for the low rent and the job that allowed him to spend half the day at the gym.

As he walked from the living room to the kitchen Caleb stopped in front of the mirror and started flexing. Damn, these guns of his looked impressive. And fuck, his chest was like a damn pillow, so sick. He watched his pecs flex in the mirror, moving under his compression shirt. These muscles were ready to smash degenerates and grab any pussy he wanted. When he was ready to leave the house, driven by instinct he went back to the box and picked up a pair of sunglasses he then immediately put on. Yeah, now he was ready to go to work and fulfill the role he was assigned in Pinewood. And brah, it felt fuckin’ great.

[redpill-tfs]

Pranked Ya, Bro

Max had always prided himself on his sharp wit, preppy style, and deep analytical mind. A freshman at Whitmore University, he spent most of his time buried in textbooks, debating politics in his dorm’s common area, and meticulously planning his future. He had ambitions—big ones. Maybe law school, maybe politics, something to make a difference in the world and improve people's lives. But on April Fool’s Day, all of that was about to change.

It happened as he was walking back to his dorm, his navy blazer and khakis neatly pressed, his brown loafers clicking against the pavement. Out of nowhere, something cold and wet smacked him in the back.

SPLASH!

He gasped, feeling the shock of icy water soak through his clothes. A burst of laughter erupted from behind him. Whipping around, he saw the culprit—a broad-shouldered, backward-hat-wearing frat boy from Beta Delta Omega, the most notoriously conservative fraternity on campus.

“Pranked ya, bro!” the guy hooted, tossing another water balloon up and down in his hand before running off to find his next victim.

Max scowled and shook his head, wringing out his wet sleeves as he tried to fight the tears forming in his eyes and the red flush in his cheeks in his embarrassment. “Idiots,” he muttered, hurrying inside his dorm. He needed to change before he caught a cold.

As soon as he shut the door, an odd sensation washed over him. His limbs trembled, heat coursing through his veins. He stumbled, gripping his desk for balance as his reflection in the mirror swam before his eyes.

“W-what’s happening?” he stammered. His voice cracked—deepened.

His arms bulged, muscles swelling beneath his skin, tearing through the tailored sleeves of his blazer. His legs thickened, his khakis warping into a pair of gym shorts as his loafers melted into battered white sneakers. His once-trim waist widened, his chest expanded, and a tight-fitting tank top emblazoned with an American flag stretched over his growing frame. A red baseball cap materialized on his head, the brim curling slightly upward as bold white letters appeared across the front: MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN.

Max groaned, gripping his head as if he could hold onto his old self, but the thoughts—the sharp, meticulous thoughts—blurred. Concepts like economic policy, climate change, and political philosophy turned to static in his mind, slipping away like sand through his fingers. New ideas replaced them—hazing pledges, chugging beers, pulling epic pranks, and making sure everyone knew who the real Americans were.

His reflection changed further—his face looking more rugged, his neatly trimmed brown hair growing messier, styled almost effortlessly. The scholarly look in his eyes faded, replaced by an easygoing, almost vacant confidence. He was a top dog, and everyone would know it and get out of his way.

His lips curled into a dumb smirk. “Aw, hell yeah, bro.”

He caught sight of his phone vibrating on his desk. Grabbing it, he found messages in the Beta Delta Omega group chat—somehow, he was already in it. But of course he was. Why would he be in the frat's chat? He'd rushed last semester and earned his way in.

BRODY: Yo, we got another one? 

CHAD: LOL welcome to the brotherhood, dude. 

BRODY: Get over here. We got more balloons to throw at nerds.

Mack flexed his newly thick arms before throwing on a pair of sunglasses. College wasn’t about studying and debating. Nah, bro. It was about living it up, making sure those geeky losers and sissy libs knew who really ruled the campus.

Mack gave the dorm a confused look? Why was he here and not back at the frat? He sure was mindless sometimes. Maybe he'd found some hot blonde chick to bang real quick and fill with his alpha seed. Anyway, he needed to get back. The frat needed all hands on deck for the epic prank goin on.

With a low chuckle, Mack turned off the lights and strolled out, his mind empty of everything but the thrill of the fun times ahead, both with his bros and the sorority chicks after practice.

[suzypfonne]

OMG this Con, y'all

David Tennant at Proud Nerd Con just talked about the DILF list and called Pedro Pascal "hot" and "a hunk of man."

I can't believe I lived long enough to hear David call another man hot, and out of character. I can die happy now...

[need4change]

Quiz: What Kind of Guy Are You Really?

You’re lying on your stomach, phone overheating in your hands, your forearms aching from hours of scrolling.

You haven’t gone outside all day. You made a smoothie. You lit your queer-owned basil candle. You doom-posted on Threads. You even liked an old thirst trap from your ex just to feel something. The apartment is spotless — because of course it is. You’re clean, careful, cerebral.

You’re gay. White. Thirty. Politely feminist. Emotionally intelligent. Nobody’s type.

You tap the banner ad out of boredom. The quiz loads with a glitchy animation and a short blurb:

We all THINK we know who we are. But take this test and find out who’s hiding underneath. Just be honest…

You snort. “God, okay.” You scroll to the first question.

Question 1: What’s most important to you in a relationship?

A. Mutual growth and shared values

B. Passion, chemistry, and commitment

C. Trust, loyalty, and financial stability

D. Titties, loyalty, and not naggin’ too much lol

You laugh. Seriously? You go to tap A, but something holds your finger back.

You hesitate. You’ve always picked A. But... you remember how quiet your inbox has been lately. How tired you are of therapy-speak and ghosting. You feel a flicker of something… darker. Petty.

You smirk — a little cruelly — and pick:

B. Passion, chemistry, and commitment.

The screen flickers. For a moment, everything warps — the light in your room dims, your phone buzzes hotter in your hand, and your neck starts to itch. You scratch absently.

Weird. Your fingers brush something damp. You check under your collar.

Sweat? You never sweat indoors. You’re basically a lizard.

You lower the phone and catch your reflection in the TV screen. You look… the same. Except maybe your jaw looks… fuller? Nah. You're just tired.

You move on.

Question 2: Which of these describes your ideal weekend?

A. A quiet picnic and gallery crawl with your partner

B. Volunteering at a queer mutual aid group

C. Night out dancing with friends, flirting but staying safe

D. Gym, beach, and railing some hot bitch raw in her Civic

You roll your eyes. Jesus. Who writes these?

You don’t even register what your thumb is doing. You’re too distracted by the smell.

Faint. Musky. Like… sweat and cologne. But not yours. Not your vegan fig spritz.

You look down just in time to see your thumb tap — D. Gym, beach, and railing some hot bitch raw in her Civic.

“What the—”

Your head swims. Your stomach clenches. Your tongue thickens behind your teeth. Your mouth tastes salty. You reel back from the phone and your feet knock into… wait.

When did you put on basketball shorts?

They’re cheap. Grey. Damp with sweat at the waistband. And your thighs — once skinny and pale — look fuller, darker, shadowed with coarse hair. Your calves ache. Your pits… stink.

A hot, dizzy feeling pushes into your temples.

You lift your shirt instinctively and see your stomach isn’t flat anymore — it’s lean, yes, but broader. Your hips tighter. Your skin… tan?

You reach for your water, but the bottle’s gone.

In its place? A crumpled Monster Energy can.

Question 3: Pick a phrase you most vibe with.

A. “Empathy is a strength, not a weakness.”

B. “Don’t let anyone silence your truth.”

C. “We become what we practice.”

D. “Real men fuck raw, lift heavy, and wipe once.”

You shake your head. “Nope. Absolutely not.” You say that out loud.

You tap for A., but your fingers… miss. Or maybe your body just doesn’t listen anymore.

It taps D. “Real men fuck raw, lift heavy, and wipe once.”

You freeze.

Your phone flashes red. You groan, low in your throat, deeper than you meant to. Something inside you shifts — like bone pushing bone. You gasp, but the air that comes out tastes like gym mats and pussy juice.

You smell like ass.

And god… it’s hot.

You look down. Your cock is hard — throbbing in your shorts, thicker than you remember, uncircumcised now, and… damn. That thing is heavy.

A dark patch spreads across your groin. You grin, teeth glinting. And you realize your hand is already down your shorts — gripping your fat, sweaty meat like it owns you.

“Fuck yeah,” you whisper.

Except it comes out in a thick, low, Arab-accented growl.

“Fokk yehhh…”

Your nose flares. Your hair's darker. Your jaw's square. You reek.

You don’t remember what empathy even means anymore.

You just want to lift. Nut. And ruin pussy.

You sit there for a moment after clicking on the third question, blinking dumbly at the screen like it had just burped out something alien. The warmth in your chest hasn’t left—it’s deepened, curdled slightly. The skin under your hoodie itches, faintly, but you ignore it. You shift in your chair, then glance at the next prompt.

Question 4: "You’re at a party. A girl you don’t know spills her drink on your jeans. What do you do?"

The options flicker into view:

A) Help her clean it up, apologize even if it wasn’t your fault.

B) Laugh it off, grab napkins, make a joke.

C) Make a comment about how clumsy chicks are and walk away.

D) Smirk, flex a little, and ask if she wants to come clean it off with her tongue.

Your stomach tightens. A) is obvious. It’s the right answer. But your hand… it hovers. Your fingers itch. You’re suddenly aware of your jaw, how tense it is. Something inside your mouth shifts, like your molars are pressing forward, your bite subtly altering.

You blink hard. Your eyes feel dry. Your body feels warmer. You click C.

And then it hits.

A slow, creeping smirk tugs at your lips. You don’t remember putting it there. It just... happens. Your upper lip curls with a weird confidence that doesn’t belong to you. It’s cocky, indifferent. There’s a flicker behind your eyes now—something colder. You breathe out sharply and realize the air feels stale, like it belongs in a locker room.

Your thighs feel thicker in your seat. You glance down and blink—your jeans have gotten a little tighter around your quads. Your legs look... wrong. Less skinny, more built. The hair seems darker, just a shade, just a little thicker. You swear your boxers feel damp, not from sweat, but from... heat. From some gross new confidence growing in your groin.

Your cursor pulses again. Another question appears.

Question 5: "How do you spend your weekends?"

A) Volunteering, brunch with friends, relaxing with a book.

B) Hitting the gym, catching up on chores, maybe a dinner.

C) Ripping shots with the boys, hitting the club, scoping ass.

D) Dicking down some broad, watching the game, gym if there’s time.

Your head throbs. You try to click A, but your vision swims for a moment. Your hand jolts, just slightly. You click C.

The effect is immediate.

It’s like your body exhales something light and takes in something heavier, meaner. Your spine cracks—subtly—but it does. Your posture adjusts in the chair. You slump forward, spreading your knees wider. Your right heel taps a little faster. The music in the background—some indie pop playlist you’d put on—suddenly feels grating.

Your shoulders itch. You roll them and hear something pop. There's a new thickness in your neck, an ache in your traps like you’d done shrugs last night. You feel the heat swelling beneath your arms. Your deodorant isn't quite masking it anymore. Your lips part slightly and you notice your breathing has deepened.

You catch a glance at your reflection in the dark laptop screen. Is your jaw... squarer? Your stubble thicker?

And worst of all—you don’t hate it. You smirk again. It feels good.

Another pop-up.

Question 6: "You see a gay couple making out in public. What do you do?"

Your mouth opens. “Cute,” you want to say. “Nothing. Let them be.” But the words don’t come. You’re sweating now. There's a rawness in your gut. A strange tightness in your jeans.

The options:

A) Smile, keep walking. Love is love.

B) Look away, mind your business.

C) Scoff under your breath and mutter, “Jesus…”

D) Stare, shake your head, and tell them to get a room—fags shouldn’t be flaunting it.

Your hand doesn’t hesitate. It clicks C before your mind catches up.

You freeze. You want to be angry at yourself, to cringe. But instead… your lips curl again. This time, there’s something else riding the back of the smirk: excitement.

Your thoughts start to misfire. The image of the couple makes something flare in your chest, but it’s not the solidarity you’d normally feel. It’s… disdain. Discomfort. Some new voice in your head muttering gross before you can stop it.

You lean back in your chair and feel your lats press against the seat in a way they never used to. Your pecs twitch subtly. Are you... bigger?

A voice in your head, smooth and arrogant now, chuckles: Damn, bro. Chill. Ain’t like you’re gay or some shit. And for the first time, you believe it.

Your dick twitches—stupidly, involuntarily—and you grin, wide and dumb. You don’t notice the last window of your liberal news site closing behind the quiz. You don’t notice your rainbow bracelet has turned to a leather band. Your nails look rougher. Your fingertips are calloused.

And you’re getting into it now.

You’re leaning forward, licking your lips, waiting for the next question. Hungry. Curious.

Eager to see what kind of guy you’re becoming.

You sit hunched in your chair now, panting slightly, shirt clinging to your skin with a sheen of anxious sweat. The world feels faintly off-axis—your bedroom dimmer, somehow more claustrophobic. Your laptop screen seems larger than it should be, like it’s looming toward you. The little “NEXT” button pulses. Your finger twitches, already tingling.

Question 7: What do you believe women are best at?

a) Empathy and emotional labor b) Equal to men in all ways c) Being hot and submissive d) Making homes and raising kids

Your stomach lurches as you see the answers. You blink. What the hell? You’d never—

And yet… your finger moves. Not fully under your control. You try to stop it. But your cursor glides up to c).

Click.

A sick thrum pulses in your chest. Like a tuning fork vibrating between your ribs.

And then you laugh. Just a little. A stunted, nasally snort.

No—no, not you. You’d never say that. You’d never—

But there’s something about the phrase “hot and submissive” that makes your cock twitch against your jeans, and that scares you worse than the laugh. A warmth is spreading through your chest, oozing down your arms, into your fingertips. Your wrists ache. You rub them together and feel how your bones have thickened, subtly, almost imperceptibly. Tendons coarser. Less delicate. The skin along your forearms grows darker—thicker hair, slightly wiry now. Your skin smells faintly of cheap cologne. Who put that on?

You glance at the screen again.

You should be horrified. Instead, your lips curl. Just a bit. “Hot and submissive, bro,” you mutter. “Fuckin’ facts.”

You clamp your hand over your mouth. Your voice—that wasn’t your voice. That was deeper. Sloppier. Coated in the sort of swaggering testosterone-laced sneer that would’ve once made your stomach turn. You used to complain about those guys. On Twitter. On dates.

Now… you can’t stop picturing one. Some slutty blonde clinging to your biceps while you bark orders at her.

You reach for the next question like you're hungry for it.

Question 8: What do you most want to improve about yourself?

a) My compassion b) My work ethic c) My gains and my discipline d) My body count

You frown. Your fingers twitch, hesitating over a). That’s the obvious choice. That’s who you were.

But something cracks inside you. Something small and moral and gentle. And it doesn’t matter anymore.

You jam your finger down on d) without thinking.

Click.

A sound escapes you. Like a grunt. Your dick is already hard. You don’t even care that it’s chafing against the zipper.

Your legs twitch beneath your desk—muscle spasming. Bulging. You grunt again, louder. The muscles in your thighs inflate, not gracefully, but brutishly—like overworked meat. Your jeans creak. Your balls feel swollen and tight. And God, the smell—like damp sweat, old cum, and male insecurity soaked into nylon briefs. You can smell yourself.

Your eyes flutter. Something behind them is sliding loose. Something slippery and good and dumb. You don’t remember your major in college. But you do remember the face of that chick in Florida who blew you in the club bathroom. Wait. Florida? You’ve never—

But the memory is there. The neon lights. The way her lips slid around your cock. You were wearing a backward cap, a wife-beater drenched in your own stink. She gagged on you and you laughed. You liked her gagging.

You shiver. Grin.

You’re changing.

Question 9: What do you do when someone disagrees with you politically?

a) Try to find common ground b) Ask them to explain their views c) Cut them out of your life d) Humiliate them and fuck their girl

You should be horrified. Instead, your cock twitches again.

Your smirk comes first. It’s not your face anymore—it’s smug, asymmetrical, full of sleaze. Your lip curls on one side like you’re halfway through catcalling some bimbo on the street. Your hand trembles, almost in orgasmic anticipation, as it selects d).

Click.

And your body explodes.

Not literally—but it might as well. You jerk back in your seat as every tendon in your body tightens. Muscles twitch and seize, swelling grotesquely, your bones thickening beneath them. Your jaw cracks and stretches forward—square, brutish, too wide. Your Adam’s apple juts out like a threat.

You moan as your nose broadens, nostrils flaring with a faint oily sweat. Your breath smells like beer and Red Bull. Your tongue rolls heavy and lazy in your mouth, lips now fuller, sloppier.

Your mind shudders.

You like humiliating people now. It’s hot. Weak guys whining about politics make your fists clench. You imagine slapping one, smirking as he winces, then turning to his girlfriend and flashing your perfect, white, cruel grin.

She’d follow you.

You’d ruin her.

“Fuckin’ libs,” you mumble, voice a deep, scratchy rasp, half-aroused.

The cursor flashes. NEXT.

Your thick fingers are already reaching.

You need more. You need it.

Question 10: “You just found out your gay childhood best friend is secretly in love with you. What do you do?”

A) Hug him and let him down gently, preserving your lifelong bond.

B) Try it out—love is love, after all.

C) Block him, tell your boys, and make a crude TikTok mocking him.

D) Beat his faggot ass. He knew better.

You barely even blink. Your thumb moves like it already knows what you are now.

You choose D.

Your knuckles pop. Literally. Loudly. You flinch—and then groan. Your hands curl into thick fists as the bones stretch, knotted veins bulging over skin turning a darker bronze hue. You stagger back on your bed as your body throbs — your shoulders erupting outward in a hot, brutal jolt. Your biceps balloon grotesquely, twitching under skin that thickens, darkens, roughens.

You blink down, panting, as your thin chest swells into a grotesque slab of meat, a dumb alpha’s chest that screams insecurity. Your nipples stretch across that mass like twin coins. The soft flutter of anxiety is gone, replaced with an ugly thrill pulsing in your veins: power. Domination.

Memories twist—your gay best friend has been “a creep” for years now, always staring. You remember threatening to out him if he tried anything. You remember the crunch of bone under your fist. You remember how good it felt.

You grin. Cruel. Empty. Animal.

Question 11: “What’s the best way to spend a Sunday morning?”

A) Making pancakes for your boyfriend.

B) Cuddling and catching up on podcasts.

C) Waking up in a chick’s dorm, hungover but satisfied.

D) Pumping iron, snapping gym thirst traps, praying then pounding pussy.

Your lips move before your thumb presses it. “D. Obviously.”

It’s not even a choice now. You need it.

You grunt, hunching forward as your spine cracks. Your body jerks, frame thickening, slouching into that exaggerated alpha swagger. Your nose crunches, thickens, nostrils flaring wide. Your brow pushes forward, your features losing all gentleness — replaced with dumb, brutish masculinity.

You scratch your chest absently—then your hand slips lower. Fuck. You're rock hard. Reeking. Hungry.

The image of a chick moaning under you while some dumb gospel song plays in the background makes your lips part into a smirk.

You’re the type who reposts gym reels and Bible quotes in the same 24 hours. Who quotes Corinthians and then rails a Latina he met on Snapchat an hour later. You're the kind of guy who says “God made me this way” with a smirk after a threesome.

Question 12: “What do you believe in most?”

A) Kindness.

B) Equality.

C) Winning.

D) God. Discipline. Alpha blood.

Your vision pulses. Your hand trembles in anticipation. The screen blurs… then sharpens into a red, throbbing glow.

You jab D. You don’t even read the others.

Your skin prickles like fire. Something beneath it breaks. You groan through clenched teeth, hips bucking forward. Your cock thickens obscenely, painfully, drooling precum onto your sweatpants as your balls churn and swell with corrupted testosterone.

Your brain fights it, for a split second.

Who are you?

You were… you were—

Nah. You grin. Doesn’t matter. Some fag maybe. Some libtard loser. Not you.

You’re Rafiq. But you make ‘em call you Raq. You’re straight, devout, jacked as hell, a full-blooded man. You wear sweat-stained tank tops and preach about the discipline of Christ between sets. You tell dudes they’re weak. You tell women they need God — and you.

Your old life is dead. That name’s not even in your head anymore.

FINAL RESULT:

RAFIQ “RAQ” ZAYDAN

Age: 21

Orientation: Straight as a ruler

Religion: Christian (but like... real Christian. Church, gym, repeat.)

Ethnicity: Middle Eastern (never talks about it unless it gets him clout)

Personality: Crude, dominant, cocky, aggressive.

Interests: Lifting, smashing pussy, yelling about masculinity, sneering at liberals, Bible quotes.

Most used phrases: “Weak ass mindset,” “You need God,” “She for the streets,” “No homo.”

You flex in the mirror, sweat pouring down your body, your thick, sculpted pecs bouncing. You grab your crotch through your grey sweats and smirk.

This is you now. Raq. No trace of the sweet gay liberal you used to be.

God, it feels good.

You take a selfie, tongue out, middle finger up, cross glinting at your neck. The caption?

“Alpha life chose me 💪🔥🙏 Females, DMs open. No weird shit. #GodFirst #PussySecond”

And you mean it.

[radtf69]

Hey I'm a fag looking for a change could help me become a big dumb alpha?

Noah had always prided himself on his intellect. A self-proclaimed progressive thinker, he spent his days debating politics online, scoffing at traditional masculinity, and burying himself in academic texts. But all that changed when he lost a bet with his more athletic roommate, forcing him to complete a full workout at Herculean Gains, a place he normally would have mocked for its “toxic masculinity.”

As he stepped inside, his small frame seemed even more fragile against the towering racks of weights and muscle-bound titans grunting with effort. He tugged at his oversized hoodie, feeling out of place, but before he could turn and run, a deep, commanding voice stopped him.

“Yo, what’s up, man? You new here?”

Noah turned to see a hulking mass of muscle smirking down at him. Rod was everything Noah wasn’t, tall, broad, radiating confidence with his square jaw, short preppy cut, and gym tank barely containing his chiseled physique. The air around him was thick with sweat and something more primal.

“I, uh, yeah. Just checking the place out,” Noah muttered, his voice small.

Rod chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, I could tell". Said the huge man, kind of in a mocking tone. "You look like you’ve never even touched a dumbbell”.

Something about Rod’s presence made Noah’s knees weak, though not in the way he expected. He followed the jock hesitantly, the scent of Rod’s sweat filling his nostrils as they moved toward the free weights. It was overwhelming, intoxicating. His thoughts felt... strange.

“Alright, first thing’s first, bench press. Builds power, makes you a beast.” Rod slapped the bench. “Hop on, bro.”

Noah obeyed, feeling oddly compelled. Rod leaned over him to spot, and as he did, the full force of his scent hit Noah like a wave. Musky, raw, overpowering. It seeped into his skin, into his mind. His fingers twitched around the barbell.

“Oops, sorry man”. Rod said absentmindedly. “This is what real strength smells like.”

Noah groaned softly as something stirred deep within him. A warmth, a pressure, a hunger he didn’t recognize. He lifted the bar, feeling an unfamiliar energy surge through his limbs. His arms looked... different. Slightly thicker, veins subtly more pronounced. His skin, was it darker? A golden hue, like he’d spent hours in the sun, though he never tanned.

Rod grinned. “There we go, bro. See? You got it in you.”

They moved to curls, then squats, then deadlifts. With each set, Noah inhaled more of Rod’s scent, his body growing warmer, tighter, stronger. His hoodie felt stifling, and when he peeled it off, he barely recognized the reflection in the mirror. His pale, skinny arms had taken on a richer bronze hue, a new density to them. His shoulders looked broader, more defined. His jaw felt... sharper. His hair darker, the once soft brown was now deep, almost black, thickening into something wavier, more unruly.

Something was wrong, but it felt so right.

Rod gave a knowing smirk. “Feeling it now, huh?”

Noah nodded slowly, his thoughts clouding. His voice cracked. “Yeah, bro. Feels... good.”

Rod laughed, clapping him on the back. “Told ya, gym life changes a guy.” He flexed absentmindedly, completely unaware of just how literal his words were.

As his muscles grew, so did something else, his instincts, his mindset. His once sharp, overanalyzing brain felt slower, but in a good way, less cluttered, more focused. He wasn’t worrying about nonsense anymore. Just gains. Strength. And... girls. Yeahhh! Hot, tight-bodied chicks who needed a real man to handle them. He could practically see them in his mind, his need for them growing with every breath he took.

He felt a rush of testosterone, a heat in his core that burned away any trace of hesitation. Noé smirked at himself in the mirror. Damn, he looked good. Not just jacked, but powerful. The kind of guy who took what he wanted, who dominated everything he wanted. Who made women weak in the knees just by looking at them.

Rod tossed him a towel. “Shower up, bro. Let it soak in.”

Noé caught his reflection in the mirror again, and his breath hitched. His soft features had hardened into something rugged, masculine. His skin, once pale, now held a deep bronze hue, darkening with every passing moment. His delicate hands had thickened, calloused fingers twitching with an unfamiliar craving. His lean frame had swelled, pecs forming, arms thick with new muscle. His soft voice had deepened, gaining a smooth but confident edge.

Memories blurred and shifted. His family had always been American, sure, but his roots? He could feel them now, deep in his blood. Strong, dominant, latino men. Hard workers who built their legacy with their bare hands. He’d grown up in a traditional household, taught that men provided, protected, and bred. Yeah, that’s what he was meant for. Not wasting time debating politics or worrying about dumb social issues. He was born to lead, to conquer, to make women his.

But it wasn’t just that. He felt disgust at anything weak, anything pathetic. Nerds, soy boys, gays... ugh, even thinking about them made his lip curl. He couldn’t understand why would he ever needed to tolerate that kind of degeneracy. He had always been like this. A strong, dominant alpha, a real man. The idea of ever being anything less, being some weak, scrawny, gay loser? That was unthinkable. Impossible. It wasn’t him. It had never been him.

Rod clapped him on the back, grinning. “Looking great, hermano.”

Noé smirked, flexing in the mirror, rolling his shoulders. He felt powerful, unstoppable. The scent of musk, sweat, and raw testosterone filled his nostrils. And it smelled like home.

He scoffed, getting like a really weak voice telling him he want like that, he was a liberal gay proud man. That nonsense was for beta males, for the spineless. He was a real man now. A true conservative man with conservative values, machismo, strength, family, tradition. Those were the pillars of a real man’s life. Not softness. Not weakness. And thinking too much? That was for losers. Real men followed their instincts. Real men didn’t waste time debating, they acted. He had gains to make and pussies to fuck.

Noé smirked and cracked his knuckles, his thick, muscular frame exuding dominance. He had only one goal now, to claim, conquer, and spread his legacy. He wasn’t just a man, he was the most macho man. The world was his playground, and he was ready to take what was his.

Hope you enjoy your new much better self, see you at the gym or scoring some pussy at a frat party. -Rod

[ayumi-honda]

🚘😎🌼🖤🌼😎🚘

Today in features that never made it into the Good Omens book/series: 60s female presenting Crowley, the Citroen 2CV and the mention of "psychedelic black" as revealed by @neil-gaiman in tumblr asks and the Script Book for season 1.

This largely self made cosplay "premiered" at the Proud Nerd Con in Goch and is based on a mix of 1960s fashion research and incredible fanarts of our favourite grumpy demon. The car belongs to hannah._.horror 🚘

Free background from freepik.

[spartanmuscle]

He came to America as Barry, a 19 year old exchange student from England.

He went to a seemingly mundane orientation meeting just outside campus.

The meeting was organized by the Spartan Program.

Now he's Garret, relaxing on the outskirts of his hometown in rural Arkansas. His muscular guns out, his gun by his side, the American flag waving at the back of his truck. The sunglasses cover his dull, empty eyes (a side effect of the Program)

He's a Spartan, a man spreading American masculinity. He's just like any other Spartan, and that's how he likes it. How he has to like it. He's ready to defend his rights and when the order comes - defend the country.

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

So it seems there will be a Good Omens + Doctor Who con in Germany hosting David Tennant 👀 (damn I looked where it is and it's like 16h travel with 6 changings and plus the cost I can't make it but daaaamn :D <3) link