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malestransforming · 1 month ago

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Broverwritten – A βΓΦ Story

Oakridge Hall smelled like academic mildew and burnout with a minor in unpaid therapy. The kind of dorm universities kept standing just to prove they cared more about legacy than livability.

The carpet, old enough to remember landlines, creaked under Jason Patel’s rubber sandals as he nudged the door to Room 304 open with the corner of his backpack. Sunlight bullied its way through the busted blinds, slicing up the stale air with golden stripes that lit up floating dust—and a deeply misplaced sense of promise.

Jason sighed. The kind of sigh that carried the weight of disappointing both your parents and your own fantasy self.

Black Rick and Morty tee (because self-awareness was still in fashion), sweatpants barely clinging to his hips, clean straight hair combed with too much care, and that specific facial expression reserved for DMV lines and family dinners. His glasses slid halfway down his nose, a reminder that the local humidity had more fight than he did.

He dropped his bag on the right bed, pulled out his organic tea kit (thanks, Mom), and lined up his books like little soldiers—algorithms, formal logic, data structures, and a PDF titled “How Not to Die Alone in a Group Setting” that he hadn’t opened since downloading it during finals week.

Then the door slammed open with the drama of a sitcom entrance.

And the atmosphere flatlined.

“YOOOO, ROOMIE! 🔥”

The guy didn’t walk in so much as explode into the room like a protein shake left in a hot car. Tan. Loud. Grinning like a golden retriever on creatine. Brock Van Der Hunt—allegedly—was now Jason’s roommate. In practice, he looked like the lead actor in a fitness app ad targeting guys named Chad.

Snapback backwards (obviously). Tank top that had seen combat. Nike shorts and socks that went up to his calves like they had ambition. Smelled faintly of gym mats and broken dreams.

“BRO! You don’t look like a ‘Patel Jason,’ but I’m vibin’. You got bro energy, I can feel it.”

Jason blinked. Slowly. This wasn’t a conversation. It was a sensory assault.

“Are you yelling,” he asked, “or is that just your factory setting?”

Brock was already stuffing protein tubs into the closet like he was prepping for the bicep apocalypse. He coughed from the dust. Laughed. Burped. Then pulled from his camo backpack a literal baseball bat—with BROSLAYER etched in Sharpie.

Jason considered curling up inside his suitcase and faking a transfer.

“No one taught you the sacred art of personal space?”

“Dude, chill. We’re gonna vibe. Yin and yang. You’re the brain. I’m the bicep.”

Jason sat on the edge of the bed and opened his laptop, pretending to scroll through research while really just watching the window—where people were carrying boxes, smiling, being human. Outside, a group of freshmen were stretching like synchronized regret. One wore a tank top that read:

“Don’t dream it. Be it.”

Jason frowned like someone had personally offended him with Canva.

Then, as if summoned by existential dread, the dorm’s prehistoric radio buzzed to life. Static. Crackle. Then, briefly:

“It’s just a jump to the left—”

Jason stared. The station shifted to John Mayer, like nothing had happened. Coincidence. Obviously.

⸻

“You’re coming tomorrow, right? BRO house is lit, bro,” Brock said, shaking a protein bottle that looked like it had survived a frat house flood and just kept going. “Freshies get a free shot if they hit fifty push-ups.”

“I’d rather get a root canal in a moving car.”

“HA! Self-deprecating humor. That’s like, step one in the evolution, bro.”

Jason got up. Picked up his electric kettle. His one remaining weapon against chaos. Chamomile tea. His security blanket in beverage form.

As it boiled, his brain wandered to two days ago at the airport. His dad had handed him a Python manual like it was a sacred artifact.

“You don’t have to fit in, Jay,” he’d said. “You just have to read the code underneath the system. And master it.”

Right. Except the code now had abs. And its name was Brock.

⸻

That night, Jason crashed with his headphones still in. The T-shirt he used as a pillow read: “I paused my game to be here.” Which, yeah. Accurate.

Across the room, Brock snored like a lawnmower possessed by a linebacker. The bathroom light flickered like a warning. Somewhere down the hall, echoing faint but real—

A deep laugh rolled through the dark.

Jason dreamed.

He was in a room made entirely of mirrors. Walls, floor, ceiling—each surface reflecting him back from every angle. But the versions in the glass weren’t quite him.

They stood taller. Smiled wider. Flirted like it wasn’t a codependent act of war.

Every time he moved, they mirrored him—but more confident. More social. Like they belonged somewhere.

One winked.

Like they already knew something he didn’t. Not yet.

⸻

Oakridge Hall smelled like old ambition left out in the sun too long. Like someone tried to bottle prestige and accidentally brewed mildew, sweat, and broken GPA dreams.

The carpet—last cleaned during the Nixon administration—groaned under Jason Patel’s Adidas as he nudged the door to Room 304 open. Again. Sunlight slashed through warped blinds, catching in the haze of dust, heat, and something that could technically be called pheromones, if desperation counted.

Jason exhaled.

Navy polo, jeans that actually fit, fresh sneakers still clinging to their box smell. His tan said “I’ve seen the sun,” and his jaw was clean-shaven with intent, not panic. His hair—slicked back with just enough pomade to signal effort—held the line. He wasn’t the life of the party, but he knew how much social capital looked like confidence when you wore it well.

He dropped his bag on the right-side bed like claiming a minor kingdom. Out came the electric kettle, his mom’s tea kit (chamomile, naturally), and the only stack of books that didn’t judge him: algorithms, logic, data structures, and a battered notebook where he tried to decode charisma like it was a language he could learn with enough flashcards.

Then the door blew open like a Marvel cameo.

“YOOOO, ROOMIE! 🔥”

Volume: maxed. Presence: overwhelming. Scent: protein, ego, and mid-tier cologne. Brock Van der Hunt IV had entered the chat.

Snapback backwards. Tank top hanging on for dear life. Shorts, slides, and the kind of calves people either respected or feared. He looked like a gym bro prototype that escaped the lab and learned to monetize.

“BRO! You don’t look like a ‘Patel Jason,’ but I’m vibin’. Full-on brother energy.”

Jason blinked. Once. Slowly.

“Is this shouting or just your default Bluetooth setting?”

“HAHA, dude I already like you. Jay, right?”

Jason clocked it. Jay. Didn’t hate it. Didn’t correct him. Which, for Jason, was basically a hug.

Brock started unloading the closet like he was restocking a GNC clearance aisle: cracked whey tubs, something neon and probably illegal, and a literal baseball bat with BROSLAYER carved into the handle like a threat and a punchline in one.

Jason instinctively stepped back. Not fear. Just a basic preservation reflex.

“Dude, relax. You and me? Yin and yang. You bring the brains. I bring the traps.”

Jason made a noncommittal noise and opened his laptop. Pretended to read a scientific article, but his eyes kept drifting toward the window, where other freshmen were settling in with ukuleles, boxes, and zero visible emotional baggage.

Outside, a group of guys were stretching on the grass like they’d just been born flexible. One of them wore a tank that read:

“Don’t dream it. Be it.”

Jason frowned like the slogan had personally offended him.

The dorm radio—somehow still alive through spite and static—buzzed to life. For a second, just a flicker of familiarity:

“It’s just a jump to the left—”

Then it cut to Ed Sheeran.

Figures.

⸻

“You’re coming tomorrow, right? BRO House is gonna be lit, bro,” Brock said while shaking something radioactive in a bottle that looked like it had PTSD.

“Freshmen get a free shot if they hit fifty push-ups.”

Jason tilted his head.

“Yeah… my idea of a party involves bad Wi-Fi and cold pizza.”

“Classic. That’s how it starts, bro. Denial. Then tequila.”

Jason filled the kettle with surgical precision. The hum of boiling water was his therapy. Chamomile in hand, he finally let his mind wander.

Airport. Two days ago. His dad had handed him a Python manual like he was bestowing a family heirloom.

“You don’t have to fit in, Jay,” he’d said. “You just have to understand the code behind the system. And master it.”

Jason glanced over at Brock—shirtless, repping push-ups like he owed gravity money.

Apparently, the code now lifted heavy and screamed “LET’S GOOO” between reps.

⸻

That night, Jason lay in bed with headphones on and emotional detachment dialed up to 10. His pillow was covered by a backup tee that read: “I paused my game to be here.”

Across the room, Brock snored like a gorilla trapped in a protein dream. The bathroom light flickered. Because of course it did. And somewhere way down the hall, just loud enough to register:

A low, drawn-out laugh.

Jason muttered to the ceiling.

“What if I just… go?”

Then he dreamed.

A classroom—but warped. The chalkboards glowed, and the desks folded into themselves like gym benches. The mirrors showed him back—but bigger. Straighter. Grinning like he knew what to say at parties.

His textbooks turned into dumbbells. His classmates—ripped, perfect, alarmingly in sync—were all doing push-ups like it was a team sport and Jason had been late to practice.

He dropped to the floor. His arms didn’t shake. Some part of him already knew the rhythm.

And just before the dream flickered out, one of his mirror-selves looked over, cap backwards, smile casual and terrifying.

“You’re almost there, bro. Just stop thinking so hard.”

⸻

Oakridge Hall smelled like institutional mildew, cheap hair gel, and broken promises. The kind of dorm a university refuses to renovate just to preserve the “vibe”—as if peeling paint and asbestos count as historical value. The walls seemed to sweat under the late-summer heat, and the carpet—probably older than disco—groaned under Jason Patel’s sneakers as he nudged open the door to Room 304.

The sun slanted through warped blinds, striping the air with gold lines and floating dust. The entire room smelled like someone had tried to Febreze ambition back to life.

Jason exhaled.

He wore a t-shirt with the logo of a fitness podcast he didn’t totally follow, swetapnts that walked the line between gym fanatic and lazy motherfucker, and spotless sneakers engineered to look casual and overpriced. His frame was more “in development” than “developed,” but the definition was showing up. Slowly. Like a résumé skill you couldn’t prove but really wanted people to notice.

He brushed his thumb across his stomach, half-checking for abs like a gambler peeking at his cards.

Just a few more months.

He tossed his bag on the right bed, grabbed his shaker, and mixed vanilla whey with creatine. The bottle snapped shut like a seal on a sacred ritual. He sipped slowly. Respectfully. Like this was the price of admission.

His mind wandered—back to high school. Back to the nicknames. “Twig with a phone.” Now? He flexed a little. Not a lot. Just enough to acknowledge the revenge arc.

Progress.

He turned to his closet. His tanks were already arranged by color family. His black striped shorts—three pairs, all allegedly different—hung like backup dancers waiting for their cue.

Then the door exploded open like a frat boy’s version of a jump scare.

“YOOOO, ROOMIE! 🔥”

He came in like the human form of a pre-workout ad: tall, tan, and built like gym equipment had raised him personally. Brock Van der Hunt IV. The name had screamed legacy in the housing email. In person, he screamed louder.

White cap backwards. Shredded tank clinging to shoulders that had absolutely not evolved through natural selection. Nike shorts. Slides. Tall socks. A walking franchise.

“BRO! You don’t look like a ‘Patel Jason,’ but you got proto-BRO energy, y’know?”

Jason blinked. One brow lifted in quiet protest.

“Is that your version of ‘nice to meet you’?”

Brock laughed and crossed the room like the laws of personal space were merely suggestions. Then—without warning—he hugged him. Real hug. Full contact. Zero irony. Jason stiffened, but… didn’t pull away.

He felt the traps. The chest. The heat. It was like being tackled by a motivational poster.

And in that brief, overly intimate moment, Jason didn’t feel threatened.

He felt curious.

Admiration. Or envy. Or both.

“I’m Brock. But call me Van. Or BRO. Your call.”

“Jason,” he replied. “Though I guess I’m Jay now.”

“Jay! Hell yeah.”

While Brock claimed the closet like a colonial power—unloading tubs of neon powder and ranking nut butters out loud—Jason sat back and watched. Anthropologist meets chaos incarnate. Brock narrated his own movements like a gym-rat nature documentary. Energetic. Loud. Charismatic in a way Jason couldn’t explain—but wanted to.

Annoying? Yes.

Magnetic? Unfortunately, also yes.

“You lift, right?” Brock gestured to the shaker in Jason’s hand.

“Every day. No excuses.”

“Dude. Alpha in progress. Love that.”

Jason smirked despite himself. It felt like a compliment in disguise. Like someone had cracked open a protein tub and sprinkled validation inside.

The radio in the corner crackled—ancient tech somehow still alive—and dropped a single, uninvited lyric:

“It’s just a jump to the left—”

Jason flinched.

“What the hell was that?”

The song switched to The Weeknd before anyone could answer. Brock didn’t even hear it.

⸻

That afternoon, Jason sat at his desk, pretending to read an article on neurobranding while secretly wondering how charisma got from “ad copy” to “cult” in five steps or less.

Outside, a group of freshmen stretched on the lawn in semi-sync. One wore a tank top that read: “Don’t dream it. Be it.”

Jason snorted. Of course.

Felt like something an algorithm would slap onto a shaker bottle and sell for $29.99.

He leaned back, just as Brock emerged from the closet like a protein genie. In one hand: a tight black BRO tee. In the other: a sweating beer can, probably expired but too committed to care.

“Here. Tomorrow’s BRO House party. Shot for fifty push-ups. But this one’s just… welcoming.”

He tossed the shirt. It landed in Jason’s lap like it had always lived there. Then came the beer.

Jason caught it on reflex.

It was warm. It was absurd. He opened it anyway.

The taste? Disgusting. But the ritual? Surprisingly grounding.

Somewhere deep in his nervous system, something tried to remember steam, and a kettle, and his mom’s voice saying “breathe.”

Then it was gone.

Just him. Brock. The silence between sips. And something that felt suspiciously like belonging.

He pulled the BRO shirt over his head.

It was a little loose.

But it fit.

“Okay,” he said. “Just one night. For the ethnographic data.”

“You’ll love it, bro. The instinct kicks in before you know it.”

⸻

Later, they sat side by side on the windowsill, legs dangling like extras in a campus brochure. The air had cooled, dipped in gold like everything was filtered through nostalgia and poor choices.

They passed the beer. Said nothing.

Jason’s mind drifted—to the airport.

His dad’s one-armed hug. The hardcover he handed off like sacred scripture: “Brand Like a Champion: Emotional Strategy for Sports Markets.”

“You don’t have to fit in, Jay,” he’d said. “You just have to read the system beneath the hype… and sell it better than anyone else.”

And now—shirt tight, beer in hand, Brock beside him like a sentient pre-workout ad—it almost felt like Jason had.

⸻

That night, he fell asleep without his headphones. His phone frozen mid-video on a chest day tutorial.

That night, he fell asleep without his headphones. His phone paused mid-video on a chest day tutorial, the frozen thumbnail still flexing harder than he ever had. The βΓΦ shirt draped over the back of the chair like it had claimed residency—not his, not yet, but not entirely foreign either.

Across the room, Brock snored like a protein blender set to “pulverize” inside a marching band. The bathroom light blinked with the persistence of a warning label nobody read.

Somewhere down the hall, barely louder than a breath— a laugh curled through the air.

Low. Almost inaudible. Like an inside joke the building didn’t want anyone else to hear.

In his dream, Jason stood in a clearing. Digital torches flickered. Basslines hummed in the dirt.

Bodies moved—synchronized, glowing, ripped.

One stepped forward. No words. Just a steel chain.

He lifted it. Felt the weight. Pressed it to his chest.

When it touched skin, it didn’t just burn.

It branded.

⸻

Oakridge Hall smelled sweet—old wood, dried sweat, and dreams slow-cooking like someone forgot to turn off the Crock-Pot.

The place had vintage vibes, pre-Instagram and aggressively proud of it. The kind of charm you get from cracked drywall, carpets that had soaked up more juvenile thoughts than common sense, and windows warped just enough to let in sunlight like holy glitter.

Jay Patel shoulder-barged his way into Room 304, gym bag bouncing against his back, muscles still high on post-lift euphoria. He was decked out in tiny black gym shorts, a cut-off tank made of an old T-shirt, and a steel chain thick enough to double as a towing accessory. His cap—backwards, because of course—sat low over his face. His eyes sparkled. His smile gleamed like an influencer about to sell you gum that makes your jawline sharper.

He stepped into the room. Took a breath. Grinned like the air itself was anabolic.

The heat? Not a problem. He lived in heat now. Thrived in it. This was the heat of focus. Of purpose. Of pre-workout activating your third eye.

He dropped the gym bag on the right-side bed, stretched like a panther on creatine, and laughed. Because of course he did.

No one called him “Jason” anymore. That guy was gone. Ghosted by his own biceps. Now it was Jay. The upgraded patch. The final form.

Sure, sometimes the mirror still glitched. Just a flicker. A thinner version. With glasses. Posture like a collapsed shelf. Reading PDFs about brain chemistry instead of body recomposition.

Jay crushed that guy at the gym. Buried him under 225.

And right on cue—

Door. Explosion. Bro.

“YOOOOOO, ROOMIE! 🔥”

Enter Brock Van der Hunt IV. Yes, the fourth. Because apparently royalty still reproduces like medieval dynasties.

Tan. Massive. Built like a statue of protein excess. Tank top shredded like it lost a fight with his traps. Matching chain. Cap. Energy level: podcast guest who screams.

Jay’s eyes lit up. Brock’s eyes lit up.

This was love. Or at least: respect, gains-based.

“BROOO! You’re Patel?! I thought I was gonna have to reform another spreadsheet goblin—”

Jay’s grin practically flexed.

“Plot twist.”

They sized each other up like mirror images from different timelines. One was leg day. The other was chest day. Together, they were synergy.

“You lift?”

“Every damn day.”

“Vanilla or chocolate whey?”

“Vanilla.”

“Ohhh, this is destiny.”

Jay flopped onto the bed, pure glee. Mattress groaned like it knew what it was in for.

The dorm radio sputtered. Then—just faintly—

“It’s just a jump to the left—”

Jay paused. Da fuck?

Then it cut to something broody with bass and bad decisions. He shrugged. Moment over.

⸻

Brock unpacked like he was starring in a livestream no one asked for. Powders, tanks, more powders, a flag with the word BRO stitched in aggressive varsity font. His narration was part TED Talk, part gym confessional.

Jay pretended to scroll his phone. He wasn’t.

He was absorbing. Learning.

With a casual flex, he unzipped his own duffel and pulled out a six-pack of beer so generic it probably tasted like metal and regret.

Right then—Brock popped out of the closet with an identical six-pack. Grinning like they’d just finished each other’s macros.

“Broooo. The starter pack.”

“Tradition,” Jay shrugged, cracking one open. Perfect synchronization. The hiss of the can was practically ceremonial.

They drank. It wasn’t good. But it stopped the thinking. Which was the point.

Then came the lies. The bonding. The exes who may or may not have existed. The gym injuries that totally weren’t just pulled hamstrings from bad form. Classic bro lore.

Sometime around Beer Four, someone said: “We used to do this with our bros back home. Like… religiously.”

Jay’s brain blipped. His dad. Airport. Hug. Whispered words:

“You cracked the code, Jay. You fit in. Better than I ever did.”

Jay had no clue what that meant. Still didn’t.

Now, shirtless and sweaty, laughing with Brock like they shared a bloodstream, Jay wasn’t thinking about codes. Or meaning. Or his dad.

He was thinking about macros. And pump. And maybe—just maybe—about getting a second tub of pre-workout.

Whatever that code had been, it didn’t matter anymore.

⸻

Later while scrolling through his feed before bed—still sweaty, shirtless, and apparently not a believer in basic hygiene—Jay found himself sinking into the algorithm like it was a warm, dirty bath.

His thumb moved on autopilot. Motivational reels. Bro-lit book recs. Shirtless guys screaming about success and shoulders. All of it washed over him like static with abs.

That’s when Brock, halfway through an unnecessarily intense hamstring stretch, casually lobbed a sentence into the room like a grenade:

“Might be a party tomorrow…”

Jay sat up like the phrase had flipped a hidden switch in his spine.

“Dude. Take me. Please. This is the dream. I wanna be one of you.”

The words came out before his brain could flag them as deeply embarrassing. They hung there—desperate, wide-eyed, and probably smelling like old pre-workout.

Brock didn’t blink. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t even stretch harder.

He just reached into the drawer, grabbed a folded βΓΦ shirt, and tossed it with perfect aim.

It hit Jay square in the chest.

A cotton seal of approval. Bold white letters: βΓΦ. Like subtlety had died and come back as merch.

Jay held it for a moment. The fabric was warm, maybe from the drawer, maybe from fate. He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t have to.

He just pulled the shirt over his head and let it cling. Tight. Like it had been waiting for him.

⸻

That night, while Brock snored like a chainsaw in a protein coma, Jay stood in front of the mirror in nothing but his training shorts. He adjusted the chain around his neck. Flexed his arms. His chest. Smiled.

He didn’t even flinch when a low laugh echoed in the hallway.

After that brief, deeply unearned moment of self-admiration, Jay didn’t take long to pass out. His snores—rich, guttural, and untrained—joined Brock’s in a full stereo assault that probably violated local noise ordinances.

Down the hallway, someone whispered: “Was that a bear?”

Nope. Just bros.

And Jay?

He dreamed.

An empty stadium. Dark. Silent. Bleachers abandoned.

Then—light.

Torches. Field. Glowing turf.

Jay stood in full pads. Helmet off. Calm.

Then came the others.

Dozens of them. Brock copies. Shoulders like architecture. They jogged in perfect formation.

One stopped. Took off his helmet.

Jay’s face.

Then another. And another.

All of them Jay.

Bulked up. Sharper. Grinning.

One looked up to the stands.

Smirked.

“Took you long enough, bro.”

Later that night, Jay scrolled until his eyes glazed. Still shirtless. Still not showered. Hygiene was for people who weren’t in transformation arcs.

His feed was a shrine: reels of bro-prayers, book recs by influencers who hadn’t read them, dudes screaming about discipline and delts. Static, but with biceps.

Brock, mid-hamstring stretch that looked more painful than it needed to, casually lobbed a verbal grenade:

“Party tomorrow.”

Jay sat up like the algorithm had personally DM’d him.

“Take me. For real. I wanna be one of you.”

It came out too fast. Too raw. Too real.

But Brock? Didn’t blink.

He just opened a drawer. Pulled out the artifact.

A BRO shirt.

Tossed it. Perfect aim. Hit Jay dead center.

He stared at the shirt. Big bold letters. Zero nuance.

He didn’t say anything.

Just pulled it on.

Let it hug him tight. Like the brand had been waiting for him all along.

⸻

That night, while Brock snored like a dying lawnmower filled with protein sludge, Jay stood at the mirror.

Just his shorts and the chain.

Flexed once. Twice.

Smiled like he’d won something.

Didn’t even flinch when a weird low laugh echoed faintly down the hall.

⸻

Jay passed out fast. His snoring? Loud. A rising star in the bro sleep scene. His and Brock’s combined noise probably violated local noise ordinances.

Down the hallway, someone whispered: “Was that a bear?”

Nope. Just bros.

And Jay?

He dreamed.

An empty stadium. Dark. Silent. Bleachers abandoned.

Then—light.

Torches. Field. Glowing turf.

Jay stood in full pads. Helmet off. Calm.

Then came the others.

Dozens of them. Brock copies. Shoulders like architecture. They jogged in perfect formation.

One stopped. Took off his helmet.

Jay’s face.

Then another. And another.

All of them Jay.

Bulked up. Sharper. Grinning.

One looked up to the stands.

Smirked.

“Took you long enough, bro.”

⸻

Oakridge Hall was already trembling from the bass—like someone had parked a nightclub on top of a washing machine—by the time Jay P. strutted past it. He didn't even notice the old building. The βΓΦ House was still three blocks away, but apparently the subwoofer had supernatural range. It had been built out of spare parts, blind optimism, and zero regard for structural safety. The vibe? Aggressively curated. Testosterone-approved. Yeah — home was calling.

It was the day before upperclassmen officially returned, but Jay P. was already running at full send. His bronzed skin caught every stray sunbeam slicing through the warped dorm windows, and the late-day haze made his tight white tank ripple across his abs like a superhero costume sponsored by gymfluencers.

He was wearing black shorts, Nike slides, and a sculpted tank that hugged his chest like it knew it was part of a brand. A thick steel chain swung with every step like a fitness metronome. His arms were oiled, and lightly scented with something from the AXE product line that promised “Apollo energy,” whatever that meant. Fresh fade. Bright teeth. Eyebrows edged. Aesthetic? Optimized.

He walked through the common room like it was a runway sponsored by protein powder.

And the floor… it knew.

“TOMORROW’S THE DAY!!! LET’S GOOOO!!” he shouted, pounding on the βΓΦ room door with the flat of his fist while flexing both biceps like a declaration of war.

From inside: howls, chants, the unmistakable crash of Solo cups being sacrificed in the name of gains.

Jay P. responded with bro-hugs. Precise. Rhythmic. Calibrated like a ritual greeting from a secret order that spoke only in reps and macros.

This was his stage. And the pump? That was gospel.

Somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, a glitch hiccuped—a flicker of a name: Jason. Pale. Awkward. Bookish. Definitely allergic to this much confidence.

Maybe a dream. Maybe a bug in the operating system caused by too much creatine and not enough fiber.

Didn’t matter. Jay P. was beyond all that now. Now it was about loyalty. Optics. The grind.

Later that evening, Brock kicked open their bedroom door like a frat-themed Kool-Aid Man.

“YO, ROOMIE!” he yelled, arms open wide like he was inviting a bro to salvation.

Jay P. opened his too. The bro-hug? Perfect. Tight. Precise. Two dudes who knew exactly how to align respect with delts.

“You ready for tomorrow night?”

“Born ready, bro. This party’s gonna rewrite history.”

They spent the entire day in setup mode. Kegs hauled. Beer pong stations aligned like strategic missile silos. Mood lights tested. βΓΦ tanks sorted by size and arrogance. Jell-O shots arranged like rainbow-colored ammunition.

Jay P. carried the kegs like he was auditioning for a protein powder commercial. Every muscle posed for the imaginary camera. Every smile set to “effortlessly heroic.”

And when they hit the sidewalks with the other brothers to hand out flyers? Jay P. moved like a TikTok prophet on a sacred pilgrimage to spread the aesthetic gospel.

“Sup, king?” he said to a wide-eyed freshman with a cracked phone case.

“U mirin’?” he tossed at a kid who looked like he’d been bullied by his backpack.

The boys laughed. And the “BROHAUS APOCALYPSE PARTY” flyers scattered into the wind like an invitation to join a religion built on sweat, loyalty, and triceps.

Back at the βΓΦ porch, Brock watched from the top step, sipping a protein shake like it was wine. Smiling. Just barely.

It was the kind of smile that said: Mission accomplished.

If it had ever even been a mission. If this wasn’t just… the natural order.

⸻

The next evening, just before sunset, Jay P. leaned against the windowsill of his room.

Campus bricks glowed like they’d been pre-filtered. The lights from βΓΦ House flicked on, one by one, like a landing strip for shirtless ambition.

Down on the sidewalk, a freshman passed through the front gate. Backpack too low. Posture fried. Skin practically allergic to sunlight. Eyes glued to the pavement.

Jay P. narrowed his gaze. The air smelled like… destiny. And maybe cheap cologne.

He muttered with a grin, just loud enough for no one to hear:

“He just doesn’t know it yet.”

He went back in. One more bag of ice. One more offering to the frat gods. Brock was out on the lawn, perfectly framed — like a stock photo of brotherhood. Or a mirror.

Same cup. Same abs. Same minds — give or take a brain cell.

The night was just heating up. Jay P. had already seen the ending. Not that he minded. He fully intended to watch it again. And again. And…

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malestransforming · 1 month ago

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The magic mirror

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malestransforming · 1 month ago

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On the βΓΦad – A βΓΦ Story

The bus station looked like it had been abandoned by God, by architects, and by the Federal Transit Commission. One of those places where spiders survive fires and vending machines still sell sodas that expired during the Obama administration. The ceiling was just tall enough to echo coughs and broken promises. The flickering fluorescents above me blinked like they were having a midlife crisis.

The heat stuck to me like GOP climate denial — sweaty, stubborn, and absolutely impervious to facts.

I was sweating. Not in a gross, pit-stain kind of way. Controlled. Like a man trying to keep his ethical composure while waiting for his climate punishment after taking a flight. A flight. I had sworn it wasn’t a choice — either that or road-tripping across half of America in my dad’s gas-guzzling pickup, which was a nightmare for both the climate and for me. And now the midnight bus was canceled. Driver strike. Something between labor justice and total logistical collapse. Great. Now what?

I was wearing a beige linen shirt — recycled, of course — that now clung to my back like a passive-aggressive reminder of my moral commitments. Rolled-up khakis. Sustainable Allbirds sneakers, dusted from the walk between the airport and the last functioning terminal. My backpack — repurposed canvas — had a Sunrise Movement pin and a stainless steel water bottle sweating harder than I was.

I was trying to focus on the next logical step (maybe a carpool app with electric vehicles — in the middle of rural Nowheresville, LOL, sure Silas), when he showed up.

That — as I would soon learn — was Tucker McConnell. Or, as I instantly dubbed him: The Gospel According to Chest Day.

He walked straight toward me like the world was a red carpet and sweat was just confetti. Tall. Built. Tanned in a way that felt like a personal attack. Backwards white cap. Tank top that looked like it survived a war with dumbbells. Nike shorts hanging just barely on the right side of indecency. Adidas slides — obviously — with socks. And that smile. That goddamn smile. Wide. Relaxed. Like he’d been born in a pre-workout supplement ad.

“You headed to Bellington too?” he asked, nodding at one of my bags. His voice was slow. Stretched. Like each word had to warm up first.

First thought: Oh my God, it talks. Second thought: Of course it does. Guys like that always talk.

“Yeah,” I answered, quiet. Cautious. Minimal vulnerability.

He nodded, spinning his truck keys on one finger like a boy who’d just discovered what privilege tastes like. Behind him, glistening and vaguely threatening like a second amendment bumper sticker, stood his truck: a chrome F-150 with a “Come and Take It” decal and a crucifix swaying from the mirror. It was almost poetic. Industrialism chewing on religion with a side of beef jerky.

“Heading out now. Got space. Just me and my shake.”

He raised the cup. Transparent. Viscous brown liquid. Looked like it was made of protein, testosterone, and unresolved trauma.

I hesitated.

Not because I thought he’d kidnap me. But because his truck looked like it emitted CO₂ just by existing. And because I wasn’t sure I could survive two hours next to someone who reeked of Axe and late-stage capitalism.

He noticed. The tilt of his head. The smirk. It was a test. I knew it. Guys like that live to test boundaries. And I was about to fail.

“Hey, no pressure,” he said, grinning. “I’ll go solo if you want. Just figured… beats waiting here, right? Place feels like a sauna. Greta and Leo will forgive you.”

Pause.

I looked up at the faded sign: letters missing, pigeons nesting on top. I thought of Greta Thunberg. The Green New Deal. That one time I got booed during a school debate for suggesting we end corn subsidies.

And then I thought: the bus ain’t coming. The damage is done. Maybe… the marginal emissions are less than the emotional toll of three more hours in this hell.

“I’ll take the ride.”

He grinned like he’d already won. “Hop in, bro.”

Bro.

I pretended not to flinch. But that word hit like a cultural anchor to the chest. Bro wasn’t just a word. It was a worldview. A uniform. A flag with no nation that said: “Life’s chill, the world is my gym, and you should just vibe.”

We started walking. His slides slapped against the pavement like drumsticks. His shoulders moved like pistons. He smelled like synthetic vanilla and something vaguely metallic — maybe the shake, maybe the blood of his intellectual enemies.

I climbed into the truck. He cranked the radio.

Luke Bryan. Of course.

Oppression comes in many forms. Sometimes, it’s six foot three, jacked, drives a chrome 4x4, and listens to Luke Bryan.

⸻ The passenger seat was hot. Not cozy-hot — just… why-am-I-doing-this hot. That kind of heat that makes you question your commitment to the planet. The leather — if it was leather and not some petroleum-based thing Tuck would call “premium” — was searing the backs of my thighs through my khakis.

“You can turn the vent toward you, bro. AC’s on full blast.” He smiled. Again. That face that said, “I’m the star of my own sports sitcom.” And probably the head writer too.

I adjusted the vent slowly, so I didn’t look ungrateful. I also slightly tilted it away from my face, like a symbolic protest against yet another assault on nature.

We were on the road. The town faded in the rearview. The world flattened into dry fields, lonely gas stations, and power lines that looked like the fossilized spine of some extinct capitalist beast. The sky was pale blue, clouds stretched thin like they’d been halfway erased by someone with performance anxiety. Late summer. Nowhere, USA.

Tucker drove with one hand. The other arm was perched on the seatback like it was claiming territory. His bicep flexed every time the wheel turned. Like… actively flexed. I swear I saw a vein pop when he made a lane change.

Same tank from the station. But now I could see it better — there was a sketchy tribal bull tattoo on his shoulder. One of those designs guys like him believe means “focus” and “intensity” but probably came free with a Monster Energy sponsorship.

Me? I clutched my steel water bottle like a moral anchor. My bag was between my feet. My sneakers were lined up. I inhaled. I did what I do best: observed. Judged. Intellectualized.

Car Interior: Field Notes • Air freshener: “Ocean Storm,” hanging from the mirror like a war crime. • Dashboard: faded American flag sticker, taped in like a hostage. • Cupholder: open pre-workout tub with a glowing skull on the label. • Passenger floor: one book, Kettlebell Training for Real Men (opened to a chapter titled “Maximum Glutes”). • And most alarmingly? A folded flyer. Glittery. βΓΦ – Beta Gamma Phi – Brotherhood Rush Night Great. A frat boy and a missionary.

He handed me something in plastic. “Jerky? Vegan-ish, I think.”

I inspected it. Ingredients were… suspicious. “Textured soy protein. Liquid smoke. Something called flavor-maxx.”

“No thanks.” “You sure? Can’t read half the label, but it slaps.”

He bit into his. Chewed like it was gum made of confidence. His jaw moved like it had a separate workout plan.

My stomach growled. I remembered the last thing I ate: a sad airport granola bar that tasted like ethically sourced cardboard. Still, I resisted.

We passed a faded billboard: FREEDOM ISN’T FREE — next to a phone number and a rifle. I instantly went stone-faced.

Tucker noticed. “You always this tense, or just hate freedom?”

I took a second to decide if it was a joke. Or… not. Then I realized: he didn’t care either way. The fun was in the ambiguity. Or in my confusion.

I watched him. Relaxed. Driving like he wore board shorts to funerals. No rush. No doubt. No inner monologue.

And that, honestly, freaked me out more than anything else. How do you exist without being in crisis? How do you not have, like, a thinkpiece going at all times? He didn’t act like someone trying to be something. He acted like someone who already was.

That’s what scared me. And fascinated me. And maybe… Maybe that was the problem.

He turned the radio up. Country-pop. Luke Combs. Beer. Jesus. Women with summer eyes.

“You like music?” he asked. “I like silence,” I replied. “Damn. You’re one of those.”

He laughed. I didn’t.

But… it didn’t hurt like it should’ve. Some tiny part of me found it kind of funny? I smirked. Just a little. Quietly.

And for a split second — too quick to rationalize — I wanted him to see it. The smile. I wanted to know if he’d smile back. Approve. Accept.

But he was focused on the road.

⸻

It was late morning when the truck glided into a gas station that looked like it had grown there naturally — part of the landscape, like an oil bloom. Nothing was new. Nothing was clean. Nothing had ever been intentionally designed.

The sign said LOBO’S FUEL + BAIT. The O in “LOBO” flickered like it was begging for release.

The sun was vicious. Not aggressive. Just insistent. Like: “I don’t negotiate.” At least 105°F. Everything shimmered with that oily gleam, like the world itself was sweating through its skin.

“Gas and snacks, bro. You want anything?”

Tucker leapt out like a high-performance athlete on a mission. His muscles flexed under direct sunlight. That baby-blue tank now had sweat marks at the pits, stuck to his wide chest like it was proud to be there. His black shorts rode up when he stretched. His Adidas slides hit the hot asphalt like rubber dominance.

I stepped out slowly. Cautiously. The ground radiated heat that pierced my “light tread on Earth” shoes like cosmic irony.

The smell was a chemical cocktail: diesel, grass clippings, fishing bait, and old bacon.

And that’s when I saw her. A cow. Not a cartoon. Not a symbol. A real cow.

Standing alone, in the shade of a crooked tree out in the field. Thin. Sad. Eyes like she’d read Anna Karenina. She stared at me with calm that bordered on spiritual menace.

And something inside me… broke.

Flash memory: Lake cookout. Age seven. My dad still had hair. Flipping burgers in a crusty apron. Laughing. My mom saying meat was “okay” if it came from the right places. I believed them. I was happy.

Ding-ding — the door chime snapped me back. Tuck emerged with two bottles of Gatorade and two more jerky packs.

“Bro. You need protein.”

I laughed. Dry. But I didn’t say no.

I was sweaty. Hungry. My brain felt like toast left too long in an unplugged toaster.

I took the jerky. It was labeled plant-based turkey style — though “plant” clearly meant “chemically tortured soy” and “style” meant “we tried.”

“Not real meat, right?” I tested.

“Nah. Just enough to keep your body happy.”

He winked. The smile wasn’t flirty or patronizing. It was… in on it.

I tore the packet open. The smell hit me like a forgotten memory I didn’t know I wanted: smoky. Salty. Hot from the dashboard.

I took a bite.

And for the first time in a long time… I didn’t feel guilty.

I just felt.

Firm texture. Artificial flavor, sure — but something… primal. My tongue recognized it. My teeth chewed like they’d been waiting for this moment. My body? Approved, silently. Wholeheartedly.

At the gas pump Tuck watched me. Not judging. Just… waiting. Like he knew this would happen. Like he’d been waiting for me to get it.

“Told you. Slaps, huh?”

“Slaps,” I said, before I could think.

And then something weirder — I wanted to chew harder. To show him I could be simple. Practical. Focused.

I sat back in the passenger seat, loose. Head light. Chest warm. Took a sip of the Gatorade. Blue. Didn’t question the color.

I looked at the cow again. She was gone. Or maybe… she’d never been there.

Tuck turned the truck on. Let the air circulate. The radio returned on its own — more country.

But now? It didn’t bother me so much.

He looked at me. Just for a second. Then back to the road.

But I saw it. And that second felt louder than a thousand retweets.

⸻

The sun was punishing me.

Not metaphorically. Literally. The truck cabin felt like a greenhouse for overheated plastic and masculine ignorance. Even with the A/C blasting like it was auditioning for a climate denialist’s last stand, I was sweating under my organic cotton shirt like I’d just lied under oath at an environmental tribunal.

The road ahead was just mile after mile of sterile fields and apathetic sheds — like we were driving through a Monsanto-sponsored apocalypse.

Tuck — of course — seemed immune. One hand on the wheel, the other on a red whey shaker, which he shook every now and then like he was summoning some ancestral bro spirit. The sound of ice rattling was almost ritualistic.

“Chest day, huh?” He tossed the phrase into the air like it was something every mammal with sweat glands should just know.

I blinked. “What?”

“It’s chest day. Monday. Always is.” He shrugged, that dumb sunny smile still parked on his face. “You don’t lift?”

“I… no,” I replied. And for a second, just saying it made me feel weak. “I run. I do yoga. Bike rides. But lifting? Feels… primitive.”

He laughed. Low. Honest. Nonjudgmental. Which somehow made it worse.

“Primitive is stayin’ weak, bro. Survival’s primitive.”

My stomach twisted. And not just because of the jerky.

This was it. My moment. I had to say something. Something relevant. Something morally grounded.

“You realize that mindset is part of the problem, right? This obsession with strength. With looks. With ranking men by their bodies. That’s literally the core of toxic masculinity.”

Silence.

Not the respectful kind. The polite kind people use when they’ve already decided not to care.

He didn’t stop driving. Just glanced at me from the side, half-amused, half-unbothered.

“You ever split wood shirtless?”

“…What?”

“I mean it. You ever split wood shirtless, sun on your back, sweat in your eyes, bare hands on the axe?”

I blinked again. The A/C stopped working. At least, in my head it did.

“No,” I said. “Of course not.”

“Then maybe you don’t get it yet.”

I should’ve had a response. A good one. A counterstrike. A quote from Judith Butler. A statistic. A meme with context.

But my brain short-circuited. Too far from 5G. Too close to a glistening chest.

I thought of my dad.

That one time he tried to teach me how to set up a tent. Eighth-grade camping trip. I cried. He went quiet. The other boys laughed. I remember every second.

I swallowed hard.

“That doesn’t negate the structural effects of a patriarchal culture rooted in physical dominance,” I said, tripping over the words like I was sprinting on a treadmill that wasn’t on. “You’re just… confusing autonomy with domination.”

Tuck chuckled again. Lower this time. Almost… kind.

“Nah, bro. I’m just sayin’… sometimes it feels good to be strong. Real strong.”

I hated him for that. For believing it so easily. For being so simple. So… whole.

And also… Because for one second, he sounded right.

I closed my eyes.

Tried to summon anger. Tried to remember why I was here. Why I was who I was.

Nothing came.

And the song on the radio changed. Something with “Dirt” and “Anthem” in the lyrics.

I didn’t complain. Not because I was tired.

But because…

I didn’t want him to look at me like that again. Like he knew I was losing.

And maybe… I was. ⸻

It was early afternoon when we stopped again. One of those nowhere-in-particular gas station breaks — part convenience store, part laundromat, part fast food joint that swore it’d been “serving real food since 1982.” The sky wasn’t setting, just simmering sideways. The light felt thick, almost greasy, like it had been churned out of a margarine factory.

Heat had been collecting inside the F-150 like a solar oven fueled by whey protein and evaporated testosterone.

Tuck turned off the engine with a satisfied sigh and looked at me like he was about to offer me a secret. Or a cult.

“Bro. You’re sweatin’ harder than a rookie on his first day of camp. That shirt’s gonna cook you alive.”

I forced a smile. My back was glued to the seat like wax paper on a hot skillet. I was still wearing a linen shirt — sustainable, ethical, breathable in theory… and currently a cloth prison.

Tuck leaned into the backseat, pulled out a white tank with deep armholes, and handed it to me like a sacred offering. Navy blue Greek letters stitched on the chest: βΓΦ. The fabric was still warm from the car.

“C’mon. Just ’til we get there.”

I hesitated. Of course I did. Changing shirts in front of him? Accepting this… flag? It felt too symbolic. Too risky. I could feel every sociocultural implication dripping from the cotton seams.

But it was also hot. Very hot.

“Brainwashing by osmosis?” I joked, trying to sound ironic.

He laughed, dropping his shake into the cupholder. “Nah, bro. Just savin’ you from heatstroke.”

That sounded… reasonable. Cynical, even. Almost scientific. And then, before I could second-guess it, I took off the shirt.

My hands were sweaty and shaky. The linen clung a little. I felt exposed, almost naked… but also lighter. The tank slid over my chest easy. Soft. Thin. Cool at first, then warm like skin.

I looked down.

It wasn’t even what I saw — it was what I thought I saw. My shoulders looked wider. Or maybe it was the cut of the tank. The trapezius line. The contrast between pale skin and clean white fabric.

“Nice fit, bro,” Tuck said, totally sincere.

I laughed, awkward. But deep down… I kinda liked it. Just a little.

We headed into the store. The floor was waxed but still dusty. Fluorescent lighting. Smelled like old bacon and citrus disinfectant. Tuck walked ahead with that gait that wasn’t quite arrogant, but definitely not humble. A stride that said I belong here, no matter the biome.

I followed. And realized no one looked at him like a threat. Or a joke. He was the baseline. The mold. Me, in a tank top, behind him… I went unseen.

In the drink cooler’s mirror, I caught my reflection. Really saw it.

Hair a little messy. Skin slightly tanned. Shoulders out. The tank clung a bit to my chest and for the first time, it felt… right.

It was a new image. But not a hostile one.

Random memories surged: old photos of my dad in the summer of ’97, chopping wood behind the cabin; a cousin teaching me how to swim shirtless in a lake full of algae and fear; an old Abercrombie ad I used to watch in secret, pretending it was for the scenery.

I shut the fridge door.

Grabbed a Gatorade. Blue.

Tuck was waiting at the register. When I got there, he glanced at me, then at the Gatorade, and just said:

“That’s the color, bro. That’s the mindset.”

I should’ve laughed. At him. At the line. At the whole situation. But I just nodded.

Not in agreement. But also… not in denial.

Back in the truck, I turned on the radio before he did. Country-pop. I didn’t even flinch.

The tank clung to my skin in a way that felt like a compliment.

Maybe it was just the heat. Or maybe… I was starting to like it.

Even if I still told myself I wasn’t.

⸻

The road had stretched so long it stopped being a path and became an idea. A fixed, burning horizon that breathed with the land. The F-150 cut through it like an armored capsule of normality, wrapped in the rumble of the engine and the lazy beat of country-pop from a speaker that buzzed in sync with my stomach.

I leaned back into the hot leather seat, feeling the sweat glue the frat tank to my ribs. The βΓΦ logo — still too fresh to belong to me — was on my chest. Strange. Familiar. Tuck drove with one hand, the other holding a giant Sonic cup he claimed had water and electrolytes but smelled faintly of synthetic grape and social dominance.

“You seem more chill now,” he said, flashing a smile that didn’t ask for anything.

I nodded. Talking felt like work. Everything seemed to ask for less… thinking.

“Can I tell you something?” he went on, glancing over, his blue eyes even paler through the windshield glare. “I know what you thought when you saw me at the airport. You think guys like me don’t know what guys like you think of us. But maybe this’ll help us get each other better.”

He was serious, and I was caught between surprise and panic. Either I was worse at hiding judgment than I thought, or Tucker was a hell of a lot sharper than I’d assumed. While I tried not to freak out, he kept talking like he hadn’t just nailed me to the seat — which I now seriously doubted.

“When I was a kid, my dad used to take me to church camps. You know, those lake retreats? Where we pitched tents and learned to chop wood and… be men or whatever.”

I rolled my eyes internally. But not outwardly. Not anymore.

“At first, I hated it,” he chuckled, scratching his neck. “But one night — one of those nights where the air feels like water — I was sittin’ by the fire, and this guy was talkin’ about how we’re born soft. Like clay. And if you don’t harden up, people step on you. I never forgot that.”

I didn’t say anything. But I didn’t disagree either.

Because in that moment, the image of “soft clay” made sense. Not ideologically, but physically. I felt soft. Not weak, exactly — just… shapable. Like the seat had molded my body, and Tuck’s words… my brain.

He kept going. Still in that low, steady, patient voice. Like he wasn’t trying to convince me — just reminding me of something I’d forgotten.

“My old man used to say the world’s not built to understand you. It’s built to test you. You either turn to concrete… or you evaporate. And bro—” he nodded toward the rearview, “the ones that turn to dust… they don’t make it far.”

I wanted to say something. Honestly. Something like “that’s toxic masculinity” or “that erases different experiences.” But the sentences felt too long. Intellectually accurate… but emotionally heavy. And honestly? I didn’t want to seem weak. Not there. Not with him looking at me like that.

He tossed his head back with a short, honest laugh. Just memory.

“One time at camp, we all made a vow. Every kid picked a rock from the river, wrote their biggest fear on it, and tossed it in the lake. I wrote: ‘being invisible.’ I was nine. That was it. Invisible.”

The word bounced around in my head. Invisible.

I remembered a summer at Lake Champlain. My parents off at an environmental justice seminar. Me with a flashlight and a Rachel Carson book, sitting in a cabin where no one knew my name.

And suddenly… it wasn’t his memory anymore. It was mine. Like that river rock had been mine too. Like the fear — being invisible — had always lived inside me and only now found its name.

“You ever felt that, bro?” Tuck asked. No pressure, no stare. Just letting it sit. “Like… nobody really sees you?”

I didn’t answer. But my chest tightened. My hands sweated. And something inside me… gave.

He turned off the main road. Dust rose, golden and hazy like dry fog. The radio now played something slow, a ballad about dads, sons, and lifting weights. Or something close enough.

Tuck looked again.

“What’re you carrying, bro?”

That question. I should’ve torn it apart. Mocked it. Analyzed it. But what was I carrying?

A degree plan that didn’t feel right anymore. An idealism that sounded more like… performance. A rage that had nowhere left to go. A body that didn’t look like mine in the mirror. And a voice in my head — the old one — growing quieter.

Maybe I mumbled something. Maybe “nothing” or “I don’t know.” Or maybe I just shook my head and let the silence bury it.

The sun was sinking now, stretching the shadows. I rested my forehead against the window, letting the glass remind me I still had a side that was sharp, aware, progressive. But even that thought… felt rehearsed. Like a podcast you play but stop absorbing.

And when Tuck handed me the last sip of his drink, I took it without thinking. It tasted sweet. Fake. Masculine. Like all of it.

Somewhere deep, a phrase surfaced. I didn’t know if it was mine or his:

“You just gotta let it in.”

And I did.

⸻

The sun was slamming straight into the truck’s dashboard. Ninety-five degrees easy. The AC was on, but I kept the window down anyway. I wanted to feel it. The wind, the heat, the smell of sweat and gasoline. Real stuff.

I was chillin’ in the passenger seat. White BROhaus tank already sticking to my traps. Fake silver chain bouncing on my chest. Cap backwards, brim slightly bent. Shake in hand. Cookies n’ cream flavor. Clean. Solid.

“Chest day vibes,” I muttered to myself, laughing low. Not even sure why. Just felt right.

Tuck was steering with one hand, his other arm resting on the window. His skin was sun-gold, tribal tattoo on his shoulder, white Under Armour cap turned just like mine. He looked like he owned the road. Literally.

“You know the BROhaus has churned out like, three senators, right?” he said, not even looking. “And the guy who founded that gym app that made a billion.”

I nodded. That was the kind of thing that mattered now. Legacy. Performance. Dominance. Strategy.

The music blasting was heavy. Bass hitting my stomach. Real EDM. None of that sad folk protest crap. This was mental preworkout.

Tuck pulled up a video. Two giga-jacked shirtless YouTubers pretending to debate gender identity.

“So like, this chair identifies as a f*cking chandelier, bro.”

His laugh hit like a clean bench rep. I laughed too. Hard. Chest shaking.

“Brooo,” I choked out between laughs. “Like… who even cares?”

“Real. No cap.”

The road sliced through dry farmland and shuttered diners. We rolled into a small truck-stop-looking town. Rusted sign read: “Raleigh Hill – Pop. 1,304.” The air smelled like meat, old oil, and something good on a grill.

We stopped at a highway restaurant — the kind that serves ribs slathered in barbecue sauce and fries like it’s a TikTok eating challenge.

I ordered the same as him. Ribs. Extra sauce. Ice-cold longneck beer sweating in my hand. I ate like it was the best deal of my life. Maybe it was.

As he wiped his hand on his shirt, he said:

“Being a clean athlete… still gotta make room for sacred moments, bro.”

We stepped outside and I pumped gas into the truck. Old, noisy pump. The sound of fuel hitting the tank was straight music to me now. I felt… useful.

Across the street, there was this little electric car. Quiet. Silver. Almost smug.

I stared for a second. Felt something weird. Like a thought was trying to bubble up. But nothing came. Just a tightness in my chest.

“You good, bro?” Tuck called from across the hood.

“That car pisses me off,” I blurted, without thinking.

“’Cause it looks like it’s for soft-ass dudes,” he said, laughing.

“Facts,” I replied, cracking up. Loud. The tension vanished. All of it.

Back on the road, Tuck played another video. Same dudes from before, now mocking pronoun corrections like teachers.

“They/them is literally plural, bro… pick a side!”

I smacked the dash, laughing. No filter.

“Next time someone calls me ‘they,’ I’m leg pressing ‘em.”

“BROOOO,” Tuck hollered, hitting the wheel. “You’re so ready for BROhaus.”

I looked in the mirror. My sunglasses were resting on my head. My eyes were red from the sun, but lit up. Sharp. No doubt.

The town appeared up ahead. Low buildings. A welcome banner. Freshmen dragging suitcases around, clueless and lost. Worried ‘bout tomorrow.

But I wasn’t a freshman. And tomorrow… tomorrow was chest day.

⸻

Late afternoon. Orange sky, like citrus-flavored preworkout spiked with beta-alanine. The sun hit the red brick of the house hard. Everything looked like a dope motivational video shot.

The BROhaus flag flapped at the top of the porch like it knew I was coming home. White columns. Perfect shade for a post-arm-day pump.

I hopped out of the truck, the ground hot under my Nike slides. My tall white socks were clean, tight. The fake silver chain swung low on my chest as I jumped from the cab. My abs peeked through the tank. I was already laughing, even before remembering why.

“Tuck, where’s my dorm again?” I asked, scratching my neck.

He looked at me with that usual face. Like: Bro, really?

“Bro… it’s right there. You’ve been my roommate for two years, dumbass.”

“Ohhh. Right.” I smiled, laughing like it was an old inside joke.

“How the hell are you even in college, Bro?”

“Charisma, connections, and this right here.”

I hit a biceps pose. The vein was poppin’, thanks to yesterday’s lift.

Across the street, some freshmen were trying to tape up flyers. Recycled paper, rainbow markers, slogans about climate justice. One of them wore Crocs. The other had an AOC glitter tee.

Didn’t think twice.

I shouted: “YO! TAPE’S NOT RECYCLABLE, DUMBASSES!”

They looked over. One blushed. The other tried to keep taping. The paper fell. Tuck started cracking up. So did I. From the gut. Loose. Real.

I nudged Tuck’s shoulder, grinning:

“Climate change ain’t gonna build delts.”

He just said: “Facts, bro.”

We walked into the BROhaus. Doors wide open. Warm light. Smelled like whey and men’s deodorant. Just like the future.

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malestransforming · 1 month ago

Text

Himbo Dreams

Nick was trying to get some sleep. He had been lying on his bed, clad only in briefs, focusing on the spinning ceiling fan as if trying to lull himself into deep slumber. Nick thought he would finally join a club, go to parties, maybe even fool around with some boys. But college was just lecture after lecture, his overactive imagination already stressing about tomorrow's seminar. Goddamn. He needed to calm his mind, trying to focus on something else - that is, hot jocks.

Tall, beefy, muscular men had popped up in his brain like fleeting mirages. Somehow, Nick had ended up in a college that was a giant in every sport imaginable. From sun-kissed boys in the swimming club, to the brawny brutes of the football club. Of course, he could only watch, not do. Next to the pinnacles of fitness, Nick was just a regular unassuming guy. In a campus full of jocks he was short at 5'5", and though he worked out on occasion, his body didn't show anything impressive. The only interactions he got were accidental shoves from people walking past.

Still, an occasional glance at the hunks in his class or at the soccer team out the window helped get him through the day. He noted how each of the sport teams had their own sexy characteristics:

Down by the pool, the swimmers were lean and tanned to perfection, dripping water highlighted the grooves of their abs, carving straight to their cum gutters; brought out perfectly by tight speedos that left little to the imagination, showing off juicy curves and asses.

Full of testosterone and ego, the quarterbacks were huge. Larger than life in body and demeanor, always rowdy and loud in the field. Drawing attention with their boulder shoulders, accentuated by their shoulder pads; and tight pants that showed their meaty behinds. Unlike the smooth shaven boys in the water, the footballers were hairy and musky, pits and pubes full of sweat that could drive you crazy.

The soccer team were the complete definition of hunks, they loved to strip down on the field, showing their carved torsos in glory; the basketball players were tall and packing heat, black shorts only highlighted their lengthy members, and their stamina on the court wasn't just for show according to some rumors.

Nick could go on and on about every fantasy in his mind, hoping one of the jocks would magically ask him out, allowing him to feel up their bodies. Or even better, if he could be them. To be that muscular and commanding jock, sauntering into a room bulge first, popping his pecs in class, having a flex off with his like-minded bros. Although it was just a pipedream, it permeated his mind over and over, usually ending with him grumbling to himself and sighing deeply.

Out of all the stereotypical jocks, there was one he loved the most, the perfect combination appearing in every sport, and the final hot image in his brain - a frat bro.

Dumb, muscular, horny, hung, himbos, every descriptor activated the right neuron in his brain. These words were on constant repeat in Nick's mind, remembering them as he drifted into horny dreams, carrying those words with a wish. But tonight, someone heard it. And soon enough, static and fuzz crept into Nick's brain, compelling him into deep sleep.

Something whispered from the dark. Granted.

A small hum of energy blew in the air, as the bed began to creak, not from Nick's tossing and turning but from an increase of weight. With a sudden pop, his legs started to rapidly stretch, causing them to hang off the bed. His torso and limbs followed along, elongating in a deep stretch and pop that elicited a groan from the sleeping Nick.

Tall. Basketball player height.

5'5" became 6" that further lengthened into 6'4", leaving him as tall as most of the basketball team. Damn, he might have to duck under some doorways every now and then. The stretch continued, perfectly proportioning his limbs, as his neck and arms grew to fit. Meanwhile, a surge of energy focused on turning his average feet and hands into gargantuan monsters. His size 7 feet became meaty size 16s, toes becoming wider; they would make an audible stomp everywhere he went now, along with an unmistakable sweaty imprint. He remembered his bros complaining about the loud stomping in the frat house. Heh. He couldn't help it, they were just marks of a man. His fingers followed, popping longer and thicker to become meaty digits. They were better suited for gripping dumbbells and protein shakes, rather than any pens or keyboards for class. Not like he used them often. English and Arts? Nah, he was only there for sports, Athletic Science or some shit, with grades at the bare minimum.

Hunk. Toned Soccer Player. Nick's body began to lean out, the frustrating belly fat that had stayed through countless 15 minute core workouts dissolved into rock hard abs. Each individual ab popped into a perfect six-pack, carving and embedding themselves into his core. His waist cinched tight as his cum gutters became visible, allowing any drops of sweat to slide and accentuate his toned and tiny waist.

But it didn't stop there. Muscular. Football team large. A warmth spread up from his feet, which made his calves swell into massive diamond shapes. His thighs piled on muscle after muscle, causing his legs to spread apart, threatening to spill off the bed. A mixture of pain and pleasure washed over Nick. Memories of brutal leg presses and squats injected themselves straight into the fibers of his massive columns. After all, bros never skipped leg day, that was how they got their signature lumbering walk. His once average ass - not wanting to lose the fight - fattened into massive globes that lifted him higher into the air, soaking his sheets with sweat. Nick’s upgraded bubble butt was huge and round, each cheek constantly bouncy and jiggly, especially when riding his frat bros. In response, Nick started gyrating on the bed as new memories flowed into him -nights of being fucked and used - the sensation sending tingles down his spine, as his hole tightened to be used for maximum pleasure. Nick's audible groans became louder as the energy surged through his chest, ballooning into mounds of firm pecs that would show through any shirt he tried on. They swelled out into hefty milkers, his nipples stretching just a little wider, big enough for his bros to play with. His shoulders followed, doubling in width as they grew along with his broad back, connecting with his traps. Giving him that strong structured look. Biceps and triceps exploded with muscle, defined by a juicy vein that ran up from his steel forearms. When flexed, they would tear sleeves to their breaking point, but it didn't matter, his wardrobe was stock full with singlets and tank tops, just like any other bro.

Smooth and hairy in all the right places.

A tingle swept over his entire body, as his old pitiful wisps of leg hair fell out and disappeared into the ether, giving him smooth and soft skin. Instead, all the hair went into his pits and pubes, fluffing them up into musk-filled bushes, hairy and dark. They would peek out in his singlets and jockstraps, enticing everyone to sniff or lick. His hair grew to a messy mop that would be paired with beanies and baseball caps. Dumb and Handsome. With a crack, Nick's face began to rearrange to model status, making him attractive while permanently affixing him with a dopey grin. His nose thickened to breathe in more musk from bushy armpits, sometimes even his own. His lips fattened; sloppy and wet for passionate kisses or blowjobs for his bros. Panting like a dog, his tongue lolled out, wide and long, a pleasure tool on its own. Eyes became clear, removing any need for glasses but also becoming vacant, an open window to the constant horniness and empty thoughts in his head. And the final pop of his enlarged Adam's apple gave him that stereotypical bro cadence. His deep and dull voice had two purposes, dumb moans in the bed and rough grunts in the gym. Hung like a horse. Heavy bull nuts. Groans and pants filled the air with heavy breaths as the warmth spread to his most sensitive area. His cock and balls. Nick's average 5 incher rose to a sizable 9 inches, barely fitting into his white briefs, its uncut head leaking pre everywhere, almost turning the fabric translucent. Still, it kept growing. 10 inches... 11 inches... Harder, thicker, longer, into a fat meaty pole that shot out of his briefs with a satisfying pop, landing with a wet smack on his abs. Now uncontained, his 12 inch monster cock was a weapon of its own, when not being bred, Nick ravaged the bedroom with his footlong size. Thick veins ran up his erect dick, overflowing with cum from his pumped up nuts. His balls had swelled along with his hefty member, dropping from regular to swinging, heavy, animal nuts. Finding underwear would be impossible for the new himbo, remembering his package bursting through buttons and briefs in the past. Luckily, jockstraps could barely contain the beast, and the tight fabric behind settled perfectly in between his cheeks, pulled taut to tease his hole throughout the day. His balls were now cum factories, capable of going endlessly in a night, churning to the brim with frat bro seed. With one final swell and thrust, Nick erupted in a loud grunt, tensing his entire body as his cock quivered with pressure, balls tightening for release. A force in the air blew, and with the gentle gust of wind caressing his cock, he exploded with mind-breaking pleasure. Spurts of cum flew out, almost reaching the ceiling, as Nick bucked his hips in mindless pleasure. Each load caused deep and heavy moans to reverberate on his bedroom walls, his thick and smelly cum landing on every surface. He continued his musky assault on his surroundings, bucking his cock in the air like fucking an invisible hole. After painting the room white in cum, and staining the air with sweat, Nick let out a rich sigh, his sleeping face dumb and exhausted. His wet dreams were fulfilled. In a sudden, it whispered. Wake up.

Nick groaned, his body was on fire. Maybe he shouldn't have pushed himself so hard at yesterday's full body workout, but he knew the pump was well worth it. He stared blankly at the empty ceiling, strange, he could have sworn he had a fan up there. Maybe that's why he was so goddamn sweaty. Nick pulled himself out of bed, making a goofy grin at his still hard cock, twitching and ready for countless rounds. His sheets were always stained with a mixture of sweat and cum, making the room reek with musk. Last night must have been super wild, he'd always get extra wet dreams if he didn't jerk off before bed, but fuck there was even cum on the floor today, though he was unable to remember what the dream was. It didn't matter though, all it took was a second for his doubt to fade away. He'd clean up the mess later, or ask a bro to do it. Heavy footsteps paved their way to the shower, an audible signal of the dumb himbo. His horsecock dripped precum all over the floor, making a light slapping sound against his thunderous thighs. After a quick rinse to get rid of the excess sweat and cum, Nick stared hungrily at his own reflection. His towel draped at just the right angle to reveal his shredded torso and give a peek of his gorgeous v-line.

Fuck, he was hot. His model face and beefy body greeted him in the morning, along with his throbbing monster cock. Nghhh. He groaned, bull balls slapping against the white sink, he almost fucked the countertop in desperation. However, it stopped him, giving three basic words that completed his transformation. Lift. Eat. Fuck. Freshly imprinted into his brain, Nick let out a long guttural moan as the command settled into his every cell. "Huhuhu." A dumb laugh followed, and like a robot, Nick was steered by the hypnotizing call. Fuck it, he would go commando today, He threw on a white tank top and black sweatpants, ones that hugged his body tight for everyone's viewing pleasure; making sure to add a gray beanie and a chain necklace that screamed douchey bro to the world. Taking a quick snap in the elevator, the new Nick cemented himself as a forever dumb, muscular himbo. With another wish granted, it murmured. Good Himbo.

*you've made it to the end! finally wrote a tf story after lurking for so long, gotta start with one of my favorite tropes, the himboooo. but wait! who was that mysterious force? maybe we'll find out one day ^^, or you could find out if you magically wake up as a himbo ;)*

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malestransforming · 1 month ago

Text

In His Skin

Dylan had seen the profile dozens of times on Grindr. The username was simple—SkinJob—but the pictures were anything but. Shots of a lean, athletic guy flexing shirtless were interspersed with strange, thrilling uploads: a hyper-realistic latex face held in one hand, a photo of someone wearing a gray-haired “dad” mask with visible sweat on the neck seal, and one image of a rugged construction worker in full gear—mask, bodysuit, and a teasing bulge in well-worn jeans. The caption simply read: "Not real until it’s zipped tight."

Dylan’s heart had pounded every time he opened that profile. He’d always been curious—fantasies that veered into identity play, full-body transformations, and the thrill of becoming someone else. But this was the first time he ever matched with someone who could actually make it real.

What had made Dylan finally message wasn’t the fantasy shots. It was the last photo.

Just Ryan.

Unmasked, unfiltered. A guy in his late twenties, modestly handsome, clean-cut with a bit of scruff and kind eyes. His jawline wasn’t razor-sharp, and he had a faint scar above one brow, like he’d taken a skateboard to the face once. It was the kind of face you’d trust to hold the door open or teach you how to fix a tire. And that made it hotter—because this guy didn’t need masks.

He just wanted them.

They’d chatted for days, flirting, trading fantasies. Ryan confessed that he loved transformation not because he hated his looks, but because of the power it gave him—to become someone cocky, mean, sleazy, or massive. “It’s like cosplay,” he’d said once. “But with fucking.”

Dylan had never tried it. He’d watched videos, seen transformation forums, jerked off to GIFs of guys pulling on masks or zipping into muscle suits—but it always felt like something other people got to do. Guys with the gear. Guys who belonged.

But tonight, it was happening.

When Ryan opened the door that night, he looked exactly like his selfie—barefoot in jeans and a soft black tee, hair still damp from a shower.

“You made it,” he said.

Dylan nodded, nervous. “You sure this is okay?”

Ryan stepped aside. “You’re in the right place.”

The house was normal. Lived-in. Cozy. A candle burned in the corner, and a worn couch sat beneath a shelf of movie collectibles. It was not what Dylan expected from a guy who turned into fake frat boys and pervy cops on weekends.

Ryan led him down a short hallway and into the bedroom.

“The mask room’s in here,” he said, opening a sliding door.

It was a walk-in closet. About the size of a small bedroom. Warm light glowed from a track fixture overhead. The walls were lined with wooden shelves and hanging rods. On one side: silicone bodysuits hanging like expensive outerwear, each one slick, muscular, and slightly glossy. On the other: mannequin heads wearing masks—rows of faces with subtle labels written on the wooden shelf beneath.

COACH RYAN FRAT CHAD DAD GARY BUZZ CHASE RICO STEPBRO TROY

Clothing sat folded on shelves or hanging nearby—outfits curated for each identity. Letterman jackets, cheap tank tops, stained gas station uniforms, tight jeans, baseball caps, fake jewelry. It was part wardrobe, part fantasy arsenal.

Dylan stepped inside, jaw slack.

“You okay?” Ryan asked, watching him.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” Dylan breathed.

Ryan smiled. “Then take your time. Try one.”

Dylan stepped toward the masks and reached for DAD GARY—a weathered face with a thick neck and receding hairline. The silicone was soft and warm from the room. He held it up, stared into its empty eyes, and then looked over at Ryan.

“Can I…?”

Ryan nodded. “Go for it.”

Dylan raised the mask slowly, his heart pounding as he opened it with both hands and stretched it wide. He leaned his head forward, slipping it inside. The silicone clung to him instantly, snug and form-fitting, pulling into place as he worked it down over his face and jaw.

It was surreal.

He turned to the mirror mounted on the closet door—and laughed.

The guy staring back at him looked like he drove a beat-up pickup, mowed his lawn shirtless, and made dad jokes while pounding beers. His lips curled slightly with each breath. He raised a hand, touched his cheek, and marveled at the weight, the realism, the feel.

“I look like I should be watching cable news and farting in a recliner,” Dylan joked.

“Not bad for your first mask,” Ryan said, grinning. “You wear it well.”

Dylan peeled it off carefully, still a little stunned.

“That’s just a taste,” Ryan said, walking toward one of the bodysuits hanging beside the masks. “But I think you’re ready for the real deal now.”

He reached up and grabbed the one labeled CHASE—tan, ripped, and built for showing off. He laid it out neatly across a thick towel on the floor and grabbed a bottle from the drawer.

“Here,” Ryan said, handing Dylan the lube. “Arms, chest, legs—everywhere you want the suit to slide.”

Dylan stripped, his skin still slightly warm from the first transformation. He rubbed the lube over his arms and shoulders, then down his torso, thighs, and calves, his breath catching as his slick hands moved over his body.

Ryan knelt beside the bodysuit and began turning it inside-out, slowly and methodically, until just the feet and ankles remained right-side out.

“Step in,” he said, holding it open.

Dylan placed one foot in, then the other, the silicone cold and pliable around his toes and heels. Slowly, he began working it up—his calves disappearing into thick, sculpted ones; his thighs bulking up into muscular proportions. It was a struggle, the silicone gripping and resisting, but Ryan helped him inch it higher.

When the suit reached his hips, Dylan let out a shaky breath. “Fuck. I feel huge.”

“Wait until it’s all the way on,” Ryan said, voice low and charged.

They worked together to pull it over Dylan’s torso, inch by inch. The chest compressed his own, fake pecs sitting heavy and proud, abs defined and hard. Dylan slipped his arms in last, feeling the biceps stretch tight, the shoulders lock in.

The suit hugged every inch of him.

He stood in front of the mirror again and blinked.

“Holy shit,” Dylan said. “This is…”

“Perfect,” Ryan said, holding out the final piece—Chase.

Dylan took the Chase mask with reverence and brought it to his face.

No hesitation.

He stretched it wide and pulled it down over his head. The silicone gripped tight, hugging his skull, settling into place with a quiet, skin-on-skin suction as the jaw aligned and the lips shaped themselves around his own. His face disappeared into Chase’s smug, sculpted one.

But he wasn’t done.

“Hold still,” Ryan murmured, stepping in close.

He carefully lifted the bib portion of the mask—thin and textured like real skin—and worked it beneath the bodysuit’s high, unforgiving neckline. It took precision, and firm hands. Ryan slid his fingers under the tight silicone chest, smoothing the bib flat across Dylan��s upper chest and shoulders, ensuring no edges would show.

The seal was flawless.

“Now you’re looking like a whole new man,” Ryan said, stepping back to admire him.

But the transformation wasn’t complete until Chase got dressed.

Ryan moved to the shelf and started handing over clothes, each item curated specifically for the persona.

First, a black compression tank. It clung tightly over the sculpted pecs, outlining every curve of the silicone muscles.

Then, a slightly oversized zip-up hoodie—faded, gray, with a frayed hem and a worn college logo on the back. Ryan didn’t zip it up all the way, leaving it open enough to show off the tight tank and the upper swell of Chase’s fake chest.

Next came the jeans. Ripped at the knees, soft from wear, perfectly broken in. Ryan helped guide them up over the thick silicone thighs and worked the waistband low, letting it sit lazily on Chase’s hips like he was too cocky—or too horny—to care.

Accessories came next. A slim gold chain. A silver dog tag. A braided leather bracelet. One ring on the index finger, chunky and loud. And finally, a small gold hoop for Chase’s ear—Ryan popped it in without asking, his fingers grazing the curve of the fake lobe.

Then came the final touch.

Shoes.

Ryan crouched down and held up a pair of worn white sneakers—well-used but still clean, with thick soles and a little scuff on one toe. He knelt and helped Dylan—Chase—step into them.

No socks.

“You don’t wear socks,” Ryan muttered as he tugged the tongue into place. “You don’t care if you smell. You know it turns people on.”

Chase let out a low, involuntary groan.

Ryan stood, grabbing a small bottle from the shelf and giving it a shake. “And Chase always smells like this.”

He sprayed once in the air, then twice directly onto Chase’s chest and hoodie. The scent hit hard—cheap cologne, all sex and swagger. Wood, sweat, spice. It smelled like gym locker rooms, back seats, and bad decisions.

Dylan’s brain swam.

It wasn’t just a suit anymore. It was a persona.

He flexed in the mirror. Tilted his head. Bit his lip. He didn’t just look like Chase now—he moved like him. Thought like him. That smug, lazy heat was crawling into his bloodstream.

He turned to Ryan, eyes heavy-lidded, cock swelling inside the suit.

“Fuck,” Chase said. “I feel like I should be blowing bubbles with gum and asking if you wanna see the cum gutters.”

Ryan laughed low. “You’re ready.”

Then he turned back to the rack and reached for his own persona—the one labeled BUZZ.

Chase stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his hoodie, admiring the way his pecs stretched the tank top beneath. He bounced slightly on his heels, feeling the weight of his new body settle with every move. It wasn’t just hot—it was fucking addictive.

Behind him, Ryan—still barefoot, still himself—was unhooking a bodysuit labeled BUZZ from a wooden hanger.

Buzz was a whole different vibe.

Where Chase was sleek, tanned, and built for thirst traps, Buzz looked like the guy who fixed your brakes, flirted with your boyfriend, and made you like it. The bodysuit was thicker, hairier, with tattoos molded into the skin—ink across the forearms, a half-finished tribal pattern stretching over the left pec, a faded eagle stamped on the shoulder. The belly was soft but solid, like a man who lifted heavy things but didn’t skip beer.

Ryan laid the suit out over a towel and reached into the cabinet for lube.

Chase—Dylan, somewhere deep inside—watched with hungry fascination as Ryan stripped off his shirt, then his jeans. He was lean and pale in comparison to the bodysuit in front of him, but there was nothing uncertain in his movements.

This wasn’t new for him. This was ritual.

Ryan poured the lube into his hands, slicking his thighs, chest, and arms without a word. He coated the inside of the suit next, working it open, methodically turning it inside out to the ankles—just like he’d done for Dylan.

Then he stepped in.

Buzz’s feet swallowed Ryan’s. His calves thickened. His thighs expanded. He grunted as he pulled the suit up over his lubed hips, the silicone gripping him like a second skin. The molded belly pressed firm against his own, the chest stretching tight over his torso, tattoos curling naturally with his motion.

By the time Ryan got his arms into the suit, he was halfway gone.

Buzz’s arms were thick, veined, a bit sun-worn. Ryan flexed them as the biceps inflated around his real ones, the ink gleaming under the light. He adjusted the shoulders, smoothing the seams, and rotated his neck with a crack.

Then, without a word, he reached for the mask.

Buzz’s face was stubbled, rough, and square-jawed, with small wrinkles at the corners of the eyes and a faint scar cutting through one brow. The silicone glistened slightly as Ryan spread it open and pulled it over his head.

No lube. No hesitation.

The mask sealed tight around his jaw, molding down over his face as he tugged it firmly into place. The expression was set in a perpetual half-scowl, the lips slightly parted like he was ready to say something cocky or filthy at any second.

Chase watched, wide-eyed, as Ryan—now Buzz—pressed the bib down into the neckline. The stretch was tight, but he was practiced. His fingers slipped beneath the thick collar of the bodysuit, tucking and smoothing until the neck transition was flawless.

Buzz stood up, breathing slow and deep. He cracked his neck again—louder this time. Then he turned to a worn duffel bag sitting at the foot of the bed.

Out came the clothes.

First: a greasy white tank top. It clung to the round gut and stretched tight over the chest, stained faintly yellow under the arms like it had seen real work. Buzz tugged it down and let it ride high over his waist.

Next: a pair of faded denim work jeans, scuffed and creased from use. He hopped into them, pulled them snug over the thick silicone legs, and buttoned them low under his stomach. A leather belt cinched it all together—one of those cracked old ones with a heavy steel buckle.

Then came the boots.

Worn brown work boots. Untied, tongues flared out, soles heavy enough to make the floor thump when he walked. He stepped into them without socks and stomped twice like he was making a point.

Buzz pulled on a dirty flannel, sleeves rolled up just past the elbows, then added a beat-up trucker cap with a faded beer logo. He grabbed a small case from the dresser, popped it open, and pulled out the final detail:

A gold tooth cap.

He leaned into the mirror, parted his lips, and clicked it into place over one of his molars.

Now he was complete.

Buzz turned, scratched his belly through the tank, and gave Chase a look that was equal parts filthy and possessive.

“You look like a fuckin’ candy bar,” he growled, voice gravelly and low. “All wrapped up and ready to melt.”

Chase swallowed. “Jesus.”

Buzz walked forward, slow and heavy, until they were chest to chest—Chase’s sculpted gym-bro build pressing against Buzz’s thicker, sweatier bulk. He ran a calloused thumb down the center of Chase’s fake abs, stopping just above the waistband.

“Still feel like a good boy under there?” Buzz murmured.

“I… I don’t know.”

“Don’t worry,” Buzz said, pressing him back toward the bed. “I’m real good at takin’ that outta people.”

Buzz stepped in close, practically chest to chest with Chase, his breath hot and heavy against the silicone skin. His gloved hand slid down the front of Chase’s hoodie, fingers trailing along the stretch of the tank beneath. But instead of groping, or pinning him to the bed like Chase expected, Buzz did something far more alarming.

He grabbed the hoodie zipper and tugged it all the way up.

“Wha—what are you doing?” Chase asked, his voice slipping just slightly from confident jock to confused Dylan.

Buzz smirked, his gold tooth flashing. “We’re goin’ for a walk.”

Chase blinked. “Wait… outside?”

Buzz grabbed a beat-up denim jacket off a hook by the closet and tossed it on over his flannel like it was nothing. “You gotta break that skin in, pretty boy. Let the world see what you are now.”

“No way. No fucking way,” Chase said, backing up a step. “I can’t—what if someone sees us?”

“They will,” Buzz said, buckling his belt tighter. “That’s the fuckin’ point.”

“But—” Chase tried, his confidence cracking. “I’m not ready for that.”

Buzz stepped in fast and gripped Chase’s jaw, not rough—but firm. Dominant. The smirk never left his face.

“You were ready the second that mask sealed on, jockboy. Don’t tell me you put all this on just to jerk off in front of a mirror.”

Chase’s breath caught.

Buzz leaned in closer, voice dropping. “You think that cocky grin on your face is for you? That tight fuckable body? The gold chain, the dog tag, the fuckin’ cologne? You’re made to be seen.”

Chase’s cock twitched inside the suit.

Buzz reached into a basket by the door and pulled out a pair of mirrored sunglasses—classic aviators. He slipped them over Chase’s face, adjusting them gently over the brow of the mask.

“There,” Buzz said. “Now you look like a hot piece of dumb meat who doesn’t think twice about anything.”

Chase looked in the mirror again and… fuck. He did look like someone who belonged outside. Not Dylan. Not even a guy wearing a mask. He looked like Chase—a real, cocky, swaggering asshole who strutted his way into people’s bedrooms without ever saying please.

Buzz grabbed the front of Chase’s hoodie and gave it a tug. “Let’s go.”

Chase hesitated, frozen in place, heart thundering beneath fake pecs. Then he felt Buzz’s hand slide into his back pocket—possessive, rough—and give his ass a firm squeeze.

“If you walk next to me, they’ll just think you’re my dumb little sidekick,” Buzz growled. “But if you stay here? You’re just a fantasy too scared to get off the fuckin’ shelf.”

Chase exhaled sharply through his nose.

Then he nodded.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Let’s fucking go.”

Buzz chuckled and opened the front door.

The air outside was warm, humid—classic summer night in the neighborhood. Streetlights buzzed overhead. A couple houses had their porch lights on. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.

Buzz walked like he owned the pavement. Heavy boots thumping with each step. Chase fell in beside him, trying to match the swagger, but still glancing nervously around.

“Stop lookin’ scared,” Buzz muttered. “You’re hot as fuck. They’re not gonna recognize a damn thing. They’re just gonna want to stare.”

They passed a house with a couple people sitting on the porch. One guy looked up, paused mid-drink.

Chase kept walking.

The guy nudged his friend. “Dude, look at that fuckin’ gym bro,” he whispered.

Chase nearly tripped.

Buzz didn’t even flinch. Just grinned wider.

They turned a corner, streetlights casting shadows across Buzz’s thick silhouette and Chase’s lean frame. Every step made Chase feel less like Dylan, more like the arrogant fuckboy he was dressed as. The scent of that cologne followed them like a warning.

“Feel it yet?” Buzz asked, not even looking at him.

“Feel what?”

“That charge. You’re wearing a body. A face. A story. And people are eatin’ it up.”

Chase swallowed. “Yeah,” he said. Then louder: “Yeah. I think I am.”

Buzz stopped walking and turned to face him. Reached out and grabbed Chase by the chain hanging around his neck.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect, jockboy,” he growled, pulling him close. “When we get back, I’m gonna ruin you in that suit.”

And Chase?

He didn’t argue this time.

He licked his lips, smirked, and said, “Better make it count, Daddy.”

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malestransforming · 2 months ago

Text

In Bloom

(4K Post!!🎉)

Late again, AS USUAL, but that’s my brand ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Here’s the one I mentioned a while ago (+ in my last post) that didn’t really start out as but definitely ended up as a sort of Superfood (I & II) prequel. Lmk if you catch when the connection is made 😉 Thank you SO MUCH again for 4k followers!! Hope you enjoy!

———

“What the hell is this place?”

Lance wiped his brow on the loose arm of his flannel and looked around as Samuel followed along closely behind him, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the tail of his button down, exposing his pale skin and the slight paunch all non-athletic twinks eventually grow around their midsection. They had stumbled across a structure in the middle of the woods on the second day of their weeklong hike through a small section of the Appalachian Trail.

The Appalachian Mountains are perhaps the most ancient mountain range in the world; there’s no way to describe how beautiful the nature is, but there’s also no way to describe the unknown, unseen, forbidden things you’re likely to come across buried deep, deep in the woods and sloping, rocky terrain. Places that existed long before the Europeans began their terrible sweep across the continent. Places that existed before any kind of settlement, really. Places that existed even before recorded history. Places, perhaps, like the one the two friends had just stumbled across.

After traveling through a ruined hall and navigating through some overgrown flora, they came into a large, 4-walled room, devoid of a roof and carpeted with moss and other greenery. It’s walls were too sheer and too tall to be naturally formed, and there were glyphs and symbols painted on its surface.

“Far-fucking-ooouuutt,” Samuel marveled, looking around and taking in the natural and unnatural beauty around them. He puffed a heavy hit of one of the spliffs he and Lance were nearly done sharing and passed it back to his friend, taking a few steps further into the structure.

Lance pinched the end of the filter and dragged in what was left of the bud and tossed it to the ground, stepping on it to extinguish the ember, following his friend further into the structure. The roof was missing, letting in a picturesque smattering of sun rays filtered through the light tree canopy overhead.

One word passed through Lance’s mind: idyllic. And it was! He was glad to get out of the city and into nature, he was coasting pretty splendidly on the high he was cooking, and there was a peaceful reverence in the air he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Not to mention, he was enormously happy to be spending time with someone some dear to him.

Both of them were pretty fresh out of college, both stuck at a job they didn’t much care for that didn’t at all pay them enough to live even moderately comfortable lives. In the impoverished hellscape of rural Appalachia, it was leisure activities like hiking, camping, singing, shooting, fishing, playing instruments that gave life any worth living, and Lance and Samuel were committed to such leisure. If only to escape the ennui of unhappy, unfulfilling employment.

He heard Samuel’s foot slip and turned around to catch a glimpse of his friend mid-stumble, but Samuel regained his balance and corrected himself before falling. He flashed a goofy smile and a thumbs up at Lance, who grinned and rolled his eyes, turning back around to continue his own exploring and studying the symbols on the walls.

He’d known Samuel since they were boys; they’d grown up on the same block and played the same games and shared the same interests. As both of them were the only-children of their respective families, each other was the closest thing either of them would have to a brother. Yeah, Lance loved Samuel in his own way, perhaps even more than loved. Samuel could say the same, but it was an unspoken thing between each other. Their church-going, conservative families were likely to be unsupportive and react strongly. Plus, why complicate a good thing with romance?

“Hey, check this out,” Samuel called from the center of the structure. Lance made his way over and saw what Samuel was looking at: an overgrown, chalk-adorned altar. In the middle of the chalk ring dotted with runes and glyphs sat a collection of little figures and shapes made of twigs and mud.

Lance leaned in to get a closer look at the ruined setup, trying unsuccessfully to decipher what could be written. What made him think he could read it in the first place? It’s not like he had even an iota of knowledge about the occult—if this even was occult in nature. He had to guess it had something to do with the typical ancient witchcraft techniques and their purposes. Guaranteeing a healthy harvest. Warding off evil. Offering to the gods. Inciting certain weather patterns. Fertility.

However, scattered around the circle were a collection of clay jars and bottles, some corked with stoppers and some the looked like they had been left open 100 years ago.

In the center of all of it was a large, glass jar, about as tall as a bankers tube and about as wide as one too. It looked to be a kind of mason jar, with the flat piece covering the opening and a top that was heavily sealed with wax. However, the jar was opaque, with what looked to be moss and mud lining its sides. He didn’t know whether it was because of the way the light was shining through the canopy or if it was a trick of the eye, but he could swear that there was something illuminated or glowing within, mostly obscured by debris inside.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Samuel quoted Alice in Wonderland, butchering a high-pitched English accent. He chuckled and propped himself up on his knees into an upright position. Lance picked up the large jar in the center and turned it around in his hands, inspecting it further.

“You think people still come here? Looks like this place hasn’t been touched in a millennium.” Samuel asked, looking around some more, half expecting to see some kind of booby trap set up that he and Lance could’ve triggered on their way in. The place had that kind of energy: a fascinating, ethereal otherworldliness mixed with a forbidden, foreboding sacredness. He felt somehow simultaneously honored and warily anxious to be inside the structure.

“Who knows?” Lance responded, still looking closely at the jar. “I’ve heard so many weird ass stories about what goes on in these mountains, it’s hard to say what’s verifiable and what’s not.”

“True, true,” Samuel responded absentmindedly, trying to match Lance’s bookishness. He always was the nerdier of the two.

Samuel began to turn around but suddenly lost his footing on a slope he hadn’t seen due to the floral overgrowth. “FFFfffuu—!!” He barked as his arms pinwheeled wildly trying to find footing. In the second and a half it took for him to lose his footing, Samuel crashed down into the underbrush at an awkward angle, landing on and twisting his ankle.

“ARRGGHH!! Fuck!” Samuel cried out, bringing his knee up to his chest and wrapping his hands around it, keeping his ankle hovering. Just from a half-second glance and the awkward angle of his limb, Lance could see that it must’ve hurt Samuel to move his ankle at all.

“Sam—!!” Lance moved quickly to stand but dropped the jar from his hands, shattering on the ground. “Shit!” he hissed as he knelt to recover the damage. He quickly hunched over the shards and debris inside not a moment after it had shattered, trying to scoop the mess back together.

Suddenly, from the broken mess, a plume of pinkish-red, glowing, fuzzy orbs wafted into the air around Lance’s face. One word flashed through his mind with blinding, code-red alarm before he could even comprehend what was happening: SPORES. Before he could react, he gasped and inhaled nearly all of the spore cloud that had burst from the jar, while some others floated to the ground and dissipated into the soil.

Lance coughed and swatted the air in front of his face and wiping at his upper lip, attempting to brush away any of the remaining spores around his airspace, but all had drifted into his nasal passage. It smelled strong and earthy, botanical and perfumed, flowery and slightly musky. It smelled… actually, it smelled fuckin’ good.

He continued coughing a little bit, sniffling and breathing heavily, wiping his face obsessively. He didn’t feel ill or like he was being harmed, but it was as though something had lit a fuse to his senses. His nasal passage seemed to dilate extremely wide, his sinuses clearer than they had ever been and smelling scents he couldn’t remember smelling before. His entire body felt jittery, numb, and excited, like he’d pounded a massive Red Bull and full canister of pre-workout, noticeably trembling and shaking. His eyes had widened like dinner plates, and he looked around in delighted awe as his eyes caught the light in ways he’d never before experienced, not even during legendary weekend music fest drugged-out benders with Samuel and their mutual friends nearly every summer. The light mingled and danced in his vision and the colors seemed to swim and stand out more vividly.

Still on his hands and knees, the vibrating in Lance’s appendages started to intensify, and he dug his fingers into the soil while he was racked with tingling energy. While his fingers sank into the dirt, Lance felt something utterly unreal and completely extraordinary. It felt as though the tips of his fingers were.. drinking—probably the best way he could put it—from the earth. It was like his fingers had become straws sucking something from the earth and feeding it into his body. Looking down, with his mysteriously enhanced eyesight, this was confirmed as he watched throbbing, slow-moving, slightly-glowing pulses moving through his fingers, through the veins in his hands, up the veins in his arms, and into his chest. He could feel it spreading within him. He could feel it mingling with the rest of his anatomy. He could feel it fucking everywhere.

Lance took in a long, sharp, shuddering inhale with a wide grin plastered on his face. “¡¡Ayyyyyy benditooooo…!!” He groaned deeply as he arched his back and chuckled slightly. He could feel something monumental coming.

Samuel’s face was still contorted in abject pain and agony at his twisted limb, but he curiously noted Lance’s change in demeanor. He propped himself up on his elbows, still panting in pain, “Lance??”

Keep reading

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malestransforming · 2 months ago

Text

In His Skin

What had made Dylan finally message wasn’t the fantasy shots. It was the last photo.

Just Ryan.

He just wanted them.

But tonight, it was happening.

When Ryan opened the door that night, he looked exactly like his selfie—barefoot in jeans and a soft black tee, hair still damp from a shower.

“You made it,” he said.

Dylan nodded, nervous. “You sure this is okay?”

Ryan stepped aside. “You’re in the right place.”

Ryan led him down a short hallway and into the bedroom.

“The mask room’s in here,” he said, opening a sliding door.

COACH RYAN FRAT CHAD DAD GARY BUZZ CHASE RICO STEPBRO TROY

Dylan stepped inside, jaw slack.

“You okay?” Ryan asked, watching him.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” Dylan breathed.

Ryan smiled. “Then take your time. Try one.”

“Can I…?”

Ryan nodded. “Go for it.”

It was surreal.

He turned to the mirror mounted on the closet door—and laughed.

“I look like I should be watching cable news and farting in a recliner,” Dylan joked.

“Not bad for your first mask,” Ryan said, grinning. “You wear it well.”

Dylan peeled it off carefully, still a little stunned.

“That’s just a taste,” Ryan said, walking toward one of the bodysuits hanging beside the masks. “But I think you’re ready for the real deal now.”

He reached up and grabbed the one labeled CHASE—tan, ripped, and built for showing off. He laid it out neatly across a thick towel on the floor and grabbed a bottle from the drawer.

“Here,” Ryan said, handing Dylan the lube. “Arms, chest, legs—everywhere you want the suit to slide.”

Ryan knelt beside the bodysuit and began turning it inside-out, slowly and methodically, until just the feet and ankles remained right-side out.

“Step in,” he said, holding it open.

When the suit reached his hips, Dylan let out a shaky breath. “Fuck. I feel huge.”

“Wait until it’s all the way on,” Ryan said, voice low and charged.

The suit hugged every inch of him.

He stood in front of the mirror again and blinked.

“Holy shit,” Dylan said. “This is…”

“Perfect,” Ryan said, holding out the final piece—Chase.

Dylan took the Chase mask with reverence and brought it to his face.

No hesitation.

But he wasn’t done.

“Hold still,” Ryan murmured, stepping in close.

He carefully lifted the bib portion of the mask—thin and textured like real skin—and worked it beneath the bodysuit’s high, unforgiving neckline. It took precision, and firm hands. Ryan slid his fingers under the tight silicone chest, smoothing the bib flat across Dylan’s upper chest and shoulders, ensuring no edges would show.

The seal was flawless.

“Now you’re looking like a whole new man,” Ryan said, stepping back to admire him.

But the transformation wasn’t complete until Chase got dressed.

Ryan moved to the shelf and started handing over clothes, each item curated specifically for the persona.

First, a black compression tank. It clung tightly over the sculpted pecs, outlining every curve of the silicone muscles.

Then came the final touch.

Shoes.

Ryan crouched down and held up a pair of worn white sneakers—well-used but still clean, with thick soles and a little scuff on one toe. He knelt and helped Dylan—Chase—step into them.

No socks.

“You don’t wear socks,” Ryan muttered as he tugged the tongue into place. “You don’t care if you smell. You know it turns people on.”

Chase let out a low, involuntary groan.

Ryan stood, grabbing a small bottle from the shelf and giving it a shake. “And Chase always smells like this.”

Dylan’s brain swam.

It wasn’t just a suit anymore. It was a persona.

He flexed in the mirror. Tilted his head. Bit his lip. He didn’t just look like Chase now—he moved like him. Thought like him. That smug, lazy heat was crawling into his bloodstream.

He turned to Ryan, eyes heavy-lidded, cock swelling inside the suit.

“Fuck,” Chase said. “I feel like I should be blowing bubbles with gum and asking if you wanna see the cum gutters.”

Ryan laughed low. “You’re ready.”

Then he turned back to the rack and reached for his own persona—the one labeled BUZZ.

Behind him, Ryan—still barefoot, still himself—was unhooking a bodysuit labeled BUZZ from a wooden hanger.

Buzz was a whole different vibe.

Ryan laid the suit out over a towel and reached into the cabinet for lube.

This wasn’t new for him. This was ritual.

Then he stepped in.

By the time Ryan got his arms into the suit, he was halfway gone.

Then, without a word, he reached for the mask.

No lube. No hesitation.

Buzz stood up, breathing slow and deep. He cracked his neck again—louder this time. Then he turned to a worn duffel bag sitting at the foot of the bed.

Out came the clothes.

Then came the boots.

Worn brown work boots. Untied, tongues flared out, soles heavy enough to make the floor thump when he walked. He stepped into them without socks and stomped twice like he was making a point.

A gold tooth cap.

He leaned into the mirror, parted his lips, and clicked it into place over one of his molars.

Now he was complete.

Buzz turned, scratched his belly through the tank, and gave Chase a look that was equal parts filthy and possessive.

“You look like a fuckin’ candy bar,” he growled, voice gravelly and low. “All wrapped up and ready to melt.”

Chase swallowed. “Jesus.”

“Still feel like a good boy under there?” Buzz murmured.

“I… I don’t know.”

“Don’t worry,” Buzz said, pressing him back toward the bed. “I’m real good at takin’ that outta people.”

He grabbed the hoodie zipper and tugged it all the way up.

“Wha—what are you doing?” Chase asked, his voice slipping just slightly from confident jock to confused Dylan.

Buzz smirked, his gold tooth flashing. “We’re goin’ for a walk.”

Chase blinked. “Wait… outside?”

Buzz grabbed a beat-up denim jacket off a hook by the closet and tossed it on over his flannel like it was nothing. “You gotta break that skin in, pretty boy. Let the world see what you are now.”

“No way. No fucking way,” Chase said, backing up a step. “I can’t—what if someone sees us?”

“They will,” Buzz said, buckling his belt tighter. “That’s the fuckin’ point.”

“But—” Chase tried, his confidence cracking. “I’m not ready for that.”

Buzz stepped in fast and gripped Chase’s jaw, not rough—but firm. Dominant. The smirk never left his face.

“You were ready the second that mask sealed on, jockboy. Don’t tell me you put all this on just to jerk off in front of a mirror.”

Chase’s breath caught.

Buzz leaned in closer, voice dropping. “You think that cocky grin on your face is for you? That tight fuckable body? The gold chain, the dog tag, the fuckin’ cologne? You’re made to be seen.”

Chase’s cock twitched inside the suit.

Buzz reached into a basket by the door and pulled out a pair of mirrored sunglasses—classic aviators. He slipped them over Chase’s face, adjusting them gently over the brow of the mask.

“There,” Buzz said. “Now you look like a hot piece of dumb meat who doesn’t think twice about anything.”

Buzz grabbed the front of Chase’s hoodie and gave it a tug. “Let’s go.”

Chase hesitated, frozen in place, heart thundering beneath fake pecs. Then he felt Buzz’s hand slide into his back pocket—possessive, rough—and give his ass a firm squeeze.

“If you walk next to me, they’ll just think you’re my dumb little sidekick,” Buzz growled. “But if you stay here? You’re just a fantasy too scared to get off the fuckin’ shelf.”

Chase exhaled sharply through his nose.

Then he nodded.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Let’s fucking go.”

Buzz chuckled and opened the front door.

The air outside was warm, humid—classic summer night in the neighborhood. Streetlights buzzed overhead. A couple houses had their porch lights on. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.

Buzz walked like he owned the pavement. Heavy boots thumping with each step. Chase fell in beside him, trying to match the swagger, but still glancing nervously around.

“Stop lookin’ scared,” Buzz muttered. “You’re hot as fuck. They’re not gonna recognize a damn thing. They’re just gonna want to stare.”

They passed a house with a couple people sitting on the porch. One guy looked up, paused mid-drink.

Chase kept walking.

The guy nudged his friend. “Dude, look at that fuckin’ gym bro,” he whispered.

Chase nearly tripped.

Buzz didn’t even flinch. Just grinned wider.

“Feel it yet?” Buzz asked, not even looking at him.

“Feel what?”

“That charge. You’re wearing a body. A face. A story. And people are eatin’ it up.”

Chase swallowed. “Yeah,” he said. Then louder: “Yeah. I think I am.”

Buzz stopped walking and turned to face him. Reached out and grabbed Chase by the chain hanging around his neck.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect, jockboy,” he growled, pulling him close. “When we get back, I’m gonna ruin you in that suit.”

And Chase?

He didn’t argue this time.

He licked his lips, smirked, and said, “Better make it count, Daddy.”

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malestransforming · 2 months ago

Text

Thompson reminded thr worked who his dads are. How both men are prominent members in the city. As well as both coming from old wealthy families. Taunting the workers how he could easily ruin their business by making them unable to get work in the city again.

He was being an asshole, but he relishes in it. Flaunting the power and money he has. None of the blue colar brutes dared to meet his gaze. And Thompson found it funnier.

"Yeah, that's right. Be good dogs and listen to the one in charge." He laughs.

The caused one the guy's to advance on him. Stopping just in front of him.

"Got something to say brute?" He taunts.

Thompson knew the man wouldn't hit him. Even if he did, he would ruin this man's business. To his surprise, the hulking brute grabs Thompson and kisses him. The rich man's eyes widen and his screams are muffled while he's forced to kiss this big musky worker.

The guy's crew behind him wolf whistle and laugh. Thompson's face reddens with anger and embarrassment. The guy lets him go and smirks down at him.

"Oh, you can say goodbye to ever getting any kind of work in this city or any close by!" Thompson warned.

He goes to storm off when he feels himself hit with a dizzy spell. Swayinf on his feet and falls backward into the arms of the man who kissed him.

"Easy there Tony, just relax mate." The guy's deep voice was oddly soothing.

Thompson wanted to say how his name wasn't Tony, nor did he want this bastard touching him. However, his body felt warm, and he almost felt like he was melting into the other man's embrace. His mind was foggy, unaware what was going on as he changes.

His expensive hair cut grows out into a curly unkempt mop of hair that becomes hidden under a well-worn beanie. The suit jacket he wore puffed up as the material changed. The dark navy shade turned a bright neon green. The jacket hiding the thicker labor earned muscles Thompson gains. His soft hands hardened. Gaining callous and old scars to further show how he has spent years doing manual labor based work.

Thompson groans, his old self slipping from him rapidly. His pricey loafers morphed into a well worn pair of steel toed work boots. His legs stretched to give him a few extra inches in height.

Finally he started to stir, rubbing his head as he came into his new self.

"You all good now Tony?" His friend Bruce asks him.

"Yeah." Tony grunts, a bit confused still as to what the heck happened, but he was ready to get back to work with the rest of his crew.

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malestransforming · 4 months ago

Text

A Worthy Replacement - Part 1

(Original story posted December 14th 2022) This story has been significantly Updated!

Written for @bodyswappingandshit/@bodyswappingandshit-1

Glad to finally have the first part of this story back up! It’s one I know lots of you enjoyed back in the day. I thought about uploading all three parts of this story together in one post like I’ve been doing with other multi part stories from the past but honestly this story is just too massive. Especially now that I’m updating and extending it. So for that reason I’m keeping it separated into three parts. I’m even considering adding on a bonus epilogue that wasn’t part of the original! But with all that said, enjoy the story! ❤️

Part 2 & Part 3 returning soon!

~~~

“No… fucking… way…” Was all Martin could say or think when he recognised the man who’d been working out across from him at the gym.

Recently Martin, a youthful 27 year old, had really been trying to get himself into shape. He’d been working out at home for some time now but after moving to a new town he decided it was finally time to get serious and sign up to one of the local gyms. The one he picked in the end was rather expensive but from what he could tell it was held in very high regard and had everything you’d ever need. More machines and equipment than Martin even knew existed, an amazing sauna, a large indoor swimming pool and more! That in mind he supposed spending the extra money on it would encourage him to go and make the most of it all.

Upon stepping into the gym on his first day as a member, Martin was of course greeted by the sight of hunks, jocks, meatheads and bodybuilders all getting deep into their routines. The aroma of manly sweat mixed with deodorant flooded his senses in a way that had him struggling to keep his dick under control. Getting a front row seat to all these men pumping their juicy muscles as big as humanly possible certainly didn’t help either. He was already having fantasies about worshipping some of these men. Kissing their biceps and massaging their thighs. Imagining how amazing it would feel to press his face between their meaty glutes. The thought alone was enough to make him drool.

Of course Martin tried to stay respectful and not stare, as difficult as that was, while instead opting to get on with his own routine. After all, if he wanted to be like all the hunks he adored, he needed to put in the work. With that things were going smoothly. He pushed through his exercises and was able to build up a good sweat in the process. However there was something that kept distracting him. Across the gym he couldn’t help but notice how a bunch of people had stopped to watch one particular dude as he worked out. Some were even going up and asking for pictures as he was resting while others had politely asked about workout and eating tips. He couldn’t see the man properly from where he was but he could tell the dude was big. Very big. Martin thought that perhaps he was an influencer or something.

Eventually his curiosity ended up getting the better of him. He finished his last set on the machine he was using before wandering his way over towards the man. If the guy was well known online, Martin wondered if it would be someone he recognised. That could be pretty exciting. He’d gotten there just as the man was doing some heavy bench pressing. He wasn’t able to get a good look at first but when the man put the barbell back and sat up, Martin’s eyes went wide with disbelief. No wonder people had been watching him this whole time. It was the Mr Olympia of classic physique! Chris fucking Bumstead!

From that point onwards Martin found it exceptionally hard to focus on his own workout. Always finding himself peeking over his shoulder to sneak glances at the renowned bodybuilding champion. He had to actively stop himself from trying to scan every inch of that titanic body as he watched beads of sweat drip down Chris’ massive frame, dampening the clothes he was wearing. Thoughts of running his tongue along Chris’ glistening muscles after a long session danced through Martin’s mind. Suddenly no other man in the gym existed. All he cared about was that pure adonis of a man. Suddenly Martin was thrown back to all the times he’d found himself laid in bed scrolling through Chris Bumstead’s Instagram while jerking his dick furiously. Now all those lustful feelings were bubbling to the surface ten fold! Martin had to try desperately to hide his painfully hard erection after that living sculpture of a man walked past him at one point, his scent wafting faintly through the air while invading Martin’s nostrils. A perfect blend of woodsy deodorant and fresh musk. Good god. Martin still couldn’t believe that perfect specimen of a man was only 2 years older than him!

Shortly after pulling off his tee to show off the sweat stained tank top underneath, Chris finished up his routine and headed off towards the locker room to change. Noticing this, Martin couldn’t help but stare from behind. Watching that wide muscled back barely contained by that tank. Eyes practically glued to the huge rounded muscle ass stretching the back of those shorts as Chris exited the main gym floor. Almost every part of Martin’s being was telling him to follow the bodybuilder in the hopes that he might get a glance at that glorious physique without a top on in person.

He didn’t wanna seem weird though like he was stalking the guy so he decided it’d be best to finish up another set of exercises first. Admittedly he sort of botched the form due to his excitement but thankfully nobody seemed to notice. With that however Martin swiped up his towel and water bottle before hurrying off the gym’s locker room as inconspicuously as possible.

Before long he found himself casually glancing down each of the aisles to see if he could find the one and only Mr Olympia he’d been drooling over. Unfortunately after checking most of the aisles, he started to believe that perhaps Chris had already finished getting changed and was long gone as there didn’t seem to be any sign of him. He must’ve slipped out somehow when Martin wasn’t looking. Just when he was about to give up, Martin noticed a pile of gym clothes sitting on one of the empty benches. He wasn’t sure why but for some he found himself oddly intrigued by the discarded clothes. Almost like it they were… calling to him? There was no way to explain the feeling. All he knew was that he had to get a closer look at those clothes.

He made his way down the aisle and towards the bench. It was only when he got closer though that he realised who they belonged to. That huge tank top, those massive shorts and the unmistakable giant sneakers next to them with gym socks stuffed inside. He couldn’t believe it! These were the very same gym clothes Chris has just been wearing! The gym bag next to them with the hunks name on it only confirmed what he already knew. Martin couldn’t believe it!

Did he go and take a shower? Or maybe for a swim in the gym’s pool? God just the thought of sneaking a peek at Chris’ naked body under a steaming shower or doing laps in the pool was enough to make Martin want to cream on the spot. But then something odd crossed his mind… Why would Chris leave his clothes out here in the open where anyone could grab them instead of putting them away safely in his locker??

———

A few minutes earlier…

Chris found himself stepping into a rather empty locker room with only a small handful of men getting changed or sitting around. Upon reaching his locker, he found the aisle it was located on was completely desolate. Or so he thought anyway.

He slotted the key in and twisted it before opening the locker and pulling out his hefty gym bag. He turned to place it down on the bench behind when he jumped in shock at the sight of a man who’d seemingly appeared out of nowhere. “Whoa!… Uhh sorry man I didn’t hear ya.” He said politely with a chuckle and that recognisable lisp of his. The strange man didn’t immediately say anything however, just staring and smiling as he ran his eyes up and down Chris’ body. “Ummm can I help you?… if you want a photo or an autograph or something I’d be happy to give you one…” As weirded out as he was now, the bodybuilder remained kind and polite as he shoved his t-shirt into the gym bag.

“Mr Olympia huh?… Incredible. You really are something. ” The man finally spoke in an almost unsettling yet buttery smooth tone. “And as a matter of fact you can help me.”

The more Chris examined him, the more this odd man didn’t look as though he belonged. He was a lean middle aged guy with perfectly styled salt and pepper hair. His face was framed by a well groomed beard that was a chestnut brown flecked with silver besides the hair on his chin that was a snowy white. The man was dressed in a gorgeous navy blue suit that seemed tailored to his body. The flawless jacket hugged a crisp pink shirt underneath that was decorated by a striped blue and indigo tie. A bracelet that matched his suit and shining silver watch adorned his left wrist. A pair of sunglasses hid a pair of dazzling eyes that no doubt matched the rest of his devilishly handsome visage. He was in good shape underneath that suit from what Chris could tell so he must've kept fit but… something about him was just off. You wouldn’t dress this immaculate just to get a workout.

By this point Chris was starting to get a bit creeped out by the whole situation but he kept his cool and played along. After all he was both a body builder and an influencer which meant he always had to put on his best face for the sake of reputation. “Okay? And how is that?” He responded carefully.

Just then the strange man beamed with a large grin. “Well I’m glad you asked! First things first, my name is Mr Wavell and I’ll be your friendly neighbour hood Warlock this fine day.” He claimed as he outstretched a hand towards the hunk in a respectable manner.

Chris was hesitant but he leant a hand to meet Wavell’s, a look of confusion plastered across his face. “Warlock?” He questioned while clasping the other man’s hand and giving it a firm shake. Part of his subconscious was telling him to just brush this guy off and get on with the day. He was clearly a bit of a nutter. Unfortunately he’d had the displeasure of dealing with his fair share of weirdos since becoming rather famous in the body building sphere. But like usual Chris’ kind hearted nature forced him to stay and hear what this strange Mr Wavell dude had to say.

“Oh don’t worry. You’ll understand soon enough big guy.” Wavell replied somewhat ominously as he let Chris’ hand go. “Honestly it’s not often that I experiment on men such as yourself.” He admitted, shamelessly gazing up and down Chris’ godly physique. “Famous men I mean. I play around with jocks, meatheads and bodybuilder’s all the time but never someone as prominent and well known as you. I can see why too. Your body is a true work of art. The very kind that should be carved into stone and worshiped for generations to come. And to have obtained such a physique without the use of any kind of magic is truly magnificent. I’ll have to be sure that whoever owns it next will keep it in peak condition.”

Chris narrowed his eyes in uncertainty. “W-what? What the hell are you talking about? Experiments? Owners? Magic? Look I’m sorry man I don’t know what this is about but it’s all starting to sound really freaking weird.” He chuckled awkwardly while taking a step back from the suited stranger. “I appreciate the… compliments? But I’ve got other things to do today so again if you want a picture or something we can do that but whatever you’re trying to buy or sell, I’m really not interested.” He’d finally reached his limit with all the strange stuff that Wavell was spewing.

Wavell sighed, a deep purple aura surrounding his body as he waved a hand towards the bodybuilder. “Oh you poor thing. Your compliance isn’t really a factor.”

Suddenly the mighty Chris Bumstead found that same purple energy coiling around his body in the blink of an eye and binding him in place like a muscular statue.Understandably Chris was freaking the fuck out. He tried with all his might to move even a single muscle but nothing responded. He was completely frozen in place.

“If it’s any consultation, I actually feel a little bad about this. I took a peek inside your mind and you’re actually a really sweet guy even when you’re not on camera. Most of the time I wouldn’t go out of my way to take from a guy as genuine and kind as you but…” Wavell reached out and placed his firmly against Chris’ enormous sculpted pecs and began to massage the thick muscle. “Mmmm… you’re just too damn gorgeous to resist. Don’t worry though. I’m sure you’ll grow to love what comes next in time. Everyone does eventually.”

Chris wanted to protest with all his might but not even his mouth was permitted to move by the strange energy binding him. It was impossible to scream for help, not that doing so would’ve made a difference. The only things he was able to move were his eyes that were darting around in a frantic manner.

“Well! Time for step two.” Wavell clasped his hands together with a smile. “But which piece will I store you in? Your tank top? Your socks maybe?” Wavell suggested as he inspected the gym wear Chris was wearing.

The body building champion had absolutely no clue what the hell this insane man was talking about and at this point he didn’t wanna know either. All he knew was that he needed to escape somehow. With that Chris scrunched his eyes shut and tried with every ounce of his strength to move one of his arms. A strained grunt rumbled from inside his throat as he fought against the purple energy but the most he could do was a slight bend in his elbow and a twitch of his fingers before he gave out. Despite how minimal the movement was though, Wavell seemed quite surprised.

“Impressive. That’s quite some willpower you’ve got there big man! Then again I suppose you’ve gotta have some serious mental and spiritual strength to maintain a body like that. I commend you but you might as well save your energy. You’re not going anywhere.” The warlock leaned in and kissed Chris on the cheek in an almost mocking fashion before whispering softly into his ear. “Besides, I’ve just figured out exactly what I’m gonna do with you.”

Without another second to spare Wavell crouched down only to grab the waist of Chris’ shorts and yank them down to his ankles, revealing the tight black boxer briefs underneath. “Ohhh wow…” Wavell muttered as he cupped the bodybuilder’s exceptional bulge. “It’s always the quiet and humble ones that are packing the most huh?” He teased while squeezing Chris’ package playfully. “Well I know for a fact that whoever ends up with this is gonna be a happy man.” With that Wavell stood up once again and looked the powerless man in the eyes. He could tell by the way Chris’ eyes were darting from side to side that he was trying his utmost to beg. Unfortunately for him no amount of begging was going to stop what was about to come next.

“Now. Are you ready?” The warlock asked with a growing smirk, one hand still firmly grasping the hunk’s hefty bulge. “I’ll take your silence as a yes.” And with that he sent a shock of magic that filled the fabric of Chris’ underwear, causing it to glow brightly. This in turn caused a rather intense wave of pleasure to ripple through Chris’ body originating from his boxers. His eyes couldn’t help but roll back as the wave of pleasure flowed over his entire frame before moving back towards his underwear again. And then it ripped out again. And again. It was like an ocean tide pulling back and forth. Flowing out across his body and then pulling back towards his now enchanted boxer briefs again. It was only after about 3 or so of these pulses that Chris began to feel himself getting… smaller? Almost as it was with each wave of magic that spread and pulled back into his underwear, part of his own body mass got pulled with it?!?!

The glorious muscular body of Chris Bumstead continued to shrink smaller and smaller as more of his being was converted into pure magical essence that became infused with his boxer briefs. It wasn’t long before he was even smaller than Wavell, a man he’d been towering over mere moments ago. He would’ve been terrified had it not been for the insurmountable euphoria that he was forcibly experiencing through it all. A euphoria so great in fact that he reached multiple orgasms! Jetting hefty load after load of cum that splattered and stained his underwear. It was so intense that he eventually faded from consciousness.

The very second Chris passed out there was a bright light that consumed what was left of his shrinking body and when it dissipated, the renowned body builder was nowhere to be seen. All that was left was his workout gear that fell to the floor in a sweaty heap, including the pair of freshly enchanted boxer briefs that now housed the sleeping soul of Chris Bumstead himself.

Mr Wavell leant down and scooped up the pile of clothes along with the socks and sneakers before placing them all on the nearby bench. Now there was just one final touch that had to be made. He waved a hand over the pile of clothes, placing another perception filter over the, that would make anyone who Wavell deemed unworthy of this gift unable to see or perceive the clothes. For example if by chance a roided out asshole happened upon them first, he would barely take any notice of them. Only those who were worthy of taking up the mantle of the kind and humble Mr Olympia would be able to see them. But with that Wavell decided his work here was done, turning himself invisible once again so he may sit back and simply enjoy the show. Opting to float up and sit atop the lockers and watch until someone received the present he’d left.

———

As Martin inched closer to the pile of sweaty gym clothes he’d stumbled across, that very same aroma he’d smelt back in the gym wafted over his nose. Yup those were Chris’ clothes alright. No doubt about it. He made sure to look left and right down the aisle to check that nobody was watching before sitting down on the bench beside the seemingly discarded clothes. It already felt as though his heart could explode with the anticipation alone. He just wanted to grab the tank top and press it flat against his face. But what if someone saw him? It was only his first day at this place and he didn’t wanna be labelled the gym weirdo who went around sniffing other dude’s clothes. But that smell… It was just so damn tempting. He checked around one last time before giving into his urges and swiping up the body builder’s tank top.

The next thing he knew Martin had a raging boner straining against his shorts as he held the damp tank top to his face. Unable to stop himself from deeply huffing and inhaling the strong musky scent of an alpha such as Chris Bumstead. Allowing it to overpower all of his senses and sink so deep that everything else faded away. Only him and the sweaty tank pressed against his nose existed in that moment. If there was a heaven, this is how he imagined it.

Slam!

The sound of a nearby locker closing tore Martin’s mind away from the haze with a sudden jolt. Luckily it seemed to have come from a different aisle. His face still went red however, praying that nobody had walked past and seen him. With a sigh he was about to set the tank top back down when something caught his eye. Inside the shorts was a pair of underwear that Chris must’ve been wearing. Already Martin’s mind was going a mile a minute imagining what the pouch of that gorgeous man’s underwear smelt like after a good workout. He just had to know! But he couldn’t risk anyone seeing him. A tank top was one thing but if he was caught sniffing another guy’s underwear in the locker room he’d be seen as a total perv and kicked out for sure.

Part of him thought of doing the right thing and leaving the clothes where they were but the urges of a horny gay man were a powerful thing which in this case Martin just couldn’t bring himself to ignore. So instead he settled on a plan. He scooped up Chris’ gear along with huge socks and sneakers the hunk had been wearing before dashing around the corner and locking himself in a private changing cubicle.

He knew what he was doing was wrong but he just couldn’t help himself! Before long the young and very horny gay man had stripped off his own clothes and begun jerking himself off furiously while digging his nose into the tank top once again. The smell was still so fresh. New sweat that’d only just poured from that Adonis’ body and absorbed into the fabric. It smelt fucking delicious and Martin wished he could savour it forever.

Soon after that his eyes settled on the huge size 13 sneakers. He grabbed one and yanked the white gym sock out from inside before burying his nose in it. It was incredibly damp with sweat and had an even stronger scent than the tank. But that only made it more intoxicating. After a good few minutes, Martin was only able to pull himself away from the sweaty sock to stuff his nose inside the massive sneaker it came from. And somehow that smell was even more pungent! No wonder. It was a heady mix of old sweat from previous workout mixed with the new fresher scent of today, forming an aroma so mind numbingly powerful that Martin could barely control himself. He had to let go of his cock for a moment just so he didn’t cum on the spot.

From there he must’ve spent god knows how long edging himself in that cubicle, trying not to cum or make too much noise. He switched feverishly between deeply inhaling the sneakers and rubbing the socks all over his face. Chris’ scent was so damn addictive. He found himself fantasising about Chris standing in the cubicle with him, imagining that it was actually the dreamy hunk himself who was holding the massive sneakers up to his face and forcing him to sniff it. The mere thought was enough to have him leaking a constant stream of precum.

It took a good long while but eventually Martin decided he’d had his fill of the sweaty socks and sneakers, for now anyway, and decided to get onto the main attraction he’d been saving until last. He glanced over at the shorts with a lustful grin. Without hesitation he dove his hand inside them and fished out the pair of black boxer briefs that were hidden inside. His pervy mind was already racing at the idea of sniffing both the front and back of them. But just as he was about to dig in he noticed something odd.

The pouch. It seemed damp. At first he thought it was just Chris’ ball sweat but it was more than that. It was… sticky? Curiously Martin checked the inside of the boxers and his eyes went wide. There was no way. That couldn’t be what he thought it was right? Pooled inside the pouch and partially absorbed into the fabric was an unmistakable sticky white substance. With his heart now beating out of his chest, Martin dipped a finger inside and scooped some up before sticking it in his mouth. There was no doubt about it.

It was cum.

Martin had just tasted Chris Bumstead’s cum! And it was delicious!!!

A million questions were racing through his mind right now. The biggest ones being: why the hell had that hunk of a man shot a load while at the gym? And even more importantly, why had he left his cum-filled underwear out for just anyone to find?! It didn’t make sense at all. When would Chris have even had time to do that? Not to mention Chris didn’t at all seem like the type to do something like that. Deep down a part of Martin’s brain was telling him this was fishy. Unfortunately that part of his brain was completely drowned out by the rest of his mind that horny beyond imagination right now.

“Oh well… If he’s that careless then I’m sure he won’t mind if I clean up his mess.” Martin muttered to himself while licking his lips.

He gently raised the boxers up to his face, grinning down at the soaked pouch before him. He was already starting to salivate at the sight. Martin always wanted to taste a bodybuilder's load and now he had the best of the best. Top of the line alpha male seed. And so, without another second of hesitation, Martin dove his tongue into the pool of fresh man milk and started licking away. He immediately found himself shivering with delight at the immaculate taste. Sure he’d tasted cum before but it was nothing like this! He could drink gallons of this stuff! Before long he was lapping it up like a feral animal! He had to make sure that he got every last drop of delicious stud cum. And just when you’d think it couldn’t get any better, the flavour was even further enhanced by the taste of Chris’ sweaty balls mixed in.

By the time he’d finished lapping it all up, Martin was a hot mess. He found himself sitting with the underwear draped over his face, sniffing and tasting the delicious groin sweat from it idly. With a belly full of Mr Olympia grade cum, all he could think to do now was wrapping Chris’ damp tank top around his ridiculously hard cock and jacking it until he burst. And that’s exactly what he did, pumping away as he lost himself completely in all the smells and sensations. Edging as much as humanly possible while trying to savour the moment as much as he could. It didn’t even feel real. He thought that at any moment he was gonna wake up back home in his bed after having the best wet dream of his life. And yet he didn’t. This was reality.

Martin was just about ready to shoot his load and glaze Chris’ tank top with it when he was stopped by the perfect idea that suddenly popped to mind.

Next thing you know he’s jumping up off the seat and smiling giddily as he glances at the cubicle mirror. There was just one last thing he had to try before he stuffed these clothes into his gym bag to take home and treasure forever. He had to wear them.

He didn’t waste any time. He began by snatching up the boxer briefs again before stepping into them and pulling them up over his ass. Admittedly they looked more like baggy boxers on him than fitted boxer briefs. They were mainly being held up by the waist band and the tent his dick was making in the front. The feeling of which sent shivers up his spine as the tip of his cock brushed against the dampness where Chris’ load had been. Then after taking a second to appreciate how amazing it felt to wear Chris Bumstead’s underwear, Martin swiftly moved on by grabbing the shorts next. He slid his legs inside and pulled them up before securing them in place by tying the drawstrings tightly. Once again something that would’ve been ordinary gym shorts for a hunk like Chris looked more like huge basketball shorts on Martin. That didn’t make it any less hot though. This was then followed by him slipping the tank top over his head in one smooth motion. It slipped off his shoulders once or twice but he eventually got it to stay in place. At last he was able to bask his upper body in the warm musky aroma of the tank top in the hopes that it would stick to him. After that, all that was left was footwear Chris had left behind.

The huge damp white socks were first. After giving them each one last quick sniff, Martin reached and pulled on each over-sized sock, drenching his feet in Chris Bumstead’s sweat. He couldn’t help rolling his eyes a little in ecstasy at the mere feeling. Once he’d had a chance to enjoy wiggling his toes inside the sweat stained socks, it was time at last for the sneakers. Getting to slip his average sized feet inside those enormous things felt like an orgasm in of itself. He tried his absolute best not to bust as he felt his socked feet suddenly being wrapped in the hot sweaty musk that was trapped inside those pungent sneakers.

And with that his naughty little cosplay was complete.

After all that Martin could only grin cheekily as he looked at himself in the full length mirror. Sure the size difference might’ve made him look like a kid swamped in his dad’s clothes, but he couldn’t deny that it was still hot as fuck. Especially knowing that he was wearing the exact same clothes Chris himself had been wearing less than an hour ago. The adrenaline pumping through his system right now had Martin on cloud nine as he committed every detail of this to memory.

“What’s up? My name’s Chris Bumstead.” He snickered at his reflection while trying his best to imitate Chris’ voice.. “I bet you’re wondering what my secret to looking like a muscle god is. Truth is I just get really horny while working out and bust a nut after my session. Totally helps the gains.” Martin continued half mockingly as he flexed one of his arms, imagining it was Chris showing his mouthwatering biceps. He continued to mutter all sorts of pervy things and imagine it was the real Chris saying them all the while listening to make sure nobody outside the cubicle overheard him. Little did he know that one person in particular had seen and heard everything.

Wavell had watched idly as Martin had crept over to the pile of clothes earlier and swept them up. It’d been a treat getting to see this horny young man goon for around half an hour over the famous bodybuilder’s scent. Honestly Wavell couldn’t blame him one bit. After all he’d given Chris’ clothes a quick sniff as well before leaving them to be claimed and that scent was divine. “Now that he’s wearing them it should start any second now…” Mr Wavell mumbled to himself as he watched Martin curiously. And as if on cue, the black boxer briefs began to emit a soft purple glow. “Yuuup… here we go.”

Martin didn’t seem to take any notice of the glow at first as it was concealed underneath the shorts. He only noticed something strange was going on when the magic glow became bright enough that its light began to seep out of his stolen shorts. “H-hey what!? What the h-hell?!” He was about to pull off the shorts in a panic to see what was going on down there but before he had the chance there was a shooting sensation that flooded his body like a lightning bolt, causing him to seize up a little. “Uuuuuoooaaahhh… What the… fuuuuuuuuck…” Martin groaned without much control. He felt an indescribable mix of pain and pleasure that sparked through every nerve and muscle in his being. His brain struggled to keep up with the sudden overstimulation and couldn’t decide whether it loved or hated the feeling.

He would’ve been more worried about this had it not been for the rising heat in his chest. He could barely comprehend the feeling. It was like… something was building itself up? Martin only realised what was truly happening when he glanced down at himself to see that his once unimpressive chest was now surging forwards with muscle in pulsing waves of growth. He could hardly believe his eyes as he watched himself grow a hefty pair of pecs that began to slowly fill out the front of the stolen tank top. As they expanded he could feel his torso stretching and broadening slightly to accompany his growing chest until they reached the size of massive watermelons! The shock of it all caused Martin to stumble a little before falling onto his hands and knees with the weight of his new meaty muscle tits weighing him down. They looked bizarrely out of place on his small frame but not for much longer…

“What t-the fuck… Is h-happening… to meeeee?!” He just about managed to grunt out while attempting to pull himself back up but to no avail. Not when his back suddenly decided to follow the same example as his chest. After his pecs, the rest of his growing torso upper body kicked into full gear with its fantastical growth. Ridges and contours of hard earned definition began etching themselves onto Martin’s back as it grew huge and wide with newfound muscle! His arms were forced to spread apart some more as his lats flared out like the wings of a true bodybuilder. Before Martin could even comprehend that however, his shoulders ballooned into monstrous cannonballs that only served to widen his upper body further. Even his traps bulged and expanded before his neck thickened into. Suddenly the sweaty tank top wasn’t hanging off him so loosely anymore…

His confused moans echoed not only through his little cubicle but across the entire locker room. And yet nobody seemed to take any notice. Not even as he let out a roar when his arms and hands started to grow. He watched as his fingers stretched longer, each digit thickening as callous’ began to form along his expanding palms. Marks to symbolise years of long hard dedication to the gym. Even more eye-catching however was the sight of Martin’s once average looking arms beginning to hulk out as veins snaked up his inflating forearms while his biceps and triceps swelled to sizes bigger than he ever could have dreamed of. Soon enough his biceps and triceps had bulked up to monstrous sizes with his forearms following suit. Even his hands weren’t safe as they thickened up.

Martin gritted his teeth as he felt what little fat he’d once had around his belly evaporate to make way for a thick and powerful set of abs that cobbled themselves onto his stomach, Martin was given a few seconds of momentary relief to catch his breath. “M-my body!? H-H-How!? I don’t… I…” He stumbled through his words in a panic, not knowing how the hell to even begin articulating his feelings right now. Especially as he glanced up into the mirror, still kneeling on all fours. His build looked like that of a human gorilla with the comical size difference between his gigantic upper body and relatively small lower body in comparison. In fact he doubted he could even stand properly as he was!

It didn’t take long for the transformative heat to return in full force. For as freaked out as he was right now, Martin didn’t know if he should be worried or relieved. Regardless, the intense sensation began to focus itself on his lower half. More specifically his ass first which didn’t waste any time blowing itself up with newfound mass. What was once a fairly average backside ballooned into a massive bubble butt carved from thick muscle that could harden into buns of steel with a single flex. He even let out a long and pleasurable moan as his asshole found itself tightening significantly. Suddenly the stolen shorts and briefs he was wearing looked far less baggy than before, now stretching over his thick bubble ass rather nicely.

Just then his eyes went wide with both fear and a little bit of underlying excitement after feeling where the warm sensation had shifted to next. “Oooh god oooh fuuuck…” he groaned nervously as it focused on none other than his cock and balls. Thankfully, just like the rest of his body, even they started to expand rapidly. His balls grew into a pair of huge cum-filled alpha male that only churned the most premium cum imaginable. Meanwhile his already hard cock engorged into a girthy ten inch anaconda, that didn’t just fill but stretched out the pouch of his stolen underwear perfectly! Feeling this Martin couldn’t help but allow a dumb grin to spread across his face. “Ughhhhfff… I’m huge huhuhuhuh…” He chuckled as the now much larger and obscene tent in his shorts bucked excitedly.

He’d become so distracted by the size of his new manhood and crown jewels that Martin almost didn’t notice his legs starting to get absolutely juiced. It started slow at first with his thighs and calves pulsing with a tiny bit of extra size and definition. It wasn’t long however before a strained growl escaped his clenched mouth as both legs began stretching out longer, bumping him up to a staggering 6’1. Something he’d soon find out when he was eventually able to stand up. But as soon as his legs finished elongating, his quads and hamstrings erupted with an explosion of bulging muscle mass causing another roar to escape his lips. In mere moments he’d been granted the thighs of the century but it wasn’t done there. Moments later Martin found himself cooing in pleasurable discomfort as his calves pumped up to the size of footballs while looking hard as diamond. Finally Martin’s body was starting to look proportionate again but there was one last part of his lower body that needed changing.

Finally his toes started to curl and wriggle inside the hot sneakers. Right now they still felt like clown shoes on him but not for much longer. Martin was just about able to stifle another moan as his feet started expanding, growing longer and meatier by the second. The free space inside Chris’ sneakers swiftly began to fill as even the sweaty white socks started to fit better around his enlarging feet. Growing upwards from size 9 to size 10 then 11 and even 12!? Only stopping when his feet finally fit snugly inside the enormous pungent size 13 sneakers! At last Martin had the exact kind of huge manly feet he’d secretly dreamt of either having or worshipping.

By this point Martin simply looked like a hulking bodybuilder version of himself but that would soon change. All of the distinct features across his body that made Martin unique began to fade only to be replaced with unique qualities of another man. Whether those features be blemishes, body hair, tattoos or even the tone of his skin! The only semblance of his old self left now was his head. Though, judging by the way his face was starting to heat up, that likely wouldn’t be the case for much longer.

It began with his neck bulging a little, his adam’s apple changing and altering his voice in a way that made it drop a couple octaves. That was the least concerning of the right now though as his facial features started to shift. His jaw began to widen as Martin’s once soft chin squared off with a sharp masculinity. His cheekbones rose up slightly, forming an angular structure in tandem with his jaw that was taut and defined. His brows thickened while his eyes took on a newfound mix of softness and intensity. The eyes of a kind beast. His nose broadened slightly as it tapered into a strong bridge. All the while his changing features made sure to reposition themselves as even his head reshaped slightly. As soon as they were all in place, thick stubble broke out across his larger jaw which swiftly grew into well groomed facial hair that framed his new handsome mug perfectly. Even his hair restyled in process while lightening in colour from black to a rich brown.

After all that his mind was spinning like crazy but the good news was that whatever had been spreading through him and changing his body had finally dissipated, leaving him on the floor sweaty and exhausted. He gave himself a moment to gather his strength before pulling himself up off the ground.

He was disoriented to say the least. His new body trembled slightly as he pushed himself up onto his massive new feet that filled out Chris’ large sneakers perfectly now. He stumbled for a moment as he found his balance with all this unfamiliar weight before looking down at his enormous hands. Needless to say he was still in shock over it all. Looking down at himself, Martin no longer saw the lean average build he was used to seeing everyday. Instead stared down in awe at the huge hulking form of a professional bodybuilder. Huge hefty pecs, colossal biceps, hulking thighs. All of which allowed him to perfectly fill out these massive gym clothes. The real shock came however when he finally glanced up to look in the mirror once more…

“Holy fuck!” He shouted with a stunned look on his face. Only it wasn’t his face anymore. Staring back at him was none other than the three time classic Mr Olympia himself! The very man Martin had countless saved pictures of for jerking over. The hunk who’d starred in more than one of his wet dreams over the last few years. There was no mistaking it. His hands shot up towards his new face, inspecting his features to be sure they were real before running his hands through his hair and beard. This sculpted body… This gorgeous face…

“I-I’m… I’m Chris fucking Bumstead!!” He announced, almost not believing his own words as they spilled out in a new unfamiliar voice.

Mr Wavell had witnessed the entire thing go down, invisible as usual. “Mmm… now that was hot.” He hummed to himself as he watched as the new hunk admired his reflection with glee and disbelief. “Maybe I should stick around for a while and see how this plays out.” He shrugged. It was always fun to watch how his subjects adjusted to their new lives and bodies.

#bodybuilder tf #male muscle growth #tf by magic #male tf #male transformation #jockification #magic

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malestransforming · 4 months ago

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Research Report: Subject J - Asian Flu

Prepared by: Dr. Amara Patel & Dr. Liam Chen

These diary entries, obtained through confidential sources, detail the personal experiences and transformations of a young man identified only as "Jake" who has been unknowingly infected with the recently emerged Asian Flu (AF). His accounts provide invaluable firsthand insights into the virus's effects on its host, spanning from early symptoms to advanced stages. Thus, with these entries, we aim to better understand the virus's effects and timeline.

Diary Entries:

Dear diary,

I woke up feeling a bit off today, but nothing major. Probably just another case of the common cold going around. I didn't let it stop me from starting my day as usual - working on my laptop at home while sipping coffee. My muscles were kinda sore too, but I thought it was just from my workout yesterday.

I did notice something strange though - when I caught my reflection in the mirror, my pecs looked a bit bigger than usual. Probably just my imagination, right? They're not exactly massive to begin with on my scrawny frame. But hey, maybe I'm finally making some progress at the gym!

Anyway, enough about me and my silly feelings. I'm going to bed early tonight. hopefully I'll feel more like myself tomorrow.

Dear diary,

Woke up today feeling even better than yesterday! I breezed through my work and couldn't wait to get back to the gym. When I stepped into the locker room, a few guys checked me out appreciatively. Normally that would make me blush, but now it just gave me this weird rush of confidence.

At first, I thought the gym machines felt a bit too easy today. Like my body was used to working at higher intensities than I realized. And why were my pecs tingling so much? Probably just a funny nerve thing, no biggie.

When I got home, I caught another glimpse of myself in the mirror and… holy shit… are my muscles bigger? Like, way bigger than they should be after one intense workout. Also, I didn't look as pale as I usually do?

This can't be real - something's going on, I just don't know what it is… Hopefully, I'll have more time to think about it tomorrow.

Dear diary,

Okay, so something is seriously wrong with me but I can't put my finger on it.

I can't stop sweating, even when I'm just sitting around doing nothing! My clothes are always soaked and I stink like a damn animal in heat... And don't even get me started on my fucking pecs - they're so sensitive right now. Like every brush of fabric against them sends a jolt straight to my dick.

I called in sick to work today, couldn't handle trying to make sense of all those spreadsheets and emails. It's like everyone's talking in a foreign language now, I just don't get it no more. I keep telling myself this is all stress-related but deep down, I know something ain't right.

At the gym today, I kept having to increase the weights because anything less felt like a joke now. There were these two Asian guys there who kept glancing over at me admiringly between sets. Normally I'd be flattered but nervous about such obvious stares. Instead, I found myself flexing subtly in their direction, feeling this bizarre urge to show off my body.

And to top it all off, I've been having these crazy horny urges nonstop. Like, I'm constantly rock hard and leaking pre-cum like a fucking faucet. It's embarrassing as hell. I ended up jerking off about three times today already but it did nothing to satisfy this insatiable hunger in my balls.

I'm scared… I don't know what's happening to me. Maybe this is all just a bad dream and I'll wake up soon. Please.

Dear diary,

Fuck… what's happening to me? I'm struggling to type this entry because my fingers feel too thick and clumsy on the keyboard.

I went back to the gym again today because I couldn't stay away, even though part of me knew something was seriously off. The Asian guys from yesterday were there again and this time… fuck… I walked up to them and started chatting like it was the most natural thing in the world. Talking about protein shakes, the best ways to sculpt chest muscles, shit I wouldn't have given a second thought to before.

They kept touching my arms admiringly as we talked, marveling at how fast I must be growing. And I fucking liked it. Craved more of their attention and praise. We ended up in the locker room together…

I'm not proud of what happened next but I couldn't control myself. I was too drunk on this new sense of power and desire coursing through my body. The next thing I knew, we were all naked, touching each other, moaning like animals…

I can't think straight anymore either. It's like all the smart stuff is leaking outta my head and being replaced with nothing bro.

And the smells… everything smells so much stronger now. My own stink, sweat and musk, it's so intense!

I'm losing control here diary… I feel like I'm turning into one of those dumb gym bro stereotypes and it scares the everloving shit outta me. I almost can't recognize myself in the mirror anymore.

Tomorrow, I'll go see my doctor to finally understand what's going on.

Yo diary, it's your boy Jake and lemme tell ya, today was fuckin' EPIC dude! Like, the most awesomest day ever since this crazy shit started happening to me.

Woke up feelin' like a million bucks, muscles all twitchy and ready to dominate. I hit the gym real quick, just a lil warm-up ya know? And oh man, did I catch some looks! All those bros were starin' at my gains, probably wishin' they had a physique like mine hehe.

After that, I decided to take my rock hard bod for a walk in the park. Felt good to let the sunshine warm up my bronzed skin and show off these sick pecs. I was strutting real confident-like, just basking in all the attention from thirsty bitches and dudes.

Then, get this diary… I bumped into this super cute lil twink at the park! He was practically drooling when he saw my massive package tentin' in my shorts. I couldn't resist, had to show him what a real man feels like down there haha.

We found a lil spot behind some bushes and I bent that boy over and gave it to him HARD, diary. Pounded his tight boyclit so good he was screaming for more. Fucked him so deep he'll be tasting my cock for days! Blew the biggest load right up in his guts too, hah!

I'm gonna hit the gym again later for some more gains, maybe see if I can find another thirsty boycunt to bust in after. Life is fuckin' great diary!

Analysis:

Based on Jake's diary entries, we can confirm the progression of AF symptoms aligns with our current understanding: rapid muscle growth, cognitive decline, personality changes, and increased sexual aggression. His accounts also highlight the virus's insidious nature, as he remains largely unaware and unconcerned about his transformations.

To better understand the virus's transmission dynamics and long-term effects on secondary hosts, it is imperative that we identify and locate the twink (hereafter referred to as "Subject TW") with whom Jake engaged in sexual activities at the park. There is a high probability that Subject TW has been infected with the Asian Flu through this encounter.

Locating and monitoring this new potential subject could provide crucial insights into the virus's sexual transmission rates, incubation periods for secondary infections, and further manifestation of symptoms in diverse hosts.

This final surveillance footage from a concealed camera in a nearby gym captures Subject J (center frame) engaging with his newly acquired "bros". This clip represents the most current documentation of Jake's behaviours and physical state, obtained while maintaining strict contamination avoidance protocols. The timestamp indicates this recording is approximately three weeks after his initial diary entries.

Caution: Viewers are strongly advised not to approach or engage with Subject J or his associates without proper protective measures in place, as their sweat and other bodily fluids pose significant infection risks.

Please direct any inquiries or resources needed to pursue this lead to Dr. Patel or Dr. Chen.

[End Report]

#muscle tf #race change #muscle transformation #male transformation #male tf story

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malestransforming · 5 months ago

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TaskRaccoon Premium: Chapter 1

Josh was at a dead end. For years he had put his entire focus and energy on his education and studies, above his social life, his health, and his finances. He came top of his class in History and Classics and so in his head all that hard l work had paid off, but now that he had graduated... what was next? His classmates had swanned off into internships and graduate programmes, but Josh found himself in the summer after graduating with no job, no prospects and, most importantly, no money.

Josh's parents had supported him throughout his further education, but now that he was back home they decided to treat Josh like an adult. And that meant rent. Josh balked at the suggestion, but his parents were adamant and so Josh found himself on the job hunt.

This proved trickier than Josh anticipated. Turns out the local libraries and bookshops didn't care about his top degree; they wanted experience. And as Josh lowered his sights to restaurants, cafes, even the bowling alley, he found himself receiving the same feedback.

Needing to save making cash quick, a sympathetic interviewer told Josh to pick up the odd job on TaskRaccoon - an app where Josh could choose to help people with tasks like moving furniture, watering plants, doing shopping in exchange for a small fee. It wasn't perfect, especially as Josh didn't really have the build or inclination for manual jobs, and Josh often found himself doing jobs he never expected while at school. But over time Josh felt an unexpected satisfaction with earning a buck and paying his parents. So much so that Josh had bigger aspirations - moving out of his parents place.

That, of course, required money. And while Josh worked hard with the TaskRaccoon jobs he was given, he needed something more.

On a random Tuesday afternoon, a solution seemed to land out of nowhere on Josh's TaskRaccoon app: TaskRaccoon Premium. Out of nowhere, Josh's app pop-up with a link to a Premium version of the app. It was an additional service where workers such as Josh would get a boosted fee for the same types of tasks plus, according to the app, receive "all the skills and know-how to complete the task to perfection." Josh figured that last bit was maybe the app providing how-to guides on how to complete the more common tasks, which he took as a nice freebie.

To lure users in, there was even an offer - sign-up to TaskRaccoon Premium, perform a randomly assigned task, and receive double the boosted fee. Josh had done his fair share of the most common tasks on the app already (walk my dog, assemble my shelves, do my groceries) so figured it was well worth his while to take the gamble. And so Josh bit the bullet, sign up for a Premium account, and waited to be given his first random task.

Without any pause and without any fanfare, Josh's first random task appeared: "I need someone to clean my pool". Josh groaned; it wasn't the first time he had seen a pool cleaning request but it was one he always chose to ignore because he felt he didn't have any of the right equipment and would have no idea where to start. And while this new Premium version had offered access to "skills and know-how", there only thing on the app was an address. Josh couldn't even see an option to cancel.

Josh wavered, but as he saw the blue sky outside and remembered the promise of a doubled fee, he decided to go for it. He could rake some leaves out of a pool easily enough. The address was only a 15 minute drive away, so Josh grabbed the keys to his mum's sedan and got going.

It felt good to be outside and Josh enjoyed the sunny drive. So much so that he didn't notice his mum's humble car begin to change. The front section became blockier and more basic, her touchscreen sat nav becoming an older model. The seats and interior decor became faded, and Josh had to readjust his seating position as the car seemed to somehow lift off the ground. The steering wheel grew in size and, to match it, bizarrely, so did Josh's hands. Without warning, Josh's pale hands began to darken in complexion and as they grasped the now-rough wheel Josh didn't notice the veins that ran down with now lean and well-rounded hands.

Josh pulled up to a red light, momentarily confused about how he seemed to sit above the surrounding cars. He also felt cramped in the car and realised that his seat was pushed up way too far. He, a bit embarrassingly, was the same height as his mum so he never normally had to adjust the seat, but as he pushed the seat back he realised just how much he needed to stretch out his legs. As the light turned to green, he was oblivious to his jeans riding up and becoming a loose pair of swimming shorts, revealing his now lengthy and toned legs, feathered with dark hair.

Josh pulled up at the designated address shortly after, a sizeable house in a nice neighbourhood. As he got of the car, he was for a moment confused by his need to climb out of the car and then felt off balance when he landed on the tarmac. Before he could interrogate any further though, he looked in surprise at the pick-up truck boot filled with pool cleaning gear. A voice in the back of Josh's mind told him to panic - why the hell did he suddenly have all this gear - but remembering that he had a job to do Josh collected the gear and approached the house. Josh stopped en route to take his jumper off to enjoy the warm sun, not noticing the way his new well-fitted tank top which hung closely to his chest and showed off his slightly more toned arms or the darker shade of his skin...

Josh carried the gear with surprising ease to the front door, and was warmly welcomed by a middle-aged women who introduced herself as Beth. Beth showed Josh to her garden where a medium-sized pool sat, clearly long overdue a clean. Josh thanked Beth, pausing a little at the vague lilt coming out of his month. Was it just him, or just his voice sound deeper...

Josh got to work. The pool needed much more than just some leaves removed but with every task, Josh found himself instinctively knowing what to do. Which pump to use, when to apply chemicals, how to get the pH levels perfect, it all just flooded into Josh's mind. And he was surprised at how flexible he was at reaching all the right places - Josh didn't love manual jobs but he almost felt like his reach had gotten better. It was hot work though and Josh removed his baseball hat and towelled his brow and face, briefly feeling unfamiliar stubble on his face and thick short locks of hair on his scalp.

It wasn't long before Josh has completed his job, a sense of pride sweeping over him as he stared into the now pristine waters. That pride however quickly morphed into confusion as he gazed at the reflection in the shimmering water. Maybe it was distorted, but there was no way that that tall, dark reflection could be him. He was shirt, slender, pale, wasn't he?

He dropped his net and stared at his hands. His suddenly thick, dark hands. Josh began to breath sharply as he noticed just how high up he was, that he was in an outfit that he had never bought, and that his short, pale self had seemingly been replaced with a tanned, lean body.

As Josh was clutching at his newly stubbled face and grasping at the space where his small paunch should be, Beth came out with a pitcher of cool lemonade. Josh spun around in panic, and before Beth could say anything he muttered "lo siento" and ran back to his car.

Josh stopped sharply outside as he stared at the beaten up pick up truck outside Beth's drive, a truck that sat where he thought his mum's sedan should be. A truck that keys in his pocket unlocked. Breathing deeply, and trying his best not to panic, he clampered into the car and pulled down the mirror, staring at the unfamiliar dark eyes that stared back at him. Dark eyes amongst a handsome face, with a strong chin covered in thick but trimmed stubble and framed by dark, tightly curled locks. "What the fuck" Josh uttered, eyes widening at the accented deep voice that emerged.

Josh explored his tightly muscled body now covered in a light sweat when his phone pinged. He unlocked it - the phone recognised his face even if Josh didn't - and the TaskRaccoon app popped up, showing a task completed and $500 dollars deposited in his account.

But what kept Josh's eye though were the other task options appearing. There were more pool cleaning jobs, but also other tasks ranging from moving furniture, plumbing, and even covering people's work shifts. Josh noted that there was an option to cancel his "Premium" membership, but some of the fees weren't to be sniffed at. His breathing calmed down and Josh sat into his car seat, and pondered his options.

To be continued...

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Hi all!

Some of you may have seen this story on other sites, but I'm bringing it to Tumblr for the first time and with pics! There will also be some small tweaks as I post over the next few weeks.

As always, welcome any feedback or chats!

#race change #male tf #racial transformation #male transformation #whitetolatino #TaskRaccoon #reality change

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malestransforming · 5 months ago

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The Locker Room Curse

Caleb and Jordan had always been the last ones out of school. Whether it was detention, sneaking into the AV room to play old horror movies, or just wandering the halls after dark, they liked pushing boundaries. That’s how they found the locker.

It was at the very end of the dimly lit hallway near the gym, a row of old, rusted lockers no one used anymore. Except one was… different. The number was worn away, its metal dented and scratched as if something had been trying to escape. But the thing that really caught their attention? The green glow leaking through the vents. “Dude, what the hell is that?” Caleb asked, taking a cautious step forward. Jordan smirked. “Only one way to find out.”

As they got closer, the glow pulsed, almost like it was… breathing. And then they heard it—whispers, calling their names, hissing promises of strength, power, something more.

“Open it,” the voice urged.

A normal person would’ve run. But they weren’t normal. With one final glance at each other, Caleb grabbed the handle and yanked it open.

A wave of stench hit them like a brick wall. The air was thick with the overwhelming odor of sweat, mildew, and decades of unwashed gym clothes. Inside, there was nothing but old sports gear: reeking cleats, yellowed tank tops, sweat-stained football pads, rank basketball shorts. The smell was unbearable, yet… intoxicating. Jordan coughed, eyes watering. “Bro, this is foul!”

Caleb felt the air shift the moment he opened the locker. The stench hit him first—a rancid, overwhelming wave of old sweat, mildew, and decades of unwashed gym clothes. It was the kind of smell that clung to the back of your throat, thick and nauseating. His stomach churned, and his eyes watered, but beneath the disgust, something else stirred. Something deep. Something primal.

Inside the locker, the contents looked mundane at first—battered cleats with laces frayed to the core, a cracked football helmet caked in dried sweat, a set of shoulder pads with yellowed foam and a stiff, sour texture. But the longer Caleb stared, the more the items seemed to pulse with an unnatural energy, glowing faintly under the sickly green light spilling from the locker’s depths. And then… he heard it. A voice, not quite a whisper, yet not fully formed, slithered into his mind.

“You’re not strong enough, Caleb.”

“You’re not tough enough.”

“But you could be.”

His hand moved on its own. Trembling, hesitant, he reached for the jersey draped over the pile—a faded maroon and gold football jersey, its fabric stiff with the ghosts of a thousand games. The second his fingers brushed against it, a jolt shot through his arm, freezing him in place.

The whispers grew louder.

“Put it on.”

His breath hitched. His skin crawled with an alien sensation, like something ancient and sweaty and overpowering was seeping into his pores, claiming him. He wanted to pull away. He wanted to turn back. But he didn’t. With a shaky breath, Caleb lifted the jersey and pulled it over his head. The moment it settled on his skin, his body seized.

A raw, burning heat ignited in his chest, spreading outward like wildfire. His veins pulsed, his muscles clenched, and then—It began.

His arms bulged, the once wiry limbs thickening with heavy, corded muscle. His pale, thin fingers swelled, his nails darkening as calluses formed on his palms—hands meant for gripping a football, for tackling, for dominating the field. The sleeves of the jersey, which had once hung loose, now stretched tight around his broadening shoulders as his chest expanded, his pecs pushing against the fabric.

A deep, bone-cracking pop echoed through his body as his spine lengthened, his torso widening, ribs pushing outward to accommodate his newfound bulk. His waist remained trim, but his legs—God, his legs. They exploded with power. His thighs thickened into massive trunks of pure muscle, the kind built for speed and impact. His calves coiled with strength, tendons reshaping to give him the reflexes of a seasoned athlete. The worn denim of his jeans strained, seams groaning, before splitting apart entirely.

Beneath them, his skin had darkened to a golden tan, the complexion of someone who had spent years under the relentless sun, practicing, sweating, grinding. His breathing hitched. The scent in the air—it wasn’t just coming from the locker anymore. It was coming from him. A thick, acrid musk seeped from his pores, pungent and overpowering. The smell of locker rooms, weight rooms, and endless summer practices baked into his very being. It clung to him, an unshakable part of who he was becoming.

His face twisted, his features shifting, molding into something new. His jawline became sharper, his cheekbones more pronounced. His nose broadened slightly, his lips plumping as a hint of stubble darkened his jaw. His straight, dull brown hair darkened, thickening into black waves, slightly damp with sweat, as though he had just come off the field. And then, the memories hit.

Flashes of games under the Friday night lights. The roar of the crowd. The brutal clash of bodies on the field. The sweat dripping down his face, his jersey clinging to his body after hours of practice. The pride, the adrenaline, the hunger to win.

He wasn’t Caleb anymore. He was Carlos.

Carlos Gutiérrez, the star linebacker of a high school football team, a natural-born athlete, built for brutality and victory. He lived for the game, for the weight of his shoulder pads digging into his skin, for the smell of sweat and dirt filling his lungs, for the unbreakable bond between teammates forged through blood, pain, and glory.

Carlos exhaled, rolling his massive shoulders as the old, sweat-stained football pads settled onto him like a second skin. His thick, muscled arms flexed instinctively, and he grinned. He stank. God, he stank. And he loved it.

Jordan watched in horror… and fascination. The whispering voices curled around him now, seducing him, calling to him. His fingers brushed against a pair of old basketball shorts, and before he could even think, he was stepping into them.

Carlos stood beside him now, a hulking, sweat-drenched football player, reeking of masculinity, muscles pushing against his pads, veins thick with strength. But Jordan barely noticed—his gaze was empty and lost.

He gasped.

His chest seized, his muscles tensed, and then— Everything snapped. Heat rushed through his body, a fiery, electric sensation that crawled beneath his skin, reshaping him, molding him, building him into something new.

His legs exploded first. The once-skinny limbs thickened, lengthened, stretching toward the ceiling as his femurs expanded, his knees cracking, his calves coiling with fast-twitch muscle built for speed and agility. His thighs ballooned with dense, powerful strength, the kind that could launch him into the air with effortless grace and dominance. His sneakers groaned, the rubber soles bending as his feet grew larger, broader, sculpted for the relentless pounding of a basketball court. Then came his torso.

His spine elongated with a sickening pop, his entire frame stretching upward, pushing past six feet with ease. His ribs shifted, his shoulders broadened, his chest expanded into a lean, chiseled masterpiece of athleticism. His arms, once gangly and unremarkable, swelled with defined muscle, his biceps and triceps sculpting themselves into perfection, his forearms corded with strength meant for fast breaks and powerful dunks. And the sweat. Oh, God, the sweat.

It erupted from his skin, thick, salty, pungent. A powerful, musky stench filled the air, soaking into the shorts he now wore, mingling with the decades-old scent of past players. It was ripe, overwhelming, completely inescapable. And it was his. Jordan choked on his own scent, but instead of disgust, he felt pride. He smelled like a baller, like an athlete, like someone who had spent his entire life drenched in the effort, the grind, the glory of the game. His skin darkened, shifting from pale to a rich, warm brown, smooth and glistening with sweat. His features morphed—his jawline sharpening, his cheekbones becoming more defined.

The two new athletes locked eyes. A strange understanding passed between them. The boys they had been—the nerds who had snuck around school, who had never set foot on a field or court—were gone.

Carlos rolled his massive shoulders, the dampness of his pads seeping into his skin. “Damn, bro,” he grunted, his voice thick with a Spanish accent he hadn’t had before. “I feel… good.”

Jamal bounced on the balls of his feet, spinning a phantom basketball on his fingertips. His body dripped with a constant layer of sweat, his scent thick, overpowering, dominant. “Hell yeah, man,” he smirked, cracking his neck. “Feels like I was born for this.”

The locker door slammed shut behind them, the green glow fading. The whispers died away.

All that was left was the stench of the two stinking boys.

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malestransforming · 6 months ago

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That Time I Became a Firefighter

The screech of the sirens damn well nearly deafened Lucas. Two firetrucks careened past him, pulling up to the smoking house just up the road he was walking along.

Ahead he saw a bright red engines stop in the middle of the road, and a dozen firefighters jump out and go to work. They were all dressed in light brown clothing, with orange and silver reflective stripes around their wrists, chest and angles. Amid the chaos, they ran around carrying ladders, hoses and other equipment. They seemed cool and calm under pressure: totally in control of themselves and without worry. Admittedly it was hard for Lucas to truly know how they seemed as many of the firefighters had their faces covered by a breathing mask, but still it was nice to imagine.

Lucas found himself paused now, standing on the sidewalk, and staring at the commotion with his jaw slightly agape.

“Pretty cool, right?” A voice called out from beside him. He turned and saw a row of firefighters standing together watching him.

“Yeah… It is,” Lucas stammered a reply. The whole scene really did feel alive with emotion, and while “cool” wasn’t exactly the best description of someone’s house burning down, being a firefighter certainly beat the excitement of Lucas’ job at the Apple store.

One of the guys stepped forward, away from the rest of them, towards Lucas. He approached with a sooted hand outside. Lucas saw he had a heavy looking metal cylinder strapped to his shoulders.

“I’m Dave,” he said.

“Lucas,” Lucas replied, shaking his hand.

Dave gestured to the people running around them. Lucas saw they were dousing the house with water. Several of them carried large, pointed poles. The damage was extensive, and the situation was dire, but all Lucas could focus on were the firefighters with their awesome equipment, incredible physiques, and amazing jobs.

“Wanna give it a go?” Dave asked.

Lucas simply nodded. It was all he had ever wanted. He wanted to be a firefighter more than anything.

The changes began instantly. Lucas’ muscles grew stronger and thicker. His jeans became tighter as his spine cracked and lengthened. Powerful biceps grew onto his arms, replacing the weak noodles he had before. All the better, considering how much weight he would need to be pulling around. The rest of his frame filled out, creating a wider, huskier and more muscled build. He was bulky and wide but he was still able to move quickly and with purpose.

In his mind, Lucas gained new knowledge about fighting fires and fire safety. Exercising and working out became the most important action in his life.

Dave stood in front, proud of the man Lucas had grown into. “You feel okay, brother?”

A dopey grin spread across Lucas' face. He absentmindedly flicked a tangle of hair out from his eyes. “Hell yeah, Cap!” Lucas responded, his voice lower and huskier now.

“Good. Go get your gear and help the guys air out the second floor.”

Lucas ran over to the truck where he knew his bunker gear was. He kicked off his shoes and shoved his feet into the black boots before pulling up the pants and hooking the suspenders over his shoulders. He tossed his bunker coat over his beefy arms and zipped it up. He grabbed his air pack and strapped it to his back, putting the shoulder straps down with a hard tug.

His SCBA air mask hung down by his legs. Lucas grabbed it and shoved it down over his head. He snapped his helmet on top and clipped his air supply into the front of the mask, breathing the oxygen with a sharp hiss from the tank on his back.

A voice came over the radio telling Lucas to join the rest of the crew at the front of the building and start pulling down debris with a pike pole. Lucas grinned, relishing the excitement of his career. He looked down at himself dressed in brown bunker gear, and ran his gloved hand up and down the rough fabric. He looked fucking amazing and he felt even better.

#male tf story #reality change #muscle transformation #jock transformation #male tf #male transformation #racial change #firefighter tf #firefighter transformation #firefighter

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malestransforming · 7 months ago

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Coach Knows Best: Stepbrothers No More

Michael always felt like a misfit in his new home. Ever since his dad married his stepmom, his life turned into a tangled mess of tension and insecurity. While Michael was a introspective boy, pale, skinny and totally into books and tech, his stepbrother Rafael was the complete opposite: a jock, with latino bronzed skin, super popular, and always surrounded by his crew. This glaring difference never went unnoticed, and from the get-go, Rafael made it crystal clear that he didn’t see Michael in a good light.

The first time they met was at a family dinner. Michael was sweating bullets, trying to fit in and impress the new family. But Rafael, instead of being suportive, threw out comments that their parents thought were funny, but just made Michael feel small and embarrassed.

Days rolled by, and the vibe between the brothers didn’t get any better. Every time Michael tried to get close, Rafael would brush him off with some snarky attitude. At school, Rafael was the classic popular kid, while Michael just watched from the sidelines, too scared to join in. Loneliness started to feel like his only companion.

The parents, totally clueless about the rising tension, kept praising Rafael for his sports wins, while Michael was just fading into the background. “Hey, Michael, check out how talented your brother is at football!” his dad would say, and Michael would force a smile, feeling invisible. He couldn’t wrap his head around why his folks didn’t see that Rafael was constantly belittling him.

One holiday, the family decided to hit the road for a trip. Michael was stoked, hoping a change of scenery might shake things up. But things took a wild turn. During the trip, Rafael made it his mission to roast Michael, calling him “nerd” and “weirdo” in front of their cousins. Feeling humiliated, Michael backed off, seeking solace in a secluded corner of the house.

While the parents were busy having a blast, Michael sat alone, thinking about how different life could be. He dreamed of being accepted, not just by Rafael, but by the whole family. But that hope always felt out of reach.

After they got back home, the situation didn’t improve. Rafael kept mocking Michael, and every day he seemed to get more kicks out of making his brother feel inferior. One day, while Michael was studying in his room, Rafael barged in without knocking. “What are you doing? Studying for the next math competition?” he laughed, making Michael feel even smaller.

“I’m just trying to focus,” Michael replied, trying to brush off his brother. Rafael just shrugged and walked out, leaving Michael alone with his thoughts again. He began to wonder if there was something wrong with him, if he was really as weird as Rafael made him out to be.

The parents, meanwhile, were too wrapped up in their own lives to notice the complicated dynamic between the brothers. Michael felt like his attempts to fit in were only driving them further apart. They never caught on to Rafael’s hostile antics and always seemed shocked when Michael expressed his frustration.

In a moment of desperation, Michael decided to talk to his dad about how he felt. He hoped, maybe naively, that his dad would help him understand the situation. But instead, his dad just smiled. “Oh, Rafael’s just messing around, Michael. That's how brothers roll!” The response left Michael speechless, and he walked out of the room with a deeper sense of rejection.

As time went on, Michael’s frustration started to morph into anger. He didn’t want to be the victim of Rafael’s jokes anymore. One day, while Rafael and his friends were laughing and poking fun at him, Michael decided he’d had enough. He stepped up, trying to confront them with some guts. “Why do you always have to put me down?” he asked, his voice steady.

Rafael looked at him, surprised by his brother’s guts. “Because it’s fun, Michael. You’re such an easy target,” he shot back with a sarcastic grin. That moment was a turning point for Michael. He realized he’d never get Rafael’s approval and needed to find a way to stand up for himself.

In the following days, Michael started diving into what he truly loved: tech. He spent hours in his room learning to code and make games. His passion for technology began to shape his identity, pulling him out of Rafael’s shadow. He felt more confident in his skills, but the relationship with Rafael remained tense.

One night, while Michael was at his computer, Rafael barged in again, this time with a challenging look. “What are you up to? Making another little game for the nerds?” he mocked. Michael took a deep breath, deciding he wouldn’t let it get to him anymore. “Actually, I’m working on a game that could be way cooler than you think,” he shot back.

Rafael laughed, but Michael realized that instead of feeling defeated, he was feeling empowered. With each insult, he grew stronger in his identity. He started to find himself in his passion and decided he didn’t need Rafael’s or their parents’ validation.

The parents, oblivious to this transformation, continued to think everything was peachy. They didn’t see Michael’s internal struggle or how Rafael treated him. This only fueled Michael’s frustration, but at the same time, he began to feel more secure in himself.

Over time, Michael became more reserved, but the confidence he gained from focusing on tech started to shine. He made new friends online and started entering coding competitions. With each win, Michael felt further away from Rafael’s negativity.

One time, during a coding competition, Michael scored big with his innovative project. He came home buzzing, eager to share the news.

When Michael walked in with the news still fresh, his eyes sparkled with happiness. He couldn’t wait to share his victory with his parents. When they saw him, they immediately dropped everything and ran to him, grinning. “Michael! You actually did it? We’re so proud of you!” his stepmom exclaimed, hugging him tight. His dad, with an admiring look, added, “You’re a real genius, kid! Check out what you’ve accomplished! Rafael could learn a lot from you.”

Rafael, who was on the couch playing video games, looked up, shocked and visibly annoyed. He expected to be the center of attention, as always, and the sudden praise for Michael’s achievements left him feeling uneasy. “But... I do cool stuff too,” he protested, trying to get his parents’ attention back. But his mom ignored him, continuing to praise Michael. “That’s true, Rafael, but you need to step up your game. Michael put in the work and is now getting rewarded. That’s how it’s done!” Her words hit Rafael in a way he wasn’t used to, and frustration started to creep onto his face.

In that moment, Michael felt a mix of joy and relief. It was the first time his parents publicly acknowledged his skills and dedication, while Rafael was left in the dust. He realized he was finally breaking free from the burden of being compared to his brother. His parents’ pride pushed him to keep chasing his passions, and he felt more determined than ever not to let Rafael’s negativity get to him again.

Rafael’s anger, on the other hand, was boiling inside him like a storm ready to explode. Ever since Michael started shining in the coding world, Rafael felt increasingly threatened, and that was the final straw. The idea that his brother, who he always considered beneath him, could glow and get the recognition he’d always craved for himself was unbearable. The frustration of the role reversal left Rafael in a state of constant irritation. To him, the prestige Michael had earned wasn’t just a blow to his ego, but an invasion of his turf, and apparently, not even his usual threats would have the desired effect. And for the first time in his life, the arrogant boy wasn't sure of his place and even worse, what to do.

…

Coach Steele, a middle-aged dude with blonde hair and a strong build, watched the football team’s practices with a critical eye. He’d always been a mentor to Rafael, admiring the kid for his talent and dedication on the field while ignoring his knack for causing trouble off it. But lately, he noticed something had shifted in the young wide receiver’s attitude. After practice, Steele called Rafael over for a chat, stepping away from the group to a more private spot.

“Hey, Rafael,” Steele started, looking serious. “I’ve noticed you’re not playing with the same intensity as before. What’s up? You seem distracted.” Rafael hesitated, but the frustration building up in his chest began to spill out. “It’s my brother, Michael. He’s killing it in coding and my parents can’t stop talking about him. It feels like I’m losing my spot, you know? He’s a nerd, and suddenly, everyone seems to like him more.”

Instead of trying to educate Rafael about the importance of accepting others' achievements, Steele leaned in, putting a comforting hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Look, I get how you feel. Sometimes the competition at home can be tougher than on the field. But I’ve got a plan for you,” the coach said, leaning in a bit closer as if he was about to share a big secret. “I’ve got the solution to your problem, and it’s something that’ll make things a whole lot easier.” What the coach didn’t say was that it would be a lot easier for him too; after all, he couldn’t allow that kind of weakness that the kid showed on his team.

…..

It was a chill afternoon when Michael got home after a long day at school, even though his work was just beginning. After dumping his stuff in the living room, he decided to head to his room, ready for more hours of coding. However, as soon as he walked in, he noticed his headset was missing. He started searching the entire house but came up empty. With a gut feeling, he thought maybe Rafael had taken it in some petty revenge or just because he never respected his brother’s stuff. Gaining some courage, he decided to head to the other boy's room. He knocked on the door, but there was no answer. With a mix of curiosity, fear, and determination, he opened the door.

Upon entering, a strong smell of sweat hit him. The sight of clothes strewn all over the room was chaos. But to his surprise, there was his headset, thrown on the bed. Excited, Michael rushed towards it, but fate had other plans. As he stepped on a sneaker lying on the floor, which he could’ve sworn moved on its own, he lost his balance and, in a disastrous move, fell onto the pile of clothes on Rafael's bed. His nose was immediately assaulted by the pungent musk of his brother. However, that wasn’t what truly freaked him out. It seemed that the sweat-soaked clothes of Rafael had the power to dissolve Michael's own clothes, and he quickly found himself naked and unable to move amidst the rags that were his former garments and his brother’s stinky clothes.

As he struggled to free himself and make sense of the bizarre situation, Rafael walked in, his eyes gleaming with mischief upon seeing Michael stuck in his dirty laundry. A wicked smile spread across his face. “Look who decided to invade my space and landed in hot water! Thought you could rise above me, huh? You were dead wrong, nerd,” Rafael mocked, crossing his arms. “You really thought standing up to me would change anything? Coach Steele has a plan for you, and I can guarantee you’ll never be a problem for me or anyone else again.”

“What the hell is this? What are you doing?”

“Right now, just enjoying the show, brother.”

Suddenly, and seemingly on its own, a jockstrap slid up Michael's unmoving legs, settling around his waist. Next, a pair of compression shorts and a loose t-shirt with cut-off sleeves followed suit. Finally, filthy, crusty socks slipped onto his feet, and the same giant sneakers he tripped over wrapped around his feet, while one of Rafael's caps firmly positioned itself on Michael’s head.

As the clothes settled onto Michael’s body, he started to feel a strange sensation coursing through him. His skin felt like it was tingling, as if thousands of tiny electric shocks were racing across it.

Slowly, his muscles began to contract and expand, as if they had a life of their own. His arms, once skinny and delicate, started to beef up, veins popping out beneath his skin. His biceps swelled, taking on the shape of cannonballs, while his triceps defined, creating an impressive structure in his arms.

His chest puffed out, muscles bulking up to create an imposing, sculpted torso. His back widened, shoulders broadening and gaining a powerful appearance. His waist, once slim, expanded, making way for a hard, sculpted abdomen, each muscle defined.

His legs were no exception. His thighs thickened, muscles contracting and expanding with every move. His calves hardened, taking on an athletic, muscular look. His feet, once small, now felt gigantic inside the sneakers.

Meanwhile, his face also underwent changes. His features became more defined, jawline more pronounced, lips fuller. His eyes took on a different shine, a more intense and determined expression. Even his hair seemed to have gained more volume and texture.

Rafael stood frozen, watching his brother’s transformation with a mix of fascination and fear. He never imagined Michael could become so imposing, so strong. The silence in the room was thick, as Michael’s muscles gained bulk and definition. With each passing second, Rafael felt his confidence plummet, an unfamiliar sense of insecurity creeping into his chest.

“This can’t be happening,” Rafael whispered, trying to convince himself it was just a trick of the mind, an illusion brought on by the anger and disdain he always felt for Michael. But the reality before him was undeniable: his brother was turning into an upgraded version of himself, a rival in his own turf.

As Michael’s transformation intensified, Rafael began to feel a chill down his spine. What once seemed like a prank was becoming more serious. He recalled the chat he had with Coach Steele, and the thought that this could be part of a plan to humiliate him put him on high alert. “You can’t do this! You can’t be better than me!” he yelled, his voice choked with indignation.

But Michael seemed oblivious to all this, immersed in the change happening to him. The muscles of his body glistened, and his skin began to take on the same bronzed hue that Rafael always flaunted. Michael’s face, which once reflected his nerdy, introverted essence, started to mold, features surrealistically adjusting. Rafael watched in horror as Michael’s jaw became more square and his lips fuller, like he was looking at a mirror.

“No, no, no!” Rafael shouted, involuntarily stepping back. He was facing a transformation that went beyond the physical. The despair would have been even greater had he known that Michael was absorbing not just his appearance, but his essence, interests, and even his aspirations. Michael’s passions for tech and coding began to fade, giving way to a desire to be an athlete, to stand out in football, to win the popularity that Rafael had always enjoyed.

The anguish and desperation of Rafael became palpable. He felt suffocated by the idea that his brother, the one he always looked down on, was becoming a carbon copy of him. “This can’t be real!” he cried, almost in tears, as the final transformation drew near.

With one last spark in his eyes, Michael’s face became a perfect replica of his brother’s. The sight was so surreal that Rafael could barely process it. It was as if the universe itself was conspiring for him to lose everything he had always possessed.

And, as if the transformation was complete, the cap, which had been on Michael flew off and landed on Rafael’s head. He felt a wave of dizziness, as if an invisible force was pulling his consciousness away. “What’s happening?” he shouted, but no answer came. Darkness began to close in on his vision, and before he could resist, Rafael suddenly lost consciousness.

As the identical boys lay asleep together in the same bed full of dirty clothes, what remained was a deep silence, an echo of a rivalry that had finally extinguished, while the new bonds uniting the two brothers formed a path where what was once were rivalry became true brotherhood as the fabric of reality rewove itself.

…

The next morning, the school locker room buzzed with the usual energy before football practice. Miguel and Rafael, inseparable identical twins, were getting ready, each adjusting their gear and warming up for the session. The atmosphere was light, filled with friendly teasing and laughter.

“Think you can catch the ball like I do?” Miguel teased, tying his cleats. “I bet even a five-year-old could do better than you, bro.”

Rafael laughed, playfully shoving him. “Please! If you had half the skill I do, we’d be guaranteed a win! But hey, you can play on the nerds’ math team.”

“I’ll show you who the nerd is, you asshole,” Miguel replied, throwing a punch at his brother’s powerful chest.

The fun was abruptly interrupted when Coach Steele strolled into the locker room, his imposing presence immediately demanding the players’ attention. “Sanches!” he bellowed, his voice echoing off the walls.

“Yes, sir!” the two replied in unison, a dynamic between them that had become automatic. The way they looked at each other, a knowing smile on their faces, showed that their previous rivalry had transformed into something different.

Steele eyed the two with a look of doubt. “Is there a conflict between you guys?” he asked, crossing his arms. “Because if there is, I want to know now.”

“No, coach! It’s just kidding around,” Rafael said, winking at Miguel. “We’re not competing; we’re a team! Since our mom’s womb, right, bro?”

“Exactly! We save the aggression for the opponents,” Miguel added, giving Rafael a light punch on the shoulder. The lighthearted vibe between them was undeniable.

The coach nodded, clearly relieved. “It’s good that things stay that way. The last thing I need is internal fighting before a big game,” he said, watching the brothers interact with a satisfied smile. Another problem solved, and the season had barely started. What other kind of nonsense would he have to deal with by the end of the year? In reality, it didn’t matter that much because he knew he’d handle any other crap that came up. With a wider smile, the Coach confidently headed to the field to kick off that day’s practice.

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