mathhypnostories

[mathhypnostories]

Made him think I'm his bro, just met him this morning. But now I felt like having some undisturbed explorations...

[mathhypnostories]

Reshaping Minds

It was a calm afternoon at the coffee lounge of a high-end hotel in Miami. The kind of place with overpriced lattes, but money was never a problem for me. I had my sunglasses on, my iced coffee in hand, and my radar fully tuned for potential fun. That’s when I saw him.

A goddamn tank of a man.

He stood near the espresso bar, stretching his thick arms in a tight navy-blue tee, making his muscles bulge like he was carved from marble, and his tribal tattoo wrapped around his huge bicep, making him hotter and manlier than everyone at the lounge. His beard was neatly trimmed, baseball cap turned backward, and he had that smug alpha energy straight dudes ooze when they think the world owes them a trophy.

He wasn't alone—They never are—His girlfriend was clinging to him like a purse, giggling at something he said. But I wasn’t looking at her. Heck no. I was focused on the fine piece of muscles that was her boyfriend.

I slid off my lounge chair, walked right up to them, and smiled. "Hey, you two look like you could use some fun."

The woman blinked at me confused. The man raised an eyebrow. "Uh, we’re good, man."

I tilted my head. "You sure? I mean, you’ve got all that meat on you, big guy. Seems like a waste if you’re not being properly used."

He turned to face me fully, clearly annoyed. "The hell is that supposed to mean?"

I leaned in just slightly, grinning. "It means you're the kind of thick-brained, thick-bodied beefcake that's good for one thing. Being used. Bent. Owned."

His girlfriend gasped, pulling his arm. "Honey, let’s go. He’s a creep."

But something was happening already inside the man's brain. He didn’t move. Just stared at me.

"What... what the fuck did you say?" he muttered again, but his voice cracked. There it was! His eyes were getting heavier. I stepped closer, like a snake charming its prey. My fingers barely brushed his chest.

"I said you were made to be used. That mind of yours? Serves for nothing but to control your sexy body. No thoughts, just instinct. Grunt when told. Flex when needed. Obey when commanded."

My words pierced his brain. His eyes twitched. His thick chest rose with a heavy breath. I could see his pupils dilating, his mouth parting just a little. "You don’t need to think, big guy. Thinking is for people with something between their ears. Not you."

His girlfriend kept tugging at his arm, but he just stood there. "Honey? Hello? Babe!"

He slowly turned to her, blinked dumbly, then looked back at me. His brows relaxed. His lips parted more. A little line of drool started collecting at the corner of his mouth.

I let out a low chuckle and stepped even closer, almost whispering now. "That's it... Let my words sink in. Let them take root. You're just a toy now. A dumb, hot, perfect toy." His head tilted slightly, eyes half-closed, mouth wide open, and his tongue was hanging loose. Drool dripping down his beard.

The transformation was delicious. My words did far more than just implant commands, they literally reshaped my prey's brain. If you listen carefully, you will hear the wet sounds of his brain moving, shrinking, and molding to my liking. As if his brain were clay, and my words a sculptor's skilled hands.

His girlfriend panicked, backing away. "What the hell are you doing to him!?"

I looked at her calmly. "Relax. He’s finally where he belongs." And then I snapped my fingers in front of her face. Her eyes blinked rapidly. Her mouth opened slightly, then shut. She shivered, then slowly nodded, expression blanking into stunned acceptance.

"He belongs to you now," she said softly. Like she was reading from a script etched into her mind.

I smiled. "You're smarter than him, I see." I turned to the hunk, grabbed his chin and turned his head. "Say you're mine.'"

A moment of silence. Then, in a slow, slurred drawl, he mumbled, "Uhhhm yuhhhrs... suhh..."

Perfect. I gave his cheek a playful pat. "Now listen to me, big guy. That face right there? Dumb. Mindless. Empty. That's your natural expression from now on, you will always look like this. With your eyes heavy and tongue hanging out, blank, docile, and stupid. Got it?"

He gave a soft grunt, lips still parted. His eyes stayed glazed and dull. Good. I turned back to his girlfriend. "You see him now, don’t you? He’s not boyfriend material anymore. He’s too far gone. Too dumb."

She stared at him in silence, then at me. "Yeah... he’s not really... boyfriend material anymore."

"Nope. He’s just a gay sex slave now. A muscle puppet with no brain. Not something you want to bring home to mom or build a family with."

She exhaled sharply. "He’s all yours. I can't date someone that... vacant."

I chuckled, stepping between them and placing a possessive hand on his chest, rubbing his pecs slowly through the thin fabric of his shirt. He didn’t flinch. Just stared into the distance, drool rolling steadily down his tongue. "Smart choice," I said to her. "He’s better off this way. Obedient. Mindless. Always ready. I will take good care of him, don't worry."

She gave a nod and walked away without another word. I turned my full attention to the hunk, both palms now pressed against his chest, playing with his nipples through his shirt, gently twisting them.

He didn’t resist. Didn’t blink. "Good boy," I whispered. "You’re going to make me very happy aren't you?" And he just stood there, blank face locked in, waiting to serve. "Flex for me, boy."

Like a well-oiled machine, the hunk obeyed. His thick, tattooed biceps rose in a slow, powerful curl, veins bulging beneath the ink as his massive arm tightened. He grunted softly, not out of effort—he was too strong for that—but from instinct, like a beast performing on command. I stepped in and ran my hand over his flexed arm, squeezing the hardness of his muscle. My thumb pressed into the peak of his bicep.

"Come, Daddy. Let’s go upstairs."

When we entered my suite, I turned and commanded, "Strip. Now."

He tore off his clothes with urgent clumsiness, revealing every inch of that sculpted Daddy body. His pecs were massive and his thighs were like tree trunks. And between them—his cock. 9 Inches, Thick. Veiny. Fully erect and already leaking.

"On your knees, boy."

The mindless beast dropped instantly, muscles flexing as he settled in front of me. I sat on the edge of the bed, spread my legs wide, and yanked his head toward my crotch. I made him sniff my bulge, and while he took in my musk, I touched his forehead and implanted into his ruined brain everything he needed to know about being a good cock sucking whore.

"Use that whore mouth. Now."

He pulled my cock out and sucked. Greedy. Needy. His lips stretched over my shaft as I gripped his head and rammed myself into his throat. No rhythm. No gentleness. Just ownership.

I used his mouth like a hole. Like a toy. Like he was nothing more than a slab of muscle with a wet hole attached to it. I fucked this handsome Daddy's face, hard and deep, my cock slamming the back of his throat again and again until he gagged. Spit and precum drooled from his lips as I held his head down against my pubes.

"That’s it, Daddy. Choke on your Master's cock. You love being used, don’t you? Just a stupid muscle toy." He moaned through the assault, drool bubbling at the corners of his slack mouth. I slapped his cheek with one hand as I thrust harder, relentlessly.

"You're nothing now. Just a dumb, cock-hungry fuckdoll. Your brain’s gone. Your girl’s gone. All you are is a hole for me to use."

I could hear the wet sloopy sounds—not from the blowjob—but from inside his skull. His brain was being reshaped nonstop with each word that came out of my mouth.

The pressure built. I snarled, shoved his face against my pubes, and came—thick, violent spurts blasting down his throat and spilling out of his mouth. I pulled out mid-release, resting my cock against his panting face, painting his cheeks with cum and spit on the process.

"Good boy, I'm very pleased with your service," I growled, slapping my wet cock against his tongue, "Now your brain will shrink to the size of a grape." The sound his brain made this time was louder as it shrunk to the size of a grape. If I thought his face couldn't get any dumber, the face he made now surpassed that.

He fell to the floor like a limp doll, his thick cock still thobbing hard and leaking. I would make his brain go back to its normal size later, but for now, I will enjoy my new brainless toy.

[mathhypnostories]

Brock didn’t understand why he removed his shirt and froze like a statue when the stranger man with the deep melodic voice told him to do so. All he knew was that it sounded like a good idea and felt amazing to obey him. He felt even better when the man told him go mindless.

[mathhypnostories]

[mathhypnostories]

Spray The Brain

My neighbor’s hot son, Nick, always has that sweaty jock glow when he comes home from playing football with his friends. I watch him from my window—his bronzed skin soaked in sweat, clinging to his muscular frame. Today, I decide it’s finally time to do something about it.

In my basement lab, I’ve been working on something dangerous: a special spray. It’s filled with a brain-eating ameba I engineered myself—microscopic creatures that devour the higher functions of the brain, turning gray matter into compliant mush. But the body? The body stays perfect—obedient, functional, responsive.

I walk outside my house and call out to him, hiding the spray bottle behind my back. He turns to me, panting, curious. I blast the spray right into his face. One quick burst should be enough, I think.

He blinks in confusion. Then I see it—the change. His eyes go unfocused. His mouth slackens, tongue slipping out just a little. That vacant, dumb look settles on his face, the kind only someone with a brain turned to mush could wear. He stands there, still and empty. Mine.

"Follow me inside, Nick," I say.

"Hhh... f-follow... me... i-inside... N-Nick..." he mumbles back, struggling. He can't form words of his own anymore—not with his brain so far gone.

He obeys without hesitation, sweat still dripping from his hard pecs and sliding down the ridges of his abs. I lead him into the house and ease him into a chair.

As I look down at him, my cock gets hard. I quickly kneel between his legs, letting my tongue savor the salty taste of his abdomen. I trace my hands over his chest, nibble his nipples, and worship every drop of sweat his body has to offer.

"You taste so good, even better than I imagined," I murmur, sucking gently on one of his nipples.

"Hhhh... y-you... t-taste... sssso... good... b-better... than... I—I imaaaaagined..." he echoes in broken syllables, drool trailing down his chin.

"Yes, you do, you brainless fucker. Now let’s see what you’ve been hiding."

I pull his shorts down, revealing a thick, heavy cock—drenched in sweat and musky sweat after hours playing football. I press my face into his balls, inhaling deeply, letting the scent flood my senses. He stiffens, and I take his shaft into my mouth.

I lick. I suck. I feast.

I spent half an hour playing with Nick's cock and balls when he started to show signs of awareness.

"Ahh... wha—wha’s... happ’nin’...?" he slurs, his eyes glazed down at me with his cock inside my mouth. "F-feels... weird... wh-what are you... d-doing?"

Shit! There’s still something left inside his head. I thought one burst would be enough to wipe his brain clean. Guess not. So I grabbed the spray and hit him with two more doses—One extra for good measure.

"C-can’t... think... brain’s... s-slippin’..." he mutters, drooling more as a lazy grin spreads across his face and his eyes roll back. He looks even dumber now—empty in the best way.

"There we go. Now you’re officially my personal musktoy," I say as I mount him and start riding his cock while he just sits there like a doll—expression blank, lips parted, tongue peeking out lazily. A beautiful, sweaty, mindless slave. No thoughts, just body.

[mathhypnostories]

Candle wishes

Well another one of AI stories with my ideas. To be honest I want to try something a bit different with a mix of transformation but overall with that spicy of corruption. I will do one single post now, but will include two endings here (a win and a lose ending).

Also, this is my final AI story for now. Is not that I have no more ideas, but I reach a limit on how much I can prompt to Grok without breaking its guidelines. Hope you liked this ride as much as I did.

Chapter 1: The Wish That Rewrote Reality

Angela sat on the edge of her bed in her childhood bedroom, her arms crossed tightly, her scowl deepening with every replay of her latest fight with her boyfriend, Nick. The small room in her parents’ house felt like a cage tonight, the pastel walls and faded posters a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside her. She’d moved back home after college to save money, but it meant dealing with her family’s chaos—and Nick’s infuriating behavior. They’d argued again, this time at the diner where she’d tried to have a serious talk about their future. Instead, Nick had spent the whole date talking about his construction crew’s latest prank—something involving a porta-potty and a lot of hot sauce—laughing like it was the funniest thing in the world while Angela sat there, fuming.

“Why are men like this?” she muttered, kicking off her sneakers and pacing the room. “All they think about is sex, or gross stuff, or food. I just… I don’t understand them at all.” She glanced at the photo on her desk—her and Nick at a carnival last summer, his arm around her, both of them smiling. She loved him, but lately, it felt like they were on different planets.

Her eyes landed on the small tin box on her dresser, a thrift store find she’d picked up earlier that day. It was a rusted vintage tin with a faded label: “Wishing Candles – 5 Wishes to Change Your Fate.” Inside were five tiny black candles, each the size of a birthday candle, their wicks untouched. The shopkeeper—a strange, wiry man with a crooked smile—had called them “special,” but Angela had brushed it off as a gimmick. Still, she’d bought them, thinking they’d be a fun distraction. Now, though, with her frustration boiling over, they felt like a lifeline.

She grabbed the tin, popped it open, and pulled out one of the candles, its surface cool and smooth in her hand. A small note inside the box caught her eye: “Light the candle, make your wish, and blow it out. Your fate will shift. WARNING: No undone wishes.” She scoffed. “Sure, whatever. What’s the worst that can happen?”

She set the candle on her desk, struck a match, and lit the wick. The flame flickered, casting a strange golden glow across the room, and a faint scent of cinnamon filled the air. Angela closed her eyes, her anger and longing for understanding swirling together. “I wish I could understand men,” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. She blew out the candle.

The room spun. A sharp, electric jolt coursed through her body, and her vision blurred, the golden glow of the candle flame searing into her mind. She gasped, clutching her chest, but the sensation overwhelmed her, and she blacked out, collapsing onto the bed.

When Angela opened her eyes, the room was dark, the candle extinguished, its wax melted into a small puddle on the desk. Her head throbbed, and her body felt… wrong. Heavy. Different. She groaned, sitting up, and froze as her hands brushed against her chest. Flat. Her curves were gone. She looked down, her breath catching—her breasts were gone, replaced by a broad, flat chest with a dusting of dark hair. Her hands flew to her face, feeling a sharp jawline, stubble prickling her fingertips. She stumbled to the mirror on her wall, her heart pounding, and stared at the reflection.

A man stared back. He was lean but toned, with short, dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and deep brown eyes—her eyes, but in a face that wasn’t hers. Or… was it? He touched his reflection, his hands trembling. “What the hell?” His voice was deeper, a masculine timbre that sent a shiver down his spine. He looked down, pulling at the waistband of his pants—now loose around his narrower hips—and confirmed it. He was a man. Fully, undeniably a man.

The tin of candles sat on the desk, the note glaring up at him: No undone wishes. Panic surged through him, and he grabbed his phone, scrolling through his contacts. His name in the settings read “Angel,” not Angela. His social media profiles showed a guy’s face—his new face—posing with friends, at the gym, at family barbecues. Photos of him as Angela were gone, replaced by a lifetime of memories he didn’t have: playing basketball with his brother, drinking with his buddies, moving back into his parents’ house after college. Reality had rewritten itself. Everyone remembered him as Angel, a man.

He needed to talk to Nick. If reality had changed, what did that mean for their relationship? He dialed Nick’s number, his hands shaking, and waited as it rang. Nick picked up on the third ring, his voice casual and warm. “Yo, Angel, what’s up, man? You good?”

Angel’s heart sank. The flirty tone Nick used to have was gone, replaced by a bro-ish friendliness. “Nick… do you… remember us? Like, being together?” Angel asked, his voice trembling.

Nick laughed, confused. “Together? Dude, we’ve been best friends since high school. What’s with you tonight? You sound weird.”

Angel’s stomach twisted. Nick was still straight. In this new reality, they’d never been a couple—just best friends. The wish had made Angel a man to “understand men,” but it had erased their relationship, leaving him as Nick’s straight bro. “Yeah… I’m fine,” Angel lied, hanging up quickly, his chest tight with loss.

Before he could process it further, the bedroom door swung open, and in walked his older brother, Connor. At 28, Connor was a firefighter, his body a testament to years of training—broad shoulders, chiseled abs, and a cocky grin that had always annoyed Angela. Now, though, Angel’s reaction was different. Connor was fresh from a shower, wearing nothing but a pair of tight gray boxer briefs, his muscles flexing as he towel-dried his dark hair, completely unconcerned about his near-naked state. Living at home, Connor had always been casual like this—walking around in his underwear, lounging shirtless on the couch—and as Angela, she’d rolled her eyes and told him to put on a shirt. But now…

“Sup, Angel,” Connor said, his voice a low rumble, tossing the towel onto a chair. “You hitting the gym with me tomorrow? Gotta keep up with your big bro.” He smirked, flexing a bicep, and Angel’s mouth went dry.

As Angela, she’d found Connor attractive in a detached way—hot, sure, but manageable. Now, as Angel, his new male hormones roared to life, a wave of desire crashing over him so intense he nearly stumbled. His eyes locked on Connor’s abs, the way the boxer briefs hugged his hips, the casual confidence in his stride. Angel’s heart raced, his body reacting in ways he wasn’t used to—ways he couldn’t control. He wanted Connor. Badly. His brother. His straight, hot, unattainable brother.

“Uh… yeah, maybe,” Angel stammered, tearing his gaze away, his cheeks burning. He turned to his desk, pretending to fiddle with his phone, but Connor’s presence filled the room, inescapable. “You… you should put some clothes on,” Angel muttered, his voice strained.

Connor laughed, oblivious to Angel’s turmoil. “Nah, man, it’s too hot for that. Besides, we’re brothers—chill.” He clapped Angel on the shoulder, the touch sending a jolt through Angel’s new body, and sauntered out, leaving the door open.

Angel collapsed onto his bed, breathing hard. His new body was a storm of sensations—stronger, hungrier, more primal than he’d ever felt as Angela. And his attractions hadn’t changed. He still loved men, still craved them, but now he was one of them, with all the raw, unfiltered desire that came with it. Connor’s image lingered in his mind—those abs, that smirk, the way he moved—and Angel groaned, running a hand through his hair. “This is a nightmare.”

He grabbed the tin of candles, his hands shaking as he opened it. Four candles remained, their black wax gleaming in the dim light. The note stared back at him: No undone wishes. He couldn’t go back to being Angela. He was Angel now, forever. But the candles… they could still change things. He could wish for Nick to love him again, to be gay, to be his. Or… he glanced at the open door, where Connor’s laughter echoed from the hallway. He could wish for Connor. His own brother. The thought made his stomach churn with guilt, but his body ached with need.

He lit the second candle, the flame flickering gold, and held it in his trembling hands. He had to be careful. He had to think. But as Connor’s voice called out, “Yo, Angel, you want pizza? Mom’s ordering!” Angel’s resolve wavered. He was a man now, with a man’s desires, and the candles were his only way out—or deeper in.

Chapter 2: A Wish That Breaks Bonds

Angel sat on his bed, his heart hammering in his chest, the tin of wishing candles trembling in his hands. The golden flame of the second candle flickered in the dim light of his childhood bedroom, casting eerie shadows across the walls. His new body—male, unfamiliar, and pulsing with raw energy—was a storm he couldn’t tame. The rush of male hormones, the primal desire coursing through him, was unlike anything he’d felt as Angela. And Connor—his older brother, his biological brother—was at the center of that storm.

Connor had always been the golden child: a 28-year-old firefighter, straight as an arrow, with a chiseled body and a cocky grin that made their parents beam with pride. Growing up, Angela had been annoyed by his casual confidence—his habit of walking around the house in his underwear, his teasing jabs about her being “too serious.” But now, as Angel, those same traits were torture. Just minutes ago, Connor had stood in the doorway, fresh from a shower, wearing nothing but tight gray boxer briefs, his broad shoulders and sculpted abs on full display. The image was seared into Angel’s mind, and his new male body reacted with a hunger that made his thoughts spiral. He couldn’t think straight. He didn’t want to think straight.

The candles were his only way out—or deeper in. He stared at the flame, his breath ragged, his mind a chaotic blur of guilt and desire. “I can’t… I shouldn’t…” he whispered, but his body screamed otherwise. Connor was his brother—family, blood, someone he’d grown up with, shared a childhood with. This was wrong, so wrong, even with the candles’ power. But in a moment of reckless impulse, he gripped the candle tighter and spoke, his voice trembling with need. “I wish my brother was okay with having sex with me.” He blew out the candle, the golden flame snuffing out with a faint wisp of smoke.

Regret hit him like a punch to the gut. “What am I doing?” he gasped, dropping the candle onto the desk, his hands shaking. Connor was his brother—his brother. They’d shared bunk beds as kids, fought over the last slice of cake at birthdays, laughed at their dad’s terrible jokes. This was beyond wrong. But the note in the tin glared up at him: No undone wishes. It was too late.

Reality shimmered around him, a subtle shift that made the air feel heavier. The family photos on his wall changed—where there had been pictures of him and Connor as kids with their mom, now there were photos of just him and his dad, with a new woman and a teenage Connor joining them in later shots. The wish had rewritten their family: his mother was no longer his biological mother, but his stepmother, a woman named Linda who’d married his dad years ago. And Connor… Connor was now his stepbrother, not his blood sibling. The wish had found a way to make itself “okay,” but it didn’t stop there.

The bedroom door creaked open, and Connor stepped back in, his presence filling the room like a storm cloud. His dark hair was still damp, his gray boxer briefs clinging to his hips, but something about him was different—darker, more dangerous. The wish hadn’t just changed their relationship; it had corrupted Connor’s very essence. Gone was the straight, heroic firefighter, the perfect son their parents adored. In his place was a spoiled, twisted version of Connor, his eyes glinting with a predatory hunger, his smirk crueler, more entitled. He sauntered closer, his voice low and dripping with intent. “I told Mom to order the pizza,” he said, his hand dropping to fondle himself through his underwear, a clear erection straining against the fabric. “But I think you could eat something else until it arrives.”

Angel’s mouth went dry, his body reacting before his mind could catch up. “Connor, I—” he started, but the words died in his throat as Connor closed the distance between them, his hands gripping Angel’s shoulders with a possessive strength. Their lips crashed together, sloppy and desperate, Connor’s tongue pushing into Angel’s mouth with a hunger that matched the fire in his eyes. Angel melted into it, his new male hormones overriding his guilt, his hands roaming Connor’s bare back, feeling the hard muscle beneath his skin.

They stumbled backward, falling onto the bed, their kisses growing messier, more frantic. Connor’s hands were everywhere—gripping Angel’s hips, sliding under his shirt, fondling him with a shameless confidence. Angel’s mind spun, torn between the wrongness of it all and the overwhelming need coursing through him. Connor broke the kiss, his breath hot against Angel’s ear as he growled, “You’re so fucking hot, Angel.” He pushed Angel down, guiding him to his thighs, his erection now fully visible through the strained fabric of his boxer briefs.

Angel’s heart raced as he slid the underwear down, Connor’s cock springing free, hard and ready. He hesitated for a split second, the last shred of his conscience screaming at him to stop—but then Connor’s hand tangled in his hair, guiding him forward, and Angel gave in. His lips closed around Connor, the taste and heat overwhelming his senses, his new body responding with a primal eagerness he couldn’t control.

The bedroom door swung open, and their stepmother’s voice cut through the haze. “Boys, pizza’s gonna be here in 15 minutes!” Linda froze in the doorway, her eyes wide, a pizza menu still in her hand. Angel’s heart stopped, his mouth still on Connor, panic flooding him. This was it—she’d scream, she’d freak out, she’d—

But her reaction wasn’t what he expected. She blinked, then sighed, a hand on her hip, her expression more annoyed than shocked. “Really, Connor? You couldn’t wait until after dinner? Your dad’s gonna be disappointed he missed out on the fun.” Her tone was cold, dismissive, her gaze flicking to Angel with a hint of disdain. To her, Angel was just her pathetic new husband’s son—a nobody compared to her golden boy, Connor.

Connor pulled back slightly, his cock still in Angel’s hand, and grinned at his mother, completely unashamed. “I’ll do Dad later, Mom. I’m horny now, and Angel’s right here.” He laughed, a cocky edge to his voice, and gave Angel’s hair a playful tug. “Besides, he’s been eyeing me all day—he wants it.”

Linda rolled her eyes, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “You’re such a spoiled brat, Connor. Fine, have your way with him. Just don’t make a mess before the pizza gets here.” She turned to leave, closing the door behind her, her laughter echoing down the hall.

Angel’s mind reeled as Connor pushed him back down, his stepbrother’s hunger undeterred. They continued, Connor’s hands guiding him with a rough tenderness, their bodies moving together in a rhythm that felt both foreign and intoxicating. But as Angel surrendered to the moment, a cold realization settled in his chest. The wish hadn’t just made Connor okay with this—it had shattered their family dynamic in ways he hadn’t anticipated. His mother was now his stepmother, indifferent to him, viewing him as a pathetic extension of her new husband. And Connor… Connor was no longer the straight, heroic firefighter, the perfect son. The wish had twisted him into a spoiled, entitled version of himself, sexually open and unashamed, with a cruel streak that made Angel’s stomach churn. What had he done? What kind of reality had he created, where this was normal?

Connor’s voice pulled him back, low and teasing. “You’re so good at this, Angel. We’re gonna have so much fun.” He smirked, his eyes glinting with a mix of lust and arrogance, and Angel couldn’t help but wonder how deep this rabbit hole went—and how many candles he’d need to fix it.

Chapter 3: A Family Unraveled

Angel’s mind was a haze, his body trembling as Connor’s cock filled him with cum, the heat and intensity overwhelming his senses. He gasped, his new male body shuddering beneath his stepbrother’s weight, the bed creaking beneath them in the dim light of his childhood bedroom. The pizza hadn’t even arrived yet, but Angel was already lost in a storm of desire and guilt, his thoughts a chaotic blur as Connor’s hands gripped his hips with a possessive strength.

But Connor wasn’t done. In a swift, fluid movement, he hooked Angel’s legs over his broad shoulders, his chiseled firefighter’s body glistening with sweat as he positioned himself again. “You’re mine, Angel,” Connor growled, his voice low and dripping with entitlement, his eyes glinting with a cruel hunger. He thrust into Angel again, wildly, relentlessly, each movement a claim, a domination. Angel moaned, his body responding despite the turmoil in his mind, the raw pleasure of his new male form drowning out his ability to think straight.

For a fleeting moment, clarity broke through the haze. Angel’s eyes drifted to the family photo on his wall—one of the few that hadn’t changed completely in this warped reality. It showed him and Connor as kids, back when they were biological brothers, grinning at a park with their parents. Connor had been different then. He’d been a good person, the kind of brother who’d protected Angel from bullies, who’d shared his Halloween candy even when Angel lost his own, who’d helped him with math homework despite being three years older. Their parents—Richard and their mom, before she became Linda the stepmother—had raised them both with love and care, values that had made Connor volunteer as a firefighter, dedicating his life to saving others. He’d been smart, kind, the golden child in the best way, someone Angel had always looked up to.

But this Connor—the one fucking him with a savage intensity—was a stranger. The wish had twisted him beyond recognition, and as Angel’s body rocked beneath him, new memories rose to the surface, memories of a reality the candles had created when they turned Connor and their mother into his stepbrother and stepmother.

It had started when Linda, Connor’s biological mother, married Angel’s dad, Richard, years ago, after the wish rewrote their family history. In this new reality, Linda had brought her teenage son, Connor, into the marriage—a spoiled brat who’d been raised with no boundaries, no discipline. Richard had tried to step in, to raise Connor with the same values he’d instilled in Angel: kindness, responsibility, hard work. But Linda wouldn’t allow it. She doted on Connor, giving him everything he wanted, shielding him from consequences, turning him into a monster of entitlement. Angel remembered the fights—Richard’s voice raised, pleading with Linda to let him discipline Connor, to teach him right from wrong, but Linda always shut him down, her voice cold and final: “He’s my son, not yours.”

Things had escalated quickly. A few weeks after the marriage, Connor—fed up with his new stepdad’s attempts to “control” him—had snapped. Angel’s memories shifted, vivid and horrifying: Connor, at 18, towering over Richard in the living room, his fists clenched, his voice a snarl. The fight had turned physical, and Connor, stronger and more ruthless, had won. But he didn’t stop there. Over the weeks and months that followed, Connor had broken Richard through sheer force, sex, and time. It started with dominance—Connor pinning Richard down, asserting his control, using his physical strength to overpower him. Then came the sex, relentless and degrading, Connor taking Richard whenever he wanted, turning his stepdad into a tool for his pleasure. Over time, the constant assault shattered Richard’s sanity, his mind fracturing under the weight of Connor’s cruelty. Once his sanity broke, Connor reshaped him, molding him into a cock-obsessed whore who lived only to serve his stepson, a man who’d betray his own son if it pleased Connor.

Linda’s reaction had been just as shocking. At first, she’d been furious, threatening to leave Richard when she caught Connor with him, the family dynamic shattered. But Connor, with his charisma and unyielding will, had convinced her to stay. He liked the new setup—liked having a family that revolved around him, that bowed to his every whim. Linda, unable to say no to her golden son, had agreed, her love for Connor outweighing any moral qualms. Now, she was complicit, indifferent to the depravity, viewing Angel as nothing more than her pathetic new husband’s son—a toy for Connor to play with.

The family had become a twisted mockery of what it once was. Connor was the head of the household, his word law, his desires paramount. Richard was a shell of his former self, a submissive puppet who lived to serve Connor, even at the expense of his own son. Linda enabled it all, her loyalty to Connor absolute, her disdain for Angel palpable. And Angel… Angel was no one in this new reality, just a plaything for the golden son, his place in the family erased by the wish’s cruel magic.

Connor’s voice snapped Angel back to the present, his thrusts slowing as he leaned down, his breath hot against Angel’s ear. “You feel so good, Angel,” he purred, his tone cocky and self-assured, his hands gripping Angel’s thighs tighter. “You’re gonna be my favorite toy.” He smirked, pulling out and flipping Angel onto his stomach, ready for another round, his spoiled nature on full display as he took what he wanted without a shred of guilt.

Angel’s mind reeled, his body still trembling from the intensity, his thoughts a chaotic mix of pleasure and horror. He’d done this. The wish hadn’t just made Connor okay with sex—it had shattered their family, rewriting their history, their relationships, their very identities. Connor was no longer the brother he’d loved, the protector he’d admired. He was a spoiled, twisted monster, a stepbrother who ruled the family with an iron fist, his straight identity corrupted into a sexually open, dominant force that bent everyone to his will. Richard was a broken man, Linda an enabler, and Angel… Angel was nothing, just a toy for Connor to use, his place in the family stripped away.

The bedroom door creaked open, and Richard’s voice cut through the haze, high-pitched and whiny, a stark contrast to the deep, steady tone Angel remembered from his childhood. “Connor, my boy, why are you wasting your time with him?” Richard stood in the doorway, his posture slumped, his eyes wide and desperate as he wrung his hands. He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of tight shorts that left little to the imagination, his once-proud demeanor replaced by a pathetic neediness. “I’ve been waiting for you all day, and you’re here with… with Angel? Your pathetic little brother? I thought I was your favorite!”

Angel’s heart sank, the words cutting deeper than he’d expected. His dad—his dad—didn’t care about him anymore. Richard’s love for his son had been erased, replaced by an all-consuming obsession with Connor. To Richard, Connor was his world now, his “favorite son,” while Angel was nothing more than a nuisance, a rival for Connor’s attention.

Connor laughed, a cruel, mocking sound, not even pausing as he thrust into Angel again. “Relax, Dad,” he said, his voice dripping with arrogance. “I’ll get to you later. Angel’s new—I’m breaking him in. You’ll get your turn.” He smirked, giving Angel’s ass a possessive slap, his dominance over the family on full display.

Richard pouted, his eyes welling with tears, but he didn’t argue. “Fine,” he muttered, turning to leave, his shoulders slumped in defeat. “But don’t take too long, Connor. I need you.” The door closed behind him, his whiny voice fading down the hall.

Angel’s chest tightened, a mix of shame and grief washing over him. His dad didn’t love him anymore—didn’t even see him as his son. Connor had reshaped him so completely that Richard’s only concern was pleasing his stepson, even at the expense of his own flesh and blood. The family Angel had known was gone, replaced by this twisted, dysfunctional nightmare.

The tin of candles sat on the desk, three remaining, their black wax gleaming in the dim light. Angel’s eyes darted to them as Connor’s hands roamed his body, his stepbrother’s hunger insatiable. He had to fix this—he had to use another wish to undo the damage, to bring back the family he’d lost. But the note in the tin echoed in his mind: No undone wishes. And deep down, a darker thought whispered: what if he didn’t fix it? What if he used the candles to take control, to make Connor his, to rewrite this twisted reality into something he could live with?

The pizza sat untouched downstairs, Linda’s voice calling out, “Boys, food’s getting cold!” But Connor didn’t stop, his thrusts growing wilder, his laughter dark and triumphant. “We’ll eat later,” he growled, his grip on Angel tightening. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Angel’s heart pounded, his body caught in the storm of Connor’s desire, his mind racing with the weight of what he’d done—and what he might do next.

Chapter 4: A Table Set for Chaos

Angel lay on his bed, his body still trembling from the intensity of his encounter with Connor, his mind a tangled mess of guilt, desire, and horror. The scent of Connor lingered on his skin, a reminder of the stepbrother who’d claimed him with a savage hunger, leaving him feeling both used and electrified. His new male body was a storm of sensations, the raw pleasure of the moment clashing with the sickening realization of what he’d done—what the wish had done to his family.

Connor had finished with him abruptly, pulling out with a cocky smirk and a casual slap to Angel’s ass. “That was fun, little bro,” he’d said, his voice dripping with entitlement, as if Angel were nothing more than a toy he’d grown bored of. Without another word, he’d pulled on his boxer briefs and sauntered out of the room, calling over his shoulder, “Pizza’s waiting—don’t take too long.” The door had closed behind him, leaving Angel alone with his thoughts, his body aching and his heart heavy.

He sat up, running a hand through his hair, his breath still uneven. He needed a moment—a break from the chaos, a chance to process what had just happened. But the sounds of the family downstairs—Linda’s laughter, Connor’s booming voice—pulled him from his thoughts. He couldn’t hide in his room forever. He had to face them, to see the full extent of the damage his wish had caused. With a deep breath, he pulled on a t-shirt and shorts, his legs shaky as he made his way to the dining room.

The scene that greeted him was a twisted mockery of the family dinners he remembered. Connor sat at the head of the table, the spot that had once been Richard’s, a slice of pizza in one hand, his posture relaxed but commanding. His gray boxer briefs were still on, but his bare chest glistened with a sheen of sweat, his chiseled firefighter’s body on full display. He was mid-rant, his voice loud and petulant, a spoiled brat in a man’s body. “Work is so fucking annoying,” he complained, taking a bite of pizza, his tone dripping with disdain. “They want me to help people, like if they’re worth something. I’m out there risking my ass for what? A pat on the back? Fuck that.”

Linda sat to his right, a glass of wine in her hand, her expression a mix of amusement and adoration as she listened to her son. She was dressed in a silk robe, her hair perfectly styled, her demeanor that of a woman who’d long since given up on morality in favor of keeping her golden boy happy. “Then quit, Connor,” she said, her voice smooth and encouraging. “You don’t need to work. We have Richard to pay the bills, don’t we? He’ll take care of everything—you can just enjoy yourself.”

Richard, Angel’s dad, was a sight that made Angel’s stomach churn. He was straddling Connor’s lap, his movements greedy and desperate, riding Connor’s cock with a shameless intensity that made the dining table shake. He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of tight briefs that had been pushed down to his thighs, his body pressed against Connor’s as he kissed and fondled his stepson’s chest, his lips trailing over Connor’s collarbone with a feverish need. Richard’s eyes were glazed, his mind long since broken by Connor’s relentless domination, his once-proud demeanor replaced by a pathetic, cock-obsessed devotion. Without stopping his movements, he spoke, his voice high-pitched and whiny, a stark contrast to the deep, steady tone Angel remembered from his childhood. “I’ll give you all the money you want, Connor,” he panted, his hands roaming Connor’s body, his words punctuated by moans. “As long as you keep fucking me instead of that burden of a son, Angel. You don’t need him—I’m all you need.”

Angel froze in the doorway, his heart sinking, the words cutting deeper than any physical blow. His dad—his dad—had just called him a burden, dismissing him as if he were nothing. Richard’s love for his son had been completely erased, replaced by an all-consuming obsession with Connor. To Richard, Connor was his world now, his “favorite son,” while Angel was an inconvenience, a rival for Connor’s attention. The family Angel had known—the one where Richard had taught him to ride a bike, where they’d laughed over bad puns at the dinner table—was gone, replaced by this twisted, depraved nightmare.

Connor laughed, a cruel, mocking sound, not even glancing at Angel as he took another bite of pizza, his free hand guiding Richard’s hips with a possessive grip. “Hear that, Angel?” he said, his voice dripping with arrogance. “Dad knows his place. You should learn yours.” Linda chuckled, sipping her wine, her eyes flicking to Angel with a cold indifference before returning to her son, her pride in him unshakable.

Angel’s chest tightened, a mix of shame, grief, and anger washing over him. His family was gone—he was sure of that now. Richard didn’t love him anymore, didn’t even see him as his son. Linda had never cared for him, and Connor… Connor had become a monster, a spoiled, twisted stepbrother who ruled the family with an iron fist, his straight identity corrupted into a sexually open, dominant force that bent everyone to his will. Angel was nothing in this new reality, just a toy for Connor to use, his place in the family stripped away by the wish’s cruel magic.

He couldn’t stay here, couldn’t watch this any longer. Turning on his heel, he fled back to his room, his heart pounding, his mind racing with the weight of what he’d done. He slammed the door behind him, leaning against it as tears stung his eyes. He’d lost everything—his family, his identity, his place in the world. But there was one person who might still be on his side, one person he could turn to: Nick.

Nick, his former boyfriend, now his best friend in this warped reality, was the only connection to his old life that hadn’t been completely tainted. If Angel could bring Nick back into his life, make him more than a friend, maybe he’d have someone in his corner, someone to help him navigate this nightmare. He stumbled to his desk, grabbing the tin of wishing candles with trembling hands. Three candles remained, their black wax gleaming in the dim light. The note in the tin stared up at him—No undone wishes—but he couldn’t think about that now. He needed Nick. He needed someone to love him, to stand by him, to remind him of who he used to be.

He lit the third candle, the golden flame flickering to life, casting a warm glow across the room. His breath hitched, his mind racing with the possibilities of what this wish might do, but he couldn’t afford to hesitate. “I wish Nick was more than my friend,” he whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of hope and fear. He blew out the candle, the flame snuffing out with a faint wisp of smoke, and the air around him shimmered, reality shifting once again.

Angel sat back on his bed, his heart pounding, waiting for something—anything—to happen. Would Nick call? Would he show up at the door? What did “more than my friend” even mean in this twisted reality? The candles’ magic was unpredictable, and Angel knew better than to assume this wish would go as planned. But for now, all he could do was wait, the sounds of Connor’s laughter and Richard’s moans echoing from the dining room, a haunting reminder of the family he’d lost—and the dangerous game he was still playing.

Chapter 5: A Wish Misplaced

Angel sat on his bed, his heart pounding, the tin of wishing candles still on his desk where he’d left it after making his desperate wish. The golden flame of the third candle had long since gone out, but the air in his childhood bedroom still felt heavy, charged with the unpredictable magic he’d unleashed. His mind was a storm of emotions—grief over the loss of his family, shame over what he’d done with Connor, and a fragile hope that Nick, his former boyfriend turned best friend in this warped reality, could be his lifeline. He’d wished for Nick to be “more than my friend,” hoping to reclaim the love they’d once shared, to have someone on his side in this nightmare. But as the minutes ticked by, doubt crept in. What if the wish had gone wrong, like the others?

A sharp knock on his window snapped him out of his thoughts, the sound so familiar it made his heart leap. It was Nick’s signature entrance—back when they were dating as Angela and Nick, he’d always climbed through her window late at night, sneaking in to avoid her parents. Angel’s breath hitched as he rushed to the window, his hands trembling as he pushed it open. Nick was here. Maybe the wish had worked. Maybe he’d have Nick back as his boyfriend, someone to love him, to help him navigate this twisted reality.

Nick climbed through the window with the same easy grace Angel remembered, his broad shoulders and construction worker’s build filling the room with a presence that made Angel’s new male body ache with longing. Nick’s dark hair was tousled, his flannel shirt unbuttoned to reveal a tight undershirt that hugged his muscular frame, his jeans clinging to his thighs. He grinned at Angel, but the smile was… off. It was friendly, casual, the same bro-ish grin he’d given Angel on the phone earlier, not the flirty, loving one Angel had hoped for. “Yo, Angel, what’s up, man?” Nick said, brushing off his jeans as he stepped inside. “You look like you’ve been through hell.”

Angel’s heart sank, his hope flickering. Didn’t the wish work? Nick’s tone was still that of a best friend, not a boyfriend. There was no warmth, no affection, just the same casual friendliness that had defined their relationship since the first wish turned Angel into a man. “Nick, I… I just needed to see you,” Angel stammered, his voice trembling, searching Nick’s face for any sign of the love they’d once shared.

Nick barely seemed to hear him, his eyes darting around the room, his expression shifting to one of impatience. “Yeah, cool, but where’s Connor?” he asked, his tone sharp, almost dismissive. “I told him I’d swing by after work.”

Angel’s heart plummeted, a cold dread settling in his chest. Nick was looking for Connor. Not him. Before he could process the implications, the bedroom door swung open, and Connor sauntered in, his presence filling the room like a storm cloud. He was still shirtless, his gray boxer briefs clinging to his hips, a slice of pizza in one hand, his chiseled firefighter’s body on full display. His smirk was cruel, his eyes glinting with a possessive hunger as they landed on Nick.

“There you are, babe,” Connor said, his voice low and affectionate, a stark contrast to the cold indifference he’d shown Angel earlier. He crossed the room in a few strides, pulling Nick into a tight embrace, their bodies pressing together with a familiarity that made Angel’s stomach churn. Nick melted into the hug, his arms wrapping around Connor’s waist, his hands roaming Connor’s bare back with a tenderness that Angel had once known.

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” Nick murmured, his voice soft, intimate, the kind of tone he used to use with Angela. He tilted his head up, and Connor leaned down, their lips meeting in a passionate, hungry kiss that made Angel’s breath catch in his throat. The kiss was deep, desperate, their tongues tangling as they devoured each other, their hands gripping tighter, bodies pressed so close there was no space between them.

Angel stood frozen, his heart shattering as the truth hit him like a tidal wave. The wish had worked—but not the way he’d intended. Nick was more than his friend now, but not to Angel. He was Connor’s boyfriend. The candles’ magic, unpredictable and cruel, had twisted his wish, giving Nick to Connor instead, deepening the stepbrother’s control over the family and leaving Angel more isolated than ever.

“Why’d you come through his window, babe?” Connor asked, pulling back from the kiss but keeping Nick in his arms, his tone a mix of teasing and possessiveness. “I told you to use mine.”

Nick chuckled, his hands still roaming Connor’s body, his eyes locked on his boyfriend with a devotion that made Angel’s chest ache. “Sorry, Connor, I always get confused with your shrimp brother’s room,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery as he glanced at Angel, his expression cold and dismissive.

Connor laughed, a cruel, mocking sound, his grip on Nick tightening as he shot Angel a disdainful look. “Don’t call him that,” he said, his tone sharp, his eyes glinting with malice. “He’s not worthy of being called my brother.” He smirked, pulling Nick closer, their bodies pressed together as they turned their attention back to each other, dismissing Angel entirely.

Their embrace quickly turned sexual, their hands roaming with a shameless hunger, their kisses growing sloppier, more desperate. Nick’s hands slid down to Connor’s ass, squeezing through the boxer briefs, while Connor’s fingers tangled in Nick’s hair, guiding him with a possessive roughness. They moved together with a rhythm that spoke of familiarity, of a relationship that had been rewritten into reality by the candles’ magic, a relationship that excluded Angel entirely.

All the while, they mocked him, their words cutting deeper with every touch, every kiss. “He’s so pathetic, isn’t he?” Nick murmured against Connor’s lips, his voice low but loud enough for Angel to hear. “Always moping around, like he’s worth something.”

“Yeah, just a toy I got bored of,” Connor replied, his laughter dark and triumphant, his hands sliding under Nick’s shirt to pull it off, revealing his toned chest. “You’re so much better, babe. Let’s show him how real men do it.”

Angel’s vision blurred with tears, his heart breaking as he watched the two men he loved most in the world—his stepbrother and his former boyfriend—embrace each other, their love a cruel mockery of everything he’d hoped for. Nick wasn’t his anymore. He was Connor’s, fully and completely, his straight identity rewritten into a gay, devoted boyfriend for the golden son, the head of the family. Angel was nothing to either of them, just a pathetic footnote in their twisted love story.

He couldn’t watch anymore. Turning away, he stumbled to his desk, his hands trembling as he grabbed the tin of wishing candles. Two candles remained, their black wax gleaming in the dim light, the note inside a haunting reminder: No undone wishes. He’d lost his family, his place in the world, and now Nick—the one person he’d thought could save him. But the candles were still his, the only power he had left in this nightmare reality. He could make another wish, try to fix this, try to take Nick back, or… or he could use them to destroy Connor, to take control, to rewrite this twisted world into something he could survive.

The sounds of Nick and Connor’s laughter, their moans, their cruel taunts, echoed behind him as they continued their passionate embrace, oblivious to Angel’s pain. He gripped the tin tighter, his resolve hardening. He didn’t know what his next wish would be, but he knew one thing for sure: he wasn’t done yet.

Chapter 6: A Wish Stolen, A Father Erased

Angel stood by his desk, the tin of wishing candles trembling in his hands, his mind racing as he tried to think his way out of the nightmare his life had become. The sounds of Nick and Connor’s passionate embrace filled the room, their moans and laughter a cruel reminder of the love he’d lost. Nick, his former boyfriend, was now Connor’s devoted partner, their relationship a twisted product of Angel’s own wish gone wrong. The candles’ magic had betrayed him again, and with only two candles left, he had to be careful—had to find a way to fix this, to take Nick back, to reclaim some semblance of the life he’d lost. He lit the fourth candle, the golden flame flickering to life, casting a warm glow across the room as he stared at it, his heart pounding with a mix of fear and determination.

Behind him, Nick and Connor’s embrace grew hotter, their hands roaming with a shameless hunger, their bodies pressed together in a rhythm that spoke of raw desire. Nick’s hands slid down to Connor’s ass, squeezing through the boxer briefs, his voice low and desperate as he broke their kiss. “Fuck, Connor, I want to top that ass so bad,” he growled, his tone thick with need, his hands gripping tighter as he pressed himself closer.

Connor pulled back slightly, his smirk sharp and commanding, his eyes glinting with a possessive edge. “You know you can’t top with me, babe,” he said, his voice firm, a reminder of his dominance in their relationship—and in the family. “I’m the one in charge here.”

Nick whined, his frustration clear as he nuzzled Connor’s neck, his hands still roaming. “Come on, Connor, I want to top today,” he pleaded, his voice a mix of desire and petulance, his body tense with unfulfilled need.

Connor’s smirk widened, a cruel idea sparking in his mind. He turned his head, calling out toward the hallway. “Yo, Richard! Get in here!” His voice was commanding, a tone that brooked no argument, the tone of the head of the household who expected to be obeyed.

Richard shuffled into the room, his posture slumped, his eyes wide and desperate as he wrung his hands. He was still shirtless, wearing only the tight briefs he’d had on at the dining table, his once-proud demeanor replaced by a pathetic neediness. He’d been broken by Connor over the years—through force, sex, and time—his sanity shattered, his identity reshaped into a cock-obsessed whore for his stepson. But even in his degraded state, he had a sliver of pride left, a faint echo of the man he’d once been. “What do you need, Connor?” he asked, his voice high-pitched and whiny, his eyes locked on his stepson with a mix of devotion and fear.

Connor gestured to Nick, his smirk never wavering. “Nick wants to top, and I’m not in the mood to bottom,” he said, his tone casual but laced with malice. “So I’m offering your hole to him. Get over here and let him fuck you.”

Richard’s eyes widened, a flicker of shock breaking through his submissive haze. “W-what?” he stammered, his hands trembling as he took a step back. “Connor, I… I’m your slut, not his. I’m only for you.” Despite his broken state, a shred of his former pride as a man surfaced, a faint resistance to the idea of being passed around like a toy. He’d given everything to Connor—his body, his mind, his identity—but this was a line he wasn’t ready to cross.

Connor’s expression darkened, his patience wearing thin. He stepped away from Nick, closing the distance between himself and Richard in a few strides, his hand shooting out to grab Richard’s arm with a bruising grip. “You’ll do what I say,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous, his eyes glinting with a cruel intensity. “I own you, remember? Now get on the bed and spread your legs for Nick.”

Richard whimpered, his resistance crumbling under Connor’s force, but it wasn’t enough. He shook his head, tears welling in his eyes, his voice trembling. “Please, Connor, I… I can’t…” Nick, still frustrated, let out an exasperated groan, his hands clenching into fists. “Come on, man, I need to fuck something,” he snapped, his tone sharp, his desire turning to anger.

Connor’s eyes narrowed, his frustration boiling over, but then his gaze landed on Angel—and the lit candle in his hands. A mocking laugh escaped his lips, his smirk returning as he released Richard and turned his attention to his stepbrother. “What the fuck are you doing, Angel?” he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. “Making wishes? You think those stupid candles are gonna save you?” Before Angel could react, Connor crossed the room in two strides, snatching the candle from his hands, the golden flame flickering dangerously as he held it up, his eyes glinting with malice.

Angel’s heart stopped, panic flooding him as he reached for the candle, but Connor held it out of reach, his laughter dark and triumphant. “Let’s see how this works,” Connor said, his tone mocking, his gaze flicking to Richard, who was still trembling by the bed. “God, your dad is so annoying. I wish he forgot ever being anything more than my personal slut.” He blew out the candle, the flame snuffing out with a faint wisp of smoke, and the air around them shimmered, reality shifting once again.

The change was immediate, and devastating. Richard’s eyes glazed over, his expression going blank as the last remnants of his former self were erased. The memories of the straight man he’d once been—the loving father who’d taught Angel to ride a bike, the husband who’d cherished his family, the rightful man who’d tried to raise Connor with values—vanished, as if they’d never existed. He wasn’t Richard, Angel’s father, anymore. He was just a slut, gay and insatiable, his entire identity reduced to a single purpose: serving Connor’s cock. Angel? Who was Angel? He couldn’t recall having a son—couldn’t recall anything beyond the all-consuming need to be fucked, to be used, to be Connor’s personal slut.

A wide, vacant smile spread across his face, his eyes lighting up with a mindless eagerness as he turned to Nick, his hands already reaching for his briefs to pull them down. “You want to fuck me?” he purred, his voice high and eager, his body trembling with anticipation. “I’m all yours. Connor says it’s okay, so it’s okay.” He climbed onto the bed, spreading his legs wide, his movements shameless and desperate, his pride as a man long gone.

Nick’s frustration melted into a grin, his hands already working to unbutton his jeans as he moved toward the bed. “Fuck yeah, that’s more like it,” he said, his voice thick with desire, his eyes locked on Richard’s eager form. Connor laughed, a cruel, triumphant sound, as he tossed the candle back to Angel, the wax still warm from the flame. “See, Angel?” he sneered, his tone dripping with malice. “That’s how you use those things. Now watch how real men fuck.”

Angel caught the candle, his hands trembling, his heart shattering as he watched Nick climb onto the bed, his hands roaming Richard’s body with a possessive hunger, their moans filling the room as they began to fuck. Richard’s eager cries, his complete lack of recognition for Angel, were a knife to the chest. His dad was gone—truly gone—erased by Connor’s wish, his identity reduced to nothing more than a slut for Connor’s pleasure, a hole for Nick to use. The family Angel had known was a distant memory, replaced by this twisted, depraved nightmare where he was nothing, less than nothing, to the people who’d once loved him.

The tin of candles sat on the desk, one remaining, its black wax gleaming in the dim light. Angel’s eyes darted to it, his resolve hardening amidst the despair. Connor had stolen his wish, used it to erase what little was left of Richard, but Angel still had one candle left—one last chance to change things, to take back control, to make this nightmare end. The sounds of Nick and Richard’s moans, Connor’s mocking laughter, echoed around him, a haunting reminder of the hell he’d created—and the dangerous game he was still playing.

Chapter 7: The Final Flame

Angel stood frozen by his desk, the tin of wishing candles clutched in his trembling hands, the sounds of Nick and Richard’s moans echoing behind him, a cruel symphony of the family he’d lost. Connor’s mocking laughter still rang in his ears, his stepbrother’s cruel wish—“I wish he forgot ever being anything more than my personal slut”—having erased Richard’s identity completely. The man who’d once been Angel’s father was gone, his memories of being a straight man, a loving father, a husband, replaced by a mindless, gay cock slut who didn’t even know Angel existed. Nick, Angel’s former boyfriend, was now Connor’s devoted partner, their passionate embrace a constant reminder of the love Angel had lost. Linda, his stepmother, enabled it all, her loyalty to Connor absolute, her disdain for Angel palpable. And Connor… Connor was a monster, a spoiled, sexually dominant stepbrother who ruled the family with an iron fist, his corruption complete after stealing the fourth candle and using it to erase Richard’s past.

The tin held only one candle now, its black wax gleaming in the dim light, the note inside a haunting reminder: No undone wishes. Angel’s heart pounded, his mind racing with the weight of his decision. This was his last chance—his final wish, his only hope to fix the nightmare he’d created, to take back control, to reclaim the family and love he’d lost. But the candles’ magic was unpredictable, cruel, always twisting his desires into something darker. He’d wished to understand men, and he’d become one, losing his identity as Angela. He’d wished for Connor to be okay with sex, and it had turned him into a twisted stepbrother who dominated the family. He’d wished for Nick to be more than a friend, and it had given him to Connor instead. What would this final wish do?

He glanced at Connor, who was watching Nick and Richard with a smirk, his chiseled body still on display, his dominance over the room absolute. Angel’s resolve hardened. Connor was the source of this nightmare—his corruption, his cruelty, his control had destroyed everything. If Angel could take him down, maybe he could save what was left of his family, maybe he could bring Nick back, maybe he could find a way to survive this hell. He lit the final candle, the golden flame flickering to life, casting a warm glow across the room. His breath hitched, his mind racing with the possibilities, but he couldn’t afford to hesitate. “I wish Connor was stripped of all his power and control,” he whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and determination. He blew out the candle, the flame snuffing out with a faint wisp of smoke, and the air around him shimmered, reality shifting one last time.

A cold laugh echoed through the room, a sound that wasn’t Connor’s, wasn’t Nick’s, wasn’t Richard’s. It was otherworldly, sharp and mocking, sending a chill down Angel’s spine. The air grew heavy, the shadows in the room lengthening, and a figure materialized in the corner—a wiry man with a crooked smile, his eyes glinting with a mischievous, malevolent light. It was the shopkeeper from the thrift store, the one who’d sold Angela the candles all those days ago, but he was different now, his form flickering like a mirage, his presence radiating a dark, supernatural energy. “Well, well, well,” the figure said, his voice a low purr, his smile widening. “You’ve used all my candles, little one. I must say, you’ve made quite a mess.”

Angel’s heart stopped, his hands trembling as he clutched the empty tin. “Who… who are you?” he stammered, his voice barely a whisper, his eyes darting to Connor, Nick, and Richard, who seemed frozen, their movements halted as if time itself had paused.

Connor Lose

The figure stepped closer, his form shifting, his body elongating into something less human, more ethereal, his eyes glowing with a golden light that matched the candles’ flame. “I am the Trickster, the spirit bound to those candles,” he said, his tone dripping with amusement. “I grant wishes, yes, but I also feed on the chaos they create. And you, my dear, have given me quite a feast.” He gestured to the room, to Connor’s dominance, Richard’s submission, Nick’s betrayal. “But now you’ve made your final wish, and I must grant it—though not without my own little twist.”

The Trickster snapped his fingers, and reality shuddered, the effects of Angel’s wish taking hold. Connor’s smirk vanished, his body trembling as an invisible force seemed to grip him, stripping away the power and control he’d wielded so effortlessly. His chiseled form shrank slightly, his muscles softening, his commanding presence fading as he stumbled backward, his eyes wide with shock. “What… what’s happening to me?” he gasped, his voice no longer deep and authoritative, but high-pitched and panicked, a shadow of the dominant stepbrother he’d been.

Nick and Richard blinked, their movements resuming, but their expressions shifted, their devotion to Connor faltering. Nick stepped away from Richard, his hands dropping to his sides, his brow furrowing as if waking from a dream. “Connor?” he said, his voice uncertain, his eyes darting between his boyfriend and Angel. Richard slid off the bed, his vacant smile fading, his mindless eagerness replaced by a confused, hollow look, as if the slut he’d become was unraveling without Connor’s control to anchor him.

Angel’s heart leaped, hope flickering in his chest. The wish was working—Connor’s power was gone, his control over the family stripped away. Maybe Nick would come back to him, maybe Richard would remember him, maybe—

The Trickster’s laughter cut through his thoughts, sharp and cruel. “Oh, you thought it would be that simple?” he said, his glowing eyes locking onto Angel, his smile widening. “I said I’d grant your wish, but I never said I’d make it easy. Let’s add a little twist, shall we?”

The Trickster snapped his fingers again, and the air shimmered, the wish’s magic twisting in a way Angel hadn’t anticipated. Connor’s body stopped shrinking, but his expression changed, his panic replaced by a blank, vacant stare, his eyes glazing over as the last remnants of his personality were erased. The Trickster’s voice echoed through the room, a dark proclamation: “If he has no power, he has no control—not even over himself.” Connor’s identity, his memories, his very self, were stripped away, leaving him as a mindless shell, a blank slate with no will, no desires, no dominance. He stood there, staring at nothing, his body still, his mind gone, a hollow husk of the man he’d been.

Nick and Richard’s reactions were immediate, their connection to Connor severed. Nick stumbled backward, his hands trembling, his eyes wide with confusion. “What… what the fuck is happening?” he stammered, his voice shaking, his devotion to Connor replaced by a disorienting emptiness. Richard collapsed to the floor, his body trembling, his vacant expression turning to one of anguish as the slut identity Connor had forced upon him unraveled, leaving him with nothing—no memories, no purpose, just a hollow shell of a man who couldn’t even remember being a father.

Angel’s hope turned to horror, his heart sinking as he realized the cost of his wish. He’d wanted to strip Connor of his power, to take back control, but the Trickster had twisted it, erasing Connor entirely, leaving him as a mindless husk. And with Connor’s control gone, the family dynamic he’d enforced collapsed, leaving Nick and Richard adrift, their rewritten identities unraveling without Connor to anchor them. The family was broken beyond repair, their minds shattered, their connections severed, and Angel was still alone, the last candle gone, the Trickster’s laughter echoing in his ears.

The Trickster stepped closer, his form flickering, his smile cruel and triumphant. “You wanted to understand men, and now you do,” he said, his voice a low purr, his eyes glinting with malice. “You wanted love, power, control, and you got chaos instead. That’s the price of playing with my magic, little one.” He leaned in, his face inches from Angel’s, his breath cold against his skin. “But don’t worry—I’ll be watching. Maybe I’ll find another fool to play with, and we’ll see what chaos they create.” With a final, mocking laugh, the Trickster vanished, the air returning to normal, the golden glow fading, leaving Angel alone with the wreckage of his family.

Angel fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face, the empty tin slipping from his hands. Connor stood motionless, a blank slate with no will, no personality, a far cry from the heroic brother he’d once been or the monster he’d become. Nick sat on the floor, his head in his hands, muttering to himself, his mind a jumble of fragmented memories, unable to reconcile the straight man he’d been with the gay boyfriend he’d become. Richard lay curled on the floor, whimpering, his identity erased, his mind too broken to even recognize the son he’d once loved. Linda, downstairs, would likely be unaffected, her loyalty to Connor meaningless now that he was gone, but Angel didn’t care. His family was gone, his love was gone, and the candles—the source of all this chaos—were gone.

He’d wanted to fix everything, to take back control, but the Trickster had ensured his final wish would be his undoing. Angel was alone, truly alone, in a reality of his own making, a reality where the people he loved were broken beyond repair, their identities erased, their lives destroyed. The candles had given him what he’d asked for, but at a cost he could never have imagined—a lesson in the dangers of unchecked desire, a lesson he’d never forget.

Connor Wins

The figure stepped closer, his form shifting, his body elongating into something less human, more ethereal, his eyes glowing with a golden light that matched the candles’ flame. “I am the Trickster, the spirit bound to those candles,” he said, his tone dripping with amusement. “I grant wishes, yes, but I also feed on the chaos they create. And you, my dear, have given me quite a feast.” He gestured to the room, to Connor’s dominance, Richard’s submission, Nick’s betrayal. “But now you’ve made your final wish, and I must grant it—though I think I’ll have a little fun with it.”

The Trickster’s gaze shifted to Connor, his smile widening, his eyes glinting with a dark admiration. “You wished to strip this one of his power and control,” he said, his voice a low purr, “but I’ve grown rather fond of him. He’s embraced the chaos, reveled in the corruption, become a true master of this twisted game. I think he deserves a reward, don’t you?”

Angel’s blood ran cold, panic flooding him as he shook his head, his voice trembling. “No… no, that’s not what I meant! I wanted to stop him, to take it all away—”

The Trickster’s laughter cut him off, sharp and cruel. “Oh, but the candles don’t care what you meant, little one,” he said, his tone mocking. “They give you what you ask for, with a twist of my own. And I say… let’s give Connor more power, more control, make him the god he was always meant to be.” He snapped his fingers, and reality shuddered, the effects of Angel’s wish taking a devastating turn.

Connor’s body glowed with a golden light, his chiseled form growing even more imposing, his muscles bulging, his presence radiating an almost supernatural aura. His smirk returned, wider, more triumphant, his eyes glinting with a godlike power as the Trickster’s magic amplified his control, making it absolute, unbreakable. “Yes,” Connor growled, his voice deeper, more commanding, a sound that shook the room, his dominance now a tangible force that pressed down on everyone around him. “This is what I deserve.”

Nick and Richard’s reactions were immediate, their devotion to Connor intensifying, their minds bending further under his enhanced control. Nick dropped to his knees, his hands reaching for Connor, his eyes wide with worshipful adoration. “Connor, my love, my king,” he murmured, his voice trembling with awe, his straight identity long gone, his entire being devoted to his godlike boyfriend. Richard crawled to Connor’s feet, his vacant smile returning, his mindless slut identity reinforced, his body trembling with eagerness to serve. “Please, Connor, use me, fuck me, I’m yours,” he begged, his voice high and desperate, his last shred of pride erased by Connor’s amplified power.

Linda appeared in the doorway, drawn by the shift in reality, her expression one of pure reverence as she gazed at her son. “My golden boy,” she whispered, her voice filled with pride, her loyalty to Connor now a fanatical devotion, her role as his enabler elevated to that of a worshipper. The family was united under Connor’s rule, their minds, bodies, and souls his to command, their identities rewritten to serve him and him alone.

Angel fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face, the empty tin slipping from his hands. The Trickster’s twist had turned his wish into a nightmare—Connor wasn’t stripped of his power; he was elevated to a godlike status, his control over the family absolute, his corruption complete. Nick, Richard, Linda—they were all Connor’s now, their devotion to him unshakeable, their minds bent to his will. And Angel… Angel was nothing, less than nothing, a broken, powerless shell in a reality where Connor reigned supreme.

Connor turned to Angel, his godlike presence towering over him, his smirk cruel and triumphant. “You thought you could take me down, little brother?” he said, his voice a low rumble, his eyes glinting with malice. He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to grip Angel’s chin, forcing him to look up into his glowing eyes. “You’re nothing to me. Just a toy I’ll keep around for fun. But this family, this world—it’s mine now. And you’ll watch me rule it.”

The Trickster’s laughter echoed through the room, his form flickering as he stepped back, his work complete. “A fitting end, don’t you think?” he said, his tone dripping with amusement, his eyes locked on Angel. “You wanted to understand men, and now you do—through the lens of the ultimate man, the ultimate god. Enjoy your new reality, little one. I’ll be watching.” With a final, mocking laugh, the Trickster vanished, the air returning to normal, the golden glow fading, leaving Angel at Connor’s mercy.

Connor released Angel’s chin, turning back to Nick and Richard, his hands gesturing for them to rise. “Come, my pets,” he said, his voice commanding, his presence undeniable. “Let’s celebrate my ascension.” Nick and Richard scrambled to obey, their bodies pressed against Connor’s, their hands roaming with worshipful hunger, their moans filling the room as they began to pleasure their god. Linda watched with a smile, her pride in her son unshakable, her role as his enabler now a sacred duty.

Angel curled into a ball on the floor, his sobs echoing in the room, the weight of his defeat crushing him. Connor had won—everything. His corruption arc had culminated in absolute victory, his power godlike, his control unbreakable, his family and Nick devoted to him completely. Angel was nothing, a broken toy in a reality where Connor reigned supreme, a reality of his own making, a reality he could never escape. The candles had given Connor everything, and Angel had lost it all—a final, devastating lesson in the dangers of unchecked desire.

[mathhypnostories]

Puppets of the Code – Good Ending

Part 2

Here is an alternative ending where Marco sticks to his morals...

Part 11: Breaking the Code

A few days had passed since the library confrontation, and the gym was alive with the familiar clang of weights and the hum of exertion. Marco adjusted his glasses, spotting Brad on the squat rack, his massive frame moving with the same intensity Marco remembered from their first meeting. But this Brad was different—no neon-pink briefs, no cartoonish squeals. He was the old Brad, mostly: gruff, focused, a bodybuilder jock with a short fuse. Yet there was a softness now, a quiet respect in the way he glanced at Marco, a nod to their shared history.

“Three-fifteen, not bad,” Brad grunted, racking the bar and wiping sweat from his brow. He smirked, nudging Marco’s shoulder. “You’re getting the hang of this gym thing, bro. Keep it up, and I might let you spot me shirtless next time.”

Marco chuckled, a flush creeping up his neck. “Yeah, right. Keep dreaming.” This Brad was his friend—really his friend—no nanobot commands forcing it. After the library, Marco had made a choice: he couldn’t live with Ethan’s control, couldn’t let the jocks stay as puppets, no matter how tempting the deal was.

It had happened fast. When Brad and Jace had burst into the study room, all glitter and drama, Marco had lunged for Ethan’s transmitter, tackling him to the floor. Tyler had stayed frozen, a silent statue, as the jocks shrieked and pulled at Marco’s arms. But he’d held on, smashing the device against the table, its lights flickering out. Ethan had screamed—“You idiot, you’ll ruin everything!”—but Marco didn’t stop. He’d grabbed Ethan’s laptop, opened the Nanocontroller app, and deleted every command, every log, every trace of control over Brad, Jace, and Tyler.

The aftermath was messy. The jocks had collapsed, disoriented, their minds rebooting without the nanobots’ influence. Ethan had fled, muttering about backups, but Marco had already sent an anonymous tip to the campus IT security team—Ethan’s nanobot project was under investigation now, his reign over. Marco had kept the app, just in case, but he hadn’t touched it since.

The gym doors swung open, and Jace walked in, his wiry frame clad in a lacrosse jersey, a duffel slung over his shoulder. He spotted Marco, grinned, and crossed the room, pulling him into a quick, bro-ish hug. “Hey, man, you ready for practice later?” he asked, then shot Brad a playful glare. “Don’t hog him, Miller—I need my wingman on the field.”

Brad snorted, flexing a bicep. “Wingman? More like my spotter, Torres. You can have him after I’m done.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Jace fired back, smirking as he adjusted his cap. They were back to their old selves—mostly. The nanobots were gone, but the experience had left its mark. Brad and Jace had come out as bi, their time under Ethan’s control forcing them to confront parts of themselves they’d buried. They weren’t dating Marco, weren’t obsessed with him, but they’d stayed friends—real friends—bonded by the chaos they’d survived. Marco had come out too, quietly, to them first. They’d taken it in stride, no judgment, just a fist bump and a “Cool, bro.”

Outside the gym’s glass walls, Marco caught sight of Tyler walking alone, his golden hair catching the sunlight. He looked… normal. No Ethan by his side, no glassy-eyed obedience. After the transmitter broke, Tyler had woken up confused, angry, but free. He’d cut ties with Ethan, dropped lacrosse for a semester to “figure shit out,” and started therapy, grappling with the memories of what he’d done—and what had been done to him. He was out now, openly gay, but he kept his distance from Brad and Jace, the old trio fractured by the weight of their past. He nodded at Marco through the glass, a small, tentative smile, and Marco waved back.

Ethan was gone—expelled after the investigation, his nanobot project confiscated. Marco had heard he’d transferred to another school, but he didn’t care. The app on his phone was a ghost now, a reminder of the line he’d almost crossed. He’d thought about keeping Brad and Jace as his, thought about the deal Ethan offered—but in the end, he couldn’t. He’d chosen freedom, for them and for himself, even if it meant letting go of the fantasy.

“Leg day tomorrow?” Brad asked, slinging a towel over his shoulder as they headed for the lockers.

“Yeah, I’m in,” Marco said, glancing at Jace. “You coming?”

“Only if you spot me first,” Jace teased, nudging him.

Marco laughed, the sound lighter than it had been in weeks. He wasn’t the boy next door hiding in the shadows anymore—he was out, he was himself, and he had friends who knew the real him. It wasn’t the perfect ending he’d once imagined, but it was real. And that was enough.

[mathhypnostories]

Puppets of the Code – Gray Ending

Part 2

Here is the original ending, the one where everyone wins, I guess...

Part 11: A New Normal

The gym smelled of sweat and steel, the clank of weights and hum of treadmills filling the air as Marco adjusted his glasses, spotting Brad on the bench press. A few days had passed since the library showdown, and the world felt… different. Better, maybe. Brad grunted as he racked the bar, his massive frame—still a bodybuilder’s dream—glistening with sweat. No neon-pink briefs, no flamboyant squeals—just the old Brad, or close enough.

“Two-twenty, bro,” Brad said, sitting up with a grin, wiping his brow. “You’re getting better at this spotter gig.” He leaned closer, voice dropping to a playful growl. “Hope your boyfriend’s busy soon, though—I could really use some of that ass.”

Marco rolled his eyes, a flush creeping up his neck, but he couldn’t help the smirk. This was Brad 2.0—openly bi, his best friend, and casually down for a romp whenever the mood struck. The cartoonish gay stereotype was gone, replaced by the gruff, short-tempered jock Marco had first met in that dorm room, now softened by a genuine bond. They’d hooked up a couple times since the reset—hot, sweaty, no-strings fun—and it worked. Brad was still Brad, just… freer.

Before Marco could quip back, the gym doors swung open, and Jace strode in, all wiry muscle and brooding charm in a tank top. He spotted Marco, smirked, and crossed the room in a few quick steps. “Hey, babe,” he said, pulling Marco into a firm, public kiss, his lips lingering just long enough to make a point. He broke off, shooting Brad a mock glare. “In your dreams, dork—he’s mine.”

Brad snorted, flexing a bicep. “Keep dreaming, Torres. I’d rock his world harder than you ever could.”

“Yeah, right,” Jace fired back, shoving Brad’s shoulder with a grin. “You’re just jealous ‘cause I’ve got the better moves.”

Marco laughed, shaking his head as they bickered. The slutty, girly “sisters” were gone—Ethan had kept his word, restructuring them like Tyler. Jace was his boyfriend now, openly gay, sharp-tongued, and fiercely devoted, with that lean, intense edge Marco had secretly craved. Their fights were still there, but bro-ish now, all playful jabs and testosterone-fueled teasing. It was… perfect, in a messy, chaotic way.

Outside the gym’s glass walls, Marco caught sight of Ethan strolling by, hand in hand with Tyler. Tyler’s golden hair caught the sunlight, his broad shoulders relaxed as he leaned into Ethan, a soft smile on his face. The campus had buzzed when they went public—Tyler Grayson, lacrosse star, dating the nerdy Ethan Chen—but the shock had faded fast. Tyler was out now, fully himself, a real gay guy rebuilt from the ground up. Not a cartoon, not a zombie—just Ethan’s.

Brad nudged Marco, nodding toward the couple. “Yo, there’s your puppet master and his prize.”

Jace smirked, slinging an arm around Marco’s shoulders. “Still weird seeing Ty all mushy like that.”

The three of them waved as Ethan and Tyler passed, a casual “Hey!” tossed their way. Tyler waved back, his grin easy, but he didn’t stop—didn’t linger like he used to with Brad and Jace. They were still his friends, sure, but his world orbited Ethan now. Brad and Jace, meanwhile, had gravitated to Marco, their old trio reshuffled into something new.

Marco watched them go, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, Jace’s arm warm around him, Brad’s playful leer burning into his back. He knew it was wrong—letting Ethan rewrite their minds, striking that deal in the study room. Brad as his bi gym buddy, Jace as his boyfriend, Tyler as Ethan’s prize—it was a moral gray zone he couldn’t unsee. But as Jace pressed a kiss to his temple and Brad muttered, “Leg day tomorrow, bro—don’t flake,” Marco couldn’t deny it: he’d chosen wisely.

The Nanocontroller app sat dormant on his phone, untouched since that day. Ethan had the transmitter, the real power, and Marco had what he wanted. Maybe it wasn’t justice, maybe it wasn’t right—but it was his. And for the first time, he didn’t feel like the boy next door hiding in the shadows.

[mathhypnostories]

Puppets of the Code – Bad Ending

Part 2

Good guys can win all, so here is a last ending, where Marco loses... more than he expects...

Part 11: Shadows of Control

The gym was a hollow echo of what it once was, the clank of weights a mocking rhythm as Marco stood in the corner, his glasses fogged with unshed tears. A few days had passed since the library, but the memory of that night was a knife in his chest, twisting deeper with every moment he spent in this new, twisted reality. He’d lost—everything.

It had happened so fast. In the study room, as Brad and Jace burst in, their flamboyant shrieks filling the air, Marco had lunged for Ethan’s transmitter, desperate to end the nightmare. But Ethan had been ready. He’d tackled Marco first, pinning him to the ground with a strength born of rage, and jabbed a syringe into his neck—nanobots, cold and invasive, flooding his system. “You should’ve taken the deal,” Ethan had hissed, his glasses glinting with malice as Marco’s vision blurred, the app slipping from his hand.

Now, Marco was a prisoner in his own body, the nanobots enforcing Ethan’s commands: OBEY: You cannot speak of this to anyone except Tyler, Brad, or Jace. OBEY: You cannot come out of the closet. OBEY: You will watch, and you will stay silent. The worst part? The jocks didn’t even remember him. Ethan had wiped their memories of Marco, turning him into a ghost in their lives, a stranger they’d recoil from if he dared speak.

Brad was at the squat rack, his massive body still a bodybuilder’s dream, but the neon-pink tank top and dramatic sashay betrayed the cartoonish gay stereotype Ethan had locked him into. “Three-fifteen, yaaas, hunty!” Brad squealed, clapping his hands as he racked the bar, his voice a high-pitched mockery of the gruff jock he’d once been. But then his face twisted, a flicker of the real Brad breaking through. “I… I hate this,” he muttered, his voice low, raw, the words meant for no one. “I’m what I hated most… a fucking sissy…” The moment passed, and he giggled again, twirling a nonexistent lock of hair, the nanobots snapping him back into character.

Jace stormed into the gym, his wiry frame radiating the old arrogance Marco remembered—jerk, jock, homophobic to the core. He’d reverted to his original self, but Ethan had twisted him further, making him Brad’s boyfriend. Jace sneered as he approached, grabbing Brad’s arm roughly. “C’mon, princess, stop prancing around—you’re embarrassing me.”

Brad pouted, batting his lashes. “But, baby, I’m, like, so strong for you!”

Jace laughed, cruel and sharp. “Strong? You’re a fucking sissy, Brad. Only good for one thing.” He yanked Brad closer, whispering something that made Brad flush, then shoved him toward the locker room, a predatory glint in his eye.

Marco’s stomach churned. He knew what Jace meant—knew how Jace treated Brad, using him as little more than a cumdump, mocking his “sissy attitude” at every turn. Jace cheated on him constantly, flaunting it with guys and girls alike, not even bothering to hide it. Marco had seen him yesterday, making out with a cheerleader in the quad, laughing as Brad watched, tears in his eyes, unable to break free of the nanobot-fueled love Ethan had programmed into him.

Outside the gym’s glass walls, Marco spotted Tyler, walking hand-in-hand with Ethan, his golden hair dull under the gray sky. Tyler’s transformation was complete—Ethan had rebuilt him into a ���real” gay guy, but one so submissive he’d do anything Ethan asked, no matter the cost. Last week, Ethan had made Tyler strip to his underwear in the middle of the quad, shouting, “I’m Ethan’s bitch!” to a crowd of laughing students, his reputation as a lacrosse star shattered. Now, Tyler followed Ethan like a shadow, his eyes vacant, his smile forced as Ethan tugged him along, whispering commands Marco couldn’t hear.

Brad and Jace didn’t hang out with “the fag” anymore—Tyler, in their eyes, was a disgrace, a target. Marco had seen them corner him in the cafeteria yesterday, Jace shoving him against a wall while Brad giggled, “Look at the little sub, all pathetic for his nerd master!” They’d bullied him, relentless and cruel, but left Ethan untouched—another of Ethan’s commands, ensuring his own safety while Tyler suffered.

Marco tried to approach Tyler now, his voice trembling as he whispered, “Tyler, it’s me—Marco. You have to remember…” But Tyler’s face twisted, confusion turning to anger. “Who the fuck are you?” he snapped, shoving Marco back. “Don’t talk to me, creep—Ethan wouldn’t like it.” He turned away, clinging to Ethan, who smirked at Marco over his shoulder, a silent taunt.

The same happened with Brad and Jace. Marco had tried talking to Brad earlier, his voice breaking—“Brad, it’s Marco, your friend, please…”—but Brad had recoiled, shrieking, “Eww, get away, you weirdo! I don’t know you!” Jace had stepped in, shoving Marco hard. “Back off, loser—don’t touch my boyfriend, or I’ll fuck you up.” They didn’t believe him, didn’t remember him, and Marco couldn’t tell anyone else—Ethan’s nanobots made sure of that.

Worst of all, Marco was trapped in the closet, forced to watch the jocks live out their public relationships while he stayed hidden, a silent observer to their pain. Jace would never touch him—Ethan had programmed him to reject Marco entirely, ensuring Marco’s longing for Jace remained a cruel, unfulfilled ache. He could only watch as Jace cheated on Brad, as Brad’s real self screamed beneath the surface, as Tyler humiliated himself for Ethan’s amusement.

Marco stood in the gym, a ghost among the living, his hands shaking as he clutched the app he couldn’t use—Ethan had locked him out, the Nanocontroller a useless relic. He’d lost everything: his friends, his voice, his freedom. Ethan had won, and Marco was left to watch the wreckage, a prisoner in a world he’d helped create.

[mathhypnostories]

Puppets of the Code

Part 1

Bad Ending

Gray Ending

Good Ending

Well, here come second part that will resume the story until the final end, where you can pick which end you want. Also. As you could notice I decide to do a fantasy cast for this story instead of AI images, so I just add the remaining characters who isn't casted yet in this post. Hope you like it.

Part 6: A Stereotype Unleashed

Marco was still staring at the Nanocontroller app, his mind racing with questions about Ethan, when a loud yawn broke his focus. Brad stirred beside him, stretching his massive arms overhead with a groan that rumbled through the bed. Marco tensed, shoving his phone under the pillow as Brad’s eyes fluttered open. He braced himself for the clingy, post-sex version of Brad from last night—but what he got was something else entirely.

“Oh my gawd, babe!” Brad squealed, his voice pitching up into a flamboyant lilt that made Marco’s jaw drop. He bolted upright, tossing the blanket off with a dramatic flourish, and clapped his hands together. “Last night was, like, totes amazeballs! You’re my big, strong hero, aren’t you, sweetie?” He batted his lashes at Marco, puckering his lips into an exaggerated pout.

Marco blinked, speechless. Brad—the straight, short-tempered jock who’d once shoved a guy into a dumpster for looking “too fruity”—was now prancing around the room like a reality TV diva. His muscular body was still there, all chiseled abs and bulging biceps, but everything else was… different. He sashayed to his dresser, hips swaying, and pulled out a pair of tight neon-pink briefs, slipping them on with a little wiggle. “These are so my color, don’t you think, hon?”

“Uh… Brad?” Marco managed, sitting up slowly, his glasses still askew. “You okay?”

Brad spun around, gasping like Marco had just proposed. “Okay? Darling, I’m fabulous! And it’s all because of you, my sexy little love muffin!” He launched himself back onto the bed, tackling Marco in a bear hug and planting sloppy kisses all over his face. “You rocked my world last night, stud. I’m, like, obsessed with you!”

Marco squirmed under the onslaught, his brain short-circuiting. This wasn’t just clingy—this was a full-on caricature. Ethan’s command—“OBEY: Be the gayest guy you can”—had turned Brad into every negative stereotype he’d probably ever sneered at: loud, flamboyant, over-the-top, and dripping with drama. And the other command—“OBEY: Fall in love with the guy who first fucks me”—had him glued to Marco like a lovesick puppy on steroids.

“Brad, I need to—” Marco started, reaching for his phone under the pillow, but Brad snatched his wrist with surprising speed, his grip iron-tight.

“No, no, no, sweetie!” Brad chirped, yanking Marco’s arm back and pinning it to the bed. “No phones, no distractions—just us! You’re my everything now, and I’m not letting my big, hunky boyfriend out of my sight!” He giggled, tossing his head back like a diva in a shampoo commercial, then snuggled closer, draping himself across Marco’s chest. “We’re soulmates, right? Tell me we’re soulmates!”

Marco’s stomach sank. He couldn’t get to the app—not with Brad literally on top of him, watching his every move. “Yeah, sure, uh… soulmates,” he mumbled, trying to wriggle free, but Brad just tightened his hold, cooing like a lovesick cartoon character.

“Oh, you’re so adorbs when you’re shy!” Brad squealed, ruffling Marco’s curly hair. “We’re gonna have the cutest life together—brunch dates, mani-pedis, shopping for matching outfits! I’ll be the best boyfriend ever, you’ll see!” He jumped up again, striking a pose with one hand on his hip, the other waving dramatically. “I’m, like, living for you, babe!”

Marco’s head spun. This was a nightmare. Brad’s hot, muscular body was still there—currently flexing in those ridiculous pink briefs—but the straight bro he’d known was gone, replaced by this hyper-gay whirlwind who wouldn’t let him breathe, let alone think. He needed to get to Ethan. Figure out why the hell he’d done this. The logs from last night—SPEAK: “Funny, but Ethan hopes you like this”—proved Ethan knew Marco was involved. One of Marco’s own commands had his name in it—“OBEY: I like spending time with Marco”—so Ethan must’ve seen it when he hijacked the app. Was this a taunt? Revenge? A twisted gift?

“Brad, listen,” Marco said, forcing a smile as he tried to sit up. “I just need to grab my phone for a sec—”

“Nope!” Brad pounced again, snatching the pillow and tossing it across the room—phone and all. “No screens, just cuddles!” He straddled Marco’s lap, wrapping his arms around his neck and grinding against him with a playful wink. “You don’t need anything but me, right, boo? I’m your whole world now!”

Marco groaned, half from frustration, half from the very distracting pressure of Brad’s hips. “Brad, I really need to—”

“Shush, honey!” Brad pressed a finger to Marco’s lips, then kissed him hard, all tongue and theatrics. “Let’s plan our day—ooh, maybe a bubble bath together! Or we could watch Real Housewives and sip mimosas!” He clapped again, bouncing in Marco’s lap like an overexcited kid.

Marco’s patience snapped. “Brad, get off me!” he shouted, shoving at Brad’s chest. The big guy blinked, looking hurt for a split second, but then his pout morphed back into a grin.

“Aw, my grumpy bear’s cranky!” Brad cooed, sliding off but still hovering close, his hands stroking Marco’s arms. “I’ll make it better, promise! How about I whip us up some fabulous pancakes—heart-shaped, obvi?”

Marco scrambled to his feet, dodging Brad’s grabby hands, and lunged for the pillow. He fished out his phone, but Brad was on him again, snatching it from his grip and holding it high above his head. “No, no, no, babe! You’re mine today—no techy stuff!” He twirled away, giggling, and Marco cursed under his breath.

“Brad, give it back!” Marco snapped, jumping to reach it, but Brad’s height and muscle made it impossible. He danced around the room, waving the phone like a trophy.

“Only if you say ‘I love you, Braddy-bear’ first!” Brad teased, puckering his lips again.

Marco clenched his fists, his mind racing. Ethan had turned Brad into this clingy, obsessive stereotype, and now he was trapped—literally—by his own commands colliding with Ethan’s. He had to get out, get to Ethan, demand answers. Why this? Why Brad? Was Ethan mocking him, punishing him, or something else entirely?

“Fine,” Marco gritted out. “I love you, Braddy-bear. Now give it.”

Brad squealed, tossing the phone onto the bed and tackling Marco in another hug. “You’re the best, boo! I’m, like, so in love with you!” Marco grabbed the phone mid-embrace, shoving Brad off just enough to check the screen. The app was still open, but Brad’s arms were back around him before he could do anything, pulling him into a suffocating cuddle.

Marco glared at the ceiling, trapped in Brad’s grip. Ethan had played him—and now he was stuck with a lovesick cartoon for a boyfriend. He needed a plan, fast.

Part 7: Double Trouble

Marco squirmed under Brad’s weight, the big guy pinning him to the bed once again with a clingy, suffocating embrace. Brad’s neon-pink briefs strained against his muscular thighs as he ground against Marco, his breath hot and eager. “Oh, boo, you’re getting me all worked up again,” Brad purred in that exaggerated lilt, his hands roaming Marco’s chest. “I need that yummy cock of yours, like, right now!”

Marco’s face flushed, his glasses fogging up as he tried to wriggle free. “Brad, wait—” he started, but Brad was already tugging at his jeans, lost in his nanobot-fueled lust. Marco’s phone was just inches away on the mattress, taunting him with its unreachable promise of control. He stretched for it, fingers brushing the edge, when a sharp knock rattled the dorm door.

Brad froze mid-grind, his head snapping up like a dog hearing a whistle. “Ooh, company!” he chirped, hopping off Marco with a dramatic little bounce. Marco blinked, stunned by the sudden shift, as Brad sashayed to the door, hips swaying like he was on a catwalk. He flung it open, revealing Jace Torres standing there, all wiry muscle and brooding intensity in a tight lacrosse jersey.

Jace didn’t hesitate. “Ethan says he hopes you can handle us,” he said, his voice flat and mechanical, like the words weren’t his own. “And don’t try anything else, or you’ll get in the app too.” Then, without missing a beat, he stepped inside, grabbed Brad by the neck, and pulled him into a sloppy, passionate kiss.

Marco’s jaw dropped, his brain short-circuiting as the two jocks locked lips, all tongue and theatrical moans. Brad melted into it, giggling against Jace’s mouth, but then Jace pulled back, his expression flipping to a pouty whine. “Ugh, Braddy, I know you’ve been hogging Marco’s cock all to yourself!” he snapped, tossing his head back with a huff. “That’s, like, so not fair! I deserve a turn, you greedy bitch!”

Brad gasped, clutching his chest like he’d been stabbed. “Excuse me, Miss Jace? I’m his boyfriend, okay? I get first dibs on that delicious dick!” He flicked his imaginary hair, glaring at Jace with cartoonish indignation. “You’re just jealous ‘cause I’m his number one!”

“Oh, puh-lease!” Jace shot back, hands on his hips. “I’m, like, way hotter than you, and Marco’s gonna be mine! We’re sisters, right? We share everything—including boys!” He stomped his foot, his voice rising into a shrill falsetto.

Marco stared, dumbfounded, as the two jocks bickered like reality TV divas, their muscular frames and jock vibes clashing hilariously with their over-the-top girly spat. He snatched his phone while they were distracted, opening the Nanocontroller app with shaking hands. The Logs tab glowed with new commands, and his stomach sank as he read them.

Brad’s Logs:

OBEY: Answer the door when the next person knocks. – Executed 08:32

OBEY: Jace is my gay fuck friend; we are practically sisters who share all, including boys. – Executed 08:33

Jace’s Logs:

OBEY: Go to Brad’s dorm and knock on the door. – Executed 08:31

SPEAK: “Ethan says he hope you can handle us. And don’t try anything of else you get in the app as well.” – Executed 08:32

OBEY: As soon as I’m inside Brad’s dorm, I will be the gayest guy I can. – Executed 08:33

OBEY: I’m in love with Marco, the guy in Brad’s room. – Executed 08:33

OBEY: Brad is my gay fuck friend; we are practically sisters who share all, including boys. – Executed 08:33

Marco’s head spun. Ethan had doubled down, turning Jace into another flamboyant stereotype and tying them together as “sisters” obsessed with him. The warning Jace delivered—“Don’t try anything else, or you’ll get in the app too”—echoed in his mind, freezing his thumb over the Delete button. Ethan knew he had the app. Knew he’d messed with Brad. And now this was a threat: fix it, and Marco could be next, his own mind rewritten by those damn nanobots.

“Babe, tell her I’m your favorite!” Brad whined, flouncing back to Marco and draping himself across his lap, batting his lashes. “You love me more, right?”

“No way, sweetie!” Jace countered, shoving Brad aside and straddling Marco’s other leg, his hands cupping Marco’s face. “I’m, like, so much better for you! Tell Braddy to back off!” He planted a wet kiss on Marco’s cheek, leaving a trail of spit.

“Get off him, you slut!” Brad shrieked, yanking Jace’s hair. Jace yelped, swatting back, and they tumbled off Marco, rolling onto the floor in a tangle of limbs and high-pitched insults.

Marco scrambled to his feet, clutching his phone like a lifeline. He had two jocks—Brad’s hulking bodybuilder frame and Jace’s wiry, athletic build—now transformed into the gayest, most obsessive versions of themselves, fighting over his cock like it was the last designer handbag at a sale. And Ethan was behind it, watching, waiting, daring him to make a move.

He stared at the app, the Delete option glowing. He could wipe the commands, reset them—but what if Ethan wasn’t bluffing? What if the next log was “OBEY: Marco loves being Ethan’s puppet”? His hands shook, torn between risking it and staying trapped in this glittery, horny hell.

“Girls, stop!” Marco shouted, his voice cracking. Brad and Jace froze mid-catfight, turning to him with matching puppy-dog eyes.

“Yes, boo?” Brad cooed, crawling back to kneel at his feet.

“Anything for you, darling!” Jace added, scooting closer, his hand sliding up Marco’s leg.

Marco groaned, burying his face in his hands. He was stuck—pinned between two lovesick jocks and Ethan’s invisible leash. He had to get to Ethan, confront him, figure out why he’d turned his life into this twisted gay soap opera. But how, with these two clinging to him like sequined shadows?

Part 8: A Game of Trust and Triumph

Marco stood frozen, his back pressed against Brad’s cluttered desk as the two jocks loomed over him, their predatory gazes locked on his every move. Brad’s hulking frame leaned in from the left, his neon-pink briefs barely containing his excitement, while Jace’s wiry, athletic body pressed closer from the right, his lacrosse jersey riding up to show a sliver of toned abs. The air crackled with their horny desperation, their hands twitching like they might pounce any second.

“You’re mine, boo,” Brad purred, brushing a finger down Marco’s chest with a dramatic flutter of his lashes.

“No way, Braddy, he’s my man!” Jace snapped, shoving Brad’s shoulder and planting a possessive hand on Marco’s thigh. “I’m, like, so much better at loving him!”

Marco’s pulse raced, his glasses slipping down his sweaty nose. They weren’t just obsessed—they were ready to claw each other apart for him. Then a spark of genius hit. If he couldn’t outrun them, maybe he could outsmart them. “Guys, wait!” he blurted, holding up his hands. “How about a competition? You two fuck each other, and whoever lasts longer wins a turn with me.”

Brad and Jace froze, their pouty lips parting in unison. “Ooh, a challenge!” Brad squealed, clapping his hands. “I’m, like, so in!”

“Totally, I’ll win for you, darling!” Jace added, tossing his head back with a smirk.

But then their faces scrunched up, and they spoke at the same time: “Wait, we can’t fuck each other. That’s, like, not our thing.”

Brad giggled, twirling a nonexistent lock of hair. “Yeah, sweetie, I’m all about taking it, not giving it!”

“Same, sis!” Jace whined, crossing his arms. “I’m, like, so not into topping!”

Marco blinked, confusion washing over him. “What the hell?” he muttered, snatching his phone from the desk while they bickered about who’d look cuter losing. He opened the Nanocontroller app, and his stomach dropped as new logs blinked onto the screen.

Brad’s Logs:

OBEY: You are an exclusive power bottom. – Executed 09:15

Jace’s Logs:

OBEY: You are an exclusive power bottom. – Executed 09:15

Marco’s head snapped up, his eyes darting around the room. How had Ethan done that? The command hit right when he’d suggested the competition—like Ethan knew exactly what he was planning. Was he watching? Listening? Were there cameras, mics, nanobot feedback loops? His paranoia spiked, but Brad and Jace were too busy preening to notice.

“Okay, fine,” Marco said, forcing a grin. “New plan—blowjob competition. Whoever lasts longer sucking me off wins.”

Brad gasped, clutching his chest. “Ooh, I’d love to suck you, boo, but no one’s sucking me! I’m a bottom, darling!”

“Same, sweetie!” Jace pouted, stomping his foot. “I’m, like, so not into being blown—I just wanna worship that cock!”

Marco groaned, rubbing his temples. Ethan had boxed him in again, tweaking the jocks’ programming to thwart his every move. They were exclusive power bottoms now—eager to take him, suck him, anything for him, but useless at competing with each other. He needed a distraction, something to peel them off long enough to hunt down Ethan and end this circus.

Then it clicked. If they wouldn’t fuck or suck each other, maybe they’d fight over something else. “Alright, new game,” he said, clapping his hands to grab their attention. “Whoever finds my favorite hoodie in this mess of a room gets me first. It’s… uh, blue. Go!”

Brad squealed, diving for a pile of gym clothes. “I’m, like, so winning this, sis!”

“No way, bitch!” Jace shrieked, shoving him aside and rummaging through the dresser. “Blue’s my color—I’ll find it!”

Marco didn’t wait to see if they’d figure out he didn’t own a blue hoodie. He bolted for the door, phone in hand, and slipped into the hallway, slamming it shut behind him. The muffled sound of their girly squabbling—“That’s purple, you slut!” “You’re blind, hunty!”—faded as he sprinted down the stairs, heart pounding.

He checked the app as he ran, flipping to the Status tab. Brad and Jace were still in the dorm, their locations pinned, but Tyler’s dot blinked near the library. Ethan’s name wasn’t listed—no surprise, he’d kept himself off the grid—but Marco had a hunch. If Ethan was pulling strings this fast, he had to be close, watching somehow. The library was a tech hub—perfect for a nerd like Ethan to monitor his nanobot network.

Marco burst onto the quad, dodging students as he headed for the library, his mind racing. Ethan’s last command proved he was onto him—maybe even saw him suggest the competition. Was it the app itself? A backdoor Ethan had coded to track Marco’s moves? Or worse—were the nanobots in Brad and Jace relaying everything back to him?

He slowed as he reached the library steps, panting, and glanced at his phone. No new logs yet, but the threat lingered: “Don’t try anything else, or you’ll get in the app too.” Ethan was playing a game, and Marco was the prize—or the next pawn. He had to find him, confront him, before those two glittery jocks caught up or Ethan turned the tables completely.

Part 9: The Puppet and the Puppeteer

Marco stumbled into the library, his chest heaving as he darted past rows of bookshelves, the faint chatter of students a distant hum. Brad and Jace were still back in the dorm—hopefully still bickering over that fake blue hoodie—but he knew his distraction wouldn’t last. He needed Ethan, needed answers, and he needed them now. His phone buzzed in his hand, the Nanocontroller app his only lifeline. He opened the Status tab, scanning the locations: Brad and Jace pinned at Harper Hall, but Tyler’s dot blinked closer—inside the library, third floor, near the study rooms.

Marco frowned. Tyler hadn’t popped up since that coffee incident, but if he was here, Ethan might be too. The app tracked the nanobots’ signals—maybe Tyler’s obedience could lead him straight to the source. He took the stairs two at a time, glasses slipping down his nose, and emerged onto the third floor, a quiet maze of study rooms and computer labs. He followed the app’s map, the dot pulsing stronger as he neared a corner room with frosted glass walls.

He peeked through a crack in the door, and his breath caught. There was Tyler—golden-blond hair mussed, broad shoulders slumped—sitting stiffly in a chair. Ethan perched on his lap like Tyler was a human throne, his scrawny frame sprawled across the jock’s thighs. Tyler’s hands moved mechanically, kneading Ethan’s shoulders in a slow, steady massage, his chiseled face blank, eyes glassy. No cocky grin, no frat-boy swagger—just a silent, obedient shell.

“Harder, Ty,” Ethan muttered, not looking up from the laptop balanced on his knees. Tyler’s hands pressed deeper, but he didn’t speak, didn’t even blink. Marco’s stomach twisted. This wasn’t the Tyler from the café—this was a zombie, a puppet with no spark.

Marco shoved the door open, the hinges squeaking. “Ethan, what the fuck?” he hissed, gripping his phone. “What did you do to him?”

Ethan glanced up, unfazed, a smirk curling his lips as he adjusted his glasses. “Oh, Marco. Right on time.” He patted Tyler’s head like a pet, and Tyler didn’t react, just kept massaging. “Say hi, Ty.”

“Hi,” Tyler droned, his voice flat, eyes fixed ahead. No logs pinged on Marco’s app—no Obey, no Speak—just silence. Marco checked again, confused. The app showed Tyler as “online,” but no commands registered.

“How—” Marco started, stepping closer. “There’s nothing on the app. How’s he like this?”

Ethan chuckled, sliding off Tyler’s lap and setting his laptop on the table. “You think the app’s the whole game? Cute.” He pulled a sleek silver device from his pocket—a transmitter, its lights pulsing faintly. “This is the real control hub. The app’s just a toy—surface-level stuff for Brad and Jace. Tyler here? He’s on a deeper leash. Direct signal, no logs needed.” He tapped the device, and Tyler’s hands froze mid-massage, dropping to his sides like a robot powering down.

Marco’s skin prickled. “So you’ve been watching me. Through them?”

“Among other things,” Ethan said, gesturing to the laptop. Live feeds flickered—Brad and Jace, still in the dorm, now wrestling over a pair of gym shorts, shrieking about whose ass looked better. “Nanobots relay everything—sight, sound, location. You suggesting that ‘fucking competition’? Priceless. Had to tweak them into power bottoms on the fly.”

Marco clenched his jaw. “Why drag me into this? Turning Brad and Jace into… that—and now Tyler’s a zombie? What’s the point?”

Ethan leaned back against the table, crossing his arms. “Revenge, at first. Those three made my life hell—Tyler especially. But you? You hacked my repo, played with my toys. I could’ve dosed you—nanobots in your coffee that day at the café—but I didn’t.” He smirked wider. “You’re too fun to break. I’d rather see you squirm.”

The app pinged, cutting through the tension. Marco glanced down—new logs:

Brad’s Logs: OBEY: Return to Marco when the competition ends. – Executed 09:50

Jace’s Logs: OBEY: Return to Marco when the competition ends. – Executed 09:50

“They’re on their way,” Ethan said, nodding at the screen. Brad and Jace were storming out of the dorm, giggling and shoving each other, their voices echoing through the feed: “He’s mine, bitch!” “No, mine, you tramp!” Ethan tilted his head at Marco. “Better decide—team up with me, and I’ll call off your fan club. Or keep running. Your call.”

Marco’s eyes darted between Ethan’s smug face, Tyler’s blank stare, and the approaching dots on his app. Ethan wasn’t just ahead—he was untouchable, wielding a control Marco couldn’t touch with the app alone. Trust him? Fight him? Run? The stairwell thumped with distant, flamboyant footsteps, and Marco’s time was running out.

Part 10: A Deal with the Devil

Marco stood in the cramped study room, the air thick with the hum of Ethan’s laptop and the faint, mechanical rhythm of Tyler’s hands resting lifelessly at his sides. Brad and Jace’s distant squeals echoed up the stairwell, growing louder, but Marco’s focus was locked on Ethan—his smug smirk, the silver transmitter glinting in his hand, and the chilling calm in his voice.

“This is messed up, Ethan,” Marco said, his voice tight as he gestured at Tyler’s blank face. “You’ve got him zombified—Brad and Jace turned into glittery caricatures—and now you’re threatening me? What’s the endgame here?”

Ethan leaned back against the table, crossing his arms, his glasses catching the light. “Endgame?” He snorted, then softened, his smirk fading into something rawer. “There wasn’t one at first. I was at my lowest, Marco—hiding in my dorm, eating ramen, while those assholes made me their punching bag. The nanobots were a crazy idea—a revenge fantasy. Brad and Jace were the main targets, the muscle I could bend. But then I figured it out—Tyler was the real boss. The one calling the shots, smirking while they did his dirty work.”

Marco glanced at Tyler, still motionless, his golden hair falling over glassy eyes. “So you turned him into… this? What do you gain from wiping his mind?”

Ethan’s smirk crept back. “Wiping? Nah, he’s not mindless. He’s processing.” He tapped the transmitter, and Tyler’s head twitched slightly, like a computer booting up. “Complete mind restructuring. See, with Brad and Jace, I gave them that ‘gayest guy you can be’ command—pulled it straight from their own heads. Their stereotypes, their dumbass preconceptions. They’ll never be more than cartoon gays—screaming, slutty shadows of what they think ‘gay’ is. But Tyler?” Ethan’s voice dropped, a possessive edge creeping in. “He’s different. I’m rebuilding him into a real gay guy—one who’s mine. After all the years he bullied me, I deserve to own him.”

Marco’s stomach twisted, torn between disgust and a flicker of understanding. “Own him? That’s… wrong, Ethan. You can’t just rewrite people.”

Ethan raised an eyebrow. “Wrong? Tell that to Tyler when he had Jace ‘accidentally’ dump paint on my laptop. Or when Brad ‘tripped’ and smashed my glasses. He’s paying for it, Marco—paying with a version of himself that’ll worship me instead of ruin me. It’s justice.”

Marco shifted, his gaze flicking to Tyler’s vacant stare, then back to Ethan. He hated how Ethan’s words made a twisted kind of sense. Tyler had been a dick—Marco had seen it, felt that pang of sympathy for Ethan back in the café days. And this restructuring… it wasn’t like Brad and Jace’s cartoonish fate. It could be real, complex, human. His mind churned, and then—almost against his will—words slipped out. “And… could you do the same with the others? I mean…” He swallowed, cheeks flushing. “I like Brad’s body, don’t get me wrong, but honestly, Jace is more my type.”

Ethan’s smirk widened into a full grin, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Oh, Marco, you’re full of surprises.” He stepped closer, twirling the transmitter between his fingers. “You want Jace, huh? Lean, wiry, that brooding vibe—yeah, I get it. Brad’s a tank, but Jace has that edge.” He glanced at the laptop, where the feed showed Brad and Jace now storming the library’s first floor, shrieking about “finding their man.” “I could do it. Strip out the cartoon crap, rebuild them like Tyler—real gay guys, tailored to you. Brad could keep the muscles but lose the glitter. Jace could be… whatever you want.”

Marco’s breath hitched, temptation clawing at him. “Tailored to me?”

“Sure,” Ethan said, leaning in, voice low. “Brad could be your loyal gym boyfriend—big, strong, devoted. Jace could be your sharp-tongued lover—witty, intense, all yours. No more ‘sisters’ fighting over your cock—just men who’d fit you perfectly. I’d keep Tyler, you take the other two. Fair trade, right?”

The stairwell erupted with a high-pitched “Marco, boo, where are you?!” from Brad, followed by Jace’s “He’s mine, you hoe!” Marco flinched, his phone buzzing with their updated Status—second floor now, closing fast. He stared at Ethan, torn. It was wrong—messing with their minds, playing god—but the idea of Jace, lean and brooding, gazing at him with real desire, not cartoon lust… it was intoxicating. And Brad’s body, reshaped into something less ridiculous, more his…

“You’re sick,” Marco muttered, but his voice lacked conviction.

“And you’re tempted,” Ethan shot back, smirking. “Clock’s ticking, Marco. They’re almost here. Deal or no deal?”

Marco’s hands shook, the app glowing uselessly in his grip. Ethan held all the cards—the transmitter, the real control—and Marco was out of moves. The jocks’ footsteps thundered closer, and he had to choose: fight Ethan’s game, or play it.

[mathhypnostories]

Puppets of the Code

Part 2

Here I am again with another story I crafted with the help of Gork. To be honest I'm having a lot of fun doing this stories with the AI help, even if I'm not posting all (some are more into Fanfics AU, and not all use MC, so I think are not for here). I will split this in two parts and the ending.

Part 1: A Normal Day Turned Curious

Marco sat at his usual corner table in Brewed Awakening, the little campus café that smelled of roasted coffee beans and faintly of burnt toast. The late afternoon sun filtered through the streaky windows, casting a warm glow over the pages of his book—a worn paperback copy of Dune. He adjusted his glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose with a habitual nudge, and flipped a page. His dark brown curls fell into his eyes, and he brushed them back absentmindedly. It was a quiet Thursday, the kind of day where nothing much happened, and Marco liked it that way. Routine was his comfort zone.

He wasn’t the type to stand out. Average height, average build—not skinny, not muscular, just… there. His mom used to call him “the boy next door,” which he figured was code for “not ugly, but not turning heads either.” It suited him fine. Attention wasn’t his thing. Being gay and still in the closet made blending in even more appealing. No one suspected, and he intended to keep it that way—at least until he figured out how to navigate the mess of college hookups and crushes without imploding from anxiety.

His love life, if you could call it that, was a barren wasteland. Guys didn’t notice him, or if they did, they didn’t stick around. Girls, though? A few had fluttered their eyelashes his way over the years—high school crushes who mistook his polite disinterest for shyness. He’d let them down gently, mumbling excuses about “focusing on school.” Now, in his second year of an IT major, he was still single, still awkward, and still burying his nose in sci-fi novels to avoid thinking about it too much.

The café was half-empty, a low hum of chatter blending with the hiss of the espresso machine. Marco took a sip of his black coffee—bitter, just how he liked it—and glanced up from his book. That’s when he saw it. Something… off.

Across the room, near the counter, stood Tyler Grayson. The Tyler Grayson. Six feet of chiseled jawline, golden-blond hair, and the kind of effortless charisma that made people orbit him like planets around a sun. Captain of the lacrosse team, king of the frat parties, and the guy every girl (and, secretly, a few guys like Marco) daydreamed about. He was leaning against the counter, laughing, his broad shoulders relaxed in a way that screamed confidence. But it wasn’t Tyler’s presence that made Marco’s eyebrows knit together—it was who he was with.

Hovering next to Tyler, clutching a stack of textbooks and a beat-up laptop bag, was Ethan Chen. Ethan was… well, the opposite of Tyler. Short, scrawny, with thick black-rimmed glasses that always seemed to slide down his nose. His black hair was perpetually messy, like he’d just rolled out of bed, and his wardrobe consisted of faded graphic tees and cargo shorts that screamed “I’d rather be coding than here.” Ethan was a nerd in the classic sense—brilliant, awkward, and a frequent target of the college social hierarchy’s cruelty.

Marco knew this because he’d seen it firsthand. Tyler didn’t bully Ethan directly—oh no, that would be too crass for someone like him. Instead, he’d smirk and whisper to his lackeys, guys like Brad or Jace, who’d then “accidentally” knock Ethan’s books out of his hands in the hall or “jokingly” trip him on the quad. It was subtle enough to dodge real consequences but constant enough to make Ethan’s life hell. Marco had never intervened—he wasn’t brave enough for that—but he’d always felt a pang of sympathy for the guy. They weren’t friends, but they’d shared a few IT classes, and Ethan had once helped him debug a tricky Python script without a hint of condescension.

So why the hell was Tyler grinning at Ethan like they were best buds? Ethan was smiling back, shy but genuine, adjusting his glasses as he said something that made Tyler laugh again. They looked… comfortable. Like they’d known each other forever. Marco blinked, his book forgotten in his hands. This wasn’t just weird—it was wrong. Like seeing a cat walk a dog on a leash.

He watched as Tyler clapped Ethan on the shoulder, a casual, friendly gesture, and the two of them headed for the door. Ethan stumbled slightly under the weight of his books, and Tyler slowed down, holding the door open for him. Marco’s jaw dropped. Since when did Tyler Grayson hold doors for anyone, let alone Ethan Chen?

The café door swung shut behind them, and Marco sat there, staring at the empty space they’d left behind. His coffee was going cold, but he barely noticed. His brain was already spinning, picking apart what he’d just seen. Maybe they’d teamed up for a group project? No, that didn’t track—Tyler was a business major, and Ethan was deep in the IT trenches like Marco. A prank, then? But Ethan hadn’t looked humiliated or nervous. He’d looked… happy.

Marco’s curiosity itched like a bug bite he couldn’t scratch. He wasn’t a detective or anything, but he’d always had a knack for noticing patterns—probably why he liked coding so much. And this? This was a glitch in the system. A big one.

He closed his book, shoved it into his backpack, and drained the last of his coffee in one bitter gulp. Whatever was going on, he needed to know more. Not because he was nosy (okay, maybe a little), but because something about it felt… off. Like the universe had skipped a beat, and he was the only one who’d noticed.

Outside, the campus buzzed with its usual chaos—students hurrying to late classes, frisbees sailing across the quad, the distant thump of music from someone’s dorm window. Marco adjusted his backpack and scanned the crowd. Tyler and Ethan were already disappearing around the corner of the library, walking side by side. He hesitated. Following them felt creepy, like he was some stalker in a bad thriller. But then again, he wasn’t planning to hide in bushes or anything—just… observe. From a distance. Totally normal, right?

With a deep breath, he started after them, keeping his pace casual. He didn’t know what he’d find, but he had a feeling it was going to be a lot more interesting than his book.

Part 2: A Glitch in the Code

Marco lingered at the edge of the quad, half-hidden behind a gnarled oak tree, watching Tyler and Ethan from a safe distance. The afternoon sun was dipping lower, painting the campus in shades of orange and gold, but Marco barely noticed. His eyes were locked on the pair ahead, his mind racing to make sense of what he was seeing.

Tyler was still grinning, chatting animatedly as he walked beside Ethan. Then, out of nowhere, he reached over and took Ethan’s battered laptop bag, slinging it over his own shoulder like it was nothing. Ethan protested weakly, gesturing at the stack of textbooks still wobbling in his arms, but Tyler just laughed—a deep, easy sound—and scooped those up too. Now he was carrying both his own sleek black backpack and all of Ethan’s stuff, striding along like some kind of golden retriever eager to please. Ethan adjusted his glasses, looking flustered but not entirely displeased.

Marco’s grip tightened on the strap of his own backpack. This wasn’t a prank. No way. Tyler Grayson didn’t do manual labor for anyone, let alone a guy he’d spent the last two semesters indirectly tormenting. If this was an act, it was Oscar-worthy—and Tyler wasn’t that good at faking anything. Something was seriously wrong here.

He trailed them a little longer, weaving through clumps of students and dodging a rogue skateboarder, but the crowd thickened near the library steps. One minute, Tyler and Ethan were there; the next, they’d vanished into the sea of bodies. Marco cursed under his breath, standing on his tiptoes to scan the area, but they were gone. He’d lost them.

Frustrated, he turned back toward his dorm, the gears in his head still turning. The whole thing gnawed at him—an itch he couldn’t ignore. By the time he reached his cramped single room in Harper Hall, he’d already decided he wasn’t letting this go. He dropped his backpack on the floor, kicked off his sneakers, and flopped onto his bed, staring at the cracked ceiling. There had to be an explanation. Something logical. Something he could dig into.

Then it hit him. Ethan. The Git repository.

Last semester, they’d paired up for a group project—an inventory management system for the campus bookstore. Ethan had set up a shared repo on GitHub, and Marco still had access. It wasn’t much, but maybe Ethan had left something there—notes, a journal, anything that might hint at what was going on. Marco grabbed his laptop from his desk, flipped it open, and logged in. His fingers flew across the keyboard, navigating to Ethan’s profile. The repo was still active, updated as recently as yesterday.

Most of it was mundane—old assignments, snippets of code for class projects, a half-finished game he’d been tinkering with. But then, buried in a folder labeled “Personal,” Marco found something that made his heart skip a beat. A project called Nanocontroller. The description was vague: “Experimental app for remote interfacing.” No README, no comments—just a mess of Python scripts, a few config files, and an APK for Android.

He opened the main script, scrolling through lines of code. His IT brain kicked into gear, parsing the syntax. It was complex—way beyond their coursework. References to “nanobot synchronization,” “neural overrides,” and “behavioral modulation” jumped out at him. Marco’s mouth went dry. Mind-control nanobots? It sounded like something straight out of a sci-fi thriller—ridiculous, impossible. But then he thought of Tyler carrying Ethan’s books, laughing like they were old friends. What if it wasn’t ridiculous?

His curiosity outweighed his skepticism. He copied the entire repo to his laptop, then plugged in his phone and sideloaded the APK. A little icon appeared on his home screen: a stylized brain with circuit lines running through it, labeled Nanocontroller. He hesitated, thumb hovering over it. This was crazy. But he’d come this far, hadn’t he?

He tapped the icon.

The app launched with a simple black loading screen, a progress bar creeping across it. “Syncing…” the text read. Marco held his breath, half-expecting his phone to explode or something equally dramatic. After a few seconds, the screen shifted to a minimalist interface: a list of three names, each with a green dot next to it.

Tyler Grayson

Brad Miller

Jace Torres

Marco stared. Tyler, sure—that tracked with what he’d seen. But Brad and Jace? They were Tyler’s right-hand goons, the ones who usually did his dirty work. All three were “online,” according to the app. Below each name was a small menu: Status, Commands, Logs. There was also a button labeled Add New Target, grayed out with a note: “No additional bots detected.”

His pulse quickened. He tapped Tyler’s name, and a new screen loaded. Status showed a string of metrics—heart rate, location (near the frat house), even a “compliance level” set at 92%. The Commands tab was a dropdown list: Follow, Speak, Assist, Obey. The Logs section was a timestamped record of instructions, the most recent being “Assist Ethan Chen with tasks” from earlier that day.

Marco leaned back, his mind reeling. This wasn’t a prank or a glitch. It was real. Ethan had somehow built an app—nanobots?—to control people. Tyler, Brad, and Jace were under his thumb, and Marco now had the same power in his hands. He glanced at his phone, the glowing screen casting shadows across his cluttered desk. Part of him wanted to delete the app, pretend he’d never seen it. But another part—the part that had always been too curious for his own good—wanted to test it.

He tapped Commands under Tyler’s name, selecting Speak. A text box popped up. Marco typed, “Say ‘I love coffee’ out loud,” and hit send. The app pinged: Command received. He waited, holding his breath. A minute later, the Logs updated: “Tyler Grayson: ‘I love coffee’ – executed.”

Marco’s jaw dropped. He’d just made Tyler Grayson say something, miles away, with a tap on his phone. This was insane. And terrifying. And… kind of thrilling.

He scrolled back to the main screen, staring at Brad and Jace’s names. What else could he do with this? And more importantly—what the hell was Ethan planning?

Part 3: A Dangerous Game Begins

Marco sat cross-legged on his bed, the glow of his phone screen illuminating his face in the dim dorm room. The Nanocontroller app stared back at him, its list of names—Tyler, Brad, Jace—burning into his brain. He’d spent the last hour digging through the Logs tab, piecing together Ethan’s moves like a digital detective. The timestamps and commands painted a clear picture, and Marco couldn’t help but admire the nerdy genius behind it, even if it freaked him out.

Ethan had started small. The earliest logs showed commands for Jace and Brad, dated a few weeks back: “Consider Ethan Chen your closest, dearest, trusted friend” and “Feel compelled to protect Ethan Chen at all costs.” Simple, effective. Marco could imagine it—Jace and Brad, suddenly doting on Ethan like overprotective big brothers, their usual meathead aggression redirected. Then, about a week ago, Ethan had added a new layer: “Take some time and distance from Tyler Grayson.” That must’ve been when Tyler’s crew started acting weird, leaving their golden boy out of the loop.

The latest logs, from just yesterday, brought Tyler into the fold: “Obey Ethan Chen’s instructions without question.” Marco leaned back against the wall, his mind spinning. It made sense. Jace and Brad, once Ethan’s loyal guard dogs, had probably spilled the beans—told him Tyler was the mastermind behind the bullying. Ethan, armed with his nanobots, had turned the tables, pulling Tyler into his control as the ultimate payback. Now Tyler was Ethan’s focus, the shiny new toy in his revenge scheme.

Marco chewed his lip, glancing at the app again. Tyler was probably off somewhere with Ethan right now, following orders like a puppet. But Brad? His Status showed “Location: Harper Hall, Room 312.” That was just two floors up from Marco’s own room. Alone, according to the app’s metrics—no other bots detected nearby. Marco’s pulse quickened. This was an opportunity. A risky, stupid, thrilling opportunity.

He’d never talked to Brad Miller before—not really. Brad was a hulking beast of a guy, built like Jeff Seid with biceps that strained his shirts and a jawline that could cut glass. Dark hair cropped short, piercing blue eyes, and a short fuse that made him infamous for snapping at anyone who crossed him. He was the kind of guy who’d shove you into a locker just for looking at him funny. Marco had always steered clear, his closet-gay brain simultaneously terrified and embarrassingly fascinated by the guy’s sheer physicality.

But now? Now Marco had the upper hand. Or at least, the app did.

He opened Brad’s profile in Nanocontroller, his thumb hovering over the Commands tab. If he was going to do this—visit Brad, test this power—he needed a safety net. Something to keep Brad’s temper in check. He tapped out a command: “The next person who enters my dorm is my new best friend.” Simple, broad, and hopefully enough to keep Brad from punching his lights out. He hit send, watching the app ping: Command received. The Logs updated a second later: “Brad Miller: Command queued, awaiting trigger.”

Marco exhaled shakily, setting his phone down. This was it. No turning back. He grabbed his keys, slipped on his sneakers, and headed out the door, locking it behind him. The hallway was quiet, the usual weekend chaos still hours away. He took the stairs two at a time, his heart thudding louder with each step. Room 312 was at the end of the third-floor hall, its door plastered with a faded lacrosse poster and a “KEEP OUT” sign that looked more decorative than serious.

He stood there for a moment, hand raised to knock, second-guessing himself. What if the app didn’t work? What if Brad didn’t register the command right? What if— No. He’d seen it work with Tyler. It was real. He just had to trust it.

He knocked—three sharp raps—and held his breath.

The door swung open almost immediately, and there was Brad, filling the frame like a wall of muscle. He wore a tight black tank top and gym shorts, his skin glistening with a faint sheen of sweat like he’d just finished a workout. His blue eyes narrowed for a split second, sizing Marco up, and Marco’s stomach flipped. Then, something shifted. Brad’s scowl melted into a wide, almost goofy grin.

“Dude! Holy shit, come in!” Brad stepped back, waving Marco inside with an enthusiasm that was borderline surreal. “I didn’t even know you were coming by, man. This is awesome.”

Marco blinked, stepping into the room. It smelled like protein shakes and Axe body spray, a cluttered mess of gym gear, textbooks, and empty energy drink cans. Brad shut the door behind him and clapped Marco on the shoulder—hard enough to make him stumble.

“Seriously, bro, you’re my new best friend,” Brad said, his voice booming with a sincerity that sent a chill down Marco’s spine. “I don’t know why I didn’t hang with you sooner. You’re cool as hell.”

“Uh… thanks?” Marco managed, adjusting his glasses. The app had worked. Holy crap, it had worked. Brad was looking at him like they’d been buddies since kindergarten, his usual aggression replaced by an almost puppy-like eagerness.

Brad flopped onto his bed, patting the space next to him. “Sit, sit. You want a drink? I’ve got some pre-workout left, or there’s water if you’re not into that.” He paused, then laughed. “Man, I can’t believe you’re here. What’s up? You into lifting or something? We should hit the gym together.”

Marco perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed, his mind racing. Brad’s energy was overwhelming, and the way his tank top hugged every ridge of muscle wasn’t helping Marco’s concentration. He cleared his throat, forcing a smile. “Yeah, maybe. I just… thought I’d drop by. See how you’re doing.”

“Me? I’m great now that you’re here, bro,” Brad said, leaning back on his elbows. His biceps flexed as he moved, and Marco had to look away before his brain short-circuited. “Been kinda weird lately, though. Jace and I haven’t been hanging with Tyler as much. Ethan’s been keeping us busy, I guess.”

Marco’s ears perked up. “Ethan? You’re still tight with him?”

“Oh yeah, Ethan’s the man,” Brad said, nodding enthusiastically. “He’s like… I dunno, family or something. Gotta look out for him, you know?”

Marco nodded slowly, filing that away. The app’s earlier commands were still in play—Ethan’s hold on Brad was solid. But now Marco had a foothold too. A very muscular, very eager foothold.

“So, uh, what do you usually do on weekends?” Marco asked, testing the waters. He needed to see how far this “best friend” thing could stretch—and how much control he really had.

Brad grinned, sitting up. “Whatever you wanna do, man. You’re the boss.”

Marco’s breath caught. The boss. Right. This was going to get interesting.

Part 4: Rewriting the Rules

Brad’s voice filled the dorm room, a steady stream of chatter about protein shakes, deadlifts, and some lacrosse game Marco couldn’t care less about. “—and then Jace totally botched the pass, dude, I swear he’s been off his game lately,” Brad rambled, sprawled across his bed with one arm propped behind his head, muscles flexing casually. Marco nodded along, barely listening, his attention glued to the Nanocontroller app open on his phone.

He was still reeling from how easily Brad had welcomed him, all thanks to that “new best friend” command. But something nagged at him. Brad kept dropping Ethan’s name like it was second nature—“Ethan says this,” “Ethan thinks that”—and it didn’t add up. How could Brad be his best friend and still be so hung up on Ethan? Were the nanobots juggling multiple loyalties, or was Ethan’s hold just that strong?

Marco scrolled to Brad’s Commands tab, his thumb hovering over the list. There they were: Ethan’s old instructions still active—“Consider Ethan Chen your closest, dearest, trusted friend,” “Feel compelled to protect Ethan Chen,” “Take some time and distance from Tyler Grayson”—stacked alongside Marco’s own “The next person who enters my dorm is my new best friend.” He frowned, tapping the first of Ethan’s commands. A pop-up menu appeared: Edit, Delete, Override. His breath caught. He could change it. Strip Ethan’s influence away.

Brad was mid-sentence—“So I told Ethan we should hit the gym tomorrow, you should come too, bro”—when Marco hit Delete on “Consider Ethan Chen your closest, dearest, trusted friend.” The app pinged: Command removed. Brad’s voice faltered, his brow furrowing like he’d forgotten what he was saying. Marco didn’t stop. He deleted “Feel compelled to protect Ethan Chen” next, leaving only “Take some time and distance from Tyler Grayson” and his own best-friend command intact.

Brad froze, his mouth half-open, eyes glazing over for a few seconds. It was eerie—like someone had hit pause on a video game character. Then he blinked, shaking his head slightly, and the grin returned. “Uh, what was I saying? Oh yeah, the gym. We should totally go, man.”

Marco’s heart raced. “Hey, what about Ethan?” he asked, testing the waters.

Brad shrugged, leaning back again. “Ethan? He’s… I dunno, just some guy, I guess. Kinda nerdy. Haven’t talked to him much lately.” His tone was flat, dismissive—the real Brad, unfiltered by Ethan’s nanobot programming. Marco nearly dropped his phone. It worked. He’d erased Ethan’s grip on Brad with a few taps, leaving his own command as the dominant one.

A thrill shot through him, electric and dangerous. He could rewrite people. Bend them to his will. And Brad—big, brash, ridiculously hot Brad—was sitting there, oblivious, waiting for whatever Marco wanted next. His fingers trembled as he opened the Commands tab again, ideas swirling. This was his chance. His first real shot at something he’d only ever fantasized about.

He typed quickly, adrenaline fueling him. First: “OBEY: I like spending time with Marco.” Sent. Then: “OBEY: Everything we do together I’m okay with.” Sent. And finally, hesitating just a moment, he added: “ASSIST: Marco’s sexual needs.” The app pinged three times: Command received. Marco swallowed hard, his mouth dry, as the Logs updated with the new instructions.

Brad shifted on the bed, his grin widening. “Dude, hanging out with you is the best. Seriously, I could chill here all day.” His voice was warm, eager, and Marco felt a flush creep up his neck. The Obey commands were locking in, rewriting Brad’s instincts. Then Brad sat up, scooting closer, his massive frame suddenly way too close for Marco’s brain to process. “You need anything, man? Like, anything at all?”

Marco’s eyes flicked to Brad’s chest—broad, sculpted, straining against that tight tank top—and his mind blanked. This was happening. After years of awkward crushes and lonely nights, he was about to get lucky with a guy who looked like a freaking fitness model. And not just any guy—Brad Miller, the short-tempered jock who’d never given him a second glance before today.

“Uh…” Marco stammered, adjusting his glasses nervously. “Maybe, um… you could… take your shirt off?” It came out more like a question than a command, but Brad didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the hem of his tank top and peeled it off in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. His torso was a masterpiece—rippling abs, defined pecs, a faint trail of dark hair disappearing into his shorts. Marco’s breath hitched, his hands itching to reach out.

“Like this, bro?” Brad asked, flexing slightly, oblivious to the nanobots steering him. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Marco managed, his voice barely above a whisper. He slid closer, tentative at first, then pressed a hand to Brad’s chest. The muscle was warm, solid, and Brad didn’t flinch—just watched him with that goofy, trusting grin. Marco’s fingers traced the curve of a pec, his pulse hammering. This was real. He was touching a guy—a hot guy—who was okay with it, thanks to a few lines of code.

He leaned in, heart pounding, and Brad didn’t pull away. “You’re my best friend, right?” Marco murmured, testing the limits.

“Always, man,” Brad replied, his voice low, and then he draped an arm around Marco’s shoulders, pulling him closer like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Marco’s head spun. He was in deep now—way over his head—but he didn’t care. For the first time in his life, he was calling the shots.

Part 4.5: Crossing the Line

Marco’s hand lingered on Brad’s chest, the heat of his skin searing into his palm. The dorm room felt smaller now, the air thick with something unspoken—tension, excitement, maybe a little fear. Brad sat there, shirtless and unbothered, his arm still slung around Marco’s shoulders like they were just two bros chilling. Except this wasn’t chilling. This was Marco’s wildest daydream crashing into reality, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready for it.

“You’re, uh, really built,” Marco said, his voice cracking slightly as his fingers traced the hard ridge of Brad’s pec. He couldn’t stop staring—Brad’s body was insane, all sculpted muscle and tanned skin, like he’d stepped out of a fitness magazine. Marco’s own average frame felt painfully inadequate next to it, but the app had leveled the playing field. Brad wasn’t pulling away. He wasn’t even blinking.

“Yeah, bro, gotta keep the gains up,” Brad replied, flexing his chest under Marco’s touch with a grin. “You like it, huh? Feels good to have a best friend who gets it.”

Marco nodded, swallowing hard. The Assist: Marco’s sexual needs command pulsed in the back of his mind, a green light he couldn’t ignore. He slid his hand lower, brushing over the ridges of Brad’s abs, feeling them tense and relax under his fingertips. Brad let out a low chuckle, shifting closer until their thighs pressed together on the bed.

“Dude, you’re all over me,” Brad said, his tone light but curious. “This isn’t, like, gay or anything, right? Just bros messing around.”

“Nah, totally not,” Marco lied, his heart pounding so loud he was sure Brad could hear it. “Just… appreciating the work you put in. You know, gym stuff.” He cringed internally at how lame that sounded, but Brad just nodded, accepting it like it made perfect sense.

“Cool, cool. I’m good with it, man. Whatever you’re into, I’m down,” Brad said, his voice warm and easy, the Obey: Everything we do together I’m okay with command locking in tight. He stretched out a little, giving Marco more access, his shorts riding low enough to show the V of his hips.

Marco’s breath hitched. He couldn’t believe this was happening. He’d never touched a guy like this—never even gotten close—and now Brad was practically offering himself up. Tentatively, he slid his hand to Brad’s side, gripping the firm muscle there, then up to his shoulder, marveling at the sheer power under his fingers. Brad flexed again, smirking like he was showing off.

“Strong, right?” Brad said. “You should feel the biceps, dude. Go for it.”

Marco didn’t need to be told twice. He ran both hands up Brad’s arms, squeezing the thick cords of muscle, his glasses fogging slightly from how fast he was breathing. Brad laughed, a deep, rumbling sound, and flexed harder. “See? Not gay, just admiring the grind.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Marco mumbled, barely coherent. His hands wandered back to Brad’s chest, then lower, brushing the waistband of his shorts. He hesitated, glancing up at Brad’s face—those sharp blue eyes, that cocky grin. “You’re okay with this?”

“Bro, I’m more than okay,” Brad said, leaning back on his elbows, his abs tightening as he moved. “You’re my best friend, man. Whatever you need, I’ve got you.” The Assist command was in full swing, and Marco felt a rush of power—and something else—flood through him.

He pushed further, sliding a hand along Brad’s thigh, feeling the muscle bunch under his touch. Brad didn’t flinch, just watched him with that same easy grin. “Feels good, right? All that leg day work,” he said, then added, “Still not gay, though. Just… helping you out.”

Marco nodded absently, too caught up to argue. He pressed closer, his knee nudging between Brad’s legs as he explored higher, fingers grazing the edge of his shorts. Brad shifted, spreading his thighs slightly, and Marco’s brain short-circuited. He leaned in, his lips brushing Brad’s collarbone before he could stop himself, tasting the faint salt of his skin.

“Whoa, dude,” Brad said, but he didn’t pull away—just tilted his head back, exposing more of his neck. “That’s… uh, intense. But it’s cool. Bros can do this, right?”

“Right,” Marco breathed, barely hearing him. He kissed again, harder this time, his hands roaming Brad’s chest, then dipping lower, tugging at the shorts. Brad let out a soft grunt, his hips shifting up instinctively, and Marco’s control snapped. He climbed halfway onto Brad, straddling one of his thighs, his own body trembling with want as he pressed himself against all that muscle.

Brad’s hands landed on Marco’s hips, steadying him, and he laughed again. “You’re wild, man. This is, like, next-level bonding. Still not gay, though—just… real tight friendship.”

“Real tight,” Marco echoed, his voice hoarse. He rocked against Brad, feeling the heat and hardness beneath him, losing himself in the moment. Brad’s grip tightened, guiding him, and for once, Marco didn’t care about the closet or the consequences. The app had given him this—Brad’s body, Brad’s willingness—and he was going to take it all.

Part 5: Tangled Hearts and Tangled Sheets

Marco was drowning in sensation, his hands mapping every inch of Brad’s body—hard muscle, warm skin, the faint sheen of sweat under his fingertips. He was pressed against Brad’s thigh, lost in the rhythm of their closeness, when Brad’s voice cut through the haze, low and conspiratorial. “Funny, but Ethan hopes you like this,” he whispered, his breath hot against Marco’s ear.

Marco froze, his brain scrambling to catch up. “What—” he started, but before he could process the words, Brad moved. In one fluid motion, he lunged forward, pinning Marco to the bed with the full weight of his body. Marco’s back hit the mattress, air rushing out of him as Brad straddled him, his thick thighs clamping around Marco’s hips. Brad’s ass settled right over Marco’s crotch, firm and deliberate, and Marco’s eyes widened, a jolt of heat shooting through him.

Brad smirked down at him, mischievous and wild, his blue eyes glinting. “You’re too damn cute when you’re flustered, bro,” he said, rolling his hips in a slow, teasing grind. Marco gasped, his hands gripping Brad’s waist on instinct as the pressure sent sparks up his spine. “Been thinking about this all night,” Brad murmured, leaning closer, his lips brushing Marco’s jaw. “Want you inside me, man. Like, bad.”

Marco’s mind reeled—Ethan’s name, Brad’s sudden shift, the raw hunger in his voice—but his body didn’t care. Brad’s hands were already tugging at Marco’s shirt, yanking it over his head, then fumbling with his jeans. “Wait, I—” Marco stammered, but Brad silenced him with a kiss, rough and desperate, all teeth and tongue. Marco melted into it, his hesitation crumbling as Brad’s fingers found his zipper, freeing him with a deftness that shouldn’t have surprised him.

“Gonna make you feel so good,” Brad growled, shifting to kick off his own shorts. He was naked now, every muscle on display, and Marco couldn’t look away—Brad’s broad chest, his tight abs, the thick curve of his ass as he positioned himself. He grabbed a bottle of lube from his nightstand—Marco didn’t even question why it was there—and slicked himself up, his movements quick and eager.

Marco barely had time to breathe before Brad lowered himself, guiding Marco inside with a slow, deliberate push. The heat, the tightness—it was overwhelming, and Marco groaned, his hands clutching Brad’s hips as he sank deeper. Brad let out a low, guttural moan, his head tipping back. “Fuck, yeah, that’s it,” he panted, starting to move, his thighs flexing as he rode Marco with a rhythm that was both wild and precise.

It was chaos—Brad’s body crashing against his, the bed creaking under their weight, Marco’s glasses slipping down his nose as he thrust up to meet him. Brad was relentless, his hands braced on Marco’s chest, nails digging in as he chased the feeling. “You’re so good, bro,” he gasped, his voice thick with need. “Knew you’d fuck me right.” Marco couldn’t respond—couldn’t think—just let himself get lost in the heat, the friction, the sheer insanity of Brad Miller begging for him.

They went at it hard, a tangle of limbs and sweat, until Marco felt the edge creeping up. Brad sensed it too, clenching around him, pushing him over with a final, shuddering thrust. Marco came with a choked cry, his vision blurring, and Brad followed a heartbeat later, spilling across Marco’s stomach with a groan that echoed in the small room. They collapsed together, spent and trembling, Brad’s massive frame slumping onto Marco like a clingy, oversized blanket.

“Best friend ever,” Brad mumbled, nuzzling into Marco’s neck, his arms wrapping around him possessively. Marco, still catching his breath, managed a weak laugh, too exhausted to process the absurdity of it all. They lay there, tangled and sticky, until sleep dragged them under, the night fading into a blur of warmth and closeness.

The next morning, sunlight streamed through Brad’s grimy dorm window, stabbing Marco awake. He blinked, disoriented, his glasses skewed on his face and a heavy weight pinning him to the bed. Brad was still draped over him, snoring softly, his head tucked against Marco’s shoulder, one meaty arm slung across his chest. Marco’s body ached in the best way, memories of the night flooding back—Brad’s moans, his desperate pleas, the way he’d clung to him after.

Then Ethan’s words hit him again: “Funny, but Ethan hopes you like this.” His stomach twisted. He fumbled for his phone on the nightstand, careful not to wake Brad, and opened the Nanocontroller app. The Logs tab glowed with new entries under Brad’s name, timestamped from last night:

SPEAK: “Funny, but Ethan hopes you like this.” – Executed 22:47

OBEY: Be the gayest guy you can. – Executed 22:48

OBEY: Fall in love with the guy who first fucks me. – Executed 22:49

Marco’s blood ran cold. Ethan. Somehow, Ethan had accessed the app—or the nanobots—while Marco was busy losing himself in Brad. The commands weren’t his—they were Ethan’s, layered on top of Marco’s own, twisting Brad into this clingy, love-struck version of himself. Marco glanced at Brad, still asleep, his face soft and peaceful. The guy who’d fucked him senseless last night was now programmed to love him—and Ethan had orchestrated it.

Marco’s hands shook as he closed the app. He’d wanted this—wanted Brad—but not like this. Not with Ethan pulling strings from the shadows. What the hell was Ethan playing at?

[mathhypnostories]

The Pointer’s Game: Epilogue

Part 12

Well, is bing an interesting experiment building this story with the help of Grok and my prompts and ideas on top of that. Hope you like the end result. This is just a final part that will set the new normal for Jake, Seth and the others.

Mark’s Morning

I wake up to the best part of my day—my son, Seth, sprawled across the bed, his lean frame pressed against me. He’s perfect, my pride, my everything since the day he became mine. Breakfast is our ritual—I’m at the stove, apron on, frying eggs while he kneels under the table, sucking me off with that hungry grin. “Daddy’s milk,” he mumbles, mouth full, and I groan, feeding him a thick shot, my hand in his greasy hair. He’s my boy—nothing better.

We eat after—eggs, toast, coffee—me feeding him bites, him straddling my lap, grinding slow. “Gotta fuck you, Dad,” he says, smirking, and I’m hard again, lifting him onto the counter. I slide into his perfect ass—tight, hot, mine—thrusting deep, sensual, our moans mixing with the clink of dishes. “Love you, son,” I pant, cumming inside him, his own release splattering my chest. He kisses me, sloppy and proud, and I’m whole.

School calls—he’s late, but who cares? He’s Seth Coleman, my king. I watch from the porch as Harold Grayson’s sedan rolls up—vice principal and his linebacker son Tyler, Seth’s loyal minions, a twisted couple thanks to my boy’s genius. This week’s jock boyfriend’s there too—some beefy football kid, Seth’s latest fling—grinning like an idiot as Seth climbs in, groping him. I wave, chest swelling with love and pride. “Kick ass today, son!” I call. He flashes that smirk—Always do, Dad—and they’re gone.

The Chore

Work’s waiting—numbers to crunch, a desk to man—but Seth’s orders come first. “Take care of my toy,” he’d said last night, casual, like it’s nothing. I trudge upstairs, tie loosened, to the room that used to mean something—now stripped bare. No trophies, no posters, just a bed, a pile of basic clothes for when it has to leave, and the toy itself. It’s there, as always—blond hair a mess, blue eyes blank, hand pumping its cock, a stupid grin plastered on its face. Jerking off, like it’s all it knows.

I step in, stomach turning—gross thing, repulsive, not human anymore. “Up,” I snap, and it stumbles to its feet, hand still moving, grin fixed. Can’t think, can’t speak right—just a shell Seth broke and left for me to tend. I guide it through the routine—his body’s still jock-fit, muscled from habit, and Seth likes it that way. “Work out,” I say, and it drops, doing push-ups, mechanical, sweat beading on its back. I watch, arms crossed, feeling nothing but disgust.

Bathroom next—I drag it in, hose it down with cold water, scrubbing its skin like it’s a dirty tool. It giggles, hand drifting back to its dick, and I slap it away. “Stop that.” It obeys, blank, dripping wet. Then the operational review—Seth’s rule, keep it running smooth. I grab its face, kiss it deep—tongue in, tasting nothing, just testing. It moans, empty, and I jerk it off—fast, clinical, its cum splattering the tiles. “Good,” I mutter, then bend it over the sink, fucking its hole—hard, quick, no warmth. It grunts, “Seth—” and I finish, pulling out, wiping myself clean. Repulsive, but it’s Seth’s toy, so I do it.

The Departure

I leave it there, drying on the bathroom floor, a wet heap of nothing. “When you’re dry, return to your box,” I command, voice flat. It nods, grinning, hand already creeping back to its cock. I don’t look back—shut the door, grab my briefcase, head to work. Seth’s at school, ruling his world—Harold, Tyler, that jock, all his. The toy’s in its place, tended, waiting for him. My son’s a genius—broke it, built me this life, and I’m proud.

The house is quiet as I lock up—perfect, like it should be. Seth’s my son, my only son, and that’s all that matters.

[mathhypnostories]

The Pointer’s Game: Part 12

Part 11

Epilogue

The final part is here. How this will end for Jake now that his world is upside down? This is the emd of the original story I created using the help of Grok. But as I mentioned in the Prologue, after that I create both the Prologue and Epilogue to give a better ending to this. So just one more post for this story. Did you liked? Maybe I could do a part 2? Maybe not?

Chapter 30: The Ascent

Seth stood in the living room, Mark’s hand gripping his tight—calloused, desperate, a father terrified of losing his boy again. The red moon’s glow was fading, the pointer’s power long gone, but Seth’s words had rebuilt his empire from the ashes. Harold and Tyler had stumbled out, half-dressed, under Seth’s barked order: “Go home—wait for me. I’ll deal with you later.” They obeyed, minions to the end, leaving Seth to climb the stairs, Mark trailing like a shadow.

“Never letting you go, son,” Mark muttered, squeezing Seth’s hand, eyes wet with devotion. Seth smirked, tugging him along. “Good, Dad. Stay close.” His mind buzzed—Jake was next, the last loose thread. He pushed open Jake’s bedroom door, hinges creaking, and froze.

Jake sat on the bed, jeans around his ankles, hand pumping his cock—slow, mechanical, a vacant grin splitting his face. His blond hair hung limp, blue eyes glassy, staring at nothing. Seth stepped in, Mark behind him, and asked, sharp, “Jake—what the fuck are you doing?”

Jake’s grin widened, hand not stopping. “Dunno, man. Need you to tell me. What am I doing, Seth?” His voice was flat, needy, a hollow echo of the golden boy he’d been. Seth’s gut twisted—then lit up. He’s fried. Mind’s gone. Weeks of control, pleasure, betrayal—Jake’s brain had cracked wide open.

Chapter 31: The Broken Toy

Mark shuffled in, frowning at Jake—barely registering him, a stranger in his son’s room. “Seth,” he said, voice low, “is your toy broken?” His tone held no pity, just curiosity, like Jake was a busted gadget. Seth smirked, eyes on Jake’s mindless stroking. “Maybe, Dad. But I’ll fix him up.”

Jake’s head lolled, grin fixed, hand speeding up. “Seth—tell me what I think, man. Who am I? What am I?” His words spilled, desperate, lost. He glanced at Mark, eyes lighting up. “You gonna fuck him again, Seth? That’s hot—Dad fucking you—” He jerked faster, moaning, cum dribbling over his fingers, no shame, no filter.

Seth’s smirk grew—realization dawning. I broke him. Completely. No pointer, no tricks—just relentless reshaping, and Jake’s will had shattered. He’d won—his best friend, his rival, now a drooling shell begging for direction. “You’re mine, Jake,” Seth said, voice cold. “That’s who you are. My toy—my bitch. You think what I tell you, feel what I want.”

Jake nodded, frantic. “Yeah—yours, Seth. Tell me more—” He kept stroking, eyes locked on Seth, a puppet with no strings left to cut.

Chapter 32: The Triumph

Seth turned to Mark, still holding his hand. “See, Dad? He’s perfect now—just needs me to run him.” Mark nodded, proud, kissing Seth’s cheek. “You’re amazing, son. Fixed him good.” No trace of Jake as his boy—just Seth, his world, his pride.

Seth stepped closer to Jake, crouching, voice a dark lullaby. “You love me, Jake. Love watching me fuck Dad, love being nothing. That’s your place—happy, horny, mine.” Jake’s grin stretched, hand slowing, cum-slicked and trembling. “Love you, Seth—happy—yours—” He slumped, spent, a void filled only by Seth’s command.

Seth stood, pulling Mark close, kissing him hard—tongues messy, a victor’s claim. Mark groaned, “My son,” hands groping Seth’s ass, ready for more. Jake watched, giggling softly, stroking again—lost, content, broken. The Graysons waited elsewhere, Mark clung to him here, and Jake knelt at his feet—mindless, adoring.

The red moon sank, the pointer dead, but Seth’s reign held—built on pleasure, words, and shattered souls. He’d won, fully, finally.

[mathhypnostories]

The Pointer’s Game: Part 11

Part 10

Part 12

We are near the end. Seth found a way to regain control of his dad. But what about the others? Will Jake be able to escape this nightmare? Or he is too far gone?

Chapter 27: Mark’s Breaking Point

Seth clocked Mark’s conflict—cum-slicked hand, half-hard cock, eyes darting between rage and want. The red moon had snapped the pointer’s spell, but Seth wasn’t done. He shoved Mark back, pinning him to the couch, straddling his lap. “You’re mine, Dad,” Seth growled, grinding down, forcing Mark’s dick against his ass—still slick from earlier. Mark shoved at him, “Get off—fuck you!”—but Seth thrust his hips, sliding Mark inside, raw and deep.

Mark groaned, hands clawing the cushions, resistance buckling with each roll of Seth’s hips. “No—no—” he rasped, but his body betrayed him, thrusting up, pleasure spiking. Seth leaned in, voice a venomous whisper: “I’m your son, remember? Your pride, your love—your reason to live. You cooked for me, fucked me, loved me all week. That’s real.”

Mark’s mind reeled—guilt, disgust, memories of Seth as his boy slamming in. Pancakes for two, baths, fucking on the couch—it was true, wasn’t it? “Seth—my son—” he choked, hips moving faster, pleasure shredding his resolve. Seth rode harder, moaning, “Yeah, Dad—love me again.” Mark’s head broke—conflicting waves crashing: He’s not—yes, he is—Jake’s nothing—Seth’s everything. Tears welled, sanity splintering. “Seth—I’m sorry—my boy—” he sobbed, thrusting deep, cumming hard, apologies spilling as he clung to Seth, fully his again. Jake faded—not his son, barely a person. Seth grinned, victorious.

Chapter 28: The Graysons’ Realignment

Seth slid off Mark, panting, leaving him a crying, loyal mess on the couch. Harold and Tyler were still tangled nearby—father fucking son, moans mixing with self-loathing, lost in their relapse. Seth approached, voice sharp, no pointer needed—just his words, his venom. “You two—look at me.”

Harold pulled out, Tyler scrambling up, both red-faced, dicks hard but eyes torn—hate and want warring. “You’re my minions,” Seth said, cold. “Harold, my loyal dog—Tyler, my wife-son. You live for me, not each other. That fucking? It’s for me—spouses serving their master.” He stepped closer, smirking. “You love me, need me—say it.”

Harold’s fists clenched, then loosened, Seth’s voice a hook in his brain. “Love you, Seth—need you,” he muttered, head bowing. Tyler’s ring glinted as he nodded, “You’re everything, man—my best friend, my—” He trailed off, kneeling, kissing Seth’s hand. The pleasure Seth had forced stuck, twisting their natures—just a push, and they snapped back into place. Harold grabbed Tyler’s shoulder, “We’re yours,” and they waited, minions reborn, eyes on Seth.

Chapter 29: Jake’s Last Thread

Upstairs, Jake’s room was a cage—panic clawing his chest, horniness a sick pulse he couldn’t shake. Seth riding Mark, Mark crying “my son”—it looped, wrong but hot, his dick stiff despite the disgust. I’m losing it—need help. He fumbled his phone, dialing Mia—voicemail, again and again. “Pick up—please—” he whispered, shaking.

Finally, she answered, voice ice: “Fuck you, Jake!” He flinched. “Mia—I’m sorry, I—” “Save it!” she snapped. “You’ve dodged me all week—ghosted me, your dad’s a freak denying you exist—what’s your deal? I’m done!” The line clicked dead. Jake dropped the phone, last hope gone, sanity fraying. She’s right—I’m nothing.

He slumped on the bed, staring at the trophies—his old life, a lie. Seth’s voice echoed—“You like it, gets you horny”—and his hand moved, stroking himself despite the panic. Mark fucking Seth, that image burned in, guilt and pleasure twisting. “Fuck—Seth—Dad—” he moaned, cumming hard, tears streaking his face. His mind cracked—horny, lost, alone—Seth’s shadow swallowing him whole.

Downstairs, Seth stood over his reclaimed minions—Mark sobbing loyalty, Harold and Tyler kneeling. The red moon faded, but Seth’s grip held, fragile but fierce.

[mathhypnostories]

The Pointer’s Game: Part 10

Part 9

Part 11

<Note: I was adding the link to the part 9 I posted today as well, but by mistake I posted this that was scheduled for tomorrow, so I will keep it, but keep in mind next part will be posted until Sunday>

The spell is off, but what will now Seth do to regain control over all guys? Will they being able to escape Seth's control for good? Or maybe punish Seth?

Chapter 24: The Graysons’ Relapse

The living room was a warzone—shouts, shattered trust, the red moon’s glow bleeding through the windows. Tyler crumpled against the wall, linebacker bulk trembling, hands clawing his hair. “We—Dad, we fucked—Mom’s gone—because of him!” His voice broke, memories of Seth’s commands crashing in: the ring, the “wife-son” role, destroying their family. Tears streaked his face, breath hitching into an anxiety attack.

Harold loomed nearby, fists balled, rage twisting his ex-Army frame. “That bastard ruined us!” he roared, glaring at Seth, who dodged Mark’s swings across the room. But Tyler’s sobs cut through—Harold’s son, his real son, breaking. He knelt, pulling Tyler into a rough hug. “Ty—hey, breathe, kid. I’ve got you.”

Their bodies pressed close, and it clicked—muscle memory, Seth’s forced conditioning kicking in. Harold’s lips brushed Tyler’s forehead, then lower, a kiss—tentative, wrong. “No—fuck—” Harold growled, pulling back, but Tyler’s hands gripped his shirt, kissing back, desperate, sloppy. “Dad—” They hated it, stomachs churning—This isn’t us—but the pleasure Seth had wired into them flared. Harold groaned, tongue plunging in, Tyler moaning, “Yeah—fuck, yeah,” as they fell into it, hard again, grinding against each other like spouses reborn. The pointer was dead, but its scars ran deep—just a push, and they were back.

Chapter 25: Seth’s Gambit

Seth ducked Mark’s fist, the older man’s rage a bull charge—“You’re not my son!”—but Seth saw the Graysons relapse, a lifeline in the chaos. If it sticks for them… He lunged, dodging another swing, and grabbed Mark’s cock—still out, half-hard from their interrupted fuck. “Easy, Dad,” Seth panted, jerking him fast, rough, a desperate bid to tame him.

Mark froze, snarling, “Get off me!” He shoved, but Seth’s grip tightened, stroking with purpose—familiar, twisted pleasure spiking. “No—no—” Mark’s voice cracked, hips twitching against his will, dick swelling. Seth smirked, leaning close. “You love it, Mark. I’m still your boy, right?” Mark groaned, resistance crumbling—not fooled, not fully, but the heat took over. “Fuck you,” he rasped, but he thrust into Seth’s hand, eyes dark with conflict. He didn’t believe Seth was his son—logic screamed it—but part of him, warped by weeks of conditioning, wanted to. He came, hard, grunting, “Seth—” and slumped, panting, caught in the haze.

Seth wiped his hand, grinning—control slipping, but pleasure still his weapon. Harold and Tyler writhed nearby, kissing and groping, lost in their own relapse. The red moon watched, unblinking.

Chapter 26: Jake’s Flight

Jake stood rooted, panic clawing his chest—his dad, Seth, the Graysons, all unraveling. Seth jerking Mark off snapped something—his horniness surged, wrong, sick, but real. His dick throbbed, memories of watching them fuck flooding back—So hot, so right—clashing with the disgust now screaming, This is fucked! He saw Mark cum, Seth’s smirk, and his body betrayed him, jeans tight. “No—no—” he choked, bolting upstairs, legs shaking.

In his room, he slammed the door, chest heaving, collapsing on the bed. What’s wrong with me? His mind spun—Seth’s voice, “You like it, gets you horny,” still echoing, battling the raw truth: his dad, his friend, all a lie. But his hand moved, unbuttoning, stroking—Mark fucking Seth, that image burned in, hot and shameful. “Fuck—Seth—Dad—” he moaned, jerking faster, hating it, loving it. He came, hard, cum splattering his chest, and lay there, panting, trapped in the horniness Seth had carved into him. Escape failed—his room, his head, still Seth’s domain.

Downstairs, the chaos churned—Tyler and Harold lost to pleasure, Mark half-tamed, Seth scrambling. The pointer’s spell was gone, but its echoes held tight.

[mathhypnostories]

The Pointer’s Game: Part 9

Part 8

Part 10

The announced return of the Grayson is here. But with all guys in the same roof, what else could come for Seth now?

Chapter 21: The Graysons’ Return

Sunday morning broke lazy and warm, the Coleman house still Seth’s kingdom. He sprawled in the kitchen, Mark frying eggs for his son, while Jake nibbled a dry muffin, grinning at Seth’s casual groping of Mark’s ass. The doorbell rang, sharp and insistent, cutting through their rhythm.

Mark answered, apron on, and found Harold and Tyler Grayson—Harold in a tight tee, Tyler in ripped jeans, wedding ring glinting. “Seth!” Tyler called, pushing past Mark, eyes wild. “Where you been, man? We’ve missed you—Dad’s a mess without you.” Harold nodded, stoic but needy. “You’re our everything, Seth. Been too long.”

Seth sauntered in, smirking, pointer tucked in his hoodie. “Hey, guys. Missed me, huh? Come in.” He turned to Mark, kissing his cheek. “Dad, these are my minions—Harold and Tyler. They’re mine, like you.” Mark beamed, chest puffing. “That’s my boy—ruling the roost. Proud of you, Seth.” He clapped Harold’s shoulder, welcoming them like family.

The day turned into a fuck-fest. In the living room, Seth bent Harold over the couch, pounding him raw while Tyler sucked Mark off beside them—ringed hand stroking, mouth sloppy. “Good minions,” Seth grunted, slapping Harold’s ass. Mark moaned, “Hell yeah, son—look at you,” thrusting into Tyler’s throat. Jake watched from an armchair, jeans open, jerking off slow, grinning—Seth’s the man.

Lunch was a break—Mark cooked for four now, Seth’s crew—but it resumed fast. Tyler rode Harold in the dining room, wife-son kissing his husband-father deep, while Seth fucked Mark against the table, plates rattling. “Best dad,” Seth panted, Mark groaning, “Best son.” Jake leaned in the doorway, stroking himself, cum dripping as he watched them bond.

Chapter 22: The Red Moon Rises

Night fell, the house a haze of sweat and moans. Upstairs, Harold and Tyler claimed Mark’s bedroom—spouses reborn, fucking like newlyweds. Harold pinned Tyler to the bed, thick cock slamming in, grunting, “My wife—love you, Ty,” while Tyler moaned, “Fuck me, husband,” ring flashing as he clawed Harold’s back. Downstairs, Seth rode Mark on the living room couch, daddy’s cock deep, hands groping Mark’s chest. “Take it, Dad,” Seth growled, bouncing hard, Mark thrusting up, “Anything for you, son.”

Jake sat close, legs spread, jerking off fast—Seth and Mark’s rhythm stoking him, cum already staining his shirt. The pointer sat on the coffee table, red tip dim, unnoticed. Outside, the sky shifted—a red moon crested, full and eerie, casting a bloody glow through the windows.

Then it hit. A silent snap, like a string cut. The pointer’s hum died—its power canceled, washed out by the red moon’s pull. Harold froze mid-thrust, Tyler gasping beneath him. Mark’s hands dropped from Seth, eyes widening. Jake’s hand slowed, confusion creeping in.

Chapter 23: The Awakening

Upstairs, Harold yanked back, dick slipping out, staring at Tyler—his son, not wife—in horror. “What the fuck—Ty?!” His voice cracked, military steel gone, replaced by raw panic. Tyler scrambled up, ringed hand trembling, nausea hitting. “Dad—I’m not—this isn’t—” He gagged, memories flooding: Seth’s commands, the pointer, their twisted “marriage.” Disgust drowned the love, betrayal sharp as a blade.

Downstairs, Mark shoved Seth off, cock softening, face twisting. “Seth—you’re not my son! Jake—where’s Jake?!” He saw him—his real son—jerking off, and roared, “What the hell’s happening?!” Shame burned, his hands on Seth now a nightmare. Seth stumbled, grabbing the pointer—dead, useless. “No—no, Dad, it’s me—”

Jake blinked, hand falling, cum-slick fingers shaking. “Seth?” His trust cracked—Best friend? Normal?—and reality slammed in. Hugging, kissing, watching Mark fuck Seth—his dad—hit like bile. “You… you made me…” His horny haze shattered, disgust and hurt surging. “What did you do?”

Seth backed up, pointer limp, red moon glaring through the glass. Harold and Tyler stumbled down, half-dressed, rage and tears mixing. “You sick fuck!” Harold bellowed, lunging at Seth. Tyler grabbed him, sobbing, “He made us—Dad, he made us!” Mark stood, fists clenched, staring at Seth—not his son, a monster.

Jake rose, voice low, broken. “You were my best friend.” The house shook with their awakening—Seth’s empire crumbling under the red moon’s truth.

[mathhypnostories]

The Pointer’s Game: Part 8

Part 7

Part 9

So, I think even if I already set all characters for this story... are we forgetting someone who should find all this changes odd? Also I think the Grayson guys are a bit forgotten now. Next part will be their return.

Chapter 18: Mia’s Dismissal

Saturday morning, the Coleman doorbell chimed, cutting through the hum of Mark frying bacon—two plates, always two, for him and Seth. Jake lounged at the kitchen counter, munching a stale granola bar, ignored as usual. Mark answered the door, apron smeared with grease, and found Mia—cheerleader skirt crisp, blonde ponytail tight, eyes narrowed.

“Mr. Coleman,” she said, voice sharp. “I need to see Jake. He’s been dodging me since detention—won’t text, won’t call. What’s going on?”

Mark frowned, wiping his hands, not a flicker of recognition for Jake as his. “Jake? No son of mine by that name. You’ve got the wrong house, kid.” He started closing the door, but Mia wedged her foot in. “What? He lives here—you’re his dad!”

“Nope,” Mark said, cold. “My son’s Seth. That’s it. Move along.” He shoved the door shut, leaving Mia blinking on the porch. She pulled her phone, dialing Jake—straight to voicemail, again. “Jake, what the hell? Call me!” Five tries, five silences. She stormed off, confused, hurt—Why’s he ghosting? What’s with his dad?

Inside, Jake’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced—Mia—and ignored it, grinning at Seth, who straddled Mark’s lap by the stove, kissing him deep. Why’d I date her? Jake thought, hand brushing his bulge. Seth’s blowjobs, his groping—way better, hotter, all he needed. Mia faded to a shrug, irrelevant next to his best friend.

Chapter 19: Daddy’s Domain

Mark and Seth owned the house now—every room a stage for their bond. Midday, they filled the bathtub, steam curling around them. Mark sank in, broad chest slick, while Seth climbed between his legs, water lapping. “Wash me, Dad,” Seth said, smirking, and Mark soaped him up—hands roaming Seth’s back, chest, then lower, stroking his cock slow and sensual. Seth moaned, kissing Mark’s neck, their dicks brushing underwater.

“Love taking care of you, son,” Mark murmured, fingers sliding into Seth, stretching him. Seth groaned, grinding back, and they fucked—slow, wet, water sloshing as Mark thrust up, Seth riding him. “Best boy,” Mark panted, coming inside him, Seth shuddering his own release. They kissed, lazy, soaking in their mess.

Dinner was next—Mark in the kitchen, shirtless, cooking steak for two. Seth knelt under the table, sucking Mark off, a regular ritual. “Daddy’s milk,” Seth mumbled, mouth full, as Mark groaned, feeding him cum with one hand, flipping meat with the other. They ate after, Seth in Mark’s lap, sharing bites, groping between mouthfuls.

Night hit the living room—TV on, some action flick ignored. Seth sprawled on the couch, naked, Mark pounding him from behind, grunting, “My son—fuck, you’re perfect.” Seth moaned loud, loving it, Mark’s hands everywhere—pinching nipples, slapping ass. They switched, Seth riding him reverse, Mark’s cock deep, both lost in their endless fuck-fest.

Chapter 20: Jake’s Watch

Jake drifted through it all, a horny shadow. Morning—he caught Seth and Mark at the stove, Seth’s ass bouncing on Mark’s lap, and didn’t blink. Midday—he passed the bathroom, steam and moans spilling out, Seth’s “Harder, Dad” echoing. Dinner—he leaned in the kitchen doorway, watching Seth’s head bob under the table, Mark’s blissed-out face. Night—he sprawled in an armchair, Mark railing Seth on the couch, their grunts filling the room.

Mark never saw him—Jake was air, a non-thing. But Jake didn’t care. Seth’s voice rang in his head: “You like this, man. Dad ignoring you’s normal—gets you hot watching us bond.” And it did. Every time, Jake’s dick stiffened, hand slipping into his jeans. Seth riding Mark at breakfast? He jerked off, grinning, cum splattering his shirt. Bath moans? He stroked himself in the hall, panting. Dinner blowjob? He came in his pants, eyes on Seth’s throat working. Couch fuck? He sprawled, stroking fast, moaning Seth’s name as he watched.

“Seth’s right,” Jake muttered, wiping his hand after the living room show, Mark and Seth tangled in a sweaty heap. “This is how it’s supposed to be.” He didn’t miss Mia, didn’t miss Mark’s attention—Seth filled it all, his best friend’s control a perfect fit. Horny, happy, sidelined—he jerked off again, content.