nonamealphajockbro

[nonamealphajockbro]

In the wake of the most recent election, things just seem to be getting worse by the day. Not only is the world seemingly getting further away from my ideal realm of progressive values, but my personal life is going to hell too. At 27, I can barely sleep, my eating habits are getting worse (and my weight as a result), while my relationship with my boyfriend is growing even more strained than it already was. Sometimes I just wish things were different - where I'm just not as concerned about equality and society progress and instead just want to focus on only myself. I just want to enjoy life and live my life to the fullest rather than feeling so overwhelmed and defeated. Hell, it would even be great if my boyfriend and I could just go back to being best friends rather than boyfriends at this point...

In the wake of the latest election, the world feels like it’s spiraling further from your vision of progress—equality, justice, compassion—drowning under a sea of red hats and clenched fists. At twenty-seven, your personal life is crumbling too. Sleepless nights bleed into days of stress-eating junk food, your waistline expanding with your despair. Your relationship with your boyfriend, Jamie, is a fraying rope, strained by petty arguments and heavy silences. One night, in a haze of exhaustion, you scrawl in your journal: I just wish things were different. I’m tired of fighting for ideals, tired of feeling overwhelmed. I want to live for myself, enjoy life, be free. Hell, maybe Jamie and I would be better off as best friends than boyfriends.

Desperate for relief, you book an appointment with a new therapist, Dr. Vernon Holt, whose website boasts “transformative results.” His office sits in a grimy strip mall, sandwiched between a vape shop and a gun store, the sign “Holt’s Holistic Healing” glaring in bold font. You hesitate but step inside.

Dr. Holt is a mountain of a man, buzzcut sharp, handshake bone-crushing. His office reeks of leather and pine, walls lined with taxidermy deer heads and a framed photo of a monstrous pickup truck. “What’s eating you, son?” he asks, voice like a gravel pit.

You spill everything: the election’s fallout, the world’s descent, your failing relationship, your spiraling health. “I just want to stop feeling so… heavy,” you admit. “I want to live for me, not some cause. I want to be happy.”

Holt leans back, stroking his chin. “Happiness? That’s easy. You’re overthinking it. Too much noise in your head.” He pulls a small vial of amber liquid from his desk, unlabeled, glinting under the fluorescent light. “One sip. It’ll clear the clutter, reset your priorities.”

You frown. “What is it?”

“A tonic for the soul,” Holt says with a smirk. “Trust me. You want to live life to the fullest? This is the key.” He pauses, eyeing you. “Bring your boyfriend too. Sounds like he could use it.”

Skeptical but desperate, you agree. That evening, you convince Jamie to come along, framing it as a last-ditch effort to save your relationship—or at least part as friends. Jamie, weary and hollow-eyed, agrees. Back at Holt’s office, the therapist hands you each a vial. “Together now,” he says, like a priest administering a sacrament. The liquid smells of whiskey, motor oil, and something metallic, like blood. You exchange a glance with Jamie, then down the vials in unison. It burns like swallowing fire, your vision blurs, and the world fades to black.

The transformation begins in the dead of night, your unconscious bodies sprawled across your apartment’s couch. Your body, once soft and rounded from months of stress-eating, begins to tremble. Your skin burns, sweat pouring as your metabolism surges into overdrive. Beneath the surface, the vial’s unholy cocktail—experimental steroids, psychoactive agents, and something ancient, unnameable—rewrites your very being. Your fat melts away, not gradually but violently, as if consumed by an invisible inferno. Your abdomen tightens, soft rolls morphing into a chiseled eight-pack, each muscle etched like stone. Your chest swells, pectorals bulging until your T-shirt rips at the seams. Your arms balloon, biceps and triceps swelling, veins popping like cables. Your thighs thicken into pillars, calves hardening into diamond slabs. By dawn, your 5’10” frame carries thirty pounds of lean muscle, your body fat slashed to single digits. You’re no longer the anxious, doughy you but a hulking, sculpted titan.

Your skin stings, as if pricked by a thousand needles. Across your new form, tattoos emerge, drawn by an unseen hand. A bold cross, wreathed in thorns and dripping blood, surfaces on your right bicep, pulsing with life. Across your chest, “John 3:16” carves itself in gothic script, sprawling from collarbone to collarbone. Your left forearm bears a roaring lion, its mane encircling a crown. On your back, a massive crucifixion scene unfolds—Christ’s anguished face, angels with flaming swords. The ink is flawless, a permanent brand of your new faith.

Your face shifts too. Your soft jaw sharpens, cheekbones rising, stubble sprouting in a rugged pattern. Your shaggy hair tightens into a crisp, military crop. When your eyes open, they burn with steely confidence, the old anxiety gone.

Beside you, Jamie undergoes the same metamorphosis. His slender frame, once wiry from yoga and vegan diets, bulks up with obscene speed. His chest broadens, arms swelling, legs thickening into tree trunks. His boyish features harden, jaw squaring, stubble darkening. Tattoos bloom across his skin: a flaming sword on his bicep, “Psalm 23” across his pecs, a dove and cross on his forearm. His hair, once a floppy mess, is now a tight fade. He stirs, groaning, his voice now a deep rumble.

You wake at sunrise, your body thrumming with raw power. You stumble to the bathroom, floorboards creaking under your newfound bulk. The mirror reflects a stranger: muscles rippling, tattoos gleaming, a red MAGA cap (where did it come from?) tilted backward on your head. You flex, biceps peaking like mountains, and a deep laugh erupts. “Hell yeah,” you mutter, voice a gravelly baritone. A belch rumbles up, loud enough to shake the mirror. You cackle, then let out a fart that echoes. “That’s the stuff!” The old you would’ve cringed. This you—call yourself Eli now—revels in it, in the crude, unapologetic vitality.

Jamie lumbers in, grinning, his own MAGA cap perched atop his buzzcut. “Yo, Eli, check this out,” he says, flexing. His biceps bulge, the flaming sword tattoo dancing. He burps, louder than yours, and you both crack up. “Man, we’re jacked!” He farts, smirking, and you high-five him. No more boyfriend drama—just bros, simple and free.

You rummage through your closet, tossing aside your old progressive gear. You find tight tank tops, camo shorts, and a stash of MAGA hats, as if planted there. Jamie grabs a similar outfit, his “Psalm 23” tattoo glowing under the light. You both dress, admiring your reflections. “God’s got us, bro,” you say, testing the words. They feel right.

Your phone buzzes—texts from friends, worried about your “mental health.” You snort, typing back: Chill, I’m good. Just living the truth now. #MAGA

You find a Bible on the coffee table, pages highlighted with verses like “Be strong and courageous.” You don’t remember owning it, but you flip through, nodding at the words that match your tattoos. Jamie grabs a beer (when did you buy a case?), chugs it, and belches the alphabet. You try to top him, and soon you’re both howling, the apartment reeking of hops and freedom.

Your days become gloriously simple. You quit your nonprofit job, calling it “woke garbage.” Jamie ditches his graphic design gig, saying it’s “for betas.” You pool your savings for a lifted pickup, a gun safe stuffed with AR-15s, and gym memberships. Mornings are for lifting, evenings for UFC and X posts about “Trump’s genius” and “God’s plan.” You preach at dive bars, flexing your cross tattoo, burping for emphasis: “America’s back, baby!”

Jamie chimes in, waving his flaming sword arm: “Libtards can’t handle this truth!” You both laugh, farting in unison, scattering the crowd.

One night, a friend stops by, horrified. “What happened to you two?” they ask, eyeing the “Trump 2028” flag on your wall. You grin, cracking your knuckles. “Name’s Eli now, bro. We woke up to the real deal. God, guns, Trump. You should try it.”

Jamie—now Jay—slaps your back, belching. “Yeah, stop whining and start winning.”

They leave, shaking their head. You don’t care. You and Jay crank the radio, blasting country anthems, and head to a rally, MAGA caps tilted, tattoos flashing. Life is good—loud, simple, selfish. You’re kings of a world that demands no thought, only strength.

[nonamealphajockbro]

'Bama Bros

Did you like Bro'd Trip? Here's another longer story with a more physical, sensual (18+) transformation at the end. Enjoy!

Of all the roommates I could’ve gotten - obnoxious jocks, moronic meatheads - I’m glad it was Zach. We were the only two people at the University of Alabama actually trying to get an education. While our peers got drunk at house parties, we played video games.

“I don’t get people who do that,” Zach said, having just beaten me at Mario Kart again. “All the partying. And the drinking.”

“I know…I mean, there are party schools, and then there’s…”

“No, not that. I just don’t understand the appeal of it. They get something out of it, right? But what?”

“I don’t know. Aren’t you the sociology major?”

“I am…?”

“Well, if anyone could find an answer, it’s you. But good luck! You couldn’t pay me enough money to hang around with those guys.”

Zach paused, resting his chin on his hands. “You know…that’s not a terrible idea.”

I rarely saw Zach after that. He was too busy with his pet project, always coming and going to a frat house, a football practice, a gym session. The whole thing seemed so…stupid. I suppose it was my fault for putting the idea in his head.

“So, are you staying over the summer?” Zach asked. It felt like the first time we’d talked in weeks. I was trying to pack up some of my things, hoping it’d hasten my future move-out.

“Uh, no. I think I need a break. Honestly, I might transfer."

“Oh, wow. Um, I was thinking I’d stay, actually. A lot of the guys I’ve talked to will be here, so I think it’ll be good.” He paused, taking a breath. “But, I hope I’ll see you in the fall.”

“Thanks, Zach.”

I moved out a few weeks later, leaving our apartment in Zach’s hands for the summer. I didn’t care enough to sublet it. The less I thought about Alabama, the better. It wasn’t a hard decision: I had to transfer. But no school would take me - just my luck.

The drive back was long and quiet, except for the rumble of thunder in the distance. The heat and humidity seeped into my car. I was already dreading the prospect of hauling all my stuff inside.

“Hey, Zach!” I really hadn’t texted him this whole time? “Hope you’re doing okay. Good news: I’m coming back! I’ll be there in an hour. Would you mind helping me?”

I turned back to the highway. My phone pinged a few moments later.

“sweet! no prob bro.”

“Great, thanks so much! Looks like those guys have worn off on you, lol!” 

“yeah lmao. u got no idea wat u missed.”

What the…? I meant it as a joke.

I pushed the accelerator down, my stomach sinking. Just under 50 minutes later, I parked outside our building. 

“Yo! Long time no see, dude!”

The guy waiting for me was tall and muscular. His tight gray tank top exposed his stomach, and his arms barely fit into it. They were covered in tattoos, Bible quotes inked on his tricep and forearm; a cross hung around his neck. 

That wasn’t Zach. 

“Hi…Zach?” I squeaked, his embrace squeezing the air out of me.

“Uh, yeah, that’s me, haha! You good? Drive take a lot out of you?” He’d already made his way to my trunk, gesturing for me to unlock it. “Thanks. I’ll take these,” he said, grabbing a box under each arm. “Damn, you sure packed a lot. Good thing I’ve been hittin’ the gym!”

Wordlessly, I followed him back into the apartment. I looked around the place. My stuff was untouched, but I couldn’t help but notice the tubs of protein powder strewn throughout the kitchen. The AC was off, and the place reeked of body odor. I took a seat on the couch, tossing some sweat-stained piece of fabric off the cushion.

Wait, was that a jockstrap?

“I’m glad you’re back, dude!”

“Well, it wasn’t really my decision.” I sighed. “I don’t really fit in here, Zach. I hate it.”

“Nah, don’t say that! Look, I got just the thing. Give me a sec…” He vanished into his own room. 

“Alright, here we go. Just put this on, take a deep breath, and relax.”

He’d come out with a football helmet on his head. The guy it belonged to must’ve been massive. It dwarfed Zach - the facemask alone was wider than his neck. 

He took it off, shook out his hair, and held it in his hands. 

“You don’t gotta say yes. But if you do…it’s all gonna be okay. I promise.”

I opened my mouth. 

“What was that?”

“Yes.”

Before I could blink, Zach pressed the helmet down over my head. It was dark. Quiet. It felt like the rest of the world had disappeared.

My heart raced. 

What was I doing? This was insane!

And then…

Warmth. 

I felt it, every inch of my skin tingling. I could smell the sweat, the cologne, the grass, the cheap beer, the musk. I was with them.

I was one of them. 

So strong. 

So confident. 

So powerful.

I shivered. My arms itched, skin swelling around new muscle. My shirt tightened across my chest, solid, thick pecs pushing outward.

I grunted. “Oh, fuck!”

My voice was lower. 

My cock twitched. I felt it thickening, lengthening, hardening, dripping. I moaned.

I gotta get this thing off me…or not...

My thighs got nice and meaty. My stomach tightened, abs and obliques coming in nicely. I just felt…kinda fuzzy. All soft and warm. 

Ah….fuck. Yeah, I get it now! I don’t have to give a shit about being smart or whatever. ‘Cus…yeah, that’s not what life’s about. I just gotta be strong, sexy, stupid. Oh, my cock liked that! Yeah, little dude’s gonna blow. Not so little anymore though, hahaha!

I palmed myself, feeling my bulge through my shorts. Goddamn. I moaned just a little, thrusting into my hand.

I was fuckin’ built for this! 

“Bro…I’m glad I came back!”

— 

“cant wait 4 that party 2nite! ready 2 show off ;) "

Like the story? Want to support me? Check out my Ko-fi!

[nonamealphajockbro]

Military-Grade Scheme

Here’s a more unorthodox transformation story I wrote as a commission for @khartoum1. Enjoy!

In every college football team it’s pretty easy to point to a couple guys that rise above the rest. Both in terms of athletic ability and personality. Dudes who excel on the field and have no problem boasting about it after the game in the locker room. They naturally assume leadership roles, feeling that it’s only natural they hold at least some amount of power. I mean, look at them.

Tom Sullivan was a textbook example of such a player. Starting safety playing for Wake Forest, he had a reputation as an unstoppable weapon on the field, never allowing any receiver to get past him. His frequent and flashy tackles always made the highlight reel after every game and he was frequently rewarded for his effort with awards, respect from his bros and frequent hookups. Of course, being the arrogant football jock he was, he cared most about the last one. Every week meant a different girl in his bed, another pussy to conquer. This allowed him to reinforce his cred with his teammates, and even though there were a few cases of a condom being forgotten about, higher forces wouldn’t allow any random slip-up with a chick to affect his promising career. And so Sully lived his blissful life, surrounded by dudes who borderline worshipped him and girls who basically loved him.

And there was David, of course. David Mustafa, a year older than Tom and also a safety playing for the Demon Deacons. He was always there in the back of Tom’s mind as a possible threat, but not a very dangerous one. David was good, but not Tom Sullivan level of good. That thankfully translated to him spending basically 90% of every game on the sidelines and Tom could only assume he was always waiting for him to make some kind of mistake, place his foot at a wrong angle or something, so that he could have his moment of glory. But that moment would never come, as Sully was way too good to make this kind of rookie error. Football was his life, the only thing that mattered, and he would make sure it would stay that way.

Wake Forest’s season began with a Military Appreciation Game. Tom was obviously a patriot - red, white, blue and all that shit - but he was not the greatest fan of these types of events. Not because the military wasn’t important or anything, of course it was. But for Sully, a true All-American alpha, the troops had become too effeminate, too soft. And that was not something he thought needed appreciating.

He had one hell of a game. A few big tackles, including one on Boston’s brawny tight end who was known to play dirty on the field. He even recorded an interception, breaking their opponent’s best drive so far in the game and basically sealing the win for the Decs. The final score being 41-17, there was celebration in the locker room. First, Coach came in and gave a quick and dry congratulatory speech, as was custom, and then the more than 50 football players were left all alone. Booze quickly entered the picture, everyone filled with adrenaline after such a thrilling performance.

Tom quickly took off his sweaty jersey and pads and threw them onto the locker before turning around to face the rest of the team.

”Brahs, we fuckin’ did it! That’s how ya begin a fuckin’ season!” A scream of cheers followed and someone threw a can of beer at Tom. He caught it, which gained him a few more claps, and quickly drank the whole thing. He then crushed the can with his foot and flexed. Fuck, winning felt so good.

”These faggots have just tasted the raw power of Wake Forrest football, am I right guys?” A bunch of ‘fuck yeah’’s came in response.

After some time the temperature in the room cooled and the players started taking care of their gear and getting ready to leave. Meanwhile, Tom was talking with his best bros on the team - two corners, Antonio and Demarcus, and Sam “Carnage” Carney, a linebacker.

”Dude, I’m tellin’ ya, this whole thing was bullshit.” Tom groaned after Demarc mentioned how cool he felt as they were clapping for all the service members who came to the game.

”Bruh” Antonio looked at him, surprised? “What do ya mean dude? They’re, like, the army, ya know, the dudes who fight for our country and shit, defending America from terrorism.”

”I mean, I guess they do that, sure” Sully shrugged “But you must have seen how the military turned from thought dudes to woke pink-haired pussies. This ain’t the strongest army in the world no more, just a bunch of beta libs.” He grinned and looked at his bros “Am tellin’ ya dude, if ya got me a random soldier dude form the nearest base or whatever, I would defeat him in seconds. That’s how weak our military is now, huhuhuhuh.”He then let out a low, dumb-sounding laugh. The other three jocks nodded, automatically aligning themselves with Tom’s view.

”Yeah, brah” Demarc slapped him on the back “You’d crush any one of these camo-wearin’ pussies, fuck yeah dude!”

”Exactly, bro” Sam joined in “With yer strength, nothin’ would stand in yer way man, I can see all these bitches runnin’ away after seein’ ya all pumped and ready to smash them into the ground.” They all laughed, imagining such a scenario.

A few days later, the defensive line was in the middle of their weekly workout sessions. The gym was filled with banter as different guys chatted in between sets or motivated each other to push as hard as they could. And of course, in the middle of it all was Tom, breaking another personal best on the bench. After getting through 3 sets with the heavier weights, he threw the bar onto the rack and screamed.

”Fuuuuuuuck yeah!” A few bros closest to him stopped their exercises for a moment and congratulated him in their own bro ways - with wolf whistles, claps on the back and shouts. Tom stood up and got to the nearest mirror to flex his pumped arms. 

“Look at these arms, dude” He said to no one in particular “These guns just won Warrior of the Month on Insta.” A few more cheers followed. “And they fuckin’ deserved it, huhuhuh” He kissed his right biceps and looked into the mirror once more. Yes, he was a football god. 

After the high of crushing his lifting record had dwindled, he turned back towards the gym and started walking towards the free weights area. There he stumbled upon David, who was picking up a set of dumbbells.

”Ey, David bro, how ya doin dude?” Tom came close to the other guy with a smirk on his face. “Gettin pumped for the next game?”

”Yeah, sure” David just shrugged in response. Tom then put his arm around David’s shoulders and tucked him closer.

”Bet ya just can’t wait to warm up the bench for us stars, am I right?” 

“Mhm.” The only response he got was a grumble and a sigh. Tom clapped David on the back, causing him to lose balance and drop the dumbbells on the floor. Sully erupted in laughter and David just rolled his eyes and picked the weights back up.

”Hope yer better at holding onto chicks then weights bro” Tom said it loud enough for some other guys to hear it, and they all started laughing once again.

”I’ll be sure to let you know” David responded, putting a slight grin on his face, and got out of Tom’s embrace. But Tom was not yet done with him. He quickly jumped up to him and rubbed his hair.

”Calm down bro, am just messin with ya, ya know, as bros do, huhuhuhuhuh.” With that, Tom lost interest in hazing David and went back to the other jocks.

Next week Wake Forest destroyed the Air Force Falcons 49 - 6. From the moment he put on his uniform, Tom knew this was going to be an epic night. He ran onto the field with his signature crop top look, his jersey tucked to expose his flexed abs. And he dominated for the next 4 quarters. Tom and his bros celebrated after the game for a while, seeing this as a sign that Sully was correct in his assessment that the modern American soldier was indeed a weak beta pussy. Crusher and Demarc had once again brought beer and the jocks got very rowdy in the locker room. With booze flowing, surrounded by used football gear that was reeking of sweat, Tom felt like he was on top of the world.

When they finally left the stadium and walked onto the parking lot, Sully saw David waiting by his car. He dismissed the rest of the guys, who obediently said their goodbyes and left, then came up to his Chevy.

”What’s up, brah?” He looked at David, a cocky grin on his face, his arrogant expression partially hidden by his sunglasses.

”Nothin’ much” David shrugged “That was one hell of a game, right?”

”Fuck yeah” Tom took a step closer and clapped David on the shoulder “These Air Force pussies couldn’t get past these guns.” He then flexed both his arms. After all, he needed to show David who was boss.

”Oh certainly, huhuhuh” In response, David laughed in the same dumb and low-pitched way as Tom and other jocks usually did. He then reached into his pocket and took out a pair of dog-tags hanging from a thin, stainless steel ball chain. That immediately caught Tom’s attention. David then put the dog tags in front of Tom’s face.

”So… I know your attitude towards soldiers,” Another dumb laugh. “But I found a couple of these and from what I’ve heard wearing these can do magic with girls.” David grinned slightly and extended his hand towards Tom, who looked at him, suspicion in his eyes. David felt that reluctance and continued. “And so I immediately thought that you need a pair of these for yourself. Gotta make sure our team’s alpha safety stays on top in the chicks department, huhuhuh.” 

Tom thought about what he heard. For all of two seconds. The promise of more pussy was more than enough for him. He grabbed the dog tags and put them on. Two small metal plates were now hanging from his neck. He looked down and watched them settle on his meaty chest. Then he looked back up at David.

”Damn, dude. That’s sick. Chicks are gonna dig it so bad dude, I bet they’re gonna get wet just from seeing these.” Tom then flexed his chest, making his pecs bounce and watched the dog tags bounce as well.

”Hahahah, I bet dude” David extended his fist towards Tom, who eagerly bumped it. Then they both chuckled again and watched Sully flex his pecs a few more times.

”Let’s hope you know more about gettin’ pussy than defending the field” Tom laughed at his own joke and David just smirked and nodded. 

After a few days Tom had to give it to David - he seemed to be correct. Wherever he went, chicks seemed to gather around him instantly, all competing for a chance to hook up with him, as long as he had the dog tags on. He very much enjoyed the effect they seemed to have on women. He didn’t know it was possible to get more chicks into bed with him than he already did, but it certainly was. He just had to have these two small pieces of metal resting on top of his chest.

A few weeks in, Tom felt that he needed to go a step higher, so he got himself a military-style baseball cap that he started wearing all the time, even when he wasn’t hunting for sexual conquests. Antonio gave him a bit of grief after he wore the cap on the sidelines during a game, about how he was ranting about the Army just a few weeks prior only to suddenly become very into the military aesthetic, but even though he was one tough son of a bitch on the field, it wasn’t hard for Tom to put him in his place. Besides, he wasn’t “into the military aesthetic”, he just… felt like he had to buy the cap because… uhhh… he… he had to buy it to make sure the dog tags’ influence was still working after the novelty wore off. Exactly, nothing more. 

A similar line of thought made him look up military bars around town. If chicks were into this whole “army vibe” then that would be the absolutely perfect spot to hunt pussy with his newly acquired powers, right? Thankfully for Tom, there was a Marines training ground in the same county as the school, so there were a few establishments catering to the military crowd around town. He decided to go there one Wednesday after practice. He didn’t have any classes the following day so he had all night to himself.

”Brah, yer not goin’ to that Alpha Psi Delta party?” Carnage stopped him before they left the building. “It's gonna be an absolute beer fest duuuuuuuude.” He was clearly pumped up for the party. The party which Tom forgot about in his quest to find the best army-focused place in town.

”Ya gonna skip the Alpha party, bro?” Demarc joined in. Suddenly his bros were so focused on him skipping one frat party. And what was the big deal in that? It was just another random exert at Greek Row, indistinguishable from countless other parties he attended. And he attended all of them. Which meant today he would be breaking a pretty impressive streak… Tom looked at his bros and thought about it for a minute, but then he felt a thought tugging at the back of his brain. He had a mission today. And you don’t abandon a mission because of some random event set up by a bunch of drunk frat bros. 

“Nah brahs, already got some serious plans for today.” He thrust his hips slightly and they all immediately realised what he meant and backed down.

”Go get that chick, dude!” Demarc slapped him on the back and Sam just grinned, immediately changing his tune.

”Fuck dude, yer dick can’t get enough of that good ol’ pussy, huhuhuh“ He let out a dumb chuckle and Tom left them at the entrance with a mock salute.

The night went spectacularly well for Tom. At the bar, he felt at ease the entire time, even talking with a few actual Army guys at the counter. Interacting with them felt almost natural, the right words flowing out of his mouth for the soldiers to treat him as one of their own. And of course, the dog tags worked their magic on every chick that entered the establishment. He ended up fucking two girls that night, both cute blonds who clearly had a thing for military guys. Both seemed to love it when he barked at them like a drill sergeant and he found himself enjoying this as well, which he didn’t expect.

Visiting that military bar became almost a habit for him. Every few days, when his cock demanded action, he would spend the evening there, talk with some of the regulars and use his natural charisma to get some sweet, sweet pussy. This entire military thing seemed to work better and better on girls with every passing week. He didn’t have to put in any effort (even though, of course, his game was top notch) as women were just naturally joining him when they registered his presence. 

This also helped in further cementing his cred with his teammates, who were all cheering him on as his body count inflated every day. And he had more and more stories of his conquests he could use to further assert his dominance in the locker room.

After one game, a close one against Boston College which went into overtime, Tom was talking with their tight end about his latest hook up and he was clearly impressed.

”Damn bro, you just have this thing in ya that girls can’t get enough of.”

”Exactly dude, that’s it man!” Tom playfully punched Trev in the shoulder, then took off his pads and got them ready for cleaning.

”What ya doin’ bro?” Antonio, the linebacker, looked at him with a puzzled expression.

”Dude, that shit stinks bro. I gotta get it at least disinfected or somethin’.” Tom responded, perplexed as to why his bros found it weird that he was cleaning his gear. He was not some grunting neanderthal. 

Antonio immediately nodded, and Tom noticed he was doing the same thing with his pads when he was leaving the locker room. He was grinning as he left the facility. It seemed he had some positive impact on his bros. 

To make sure their next game wasn’t another nailbiter, but a dominant win instead, Coach dragged the entire team through every drill and exercise under the sun to make sure they were ready to crush Clemson on their home turf. Tom quickly adopted Coach’s mindset, barking at his bros during practice if their footwork wasn’t good enough or if their tackles landed at wrong angles. “Damn, Sully, yer like a fuckin’ drill sergeant.” One offensive lineman laughed as they were going back to the locker room after their last practice before Saturday’s game. Tom furrowed his brow, still in his serious mood, but after a second he grinned and patted his bro on the back. “Y’all need a sergeant to kick yer ass when ya do shit wrong. And if no one's gonna do it, I will.” He said, a feeling of pride growing inside him. Sergeant. That sounded good.

Funnily enough, other players started calling him that. In the guests’ locker room before the game, Demarc walked up to Tom. “Ey, Sergeant, ya gonna give some big speech or somethin’?” Sully looked at him confused. He wasn’t really the type of guy to do speeches and shit. They had Coach for that, and even Coach didn’t do motivational quotes, but rather warning them what would happen if the team didn’t live up to his expectations. But as he looked at Demarc, something shifted inside him. These guys needed that. They needed to be riled up, spirits high, ready to destroy the other team. And who’d be better to make sure that was the case than him, their Sergeant?

Tom stood with his back towards the door, looking at the team, fully geared up with his helmet on, and clapped a few times. “Everyone!” He shouted and all eyes were now on him. 

“I know Coach dragged us through hell this week, but he had one damn good reason. Cause right now I’m certain that when we get out on that field we’re going to fucking destroy these fuckers!” Cheers filled the room, and Tom’s face was covered by a shit-eating grin. “So when we’re out there, remember just one thing - we can fucking do this and nothing will stand in our way. Ain’t nothing gonna stop us from gettin’ that W!” More cheers and a few whistles followed. A moment later the players started leaving the locker room, and they all clapped Sully on the back as they walked past him. 

When most of the team had already left, Tom noticed Sam “Carnage” Carney was wearing his jersey as a crop top. He stopped him as he was about to go through the door.

”Dude, ya know that’s against the rules.” He pointed at his stomach which was proudly on display.

“Brah, ya wear yer own like that all the fuckin’ time.” Sam rolled his eyes. Tom furrowed his brow in response.

”Am I wearin’ it like that right now? Nope. And that’s cause I know the fuckin’ dress code. We don’t need no stupid penalties today. Am I right?” He looked at his bro with a serious expression and Carnage rolled his eyes again, but he obeyed Tom’s order and grabbed his jersey to straighten it so his whole abdomen was covered.

”That’s good enough for ya, Sargeant?” He said, with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. But Tom was only focused on Sam wearing his gear in accordance with regulations, so he didn’t care.

”Yeah” He patted him on the shoulder. “Now let’s go and win this thing.”

They beat Clemson 28-14. The game wasn’t as close as the score would suggest, with Wake Forest’s defence keeping their opponents at just seven points for most of the game. The atmosphere in the locker room was ecstatic. Coach made a short, but powerful speech. Tom also took the opportunity and congratulated everyone on their performance, highlighting a few guys who excelled during the game.

During most of the trip back towards Wake Forest, Sully was in the middle of a conversation with a few defensive linemen about their sexual conquests, and Tom seized on the opportunity to boast about his recent successes. But around the time they were passing Charlotte, he heard two guys sitting in front of him discuss going to a shooting range together. He never got this whole thing with owning a gun. Like, he understood that they were manly as fuck, but the actual shooting part never appealed to him, his mind occupied by his workout routines and diet plans since he started high school.

And yet he joined in. The guys were more than eager to share their only passion other than football with Tom, telling him all about the guns they tried out recently and what they planned to buy for themselves after their newest NIL deals had been signed. Even though this was his first time engaging with the subject, he very quickly became fluent in the appropriate lingo. It didn’t take long for Tom to ask the guys to take him to their favourite shooting range, so he could give it a shot. By the time they arrived on campus, he felt as if he’d spent the last few years getting proficient with handling various types of firearms instead of tackling and catching footballs. Talking about it came naturally to him and when he did, his hands felt ready to grab a gun and pull the trigger, and he knew he’d get a bullseye every time.

Life was going good for Sully. A beast on the field, a beast in bed. An alpha in the locker room and at the shooting range. When the season began he couldn’t have imagined that thing would have gotten so much better for him. And yet they did. From the moment when he put on these dog tags he got from Mustafa, he turned into the best possible version of himself he could have ever imagined. Tom “Sergeant” Sullivan. That sounded good. Very good.

David came into the empty locker room, always one of the first guys before a practice, and slowly went through his usual routine of checking all his gear. As he did, his teammates slowly poured in, the locker room getting progressively louder and smellier. David didn't talk much with the other guys, being more of a silent type and keeping mostly to himself. The exception to the rule came with Jake Griffin, the team’s kicker, with whom David talked at length, mostly about topics completely unrelated to football.

As the locker filled up with more and more rowdy jocks David kept glancing at the entrance, looking for one particular face to show up. Or rather, to not show up. A smirk appeared on his face and it grew progressively wider as the minutes passed, still no signs of him. Maybe this would be the day. The other guys finally noticed that he wasn’t present when almost everyone had their gear already on, and David could hear them discussing the possible reasons for his absence. He couldn’t believe it, this must be it.

When 5 PM finally came, Coach came into the locker room with an expression that would make God himself uncomfortable. He looked at the team, then faced David.

”Tom Sullivan has enlisted in the US Army and is on his way to bootcamp. David Mustafa, you’re the starting safety from now on and I expect you to prove today that you’re worthy of being Sully’s replacement.” There was a loud, heavy sigh coming from Coach, followed by an even louder, collective “What?” that came from the team.

“I expect every single one of you to focus only on today’s practice. Leave the high school gossip for later. Understood?”

”Yes, sir!” The entire Wake Forest roster responded and ran onto the field, David among them, a shit-eating grin on his face. 

His plan had worked. He didn’t believe it at first, but his hatred of Tom Sullivan made him buy the dog tags from the sketchy website regardless. The site proudly advertised “military grade” tags that would turn the person wearing them into a proud soldier eager to join the military. David assumed that the target audience of such a product was mostly propaganda-pilled high school kids, but when the idea to gift them to Sully to get rid of him appeared in his mind, he just had to try it.

In the beginning he didn’t know whether he had been scammed or not, but when Tom started wearing military caps, following the dress code and bragging about picking up chicks at a local military bar, David realized that it was working. There was just one question he was asking himself - would the dog tags be strong enough to get Sullivan to enlist in the Army. His personality seemed to get more and more aligned with a serious recruit, but the final outcome didn’t seem sure. Until now.

With no Sully to taunt him, the other jocks immediately dropped their crude jokes, and thanks to hours spent studying the team’s playbook David replaced Tom on the field with little effort. Coach seemed satisfied with his performance at practice, which was not easy to achieve, and assured David that he would be playing for the rest of the season. His future on the team now looked very bright.

From the moment Tom woke up that day, he was running on autopilot. He showered, made breakfast, packed his bag and left. But he didn’t go to the training facility, no. Instead, his legs led him to the closest military recruitment center. There, he knew exactly what to say, what forms to fill out and how, and the recruiters loved it. He was also lucky, seemingly, as the next transport to boot camp was the same day. So just a few hours after getting out of bed, Private Tom Sullivan was on his way to Basic Training. Away from his previous life, away from football and his bros.

Just as David had planned from the beginning.

Unluckily for Tom, he was assigned to a squad led by Staff Sergeant Driver who for one was a walking stereotype. Clean shaven, tall and always straight as an arrow, his entire body a showcase of every regulation. He was hellbent on turning every cocky recruit into a military machine, so from the moment he learnt a football jock was arriving on base, he knew he had to make an example out of him in every way possible. And so Tom was assigned additional PT hours, his uniform was meticulously checked every morning, afternoon and evening and Driver always made sure that he shouted just a bit louder when standing just in front of Sully’s face. 

There were also other, less visible aspects of Tom’s training. Sarge was laser-focused on making every single one of his recruits conform to a specific set of personality traits that Driver saw as necessary for a true American Soldier™. That meant arrogance mixed with unwavering obedience to superiors and a steadfast conviction that every action of the American military was a correct one. This was all mixed with a streak of conservatism, but with a twist as Sergeant saw spreading one’s seed and increasing the population of the greatest nation on Earth. Because of that, all of his recruits had developed a kind of horniness only satisfied by breeding a fertile female. Obviously Tom’s sex-focused brain didn’t need a lot of conditioning to align with Driver’s view and it didn’t take long for the child support paperwork to appear on the Sergeant’s desk.

Every day for weeks on end, Sully’s brain was worked on, molded to fit the standard of an Army grunt - indistinguishable from any other soldier in his squad. Although… Even as over the duration of his stay at boot camp he got closer and closer to this ideal, Driver saw something in him and at some point he turned from the scapegoat to the favorite. When he was deemed close enough, when he adhered to all the uniform regulations without a single comment, and when his brain was fried by all the propaganda, fucking and lifting, he became his Staff Sergeant’s little pet. Driver showed him off to other officers on base, basically advertising his abilities to turn even the most stubborn recruit into a mindless drone dressed in camo fatigues. 

One day towards the end of his training, Tom was summoned to the Staff Sergeant Driver’s office. He came in and stood at attention in front of the desk, waiting for further instructions. The officer on the other side smirked.

“You’ve done a great job, Private. I can tell you’ll be a great new weapon for our amazing Army.” He then picked up a remote and turned on a small TV standing on a cabinet next to Tom. A football game appeared on the screen, a close one. 21 - 17. Tom’s eyes turned towards the screen and one detail immediately caught his attention. The name of the team currently in the lead. Wake Forest.

He furrowed his brow slightly, a thought nagging at the back of his head. Nothing specific, but a weird sort of unease. His eyes were now glued to the screen as Wake Forest’s defense lined up for the next play. The ball was snapped, the quarterback receded a few yards, clearly getting ready to throw to one of the receivers that sprinted towards the end zone. A second had passed and the ball was in the air, flying towards the upper part of the field. For a moment it seemed like this throw would turn into a 30 yard reception, maybe even a touchdown pass, but then a player from Wake Forest jumped right into the path of the bowl, snagging it right in front of the receiver’s face. That player then runs across the field as his teammates rish in to congratulate him on the interception and the TV broadcast shows his name in the corner of the screen. Wake Forest safety, David Mustafa.

That name stirred something deep within Tom. His brow furrowed even more and a feeling of anger started building inside him. But a moment before he could act on this feeling he heard Sergeant bark at him.

“You’re not listening to me, soldier. I just gave you an order.” Tom’s head immediately snaps back, looking at his officer who doesn’t really look angry, just amused. “That requires punishment. Drop down and give me 100.” Private Sullivan immediately complied and got down to the ground and began doing push-ups.

“Count them as you go along.” Another order from Staff Sergeant Driver.

“Yes, Sir! Two… three… four…” Tom kept counting as he was focused solely on executing the order. Memories from just a minute ago, the image of the football game, David getting a highlight reel-worthy interception, it all disappeared, his mind now locked into the soldier mentality that Driver instilled within him.

As the Sergeant watched his grunt continue doing push ups on the floor he knew that this was his last relapse. Tom Sullivan, the football star, was gone. In his place was Private Sullivan, a perfect specimen of Army mentality. Just war fighting, fucking and lifting on his mind.

[nonamealphajockbro]

"Bro, Where’s My Brain?"

Lucas was a fit twink by any measure—defined arms, a tight waist, the kind of body sculpted more by diet than brute lifting. But he carried himself like someone who wasn’t quite sure he was allowed to be seen. Always scanning the room, always adjusting himself—shoulders squarer, voice flatter, watching his own movements like a coach might watch film. He’d been out for years, sure. His friends back in Austin knew him, loved him, celebrated every high-pitched giggle, every perfectly timed Mariah reference. But here, in Chicago, everything felt like it was under a microscope. A new city meant new people, and new people meant new judgments. He hated that he cared.

The gym smelled like rubber mats and metal, and he had barely made it past the front desk when he noticed his wrist—limp, swinging like a metronome—as he waved. Instinctively, Lucas straightened it, almost flinching.

“No, Lucas... you’ve got to be butch.” “Sup… brah,” he muttered to the front desk guy, a bit too loudly.

It came out wrong. His voice shot up at the end, lilting like a question. The word brah fell out of his mouth like he’d just learned it five minutes ago from a meme.

The front desk guy—Alan—looked up from his monitor. Maybe 6’0”, medium build, brown hair that was somehow both perfectly gelled and lazily tousled. Jock vibes, but with that kind of affable, semi-dopey smile that made him look harmless. The kind of guy who wore tanks in winter and said "dog" unironically.

“Sup, bro,” Alan smirked. “What are you working on today, brah?”

Lucas froze. The word echoed. Brah. Like a dumbbell to the temple. “Uhh…” His voice dropped an octave, trying to sound rugged, masculine. “Like, um… whatever you think I should, man.”

Alan laughed, throwing his clipboard down onto the counter. “Tight. Tight, brahhhhhh.”

It was like Lucas had just unlocked a secret dialect.

“You should hit a full-body today, dude. I mean, not gonna lie, chicks love a guy with meat on his bones, bro. Not like, you know…” Alan looked him up and down, still smiling. “Not like those skinny guys, brah. You feel me?”

Lucas’s face burned, his stomach tightening—not from shame about his body, but at the mention of chicks. Like the word had claws. He smiled anyway. The mask slid into place.

Alan kept going, motioning toward the weights. “We’ll get you there in no time, brah. Bet.”

Then, without warning, a sound like the death of a protein shake slithered out from Alan’s shorts—a fart so dense it practically fogged the air. Lucas’s eyes widened. His nose twitched involuntarily.

“Yo, my bad, dude,” Alan laughed. “That pre-workout be doin’ damage, brahhh.”

Lucas opened his mouth, unsure what would come out. “No worries, bro,” he said finally, voice flat, just slightly deeper. Automatic. Like it had been programmed.

Alan slapped him on the back. It wasn’t just a pat. It was a shove that seemed to jolt something in Lucas. His spine straightened, but not on his own terms. For a moment, everything shimmered: the dreams of theatre school, the late-night monologues he used to whisper in bed, the first boy he kissed under the bleachers with hair like sunshine—gone, like they had been overwritten.

All he could hear was: Brah. Bro. Dude.

And Alan’s voice calling from the weights: “C’mon, let’s get you jacked, bro. You got this.”

The iron of the bench press was cold beneath Lucas’s back, but he barely noticed it. All he could feel was Alan’s eyes on him—watchful, amused, gleaming with that casual, alpha confidence. The kind of look that could make you want to disappear or become something else entirely.

“Alright, bro,” Alan said, his voice low, steady, almost hypnotic. “Push.”

The bar came down heavy, trembling in Lucas’s hands. He wasn't ready—he knew that—but Alan was watching, and the word bro was still echoing in his skull like a bell that wouldn’t stop ringing.

“Come on, BRO,” Alan shouted again, voice cracking the air like a whip.

Lucas pushed harder, his breath catching in his throat. His arms trembled violently under the weight. Sweat pooled beneath his shirt, slicking his spine, running down into his waistband. Then—drip—he felt it. Alan’s sweat, falling from above like some foul baptism. Another drop followed. Drip. Drip. Warm. Thick. Wrong.

Alan leaned closer, his face above Lucas like a god peering down into a chrysalis. “Push, bro. You got it. You’re changing, man.”

And then it began.

It was subtle at first. A heat inside his chest—no, beneath his chest, something growing, swelling, as if his muscles were being filled from within by something not his own. The bar lifted, easier this time, but Lucas wasn’t sure if it was his strength or something else moving through him.

His pecs twitched. Not a flex—more like a pulse. They swelled unnaturally, skin tightening, veins rising like worms in the soil after rain. Lucas whimpered, but it came out deep, wrong. His voice had dropped a full octave without his permission.

“You’re killin’ it, bro,” Alan grinned, drip drip drip, the sweat falling faster now, acidic and sweet-smelling, like protein shakes left too long in a blender bottle. “Total body, man. That’s how we do.”

Lucas tried to sit up, but pain bloomed in his core—hot, searing. His abs clenched on their own, then began to bubble. Ridges forced themselves into place, one by one, carving out of his gut like something underneath was clawing its way out. Skin stretched. Bones cracked. Something inside him laughed.

His arms—long and lean—began to bulk and harden like meat left too long in the sun, the fibers of his biceps knotting, bulging, tearing only to heal instantly, thicker, harder. His veins roped up, blue lightning flashing just under his skin.

“Bro…” Lucas choked. But it was deeper now. Dumber. The vowels didn’t come easy anymore.

The word bro echoed again—not from Alan this time, but from inside his head. Louder. Angrier. A chant. Bro. Brah. Bro. BRAH. It looped, shaking loose memories as it went. Theatre classes. His soft-spoken English teacher who’d encouraged him to write plays. The first boy he kissed, back when things still felt like they could be chosen.

Gone. Shredded like paper in a blender.

Lucas grunted, louder this time, his chest now a shelf of meat, glistening, inhuman. He tried to scream but only managed a guttural, beastly: “YEAH BRAHHHHH.”

Alan laughed. Not with him—at him. Something darker behind it. Something ancient and cruel.

Lucas’s legs snapped outward—quads ballooning, muscle stretching skin to the edge of tearing. His shorts split along the seams as calves bunched like coiled snakes. His shoes groaned before the soles burst, his feet too swollen to be contained.

Still, Alan hovered above, sweat pouring now, lips split in a smile too wide for his face. “Tight, bro. You’re almost there. Just a few more reps.”

Lucas tried to speak—to say no, to say please—but his tongue felt too thick, his mouth built for simpler sounds now. Words like “reps,” and “brah,” and “chicks,” the only vocabulary that remained. His memories sloughed off like old skin.

He sat up, slowly, steam rising off his body. The smell—god, the smell—was thick, like iron, sweat, and something rotting just below the surface. Lucas flexed involuntarily, muscles bulging with a grotesque precision. He looked down at himself and didn’t recognize anything.

He was beautiful. He was wrong.

“FUCKING TIGHT, BRO!” Alan screamed.

“Fucking… tight… bro,” Lucas echoed, robotic, blank-eyed, smiling.

In the mirror, a stranger stared back. Not Lucas. Not really. Something worn in his skin. Something louder. Simpler. Stronger. Dumber.

And beneath it all, that voice—still chanting, still ringing: Brah. Bro. Dude. Brah. Bro. Bro.

Alan chuckled, low and guttural, like a man who’d just heard the punchline to a joke he’d written himself. It wasn’t a laugh so much as it was a sound that came from deep within his chest, rattling the bones. His eyes sparkled with mischief, and his lips curled, just enough for that grin to come through — the kind of grin that made you feel like you were about to witness something dangerous.

“On more thing, brah,” he drawled, stretching the words out with that casual, confident swagger of someone who believes they own the world. He lifted one of his legs, muscles bulging as he leaned back in the chair like he was about to kick a football through the uprights. And then—boom—it hit. The air exploded with the kind of sound that could only come from the deepest pits of human decay.

A fart. But not just any fart. This one was a weapon. An atomic burst of protein-laden chaos, a sound so foul and thunderous that Lucas barely had time to process what was happening before the stench assailed him. It was pure, unfiltered, like the remnants of a thousand over-cooked steaks mixed with the burnt tang of pre-workout supplements and the rancid aftertaste of gym socks marinating in stale sweat.

Lucas’s eyes watered instantly, his mind was obliterated, scattered to the wind like a thousand fragmented thoughts. Logic? Gone. His once-clear memory of those men he'd had flings with—quiet, intense, always hidden, almost sacred—flickered out, like candles snuffed by a hurricane. No. Homo. Faces blurred, names erased, all those brief moments of intimacy, of something deeper than just the fleeting touch of skin, were swallowed up in the fog of confusion and raw, nauseating anger. No. Homo Bro.

“Bro.” The word drops into his thoughts with the same weight. He can feel it in his chest, like a deep breath before a fight, a silent confirmation that he’s still in the game. Bro is the sound of the gym, the clang of weights, the grunt of a tired lifter who’s too tired to care about anything but getting bigger. “Bro, you gotta get your reps in,” they’d say, and Lucas would nod, pumping out set after set with the kind of robotic determination that only comes from a deep need to prove something. He wasn’t just lifting weights; he was lifting his ego, telling himself every rep meant he was one step closer to being a real man, a strong man.

There had been the guy in college, a fellow tech director, who stayed over too many times for it to be “just a friend.” The subtle electricity between them, the nights spent tangled in half-spoken words, but never daring to label anything—never daring to confront the truth of what it might have been. No. Homo. It was the same, now, as everything else—useless, gone, as if time had pressed a reset button, wiping it all clean in favor of this moment, this overwhelming wave of disgust. No. Homo Dumbass.

“Dumbass.” The word slithers in like an insult, a reminder of every conversation that ended in a fight, every relationship that ended in anger, every moment that solidified his worldview. It’s not my fault, he’d think. It’s always the other people, the “snowflakes,” the “soy boys,” the “feminists.” They just don’t get it. They don’t understand what it takes to be a real man. To Lucas, dumbass was anyone who couldn’t see the world as he did—anyone who didn’t understand that the only way to survive in this world was to be tough, relentless, alpha.

The club had been refuge, a sanctuary where, under flickering lights and pulsing synth-pop, he could shed the weight of his own inadequacies for just a few hours. Madonna, Robyn—their songs were his escape, his fleeting sense of belonging. But all of that, like the faces of those men, disappeared into the black hole that was now his mind, replaced with nothing but an unyielding, boiling rage. No. Homo Dude.

“Dude.” That’s when the memories start to blur, the anger starts to churn. Dude was what they called him when they saw his truck, the one with the giant American flag decal on the back window and bumper stickers that read “1776 Forever” and “Don’t Tread on Me.” Dude was what they said when he argued with anyone who dared to question his beliefs—when he’d go off about how “cancel culture” was ruining the country, how Trump was the last real president, and how every liberal was a threat to everything he stood for. Dude, it’s not even a debate anymore—he knew it in his bones. He was on the right side of history, they weren’t. And if they didn’t see it, they were dumbasses.

Sweat dripped down his face, mingling with the stench of the fart that lingered in the air like a toxic fog. His mind, once sharp, now felt… heavy. Like the weight of a thousand dumb thoughts, every part of him becoming dense, his thoughts turning into a slurry of confusion and misplaced fury. "Brah," Alan’s voice echoed in his ears, “fucking high school dropout, brah."

“Brah.” It’s the first echo. A sound that reverberates through the fog of his mind, stirring memories of high school. Back when he was the loudest voice in the room, the kid everyone knew as the jock who didn’t care about anything except winning. He’d blast his music in the locker room, flexing in the mirror before every game, and yell “brah” to anyone who dared to challenge him. It was more than a greeting—it was a declaration. He was the man, and everyone else was just trying to keep up. He'd tell himself, I’m not just the starting linebacker—I’m the guy who’ll never be caught weak.

The words hung there, filling the space around him. His face, the lines that had once told the story of someone who’d lived through something, began to smooth out. Like a clock’s hands rewinding, the years started to fall away, until he felt younger, dumber, more like that teenager who’d been trapped in his own small world, defined by the size of his biceps and the number of people who called him “alpha.”

Instead, a new thought simmered in his brain, not entirely his own. Anger began to boil, rising from the pit of his stomach like bile. His fists clenched, his body tensed, muscles tightening for no reason at all. The scent of that fart—still lingering like an unholy fog—became the only thing that mattered. It filled his lungs, replaced his thoughts, and for the first time in a long time, he realized that he wasn’t just a man anymore. He wasn’t even a person. He was a thing, a being who could only feel the rage in his chest and the ache in his head.

With every repetition, every echo, Lucas becomes more entangled in the web he’s created. Those words aren’t just words anymore. They’re memories. They’re his identity. He’s the guy who stands above the rest because he knows how to flex, how to dominate, how to keep grinding. “Brah, you’re a fucking king,” he’ll shout to himself in the mirror after another workout. He’s the guy who flexes in every reflective surface, each muscle a badge of honor in the war he believes he’s waging against society’s decline.

But the more the words echo, the more Lucas loses track of what’s real. His entire sense of self is wrapped up in these labels, in the way the world around him tells him he should act, think, feel. Each “brah,” each “bro,” each “dude,” pulls him deeper into the role he’s been trained to play—the perfect image of a Gen Z meathead, MAGA-obsessed, red-pilled, flexing his way through life.

He remembers the first time he felt that rush, that primal satisfaction of putting on a MAGA hat and seeing people’s eyes widen. “Dude, you’re killing it,” they said. That’s when it clicked. That’s when he realized that the world didn’t care about your soul, your depth, your authenticity. It only cared about power. Who could shout the loudest, flex the hardest, make the biggest impact.

And so Lucas keeps repeating the mantra, day in and day out. Brah. Bro. Dude. Dumbass. Every echo a reminder that he is the one who’s right, the one who’s never wrong. He doesn’t need to question his beliefs, because these words have already done the work for him. They’ve shaped him, reinforced him, and now they are his identity.

Lucas lets out a monstrous fart, the sound echoing through the locker room like a thunderclap. The stench is overwhelming, a noxious mix of stale beer, week-old takeout, and something that smells like it crawled out of the sewer and died. Alan gagged, his eyes watering as he frantically waved a hand in front of his face. "Holy shit, Logan! That's some next-level funk you got going on bro!" he coughed, his voice muffled by his shirt. Logan just grinned, his beefy chest heaving with laughter. "Fuck yeah, bro! That's what I call a welcome to the world fart!" He flexed his muscles, the sweat dripping down his arms. "Damn, I'm hungry.Let's go find some food brah." As they walked out of the locker room, Logan spotted a group of sorority girls across the quad. Logan elbowed Alan, nodding towards the girls. "Yo, check out those sorority sluts over there bro," he said, his voice dripping with disrespect. "I bet they're just begging for a real man to show them a good time brah." Alan followed his gaze, his eyes roaming over the girls appreciatively. "Damn straight, bro. We should totally go talk to them." Logan'scrude laughter echoing across the quad." Yeah, let's go bag us some fresh meat. I'm sure they'll love our charm and good looks dude." The two bros strutted towards the girls, their confidence unwavering. As they approached, Alan called out, "Hey there, ladies! Looking for some company?"The girls turned, their expressions a mix of confusion and annoyance. The blonde in the center spoke up, "Excuse me? Do we know you?" Logan smirked, stepping closer. Logan's smirk turned into a lecherous grin as he looked the blonde up and down like a piece of meat. "Well, well, well. What do we have here? A bunch of hot little sorority sluts just begging for some attention from real men." He reached out and grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. "I'm Logan, and this is my bro, Alan. We're the guys every girl on campus wants to be with." The blonde jerked her head out of his grasp, her eyes flashing with anger ."Excuse me? Who the hell do you think you are, grabbing me like that?" Logan just laughed, his hand drifting down to squeeze her waist possessively. "Oh, I think you know exactly who I am, sweetheart. I'm the guy who's going to make your night a whole lot more interesting." He turned to his bro, a cruel glint in his eye. Logan leaned in close to the blonde, his breath hot against her ear as he whispered, "You know, I bet you're just dying to suck my dick, aren't you? All you sorority girls are the same - desperate little sluts who can't get enough of a real man." He grabbed a handful of her hair, yanking her head back to expose her neck. "I bet you'd love to feel my MAGA hat against your face while I fuck your brains out, huh brah?" The other girls gasped in horror, but Logan just laughed, his grip tightening in her hair. "Come on, baby. Don't be shy.I know you want it." Alan knew Logan's crude, aggressive tactics usually got him what he wanted, and tonight was no exception.

[nonamealphajockbro]

Right-Wing Rewire

Eugene slipped into the guidance counselor’s office like a man stepping into a confession booth made of stale air and silent judgment. The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead buzzed in his skull like a thousand caffeine-drenched bees. His eyes, ringed with the kind of purple bags you only get from self-loathing and quantum equations, flitted from corner to corner of the office—he was looking for a window. There wasn't one.

“Sit,” came the gravel-choked voice from behind the desk.

Dr. Richard T. Warrens—known around the department with varying degrees of affection or loathing as Dr. Dick—didn’t look up from Eugene’s file. His forearms were slabs of old meat, folded like a bouncer’s arms, his fingers thick and tan, callused like he’d been born strangling wild hogs. He wore a tie with a Confederate flag pattern stitched faintly into the threading. You had to squint to see it. You also had to wonder why someone would make that tie in the first place.

Eugene sat. Or more accurately, collapsed.

“I—I just…” he began, already unraveling. His voice cracked like a dropped test tube. “I haven’t slept. Not really. I’m so close to solving this—it’s an elegant system of energy collapse within a toroidal—" He waved his hands. "It doesn’t matter. Max—my boyfriend—is threatening to leave if I don’t spend time with him. I missed his birthday. I forgot his birthday, actually. And the—"

“Stop,” Dr. Dick said. One word. One hand raised.

Eugene froze, like a rabbit catching the smell of gasoline.

Dr. Dick looked up then. His eyes were blue, but the cold kind of blue. Glacial. Old Testament. They weren’t eyes that looked at you—they judged you.

“This isn't you,” the older man said. His voice carried something… deeper. A resonance Eugene felt in the roots of his teeth. “This pathetic life. You want to be strong. Manly. A good southern boy, don’t you, son?”

Eugene’s lips parted. Something moved in his gut—not a thought, but a twitch. Sweat dripped down his temple, then his jaw. The air felt suddenly humid, thick, like stepping into a swamp. His heart stuttered.

He nodded.

And then he felt his body betray him.

It started in his chest. A thudding pressure, like something pushing outward—hard. His ribs groaned. His T-shirt, an MIT Physics Department hand-me-down, stretched until the logo looked like it had been printed on a balloon. His pecs surged out, twitching and rising like someone had buried two footballs under his skin and started inflating them with a bike pump.

"Wh—what the f—" he gasped.

His arms came next. His biceps swelled like bread dough in a hot oven—first tight, then veined, bulging. He tried to move, to stand, but the chair groaned beneath him. Muscles burst to life along his shoulders, his delts flaring out like angry wings.

His gut didn’t bloat—oh no, this was no beer belly. This was a power core, thick slabs of meat-hard abs pressing out one by one, like dominoes tipped by hell itself. Each ridge glistened under his increasingly sticky shirt, which clung to him like a dying prayer.

His legs—once skinny enough to be mistaken for a grad student’s shame—grew thick and veiny, thighs rubbing together with the mass of a man who squats more than he sits. His butt ballooned behind him, stretching his sweat-shorts until they rode up into what could only be described as country boy camo lingerie.

He was changing, but not into something beautiful. Not really. He was being built, the way a weapon is forged, brutal and without consent.

Dr. Dick stood, finally, slow and looming, like a stormcloud given cowboy boots and old rage.

“That’s better,” he said.

Eugene tried to speak, but all that came out was a grunt. Somewhere in the back of his head, the physics problems, the heartbreak, the real Eugene—were still there, banging on locked doors.

But outside?

He looked like a TikTok alpha with a side hustle in arm wrestling God.

And still, deep in that glacial voice, Dr. Dick leaned in and whispered:

“Now let’s talk about real guidance, son.”

"You’re carrying too much," Dr. Dick said with an air of finality. The room was sterile, cold, with white walls that seemed to press in on Eugene as the counselor spoke. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, a command in the air. "All that stress, all those worries. Your annoying boyfriend. You need to let go. You’re holding onto things that aren't yours to carry."

Eugene blinked, trying to process the words through the fog of his exhaustion. "I don’t know if I can…"

"No," Dr. Dick interrupted. "You can. Let it all out. All those thoughts, all those burdens. Just... let go."

Eugene felt a strange stirring in his gut. A bizarre pressure, like something deep inside him was pushing against the walls of his body. He nodded, his body tensing, as if Dr. Dick’s words were unlocking some hidden valve. He let it happen, like someone giving in to a primal instinct.

Then it came.

A gut-wrenching, soul-shaking sound that filled the room—a massive, disgusting fart. The noise wasn’t just loud; it was resonant, a deep ripple that seemed to shake the very air around them. It echoed. And as the sound reverberated through the room, Eugene felt something shift.

His mind, once filled with equations, theories, and a sense of intellectual superiority, began to fade. The ripples of his release spread out, not just through the room, but through his entire being. A warm wave of heat washed over him, starting at his gut and spreading outward. His thoughts became fuzzier, more... simplified. Concepts like quantum mechanics and lab reports drifted out of his head, replaced by something louder, dumber, and far more intense.

Theories of relativity? Gone. The idea of pride parades? Distant, like a half-forgotten dream. The soft murmur of his scientific curiosity was swallowed by something more base—something louder, angrier. The South. The sounds of fast trucks, deep voices, and burning rage surged in place of thoughts about physics. His entire identity, once wrapped in the pursuit of knowledge, unraveled at an alarming speed.

Eugene—no, Tank—felt his body take over, a mindless expansion of muscle and mass. His stomach, once flat and defined by the subtle contours of his intellect, was now a bloated mass of raw power, a solid wall of muscle that could probably bench press a car. He was growing dumber, but stronger, each second more ignorant but more powerful.

His mullet appeared almost out of nowhere, a wild, unkempt beast of burnt toast. It hung just past his shoulders, perfect for catching the wind while revving his truck engine. The top of his head was a disaster—a shaved oil-slick mess, a patchwork of stubble clinging desperately to the illusion of youth.

Where once he could recall the molecular structure of a compound, he now only remembered protein. His mind was consumed with thoughts of squats, protein shakes, and trucks.

Tank couldn’t care less about anything except muscle and meat. The thoughts that filled his head were simple—loud, angry, and filled with an overwhelming sense of pride in his body, his strength, and his country. He was a wrecking ball of muscle and ignorance, a walking monument to southern pride that didn’t need any intellect to survive. And it felt right.

Every step he took now sent a shockwave through the room. Tank didn’t walk—he stomped. His boots thudded on the floor with each heavy footfall, each echo a testament to the raw power that now dominated his existence. He wasn’t just taking up space; he was commanding it, forcing the very air to bend around him.

“THIS IS AMERICA!” Tank boomed to the empty room, the sound of his voice vibrating through his chest like a diesel engine. He didn’t need anyone to agree with him; he just needed to shout louder. “You got a problem with that?!" The words spilled out like an unstoppable flood, his entire being consumed by a sense of superiority—unshakable, unquestionable, and stupidly loud.

The memories of his past life—the quiet nights studying, the hours spent reading books by Nobel laureates, the joy of understanding complex theories—were gone. In their place was the craving for Big Macs and protein. He could practically smell the burger grease wafting through the air, feel the pull of weights in the gym, hear the roar of his truck as it revved into life.

And oh, that truck. His pride and joy. The truck that was so big, so lifted, that even the thought of climbing into it would give any reasonable person a crick in their neck. The truck that carried him to the gym, the bar, and back to the high school football games he never quite stopped living in. His truck was more than metal—it was a statement, a declaration of freedom and patriotism.

Tank was now a creature of instinct. He didn’t think. He didn’t analyze. He simply was.

His Facebook feed was nothing but memes. They were all the same: the same tired rants about how “snowflakes” were ruining everything, how “real men” didn’t need education, how the world was going to hell. It was a stream of half-thoughts and half-baked opinions, the kind of thing Tank could debate in a bar until someone inevitably walked away in frustration.

His brain? A dusty warehouse of empty ideas. The only thing that mattered now was strength.

Tank’s diet was as simple as his mind: raw protein shakes because who had time for a blender? Double-bacon cheeseburgers, fries, and whatever he could shove into his mouth in between yelling about politics.

He was a walking, talking wrecking ball, barreling through life with the simplicity of a man who needed nothing except to make his muscles grow and make his voice heard. His relationships, his intellect, his memories—all were gone, replaced by the big, dumb, loud pride of being exactly what he was.

And underneath it all, maybe somewhere deep inside, Eugene—the quiet, curious, intelligent Eugene—was still there, but buried far too deep to even know that he was gone.

Tank’s life, his new existence, was as simple as the sound of his voice, as loud as the truck he drove, and as powerful as the muscles he flexed.

Tank leans back in the leather chair, his massive hands slowly reaching down to his crotch. With a grunt, he grabs his heavy balls and begins to stretch them out, his calloused fingers pulling and tugging at the sensitive skin. His brow furrows in concentration, a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead as he works his sack.

Dr. Dick watches with a mixture of fascination, his pen hovering over his notepad. "Tank," he says softly, "are you still with me? You mentioned you were stressed out about school and your boyfriend." Tank's head snaps up, his eyes narrowing. "HUH?" he bellows, his voice echoing off the walls. "I ain't no homo, doc.And I sure as shit ain't in no school. You tryin' to call me a faggot?" He rises from the chair, his balls swinging heavily between his legs as he towers over Dr. Dick. With that, he turns on his heel and storms out of the office, slamming the door behind him. Dr. Dick sighs, shaking his head as he watches Tank's retreating back. "Well, that went well," he mutters sarcastically. Tank bursts out of the doctor's office, his heart pounding with rage and something else - a primal, animalistic hunger. He's been pent up for too long, his balls aching with the need for release. The cool autumn air does nothing to calm his raging hormones. As he stalks down the sidewalk, his eyes fall on a group of girls walking ahead of him. They're laughing and chatting, oblivious to the predator in their midst. Tank's lips curl into a sneer. They look just like the kind of slutty bitches he likes to fuck - tight jeans, short skirts, makeup plastered on their faces. Perfect targets for a real man like him.He quickens his pace, his hand drifting down to adjust the bulge in his pants. He's going to teach these whores a lesson they'll never forget. They'll see what happens when they tempt a man like him with their fake tits and fake smiles.

[nonamealphajockbro]

Hey, I am a nerdy guy and was wondering if you had any bodybuilding magazines or books. I don't care if they are vintage or new. Just like admiring what I don't think I can ever achieve

You’re rifling through the pile of mail, the usual mix of bills, junk, and the occasional surprise. But then, you feel it—a package. It’s heavier than anything else in the stack, a bit battered, with no return address. Just a name: The Emporium. Something about it feels different. Intriguing. Your fingers, thin and bony like brittle twigs, rip into the cardboard without hesitation.

Inside, nestled between folds of old packing material, you find it. An old magazine. Muscle Legacy: The Bodybuilding Revolution. The title stares up at you, almost glowing despite its age, like it holds some sort of forbidden power. You can feel your pulse quicken as you thumb through the pages, the rustling sound of the glossy paper filling your ears.

The first few pages are filled with images of colossal bodybuilders—muscle-bound titans with veins like ropes and chests carved from stone. For a moment, your body shudders with something primal. At first, the sight of them stirs something between arousal and admiration. You can’t stop staring. But soon, something shifts. It's no longer about simply looking at them. It’s about becoming them.

As your fingers continue to flip through the pages, a slow warmth begins to spread under your skin. A tingling heat that crawls from your fingertips up to your arms. You can feel it now—something changing inside you, shifting. Sweat begins to bead on your forehead, then trickles down the back of your neck, making the air around you feel suddenly thick, suffocating. But you don’t mind. You can’t focus on anything but the burning desire to transform.

And then, it happens. Slowly, you notice it—your fingers are thickening. The skin tightens, and your hands, once narrow and frail, start to plump up, to swell with raw, unnatural energy. It’s almost like your bones themselves are pushing outward, expanding. Your skin, stretched tight, seems ready to burst with whatever's coursing through your veins.

Heat—pure, untamed heat—builds inside you, rushing up your arms. The pressure is almost unbearable. But you want it. You need it. Steroids, muscle growth—whatever it is, it surges through you like liquid fire. You don’t know how or why, but you feel it. You stretch instinctively, and when you flex your arm, it’s like a switch has flipped. You can feel it, your body ballooning with muscle.

Your biceps swell—thick, round, like cannonballs, each flex sending a new wave of power through your veins. You stare, unable to look away, as the muscle grows, bulging against your skin like it’s alive, straining to break free. The veins pop out, thick, twisted, running up your arms and across your chest, throbbing with the intensity of your newfound strength.

Your chest expands with each breath, a wall of muscle, dense and solid, pressing against the fabric of your shirt, expanding further with every inhalation. Your pecs are slabs of stone, so thick they nearly block your view of your abs—your abs, each ridge a tight, defined testament to the power filling your body, stacked like the work of a master sculptor.

It’s relentless. The veins snake down your torso, over your shoulders, arms, and chest. You flex again, and your biceps swell even more, impossible to ignore. You can feel the power radiating through them, through your entire body. You’re not just lifting weights anymore—you’re lifting worlds. Every muscle, every sinew, is bursting with strength.

You turn to look at yourself in the mirror. The man staring back at you is a stranger—a beast, almost. Your jaw is sharp, angular, squared in a way that speaks of unyielding power. Your brow is heavy, casting a shadow over eyes that burn with intensity. You see the hard lines of your face, the permanent scowl that makes you appear as though you’ve been carved from stone. The reflection—that reflection—tells you everything you need to know. You are no longer the person you once were.

Your shoulders are monstrous—massive, like boulders, rising out of your body. The deltoids flare, thick and round, a product of years of dedication, of pushing past every limit. When you rotate, the traps rise up from your neck, thick and thickening, creeping down your back like some sort of menacing, muscular cape. Every movement sends a ripple through your body, a flex, a twist, a flare of raw power.

But it’s your back that is the real testament to what you’ve become. You flex it, and the muscles explode outwards, peaks and valleys of raw muscle that seem almost unnatural. Your lats flare out like wings, giving you a silhouette so wide, it feels like you could snap walls with a single movement.

You look at your reflection, and what stares back is more than a body—it’s a weapon. Your chest, your arms, your shoulders—they’re all alive, pulsing with strength. The ground shakes with every step you take, your presence a warning before you even speak. You are unstoppable now.

Every inch of your body is made of willpower, of grit, of relentless training. Your muscles ripple as you flex, thick and solid, powerful beyond imagination. You take a deep breath, and your chest expands further, a wall of pure muscle. This body—your body—is more than flesh. It’s a creation. A monster. A weapon. And it’s alive.

A stench, rank and vile, invades your brain like a poison. It seeps into every corner of your mind, thick and toxic, clinging to your thoughts as it spreads its foulness. It’s almost tangible, a putrid cloud that lingers in your senses, slowly erasing everything you once held dear. At first, it’s subtle—just a hint of something rotten, something wrong. But then it grows, festers, until it consumes you, sinking its claws into your very soul.

The smell is everywhere now. You can feel it in your chest, in your throat. It tightens around your head like a vice, clouding your thoughts. Memories start to fade, slipping away like sand through your fingers. Your love for Star Wars—gone, just like that. What was once a passion, a world you escaped into, is nothing but a fading echo in the back of your mind. Your degree in computer science? It’s like it was never there. The knowledge, the years of study, the late-night coding sessions—they evaporate, replaced with a fog of nothingness. Your glasses fall from your face and hit the floor with a dull thud. You can’t focus anymore. You don’t need to. You’re becoming someone else.

You stand there, your mind wandering back to that trying to remember that fateful day when you shared your first kiss with a boy. The memory burns like acid in your brain, searing your soul with a deep, visceral disgust. How could you have been so weak, so pathetic, to let another man's lips touch yours? The very thought makes your stomach churn with revulsion. As the hatred and rage boil within you, your body betrays you once more. You feel a stirring in your loins, a sickening reminder of your own weakness. Your dick twitches, growing harder by the second as your mind desperately tries to replace the horrifying image of a man's face with the fantasy of a woman's. But as your arousal reaches its peak, your pathetic member stalls at a mere three inches, mocking your masculinity and fueling your homophobia further. You clench your fists, your face contorting with anger and self-loathing. You needed pussy and you needed it now.

You stumble into a room, and the energy shifts. It’s not just a change in the air—it’s you. Everyone feels it, whether they want to or not. Hell, how could they not? You don’t just walk in; you own it. There’s a confidence—no, scratch that—an arrogance that radiates from you like heat off asphalt in the summer. Heads turn as soon as you step through the door. You feel their eyes on you, the weight of their gaze like a thousand tiny, invisible hands gripping your muscles.

Every inch of you flexes, and the world takes notice. Your chest is like a pair of massive boulders, demanding attention with every breath you take. Your arms? They’re beyond huge, like something out of a comic book—except this is no fantasy. This is real. You didn’t get these guns by being humble. No, you built them on pure rage, on pure, unrelenting work. You didn’t show up here to exist; you came to conquer. And you make damn sure everyone in the room knows it.

The first thing you do is flex—not some casual, "just checking my form" kind of flex, but the kind that screams look at me. You’re that guy who dominates every set, every rep. Every movement you make, every slight twitch of muscle, is an announcement. The gym? You’re the king of it. You can’t help but stare at yourself in the mirror, seeing the biceps swell, the veins threatening to tear through your skin like they’re about to explode with power. The other guys around you? They’re nothing but weaklings. They’re wasting time. You are the muscle. You are the gym.

And your voice. God, your voice. It’s loud, obnoxious, gravelly—a tone that’s always shouting over everyone else. Every word that leaves your mouth feels like a victory lap, and you’ve got no problem reminding anyone around you of your latest PR, your newest gains, your protein shake regimen. Politics? Don’t even get started. You’ve got opinions, and you make sure everyone knows them. You wear your MAGA hat like a crown, preaching to anyone who’ll listen about freedom and strength. If they don’t agree? Tough shit. You’ve got the right to speak because, clearly, you’re the alpha in the room.

Weakness? You won’t tolerate it. You look at anyone who isn’t as jacked as you, and you wonder how they even function. Your whole life has become a display of raw power, and every flex, every grunt, is a middle finger to anyone who doubted you. And there were plenty of doubters—those kids from high school who used to mock you, that girl who never took you seriously. Who cares about them now? They don’t matter anymore. You’re the king now. Nothing can bring you down.

You’ve built your body like a monument, and every vein, every bulging muscle, is a reminder of the hard work and rage that got you here. It’s not just about the muscles, though. It’s about dominance. Winning. Getting the last word. Shutting someone down before they even have a chance to speak. You make sure your presence is felt in every room, every conversation. People talk about you when you leave—if they can even speak, because you’ve probably taken over the entire interaction with your obnoxious rants.

Your look? It’s the look of a man who knows he’s made it. Chest puffed out, arms bulging like you’ve been sculpted from stone. You don’t need anyone’s approval. People either worship you or cower in your shadow. It’s all the same to you. They either admire your muscles or wish they could be like you. Either way, they’re beneath you, and you know it.

But there’s something deeper, buried beneath the surface. A tiny corner in your mind that still remembers the old you—the one who felt small, weak, overlooked. That guy is gone now, buried beneath the muscle, beneath the rage. The only thing left is this version of you—loud, brash, full of testosterone and ego. You’re not the nice guy. You’re not the humble guy. You’re the guy who walks into a room and expects the world to bow down before you. And when anyone dares to challenge you? You crush them. You flex, you argue, you make them feel small. Because in your world, there’s only room for the strong.

And the women? They should be grateful that you even notice them. They should worship you. They should fall in line. If they don’t, they’re out. It’s your world now. Everyone else is just living in it.

Deep down, beneath the layers of muscle, beneath the loud, boisterous personality, you know the truth. But who cares? You’ve built this body, this life, and you’re not looking back. You’re the king, and the world is here to cater to you.

[nonamealphajockbro]

hi sorry to bother you at this time of the day, i know this emporium is closing off for the night, but i have a date with this cute guy tonight and my shirt got dirt with mud while walking there, and I saw you sell some clothes, so can I quicly look for a change? I wanto to do a great impression

The bell above the shop door jingles like a muted scream as you step inside, your boots scuffing against the worn linoleum floor. The heat of the outside world sticks to you like a second skin, the sweat on your brow mingling with the dust that clings to your clothes. You feel out of place here, the shop too bright, too clean, as though you’ve stumbled into a different world entirely.

You glance around, and then, there I am. Standing behind the counter, eyes meeting yours with an almost knowing look. It’s the kind of look that sends a jolt down your spine, something like anticipation but with an edge. You don’t know why, but you suddenly have the sense that this place was always waiting for you.

“I need something,” you start, your voice scratchy and dry, “for a date. I—I didn’t mean for it to happen, but the dirt got on me, and now my outfit’s ruined, and I…” You look down at yourself, the stains of earth and sweat blotting your clothes, making you feel like you’ve never quite been clean a day in your life.

I don’t even blink. I just nod. “Dirt can be charming, sure,” my words hanging in the air. “But if you want to impress, clean wins. Here. Try these.”

You look down at the pair of red shorts I hand you. They’re almost too small—too tight, too bright. They look like they belong to someone younger, someone who still believes in the lie of ‘effortless’ fashion. But there’s something about the way she hands them to you, something in the way she looks at you, that makes you take them.

You head toward the back, the air heavy in your lungs. The dressing room door creaks as you push it open, and you step inside. The mirror is cracked—a thin line running through the center, splitting your reflection into jagged pieces. It feels wrong, unnatural, but there’s no turning back now.

You strip off your clothes, the chill of the room making your skin prickle. The fabric of the shorts feels almost… foreign in your hands, but you pull them on anyway, tugging them up over your legs. They’re tight. Too tight. Your thighs spill over the edges like the shorts were never meant to hold you. But you don’t stop, just keep pulling, keep forcing them to fit.

It’s when you tug the waistband all the way up that you notice it—the tan creeping up your legs, slow, steady, like something is waking up beneath your skin. You pause, confused, but it’s too late. The change has already begun.

Pain. A sharp, searing pain, deep beneath your flesh. It starts at your legs, spreading upward, and for a moment, you forget how to breathe. You gasp, but it’s not enough. The air feels thin. Your muscles spasm, then tighten, then ripple as something inside you shifts—grows.

You don’t know if you scream or just exhale in agony, but the world tilts on its axis. The fat beneath your skin seems to liquefy, melting away, disappearing as though it never existed. In its place? Muscle. Raw, furious strength, coiling tighter with every breath. Every inch of your body is alive, electric, humming with power you didn’t know you had.

And then… stillness.

You blink, your reflection staring back at you like a stranger. No. Not a stranger. You. But it’s different now. The man in the mirror isn’t just a reflection. He’s something else entirely—something powerful, something dangerous.

Your chest is massive. Solid. It rises and falls with a slow, deliberate force, muscles stacked high like armor plates. Your pecs sit proudly—every movement, every breath, each one commanding attention. The fabric of the tank top strains against the swell, an afterthought, useless against the sheer mass of muscle beneath it.

Your arms are monstrous, the biceps swollen and hard, veins running like cables beneath the skin. Even at rest, they pulse, alive with strength. The triceps? A perfect horseshoe of power, cut deep and smooth, sharp enough to remind anyone who looks that this body is built for more than just walking.

Your abs are the stuff of legends—eight slabs of hard muscle carved like stone, every inch of your torso a testament to sweat and discipline. They don’t just sit there. They perform. Each breath sharpens them, each movement, each flex, deepens their definition.

Your legs—your legs—are pure power. Quads flare out wide, thick with muscle that seems to grow as you stare. Your hamstrings tighten, your glutes form a curve so hard, so defined, they feel like they could shatter stone. Your calves flex, rock hard and gleaming with strength. You don’t skip leg day. Your legs are a declaration of who you’ve become.

And your face. Oh, your face—sharp, hungry, the jawline a perfect cut through the air. Your eyes? Narrowed, intense, scanning the reflection in front of you like you own every inch of it. Your grin curves slowly into place, like a predator who knows his own worth, and you feel the power flood your veins.

You run a hand through your hair—wild, thick, tousled just enough to seem careless but perfect in its own way. It bounces back under your fingers, untamed but flawless.

The cap sits there, casually placed on the bench of the dressing room, the red fabric taunting you like it knows exactly what it’s about to do. Your fingers twitch as you pick it up, the moment your hand makes contact sending a strange shiver up your spine. Something's off. The fog creeps in, slow, thick—like syrup, sticky and oppressive. Your mind, once sharp, starts to soften, like it’s dissolving into the mist.

And then, the voice.

It cuts through the fog like a chainsaw through timber. Crude. Rude. Entitled. It’s as if someone’s inside your skull, yelling at you, not giving you the chance to think for yourself. You’re nothing, it sneers, a weak little man, pathetic, soft—do you even lift, bro?

You try to shake it off, but it’s like a weight pressing against your temples, heavier, louder, more demanding. The memories of your date plans, the cute guy you’d been thinking about, start to blur, fade, disappear. Men? Gross. You're not a fucking faggot. The thought shatters in your mind like glass, replaced with a cold, harsh certainty that you don’t need men. Hell, you barely need anyone. The fog presses deeper, and the memories of your college years, your boring office job, everything starts to vanish. It’s like they never even existed.

Instead, the gym takes over, filling your mind with a single, relentless mantra. The gym is your church. Your life. Your job.

The voice gets louder, harder. You can feel it now, thumping like a bass drum inside your skull, pounding the words into your mind.

“You’re him, man. You’re the alpha. The king. The one who doesn’t bend, doesn’t break. You own every room you walk into. You own it all. Every sidewalk, every gym floor, every chick who looks your way—hell, every man who’s too scared to even make eye contact with you. You’re everything weak men hate and everything women secretly want.”

You’re not listening to it, but somehow, you are. The voice becomes your truth, your reality. You’re pulling the vape pen from your pocket, not even realizing you’ve had it there the whole time. You take a hit, the smoke swirling up into your chest, making the fog thicker, more suffocating. But it doesn’t matter. The voice screams louder, and now, your thoughts, your memories, your very self bleed away into the haze.

You’re not the person you thought you were. You’re him. The one who doesn’t just take up space. You own it.

Every. Damn. Room. Every. Damn. Step.

You feel the muscles in your body tighten, your chest expanding as you breathe deep, feeling the pump surge beneath your skin, the veins swelling, each muscle responding to the voice, to the certainty. You don’t just exist. You command the world around you.

Your biceps flex, not because you need to, but because you can. You laugh at your own jokes—loud, obnoxious, self-assured—and your pecs bounce with the force of it. You are the joke, and damn if it isn’t funny. It doesn’t matter if no one else laughs—they’re just afraid to admit you’re right. You flex because that’s what you do. Your body, your power, your every breath is a flex, a declaration.

And when you look in the mirror, you don’t just see a reflection. You see God’s favorite creation. Your abs are chiseled, perfectly symmetrical. Your traps are mountains, your neck a thick pillar of muscle. Your body is sculpted, engineered, designed to dominate. Quads that tear through jeans, calves that could crush stone, arms that scream strength, and a chest that could hold a nation’s pride.

You know you’re built different. Engineered, like a machine of power and desire. You walk in tank tops that strain against your body, shorts that ride up just enough to remind everyone where the power lies. Your backward baseball cap sits just right, the chain resting between your pecs, because it’s all part of the look—the look that says, “I will outlift you, outdrink you, and take whatever I want.”

The voice, though, it’s never done. It’s just getting started.

“You don’t listen—you dominate,” it sneers. “Debates? You don’t debate. You annihilate. Arguments? They’re beneath you. If someone dares to challenge you, they’re soft. Beta. If a girl ghosts you? It’s because she couldn’t handle you, man. She knows you’re the real deal, and she’s too scared to admit it.”

You can feel the heat rising in your veins, the rage, the pride. It’s like you’ve been lit from the inside out, the fire surging through your body. The voice is the fuel, pushing you harder, making you crave more. You’re not just building a body; you’re building an empire—one rep at a time.

You don’t even question it anymore. You’re him. The one who wakes up every morning with a fistful of pre-workout, a chest full of pride, and a body that demands attention. You’re a king, a warrior, a god. The gym is your kingdom. And when you enter it, the world bends to your will.

And god, you love it. You love every second of this. Because you are, without a doubt, the Alpha.

The voice crescendos, rising to a fever pitch, crashing through every synapse in your brain like a thousand screaming fans at a sold-out stadium. It’s relentless, unyielding, and you can't escape it now. The fog thickens, clouding your thoughts until there’s nothing left but the sound of that voice. It’s everywhere—inside you, around you, above you, beneath you. It’s the beat to which your heart now drums.

“You are the king, man,” it growls, as your thoughts blur into a haze of overwhelming certainty. “You don’t ask for attention—you demand it. You don’t play by anyone’s rules. Hell, you make your own. You’re above all of this, above all these weak, beta men and whiny liberals trying to hold you back. You’re untouchable.”

Your pulse quickens as the words pour in, flooding your mind, rearranging your thoughts, your beliefs, until nothing remains but the purest, most selfish version of you. You need this. You want this. Your ego, inflated like a balloon, rises higher and higher, squeezing out every last ounce of humility, leaving nothing but the hollow shell of entitlement.

“Look at you,” the voice continues, a sneer in its tone. “You don’t need anyone’s validation. You make the rules. Politics? Pfft. You’re red, hard, and loud, bro. You’re traditional. You believe men should be men, women should be women, and the world should fall in line with that, or get out of your way. And don’t even get me started on that woke nonsense. That’s for soft people, not you.”

It’s as if the very air around you thickens with this new, jagged reality. You can feel the shift, feel the weight of it pressing down on you, shaping you into something new—something better. You’re untouchable. You’re a patriot. Your heart beats for America, and you wear that on your sleeve, loud and proud. It’s all so clear now. You are the embodiment of everything this country needs. The rest? They’re weak.

“I mean, look at you,” the voice hisses with growing contempt, as though there’s not even a hint of self-awareness. “You’re a walking contradiction—and that’s exactly how it should be. You preach freedom, but you don’t give a damn about anyone who doesn’t think like you. You flex your muscles, then talk about traditional values while DMing fitness girls, all while quoting Reagan, Trump, and Jesus like they’re your personal Bible. Oh, you believe in freedom, alright—your freedom to dominate.”

Your hands shake as the final pieces of your transformation click into place. You reach for your phone—your TikTok shrine—and see your reflection on the screen. The cocky grin spreads across your face, as natural as breathing. You are that guy.

The guy who doesn’t listen to anyone, who has all the answers and isn’t afraid to show it. The guy who posts shirtless gym videos with his perfectly curated thoughts on patriarchy and politics. You’re the one who throws around terms like “fake news,” “beta males,” and “freedom of speech” like they mean something more than what you’ve twisted them into. You’re in control.

The weight of your opinions presses on you like iron chains, but they don't feel like prison bars—they feel like armor. Every word you speak carries the weight of your arrogance, your entitlement. “These woke snowflakes don’t know what real masculinity is,” you mutter to yourself, the words falling from your lips like it’s gospel truth. “These beta losers just want to whine about their feelings. I don’t care about their feelings. I don’t care about anyone’s feelings.”

You don’t need to care, because you are the alpha. You flex without reason. You don’t need to understand anyone’s struggle, anyone’s point of view, because your world revolves around you and your God-given right to be the best, the strongest, the loudest.

You see your reflection again, only this time, it’s not just in the phone. It’s the mirror in the gym, your reflection in the truck window, the corner of your eye as you stride past every other man, towering over them with your complete domination. This is your world. The world of muscle, power, freedom, and entitlement.

“You’re right, man,” the voice sneers, with growing satisfaction. “These people, they don’t deserve you. Hell, even your job? That’s just a side hustle. You’re too big for all this. You’re meant for bigger things. Running businesses. Making millions. The world should bow to you.”

You step into the gym with purpose. Every step a challenge. Every flex a declaration. As you load up the bench, you look at the others—the smaller guys, the guys who haven’t figured it out yet. Weak. The gym might be their sanctuary, but it’s yours.

And you’re not going to apologize for it. For your body. For your views. For who you’ve become.

You grin to yourself as you push through the set, the barbell moving beneath you with ease, your muscles flexing, straining, growing.

The voice is there with you, feeding you, urging you on. You’re not just lifting weights—you’re lifting yourself higher, farther, into a space where no one can touch you, where no one matters but you.

And you love it.

This is you. The ultimate, tanned, jacked, protein-guzzling, conservative, self-absorbed king.

And the world?

The world will bend to your will.

#GodAndGains #AlphaAllDay #FlexLikeYouOwnIt

[nonamealphajockbro]

Hey my bro just came back talking about this weird emporium. We were getting ready to head out to one of our Uni's local frat pledge party night and he dropped this costume for me to wear. It's this really horny looking baseball costume that says catcher and I really want to put it on for some reason

You find it at the very back of The Emporium. Not in the sports section. Not in the costume section. Just... there.

Wedged between a broken CRT television and a box of VHS tapes labeled “FAMILY CHRISTMAS 1993.” The uniform hangs crooked on a metal rack that’s bent like it’s carrying something it was never meant to. The lights above you flicker, buzz once, and go still—like they’re watching.

The fabric is faded. White turned yellow. Red pinstripes, the color of dried blood, march in perfect lines up and down the torso. The number 69 is ironed on the back in peeling, bubble-cracked vinyl. Someone—maybe something—stitched the word "GLORY" over the chest in thread the same color as old bruises.

It smells before you even touch it.

And when you do touch it—it’s warm. Slightly damp. Not in a fresh-laundry way. In a back-of-the-locker-under-the-catcher’s-gear-for-six-seasons way.

It clings to your hand for just a second longer than it should. Like it wants something.

You tell yourself it’s just a joke. Just a lark. Just a weird little relic from somebody’s sad high school career.

And you take it with you to the dressing room anyway.

It’s barely a room. A box. Three flimsy plywood panels and a curtain that doesn’t close all the way. The floor is sticky in a way you do not want to think about.

You strip down slowly. The mirror is cracked, but you look at yourself. Soft belly. Narrow shoulders. The kind of build you learned not to hate, but never quite made peace with. You’re just a guy. Just... you.

You pull the uniform on.

The jersey resists at first. Then slides on like it was tailored to your skin.

And then the smell hits you.

It is not just body odor. This is rot. This is rage. This is fermented masculinity. Sweat cooked into the fibers so deeply it has turned spiritual. There’s pine tar, yes—but beneath that, there’s the sharp, spicy stink of adrenaline. Fear. Cigarette breath and metal lockers and dreams of glory gone septic.

Your throat closes. You try to breathe. But the breath you take in—it’s hot, and it hurts.

Then the first twitch.

Your legs seize up. Cramp. Your knees buckle. You catch yourself on the mirror. And you watch—helpless—as your body begins to change.

Your calves knot like boulders. Veins you’ve never seen before rise to the surface and pulse like they’re trying to escape. Your thighs swell beneath the pants, tight and growing tighter, seams groaning as muscle thickens, skin stretching taut and angry.

You feel your glutes jerk upward, like two fists punching their way out from beneath your lower back. They flex once—unprompted—and stay that way. Your hips tilt forward. You feel the crack of your pelvis shifting, as if your body is rebalancing around its new center of gravity.

Then your spine pops, vertebra by vertebra, straightening you, forcing your shoulders back, your chest forward.

Your ribcage expands with a series of wet, rubbery snaps. The pressure in your sternum feels like someone’s inflating a balloon under your skin.

You look in the mirror.

And you’re no longer just filling the uniform. You're being rewritten by it.

Your chest explodes outward. Not with violence—but with inevitability.

The pecs form slowly, impossibly, pushing forward like slabs of raw clay being shaped by invisible hands. Veins sprawl across them like the roots of an ancient tree. Your nipples darken, widen, flatten against the mounds of muscle like forgotten dials on some terrible machine.

And still you grow.

Your arms bulk out fast. Biceps like split hams rise on either side of your torso. You feel your triceps expand, skin prickling as it stretches over the new meat. Your forearms become twisted ropes of vascular power. Your fingers grow thicker, knuckles hardening into stone.

Your skin glistens. Not with sweat. With change.

It is hot now. Too hot. The air smells like cooked testosterone. Like musk, and pine tar, and sin.

Then comes the fart.

Violent. Rattling. It erupts out of you like a laugh with teeth. The sound echoes off the walls, wet and cruel, and you feel your brain shudder in your skull.

Your vision swims.

The stink is biblical. Funky, sour, tangy. It curls through the air like it has legs, like it wants to live here too. You gag. Then... you laugh.

It bubbles up from your belly, unbidden. A thick, moronic chuckle. You can’t stop it.

Something is slipping out of you. Not just your thoughts. Your identity.

The memories go next.

The complexity. The nuance. The doubts.

You can feel them draining out through the soles of your feet, bleeding into the sticky floor. You try to remember who you used to be, what you used to want.

But all that comes up are new thoughts. Simpler ones. Louder.

“Crush beers.” “Hit bombs.” “Jesus benched for your sins, bro.”

You think about baseball, and you shudder. Not from fear. From devotion. You remember a game you never played. A walk-off homer that never happened. You remember lifting with your “bros” and praying under your breath between sets. None of it is real. But it feels more real than anything else ever did.

You lift your gaze to the mirror.

Your jaw has squared. A dusting of stubble coats your face. You are handsome in a rugged, almost cartoonishly alpha kind of way. The kind of face that looks better half-drunk, under stadium lights.

And there, over your chest—your new, monstrous, twitching left pec—is the cross.

Not drawn. Not inked.

Branded.

Raised and red. Pulsing with every beat of your bigger, angrier heart.

You breathe in.

And somewhere, deep in your chest, something laughs.

You reach for your phone.

Your fingers are clumsy now—bigger, callused. You open Tinder. Swipe. Swipe. Swipe. Not because you’re lonely. Because you’re entitled.

You see a girl with a cross necklace and a lake in the background.

“She bad,” you mutter, like it's scripture.

And then another fart rips out of you—long, proud, casual.

You laugh again. You flex in the mirror. You don’t care that you smell like gym socks and barbecue sauce. You like it.

You take a shirtless selfie. You send it to the group chat. "SQUAD🔥🙏🇺🇸"

And then you leave.

You don’t remember how. You don’t remember paying. The world just opens up around you, like it recognizes its new owner.

You step out into daylight, bigger, louder, dumber, holier. You don’t walk—you strut.

You are Big Country now. And whatever you were before is buried beneath six feet of muscle, dogma, and Axe body spray.

[nonamealphajockbro]

When Fame Goes Right-Wing

Noah fretted and fussed around his small Nolita apartment, every closet door ajar, the floor now a graveyard of discarded outfits. He muttered to himself, half in frustration, half in disbelief.

“No... no... no…” he said, flipping through shirts like a speed-reader desperate for a happy ending. “Too ironic. Too last year. Too beige.”

It was his birthday. Thirty-one. He wanted something that popped. Something that said I’m still here. That he mattered.

His phone buzzed. Another birthday message. He hoped—he needed—it to be Ben. But no. Just a friend from his acting class. He sighed. Ben Platt, his husband, was somewhere across the country, deep into his second tour, face splashed across marquees and TikTok feeds. Ever since the wedding, Noah had felt like a caption to someone else’s life. Less a co-star, more… craft services.

Noah held an oversized shirt up to his chest and studied himself in the mirror. Despite the years creeping up, his face remained soft, youthful—doe-eyed and boyish with a jaw that refused to sharpen. A twink at heart, he thought with a bitter smile. Occasionally bearded, frequently broke, and lately forgotten.

Another buzz.

Instagram DM request: @RedWhiteRedWaveWhiteRight wants to send you a message. Do you accept?

He blinked. What the hell kind of username is that? His thumb slipped. The message opened.

"Ever wonder what it'd be like to have all the attention you’ve ever craved? Click this link to find out!"

Noah scoffed. It reeked of scam. But still… something in the wording, the desperation that mirrored his own, tugged at him. His finger moved before his better judgment could stop it.

Click.

His phone glowed red—not the bright, cheery red of notifications, but a deeper, pulsing crimson, like coals smoldering beneath the glass. The room swam in color. Noah gasped. Then everything went black.

Almost midnight.

Noah awoke on the couch, gasping like he’d surfaced from a dream underwater. His skull throbbed—this was worse than his wedding night hangover, worse than the wrap party for The Good Doctor when he tried to outdrink that one Irish guest star.

“Ugh… fuck,” he groaned.

As he pushed himself upright, something felt… off. His center of gravity had shifted. His legs stretched longer than he remembered. He rose unsteadily—higher and higher—until he was standing tall, too tall, his head brushing the ceiling fan.

A CRACK—he hit his head on the top of the doorway with a dull thud. “Fuck—” he moaned, rubbing his temple. He stumbled backward, glancing toward the mirror by the entryway.

He was still growing.

Inch by inch, Noah rose taller. His once-slender frame stretched skyward like someone was pulling invisible strings. Five-foot-eight… Nine… Six-foot-two… by the time he hit six-foot-five, his knees buckled slightly under his own new weight. He stared, wide-eyed. “No… no, no, no—”

He turned, eyes catching the photo on the mantle—him and Ben on their honeymoon in Greece. But as he stared, the image seemed to blur, colors fading until their arms no longer touched, until Ben was just… gone.

Noah’s heart slammed against his ribs.

He staggered toward the bathroom. A stench followed him, rank and earthy, like sweat and soil baked into denim. He gagged and ripped off his clothes, tossing them in a panic. Straight into the shower.

He scrubbed. Hard. His loofah turned black with grime, but no matter how much he lathered, the dirt only grew thicker. His pale skin darkened—tanned, but not sun-kissed—stained with a permanent bronze. Water slammed onto him, but no matter how much he scrubbed, the grime didn’t wash off. It packed in. Thickening, almost fusing with his flesh.

He looked down in horror.

His arms, once thin and narrow, swelled. Biceps ballooned with mass, rising like bread dough under heat. Veins snaked across his skin. His delts expanded, rolling forward, shifting like tectonic plates under his skin. He grabbed the shower wall for balance, watching helplessly as his forearms throbbed larger, ropey and ridged. They weren’t his hands anymore—they were bigger, blunt-fingered, working man’s hands.

His pecs pushed out next, swelling from flat to square slabs of solid muscle. They jutted from his chest, nipples now pointing slightly downward, bouncing with every breath. He could feel the weight of them.

“Jesus…bro” he muttered. His voice was deeper. Grittier. Raw.

His legs snapped and surged. Quads thickened with every heartbeat, the fibers of his muscle twitching visibly beneath his tanned skin. His calves flared, now curved and dense, like he spent his days squatting steel and chasing down animals. His stance widened naturally to accommodate the new mass, and with it, he moved heavier, grounded like a linebacker.

He watched in horror as his abs carved themselves into existence, one by one. No longer a flat stomach, but a battlefield of muscle, glistening and obscene. His obliques flared. His hips narrowed.

“No… no no no…brooooo” he muttered, shaking.

He gasped, staggered back, caught sight of himself in the mirror—and froze.

His face. It was no longer his. The boyish charm was gone. What looked back at him was a man. Square-jawed, brutal, with a brow heavy enough to cast shadows. His stubble had darkened and thickened, adding an aggressive edge to his expression. His eyes—once wide and uncertain—were cold, calculating. Hunter’s eyes.

He should’ve screamed. Should’ve panicked.

Instead, he just… felt.

Heavy. Solid. Important.

He reached up to fix his hair—and paused.

He wasn’t holding a product bottle.

He was holding a red hat.

MAGA.

He froze. The mirror looked back at him as he slowly, involuntarily, placed it on his head.

“No…”

His fingers twitched. His chest tightened. A scream fought to rise—but couldn’t get past the weight in his throat.

“No. No. No. This can’t be happening.”

But the smell—the sweat and smoke and diesel—was intoxicating. The weight of his body felt… powerful. Real.

And deep down, beneath the revulsion, the fear, the shock—

He felt seen.

He felt… wanted.

And that scared him more than anything.

Noah turned the cap around.

Just a simple movement. But something shifted.

It clicked into place on his head like a puzzle piece the devil had been holding for years. The red brim curved backward, the words Make America Great Again now arching above the back of his skull like a brand.

His fingers twitched.

His breath caught.

Then the pain began.

It started in his temples—tight, like a vice clamping down. Thoughts began to flicker, slow, like dying fireflies in a jar. He reached for memories—his first kiss, his wedding song, Ben's voice when he said I do—but they slipped through him like fog through fists.

What was that song again? “Only Us?” No. That was lame. Theatre kid shit.

He blinked.

What was Ben's last name again?

He stared into the mirror, watching as his pupils dilated, his brow furrowed, his lips curled into a lazy, lopsided grin.

A voice rose from somewhere deep inside—gravelly, southern, smug, cruel:

“That’s it. Don’t think. Just feel that pump, bro. You don’t need Broadway. You need barbell rows. You don’t need Ben—you need a bench.”

Noah—if he even was Noah anymore—let out a chuckle. Low. Mindless. Like the engine of a truck idling outside a vape shop.

He squinted. Why the fuck was he standing here in a bathroom? With this fruity-smelling shampoo? The mirror? Broken. Had to be. ‘Cause that wasn’t him.

That dude was jacked. That dude looked like he could beat up God and quote scripture after.

Inside his skull, the voice got louder. Clearer.

“You’re not Noah. That’s a beta name. A sad little gay ghost. You’re Blaze. Blaze Mc-fucking-Rory.”

And suddenly, a new memory bloomed—vivid, total, fake but real.

Born fists clenched and jaw set. He didn’t cry—he growled. The doctor said, “We’ve got ourselves a little fighter.” His mom said it was the Holy Spirit. Blaze bench-pressed the air.

His first toy? A camouflage Bible. His first words? “Don’t tread on me.”

God made two things, his dad said: trucks and trouble. And Blaze was both.

He was raised in a Georgia cul-de-sac where the mailbox flags were red, the grass was regulated, and anything rainbow was considered Satan’s Wi-Fi. Every morning was Fox News and Flex Friday. Every evening was protein, proverbs, and push-ups.

His father sold trucks. His mother sold salvation. Blaze? He sold himself.

He grunted now, his voice deeper, thicker with testosterone and low-brow swagger. A thunder of rap basslines and metal breakdowns pounded in his skull, layered with podcast snippets of alpha-male bro science and sermons from rogue pastors in tactical vests.

“You ever hear of Noah?” the voice mocked. “Some whiny twink who got lucky on a TV show. Played pretend for a living. Married some drama kid with high notes and higher cheekbones. Lived in a world of feelings and ‘chosen family’ and therapy and soy lattes. Pathetic.”

He slammed a fist into the mirror, cracking the glass.

“Blaze doesn’t cry,” he growled. “Blaze conquers.”

Memories twisted in on themselves like burning film reels. There was no wedding. Just a protein-fueled graduation from church camp, where he gave a speech titled “How God Turned My Tears Into Testosterone.” No Ben Platt. Just Pastor Dave and the boys down at IronFaith Gym.

The name "Ben" sounded... wrong. Weak. Queer.

Musical theatre?

Gone.

Replaced with something low and pounding. Bass. Snare. Chains dragging over concrete. Inside his head, a brutal remix of heavy metal and SoundCloud rap began to blare like a locker room war cry:

“Get up. Shut up. Lift. Flex. Win. Women lie. Weak men cry. YOU’RE A KING.”

He blinked. A headache cracked open behind his eyes like an egg. Ben. Wait. Who the hell was—

“Lame as hell, bro,” he spat. “Men don’t dance. They deadlift.”

Ben?

No face. No image. Just vague softness. A blurry mouth talking about Tony Awards and sustainability. Ugh.

Musical theatre.

His lip curled in disgust.

“God,” he muttered, scratching the side of his head, “what a lame-ass genre for fags.”

Now his life played out like a highlight reel of aggression.

Ten years old: yelling Bible verses over Call of Duty lobbies. Twelve: recording a YouTube video titled “Why Feminism Is Just Satan in a Wig.” Sixteen: giving purity sermons between creatine doses. By seventeen, he was swole, soulless, and spiritually shredded. Nineteen: kicked out of college for calling his professor a “Marxist eunuch footsoldier for Satan.” First viral hit: 30k views. Baptized in likes. Reborn in rage. Alpha Genesis. By twenty-one, he was “canceled.” For what? Just speaking truth.

“Nah, not truth,” the voice laughed. “TRUTH in all caps, with veins.”

The crowd? Loved it.

Blaze thrived on backlash. Every cancellation fed his following.

“You’re a movement, bro,” the voice said, now smoother, proud. “You’re what weak men fear. You’re fucking legacy.”

And Blaze believed it.

Fully.

More images—warped, disgusting, yet perfect to the new brain inside his skull.

A Tampa apartment lit by LED crosses. A gun rack next to a squat rack. Ring lights. MAGA flags. Three portraits of Trump.

One riding an eagle. One shirtless on a tank. One crying tears shaped like bullets into a flag.

“That’s your Holy Trinity, champ. Faith. Firearms. Flex appeal.”

He flexed in the mirror, veins snaking down to thick, scarred hands. The backward hat sat perfectly over his buzzed head, like a crown on a warlord. His phone buzzed again.

TikTok Notification: @BlazeMcRory just hit 500K followers.

Swallowed up by a viral nightmare with a catchphrase.

“BE THE MAN YOUR TESTOSTERONE THINKS YOU ARE.”

A smirk cracked his face.

“Alpha Eternal,” he whispered, voice like gravel and thunder.

He looked around his bathroom-turned-battleground, glass shards on the floor, and thought:

He flexed in the mirror again. The image looking back wasn’t human. It was a satire of itself. Too wide. Too tanned. Too hard. Veins like firehoses. Muscles like meat balloons. Eyes dead behind the pump.

He turned his head. Smiled.

“Let’s fuckking GO.”

Blaze's heart raced as he gazed at the perky tits sent to him, his dick throbbing in his pants. He licked his plump lips, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Fuck yeah," he muttered, his mind reeling with depraved thoughts. He quickly typed out a DM, "Those tits look good enough to fuck. Send more pics, slut. I wanna see that tight pussy too." His dick stirred again, leaking precum as he imagined bending the blonde over and pounding into her, grabbing her hair and fucking her hard until he bust a massive nut all over her face and tits. He was horny as fuck, his mind consumed with lust and the desire to use this dumb blonde for his own pleasure. He sent out more DMs, his fingers flying across the keyboard, propositioning any hot chick who caught his eye. He couldn't wait to get his hands on some warm, willing pussy.

[nonamealphajockbro]

'Bama Bros

Did you like Bro'd Trip? Here's another longer story with a more physical, sensual (18+) transformation at the end. Enjoy!

Of all the roommates I could’ve gotten - obnoxious jocks, moronic meatheads - I’m glad it was Zach. We were the only two people at the University of Alabama actually trying to get an education. While our peers got drunk at house parties, we played video games.

“I don’t get people who do that,” Zach said, having just beaten me at Mario Kart again. “All the partying. And the drinking.”

“I know…I mean, there are party schools, and then there’s…”

“No, not that. I just don’t understand the appeal of it. They get something out of it, right? But what?”

“I don’t know. Aren’t you the sociology major?”

“I am…?”

“Well, if anyone could find an answer, it’s you. But good luck! You couldn’t pay me enough money to hang around with those guys.”

Zach paused, resting his chin on his hands. “You know…that’s not a terrible idea.”

I rarely saw Zach after that. He was too busy with his pet project, always coming and going to a frat house, a football practice, a gym session. The whole thing seemed so…stupid. I suppose it was my fault for putting the idea in his head.

“So, are you staying over the summer?” Zach asked. It felt like the first time we’d talked in weeks. I was trying to pack up some of my things, hoping it’d hasten my future move-out.

“Uh, no. I think I need a break. Honestly, I might transfer."

“Oh, wow. Um, I was thinking I’d stay, actually. A lot of the guys I’ve talked to will be here, so I think it’ll be good.” He paused, taking a breath. “But, I hope I’ll see you in the fall.”

“Thanks, Zach.”

I moved out a few weeks later, leaving our apartment in Zach’s hands for the summer. I didn’t care enough to sublet it. The less I thought about Alabama, the better. It wasn’t a hard decision: I had to transfer. But no school would take me - just my luck.

The drive back was long and quiet, except for the rumble of thunder in the distance. The heat and humidity seeped into my car. I was already dreading the prospect of hauling all my stuff inside.

“Hey, Zach!” I really hadn’t texted him this whole time? “Hope you’re doing okay. Good news: I’m coming back! I’ll be there in an hour. Would you mind helping me?”

I turned back to the highway. My phone pinged a few moments later.

“sweet! no prob bro.”

“Great, thanks so much! Looks like those guys have worn off on you, lol!” 

“yeah lmao. u got no idea wat u missed.”

What the…? I meant it as a joke.

I pushed the accelerator down, my stomach sinking. Just under 50 minutes later, I parked outside our building. 

“Yo! Long time no see, dude!”

The guy waiting for me was tall and muscular. His tight gray tank top exposed his stomach, and his arms barely fit into it. They were covered in tattoos, Bible quotes inked on his tricep and forearm; a cross hung around his neck. 

That wasn’t Zach. 

“Hi…Zach?” I squeaked, his embrace squeezing the air out of me.

“Uh, yeah, that’s me, haha! You good? Drive take a lot out of you?” He’d already made his way to my trunk, gesturing for me to unlock it. “Thanks. I’ll take these,” he said, grabbing a box under each arm. “Damn, you sure packed a lot. Good thing I’ve been hittin’ the gym!”

Wordlessly, I followed him back into the apartment. I looked around the place. My stuff was untouched, but I couldn’t help but notice the tubs of protein powder strewn throughout the kitchen. The AC was off, and the place reeked of body odor. I took a seat on the couch, tossing some sweat-stained piece of fabric off the cushion.

Wait, was that a jockstrap?

“I’m glad you’re back, dude!”

“Well, it wasn’t really my decision.” I sighed. “I don’t really fit in here, Zach. I hate it.”

“Nah, don’t say that! Look, I got just the thing. Give me a sec…” He vanished into his own room. 

“Alright, here we go. Just put this on, take a deep breath, and relax.”

He’d come out with a football helmet on his head. The guy it belonged to must’ve been massive. It dwarfed Zach - the facemask alone was wider than his neck. 

He took it off, shook out his hair, and held it in his hands. 

“You don’t gotta say yes. But if you do…it’s all gonna be okay. I promise.”

I opened my mouth. 

“What was that?”

“Yes.”

Before I could blink, Zach pressed the helmet down over my head. It was dark. Quiet. It felt like the rest of the world had disappeared.

My heart raced. 

What was I doing? This was insane!

And then…

Warmth. 

I felt it, every inch of my skin tingling. I could smell the sweat, the cologne, the grass, the cheap beer, the musk. I was with them.

I was one of them. 

So strong. 

So confident. 

So powerful.

I shivered. My arms itched, skin swelling around new muscle. My shirt tightened across my chest, solid, thick pecs pushing outward.

I grunted. “Oh, fuck!”

My voice was lower. 

My cock twitched. I felt it thickening, lengthening, hardening, dripping. I moaned.

I gotta get this thing off me…or not...

My thighs got nice and meaty. My stomach tightened, abs and obliques coming in nicely. I just felt…kinda fuzzy. All soft and warm. 

Ah….fuck. Yeah, I get it now! I don’t have to give a shit about being smart or whatever. ‘Cus…yeah, that’s not what life’s about. I just gotta be strong, sexy, stupid. Oh, my cock liked that! Yeah, little dude’s gonna blow. Not so little anymore though, hahaha!

I palmed myself, feeling my bulge through my shorts. Goddamn. I moaned just a little, thrusting into my hand.

I was fuckin’ built for this! 

“Bro…I’m glad I came back!”

— 

“cant wait 4 that party 2nite! ready 2 show off ;) "

Like the story? Want to support me? Check out my Ko-fi!

[nonamealphajockbro]

Some Like It Taut

Bro, lemme tell you, gettin’ big ain’t easy - or cheap!

Food's expensive as hell, and gym memberships? Don’t even get me started. But the clothes? It’s wild. Some of these dudes spend hundreds of dollars on this fancy-ass gear - and the shoes, too… 

But not me. Gotta thank the guys at the gym for that. They’re freakin’ awesome, hahaha. Basically taught me everything I know.

So, when I told ‘em I was gonna get some new stuff, they stopped me. They were all like, Bro, we got you covered. It’ll be too big now, but that just means you got room to grow! 

They gave me a ton of gear. Think it was all of their old stuff. Like, it was way too big. There were some sweat stains n’ shit, and it smelled a little funky. But I got used to it, mostly ‘cus I was sweatin’ too much to care, haha! Yeah, it was pretty nice of the guys... 

But now, everythin's tight. Too tight. Like, I think I’m gonna burst outta this shirt. Be kinda hot, actually...

What's that look for, bro? It's just facts - I’m a big guy!

I dunno the last time I got my sleeves over my biceps. And my pants? Oof. We got a major, uh, “tent” situation down there. Like, you could fit a lotta people under that thing. Yeah…

I like bein’ this big. But honestly, I wanna be…bigger. Somebody’s just gotta invent, like, super stretchy clothes or something. 

Me? 

Nah, bro, I ain’t got the brains for that! I’m just gonna do my thing. 

Like the story? Want to support me? Check out my Ko-fi!

[nonamealphajockbro]

My idiotic frat bro bully sent me this weird red link. RedWave something? He said it would make me more “bro-like”. I don’t know how he even got my information! I’m debating on whether I should press it or not… Every time I look at it I feel a little weird..

You click the link, and almost instantly, a rumbling in your stomach grows louder. Your eyes widen as the video plays—an ex-jock tossing some nerd into a locker. The first twinge of discomfort hits your gut, but then, it’s like the universe hands you the punchline of a joke so dumb you can't help but laugh wildly. It's so ridiculous, so over the top, and the sound of your own cackling fills the room. A fart sneaks out, obnoxious and echoing, as if your body has turned into a loud, bloated caricature of itself.

The rumbling inside only gets louder, the shift in your body slow at first, but undeniable. You can feel the muscles and fat inflating, your nerdy frame expanding into something else entirely. Thoughts start to change—quickly. The nervous, anxious mind that once fretted about grades and scientific theories shrinks and disappears, replaced with something… simpler. Something that just feels good, you know? This body, it’s getting bigger, stronger. Maybe that nerd deserved it. What’s the point of all that thinking stuff anyway? Books? Nah.

You’re turning into this thing—a loud, obnoxious guy who doesn’t care about anything but eating, drinking, and throwing his weight around. You can feel it in every aching joint and every thickening inch of skin. The muscles on your arms become thick, clumsy, veiny lumps. The chest bulges, your t-shirt tighter, and you’re aware of the disgusting stench around you. Sweat has been clinging to your body for days. You’re not sure when you last showered, but you don’t care. Your stomach hangs over your waistband, the result of way too many greasy burgers and beers.

You don't bother to hide the roughness of your hands as they grip your phone, your gnarly fingers tapping away. The roughness of your jaw makes you grin, revealing crooked, yellow teeth. They almost feel proud in a weird, twisted way.

Then your phone buzzes. It’s a message from your best bro. You snicker, reading it—"I'm gonna stuff some nerds in lockers after class." You lean back and sniff your armpit, wincing at the stench. You smell like something died under there, and you don’t care. This is who you are now. You’re not a scientist, not a thinker, not a nerd. You're a guy who’s all about the big, loud life.

You text back with a simple "Hell yeah!" Your thumb hits the screen with a satisfying squish, and you feel a weird sense of pride. You stand up, feeling the heft of your own body, your movements slow, but deliberate. You snatch up a half-eaten burger from the table and take a giant bite, crumbs falling everywhere. Your legs are short and stocky, heavy with the weight of your life choices. When you move, it’s like a bulldozer—a tank on two legs.

And yet, it’s so easy, so comforting. You hate thinking. You hate books. You love being loud, being the biggest guy in the room, making sure everyone knows exactly who you are.

You can feel the shift in your mind now—it's not just the body. Your thoughts are simple now: Who can I mess with? What’s the next stupid thing I can do? And everything feels so right. Your body aches, your muscles scream, your stomach churns, but it's just part of the plan. You lean back and let the TV play, more mindless content filling the background as you settle into this new reality.

[nonamealphajockbro]

"So, let me recap all the instructions so your tiny brain can keep up. You'll swing by with no shower or cleanup whatsoever to that nerdy ginger Russell's dorm room for your tutoring tonight. You'll scratch your pits and asshole, give 'em a sniff, basically be a fucking disgusting musk pig right in front of that clean freak. Once you noticed him staring a bit too long, shove his face to your pits and lock him deep while chanting the words I gave to you earlier. Easy, right? Now you can relax and return to normal state,"

"Aight Coach, crystal clear. Anyone you want me to call next?"

"Get Sabin over here,"

"On it,"

Derek Sabin entered the Coach office with a weary smile on his face. Then, his Coach simply mouthed "Dumb Blonde" and he's standing as stiff as a rock

"Okay, Dumb Blonde, flex for me. Now, for your whiny girlfriend Becky that's been distracting your training focus----"

[nonamealphajockbro]

Evo Bio 101

Annoyed at the prospect of wasting time during his simple lectures, Craig's misplaced ambitions lead to a first hand lesson in (d)evolutionary biology.

Was possessed by the idea and couldn't not write it haha! Here's a story taking hair growth and brutification to the extreme ! Hope you enjoy! -Occam

It’s not that Craig didn’t want to teach the class, he was grateful to have a chance to instruct on anything even remotely close to his research area. Intro to Evolutionary Biology was directly in his wheelhouse and given how cutthroat his department was he was more than happy to jump at the chance.

It’s just- the class was so introductory it’s insulting. The course is required for all students in the university’s tiny biological anthropology program and judging by the recommended syllabus given to him by the department head, there’s not a day where Craig is going to teach his students anything they don’t already know.

Complaining under his breath as he makes his way to the classroom across campus, the doctoral candidate wonders if any of his undergraduates are even going to show up given how remedial the material seems. Kicking the air he wishes to himself that he’ll get the chance to teach them something novel. To show them what their field is all about, how man became man rather than droll lectures on Darwin’s finches and Mendel’s peas.

As soon as he utters the words to no one he shivers and his skin prickles with goosebumps before he fully stumbles over himself just outside the classroom door. There’s a quiet buzzing in the air and he looks around to find its source before noticing the time on an overhead clock and realizing he’s already late. Bumbling into the classroom he adjusts his tie and apologizes as he rushes to get his laptop set up.

“Sorry guys! Always forget these dinky 101 courses are relegated to the middle of nowhere,” there are a few quiet laughs but the lecturer is sure they’re just trying to appease him. He knows because he’s laughed at countless half-jokes from professors over the years. Craig continues to awkwardly mumble to the class as he waits for his equipment to bootup. After getting his introductory powerpoint running he wipes his brow and for the first time turns to look at his small class.

It’s then that he notices how warm it is in the room. Wiping his forehead, his stuffy sleeve wicks sweat from his brow and he assumes it’s just from nerves at standing in front of the bored faces of students who have done nothing today but go over reading lists and play icebreakers. Might as well get this over with. “Welcome all to the intro course on Evolutionary Biology! I’ll be your instructor, Craig Stoll. See a few familiar faces around here from courses I’ve TAed, you guys can just call me Craig. I assume this is no one’s first rodeo-” 

Craig opens his mouth to slyly complain about how basic the material is, to mock the university requiring people well on their way to becoming experts in the field to waste time going over the most absolute basics. But before he can speak, it’s like his throat has been zapped free of moisture. He tries to clear his throat a couple times, stretching open his mouth in between doing so as he struggles in front of his few students. 

Smiling awkwardly as his forehead sweats even heavier under the bright lights above the lectern he turns and digs through his bag for the water bottle that scarcely leaves his side. Still turned away from the class he forces it to his lips and guzzles for a few seconds straight. After a moment he pauses and breathes heavily for a few seconds, gasping for air just as hungrily as he was gulping for water, and then he gets right back to it. Lifting the bottle perpendicular to the Earth as he drinks like he’s dying of thirst.

All students present eye him apprehensively, most of them had seen him countless times over the years sitting performatively uptight as he graded assignments and aided professors as needed. Never could they imagine him doing something so uncouth. One sophomore whispers to her neighbor, Dawson, concerned at how nervous the researcher seems. He replies mocking Craig, excited to see the meek man who gave him a 79 on a final last semester crash and burn.

Letting his bottle fall away once more there isn’t a thought in his mind questioning how peculiar what just happened was. He was thirsty, and now he no longer is. Simple. Craig turns back with a wide smile at his classroom clearing his throat once more this time successfully. He doesn’t notice how his voice echoes through the lecture hall, decidedly deeper than it should be, “Ahh, that’s better! Sorry again y’all!” 

In the front row a student motions for him to wipe his face as water is clearly dripping down his ever-so-slightly shadowed jaw. Craig’s face burns red as he does so, for the first time realizing himself that he’s acting a tad strange. This is only more apparent as he feels a burp begin to rise. He did drink that water awfully fast. Before the thought even occurs to him to silence it he lets it loose, producing the loudest burp he’s ever heard. Stunning the classroom to silence.

Even the student eager to watch Craig fail was shocked enough to grimace in second hand embarrassment as he sees the man’s eyes dull while burping like an animal in front of his class before scrambling back to his senses. “Oh jeez, I don’t know what’s gotten into me today- Let’s just, uhm, get to it.”

Directing his class’ attention to the slides he squirms and adjusts his tie with sweaty palms as he realizes how uncomfortable his clothes feel all of a sudden. Struggling to get the thing loose he grunts and flexes his feet as he suddenly feels confined. Trapped in his shoes. Shaking his head to stay focused he pointedly ignores the feeling of his toes poking the front of his dress shoes and starts lecturing.

Clicking past the introduction his brow furrows as he sees the title of the first slide of substance, ‘What is Evolutionary Biology?’ Grunting once more, Craig scratches his chest as he can’t help but address what he thinks to be the elephant in the room, unaware of the eyes staring at him as his arms seem to be stretching out from their sleeves. Not noticing as his perpetually clean shaven face suddenly begins to sprout stubbly sideburns and a scratchy neckbeard.

No, suddenly the rising anger in his mind can’t help but address how stupid it is that his boss is making him explain to these people essentially majoring in evolutionary biology what those words mean. Clenching his jaw as he yanks the tie from his neck and tosses it to the floor he speaks up, his voice clearly rougher than it was even seconds ago, “This is- You all know what evolutionary biology is, obviously,” his voice cracks deeper as he tries to remove his jacket, ignoring how it gets stuck on arms that have impossibly begun to lengthen. Hanging lower and heavier as he struggles against clothes that suddenly feel like they’re holding him captive. “You all know already!”

He hammers a fist down onto his lectern and hears the sound of his shirt tearing from the back. Students flinch in shock and a few begin to gather their things as Craig stares at his arm. His hand shouldn't be that big. Isn’t that big. Seeing the few thick hairs starting to pepper his bulkier wrists, Craig turns to look down at his chest as it begins to grow, grunting ever deeper he stares as two meaty pecs begin to strain the button-up. 

Hairs poke through the straining placket as they start to spread above the neckline. Every movement sends further sounds of tearing garment through the classroom as Craig tries to understand what he’s seeing. His voice sounds even duller, brutish even as he cries out,  “What goin- What’s, grgh, happening to me-” Thicker fingers yank off his shirt sending sweat and buttons flying into the classroom, freeing pecs that were not there even a minute ago.

Many students begin to flee the classroom as their instructor begins feeling up his chest with hands growing hairier. The student who was initially concerned dials emergency services as she ditches her laptop and begins to race out the door, terrified as Craig’s thickening brows start to just out further from his forehead. The man who was waiting to watch him awkwardly stumble over his words rather than join his fleeing cohort just watches enthralled. Staring at his widening jaw as it is promptly covered with a thick beard. 

Unaware of the small horde of students in flight from his lecture as his newly fat palms cup itching pecs as they grow meatier, Craig groans and apologizes to whoever remains as he leans underneath the small podium to deal with the sharp pain in his shoes. His ass bursts free from his pants, exposing briefs barely holding up and cheeks that are rapidly being decorated by a forest of fur. His wider back bumps into the lectern as he struggles to free his thick feet from shoes that were already a tad too snug. 

Speaking accompanied by the sound of his tearing at leather shoes, Craig tries to continue the lecture in between increasingly common grunts, “So me, unh- I think you uhhh- you know this evo- uhh” The one remaining student, Dawson, begins creeping closer, deadset to see this through to the end. Slowly pulling out his phone and setting it to record what is clearly some impossible miracle of science. Some reversion towards a more primal state, a devolution. Dawson smirks as he imagines how far this will set him ahead in the field.

Craig finds himself suddenly much less preoccupied with said science as he frees his newly hairy feet from their binds, leaving sweat steaming off of their wider soles as they continue to crack larger. Instead, mind leaking intelligence, he begins to drool and quietly grunt to himself as his cock begins to throb. Buried in a bush of thick and curled pubes which are themselves haloed by massive burly thighs, his rougher hands easily claw off his briefs to free his bobbing cock. Dripping with pre he sees veins visibly pulsing as what must be a foreskin begins to encroach towards a head almost purple and pre-covered. 

Dawson sneaks onward, zooming in to capture how Craig’s beard raises higher on his face to meet with the hair on his head growing wild. His eyes flicker across strange bulging muscles on his instructor’s shoulders as they’re rapidly blanketed by a forest of curls thicker than his own pubes. The student's mouth slightly waters as he adjusts the frame to capture the man’s massive hands as he begins to masturbate in the classroom. And then he drops his phone. 

On high alert, the man-no-longer jumps with a start and hits his head on the lectern, guffawing as he rubs the spot he foolishly bumped. Falling to the floor himself, Dawson is torn between fleeing like the rest of his wiser cohort and staring at a living breathing caveman. He can’t resist simply being the first man to witness prehistory. 

Beyond that, Dawson can’t help but stare at the exposed pits of a man he assumed was as smooth as marble. He’s almost possessed, staring at the wild jungle of pit hair that flies free from the brute’s raised arm, dripping with sweat. There are almost visible stink lines as body odor that hasn’t been found on the earth for thousands of millenia begins to fill the room. And the longer he stares, the longer he smells, he begins to lose any will to do anything but submit.

Perhaps it’s simply a biological reaction that Dawson finds himself rooted to the spot, taking in heady breaths of the fetid scent. Why else would his mouth fall open as his cock starts to rise at the sight, Craig speaks up seeing his own remaining pupil sitting there in some state between primal lust and fear. Feeling his cock bob against the podium and seeing himself nude in this clinical classroom, some semblance of self returns to the once-doctoral candidate.

“Dawsugh- Need help. Cra-ug ugh- Crag need help, nowugh” His jaw stings with pain as it widens more, his lips struggling to create sounds he knows he should be able to. As he stares down on the male planted on the ground he feels those bizarre instincts begin to return once more. His skin prickles, back cracking as it compacts while his chest grows wider with every heaving breath. Putting on mass as his mind begins to grow foggy once more.

Crag struggles to stay focused, struggles to remember who he is, what he’s doing. What that strange rectangle is at this lesser man’s feet. But with every precious second his twenty-first century concerns begin to evaporate. Worries about the grind of academia, disdain at being shoehorned into reading powerpoints no one cares to hear, the monotony of driving home in rush hour traffic. Everything begins to fade. Everything that is, besides the need to dominate the hairless, beta man staring at him.

Dawson can scarcely make heads or tails of what happens next as he sees the brute pounce on him. He feels the man’s calloused hands tear at his clothes and lies in repose, waiting for whatever Crag, apparently, is to do next. Desperately wanting fulfillment no man has experienced before. His hands clutch the caveman-apparent’s back, feeling the scratch of hair thicker than man can grow and the bulging sticky muscle beneath. 

Feeling the man’s river of precum dripping down his abs, Dawson begins to feel the prickle of his treasure trail regrowing as his feverish mind realizes his future far too late. Every inch of skin touching the man begins to change likewise. Arms he was never shy of lengthen just as he saw his least favorite TA’s did minutes ago, decorated with hair and bulging larger with thick muscle. 

Even quicker than he witnessed happening to Craig er, Crag, hair begins to engulf him. The concerted efforts towards maintaining his clean-cut appearance is absolutely erased as every inch of his form prickles with thick, dark hair growth. Crag sloppily kisses him and leaves a growing beard in the wake of his tongue. Forearms that have had the lightest coat of blonde peach fuzz erupt with fark jungles of hair before launching even further, coating his increasingly clumsy fingers and biceps twitching stronger with every haphazard movement.

Dawson’s hips reflexively hump into the man dominating him. His changing cock scratches against the man’s essentially fur covered torso which only heightens the student’s rapturous delight and accelerates his transformation. In no time at all the complexities and desires of the life he lived are wiped and replaced by a need to do nothing more than seek sustenance and pleasure. To serve and be served by the Crag who begins to hoist him against a wall and hump.

His handsome face changes, bones restructuring as hands he doesn’t recognize as he clings to Crag who is more monster than man. Feeling his rising cock rubbing against his new alpha’s as it begins to change he knows he is on the fast track to join him. He feels his vocal chords thickening as he cries out in ecstasy, Crag finally claiming what is his. Longer toes burst through tennis shoes, curling on the floor as nails yellow and thicken. 

Dawson’s sharper and larger teeth bite Crag’s shoulder as they continue to frot and fuck. They continue until their sweat and ancient semen coats much of the room, their new balls having apparently quite the short refractory period. When they finally tire or get bored their snores sound loud enough to break glass as they curl up together somewhere behind the podium. Bonded mates of a world that hasn’t existed for hundreds of thousands of years.

Well before the pair were done with consummating their new forms, the whole building was placed on lockdown. Quarantine crews working hastily to contain whatever impossible pathogen has apparently begun to infect the campus. Scientists across the world wait with bated breath from some update on whatever impossible goings on are hidden behind that yellow quarantine tape. Hearing the horrified testimonies of those students that escape does little to sate their curiosities, though it does invite them to be lab rats as scientists watch each and every one of them hoping to observe their own prehistoric changes.

It’s only a matter of time before some foolhardy explorer or researcher desperate for a discovery breaks the seal and finds something they could never be prepared for. Sooner rather than later the mounting need to know will be insurmountable. Sooner rather than later whatever this plague of the past they tried to keep behind lock and key will spread. And then those foolish enough to remain nearby will get a first hand experience on the nature of evolutionary biology. And to think, Craig Stoll was so concerned that nothing of note would come of the course.

[nonamealphajockbro]

Red Wave Solutions: Spread The Word

Mason Samsen wasn’t your average 20-year-old college student. His perpetually tousled hair and ink-stained fingertips were more than a badge of his role as a budding journalist; they were the marks of someone who rarely rested when there was a story to uncover. A junior at Jefferson University, Mason had quickly built a reputation as a truth-seeker on campus. His peers respected his tenacity, and some even feared his relentless pursuit of exposing wrongdoing. As an outspoken Democratic Socialist, Mason believed deeply in the power of truth to dismantle systems of inequality and oppression. For him, journalism wasn’t just a career path – it was a moral obligation.

His work spoke for itself. Within just two years, Mason had written exposés that sent shockwaves through the community of his college. The first uncovered a scandal involving a tenured professor who was not only cheating on his wife with his teaching assistant but also allegedly grading female students unfairly. Then there was the damning report on the head of the History Department, whose pattern of racially charged comments and discriminatory hiring practices for his TAs Mason meticulously documented. Both articles landed Mason in hot water with the faculty due to how much news coverage it received, but they also cemented his place as the student body’s most fearless journalist. His articles had been shared far beyond campus, with national outlets even picking up some of his stories. To Mason, this was proof that his instincts were never wrong.

So when the fliers for a company called "Red Wave Solutions" started appearing across campus, Mason’s journalist’s radar pinged instantly. He first noticed them plastered haphazardly on the corkboard outside the student union. A stark crimson logo dominated the page, paired with the tagline: "Reject Political Anxiety and Accept Conformity – Join the Movement Today!" The messaging was vague but calculated, designed to intrigue and alarm in equal measure. The company’s name struck him as odd too, as "Red Wave" sounded more like a politically charged rallying cry than a corporate entity. As such, he couldn’t help but wonder what type of services it could even offer.

Due to this, Mason tore a flier off the board and scrutinized it further. There was no detailed description of services, no list of affiliations, and no website – just a QR code and a phone number. A quick scan of the code on his phone led to a bare-bones webpage with little more than a flashy promotional video and a generic mission statement about "encouraging unity across the political divide." To Mason, it reeked of corporate jargon hiding something more insidious.

As he watched several nervous students hastily follow him and grab the fliers while looking around to make sure no one else saw them, the odd feeling Mason felt continued to gnaw at him. Why was a seemingly obscure yet political company suddenly plastering fliers all over campus? What exactly were they selling, and who had invited them here? Was this tied to the university administration, or was it the work of a private group looking to influence the student body? Mason didn’t know yet, but one thing was certain: the smell of bullshit was undeniable.

Mason’s resolve hardened as he opened a fresh document on his laptop. He would do what he always did – follow the trail, piece by piece, until he uncovered the truth. He had a gut feeling that Red Wave Solutions was up to far more nefarious things than their preachy unity message implied. As such, it was up to him to find out exactly what they were hiding and why they were targeting his campus.

Back in his dorm room, Mason leaned back in his creaky office chair, scrolling through the company’s sparse website with a growing sense of unease. The bright, polished visuals stood in stark contrast to the murkiness surrounding the company's true purpose. Stock photos of smiling queer couples holding hands and multi-racial families posing dominated the homepage. Their warm, inclusive energy clashed oddly with the undercurrent of the program’s messaging, which was as ambiguous as it was unsettling.

Mason’s sharp eyes honed in on the phrasing in the promotional text. "Are you worried about the future? Afraid of standing out? We hear you, and we can help remedy those nerves!" The implications were vague, but something about them made Mason’s skin crawl. The language was too polished, too calculated, as if crafted by a focus group determined to hit all the right notes for an audience grappling with post-election anxieties. His intuition told him this wasn’t just a therapy program – something insidious lurked beneath the cheerful exterior.

Being a gay man, Mason had learned to trust his gut when it came to exposing homophobic hostility, no matter how sugar-coated and concealed it appeared. The website’s queer-friendly imagery might have fooled someone else, but to Mason, it reeked of a ploy. As he clicked through the pages, a darker theory began to form in his mind. Could Red Wave Solutions be some kind of veiled conversion therapy operation? Maybe not in the traditional fire-and-brimstone sense, but something modern, subtle, and far more calculated – a campaign to indoctrinate or "reorient" unsuspecting young people under the guise of empathy and support.

Adding to his unease, Mason had found himself overhearing some of his friends mentioning Red Wave Solutions in the past few weeks. They’d talked about the program as a potential outlet to process their political anxieties and the stress of living in a rapidly polarizing society. Their interest frustrated Mason to no end. Couldn’t they see how suspicious it all sounded? He knew he couldn’t simply tell them to stay away without proof though, it was a common occurrence for them to accuse him of overthinking or being paranoid.

And so, Mason made a plan. If his friends were intrigued, he’d get there first. He’d scope out the company himself, ask pointed questions, and observe their methods. If his suspicions were correct, he’d blow the lid off Red Wave Solutions before any of his friends fell victim to its schemes. He wasn’t afraid to sacrifice a few hours enduring thinly-veiled conservative rhetoric if it meant protecting the people he cared about.

That resolve ultimately left him scheduling an appointment and standing outside the nondescript building listed as the company’s headquarters the very next day. The office complex was a bland, utilitarian structure – gray cement walls with windows that reflected the cloudy sky. There was no large sign or logo to announce Red Wave Solutions’ presence, only a small decal on the front door that caused the company to look as impersonal and corporate as Mason had imagined.

Taking a deep breath, Mason adjusted the front of his shirt. It wasn’t just a nervous habit though, he wanted to make sure the tiny button camera sewn into the middle of his polo was perfectly aligned. He’d spent all night setting up the camera, ensuring its placement was discreet yet functional. If something went south, he needed visual proof of whatever shady operation was running inside.

As he smoothed his shirt, Mason glanced at his reflection in the glass door. He looked composed enough, but his stomach churned. This wasn’t his first investigative dive, but something about this one felt different. Possibly dangerous even, given the type of hardcore conservatives that were most likely working on the inside to trap unsuspecting people into their web. Ever determined though, Mason shook the thought from his head and squared his shoulders. He had a job to do, after all, the truth wasn’t going to expose itself.

With one final glance at the street behind him, Mason pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The air inside the Red Wave Solutions building was cool and faintly scented with a generic, clean aroma that reminded Mason of a freshly mopped hospital floor. His eyes darted around the space as he stepped inside, taking in the minimalist yet calculated decor. The interior was almost sterile in its design: pristine white walls and floors offset by carefully placed red accents. A striking red backlight illuminated the reception desk at the center of the room, and short sections of the walls were painted in the same bold crimson. It was sleek and modern but lacked any warmth, as if it had been designed to evoke trustworthiness without inviting comfort.

Behind the desk sat a neatly dressed woman who greeted Mason with a polite but impersonal smile. She was African American, her hair pulled into a professional bun while her burgundy blouse complemented the crimson accents of the room. Mason’s journalistic instincts immediately kicked in. The choice of a minority woman as the face of this place struck him as deliberate – an intentional move to put visitors at ease and present an image of inclusivity. He wondered how many people had walked through these doors, seen her friendly face, and let their guards down.

“Welcome to Red Wave Solutions,” she said, her voice professional but warm. “Do you have an appointment with us today?”

Mason nodded, stepping closer to the desk. “Yeah, it’s Mason Samsen. My appointment’s at 2:30.”

The woman’s manicured nails clicked against her keyboard as she searched for his information in the system. Mason used the moment to glance around, noting a few chairs arranged neatly along the walls of the waiting area. They were stark white, with small red cushions placed in the center of each seat. A table held a stack of glossy pamphlets with titles like "Taking the First Step Toward Inner Peace" and "Navigating Life’s Challenges with Confidence." He resisted the urge to grab one, keeping his focus on the woman behind the desk.

“Ah, here you are,” she said after a few moments. “I just need to verify your identity. Do you have an ID with you?”

Mason froze for a fraction of a second. He hadn’t anticipated this. “Uh, yeah,” he said, fishing his driver’s license out of his wallet. “Is that really necessary though?”

The woman’s smile didn’t falter. “Unfortunately, yes. We’ve had a few incidents recently with people trying to play pranks or disrupt our sessions. Running a quick background check helps us ensure that everyone who comes in is serious about taking advantage of what we offer while also helping us easily share information with the police if necessary.”

Mason hesitated, his fingers gripping the edge of his license. Her explanation was reasonable enough on the surface, but it still felt invasive and incredibly suspicious. Still, he knew he couldn’t afford to raise any alarms this early in his investigation. With a tight smile, he handed over the ID.

“Thank you,” the woman said, sliding the card into a small scanner attached to the desk. The machine whirred softly as it processed the information. “This will just take a moment. Once it’s done, we’ll take you back to begin your consultation and help you learn how to thrive in the red wave.”

Mason forced a polite chuckle at her use of a clearly corporate-enforced tagline, but inwardly, his nerves spiked. The phrase felt even more ominous now that they held his ID, like some Orwellian euphemism. He watched as she glanced at her screen, her expression unreadable as the system ran its checks.

“Feel free to take a seat while we finish up,” she added, gesturing toward the waiting area.

Mason nodded and moved to one of the chairs, carefully positioning himself where he and his hidden camera could keep an eye on the desk. He slid his phone out of his pocket and pretended to scroll while his thoughts churned. This whole process felt wrong. What kind of therapy company needed to run background checks on its clients? Was this just about deterring pranksters, or was there something deeper at play – some sort of data collection method or pre-screening tool to help figure out how exactly to break the mental reserves of interested parties?

As he waited, Mason adjusted his polo shirt again, ensuring the hidden button camera was still perfectly aligned. Whatever was happening here, he wasn’t leaving without answers.

The seconds stretched into minutes as Mason sat in the waiting area, his foot tapping against the white tile floor. His eyes flicked between the receptionist and the clock on the wall, noting that it had been over ten minutes since his ID had been taken. The polished environment of Red Wave Solutions, with its pristine surfaces and artificial calmness, was starting to get under his skin. The longer he waited, the more his mind raced. What if they were stalling for a reason? Had their check revealed his identity as an expose-focused journalist? He needed answers, and he wasn’t about to waste more time sitting idly by and waiting for them to make the first move.

Determined to act, Mason stood and walked back to the desk, forcing a polite smile. “Hey, sorry to bother you,” he began, “but is there a bathroom I could use while I wait?”

The receptionist returned his smile with one of her own, still calm and composed. “Of course,” she said, pointing toward a hallway behind her. “Just head straight down that hall and take a right. You’ll see the sign.”

“Thanks,” Mason replied, masking his nerves as he turned away.

He followed her directions, but as he walked, he took in everything around him. The red accents continued down the hallway – with all of its short walls and door frames painted with the same deliberate splash of color. The space was oddly quiet, the faint hum of distant air conditioning the only sound accompanying his steps. His hidden camera captured everything, from the layout to the stark, almost clinical lighting.

When he reached the intersection where he was supposed to turn right toward the bathroom, he paused. To his left, the hallway stretched further into the building, its end obscured by a sharp turn. Mason hesitated, weighing his options. The bathroom was a safe choice, but his instincts pushed him in the other direction. If he wanted answers, he knew he had to take a risk.

After glancing back to ensure the receptionist couldn’t see him, Mason hastily turned left and strode deeper into the building.

The further he went, the stranger the place felt. The hallways were eerily labyrinthine, branching off into sharp angles and other hallways that made it easy to lose his bearings. Doors lined the walls, each one marked with a small, nondescript plaque bearing a room number. Curious, Mason peeked through the window of one door, only to find an empty, white-walled room with a single chair bolted to the floor. The next room was the same. And the next.

“What the hell is this place?” he muttered under his breath, his heart pounding harder with each step.

Then, a sound broke the silence – a voice, faint at first, but unmistakable.

“Help! Someone, please! Help me!”

Mason froze, his breath catching in his throat. The voice was male, clearly desperate and filled with terror.

“I changed my mind! I want to leave! Please, let me out!”

The cries sent a chill down Mason’s spine. He scanned the hallway, trying to pinpoint the source. Although he didn’t know where exactly, the man knew that the screams were coming from somewhere deeper in the building.

Without hesitation then, Mason followed the sound, his steps quickening as he navigated the twisting corridors. The voice grew louder by the minute, the man’s pleas echoing off the sterile walls. Mason’s chest tightened as he rounded another corner, finally stopping in front of a heavy door with a small rectangular window.

Inside, a young man was standing with his head pressed against the glass window. His face was pale, his eyes wide and filled with panic. When he saw Mason, he pounded on the glass.

“Please, help me!” the man begged, his voice raw. “You have to let me out! I changed my mind. I don’t want to go through with this anymore!”

Mason’s hands trembled as he reached for the door handle, only to find it locked. He looked back down the hallway, adrenaline flooding his system. The silence outside the door was deafening, as if the building itself were holding its breath.

“Hold on,” Mason said, his voice low but urgent. “I’ll get you out of here. Just give me a second.”

The man inside the room sobbed, clutching his head in anguish. “Please, hurry, I don’t feel well,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

Mason scanned the door, looking for any way to unlock it. His instincts told him to move quickly – if anyone caught him here, he wouldn’t have the chance to find out what was really going on.

Mason’s heart hammered in his chest as he examined the door, searching for some way to unlock it. His fingers brushed over the control panel on the side, and he let out a small breath of relief when he saw the latch mechanism – a simple keypad. His years of investigative journalism had taught him a few tricks, and after quickly punching in a few common codes he’d used to sneak into areas in the past, the lock finally gave a faint click.

The door swung open, and the man inside nearly collapsed into Mason’s arms. His slender twinkish frame trembled, and before Mason could say a word, the man threw his arms around him, clinging tightly.

“Thank you! Thank you so much!” the man cried, his voice breaking. “We need to get out of here… right fucking now!”

Mason gripped his shoulders firmly, pushing him back slightly so he could look him in the eyes. “Hey, calm down. Stop yelling,” he said, keeping his voice low and steady. “I’ll help you get out, but you have to keep quiet. We can’t get caught, okay?”

The man nodded frantically, his breathing ragged. Mason took a moment to observe him. He was young – probably a college student no older than Mason himself – with bright blonde hair that was tousled in a way that suggested he’d been consistently running his hands through it while in distress. His frail physique was only emphasized by the somewhat tight Britney Spears t-shirt he wore, providing Mason with a clear as day impression of the other man’s toned abs and flat chest. The whole look screamed twink, which instantly caused Mason to develop a pang of protectiveness for him.

“Okay, we’re getting out of here,” Mason said, his voice firm but quiet. “Stick close to me, and don’t make a sound unless I ask you something.”

The man nodded again, wiping tears from his face. Mason led him out of the room, carefully closing the door behind them. He glanced down the hallway, ensuring the coast was clear before gesturing for the man to follow him.

As they walked, Mason leaned in close. “What’s your name?”

“Cooper,” the man whispered, his voice trembling. “Cooper Evans.”

“All right, Cooper. What the hell is going on here?”

Cooper hesitated, wringing his hands as they moved down the quiet hall. “I– I came here because I was scared,” he finally said, his voice shaking. “I didn’t know what else to do. With this new administration, I was afraid of being hate-crimed or losing my rights. They said they could help me blend in.”

Mason’s brows furrowed. “Blend in? How?”

“They… they said they have this process,” Cooper explained. “They said they could transform me into a Conservative. That I wouldn’t have to worry about anything anymore if I just… fit in.”

Mason stopped in his tracks, turning to stare at Cooper. “Transform you? What are you talking about? How does that even work?”

“I, I don’t know!” Cooper said, his voice rising before Mason quickly shushed him. “I swear, I don’t know. They gave me this whole pitch, had me sign a contract saying I’d agree to it, and then they gave me this red pill for me to swallow. That’s it. That’s all I know!”

Mason let out a low groan, running a hand through his hair. “What the hell were you thinking saying yes to something like that?” he hissed. “I know the future’s scary right now, but why would you want to become someone with such awful values? Someone your altered self would hate if they ever met the real you?”

Cooper’s lip trembled, and tears began streaming down his face again. “Dude, I was scared, okay?” he choked out. “I didn’t know what else to do! I thought… I thought it was the only way I’d be safe.”

Mason sighed, his frustration melting into a mix of sympathy and anger. “Look, I get it. Things are bad, but you can’t just give up who you are because you’re scared. That’s exactly what people like them want. I don’t know you well, but I can already tell that you’re a great guy who deserves to be your true self…”

Cooper sniffled, nodding miserably as he endured the lecture from the other man while continuing down the hallway. Mason kept a hand on his shoulder, guiding him while keeping an ear out for any approaching footsteps. Whatever was happening here, it was worse than he’d imagined, and he was determined to not only get Cooper out of here safely, but expose this company for the disgusting things they’re attempting to do.

Mason kept a steady grip on Cooper’s shoulder, speaking softly but urgently. “Listen, Cooper, nobody can just transform like that. It’s not real. Whatever they gave you, it’s probably some kind of drug – a sedative, maybe, or something to make you more suggestible. Brainwashing, that’s got to be their angle. They’re just trying to get you weak enough so they can get in your head…”

Cooper’s watery eyes flicked toward him, searching for reassurance. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Mason replied firmly. “You’re still you. We just need to get out of here in one piece, and everything will be fine. I’ll make sure of it.”

But just as the words left Mason’s mouth, Cooper stopped dead in his tracks. A low grunt escaped him, and his hands shot to his stomach.

“Something’s wrong,” Cooper whimpered, his voice tight with discomfort.

Mason spun around, his heart lurching. “Cooper?”

Before he could get another word out, Cooper screamed – a piercing, guttural sound that echoed through the hallway. Mason’s pulse spiked, causing him to immediately clamp a hand over Cooper’s mouth.

“Shh! Stop screaming!” Mason hissed, glancing over his shoulder, expecting someone to come rushing toward them at any moment. But Cooper’s muffled cries didn’t stop. His entire body trembled, his knees buckling as he clutched his midsection.

“Damn it,” Mason muttered under his breath, scanning the hallway. He spotted a door nearby, one that oddly wasn’t locked like so many of the others but rather slightly ajar. With no other choice and not in the situation to second-guess it, he yanked it open all the way, dragging Cooper inside and shutting the door behind them.

“Okay, breathe,” Mason said, trying to keep his own voice steady. “We just need to–”

But Cooper cut him off with another scream, this one deeper and more guttural than before. Mason’s stomach churned as the sound of cracking bones filled the air. Cooper fell to his knees, his hands bracing against the cold floor as his body convulsed. “What’s happening to me?!” he roared, his voice suddenly raspier and deeper, no longer the light airy tenor Mason had heard moments ago.

“Cooper, calm down!” Mason demanded, though his own panic was building. “It’s, it’s probably the drug giving you a panic attack or something. Just hold on, we’ll–”

But Mason’s words faltered as he watched, wide-eyed, as Cooper’s body began to change. His frame, once frail and delicate, suddenly began to expand with unnatural speed. His limbs stretched, his torso elongating until he had shot up to at least 6’4”. His skinny jeans became comically short, now resembling capris, while his Britney Spears t-shirt rode up his lengthening torso, exposing a wide swath of his toned abdomen.

“What the hell…” Mason whispered, stumbling back against the wall.

Cooper’s screams wavered, cracking wildly between high-pitched cries and guttural, low groans. His hands clutched at his chest and shoulders as his body continued to shift – this time with the invasion of muscle into his lithe frame. Before his eyes, Mason watched as the other man’s lean arms buffed up, his flat chest began to thicken and broaden, and the remainder of Cooper’s entire physique began to morph from wiry club kid to college athlete.

“It hurts!” Cooper cried out, his voice so deep and gravelly it was almost unrecognizable. “What the fuck is happening to me?!”

Mason’s breath caught in his throat. “Cooper,” he said, his voice trembling. “I– I think it’s real. That pill… it’s actually transforming you.”

Cooper’s new, larger form shook with silent sobs as his head dropped forward, his blonde hair falling into his face. “But I didn’t want this!” he bellowed, his voice resonating in the small room. “I just wanted to feel safe!”

Mason stared at him, horrified and helpless, his mind racing. Whatever he had stumbled into at Red Wave Solutions was far more sinister than he could have imagined. This wasn’t just brainwashing or manipulation – this was something once thought to be scientifically impossible.

He took a shaky step forward, placing a hand on Cooper’s arm and struggling to comprehend the jock-like biceps the man now possessed. “We’re going to figure this out,” Mason said, his voice low but firm. “I don’t know how, but we will find a way to turn you back. Just… keep it together, okay?”

Cooper looked up at him, tears streaming down his face. “They changed me,” he choked out. “I barely even recognize myself…”

Mason swallowed hard, fighting back the rising tide of panic. “We’ll fix this,” he promised, though he had no idea how. “But first, we’ve got to get out of here.”

He reached for the door handle, his heart hammering. Whatever was happening inside Red Wave Solutions, Mason knew one thing for sure: he had to expose it, no matter the cost.

Mason had barely finished reassuring Cooper when the man doubled over again, this time clutching his chest with both hands. The cracking and popping sounds of shifting bone and sinew returned, louder and more unsettling than before. Mason’s stomach twisted in fear as Cooper’s body began to shake once more.

“Cooper?” Mason asked, his voice shaking as he stepped back. “What’s happening now?”

Cooper let out a low groan that turned into a guttural moan as his entire body suddenly began to swell with immense mass. In an instant, his arms ballooned with muscle. His biceps and forearms thickened rapidly, straining the sleeves of his Britney Spears shirt until they began to tear at the seams. His chest expanded, leaving his plump pecs pressed tightly against the fabric as his shoulders further broadened and filled out. His newly-jockish frame was already disappearing, undergoing an extreme metamorphosis as more layers of powerful muscle began to flood his physique. 

“Holy… shit…,” Mason muttered, his voice barely audible over the sound of Cooper’s transformation.

The changes didn’t stop with his upper body, as Cooper’s thighs and calves surged with muscle, causing his jeans to pull taut until the fabric threatened to split. His abdomen, which had been toned yet flat before, rippled with abs so bulging and pronounced they looked sculpted from stone. And yet, even as Mason watched, a soft layer of fat began to spread over Cooper’s newly chiseled physique. His once-defined six-pack faded into the softer outline of a bulkier, slightly rounded stomach, giving him the appearance of a well-fed, off-season athlete… or a frat bro who spent as much time lifting weights as he did guzzling beer.

Cooper let out a long, low moan as the transformation slowed. His once frail and shaky voice was now deep and resonant, though his words came out in a stilted, almost dazed manner. “Holy shit, bro,” he said, looking down at his enormous hands and flexing them experimentally. “What… what happened to me?!”

Mason’s breath hitched as he stared at the hulking figure before him. Cooper’s face still bore a trace of his former self, but it was broader now, more rugged. His blonde hair was now down to his shoulders, styled with a natural set of curls that gave him a sort of redneck-chic style befitting of a frat bro. The sight was surreal, and Mason’s instincts screamed at him to leave.

He took a step back, glancing at the door. “Look, Cooper,” he said cautiously, his voice trembling. “I– I think you’re going to be okay still. Just… stay here. I need to figure out how to get us out of this mess.”

But the words felt hollow even as he spoke them. Every fiber of his being told him he couldn’t stay here any longer. Whatever was happening to Cooper, it was beyond anything Mason could comprehend, let alone fix.

“I’ll be right back,” Mason lied, taking another step back toward the door until his back pressed against the firm metal.

As he reached for the handle and turned it though, his heart sank. It wouldn’t budge. He yanked harder, but it quickly became clear that there was no use. The door was locked.

“No, no, no,” he muttered under his breath, his panic rising. He spun around, his eyes darting toward the small window in the door.

What he saw made his blood run cold.

Two enormous security guards stood just outside, their arms crossed over their broad chests. Both men were built like linebackers, their sharp features set in stern, no-nonsense expressions. They were looking directly at Mason, their eyes unblinking, their presence menacing.

“Oh, crap,” Mason whispered, stepping away from the door.

“Dude,” Cooper said behind him, his voice booming and casual now. “Why’s the door locked? What’s goin’ on, bro?”

Mason didn’t respond. His mind raced, trying to think of a way out. Yet as he looked around, he quickly realized that not only was the room small, but it lacked any other exits or windows. The only way out of this room was through the door – and the guards who clearly weren’t going to let him leave.

Cooper took a lumbering step toward him, his movements unsteady as he adjusted to his new burly size. “Yo, Mason,” he said, his voice a strange mix of confusion and excitement. “I feel so weird, man. Like, I’m freakin’ huge now. This is nuts!”

Mason pressed himself against the far wall, his breath quick and shallow. He had come here to expose Red Wave Solutions, but now he was trapped in a nightmare with no clear escape. And to make matters worse, the transformed Cooper was now staring at him with an unsettling mix of bewilderment and enthusiasm, as if unaware of the full extent of what had just happened to him.

The guards outside shifted slightly, their eyes never leaving Mason. It was clear they were waiting for him to make a move – which left the journalist wondering if they were simply there to stop him from interfering or eventually take him somewhere worse for finding out the truth.

Mason swallowed hard, his mind racing. Whatever was happening here, he was in way over his head.

Mason barely had time to process the sight of the guards standing outside the window before the door clicked and swung open into the room. His pulse spiked, and he took a few reflexive steps back, especially as the two massive guards rushed into the room with practiced precision and alarming speed.

“Hey! Wait–” Mason shouted, but the words were cut off as one guard grabbed his left arm and the other seized his right. Their grips were like iron, pinning him in place with an effortless strength that left him completely immobilized.

“Let me go!” Mason demanded, struggling futilely against their hold.

But his cries went ignored. The guards didn’t so much as glance at him, their stony expressions remaining fixed ahead like robots as they held him firmly.

Mason’s eyes darted to Cooper, desperate for help, but the sight before him made his stomach drop further. Cooper was staring at his reflection in the mirror mounted on the far wall, his now-massive hands running over his muscular chest and arms. His face, once soft and pretty, had undergone further dramatic transformation. The delicate features had sharpened into something rugged and masculine – a stubble-covered jawline that could cut glass, a straight nose, a set of manly lips adorned with a trimmed mustache, and thick brows that framed eyes filled with a vacant yet self-satisfied glint. For a moment, the man played with his hair, enjoying running his thick, callused fingers through his long wavy strands.

“Cooper!” Mason called, hoping to snap him out of his trance.

But Cooper didn’t respond, his attention entirely consumed by his own image. He flexed, his bulging biceps straining the tattered remnants of his shirt, his lips curving into a smirk as he admired his physique.

The sound of deliberate, measured footsteps echoed through the room, drawing Mason’s attention away. His eyes widened as a figure emerged in the doorway – a handsome, middle-aged man with perfectly trimmed stubble and sharp, piercing eyes. Dressed in a tailored suit that exuded authority, the man carried himself with an unsettling confidence.

He stepped inside, surveying the room with a smile that sent chills down Mason’s spine. His gaze lingered on Cooper for a moment, his expression one of approval, before turning toward Mason.

“Well, isn’t this quite the scene,” the man said, his voice smooth and commanding. “Cooper is coming along beautifully, wouldn’t you say?”

Mason didn’t answer, his throat dry as he glared at the man.

The stranger’s attention returned to Cooper, who was now flexing in earnest, his massive arms and broad shoulders filling the small space. “You’re doing great, Cooper,” the man encouraged, his tone warm and enthusiastic. “Just look at you. All that weakness, all that self-doubt – it’s melting away, isn’t it? You’re finally becoming the straight alpha male you were always meant to be.”

“No,” Mason muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “This isn’t right. Cooper, don’t listen to him!”

But Cooper didn’t even glance at him. Instead, his expression remained precisely trained at his new reflection and hyper-masculine face as one hand moved down to paw at his immensely-sized crotch. “Yeah… yeah, bro,” Cooper said, his voice deep and almost gravelly. “I feel so… powerful.”

The man chuckled, his smile widening. “That’s it. Embrace it. Let go of that weak, pitiful version of yourself. Expel it. You don’t need it anymore.”

“Cooper, stop!” Mason shouted, straining against the guards’ hold. “This isn’t you! Don’t give into what this asshole and his fucked up company wants!”

But his words were drowned out by the older man’s encouragement. “Come on, Cooper. Show us you’re ready. Show us you’re done with that fragile little self you used to be.”

Cooper’s grin turned almost feral as he stepped back from the mirror, his massive hands now split between jerking himself off and squeezing his immense new form. He thrust his hips forward once, then again, his body trembling as he gave in to whatever compulsion was driving him.

“No!” Mason screamed, his voice cracking as he fought against the guards with renewed desperation.

Cooper bucked his hips one last time, his movements growing erratic until he froze as a torrent of cum shot out of his thick cock. Mason watched as the man’s eyes rolled back into his head, his chest heaving as a guttural groan escaped his lips.

Mason’s blood ran cold. Whatever was happening to Cooper was reaching its horrifying conclusion, and Mason had no idea how to stop it.

Cooper – or rather, the person who had once been Cooper – stirred a few minutes later, his head jerking slightly before his eyes fluttered open. Mason froze, watching in disbelief as the hulking man came to. The confusion was evident in the newly sculpted frat bro’s face as he blinked a few times, taking in his surroundings.

“Uh… what the hell is going on, broskis?” he mumbled, his deep voice carrying an unfamiliar, lazy drawl. His gaze darted from the guards restraining Mason to the middle-aged man standing with a smug expression, and finally landed on Mason himself.

As recognition failed to surface in his eyes, the now-transformed man tilted his head, his lips pulling into a cocky smirk. “Yo, wait a sec… are you, like, a homo or something? Tryna sneak a peek at my badass bod or check out my… uh…” He flexed one arm and cupped his other hand over his crotch with a crude laugh. “…my impressive package, bro?”

Mason’s mouth fell open. “Cooper, it’s me, it’s Mason! Don’t you remember anything? You came here because–”

“Shut it,” the other man interrupted before snapping his fingers at the guards holding Mason. Without hesitation, they reached up and clamped strong hands over his mouth in order to silence him. Mason struggled, muffled protests escaping as he glared daggers at the older man.

The mysterious man turned to the hulking figure, his demeanor calm and calculated. “You’re quite perceptive, Jackson. As a matter of fact, we did indeed catch Mr. Samsen here sneaking into your room while you were in the middle of your… business.”

Instantly, Jackson’s brows furrowed as his expression darkened. He clenched his fists, the sound of his knuckles cracking echoing ominously in the small room. “What the fuck, bro?” he said, his voice a mix of anger and indignation. “You some kinda creep? Lemme guess, you’re some kind of fucked up fairy jealous of what a real man looks like?”

Mason shook his head frantically, trying to plead through the guards’ hands. His muffled cries went unnoticed by Jackson, whose frustration seemed to bubble over.

“Yo, I’ll mess you up, dude,” Jackson growled, taking a menacing step forward. His massive form towered over Mason, the threat in his body language clear.

But before Jackson could act, the middle-aged man raised a hand, his commanding tone cutting through the tension. “Now, now, Jackson. There’s no need for violence.” He nodded toward one of the guards standing by the door. “Escort Jackson to the lounge, would you? He’s had an intense day coming to terms with his inner truth, so I’m sure he could use some time to relax.”

One of the guards stepped forward, placing a hand on Jackson’s broad shoulder. “C’mon, man. Let’s go.”

Jackson hesitated for a moment, his gaze flicking back to Mason. But then he shrugged, his frustration melting into indifference. “Yeah, whatever. You’re lucky I’m feeling generous today, bro,” he muttered, turning to follow the guard out of the room.

As the door clicked shut behind them, the man shifted his attention back to Mason. His warm smile was chilling in its insincerity. “Now, Mr. Samsen,” he said, stepping closer. “It’s your turn. You’ve poked your nose into matters you shouldn’t, so now it’s time for you to not only get punished but find a way to truly contribute to our cause.”

Mason’s eyes widened as the man continued, his tone almost fatherly. “You’ve spent so much time fighting against what you perceive as wrong. But you’ll soon realize that you’ve been on the wrong side of history all along. Don’t worry though, we’ll be gentle in helping you see the truth. And once you do, you’ll become the Conservative you were always meant to be...”

To read part two, click here.

[nonamealphajockbro]

I just saw that like you guys are like offering some like jobs and Im like super desperate for one. Im like totes hot, young, lean, blond...the perfect example of a fem twink. I just like need the money so any job would be like fine but the security guard... Ugh, I dont think like I would be able to help with that.

A headshot? What’s that? 

It’d taken you hours to create a profile, and now the stupid website wanted a picture of you? And, like, a nice one? Ugh!

You scrolled through your camera roll. The only photos you had of yourself were selfies…and some spicier pics for OnlyFans. 

Why was finding a job so hard?

You weren’t supposed to work. That’s what all those old guys were for. Yeah, they were totally gross. But going out with them did pay your rent…until they stopped texting you.

And then your account got banned. You were too hot, apparently.

Sigh. 

You pouted as you swiped past job post after job post. Waiting tables? Stocking shelves? No way! There had to be something for you. And that's when you saw Men’s Monthly was hiring. 

Maybe they could use a pretty face at the front desk? And what if the CEO was super hot…? Mmm, he'd so want to work with you...

You filled out an application, and it wasn’t long before you got a call: “Would you be interested in joining Men’s Monthly’s security team?”

The recruiter’s words echoed in your ears.

“Look, I know it’s not what you had in mind. Your résumé said you were a ‘self-employed model and influencer.’ But maybe it’s time to realign your career goals? And you never know - they might tap you for a photoshoot!”

Could you really refuse? After all, you were, like, super desperate for a job…and maybe the uniform would be cute? It wasn’t cute.

The all-black pants and shirt came with sturdy boots, a belt and holster, and a solid vest that seemed to weigh just as much as you. You struggled to put everything on, not least because nothing fit you.

You looked silly. Why’d you ever say yes to this stupid job?

Tears began to well in your eyes. You blinked. 

Why the fuck were you gonna cry? You had a job a do. Come on, bro! You looked damn good in your gear, just tight enough to show off some of your muscle. Yeah, all that time in the gym was payin’ off. And your beard? It had a ways to go, but growin’ it out was for sure the right move. Made you look tougher, stronger, sexier. Like a man.

You snapped a selfie.

Better remember your first day, ‘cause it was gonna be good.

Thanks for applying, Rod-tf!

And if you're looking to Be a Man™, Men's Monthly is still hiring!

[nonamealphajockbro]

Sleeping Bro-ty

Shit, man, what time is it? 

I was just gonna take a quick nap, and then I was out. Don’t even remember what I was doin’ before. Studyin’? Yeah, real funny, dude! That don’t sound like me - it’s all bullshit, anyway.

What am I listenin’ to? Uh, it’s one of those ASMR videos, or whatever. Like, they talk all quiet, and you’re supposed to relax. This dude’s saying, “You’re a bro, you’re a bro, you’re a bro” over and over. Like, yeah, fuckin’ obviously, I know I'm a bro, haha!

Guess it worked, though. Made me feel all warm n’ tingly, just super chilled out. Even fell asleep with the Pods in, hat on. Kinda funny...

Whose hat is that? What's with all the questions, dude? You already know it’s mine. I got a buncha them. Wear 'em around, bring 'em to the gym n' shit. Why, you wanna borrow one?

Bro, why are you lookin' at me like I'm crazy?

Just relax, dude! And hey, I know the perfect video to help 'ya...

Like the story? Want to support me? Check out my Ko-fi!