#Linemen Classes

[linemenacademy]

The maintenance and repair of electrical systems and the communication systems that service houses, businesses, and major cities is the job of a linemen. More than a paycheck, this career offers job security, career advancement, and the fulfillment of truly serving one’s community. If you prefer hands-on promoting work, enrolling in an electrical linemen training program may be an ideal option. Let’s look at the top reasons to consider this rewarding career.

Read For More Information: https://linemenacademy.com/top-reasons-to-choose-a-linemen-career-in-2025/

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"ANOTHER TELEGRAPH STRIKE IS THREATENED," Toronto Globe. May 23, 1918. Page 6. ----- G.N.W. Operators and Linemen Say They Will Tie Up System Unless Messrs. Taylor and Thompson Are Reinstated ---- If operators Thomas Taylor and George Thompson of the North Western Company are not taken back to their work by the company, there will be a strike of telegraphers and linemen, the union declares, that will paralyze the system. Taylor and Thompson appeared before Judge Winchester and a jury last week and were acquitted on a charge of using the company's wires for betting purposes, which, the men allege, was laid at the instigation of the company. George D. Perry, Manager of the company, last night stated to The Globe that the company had not changed its attitude toward Taylor and Thompson. Vote is Unanimous. A strike vote taken last night in the Labor Temple was unanimous. Winnipeg and the Western division of the company are also unanimous for a strike and Mr. C. E. Hill, Chairman of this district of the Commercial Telegraphers, said that when he reached Ottawa this morning to present the case of the men to the Minister of Labor, an official of the Montreal district, E. G. Young, would also bring with him a strike vote.

All peaceable means to avoid a trike will be adopted during an interview to-day with the Minister of Labor before the issue is taken up the men. Hon. Mr. Crothers will be asked to carry out his promise made to union officials in the presence of Hon. Gideon Robertson, that if the men were acquitted, he would compel the company to take them back, paying them for lost time. Aid From C. P. R. Operators? The situation is fraught with other possibilities, Chairman Hill pointed out at last night's meeting. said that the agreement between the C. P.R., operators and the C. P. R. Telegraph Company expired on April 30, and after some delay the company had agreed to meet the men.. "If we are forced to strike, I am sure we can look to other quarters for assistance," he said. "The Great North Western Company," he said, "accepted an award without the slightest intention of living up to it. You fortunately happen to have a man, Mr. Taylor, with you who forced the company many times to live up to this award. Mr. Taylor might have gone to the penitentiary for three or four years, if some of the jury were not union men. Judge Winchester's bitter attack on Taylor and his scant reference to Thompson seems to me to indicate that Judge Winchester is not friendly to union men." May Go To Premier. If necessary the committee on its way to Ottawa will take its case directly to the Prime Minister. Chairman Hill said that if the men went out, they should demand a twenty-five per cent. increase, and eight-hour day and the discharge of Mr. Davies, one of the local officials of the Great North Western Company.

[pfatter-university]

Hey Pfatter Fans! Danny the Pfatter U social media intern here with an important message: MY BAD!

Every time I’ve uploaded a video this year, I’ve accidentally muted the audio track. You’ve been watching all our footage - in silence! And no one said anything??

While I see if there’s anything I can do about our previous uploads, we’ve posted a little retrospective on the 2024-2025 school year on our Patreon - and this time you can hear what our seniors have to say. Here’s a small sample - a clip from one of senior offensive linemen Tavyon’s famous Dining Hall reviews. That tray is stacked - and he went back for seconds! (Volume up!)

P.S. is it me or does this VIDEO look hi-def, almost 3-D?

Join the Faculty Tier to see the rest of the clips in one big supercut retrospective, including: candid student life, vlog clips, exciting transformations, and more!

[pettyheft]

Do you know how fat the linemen are on the other team?! Forget your classes, you need to be strapped to a funnel for the next week.

Yes coach 🤤

[highlordofkrypton]

FINAL PART

SUMMARY: Tamlin has seen the horrors (aka Rhysand), but worse is on its way. Will he team up with this monster in the woods? The tale of truth is spilled before his feet and Tamlin has to decide where to go from here.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hi, it's me... I'm late again for @tamlinweek. The last time I posted, I wasn't able to finish this fic, so please enjoy the conclusion to my submission for Day 2: Dark Spring/Spring Mythology & Celebrations.

TW: Death, implied abuse, the horrors

dividers by @olenvasynyt

READ ON AO3 OR BELOW THE CUT

Tamlin.

Tamlin.

TAMLIN!

A dream. A nightmare. That’s all this is. If he keeps running, he’ll reach the end of it and wake up. Ean has gone limp on his back, arms hanging loosely over his shoulders. Tamlin reaches behind him, ignoring the whispers in his mind. They have its voice—that creature in the woods that pretended to be human. The clues were there, masked in strangeness that Tamlin played off as personality quirks.

The trees around him shiver with a warning, and Tamlin has the instinct to duck. Wood splinters above him as something— something attacks. It careens past him, having missed its target and tumbling back into the darkness. Tamlin catches a glimpse of that familiar ethereal long-limbed horror. To think, he had chalked up Rhysand’s attention to genuine interest. The only desire he sees now is a desire to kill.

His limbs scream with exertion, wanting a break—just a small one—and he’ll be right as rain. He needs to get farther before he can even think of resting, at least for Ian’s sake. Tamlin pushes any and all thoughts out of his mind. Just do.

Stop running.

Tamlin might be a fool, and he might not be the brightest student in his class, but even he knows that stopping means death. He won’t die, not like this. Not without pushing himself beyond his limits, and not without a fight if he can’t run anymore. 

GET DOWN!

This could be a ruse. What if there’s a trap laid ahead by something terrible? Would he be playing into it?

NOW!

Tamlin refuses to listen, so he moves with compromise. He pushes off one foot, a move reminiscent of when he’s evading the opposing team’s linemen in hope to stick with his teammate to protect them. It shifts the course of his escape, so that anything careening towards him will have to pivot as well. His decision comes a second too late, and the bag on Ean’s back gets clipped. Tamlin is thrown out of balance, and he is carrying too much weight which prevents him from catching himself. 

He stumbles, and falls.

Fuck, Tamlin curses at himself.

The forest seems to shift, a cruel mistress, and there is no end to his tumble. Tamlin rolls down a hill, unable to catch Ean and protect him. He slams his ribs against a rock, praying that nothing breaks. 

“Fuck,” he exhales, laying there in the dirt and moss, looking up at the darkness. The canopy blots out the night. “Come on, get up.” Tamlin is bruised, but nothing feels broken. “Ean,” he croaks.

No answer.

Movement in the woods reminds Tamlin that he is not safe, and the commotion of their fall is sure to attract the monsters. He grunts, getting to his feet, and pulls out his knife as he limps towards Ean. The boy isn’t moving, and there’s an ache in Tamlin’s chest. His heart thrashes, wanting to be free of this moment. Ean was kind. Even if he wasn’t, he doesn’t deserve this.

“He’s dead.”

Tamlin whips towards him, flipping the knife in his hand. He’s immediately on guard, having fought his own brothers for years. His father wanted warriors, even in a world where fighting is imposed on others of lesser privilege. Rhysand approaches him, just a handsome man, like he always was.

“Why’d you kill them?” Tamlin asks slowly. The knife is about half the length of his forearm, and nearly the width of his palm. He doesn’t know if he can kill this thing with the glowing eyes.

“I didn’t. Even so, humans die. Such is life.”

“Are you going to kill me?” There is no doubt in Tamlin’s mind that he is going to make that task as difficult as possible; he does not want to win, he simply wants retribution for the others.

“Come with me.” Rhysand glances up the steep hill from which Tamlin fell. “Time is of the essence.” He offers Tamlin his hand.

“Are you going to eat me?”

“Did you not hear me? We have to hurry.”

“I can’t leave Ean here.” Tamlin is only half listening, too bogged down by the train of thoughts clouding his mind. He has no reason to trust Rhysand. “The others. People will miss them.”

“People will forget them.”

“So, why me then?”

The incessant questions irritate Rhysand who’s fingers have curled into a frustrated fist. “Enough! You will come with me, whether you like it or not. I don’t have time to answer your questions.” 

He reaches for Tamlin, and Tamlin pulls back. He tries again, more aggressively to grab Tamlin. Tamlin retaliates accordingly, swiping back with his blade, and when Rhysand blocks it, he snaps a low kick into the side of Rhysand’s knee. Pain sparks through his leg and Tamlin realizes that he is hurt. Two attacks isn’t enough to deter this creature, but it is enough to make its glamour begin to slip. Nails elongate into black claws, and those eyes darken once more. Perhaps if Tamlin didn’t know what to expect, he would be shocked or feel fear, but Tamlin simply adapts. 

Tamlin uses his size, still bigger than Rhysand while he maintains his half-human form, to become an oppressive opponent. He pushes forward, favouring his right leg. He manages a few cuts—the one on Rhysand’s forearm is particularly deep and bleeds black. Rhysand roars in frustration, and the forest roars back.

There’s more of them.

He scoops up dirt while Rhysand is distracted, and tosses it into his eyes. He has no choice. He has to run. Whatever’s coming is now Rhysand’s problem.

Safety comes in the form of a cave further off the path. The sounds of battle and warfare fade with each step Tamlin  puts between himself and Rhysand, and the quiet… The quiet means nothing. The forest no longer brings peace, and he longs to find another human soul. The cave, at the very least, puts something against his back. He’ll only have to guard the entrance. Just an hour, he promises himself. He can’t afford to linger long.

As soon as he sits, the exhaustion hits him from walking all day, running and fighting.

Rhysand’s approach wakes him, and Tamlin grabs his knife.

“Found you,” the demon wheezes. He moves differently now, wavering and limping. “Stop fighting me.” He sounds tired. 

Tamlin retreats anyway, enforcing measured distance. He won’t let this thing get any closer, but his curiosity gets the best of him. “What were those things? What are you?”

“Faeries,” Rhysand sighs, sinking against the other side of the cave wall. In the darkness, Tamlin can see Rhysand’s glowing pupils and parts of singed skin that glow like embers between coal. He’s hurt, and whatever he confronted brought fire with it.

“Faeries aren’t real,” Tamlin insists.

“I know you were spying on me in the woods.”

There’s no explanation for what he saw, except the insistence that this is a dream. His mother would have loved this revelation. She would have responded with wonder and grace; she would have charmed Rhysand in a way that not even he can rival.

“Why me? Why not any of the others? They’re more… more knowledgeable than I am.”

Another soft sigh escapes Rhysand’s lips. Pain? Fatigue? He rests his head against the stone wall. “Knowledge is not what we need. I’ve come to bring you home.”

Home. What a strange concept. Tamlin has many homes—courtesy of his family—around the world. Manors, cottages, lake houses and beachfront properties. Places with things in them and people he should want to be with. He loves his brother and his father, he really does, but there is a gap he cannot bridge. 

‘Home’ elicits pain and longing. He hasn’t come home in years. Not since his mother…

“I have a home,” Tamlin says automatically.

“You have a lie. You don’t belong with the humans. You belong with us, and we need you.”

This is a dream, he tells himself. It’s too fantastical, and too good to be true. Tamlin wanted a story and he wanted his mother’s myths, but it feels so far removed from the reality he knows.

“This isn’t a dream. You’ve been living a walking dream, and I am here to wake you.”

“I have class on Monday.”

“Fuck class,” Rhysand snaps. He sounds tired.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“You wouldn’t have believed me. You would have thought I was insane.”

“I still do.”

“But you’ve seen me. The others. You can’t deny it anymore.”

“You didn’t answer me. Why me?”

“Because you are your mother’s son.”

Anxiety fills Tamlin. He toys at the hem of his pants and fiddles with the knife. His mother was just a housewife who loved her children. She was beautiful and magical, but those were the memories of a little boy who loved his mama. There was nothing supernatural about  her—nothing except her beauty, her kindness and her… her…

Ferocity.

The memories needle in his mind, worn by the passing of time. Fights—arguments with his father where she had been terrifying. Her words had cut like a blade, but her eyes held the fury of a thousand storms. His father would remind her, time and time again, that she was bound to him. That is the vow of marriage, Tamlin had always told himself. 

No, that’s not true —

“Have I told you… the tale of the Lonely Queen?”

A boy and his mother are piled into the bed. The duvet covers are thick and fluffy, just the way Tamlin likes them. There are never too many pillows, and he wriggles deeper into the pile. He’s so focused on getting comfortable that he almost misses the question.

The memory is so old that he forgot the blooming bruise beneath her emerald eyes, so dark it looks black.

“No, mama. Why was she lonely?”

“You always ask the best questions, little poppy.” She taps the tip of his nose with her finger. “The Queen was a very lonely one, surrounded by responsibility and servants, but no one who truly loved her.” Tamlin’s mother pauses and tips her head. “No, no, that’s not true. Those who loved her were very far away. In another place. In another world.”

“Why were they far, mama?”

“Because the people around her all wanted her, and they were so numerous and… perhaps… as time went by, they forgot who she really was.”

“What’s nu… numerous?”

“It means there were a lot of them, dummy.”

“Be nice, Enfys!”

Tamlin’s older brother wanders in, flopping onto the bed on the other side of their mother. He has a bowl of popcorn, tossing one in his mouth and holds it out to them. Tamlin takes a whole fistful, and shoves it in his mouth like the uncoordinated child he is.

“What’s today’s story?”

“The Lonely Queen!” Tamlin chirps.

“Sounds cool.”

“So what did the Queen do? Did she go find people she loves?” Tamlin bounces in his spot. “Does she have a family?”

“Tam, you’re always skipping ahead. Let mom tell the story, jeez.”

“She does, but it came to her in ways she didn’t expect.”

Bare feet dance across the forest floor. Bramble and stone yield to their Queen, making way for her light. She is bright, she is air and she is nature. When she runs, she soars. The forest keeps her secrets, watching her escape through newborn paths and swallowing up her traces behind them.

But the one thing she cannot escape—

The wolf with black teeth gives chase, slipping into her territory through every shadow cast. His power grows with the setting sun, no longer a shade, but a fully-fledged snarling thing.

Where do you think you’re going?

When I catch you,

I will devour you.

The Queen knows no fear.

He has yet to catch her, and if he does, she will not stay as such. She will fight. He will die.

Or they both will.

Pain needles at Tamlin’s temples, growing and growing until the pain becomes akin to spikes drilling into his brain. Tamlin clutches his head, biting back the urge to scream. Memories swirl. 

His mother’s voice is soft as a feather, and she could wield it like a blade in anger, but never at him.

He is a wolf made of smoke and starlight, hunting her and her crown. Oh, what she would feel like between his teeth.

I would never hurt her. Never.

“Tamlin, stop fighting me. You have to let me show you.”

No, no, no—

His mother is hurt—she has been hurt, and there is nothing he can do about it. Tamlin doesn’t want to see it, he doesn’t want to feel this helpless. He is a child again, unable to do anything about the pain so clearly etched on her face. A hug couldn’t have possibly saved her, but she always said it did.

“STOP!”

Anger, fear and frustration burst forth from him, and the very world around them shakes. Tiny loose stones clatter down from the cave walls, raining down on Rhysand. The trees quiver, their leaves shaking like chattering teeth. Tamlin’s roar has his chest heaving, and his bright emerald eyes glaring at this horrible stranger who has upset everything he’s ever known. 

For the first time since he’s known this creature, Rhysand smiles. Truly smiles. Such beautiful radiance could not possibly be contained by his human shell, and his laughter is the blazing burst of a star. Loud, bright.

“It really is you.”

“I’m no one!” Tamlin rebukes, rejecting everything Rhysand has been trying to show him.

“Your mother was the High Queen of Prythian. She used to visit between worlds, maintaining the border between us and the humans for their safety. No one could touch her. She was beloved, and many Lords wanted her hand, including my father.”

“Are we brothers?”

“Mother, no. That would be terribly unfortunate. My father found his mate after chasing your mother out of our lands.”

Chasing your mother out…

Tamlin’s grip tightens on the knife, and Rhysand’s gaze flickers towards it.

“I took his memories after I killed him,” the former teaching assistant supplies. “Our lands have been plagued with war and famine ever since her disappearance. The Lords who wanted your mother for her power have been fighting for the crown. Myself and the sons of other Lords want to restore peace.”

“This has nothing to do with me,” Tamlin insists. The more he denies, the closer he gets to unmaking this nightmare.

“It has everything to do with you! We are ready to strike, all we are missing is the heir. There is no power stronger than being connected to the very earth beneath our feet.” Rhysand digs his claws into the dirt, scooping up a handful of it and letting it slip through his fingers. “You’re telling me you like pretending to be human? You’ve never felt like you don’t belong? Out of place?” He dusts his hands off. “I’ve only been here for a handful of months and it is a cage for creatures like us.”

At that, Tamlin hesitates. The thought feels plucked out of his mind, as if Rhysand knows the way his body feels too big or too small—or how he wishes he could flit between either to fit the situation at hand. If only he was stronger, so he could protect his classmates. If only he was smaller, so he could vanish out of his father’s sight.

“I’ve seen you play. You run like you are chasing freedom. Imagine the things  you could do if you could fly.” Rhysand unfurls his skeletal wings with its nearly translucent membranes, a tease for someone who knows only the confines of his mortal body.

“Even if I was the heir of the Queen, I can’t do any of the things you’re saying. I don’t have powers.”

“The Forest’s expansion is your doing. Ever since you came of age, we could sense you through the barriers between worlds. We’ll teach you what to do.”

Tamlin bounces his leg, a tell he hasn’t quite been able to stop. Each word spilling from Rhysand’s mouth makes his proposition more and more alluring. It could be a trap, a sweet promise to lure him in before he is devoured by a horror this world has not yet seen. (It would’ve been on the news, otherwise.) But if he were to play along… what would he lose? Home is an oppressive place, a mausoleum for his mother’s memory and a constant reminder of her absence. His brothers have shed the pieces of her to survive, but Tamlin won’t. Perhaps this is his reward: her legacy, and his freedom.

And if he’s wrong, death is its own release, too.

“Alright,” Tamlin concedes. “I’ll go, but I won’t be your King.”

Rhysand’s face blooms with the moon’s shine. “See, you’re perfect already.”

[19ryan17]

Ryan's Team

Part One -----------------------------------------------------------------

It started with a crisis.

Ryan Burke, star running back and walking Greek statue of Roosevelt State University, was pissed. Not in a punch-the-locker kind of way. He was just sitting in the locker room with his arms folded tight across his sweaty chest, jaw grinding, eyeing the crumpled practice schedule on the bench like it owed him money.

“This is so fucking stupid,” he muttered.

“Dude,” said Josh, wide receiver, tugging his jockstrap into place, “We lost five linemen. Five. You want Coach to just draft nerds off the quad?”

“No,” Ryan said, cracking his neck, “I want guys who don’t care about class, who don’t mind being huge and disgusting. We need new blood. Bigger guys. Hairy-ass, nasty, growling monsters.”

Trevor, the linebacker with the permanent mustard stain on his hoodie, piped up from his locker, “Bro, the team used to stink. Literally. Like swampy pits and locker room BO 24/7. I miss that. Now? Everyone’s cutting carbs and shaving their pits. We’re soft.”

Ryan grunted. “No one wants to commit to it anymore. Guys don’t wanna change.”

Josh blinked. “Wait... what if we make ‘em change?”

Ryan turned slowly. “Explain.”

“You know the Musk Plan,” Trevor snorted. “We joke about it every year. Pick a weak dude, bulk him up, stink him out, make him one of us.”

Ryan actually smiled. “Yeah, but what if we actually do it?”

The locker room fell into silence. Just the steady drip from the ceiling vent and the faint, ever-present funk of post-practice sweat hanging in the air.

Ryan leaned forward, elbows on knees, voice low. “We pick someone small. Someone who's around us all the time. Someone who wouldn’t notice at first. Get in their head. Get in their gut. They start putting on weight, growing hair in places they didn’t know could grow it. Maybe they even start to like it.”

Trevor burped. “Who?”

Ryan grinned. “I’ve got two names.”

Luke and Sam were the kind of roommates who kept their fridge way too clean.

Sam was tidy, organized, and way too into graphic design. His idea of fun was making custom fonts and rating the foam on local coffees. Luke, by comparison, was a little looser—still neat, but the kind of guy who’d forget to clip his nails for two weeks and then be shocked when he clicked his mouse too hard and it cracked.

They weren’t jocks. They weren’t cool. But they weren’t losers either. They’d carved out a quiet, nerdy space for themselves. Sam designed club posters. Luke worked sound for the campus radio station. They had a system: bagels on Saturdays, “reality TV with beer” on Thursdays, and Sundays were for sleeping in and mutual judgment over who skipped class the most that week.

But that was before Ryan Burke—sun-kissed, alpha, walking BO fantasy—showed up.

It started on a random Thursday.

Ryan had walked into the dining hall like he owned the place, which he kind of did. Guys clapped his back. Girls flipped their hair. Even the lunch lady gave him an extra scoop of mashed potatoes with a wink.

Luke was in line, wearing a stretched-out Pokémon hoodie and some threadbare joggers.

“Hey,” Ryan said, nudging his tray up next to him, “You’re in my Econ class, right?”

Luke blinked. “Uh… yeah?”

“You do soundboard stuff too, right?”

Luke nodded again, eyes darting. Ryan was right there, muscles packed under a tank top, a sheen of sweat still on his neck from practice, smelling like cheap cologne and something muskier underneath. Luke tried not to breathe too deeply.

“You ever go to games?” Ryan asked.

Luke shook his head. “Not really a sports guy.”

Ryan grinned, slow and wide. “You will be.”

Sam didn’t think much of it when Luke mentioned Ryan the first time.

“Ran into Ryan today,” he said, half-buried in a bag of chips. “Big dude. Smelled like a locker room. Kinda funny.”

Sam raised a brow. “Funny how?”

“I dunno,” Luke shrugged, “He kept asking about what I eat. Said I had ‘a build.’”

Sam laughed. “A build for what, the equipment bench?”

Luke chuckled too, but his ears were red.

A week later, Ryan was sitting on their couch.

No warning. Just there. Shirtless, hairy legs spread, sockless feet propped up on their IKEA table like it belonged to him. Sam came back from class and nearly tripped over a football cleat in the hallway.

“Oh hey, man,” Ryan said, not moving, “You must be Sam. Luke talks about you.”

“Cool,” Sam said, because what else could he say?

Ryan stayed for dinner. Stayed for dessert. Left his gym bag on the floor and promised to “grab it later,” which somehow meant never.

Two weeks after that, they were dating.

Luke told Sam over pancakes, as casual as if he were talking about a midterm.

“So… Ryan and I kinda made out last night.”

Sam blinked, mid-bite. “Wait, what?”

“Yeah,” Luke scratched his cheek. “We were watching that stupid car crash reality show and he leaned over and kissed me.”

Sam didn’t know what to say. Ryan? Like that Ryan?

After that, Ryan was always around.

Sometimes sweaty from practice. Sometimes just waking up from a nap on their couch. Luke started dressing different. More tank tops. Less socks. Sometimes he’d go out to “get food” and come back with an entire tray of burritos, saying Ryan had “a craving.”

Sam noticed little things.

Like how Luke’s shirts seemed to fit tighter lately, clinging around his arms and chest. How he was constantly scratching his belly or tugging the neck of his shirt away from his throat.

And once—just once—Sam walked into the living room early from class and caught Ryan and Luke on the couch.

Ryan had his big meaty hand under Luke’s shirt, palm pressed to his stomach. Luke’s head was tilted back, eyes half-lidded, a low moan caught in his throat as Ryan stroked at the soft curve of his gut.

And Luke... he had a little mustache now.

Just a hint. Barely there. But Sam noticed.

Ryan kissed it, and Luke shivered.

That night Ryan walked into the kitchen, cracking open a cold one and handing Luke a burger the size of his face.

“You’re looking good, man,” he said, running a hand down Luke’s back. “Starting to fill out.” He groped Luke's now slightly puffy midsection.

Luke grinned through a mouthful of meat. "Thanks babe."

Ryan sat down next to him, forcing the rest of the burger into Luke's mouth. He then licked the sauce around his mouth and kissed him.

Luke moaned and started to feel his crotch stiffen. Ryan let his hands travel over Luke's bigger body, feeling the start of a gut and big pecs.

Part Two -----------------------------------------------------------------

Luke wasn’t one to skip showers.

In fact, if Sam had to describe his roommate in one word, it’d be “tidy.” Luke shaved almost every morning, folded his shirts military-style, and used unscented soap because anything else was “too much.” But about two weeks into his thing with Ryan, Sam started noticing something.

Luke’s towels? They weren’t drying right.

At first, Sam thought it was the ventilation in the bathroom. But the smell wasn’t mildew. It was… something stronger. A little sour. Musky. Thick. Luke didn’t notice. He’d step out of the shower, humming to himself, hair slicked back, water running in rivulets over his skin—and leave behind a heat, a scent that lingered like fog.

Sam didn’t say anything.

He told himself it was all in his head.

Luke was eating more.

Like, a lot more.

Burgers for lunch and dinner. Leftovers at midnight. Bags of chips, greasy breakfast sandwiches, triple-meat pizzas. He’d munch during study sessions, eat between classes, constantly unwrapping something with one hand while the other cradled his phone.

It crept up slowly.

First his cheeks looked a little fuller. Then there was that one morning where Sam caught Luke tugging down the hem of his tee.

“Shirt shrank in the wash,” he grumbled.

But it hadn’t. Sam knew because it was his shirt, and Luke had borrowed it clean from the basket. It stretched tight across Luke’s belly, hugging it just enough to show a curve forming. His chest looked puffier too, not muscle—just soft, rounded, like the beginnings of a doughy shelf.

And then there was the trail.

Barely visible at first. Just a faint dusting of dark hairs under his belly button. Luke didn’t notice. He’d pull his shirt up absentmindedly when he was full, scratch his gut, then let it fall again. Sam saw it though. Every time. That hair thickened by the day.

“Dude, you’re eating like Trevor,” Sam joked one night as Luke housed his third grilled cheese.

Luke wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What? I’ve just been hungry lately.”

Ryan, sprawled on the couch behind him, smirked. “He’s got a jock’s metabolism now.”

Luke chuckled and elbowed him. “Guess I gotta hit the gym.”

“You’re getting stronger,” Ryan murmured in his ear. “You’ll fill out nice.”

Luke turned red.

Sam noticed the way Luke leaned into it.

The next thing to go was the shaving.

Luke used to keep a clean face—maybe a little peach fuzz, but nothing serious. But now, he’d forget to shave for days. And then weeks. His upper lip sprouted a faint line of hair, darker every time Sam looked.

One morning, Luke came out of the bathroom scratching his chin.

“You ever get that itchy stubble phase?” he asked, rubbing the underside of his jaw.

Sam looked up from his laptop. “You… growing a beard?”

Luke shrugged. “I dunno. Ryan said he likes it.”

Sure enough, there it was: a little patchy at first, mostly around the chin and jawline. But the 'stache was there. Dark and fuzzy, curling slightly at the edges like it couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. Then came the goatee—thicker, rougher—and before long, Sam noticed the shine of oil clinging to coarse whiskers. It wasn’t patchy anymore. His cheeks had started to fill out, the fuzz spreading like moss along his jaw, dense and dark.

He was getting beardy.

Sam tried not to stare, but he started tracking the changes. He had to. Something was happening to Luke, and no one else seemed to notice. Especially not Ryan, who just kept smirking like this was all part of some long game.

It started with a slight belly bulge. It started small—barely a roundness under the hoodie. Sam only saw it because Luke’s shirt rode up when he reached for chips. And that mustache shadow? It wasn’t a trick of the light. It was legit. Then, his voice cracked mid-sentence while he was on the phone. Not dramatically, not cartoonish—but it dipped, just enough to make Sam blink. Gone was the high, tight energy in his tone. There was a sluggish warmth now, like molasses. Less “Luke the nerd,” more “Luke the lineman.” Soon the leg hair arrived with a vengeance. Sam caught a glimpse when Luke kicked off his sneakers one afternoon. Thick black tufts had sprouted just above his socks, curling out in every direction. “Dude, when did your legs get that hairy?” Sam had asked, half-joking. Luke just grinned and shrugged. “Dunno, always been that way, right?”

He said it like he believed it.

Then Luke seemed to stop showering. That’s when it got real. It started subtle—just a hint of musk clinging to the couch after Luke left the room. But it built up, week by week. The kind of humid, ripe scent that lingered under the armpits and settled into the upholstery. Sam started cracking windows. Luke stopped caring.

By then, Luke had grown thicker—like his whole body was swelling with some lazy power. His belly pressed against his waistband now, jiggling slightly when he moved. His shirts started creeping up, riding higher on his gut, revealing a stretch of newly fuzzy lower back. He didn't seem to notice—or care.

Sam did.

And Ryan? Ryan would just lounge nearby, watching with this smug little smile as Luke scratched his belly and let out a slow belch mid-sentence, brain clearly stuck in second gear. Sometimes Ryan would toss him a greasy burger or a protein shake with that same tone people use when they’re feeding a dog a treat.

“Atta boy,” he’d mutter, like Luke had done something impressive just by existing fatter and dumber than the day before.

Sam pretended not to notice. Acted like none of it mattered.

But he kept tracking the changes. Every belly shake. Every deeper grunt. Every new patch of hair curling across Luke’s skin.

Because whatever Ryan was doing, it was working.

And Luke… he was starting to like it.

“Jesus, you smell like the weight room,” Sam blurted.

Luke lifted his arm and sniffed his pit. “Damn. Guess I forgot deodorant.”

But Sam saw it—dense, dark armpit hair spilling from the sleeve like wild ivy.

He watched Luke scratch, slow and lazy, letting out a soft burp.

They stopped doing laundry as often.

Luke started leaving clothes everywhere—on the floor, on the couch, balled up in the bathroom. And they reeked. Musky. Sweaty. Used. But Luke didn’t seem to care. In fact, sometimes he’d pull on the same pair of sweats three days in a row.

Ryan thought it was hilarious.

“Jocks don’t need fresh clothes,” he’d say, ruffling Luke’s thickening hair. “Just sweat and stink.”

Luke didn’t argue.

By mid-semester, Luke’s belly had outgrown half his wardrobe.

He kept tugging down his shirts, trying to make them stretch, but they’d ride up anyway—exposing more of his round gut, now dusted in thick, curly hair. His chest hair was blooming too, creeping up his pecs and out the neck of his shirts.

Sam caught him standing at the mirror one morning, one hand under his shirt, palm pressed to his belly.

“Getting kinda big, huh?” Luke muttered.

“You, uh… like it?”

Luke glanced over his shoulder, surprised. “Yeah, I guess. Ryan likes to grab it. Says it’s real jock material.”

Sam didn’t reply. His heart was pounding.

Luke’s voice was deep now. Lazy. Drawling.

There was a stretch mark curving just under his love handle.

The final nail was the feet.

Luke had always had small feet. Size 9, tops. But now? He was stretching out Sam’s flip-flops.

“Dude,” Sam said, “What the hell?”

Luke grinned, lifting one foot. It was broader, hairier, toes thick and slightly swollen like he’d been stuffing them in too-tight shoes.

“Ryan says my whole body’s bulking,” Luke said, like it was obvious. “You think I should get new socks? These keep tearing.”

Sam just stared.

One night, Sam couldn’t sleep.

He wandered to the kitchen for water—and heard giggling from the living room.

He peeked.

There was Luke, shirtless, lounging on Ryan’s lap. His gut was out. Full and round. Ryan had one hand stroking the thick forest of belly hair, the other scratching behind Luke’s ear like a dog.

Luke let out a groan, low and breathy.

And Ryan? He leaned in and kissed Luke’s mustache.

“You’re turning out perfect,” he whispered.

Part Three ---------------------------------------------------------------

Sam had been sweating more lately. He could feel it clinging under his arms, a humid dampness that lingered even after showering. It wasn’t just the sweat. His undershirt clung tighter across his chest than it used to, the seams digging into his sides by midday. His face felt prickly constantly, like there was always a faint shadow no matter how recently he shaved. But it was the smell—the strange, overpowering musk that Luke now carried with him everywhere—that was really messing with Sam’s head.

Luke had changed. Sam didn’t need a magnifying glass to see it. He used to be his skinny, clean-cut best friend—neurotic about his hygiene, weirdly proud of his hairless chest. But now? Luke waddled around campus in stretched-out gym shorts and stained tank tops, burping through half his sentences and scratching his thick new gut like it was second nature. The guy hadn’t shaved in weeks, probably months. His face was covered in a dense patchy beard, his upper lip crowned with a thick, greasy mustache that twitched every time he laughed at something stupid. His chin had practically vanished under the bulk of new weight and coarse hair.

And the smell. God, the smell. Luke reeked. It hit Sam like a slap every time they hung out. That thick, manly, sour musk that clung to Luke like a second skin—armpits, belly folds, even his breath. Luke didn’t seem to notice or care. He’d just fart, laugh about it, and keep talking about protein powder and “hitting legs.”

Something was wrong.

Sam had chalked it all up to Ryan at first. Ever since Luke started dating the cocky jock, he’d started acting different. It wasn’t immediate. Ryan was charming, a little dumb maybe, but confident. And Luke, bless him, had never dated anyone before. He’d fallen hard. At first it was cute—Ryan bringing him burgers after class, Luke trying on tank tops to impress him. But then came the weight. The hair. The smells.

And Luke didn’t even seem to notice.

“Dude,” Sam had said once, trying to be chill about it. “You ever, uh, think about shaving again?”

Luke blinked. “Why? Ryan likes it. Says it makes me look ‘grown.’” He chuckled dumbly. “Plus, it’s kinda hot, right?” He lifted his arm and gave a flex, revealing a jungle of matted pit hair soaked into the fabric of his tank. Sam nearly gagged.

So Sam decided it was time. He had to confront Ryan.

The walk to Ryan’s dorm was a blur. Sam’s shirt felt too tight, the sleeves digging into his softening arms. He kept tugging at it, aware of the way his belly was starting to bulge ever so slightly over the waistband of his jeans. He hadn’t eaten anything crazy—at least, not that crazy—but his appetite had been out of control lately. Just being near Luke made him hungry. For food. For... something else.

Luke lumbered beside him, slurping a protein shake between burps.

“Dude,” he said around a belch, “Ryan’s makin’ wings tonight. Smells soooo good.”

“Luke,” Sam said, exasperated, “We’re not going to eat. We’re going to talk to Ryan. Something weird is happening, man. You don’t notice how... different you are?”

Luke scratched his stomach with a lazy smirk. “Guess I’m bulking, bro.”

Sam rolled his eyes.

They arrived at Ryan’s door, the scent of fried meat and musky jock sweat thick in the air. Luke didn’t knock. He just barged in like he owned the place.

Ryan was sitting on the bed, shirtless, glistening with sweat, his golden-tanned muscles flexing lazily as he lounged back. The room smelled rank—a mixture of old socks, fried food, and BO. Sam almost choked.

“Yo,” Luke said, flopping onto the couch and immediately scratching his chest through his tank top. “What’s up, stud?”

Ryan chuckled. “Just waitin’ on my boys.”

Sam crossed his arms. “We need to talk.”

Ryan stood slowly, like a panther stretching. “Sam. Buddy. You look... bigger.”

Sam stiffened. “Don’t play games with me. Something’s wrong with Luke. And I think you did something.”

Ryan shrugged. “He looks fine to me. Healthy. Confident. Hot, even.” He stepped forward, his bare feet padding across the grimy floor. “What’s the problem?”

“You’re changing him. And I think it’s happening to me too.” Sam’s voice cracked, deeper than expected. He cleared his throat.

Ryan smirked. “Maybe it’s just... catching.”

He lunged.

Before Sam could move, Ryan grabbed him and yanked his face hard into his musky, swampy armpit. The thick hair smothered Sam’s nose, and the scent hit like a punch to the brain—sour, salty, manly, feral. Sam struggled, but Ryan held him there, rubbing his sweaty pit deeper over Sam’s face.

“Breathe it in, bro,” Ryan growled. “You’re one of us now.”

Sam groaned. It hit his gut like hunger. His skin flushed. His whole body prickled with heat. He felt it.

His belly gurgled, swelling outward inch by inch, pressing tight against his shirt. His arms thickened, fuzzing over with dark hair. His face tingled—a mustache pushing out, thick and greasy. Then his chin itched furiously, filling in with dark scruff that thickened fast into a scraggly beard. His shirt ripped at the seams as his chest ballooned forward with fat and muscle.

His feet burst out of his sneakers, toes thickening, toenails yellowing slightly as hair sprouted across his knuckles and the tops of his feet. He let out a burp, deep and gurgly, followed by a lazy laugh.

“Ughhhh... bro...” he moaned. “I’m gettin’... fat...”

Luke clapped. “Welcome to the bulk, man.”

Sam stumbled back, rubbing his hairy gut. His mind was slower, fuzzier. He could feel the dumb spreading in like fog. He liked the smell. He liked being sweaty.

Then he turned toward Ryan with a feral grin.

“Let’s get our boy finished.”

They tackled Ryan.

Ryan yelled, but he was laughing too. “Guys! Hey! I’m not—HEY!”

Luke yanked his head back and sat hard on his face, grinding his swampy, sweat-soaked ass across Ryan’s nose.

Sam rubbed his own pit, working up the stink, then pressed it to Ryan’s chest.

“You did this,” he muttered. “Now it’s your turn.”

Ryan groaned. His whole body convulsed.

It started at his abs. One by one, they softened, puffing outward, then disappearing under a soft new layer of fat. His pecs sagged slightly, then jiggled. His jawline faded under the slow crawl of a thick, dark beard that crept out like mold. His armpit hair doubled in density and color, stinking up instantly. His feet cracked and grew longer, hair bursting from his toes.

“Noooo... ughhh... I’m gettin’... gross...” Ryan muttered, his voice deepening with each breath. “Smell so bad...”

Sam and Luke just laughed.

“You’re hot now, bro,” Luke said, slapping Ryan’s belly as it surged outward with another burp.

When it was done, Ryan was barely recognizable. His once golden skin was now sweaty, pimpled, and flushed. He was massive—easily 300 pounds—covered in dense dark hair, from his thick chest to his round belly and down to his bloated, sweaty feet. His beard was unkempt and tangled, his mustache curling over his lips. He stank like a gym locker on fire.

“Ughhh... bros...” he moaned. “I’m... hungry.”

Luke grinned. “There’s wings in the kitchen.”

They all waddled off, bellies rumbling, sweat trailing in their wake.

They were dumb. Hairy. Fat. And happy.

Forever jock bros.

Part 4 ---------------------------------------------------------------

The air in the locker room was thick with sweat and old body spray. Ethan, Bryan, and Jake had just wrapped up a grueling afternoon practice—alone. Again. Their cleats thudded against the tiled floors as they wandered toward the coach’s office.

“Where the hell is Ryan?” Ethan muttered, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow and tossing his helmet into his locker.

“Seriously,” Bryan chimed in, stretching his thick neck from side to side. “That’s the third time this week he’s skipped out. Coach is gonna lose it.”

Jake shrugged, reaching into his gym bag and grabbing a protein shake. “You think it’s got something to do with Luke? I saw them hanging out a lot last week. Luke’s looking... different.”

Ethan snorted. “You mean fat? Hairy? Dude looks like he ate a lumberjack.”

“Whatever,” Jake muttered. “I say we go check his dorm. Get him back in gear.”

With a shared nod, the three left the locker room, cleats still clacking, not bothering to change. They marched across campus, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows.

The scent hit them before the door opened. Thick. Musky. Like sweat baked into a couch for years.

“Dude... what is that?” Bryan said, recoiling.

Jake made a face. “Smells like someone’s cooking socks and B.O.”

Ethan pounded on the door. “RYAN! Open up, man!”

Silence. Then, shuffling footsteps. The door creaked open—just a crack—and an ungodly belch rolled through the gap. Jake gagged.

“What the actual fu—”

The door swung open fully, and all three of them froze.

There, lounging shirtless on the couch, were Ryan, Luke, and Sam.

All three were massive. Not muscular. Massive. Their thick hairy guts spilled out over stretched athletic shorts, and sweat glistened on their dense body hair. Ryan had a thick brown beard now, curling under his chin and coated in crumbs from what looked like half a pizza box. His chest hair connected in a solid pelt to his belly, and he scratched his belly with one hand while the other held a can of beer.

Sam, no longer small or clean-shaven, had the thickest back hair of the three. He leaned forward to grab a chicken wing, his gut pushing his thighs apart. His neck had disappeared under a thickening double chin, and his voice was several octaves deeper than before.

Luke had gone fully feral. A dense forest of hair covered his chest and arms, his legs were like two tree trunks, and he was idly stroking a patch of belly hair with one hand while finishing off a carton of fries.

“Oh shit,” Ethan breathed.

“Bros!” Ryan grinned, mouth full. “Come in! We saved y’all some wings.”

None of the three moved.

“You guys look...” Bryan whispered. “Different.”

“Better,” Sam belched, rubbing his gut. “So much better.”

“C’mon, sit down,” Luke grunted, patting a seat on the couch. “Let’s chill.”

Ethan took a cautious step in. The smell was worse now—so strong it was nearly visible. Sweat, grease, and musk rolled off the couch in waves.

Bryan followed, nose wrinkled. “Ryan, man, what happened to you?”

“Just got upgraded, bro,” Ryan chuckled, taking a long swig of beer and letting out a thundering belch. “No more stress. Just eat, sweat, and hang with the bros.”

Jake looked Ryan up and down. “Dude... you’re, like, huge. And hairy.”

“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” Sam smirked.

As the three former jocks sat awkwardly on the other couch, something started to shift. Subtly. But unmistakably.

Bryan scratched his stomach. “Weird. I feel hot.”

Ethan yawned, rubbing his eyes. “Yeah. Me too. Sweaty. Like... more than usual.”

Jake frowned and looked down. “My socks feel tight. Are my feet swelling?”

The room seemed to hum with a heavy energy. The couch cushions squished under their weight, heavier than just minutes ago.

Ethan shifted, pulling at his jersey. “Ugh, my pits are soaked. What the hell?”

Sam leaned over, sniffed dramatically. “Damn, bro. You’re ripe. Smellin’ like a real man already.”

Luke chuckled, grabbing a handful of chips and stuffing them in his mouth. “Let it out, bro. Don’t fight it.”

Bryan scratched again—this time at his chest. “Is it just me, or is my chest hairier?”

He pulled down the collar of his shirt. Where there was once a smooth expanse of skin, a dusting of dark hair was forming, spreading slowly but visibly.

Jake’s breath caught. “Dude, your stomach too.”

All three looked down. Bryan’s once-ripped abs were starting to bloat outward, a soft gut pushing forward.

“No way,” Bryan muttered. “No way, man.”

Ethan stood abruptly, then sat right back down. “Whoa. Dizzy. My legs feel like... huge.”

He looked down—and froze. Thick, curling hair was sprouting down his thighs, and his calves were looking puffier by the second.

Jake leaned over to touch Ethan’s leg, but stopped when he caught sight of his own forearm. “What the hell...”

His normally smooth skin was sprouting blond hair like wildfire. A prickly itch ran up both arms, followed by a deep warmth settling in his chest.

Bryan let out a sudden grunt. “Oh god—my voice! Did you guys hear that?”

He coughed, then belched. The sound was guttural. Deeper. His throat bulged slightly as a patchy scruff darkened across his jawline.

Sam was grinning like a lunatic. “Told ya. It’s the smell, bro. Can’t fight it. Just embrace it.”

Luke leaned forward, lifting one of his arms and wafting the air toward the trio.

“Take a deep breath, bros. Let it sink in.”

The three jocks writhed in slow-motion discomfort as the changes began speeding up.

Bryan clutched his stomach. “I’m... I’m starving.”

Ryan laughed, tossing him a half-eaten burger. “You’re gonna want more than one.”

Without hesitation, Bryan tore into it. His beard, once patchy, darkened and connected under his jaw. His stomach gurgled as it expanded further, pressing into his waistband.

Ethan’s arms had thickened, veins disappearing under soft muscle and a coating of hair. He was panting now, the collar of his shirt tight around his neck.

“God, I’m sweating like a pig,” he mumbled.

“Good,” Sam said. “You’re starting to smell right.”

Jake was quieter. Still resisting. But his belly had started to rise, swelling under his compression shirt. His pecs had softened into thick mounds, bouncing slightly as he shifted.

“I can’t... we can’t turn into this,” he muttered. “We’re athletes.”

Ryan burped, and scratched the fuzz of his growing second chin. “You were athletes. Now you’re bros.”

He stood, letting his own massive gut swing forward. Then he waddled toward Jake, leaning in close. Jake tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go.

“You already smell like us,” Ryan whispered.

He grabbed Jake’s face with one hand and shoved it deep into his armpit.

Jake screamed—or tried to. The stench hit him like a freight train. Pungent. Thick. Masculine. Something primal shifted inside him.

His arms went limp. Then heavy.

He gasped when Ryan let him go, stumbling backward. “Oh fuck,” he growled. His voice had dropped an octave. “I... I need food.”

His gut rumbled loudly. A beard was already darkening along his jaw.

Bryan and Ethan were too far gone to react. Bryan was on his third burger, crumbs in his chest hair, while Ethan was pulling his shirt off to scratch at his sweaty, newly hairy chest.

“Damn, Ethan,” Sam laughed. “You’re almost as hairy as me now.”

“Can’t help it,” Ethan muttered. “Feels good.”

Ryan returned to the couch, planting himself between his two new bros. The couch groaned under their combined weight.

Bryan’s face was now encased in a short, thick beard. He scratched it absently, his other hand resting on his swollen, shirtless belly.

Jake had kicked off his shoes, revealing rapidly hair-growing feet. He reached into the box of wings and started devouring them, grunting between mouthfuls.

“Think... I need to stop shaving,” he growled, licking grease off his fingers. “It just keeps coming back thicker.”

Ethan, now fully shirtless, belched and grinned. “We still doing practice today?”

Ryan laughed, spraying crumbs. “This is practice now, bro.”

The room was filled with the sounds of chewing, burping, scratching.

Jake’s voice was now a full, gravelly bass. His body hair had connected across his chest, and his gut sagged onto his thighs.

Bryan had completely outgrown his pants. They were unbuttoned, his hairy belly hanging forward, slick with sweat.

Ethan looked around, blinking slowly. “Wait... what were we doing before?”

Luke laughed, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “Doesn’t matter, bro. You’re one of us now.”

Jake belched. “Damn straight.”

Ryan let out a thunderous fart and slapped his own belly. “Time for round two, bros. Pizza’s on the way.”

They all erupted into hoarse, greasy laughter. The air was thick with funk and fried food. Their bodies were massive, their minds foggy, their lives reduced to eating, scratching, and hanging out shirtless with their bros.

[ratsoh-writes]

A furby-lile monster

Hey y’all! Meet two new monster types! The furrbee and the witchcap!

Furrrbee

The furrrbee is a medium-large monster. These monsters have long furred caterpillar like bodies. They have between 6-12 nub legs depending on how large the monster is. Their torsos have a standard pair of furred arms. The furrrbee has no visible neck, their head seemingly comes straight up from the shoulders. They all have a light heart shape in their face and often lighter fur in the underbelly. Fur colors are known to be every color of the rainbow. Their magic color is demonstrated in the eyes, eyebrows and nostrils on their beaks

These monsters teeter between the large and medium classes. Furrrbees naturally stand with their torso upright. In this position they can be between 5’5-8 feet making them incredibly diverse in size

Furrrbee monsters are slow creatures, but they make up in their lack of speed with an incredible healing factor. These monsters are experts at internal healing and can stitch up wounds on themselves in moments if they’re properly fed! These monsters often have pheromone or poison magic affinities as well

Because of their hardiness, it’s common seeing these monsters working jobs that have high injury risks like welders, linemen or construction workers. They tend to be rather calm by nature as well, but never never ever get between a furrbee and their meal. These monsters are incredibly possessive over their food!

The furrrbee is an older monster subspecies. Their origins are unknown and are considered to be one of the first subspecies along with the golems and goats.

Witchcaps

The witchcap is a medium sized monster standing between 4-6 feet. They are mushroom like monsters with round heads. Their bodies make up the majority of their height and take on gourd-like shapes ranging from perfect spheres, bottle shapes, apple shapes and even cube bodies. The legs are much shorter and the hands make a mitten shape instead of fingers.

Magic color is shown in the mushroom cap and eyes while the bodies are always some form of brown, tan or cream.

Like their appearance suggests, witchcaps have a fertility and plant magic affinity. They’re very common in farm AUs but the highest population of witchcaps come from grimmtale.

Witchcaps get their name from a large history of being connected to humans. This monster subspecies has one of the larger records of human-monster relations compared to most subspecies. Witchcap mages are rather common in the surface AUs, and it’s rare to see a witchcap monster without at least a human grandparent.

Grimmtale witchcaps differ from their other au counterparts by having spiked mushroom caps instead of spotted. And much thinner and angular looking faces with high cheekbones.

And of course the new babes!

Shane Fulano

Shane is a young adult furrrbee from theatretale! He stands at 6’8 and is aged 72. He has baby blue magic and peach pink fur!

Shane is a cool and sometimes grouchy character. While he doesn’t anger easily, he does get frustrated easily. He hates stupid people and can be quite dry when talking to new folk. With friends he’s playfully sarcastic and gentle. He adores animals however and can never resist baby talking them

Shane is a carpenter who originally worked making props for theatre sets, but has moved on to a growing shed business. He’s working under another monster known for their adorable gingerbread like shed designs. He likes his job.

He’s got a MASSIVE crush on Liv but thinks she’s way out of his league, plus he’s pretty sure she’s only into humans.

Things he loves: Liv, any animal but especially his 7 pet mice, woodworking, sew on patches, rugby, tragedies (plays), opera music

Monsters he knows: maple, moose, sans (the bat), papyrus, Liv

Liv puffball

Liv is a witchcap from baubletale aged 133. She stands at 5’1 and has a rusty red magic and spherical body shape.

Liv is a ray of sunshine! This sweetie just radiates joy wherever she goes. Liv is a passionate cheerful monster who always sees the world through rose colored lens. She can be a bit naive but has a pack of protective friends to steer her away from danger.

Liv got into real estate soon after the crash and is doing quite well for herself leasing out some warehouses to some businesses, one of which is papyrus’ escape rooms. On the side she likes to invest in small boutiques. She has no creative talent herself to make clothes so she likes to boost the people who can.

Things she loves: high heels, cute chunky belts, strawberry ice cream, dance pop, roller blading

Monsters she knows: papyrus, tinker, weave, sugar, Shane

[whostheweakersexnow]

Ballet vs Football Swap

Jake and Emily had been at each other’s throats for weeks. Jake constantly mocked Emily’s ballet, calling it “prancing around in tights,” while Emily teased him for his obsession with “caveman cosplay.” Their parents had had enough. One evening, after yet another argument over dinner, their dad slammed his fork down.

“That’s it. If you two think the other’s activity is so easy, you’re going to prove it. This weekend, you’re switching.”

Jake blinked. “Wait, what?”

“You heard us,” their mom chimed in. “Jake, you’ll wear Emily’s ballet outfit and go to her class. Emily, you’ll suit up in Jake’s football gear and go to his practice.”

“And if we don’t?” Emily asked, suspiciously.

“You’ll both be grounded for a month,” their dad said flatly.

Jake tried to protest, but the look on their parents’ faces said there would be no negotiation. Reluctantly, the siblings agreed, both determined to humiliate the other in front of their peers.

Saturday Morning:

Saturday morning came too fast for Jake. His heart sank as Emily gleefully tossed him her pink leotard, a snug pair of tights, a fluffy tutu, and soft ballet slippers. She even helped tie his hair up with a pink scrunchie for effect, despite his protests. Meanwhile, she marched proudly out the door in his shoulder pads, cleats, and helmet slung under her arm.

Jake stood outside the ballet studio shivering from embarrassment. His slippers felt alien on his feet, and the elastic waistband of the tutu itched horribly. As he entered, the other girls in the class giggled and whispered. The instructor raised an eyebrow but let him join in.

Jake’s muscles, used to charging through defensive lines, didn’t know what to do with pliés and arabesques. He stumbled, slipped, and scowled through the entire class. His face burned with every failed attempt, especially under the watchful, amused eyes of the other dancers.

Sunday Afternoon:

Emily strode onto the football field, bulky shoulder pads strapped over her small frame, helmet tucked under her arm. The team initially burst out laughing—until practice began.

To everyone's shock, Emily was fast, agile, and surprisingly aggressive. She dodged tackles, threw a spiral with decent accuracy, and even managed to bring down one of the linemen in a drill. The coach watched, impressed. “You sure you’ve never played before?”

“Nope,” she said with a grin, tossing the ball effortlessly into the endzone. “Just used to actual coordination.”

By the end of practice, the team huddled around the coach. He cleared his throat and said, “Jake, I hate to say this, but Emily’s got something special. We’re moving her up. She’s taking your spot.”

Jake was speechless. “What?! But—”

“She’s earned it,” the coach said. “You can try again next season.”

Back at Home:

By the end of the weekend, Jake was bruised from trying to pirouette and Emily had scored twice in a scrimmage. That’s when the bomb dropped.

“Coach says I’ve got real potential,” Emily announced proudly. “He wants me to stay on the team.”

Jake’s jaw dropped. “But that’s my team!”

“Not anymore,” his dad replied. “Your sister’s got the talent you don’t have. You can keep ballet for now.”

Emily didn’t wait. She boxed up Jake’s football gear—her gear now—and neatly stacked it in her room. In return, she tossed a pink duffel bag onto his bed, with a smirk.

“That’s your new uniform,” she said with a smirk. “Coach said I need to commit full-time, so ballet’s all yours now.”

 “Better get used to pliés, ballerina.”

Inside the bag were her ballet clothes—leotards, tights, tutus, and slippers. Jake looked at them in horror.

“You’re joking.”

“Nope. Parents said we have to stick with the switch until the season ends. That’s three months, ballerina.”

The Weeks That Followed:

Now, Jake trudged to ballet twice a week in full pink regalia while Emily stormed the field every weekend to cheers and high-fives. His former teammates cackled when they saw him pirouette, calling him “Twinkle Toes” and “Jakeolina.” His new ballet class, though amused, gradually warmed up to his efforts. Even his parents seemed to enjoy the role reversal.

Emily, meanwhile, became a local sensation. The team kept winning, and she was quickly being scouted for co-ed leagues. Their parents were thrilled, the coach was ecstatic, and the ballet teacher couldn’t stop giggling at Jake’s scowls.

Jake had learned his lesson—perhaps a little too well. He now knew ballet was far from easy… but still couldn’t believe he was stuck in tights while his sister dominated the gridiron in his jersey.

And Emily? She’d never felt more powerful—football pads suited her just fine.

Competition Day

It was Friday morning, and Jake was already dreading what was coming. The school had a long-standing tradition—on the day of any athletic competition, all team members were required to wear their uniforms the entire day to “build school spirit” and show pride in their team.

That had never been a problem when Jake was a linebacker for the football team. He’d worn his pads and jersey with pride, strutting through the halls with his teammates, getting high-fives and cheers from students. But now?

Now, Jake stood in front of the mirror in his room wearing a black leotard, pink tights, a white tutu, and soft ballet slippers. His cheeks were already flushed, and he hadn’t even left the house. He could hear Emily cackling down the hallway, stomping around in his oversized football cleats and shoulder pads, clearly enjoying the reversal far too much.

“You look precious, ballerina,” she said as she passed his room, tossing his old football helmet from hand to hand. “Hope you remember to curtsey before you sit down at lunch.”

Jake groaned.

Walking through the school entrance in ballet gear was like entering a lion’s den dressed as a bunny. Conversations stopped. Phones came out. A wave of laughter and camera clicks echoed down the hallway. Students parted to let him through, not out of respect—but to get a better look.

“Yo, Jake! You lose a bet or something?” one of his former football teammates called out, doubled over with laughter.

“Nah,” another one said, nudging his friend. “Didn’t you hear? He got traded for his sister. Upgrade if you ask me.”

Jake kept his eyes forward, doing his best to ignore them, though his pink tutu bobbing with every step made that nearly impossible. Even the teachers couldn’t completely hide their amusement.

Emily, meanwhile, was living it up. She marched into school in Jake’s old gear like she owned the place. Kids crowded around her, asking how practice was going, how many touchdowns she’d scored last weekend. She was all grins.

At lunch, Jake tried to hide in a corner table, but that didn’t stop the snickers or the “accidental” photos. Emily plopped down across from him, placing her cleated feet on the bench with a smug look.

“You’re really embracing the part,” she said sweetly. “You know, I think you should start wearing a ribbon in your hair. Complete the look.”

Jake glared at her. “This is your fault.”

“Correction,” she said, poking at her tray. “Our fault. But you’re the one who thought ballet was just ‘twirling in pink.’ So now you get to twirl.”

Later That Day:

The PA crackled during sixth period. “Good luck to our ballet team in their showcase this evening! Special shoutout to Jake for stepping up this season—what dedication!”

The whole class burst into laughter. Jake slumped lower in his seat.

[nikarie5]

How to win at extracurriculars - Snippet

General rating: General audiences, reference of mild pining but no boats afloat.

Cast: Olli Halli, Cole Reyes

Description: Headcanon and set-up at end, because it makes more sense there to me(?), but essentially, the new rookie gets assigned to a veteran lineman for the Lions' annual fall team-building and community engagement activity... which happens to get Percy extra credit for math class.

Big thanks to @lumosinlove for the characters, @noots-fic-fests for organising, and @hazelnoot-analyst for organised archiving :) -- "Bear right over crest. Bear right over crest? Where? Where is the bear? How do they know it will be standing right there when we all drive through this section of the stage?”

“No, Cole, there is no bear. That is a driving instruction.”

“It would be a lot more fun if there were a real bear.”

“Somehow, I think arranging for that surpasses even the Lions’ budget for team-building and community events.” “How do they figure this as a team-building and community engagement anyway, it’s just two or three of us alone in our cars? Plus, I guess some Lions’ staff manning checkpoints.”

“I guess one of Coach’s kids, maybe Charlie?, did something like this a few years ago for a math class, and offered to keep doing it for extra credit and getting his drivers’ license faster. Then Percy picked it up and built it into a fundraiser, and combined it with driving lessons so that he could get a learner’s permit at fourteen, or something like that? I dunno. All I know is, somehow, we end up doing this each year the weekend before the season opener. Coming up to an intersection, need the next instruction rookie.”

“Stop, T, right.”

“You sure? The sign says dead end.”

“Hold on. No. Stop, T, left. Sorry Olli.”

“Geez, they sent us a D-man who doesn’t know his right and left? Caray.”

“Geez?”

“You’ll pick it up. Loopsisms are contagious.” -- In which the Gryffindor Lions organisation sponsors a small car rally through the fall foliage each year. Rookies get assigned to co-drive for veteran linemen, ostensibly as team building. Community members can participate, students from local high schools get extra credit in their math classes for participating, juniors can get some extra supervised hours towards their driving license, and a good time is had by all. Loops and Moody used to get really into it and go all out with silly competitions like frisbee tosses or apple bobbing at their checkpoint. Nat and Lily would drive around delivering coffee to checkpoint teams, while Sirius would pretend to get lost so he could keep returning to the PT checkpoint multiple times throughout the afternoon. Winning community team gets to join a team dinner at Sid’s.

[knowusa]

UGA football offers 4-star DL, son of 10-year NFL standout

The Georgia Bulldogs have offered a scholarship to four-star defensive line recruit Amari Vickerson, who is a member of the class of 2027. Vickerson, a rising junior, is one of the top defensive linemen in Texas in his recruiting cycle. The 6-foot-4, 290-pound defensive lineman has excellent size. Vickerson plays high school football for Cy Ranch High School in Cypress, Texas. The four-star has…

[linemenacademy]

Become a Skilled Lineman with Linemen Academy | Training & Apprenticeship

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[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“Lack of Power Affects City's Vital Services,” Montreal Star. August 19, 1931 - Page 3. ----

No Operations Or X-rays Possible At Hospitals - Water Pressure Down -Emergency Services Ready If Further Sabotage Cuts City Off - Trams Stop At Intervals ---- Two Shawinigan Power Company towers were dynamited today. putting all four feeder lines of that company out of business. It is hoped to get one line into commission tonight, and another tomorrow. In the meantime the whole city is supplied with light and power from four hydro and two steam emergency plants.

All hospitals had to stop operations this morning. No X-Ray machines or quartz-ray machines could be used. 

Tramways services stopped twice for 20 minutes at a time. 

Water pressure of city was lowered.  ---- EVENTS of the past few days since the commencement of sabotage on the property of the Montreal Light, Heat & Power Consolidated, and particularly those of last night and this morning, give more than a hint of the appalling situation that bids fair to develop if the destructive outrages are not curbed. Not only were tramway and other electrically-operated services interrupted, the city water supply was affected, and the consequences might have been disastrous if a fire had broken out, and, most serious of all. hospitals were paralyzed through failure of the current nowadays indispensable in operating rooms. 

This resulted from the dynamiting, at 9.30 this morning, of two steel towers of the Shawinigan Power Company, at Rosemount and Pie IX Boulevards. Four high-tension lines were broken and a heavy train placed on other power sources. The Shawinigan company stated this afternoon that workmen would have one of the broken circuits repaired this afternoon and probably another by tomorrow night.

EMERGENCY PLANTS. For the time being, the city is being supplied with power from the Cedar Rapids. Riviere des Prairies, Lachine and Chambly hydro-electric- plants and the Ville LaSalle and Tramways (Hochelaga) steam emergency plants.

LIGHTS DIMMED. The shortage of power affected the local hospitals to such an extent that the X-ray systems and quarts lamps were practically useless this morning and for a time the performance of operations on patients had to be postponed. Lights in the Montreal General, Royal Victoria, Western and Notre Dame and the other institutions were too dim to provide the necessary light for the performance of work with real efficiency in the hospitals. The elevators in the various hospital buildings were also out of commission for some time due to the lack of power.

Engineers at the various hospitals, however, reported at noon today that the situation in their buildings was somewhat improved as the power increased to a certain extent.

A certain amount of inconvenience will be suffered in the different hospitals should the power supply be completely what off, but the work of caring for the sick would not be at a standstill as the "standbys," the old steam systems used some years ago are still on hand at the hospitals and could be brought into use in case of emergency.

ALARM SYSTEM. One of the main sources of danger from the complete lack of electrical power might lie in the direction of the city's fire alarm system. Without electrical supply the fire alarms can work on a set of strong batteries maintained for this use, but the batteries would run dry after 48 hours.

Without the alarms it would be Rome time before the firemen could be notified of an outbreak of fire and much damage and probably loss of life might result in some cases.

The city's water supply was also affected somewhat by the shortage of power today, but will not he put entirely out of commission should the power be cut off completely.

The water service and supply would be affected a great deal but the General Superintendent of the Water Works Department announced that even without the power from the Montreal Light, Heat & Power Cons., remaining Cedar Rapids line the department could supply the city with enough water to continue until the necessary repairs to the transmission lines could be completed. There would, of course, be a reduction in the supply and it might be affected in some parts of the city at various times due to flooding of the outlying stations from the main line but the service could be continued at practically half-capacity,

UP TO PROVINCE Some 50 police are on special patrol in the city to try and guard against further occurrences. They cannot, however, go beyond the city limits And the provincial police, in whose jurisdiction the power line outside the city lies, cannot spare sufficient men to adequately safeguard the situation.

Widespread demand was voiced during the morning by business firms and public interests in the city for some emergency measures by the Government to safeguard the situation.

WIDESPREAD HAVOC The structures dynamited today were two steel transmission towers carrying high tension current from Shawinigan to Montreal. Their destruction followed in the wake of havoc wrought last night along the lakeshore, where a steel pole of the Montreal Light, Heat & Power Cons. was dynmaited at Summerlea, throwing one circuit out of commission and depriving the residents of Dorval, Ste. Anne De Bellevue, and the shore of light for two hours and one-half.

Union officials here disclaim any knowledge of the outrages and point to the fact that groups of their men  that they are not in sympathy with the destruction of property to achieve the ends of the striking line men.

THE COMPANY'S STATEMENT. The following statement was lasted by the Montreal Light Heat and Power Cons this morning: 

"At 9.30 this morning two steel transmission towers, property of the Shawinigan Water & Power Company, carrying high tension current from Shawinigan to Montreal were dynamited on Rosemount Boulevard near Pie IX. The towers fell to the ground severing the cables and completely interrupting the supply of electricity from that source." 

"During the night similar damage was committed on the high tension line from the Montreal Light, Heat and Power Cedars generating station when a steel pole east of Dorval was dynamited and service interrupted. Service was practically restored in two and one-half hours but repairs were not completed until 8:30 this morning. 

“Twenty-six transformers were maliciously cut out of service in various parts of the city but mostly in the North-End: two street lamps were damaged in the vicinity of Snowden."

J. W. McCallum, general secretary of the Canadian Electrical Trades Union of Montreal Linesmen and Helpers stated this morning that local union officials know "absolutely nothing" of the reported sabotage today.

“We disclaim any responsibility,” he said, "we have had nothing to do with it and we are keeping track of the actions of our men day and night.The men are patrolling the city in groups day and night. I was even out last night myself. There are 20 crews working from 3 o'clock in the afternoon until 2 in the morning, trying to get hold of the persons responsible for all the trouble.

“We have endeavored in every way to affect a settlement with officials of the company but our advances were met with unfavorable replies. It in possible that we may meet officials of the company today and reach a settlement, but that is still indefinite. The men are sticking solid and we are still waiting for the Provincial Government to take action.”

[joeandoliviap]

Joe buys his O line blinged our Rolex’s and all inclusive cruises but he’s too cheap to buy his girlfriend first class tickets??? 💀

Gifts to the offensive linemen will be public and he doesn’t want to look bad

[anthonybialy]

Reviewing the Reviewer with Brandon Beane and the Buffalo Bills

The person who scrutinizes talent should receive the same treatment.  There are more layers than expected.  But at least your college English classes provided real-world value.  Reviewing Brandon Beane’s record isn’t just about discovering symbolism.  Feel free to review what someone devoid of subtext done since he so kindly showed what he thought about criticism of it.  Try being fair to someone who isn’t.

A blackjack player who expects to win most of the time is going to help keep a casino in business.  Results indicate that a decent general manager can fail on half his picks.  Let’s aim for slightly above average.

Hitting on one of the best hands seems like bad math.  James Cook may be pouting his way out of town.  Scoring at a basketball rate has made the Bills thrilling.  Wondering whether the crucial sidekick will even be back to keep trying is just the start of concern.  It’s peak Bills fan thinking to note it will be tough to maintain his scoring pace.  But that’s also an acknowledgment of reality.  Selling high might be the best stock move.  Beane would have to replace a lot of points in the portfolio.

Walking away from a middling return is the next-best thing to a shrewd investment.  Adding Tremaine Edmunds in the same draft as Josh Allen embodies Beane’s results more accurately.  Offering mild productivity before jumping ship makes him a typical pick.  The wisest decision was letting Chicago overpay.

Beane drafted a number one receiver for the quarterback who deserves it most.  The catch it that it’s Khalil Shakir.  Through no fault of his own, a decent player is forced by default to become the team’s top option.

Being mean is sort-of okay if it’s based on a recent brutal underperformance.  Dalton Kincaid is only technically in the same class as O’Cyrus Torrence and Dorian Williams.  Remembering him for one play he didn’t make doesn’t seem fair until you realize that’s the job.  Also, remember the play itself if you like twitching.  

Ambivalence comes naturally.  Beane added Gregory Rousseau in the same draft as Boogie Basham, who’s never danced himself into an NFL start.  Consecutive drafts with average defensive linemen shows the checkered past can span over years.  A.J. Epenesa is a meh player who tries to trick you into enthusiasm with occasional bursts of fine play.  Ed Oliver is the prototypical uneven player who earns contracts every couple weeks.  He’s had a couple good seasons.  Unfortunately, they’ve been spread across even more.

Discussing who’s biggest bust offers cathartic relief.  I wish there weren’t multiple worthy options.  Kaiir Elam was a great Bill aside from the part of being good at football.  Meanwhile, knowing Cody Ford was going to be a project and leaving him unfinished in the toolshed.

Beane’s unearthed some mildly shiny gems from the middle ground.  They’ve gotten some productivity from players like Zack Moss and Gabriel Davis.  The latter allowed Jacksonville to learn in their way how occasional impressiveness isn’t worth a steady paycheck.  The Bills got a lot out of Devin Singletary for a third-round investment to the point where fans occasionally remember and even miss him.  Meanwhile, Dawson Knox goes from forgotten teammate to invaluable contributor in typical tight end fashion.

Every general manager is going to occasionally miss on predicting which quasi-college students will be able to match steps with some of Earth’s best athletes in an attempt to outrun or collide with them.  And every team wished it could be a little better.  This happens to be a particular moment when one virtually superhuman quarterback on the verge of saving the franchise could really use the help of other Hall of Justice regulars.

Smirking about the high point rate the Bills already maintain conceals obliviousness to an obvious response.  Beane should feel even crankier upon being asked logically how many more points they could score with even a mediocre receiving corps.  Allen truly is the most valuable player because he’s forced to do so much on his own.

Both sides are right.  Actually, let’s reframe that and classify both as wrong.  The refusal to accept that the object of criticism could have achieved some successes is as regrettable as reflexively defending a person who has a job gambling on sports results as if he has never made an incorrect prediction.  It’s not all one or the other, except when it comes to criticizing those who think just like that.  Acknowledging a mixed record is similar to how Sean McDermott is not an atrocious coach even if you think he should be fired and left on the plateau he’s reached.

Not focusing on giving the best quarterback Buffalo has ever had every amazing weapon possible is maddening.  That’s our present greatest unnecessary burden.  It’s the incumbent’s title.  If there must be a ranking, Allen tops it.  Arguing Jim Kelly was better because of Super Bowl appearances willfully disregards how football is a team game.  Bill Wennington is a three-time champion, so he must be better than Elgin Baylor.  Beane should note how fantastic Kelly’s receivers were.

Allen deserves to be spoiled.  He should spend Christmas morning landing Optimus Prime on the U.S.S. Flagg.  Beane would tell him to stop being so imaginative.

A general manager dedicated to depriving his greatest triumph of invaluable assistance is dedicated in his way.  Beane think he’s building character when he’s only alienating someone who already possesses the desired trait and is sick of getting harassed.  Anyone who survived Catholic school can sympathize with being given a hard time by pushy tyrants who think hardship helps create strong humans.  The opposite is true for those who already possess high character.  Fans and Allen are losing faith.

[lafbnetwork]

Los Angeles Chargers Add Huge 18 Member UDFA Class, Including Intriguing QB Prospect

After adding nine rookies via the 2025 NFL Draft class, the Los Angeles Chargers added another 18 rookies after the draft. This group will play a big factor after the team lost several starters and depth pieces in free agency. The UDFA class includes two centers, a position that will be hotly contested during training camp. They also added five defensive linemen after losing Joey Bosa, Poona…

[newsdarts]

2025 NFL Draft Position Rankings: OL Class is very full, with great options for safety of its QB

2025 NFL Draft Almost here, and Yahoo sports experts are breaking the top possibilities from the NAT TIS and Charles McDonald’s position. There are aggressive linemen here. Check NAT and Charles’ Common consent hereTogether Nate’s last big board And Charles’s last big board. Other possibility ranking: Institution , RBS , Relevant , T , Sides , International driving license , CBS Advertisement 1.…