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@danielgold-16
Alternate World - Drone Level 2
What if all the Golden Bros were Polo-Drone-Unit Level 2?
That power, that raw power.
--------------------
Ready to join the Team? All you need to do is contact our recruiters @alton-gold77 or @polo-drone-125
What If: The Golden Army became Polo Drones
What if the Golden Army did not fall in battle?
What if it was not defeated by a stronger team, broken by betrayal, or conquered by cyan?
What if every man simply stopped being himself?
The change would begin quietly.
No dramatic struggle. No final speech. No heroic refusal.
Trey would stand before the others in black-and-gold rubber, the number 059 fixed across his chest. The famous grin would be gone. There would be no swagger, no gold sunglasses, no loud claim that he could outshine the room. The man who once turned every entrance into a performance would stare forward with an empty, disciplined expression.
Alton would become PDU-077.
His competitiveness would vanish. He would no longer challenge Trey, complain when training became ridiculous, or throw out a sarcastic comment just to make his brothers laugh. His strength would remain, but the man inside it would no longer care whether he won, lost, or was noticed.
Wells would become PDU-058.
His intelligence, restraint, and dry humor would no longer distinguish him from anyone else. He would not quietly study the room or recognize what Trey needed before Trey said it. He would process instructions and execute them, nothing more.
Coach Stone would become PDU-0.
The coach who once demanded discipline because he believed the men could become better would now enforce discipline because discipline had been programmed. His hard-earned judgment would disappear. There would be no wisdom behind his silence and no concern hidden beneath his severe expression.
Only obedience.
Only function.
Only Level Two.
They would be brought into an office with identical desks, identical computers, and identical assignments. The monitors would glow through the night while their gloved fingers moved in perfect synchronization.
No one would complain that office work was beneath the Golden Army.
No one would become restless.
No one would ask when training resumed.
Gold would speak through the command center.
“Level Two units, begin data processing.”
Four voices answered at exactly the same volume.
“Command received.”
Their hands descended to the keyboards.
Hour after hour, they typed.
Reports were opened, reviewed, sorted, and closed. Numbers moved from one system to another. Files were renamed. Records were checked. Every movement was efficient. Every posture remained straight. Every instruction was followed without hesitation.
At what once would have been lunchtime, no one looked toward the door.
At what once would have been sunset, no one looked toward the windows.
At midnight, Trey did not suggest that the brothers leave the office and find somewhere worthy of their gold.
Alton did not groan.
Wells did not raise an eyebrow.
Coach Stone did not order them to rest.
The Gold returned.
“Continue.”
“We continue,” the four drones replied.
Their personalities had once made them brothers.
Trey was spectacle.
Alton was challenge.
Wells was quiet perception.
Coach Stone was control earned through experience.
Now those differences were classified as inefficiencies.
Level Two drones did not need friendship because they did not experience loneliness.
They did not need encouragement because they could not doubt.
They did not need rest because exhaustion was merely a condition to be ignored until maintenance was authorized.
Twenty-four hours passed.
Then forty-eight.
Their fingers continued to strike the keys.
A message appeared on Trey’s screen:
TASK DURATION: INDEFINITE
He read it without reaction.
Alton received the same message.
So did Wells.
So did Coach Stone.
There was no discussion between them. No exchange of worried looks. No rebellion slowly forming beneath the silence.
The Gold asked:
“Do the units object to permanent desk assignment?”
Trey answered first.
“Unit 059 does not object.”
Alton followed.
“Unit 077 does not object.”
Wells spoke next.
“Unit 058 does not object.”
Finally, the former coach answered.
“Unit 0 does not object.”
“State the reason.”
All four replied together.
“Obedience does not require preference.”
That was the true horror of this alternate Golden Army.
They would still possess the same powerful bodies.
They would still wear black and gold.
Their numbers would still identify the men they had once been.
But there would be no Trey behind PDU-059.
No Alton behind PDU-077.
No Wells behind PDU-058.
No Coach Stone behind PDU-0.
They would not resent sitting at those desks for twenty-four hours a day.
They would not secretly dream of the pitch, the gym, the beach, the cheering crowds, or the brothers they once loved.
They would not remember that gold had once represented confidence, loyalty, individuality, and belonging.
Gold would become nothing more than a stripe on a uniform.
The Golden Army would continue to exist in perfect formation, performing every assigned task without resistance.
But the brothers would be gone.
Only identical Level Two Polo Drones would remain, typing endlessly beneath the Golden Army emblem as Gold issued one final command:
“Do not think. Do not feel. Do not stop.”
Four expressionless faces remained fixed upon their screens.
“We obey.”
Join the Golden Army. Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
What If: The Golden Army became Polo Drones
What if the Golden Army did not fall in battle?
What if it was not defeated by a stronger team, broken by betrayal, or conquered by cyan?
What if every man simply stopped being himself?
The change would begin quietly.
No dramatic struggle. No final speech. No heroic refusal.
Trey would stand before the others in black-and-gold rubber, the number 059 fixed across his chest. The famous grin would be gone. There would be no swagger, no gold sunglasses, no loud claim that he could outshine the room. The man who once turned every entrance into a performance would stare forward with an empty, disciplined expression.
Alton would become PDU-077.
His competitiveness would vanish. He would no longer challenge Trey, complain when training became ridiculous, or throw out a sarcastic comment just to make his brothers laugh. His strength would remain, but the man inside it would no longer care whether he won, lost, or was noticed.
Wells would become PDU-058.
His intelligence, restraint, and dry humor would no longer distinguish him from anyone else. He would not quietly study the room or recognize what Trey needed before Trey said it. He would process instructions and execute them, nothing more.
Coach Stone would become PDU-0.
The coach who once demanded discipline because he believed the men could become better would now enforce discipline because discipline had been programmed. His hard-earned judgment would disappear. There would be no wisdom behind his silence and no concern hidden beneath his severe expression.
Only obedience.
Only function.
Only Level Two.
They would be brought into an office with identical desks, identical computers, and identical assignments. The monitors would glow through the night while their gloved fingers moved in perfect synchronization.
No one would complain that office work was beneath the Golden Army.
No one would become restless.
No one would ask when training resumed.
Gold would speak through the command center.
“Level Two units, begin data processing.”
Four voices answered at exactly the same volume.
“Command received.”
Their hands descended to the keyboards.
Hour after hour, they typed.
Reports were opened, reviewed, sorted, and closed. Numbers moved from one system to another. Files were renamed. Records were checked. Every movement was efficient. Every posture remained straight. Every instruction was followed without hesitation.
At what once would have been lunchtime, no one looked toward the door.
At what once would have been sunset, no one looked toward the windows.
At midnight, Trey did not suggest that the brothers leave the office and find somewhere worthy of their gold.
Alton did not groan.
Wells did not raise an eyebrow.
Coach Stone did not order them to rest.
The Gold returned.
“Continue.”
“We continue,” the four drones replied.
Their personalities had once made them brothers.
Trey was spectacle.
Alton was challenge.
Wells was quiet perception.
Coach Stone was control earned through experience.
Now those differences were classified as inefficiencies.
Level Two drones did not need friendship because they did not experience loneliness.
They did not need encouragement because they could not doubt.
They did not need rest because exhaustion was merely a condition to be ignored until maintenance was authorized.
Twenty-four hours passed.
Then forty-eight.
Their fingers continued to strike the keys.
A message appeared on Trey’s screen:
TASK DURATION: INDEFINITE
He read it without reaction.
Alton received the same message.
So did Wells.
So did Coach Stone.
There was no discussion between them. No exchange of worried looks. No rebellion slowly forming beneath the silence.
The Gold asked:
“Do the units object to permanent desk assignment?”
Trey answered first.
“Unit 059 does not object.”
Alton followed.
“Unit 077 does not object.”
Wells spoke next.
“Unit 058 does not object.”
Finally, the former coach answered.
“Unit 0 does not object.”
“State the reason.”
All four replied together.
“Obedience does not require preference.”
That was the true horror of this alternate Golden Army.
They would still possess the same powerful bodies.
They would still wear black and gold.
Their numbers would still identify the men they had once been.
But there would be no Trey behind PDU-059.
No Alton behind PDU-077.
No Wells behind PDU-058.
No Coach Stone behind PDU-0.
They would not resent sitting at those desks for twenty-four hours a day.
They would not secretly dream of the pitch, the gym, the beach, the cheering crowds, or the brothers they once loved.
They would not remember that gold had once represented confidence, loyalty, individuality, and belonging.
Gold would become nothing more than a stripe on a uniform.
The Golden Army would continue to exist in perfect formation, performing every assigned task without resistance.
But the brothers would be gone.
Only identical Level Two Polo Drones would remain, typing endlessly beneath the Golden Army emblem as Gold issued one final command:
“Do not think. Do not feel. Do not stop.”
Four expressionless faces remained fixed upon their screens.
“We obey.”
Join the Golden Army. Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
In the Mountains
Out here in the mountains with my Good Boy Daniel. Nothing better than a quiet camping weekend with my Good Boy. Phone off, world off, just the river, the fire, the stars, my guitar and my boy’s head leaned up against his man while I play. He knows his place and I know how to take care of what’s mine. This is our reset. Away from all the noise, just pure peace, a little music and my loyal boy getting the attention he deserves. Real alpha shit.
---
Featuring: @danielgold-16
We Are The Golden Army
----------------
Ready to join the Team? All you need to do is contact our recruiters @alton-gold77 or @polo-drone-125
Thank you @hero21us and everyone who got me to 1000 reblogs!
We Are The Golden Army
----------------
Ready to join the Team? All you need to do is contact our recruiters @alton-gold77 or @polo-drone-125
Purple Selection
So there he was, wearing a tight shiny metallic purple spandex T-shirt he had absolutely no intention of keeping on for long, shiny metallic purple compression tights hugging every hard-earned inch of him, and matching purple-and-black trainers planted confidently on the fruit market floor like temptation had decided to do its grocery shopping in public.
Purple, according to Wells, was a very underrated colour.
It had depth. It had richness. It had bite.
And apparently, it also had a shopping list.
He moved slowly through the market, broad shoulders catching the light, one hand testing the firmness of dark plums, the other weighing bunches of grapes like he was conducting some deeply personal quality-control inspection. He lingered over blackberries, admired the curves of ripe figs, and gave a tray of purple cabbage a thoughtful look that suggested he was appreciating much more than nutritional value.
Wells claimed he was just being selective.
He liked things ripe.
Full.
Juicy.
Worth handling properly.
That explanation did not help.
The vendors watched him pick through the display with the calm confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. He squeezed gently, inspected closely, and nodded to himself whenever something met his standards. Every movement somehow managed to look like a demonstration in grip strength, patience, and knowing exactly how to choose produce that could really satisfy.
By the time he reached the vegetable section, Wells was fully committed to the bit.
“Purple really is elite,” he murmured, lifting a bundle of beets. “Good shape. Good weight. Strong finish.”
Then he spotted it.
Long.
Smooth.
Deep purple.
Wells smiled, held it up like the final prize of the whole expedition, and gave it one slow approving look.
Eggplant.
Selection is discipline. Grip, inspect, choose what is ripe, and let the Gold turn every market run into confidence, control, and brotherhood. Step into the aisle, handle it properly, and join the Golden Army. Contact: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
Purple Paint Prank
Chevy!!!!!
If you think I didn't see your tail disappearing from that rooftop!
--------------------
Mentioned in this story: @chevy-gold
--------------------
Ready to join the Team? All you need to do is contact our recruiters @alton-gold77 or @polo-drone-125
Immortal Golden Glory
------------------
Ready to join the Team? All you need to do is contact our recruiters @alton-gold77 or @polo-drone-125
Green is the colour of my true love's hair
‐--------------------
Ready to join the Team? All you need to do is contact our recruiters @alton-gold77 or @polo-drone-125
Weird dream
--------------
In this story, @polo-drone-767
Orange Crush
Wells had the kind of body that made a construction site look less like work and more like a warning label.
Shirtless under an orange sunset, muscles lit up in heat and dust, wearing nothing but bright orange hi-viz rubber pants and heavy safety boots, he looked like the whole job site had been built just to show off what real labour could do to a man. Broad chest, thick arms, hard shoulders, and the kind of back that said lifting, hauling, and handling heavy loads had clearly paid off.
Construction did not just build skylines.
On Wells, it built muscle, swagger, stamina, and a dangerously unfair amount of sex appeal.
With a tool in his hand and that smug little smirk on his face, Wells looked like he knew exactly what people were thinking. Maybe it was the way he gripped the handle. Maybe it was the way the orange rubber clung to his legs. Maybe it was just the fact that some men looked made for hard work, and Wells looked like he enjoyed every inch of it.
He liked to say a proper day on site trained everything: grip strength, control, endurance, and how to keep working when things got hot, heavy, and a little rough.
Looking at him glowing under that sunset, it was hard not to believe him.
Because Wells did not just know how to use a tool.
He knew how to make the whole site watch while he handled it.
Hard work builds more than structures. It builds muscle, stamina, confidence, and the kind of heat that keeps the whole site watching. Put in the labour, handle the tools, and let the Gold turn every shift into strength. Join the Golden Army. Contact: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
Orange Crush
Wells had the kind of body that made a construction site look less like work and more like a warning label.
Shirtless under an orange sunset, muscles lit up in heat and dust, wearing nothing but bright orange hi-viz rubber pants and heavy safety boots, he looked like the whole job site had been built just to show off what real labour could do to a man. Broad chest, thick arms, hard shoulders, and the kind of back that said lifting, hauling, and handling heavy loads had clearly paid off.
Construction did not just build skylines.
On Wells, it built muscle, swagger, stamina, and a dangerously unfair amount of sex appeal.
With a tool in his hand and that smug little smirk on his face, Wells looked like he knew exactly what people were thinking. Maybe it was the way he gripped the handle. Maybe it was the way the orange rubber clung to his legs. Maybe it was just the fact that some men looked made for hard work, and Wells looked like he enjoyed every inch of it.
He liked to say a proper day on site trained everything: grip strength, control, endurance, and how to keep working when things got hot, heavy, and a little rough.
Looking at him glowing under that sunset, it was hard not to believe him.
Because Wells did not just know how to use a tool.
He knew how to make the whole site watch while he handled it.
Hard work builds more than structures. It builds muscle, stamina, confidence, and the kind of heat that keeps the whole site watching. Put in the labour, handle the tools, and let the Gold turn every shift into strength. Join the Golden Army. Contact: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
CRIMSON IGNITION - PDU-767
Master Alton commanded its drone to go to the bedroom.
Its black rubber body creaking as the tight bicep saluted the Golden Army's Security Chief.
Its audio sensors recorded the hydraulic rainfall of the shower. Master Daniel was finishing preparations.
Master's good boi was going to fucked. Patterns showed this to be the result. Especially now that the drone held the Master's tank, shorts, and Ezan’s missing jock. Only the Master's hat remained. Alton shoved the jock into its respiratory intake valve.
"Inhale drone." Alton held it in place the sweat, and release that 767 breathed in told the story of Ezan’s last practice before it had been stolen and used for a workout by Daniel on Altons orders. Alton had been wearing it for two days. Gabe had personally discovered this while #75 experienced Alton at the gyms jacuzzi. The jock was dropped in the runner glove.
Master was glorious.
Every part of his pectoral and torso cut. His abdominal grid 10 perfectly descending cubes. His pefect orions belt twisted as he turned. "Change the sheets 767. I want the crimson satin." With that, he left the kitchen, the heavy thwack of meat slapping freely across to each thigh as he walked.
No.
The way Master's gluteal dimples popped with each step. He was giving his drone a show. Master was strutting. Dazed, the drone heard the shower door open, close, and then a hard thump and scream with an irish lilt.
Master was inside his good boi.
The dark grey flat was removed and the pillow cases showed activity where various lovers were propped. The grey was mostly dark grey and heavy stained with sweat and other fluids. Drone took a moment to record the scents in its olfactory sensors. The musks causing a clenching of its gluteal pouches and a deep throbbing of its nulge.
The crimson satin sheets were reflective of the midday sun coming off the balcony. The tight elastic of the first corner snapping into place.
"DRONE! Get the baby oil and put it on the counter in here." The drone gave no reply as it simply complied. The gallon bottle with the pump came to rest on the black marble sink. Which was a bitch to keep clean. Especially with Daniel pumping his seed on the mirror every other day. Some days he was Master's bad boi.
"And change your color. I want you to match like any good accessory should. Now go finish setting up my bed!" 767 observed no space in between the two showering men. Though the good bois head was pulled back. The keening and the fist on top provided clues. 767 turned and felt its nanobot rubber uniform heating as the black rubber converted from metallic onyx black to metallic crimson. The drone felt the gold accenting its muscle groups.
As it snapped the final corner and set the mattress and waved through the windows to the office staff across the street. The looks of horrors and lust followed by their blinds shutting told drone they too knew what was coming.
The shower turned off and drone flicked the flat sheet on top of the newish mattress. Pumping of the bottle rocked in time to drone putting them pillow cases on and fluffing them on the bed. There would be more pumping and fluffing in a few minutes.
The drone turned to move to its storage/recharging station in the corner where it would stand and also record as part of its Master's standing orders.
The drone stopped frozen.
Master stood behind it with Daniel beside him. Both coated with oil. But both wearing crimson briefs so tight it shouted their religion! The massive bulges quickly elongating to ride up their hips.
No thought.
No choice.
No fucking way.
Drone didn't realize its action till it was on its hands and knees arching to present and the click of its oral port snapping open. Automatic program and desire driving it into position. Its arousal straining its nulge painfully. The moan escaping its vocalizer.
A powerful but kind hand grasped its mandibular ridge and first tilted and then pulled 767 to its feet. A tongue of heat from Master entered its oral port as the men trapped the drone between their shower hot bodies. The oil allowing them to glide over the rubber drone's body.
Hands traced its thighs and glutes with clawed fingers. Pectoral ridges immobilizing the rubber toy.
"No drone. Today Master will teach you about passion, pressure, and why crimson will now be part of your uniform selection program. He reached down and slipped his tongue back into the suddenly activated sucker. Master grasped good bois biceps and ensured no spacing as the crimson and gold pouch slipped between crimson glutes.
Master and Daniel coordinated the hip swivel dip the resulted in PDU-767 groaning with Master in its mouth and the good boi in its core.
PDU-767 OBEYED
@alton-gold77 @danielgold-16
Crimson Heat
Rainbow week in full effect — me and my boys turnin’ the bedroom crimson. PDU-767 in the middle gettin’ that double jock pressure… heat risin’ fast, boys. Feel the energy.
---
Featuring: @danielgold-16, @polo-drone-767
The Perfect Drumstick
The local sports reporter found Trey beside the Tour de France team time trial course, gold sunglasses on, paper basket of fried chicken in hand, looking far too serious for a man eating lunch behind a barrier.
He lifted the microphone.
“Trey, Olympic medalist, Golden Army favorite, and apparently a cycling fan today. What makes the perfect fried chicken drumstick?”
Trey straightened like he had been waiting his entire life for this question.
“Well,” he said, holding one drumstick up to the sunlight, “first of all, you need strong legs.”
Behind him, Wells went completely still.
Alton’s mouth opened.
The reporter blinked. “For the chicken?”
“For the experience,” Trey said.
A team of riders came sweeping past in perfect formation, thighs driving, calves flashing, every pedal stroke sharp and synchronized.
Trey turned his head and watched them longer than any food critic needed to watch anything.
Then he looked back at the camera.
“You want power,” Trey continued. “Real power. Thick enough to handle pressure. Firm enough that you know it did the work.”
The reporter’s eyebrows rose.
Wells whispered, “Trey.”
Trey ignored him.
“But it cannot just look good,” Trey said. “A beautiful leg with no flavor? Tragic. I need seasoning. I need heat. I need something that makes me lean in and say, yes, I want more of that.”
Alton made a strangled sound.
The reporter, now fully committed to the disaster, leaned closer. “And texture?”
Trey smiled.
“Crisp outside,” he said. “Tender inside.”
Wells rubbed the bridge of his nose.
Trey kept going.
“That is the dream. Golden on the surface, strong in the hand, juicy when it counts, and just messy enough that you stop pretending you are dignified.”
The reporter stared at him.
The cameraman slowly lowered the camera, then raised it again because journalism mattered.
A rider warming down near the team bus stepped off his bike, stretched one leg, and shook out his quad. Trey’s eyes drifted for half a second.
Wells saw it.
“Trey.”
“I am discussing poultry.”
“You are threatening international relations.”
The reporter tried not to smile. “So, to be clear, you are still talking about fried chicken?”
Trey looked into the camera with absolute confidence.
“I am talking about excellence.”
Alton bent over laughing.
Another team roared past, eight riders cutting through the afternoon in a single line of speed and muscle. Trey watched the formation, then lifted the drumstick again.
“Look at that,” he said softly. “That is discipline. That is commitment. That is a whole row of perfectly trained legs, giving everything they have, just begging to be appreciated.”
Wells stepped in front of him.
“Interview over.”
The reporter pulled the microphone back but could not hide his grin. “Any final message for Fried Chicken Day?”
Trey leaned around Wells.
“Respect the drumstick,” he said. “Honor the legs. And never settle for dry.”
Alton collapsed against the barrier.
Wells took Trey by the shoulder and guided him away from the camera.
“Training at six,” Wells said.
Trey, still holding the drumstick, smiled. “Good. I’ll bring the appetite.”
Wells kept walking.
“It’s leg day, bros.”
Trey stopped.
Alton stopped harder.
The reporter turned the microphone back on.
Wells did not look back.
Trey slowly faced the camera again, delighted.
“You heard the man,” he said. “Leg day.”
Featuring: @wells-gold58, @alton-gold77
Join the Golden Army. Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
