Frat Boy Matt

[fratttymatty]

Taking Requests!

Yo, so if you guys would like, feel free to put in requests for stories for me to write. It can be a story prompt, a would you rather become _ or _, a wish, anything.

No requests which are massively sexual as I don’t like those lol, you can suggest anything you want bros.

Peace out dudesss!

[fratttymatty]

The Unmaking of Noah Vale

18 February

Noah Vale had always lived on the edge of things — not out of defiance, but because the world seemed to circle too fast around people unlike him. A soft-bodied, bookish twenty-four-year-old with a deep love of queer cinema, Marxist theory, and feminist podcasts, Noah’s idea of rebellion usually involved staying up late to argue online or sip matcha in cozy subreddits. He was proud of his softness — it was radical, or so he told himself — though privately, he sometimes wished his body reflected the quiet hunger he carried for something… more.

That’s when he found it.

The drink sat almost glowing under the fluorescent hum of the corner store freezer: AmpX Surge — slick metallic blue can, lightning bolt logo, tagline promising “Uncontainable Power.” He’d only stopped in for a snack, but something about it called to him. Maybe it was the caffeine. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was the way his reflection gleamed faintly in the aluminum curve, looking smaller, rounder, and more uncertain than he wanted.

He cracked it open right there outside the shop.

The taste hit first — metallic, sour-sweet electricity that flooded his tongue, then his veins. His heart kicked, his chest tightened, and he stumbled back against the brick wall, gasping, thinking at first he was having a sugar crash. But then came the heat. It started beneath his skin, a glowing pulse, spreading through every nerve ending like molten sunlight.

His shirt dampened as his body began to tense, muscles tightening and expanding, pressing against the cotton until it stretched and tore down the center. His belly flattened, defined ridges pushing through once-soft flesh. Shoulders broadened, arms ballooned with sinewy strength, tattoos coiling beautifully as his skin spread over the new frame. His legs lengthened; his whole body surged upward—six feet, then taller still, until he loomed a full 6'4", the world suddenly smaller beneath him.

Noah gasped, his voice deeper now, vibrating in his chest. His reflection in the window glass stopped him cold: tousled brown hair catching the sun, hard jaw, high cheekbones, wide chest sculpted like it belonged to someone who lived in the gym. His underwear sat low on narrow hips, the outlines of new strength moving under his skin as he shifted. He felt the raw animal power of his new frame — even the weight of his breath carried something primal.

He touched his chest, tracing the dip between abs that hadn’t been there before, and felt the strangest mix of thrill and disbelief. The air smelled sharper; his heartbeat slower, heavier. His body hummed with potential, with danger. But his thoughts… his thoughts were still his. Noah Vale, the boy who had once written essays about dismantling toxic masculinity, stood there now as its breathtaking embodiment — and yet, he was still him.

For now.

19 February

The morning sunlight spilled like liquid gold across Noah’s apartment floor, and for a moment, he forgot what had happened. His mind floated lazily between caffeine withdrawal and disbelief until he sat up — and the world tilted. His legs hit the end of the bed much sooner than they used to, sheets clinging to the sculpted terrain of muscle that hadn’t existed yesterday.

“Oh my god,” he breathed. The words came out lower. Rougher. Sexy, except it was him.

Noah swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. The mirror across from him caught him in full view. It was impossible to look away. That same tousled brown hair framed a face that could have graced a campus fitness flyer; every line of his body glowed with definition. The incongruity of it all made him grin awkwardly. Okay, sure. Magic muscle juice. Why not?

Somehow, he felt calmer than he expected. His mind was still very much his — analytical, gentle, a little neurotic. And still very skincare-obsessed. So naturally, his next move wasn’t to test his new strength, but to grab his cleanser. If weird supernatural transformation energy could do this to his body, he wasn’t about to let it mess with his skin barrier.

He leaned over the sink, the porcelain now a little lower than usual, and splashed cool water across his face. His thick fingers felt strange against his sharper jaw and new cheekbones. The texture of his skin was different — smoother, somehow. Dewy. He still went through the motions anyway: double-cleanse, toner, serum, moisturizer, SPF. Ritual comfort. A piece of the old him anchoring the new.

When he finished, he caught his reflection and blinked. The glow was unreal — not influencer-filter glow, but almost solar. He sniffed the air and laughed softly. “God, did my pheromones change too?” He half-joked, half-wondered.

He pulled on joggers — tighter than he remembered — and poured himself coffee, carefully avoiding accidentally crushing the mug. Every movement was unfamiliar but thrilling, like wearing power itself. Yet, underneath it all, Noah felt a pulse of worry.

What if this body was a loan? What if the drink’s effects wore off? He didn’t want to go back completely — not because he rejected himself, but because for the first time, his outside didn’t feel like armor against the world. It matched his energy.

He sat on the couch, scrolling through radical news feeds with one hand and subconsciously flexing the other, studying the muscle move under skin. “Still me,” he whispered, almost like a promise. “Still Noah.”

Noah had always liked color. Even back in his softer days, his wardrobe leaned bright — fitted tees with slogans from art museums, thrifted pastel jackets, and the occasional ironic crop top. So it made sense that when he finally decided to go out, he reached for the boldest thing he owned: a pink button-down shirt, linen, airy, the kind that said thoughtful but hot.

Only now, it didn’t quite fit the same way.

The fabric stretched across his shoulders and refused to close down the front, leaving his new chest and abs visible in the morning light spilling through his Los Angeles apartment window. The air outside buzzed with freeway noise and sun-glare, the city coming alive below. Noah looked at himself in the mirror one last time before heading out.

“Still me,” he muttered, smoothing his hair back with one hand. “Just… upgraded.”

When he stepped into the heat, heads turned. At first he didn’t notice — or pretended not to — but the lingering glances followed him down the block. Two girls giggled behind iced coffees; a jogger slowed down for a double take. He felt the familiar flutter of social anxiety rise up… but this time, it fizzled before it reached his chest. Replaced by something else. Something warm. Power.

The pink shirt caught a breeze, brushing lightly against his skin. He caught his reflection in a shop window — sunlight hitting his abs like a camera ad — and smirked without meaning to.

“Damn,” he murmured. It wasn’t arrogance, exactly. More like fascination. Like he was seeing someone new wearing his name.

At the café, he ordered an oat milk latte (because muscle or not, dairy still wasn’t happening). The barista’s eyes didn’t quite leave him, and when she asked for his name on the cup, he hesitated — not to change it, but because part of him expected a different one to come out.

“Noah,” he said, still steady. Still sure.

But when she smiled and said, “Cool name,”he felt it deeper than usual. The compliment traveled through him in a way that wasn’t entirely innocent. He liked how it felt — the brief moment of admiration, the acknowledgment of power he’d never had before.

Sipping his drink at an outdoor table, Noah scrolled through social media, half-listening to his own thoughts. He still believed everything he used to: compassion, inclusivity, equity. But today he caught himself flexing a little as he reached for his phone, noticing how the sleeve strained around his forearm. Catching his reflection in the dark screen, he grinned — confident, maybe a touch too aware of himself.

Not narcissistic. Just… tuned in.

25 February

By week two, Noah had a rhythm. Mornings meant coffee, cold showers, a full skincare lineup, and now—shaving. He’d never been the type to care much about stubble before; back then it came in patchy, soft, barely an afterthought on his rounder face. But now, every sunrise brought a shadow that traced his jawline in dark, deliberate lines.

He shaved most days.

There was something satisfying about it — the rasp of the razor against smooth skin, the ritual precision of it. He’d towel off, apply aftershave, and watch himself in the mirror, catching how the fluorescent bathroom light dipped along those new angles of his cheekbones. It wasn’t vanity exactly; it was maintenance. Still, the thrill of owning a face that could stop conversation without even trying hadn’t vanished.

The pink shirt had become something of a uniform. In California’s heat, it fit the vibe: open, breezy, unapologetic. Today, he paired it with jeans that hung low on his hips and white sneakers that clicked against the pavement as he walked to the local farmer’s market.

He used to melt into crowds — headphones in, timid posture, eyes down. But now… people seemed to orbit around him differently. A guy by the food truck called out, “Nice fit, bro!” and Noah flashed him a grin that came naturally — just a touch cocky, pulsing with new charm.

He caught himself grinning more these days. Smirking, even. Not in a cruel way, but in an I know what I look like now sort of way. Sometimes he’d run a hand absently down his stomach without realizing, tracing the cut lines of muscle through his shirt, feeling the clean smoothness of his recently shaved jaw as if reminding himself this was real.

Later that night, after a long shower and another shave, Noah rubbed moisturizer into his chest and shoulders. The man in the mirror stared back — glowing skin, brown eyes lit with confidence. Somewhere inside all that strength and smoothness, the same mind still ticked quietly — thoughtful, proud, curious. But the balance was shifting, gently.

Because with each shave, each turn of the head in the mirror, he was learning to like what he saw — maybe a little too much.

4 March

By the third week, Noah’s mornings began at the gym. Not because he felt he had to — the body the drink gave him already looked engineered — but because he wanted to feel what that power could do. There was something grounding in it, something meditative. Where once his workouts had been half-hearted treadmill sessions and occasional yoga, now he loaded plates onto barbells, feeling the controlled weight pull and drive through his arms. Sweat ran down between his shoulder blades, catching the low gym light like liquid glass.

He liked the rhythm. The raw physicality. The hum of effort, the way his breathing synced with the bass-heavy songs on someone else’s playlist. Still, inside the noise and the movement, his mind wandered as it always did — wondering about ethics, wanting balance, hoping he wasn’t losing his softness even as his body hardened.

After each session, he’d wipe his face, catch sight of his reflection in the wall mirror, and laugh a little under his breath. The guy staring back had the kind of physique that people posted for likes. And though Noah told himself he didn’t care about that stuff — social validation, shallow approval, all that toxic hierarchy nonsense — a small part of him still reached for his phone.

He started documenting his progress.

At first, it was just one post — a mirror selfie in the locker room, captioned with his usual lowercase humor: “still the same inside. just heavier groceries now 💪.” It got more likes than anything he’d ever posted. Old friends commented shocked emojis, and a few of his former classmates messaged things like “dude, what happened to you??”

It was flattering. And addictive.

Soon he was taking more pictures: sunlight shots on his balcony, post-gym mirror pics, casual flexes paired with ironic quotes about identity. He told himself it was part of a body-acceptance narrative — and maybe it was. But each time he angled the camera and saw himself through the lens, the pleasure sharpened. The pride grew.

That night, scrolling through his own feed, Noah smiled. Still himself — the same ideals, humor, playlists, and skincare routine. But somewhere between squats and selfies, he’d found something new: not arrogance, but an appreciation for being visible.

For being seen.

5 March

The next morning, Noah woke before his alarm — unusual for him. Sunlight streamed through his apartment blinds, casting soft bars of gold across his duvet. His muscles tensed and flexed as he stretched, the sheet sliding down to reveal the kind of definition that still startled him.

Another day, another version of this uneasy new normal.

He showered, toweled off, and reached for his familiar lineup of products on the bathroom shelf — cleanser, toner, serum, moisturizer, SPF. The ritual was second nature, but today, something about it felt... cinematic. Watching himself in the mirror, skin glistening with droplets, the strong angles of his face catching the light, he suddenly thought: Why not share this?

He balanced his phone on the counter, hit record, and began his morning routine like a tutorial — voice calm, deliberate, still the same soft cadence he’d always had when explaining things online.

“Hydration is key, especially if you’re out in the sun,” he said, smoothing product across his jaw. “And don’t skip SPF just because you think melanin or masculinity protects you — they don’t.”

He smiled at his own comment, half amused, half pleased at how natural he sounded.

Within minutes, he had a clipped, easy video. He added lo-fi background music, posted it to his socials, and went about his day.

By noon, the notifications were relentless. Comments poured in — some from his old circles praising his glow, others from strangers who seemed mesmerized. A few were thirstier than he expected. He blushed reading them, then laughed softly. Still, beneath the humor, something fluttered in his chest — a quick flick of pride that wasn’t entirely innocent.

Later that evening, he scrolled through the comments again. Sure, his abs looked sharp, his jaw cleaner than ever, but what mattered to him was that his message stayed intact. He hadn’t sold out. He was still Noah — aware, kind, and yes, queer as ever.

He smirked at his reflection. “Still think guys are hot,” he murmured, grinning. “Doesn’t matter how good I look now — that’s not changing.”

And then he caught himself in that soft apartment glow, phone camera lingering on his face. He looked good, confident, alive. He shot another picture — mask of clay spread across his face, tongue out playfully — and hit post.

For once, he didn’t overthink it.

6 March

The next morning came fast. The L.A. light was pouring through his blinds by seven, golden, loud, and unapologetic — kind of like he was starting to feel.

Noah moved lazily through his apartment, every muscle stretching in ways that still felt new, powerful. The skincare bottles lined up on his bathroom shelf glinted in the sun, relics of an old ritual. He stared at them for a moment, lips twitching into a half-smile. He didn’t really care about all that today. The motivation had dulled — not because he’d changed at the core, but because his skin just seemed... unbothered now, effortless.

Still, he made his bed, propped his phone on the counter, and filmed a brief clip: him applying toner, smiling with a practiced, easy confidence. It wasn’t about skincare anymore — not really. It was content.

He uploaded it without overthinking, captioning it half-ironically: “hydrate and dominate.”

Then he grabbed his gym bag.

The gym had oddly become his favorite place; it was noisy, sweaty, and sort of primal — but there was something honest about it. Reps didn’t lie, form didn’t fake. He loved watching his strength turn into motion, the quiet burn in his chest as he pushed another set. Every mirror caught flashes of definition, subtle flexes, and the proud, open energy that had slipped in lately.

Afterward, instead of recording his skincare cooldown like usual, he took a few gym selfies — nothing wild, just confident. One with his shirt off, towel around his neck, light hitting the lines across his abs; another in the locker-room mirror, expression steady, slightly smug.

Back home, he flicked through the shots. They looked good — better than good. He chose a few and posted them to his feed, letting the likes roll in. The validation buzzed quietly somewhere between his ribs.

He still posted his skincare routines — for the followers, for the aesthetics — but he cared less about the serum now, and more about the way his reflection looked in the light.

Still himself — smart, kind, grounded — but learning that confidence, too, was a kind of performance.

And honestly? He didn’t mind leaning into it.

7 March

The next morning felt different, though Noah couldn’t say why at first. He woke up slowly, sunlight spilling over the sheets, phone buzzing beside his head. Another surge of notifications — comments, new followers, a few DMs that made him grin in sleepy amusement.

He stretched, the movement pulling across his chest and arms. He’d meant to hit the gym early, but when he caught his reflection in the mirror, he paused once again, absently brushing his fingers through his hair. The guy who looked back — strong, relaxed, easy in his skin — wasn’t so much a stranger now as someone he was still getting to know.

After breakfast, he threw on a tank top and jeans and headed out. It was warm today, the kind of SoCal afternoon that shimmered with movement and noise. He stopped by a smoothie stand, waiting in line behind a few people, half-distracted scrolling through his feed.

That’s when he noticed her — the girl in front of him. Brown curls, T-shirt knotted at the waist, eyeliner catching the sun. She glanced back, gave him a small nod and a smile before turning back around.

It shouldn’t have hit him the way it did, but it did. Something warm tightened low in his stomach. Not just appreciation — attraction. He blinked, processing. The feeling wasn’t new, just different. He’d always been drawn to men — still was, still found himself double-taking when someone handsome passed him by — but now something about her energy, her voice as she ordered, stirred him.

Huh, he thought, studying his smoothie like it might hold the answer. That’s... new. But okay.

He walked out, sipping slowly, trying to untangle the feeling. It didn’t replace anything — it just added to something already there. An expansion, not a rewrite. For someone who prided himself on fluidity and open-mindedness, it almost felt fitting.

That night, lounging shirtless on the couch, he found himself posting again — an effortless photo in the dying light, soft expression, shadowed abs. The comments rolled in: compliments from guys, some from girls. This time, when he saw the ones from women, his cheeks flushed in a way that surprised him.

He didn’t resist it or overthink it. He just smiled, typed a few replies, and lay back, phone glowing against his chest.

Still himself. Just... seeing more, feeling wider.

And maybe, for the first time, not trying to define it.

8 March

Noah woke before sunrise, unusually alert. The apartment was still, tinted blue by early light. He tugged open his dresser drawer and spotted the hoodie folded on top — soft cotton, bright pink, slightly faded from dozens of washes. One of his favorites. He pulled it on, breathing in the clean detergent scent that reminded him of an easier version of himself.

The mirror reflected warmth: broad shoulders filling the fabric, the hem brushing against sculpted abs when he moved. For a moment, he smiled at the mix — tough frame, gentle color. It felt balanced. Still Noah.

By mid‑morning, he was out again, heading to a café near the boardwalk. The place buzzed with sunlight and chatter, espresso machines hissing like background rhythm. He ordered his usual and found a seat by the window, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. He started flipping through photos on his phone — gym shots, skincare clips he hadn’t bothered to edit yet — and caught himself grinning.

A group of students sat nearby, two women among them laughing over something on a laptop. One met his eyes, briefly, and smiled. Her freckles caught the light, and something in him clicked again. Not just attraction — genuine interest. He liked her laugh, the way she gestured when she talked. These feelings had been flickering for days, but now they felt louder, clearer, as if his brain and body had finally synced up.

He blinked, half‑surprised by the strength of it. Liking women didn’t erase the part of him that still found guys attractive, but lately, that spark had shifted balance. His gaze lingered more often on softness, curves, voices that carried warmth. And he wasn’t fighting it anymore.

Later that evening, walking home through the mellow Los Angeles dusk, Noah caught his reflection again in a shop window — pink hoodie bright against the dim sky. The color looked almost out of place now, childish maybe, like something from another chapter.

He didn’t know it yet, but this would be the last day he’d wear it. Not because he stopped liking color — but because changes were stacking quietly beneath the surface, waiting for their cue.

For now, though, he tugged the hood up with a lazy grin, earbuds in, and kept walking. The city lights flickered against his reflection — a man mid‑shift, still himself, just not for long.

9 March

The next morning, Noah woke later than usual, a faint ache in his shoulders from yesterday’s workout. The pink hoodie lay draped over the back of a chair, forgotten. In the cooler light of morning, the color almost irritated him — loud, childish, too sweet for the clean lines and calm strength he now felt pulsing through him.

He stared at it while sipping coffee, feeling a twist of something that might have been distaste. Weird, he thought. Was it always that bright?

He pulled on a gray T‑shirt instead — simple, fitted, solid — and liked how it looked. Neutral. Effortless. Real.

Out on the street, the usual sunshine felt crisp rather than warm. He caught himself glancing at people passing by, that mix of curiosity and attraction now leaning hard in a new direction. A group of women jogged by, ponytails bouncing; his gaze lingered longer than he meant it to. Their energy hit him like adrenaline — not from vanity or lust alone, but something more magnetic.

He shook his head slightly, amused, almost dazed. “Guess that’s new,” he murmured.

At the café, he bumped into a guy he used to talk to from the gym — handsome, easygoing, the kind of guy who once made him nervous in a good way. But as they chatted, Noah found himself distracted, detached almost. The spark wasn’t there anymore. When the guy complimented his progress, Noah thanked him politely but didn’t feel the same charge.

Later in the afternoon, passing a shop window, he caught a glimpse of himself again. The gray shirt, the confident posture, the way the light hit his arms. His reflection made him proud, yes — but the pink hoodie tossed over his shoulder made him pause.

He barely recognized it now.

Pink on guys just looks… off, he thought suddenly, the judgment catching him off guard. The same color he’d always defended, worn proudly, felt foreign now. The thought unsettled him — but not enough to stop it from settling in.

He tossed the hoodie into a donation bin on the walk home. Didn’t think twice.

At dinner that night, scrolling through his feed, he noticed most of his selfies were black, gray, or white now. Simple. Clean. Strong. Something had shifted again, quietly but deeply — not just in his preferences, but in what he found appealing in others, and in himself.

For the first time, the reflection staring back at him looked exactly how he wanted it to.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, a question lingered — the smallest whisper of wonder and unease: What’s happening to me next?

10 March

By the following morning, the shift had settled in like muscle memory. The moment Noah’s phone lit up beside his bed, he was already scrolling — not out of boredom, but out of habit. He liked seeing the reactions, the messages, the admiration. His feed had become its own reflection, and he had learned to enjoy every angle of it.

He dressed the way he felt: simple white T‑shirt, jeans perfectly cut, sneakers spotless. When he checked himself in the mirror, there was confidence there — not posed, not fragile, just solid. He liked who he saw, and more importantly, he liked how people reacted to it.

The change in attraction had come quietly, but it was obvious now. At the gym, the guys he once found attractive were just… guys. Good people to spot for, share protein tips with, grab post‑workout shakes. Brothers in routine. A sense of camaraderie replaced every flicker of prior curiosity.

Women, though — that was different. Every conversation, every laugh, every glance across a room sparked something quick and eager in him. He’d catch himself smiling a little wider when a woman complimented his look, or when someone touched his arm mid‑conversation. The chemistry was magnetic, instinctive, new but natural.

Later that afternoon, he filmed a few quick videos — gym updates, mirror shots, a playful one sipping his shake between sets. He posted them all. It wasn’t just about showing off anymore; he loved the interaction, the wave of attention, the feeling of being seen. It was part of who he was now — open, relaxed, almost effortlessly confident.

That evening, his notifications glowed nonstop as he scrolled through comments — some funny, some flirtatious. The ones from women drew his focus. He typed replies, casual, a little charming without meaning to be.

Somewhere in the rhythm of it — messages, laughter, reflections — a quiet realization settled in:

He didn’t miss how things used to feel. Not the colors, not the old softness, not the old balance. This was him now.

Still Noah, still grounded, but different — steadier, sharper, surer. And maybe, in some strange way, finally content.

11 March

By the next day, Noah’s morning felt as streamlined as his reflection. No long skincare ritual, no lineup of bottles along the sink. He still kept the razor — that, he decided, was non‑negotiable — but the rest felt unnecessary now. His skin looked fine on its own; smooth, sun‑touched, clean. Maybe all that extra stuff had always been too much work anyway.

He splashed cold water on his face, shaved carefully along his jaw, and stared at the result. Sharp, neat, masculine. Exactly right.

Dressing had become easy too. Neutral colors, simple cuts. He didn’t even glance at the old section of his closet anymore — the pastel leftovers, the patterned shirts he used to love. Instead, he grabbed a gray hoodie, dark jeans, and, for the first time, the new navy baseball cap he’d bought the day before.

When he slipped it on and adjusted the brim, something about it felt instantly natural. Comfortable. Cool. It framed his face differently, made him look grounded, confident. He took a mirror selfie — a soft smirk, the cap turned slightly back — and hit post without thinking.

By the time he got to the gym, three people had already commented. He grinned, sliding the cap a little lower as he warmed up. It wasn’t just about looking good anymore; he liked the way the hat felt like part of his identity — low‑key, sharp, solid.

“New look suits you,” one of the regulars said as they passed weights.

“Yeah,” Noah replied easily, adjusting the brim again. “Feels right.”

He didn’t miss the skincare bottles waiting at home. Didn’t miss the color pink, or the extra layers of meaning he used to attach to every expression of masculinity. Life just felt simpler now — no constant over‑analysis, no endless checking of himself. He still believed in kindness and honesty, but everything else had stripped down to what mattered: effort, drive, clarity.

By evening, as he scrolled through his feed — another pile of likes, mostly from women — he caught his reflection in the phone screen again, ball cap tilted back, clean‑shaven jawline strong in the glow.

He smiled, feeling a quiet certainty settle in. The man looking back wasn’t performing anymore.

He just was.

12 March

The next morning hit Noah differently. He woke buzzing with energy, muscle coiled and ready before his mind had even caught up. His workouts had been heavier lately, his heartbeat deeper, steadier, his patience shorter. Even walking down the street, he felt keyed‑up—aware of space, of sound, of everyone around him. It wasn’t anger, exactly; just power with nowhere to go.

That afternoon, on his way out of the gym, it finally found an outlet. A guy in the parking lot was shouting at a woman near her car, gesturing too close. Noah’s body moved before his brain did. He stepped in, voice firm, steady, a warning disguised as calm. The guy didn’t back off, words turned to shoves, and within moments it was over—quick, messy, more instinct than thought.

Noah stood breathing hard, the woman shaken but unhurt, the other man stalking off with nothing worse than a bruised ego. His lip was split and there was a cut along the bridge of his nose. He wiped the blood with the back of his hand, adrenaline still humming like static.

She thanked him, voice trembling. “You didn’t have to—”

“Yeah, I did,” he said quietly, almost surprised at how certain it sounded.

Back home, the energy still clung to him. He showered, cleaned the cut, then stopped in front of the mirror. The thin line of red across his lip made him look rough, almost cinematic. On impulse, he snapped a photo: shirtless, fresh from the fight, eyes bright, jaw set. The caption came easy—“earned this one.”

Within minutes, his phone started flashing. TikTok, Instagram—likes piling in. Comments split between awe and curiosity. He scrolled through them, touching the sore spot on his lip, still half-smiling.

It wasn’t just vanity. It was validation—the physical proof that he could act, protect, win.

And without the cap, nothing hid his face. The rawness of it, the cut, the breath still lingering in his expression—it all felt alive in a way he hadn’t before.

He leaned back against the counter, phone buzzing in his hand, and thought: Maybe this was what strength really felt like.

13 March

By the next morning, Noah’s fight post was everywhere. The photo—cut lip, faint bruise, no shirt, no cap—had racked up thousands of likes across both platforms. The comments ranged from impressed to thirsty to genuinely curious. But one message in particular stood out: hers.

“Hey, it’s me. From yesterday. Hope you’re okay 😊”

He smiled reading it. Something in his chest loosened — a warmth cutting clean through the leftover adrenaline from the day before.

He typed back,

“Yeah, I’m good. Just a few scratches. How about you?”

She replied almost instantly. Within a few messages, she mentioned she’d wanted to thank him properly. And before he could overthink it, Noah asked if she wanted to grab coffee that afternoon.

When she said yes, he felt that new pulse again—a mix of excitement and grounded certainty. No nerves. Just a steady, curious energy.

A few hours later, they met at a small café off Sunset. She looked different out of that tense moment—relaxed now, smiling easily, eyes soft. Noah ordered for both of them without thinking, his voice lower, easy, confident.

“I still can’t believe you did that,” she said once they sat down. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

He shrugged, leaning back, careful not to look smug. “Didn’t feel like a choice. You just… looked like you needed help.”

She smiled, biting her lip. “Well, you were right.”

Conversation came easily after that. They talked about random things—work, movies, workouts. He liked her laugh, the way she played with her coffee cup while she spoke. It wasn’t just physical attraction anymore; it was connection, curiosity. Something he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

Before they parted, she leaned forward, fingers brushing his arm lightly. “You’re full of surprises, Noah,” she said, grin catching sunlight.

He walked home after, still feeling the ghost of her touch warming his skin. Later that night, he posted a mirror pic with no caption—just a small smile, still that faint bruise on his lip.

No tough energy this time—just calm. It didn’t need words. The world would read it however they wanted.

20 March

A week passed faster than Noah expected. What had started as a spontaneous coffee turned into a string of late‑afternoon meet‑ups, texts that stretched past midnight, and long drives with the city glow sliding across the windshield.

Maya fit into his days like a rhythm he hadn’t realized was missing. She was sharp, funny, always teasing him when his confidence edged toward cockiness. When she laughed, it had a way of disarming him, pulling him back to the quiet parts of himself he thought he’d outgrown.

They met after his gym session that Friday afternoon—her idea. She liked seeing him sweaty and unguarded, she’d joked, and he pretended to roll his eyes though the grin gave him away. They grabbed burgers at a diner, his hand tracing lazy circles on hers across the table.

“So,” Maya said, raising a brow, “you always rescue strangers and start dating them after?”

He laughed. “Only the cute ones.”

She smirked. “Good policy.”

They’d fallen into something that felt both natural and strange. Noah still posted — he loved the rush of attention — but his content had started to shift again: fewer gym clips, more casual snaps, her hand sometimes half visible on his arm, her laugh faintly heard behind the camera. The comments noticed. “Who’s the mystery girl?” “Is this the one from the fight?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

At night, when they curled up on his couch, Maya tracing the faint scar on his lip, Noah felt quieter inside. The restlessness that had driven him for weeks had softened into focus. He wasn’t the same person who’d bought that energy drink at the convenience store — not physically, not even emotionally — but sitting there, Maya’s head on his shoulder, he realized change didn’t have to mean loss.

He’d traded uncertainty for presence. For a heartbeat that knew exactly where it belonged.

23 March

A few days later, Noah found himself studying his reflection in a tattoo studio mirror. The hum of the needle filled the space like a heartbeat — steady, mechanical, almost soothing.

He’d told Maya it was spontaneous. Truthfully, he’d been thinking about it for days. The shift inside him had been steady, subtle, and permanent — now he wanted something on the outside to match.

The artist finished the linework, wiped his forearm clean, and leaned back. The design was sharp, geometric — a mix of strength and motion. He flexed, watching the ink move with his muscles. It looked right.

When he got home, Maya raised a brow. “You actually did it.”

He grinned, lifting his arm so she could see. “You like?”

She smiled, shaking her head. “Yeah. It fits you.”

The next day, he posted a photo — shirtless, new tattoo catching the light. The caption was short: “New ink. New energy.” Within minutes, the comments flooded in — admiration, questions, heart emojis. He scrolled through them all, pride stirring at the mix of attention and awe.

Lately, that pride had become part of him. He’d always been confident, but now there was an edge to it — the easy smirk, the way he carried himself when walking into a room, the certainty that eyes would follow. Maya teased him about it, calling him “Mr. Main Character.” He just laughed and said, “What can I say? The camera loves me.”

And maybe it did.

At the gym, people recognized him from his posts. A few asked for tips, a couple wanted selfies. It felt good — addictive, even — to be seen, respected, wanted. The quiet, overthinking guy he used to be seemed more like a memory now, fading with every flex, every approving glance.

That night, sitting on the edge of the bed, Noah traced his new tattoo absently. Maya lay behind him, half-asleep, murmuring his name.

He smiled to himself — self-satisfied, maybe, but content. The ink was permanent. So, he suspected, was this version of him.

6 April

Two weeks later, Noah’s life looked like a different world. The office job he’d once logged into out of habit was gone—technically a “mutual parting,” though everyone knew he’d pushed the limits too often: coming in late after workouts, leaning on charm instead of follow‑through, brushing off tasks with an easy grin.

When the call from HR came, he didn’t even argue. He just laughed softly, rubbing at the tattoo on his forearm. “Guess I’m free then,” he’d said, half‑serious, half‑defiant.

And by the next morning, he already had a plan. Social media was paying better anyway. Every post hit faster now—short clips of workouts, shirtless morning “check‑ins,” jokes about motivation that weren’t really jokes. Brands had started DM’ing him for collaborations, and he leaned into it without hesitation.

The old balance between thought and impulse had tipped: his captions shorter, his ideas simpler, his confidence louder. He filmed constantly—lighting setups, mirror shots, captions full of half‑smiles and flexes. The follower counts climbed, quick as his ego.

Maya noticed the change. “You never stop filming anymore,” she said one evening while he adjusted the tripod in their living room.

“This is the job now,” he replied, smiling like that explained everything. “I’m killing it.”

She didn’t argue—just watched him, face unreadable.

When the camera started rolling again, Noah’s grin snapped instantly into place. It was easy now, automatic. He didn’t think through what to say or how to look. The ring light traced his jaw as he talked about “focus” and “grind,” his voice lower, words stripped of the nuance they once had.

It wasn’t that he’d stopped caring about things; he just didn’t think about them anymore. Life felt simpler when you filmed it instead of analyzed it.

By midnight, he was scrolling through new comments, eyes bright in the phone’s blue glow. “Legend.” “Alpha energy.” “Insane transformation.”

He smirked and typed back a winking emoji.

In the dim light, Maya’s voice came quietly from the couch. “You ever miss who you were before all this?”

He looked over, paused for a beat, then shook his head. “Nah,” he said, turning the screen toward himself again. “This version gets results.”

And the likes kept coming.

8 April

Two days passed. Noah woke up late, sunlight dripping through blinds onto the edge of his bed. His phone was already buzzing. Overnight, one of his workout clips had spread again—him grinning, veins out, quoting something about “grind” and “discipline.” The comments were full of fire‑emojis and approval.

He had never felt more visible. Or more hollow.

The morning had once started with stretches of quiet—podcasts, reflection, texts from Maya—but now it was protein shakes and loud playlists that blurred one day into the next. He filmed nearly everything. His once‑thoughtful captions had boiled down to sound bites about “winners” and “weakness.” And people ate it up.

At the gym, he’d begun to carry himself differently. The gentleness that used to color every conversation had faded into swagger. He talked louder, laughed sharper, cursed more. The guys lapped up his new attitude, clapping him on the back, calling him “bro,” “legend,” “alpha.” It felt good in a way that required no thinking—just muscle memory and validation.

Maya noticed it before anyone else. She came by that evening while he was editing clips. “You’ve changed, Noah,” she said quietly. He smirked, not looking up. “Yeah, that’s the point.” “No, I mean—” she hesitated, searching for words “—you don’t… listen anymore. You used to care how people felt.”

He shrugged, still tapping at his phone. “People don’t care back. They just respect strength.”

When she didn’t answer, he finally glanced up. Her expression told him enough: disappointment, maybe sadness. He didn’t know which bothered him more.

Later, after she left, he watched his latest video on loop. He hardly recognized the person on‑screen—jaw clenched, muscles cut by harsh light, voice stripped of warmth. The comments celebrated him, but every compliment sounded the same, hollow echoes of each other.

He swallowed against a strange pressure in his chest. For a moment, he thought about texting Maya, about saying something real. But the notifications kept popping up, little bursts of digital applause, and that tiny voice of guilt drowned beneath the noise.

He opened his story panel, smirked again, hit “record.”

“Weak people worry about feelings,” he said to the camera, eyes cold, tone practiced. “Strong ones just move.”

The clip uploaded instantly, likes flooding in.

Across the room, the pink glow of his old hoodie caught a slice of light from the window where he'd tossed it weeks ago. He looked at it, expression unreadable, then turned back to the phone.

The comments kept pouring—affirmation after affirmation—and Noah didn’t look away until the battery icon flashed red.

9 April

By the next day, something final had clicked in Noah—like a switch locked in place. The introspection that used to live behind his eyes was gone. His reflection no longer looked back with questions, just certainty, smirking under perfect light.

The feed had exploded overnight; his latest clips went viral again, tags filled with “alpha”, “beast”, “built different.” Noah loved it. Each ping of a notification was another validation that his way—the confident, unfiltered, louder way—was working.

Maya didn’t fit into that picture anymore. When she came over that afternoon, before she’d even taken off her jacket, he said, flat voice: “This isn’t working.”

Her eyes widened. “What? Where’s this coming from?”

“It just is,” he said, shrugging. “We’re different now. You’re… not really my vibe anymore.”

She stared at him for a long moment before whispering, “You don’t even sound like you.”

He didn’t answer. The silence that followed felt heavier than anything they’d shared. By the time his apartment door shut, part of him felt the echo—but he brushed it off, convincing himself it was relief.

That night he went out, filming stories with friends, all loud laughter and neon lights. He leaned into the party energy—the compliments, the attention, the flirtation. The city felt like an endless mirror of himself, everyone watching, everyone reflecting back his new persona.

On social media the next morning, the comments were exactly what he craved—admiration without depth. He smiled at them, barely noticing the emptiness behind his grin as he typed: “Lose the weight, gain the focus.”

He didn’t mention Maya. Didn’t think about her, not out loud. But sometimes, when a video of his own laughter replayed on his phone, he’d hear how empty it sounded underneath the bass.

16 April

Another week, another party. The rented house glowed like a music video—LEDs tracing every wall, bass shaking through the minimalist furniture. Noah barely recognized the person reflected in the glass doors. His hair was shorter now, jawline sharper. The sleeveless shirt did most of the talking; the tattoo on his arm caught the strobe lights each time he tipped his drink back.

When people asked his name these days, he didn’t even hesitate. “Matt Wyatt,” he’d say with a grin, the syllables clicking easily off his tongue. He liked how solid it sounded. Sharper than Noah Vale, easier to chant through speakers or tag in a post. Matt Wyatt was a brand, not a person.

He’d stopped worrying about appearances in small human ways—holding in a burp, filtering a joke, apologizing when he took up space. Now, everything was a performance of indifference, “just guy stuff.” The louder and cruder he was, the more people laughed, and laughter was oxygen.

At the center of the crowd was Bianca. He noticed her before she looked up—platinum blonde hair shining almost white under the lights, denim skirt, confidence radiating in every move. She laughed the way people do when they know they’re being watched, eyes glittering with self‑assurance.

Their first exchange was short, all smirks. He leaned on the counter beside her, voice dipped low over the music. “Name’s Matt,” he said. She tilted her head. “Figures,” she replied, amused. “You look like one.”

They laughed. Within minutes, they were in their own orbit, trading teasing remarks and half‑serious compliments. Bianca was sharp with humor and quick to match his tone. Every time he flexed the new persona—loud, direct, a little vain—she threw it right back at him.

Inside, a flicker of the old Noah stirred; he might have hesitated once, second‑guessed the script. But Matt didn’t. He rode the confidence, fed on it. When Bianca invited him outside for air, he followed without breaking stride.

Under the patio lights, the sound of the party muffled behind them, their conversation eased into its messy rhythm—stories, boasts, shared laughter. They clicked in the simplest way: two performers recognizing the stage in each other.

At some point, she brushed his arm, noting the tattoo. “Cool ink,” she said. “Yeah,” he replied with a grin. “Got it when everything started clicking.”

By midnight, someone had already tagged a picture of them laughing together. He reposted it, captionless—just his new name and a lightning‑bolt emoji. The comments filled instantly, cheering the persona he’d built.

When the crowd inside cheered for another song, Bianca tugged his hand. “Come on, Matt, let’s go dance.”

He followed, grin bright, heart steady. He didn’t think about where Noah ended or Matt began anymore. The old him had been swallowed by the noise, by the simplicity of being admired instead of understood.

Every laugh, every careless shout of “let’s go, Matt!”, every flash of Bianca’s smile pressed that truth a little deeper.

Whatever the drink had started, life had finished. And Matt Wyatt was all that was left.

19 July

Months later, the man on the screen hardly bore a trace of the one who had drunk that strange energy drink outside a corner store. The cameras never stopped now. Workout reels, sponsored energy ads, grinning thumbnails promising discipline and success. His tone stayed locked in one register: loud certainty, quick jokes, confident stares. The nuance, the quiet humor, the softness that used to shape Noah Vale had all been buffed away until what remained gleamed like polished chrome.

Matt Wyatt had become an industry.

He still lived in Los Angeles, though his nights blurred between gyms, podcast recordings, and parties where everyone filmed each other. He dressed in the same calm neutrals—white tees, ripped jeans, fresh sneakers—and whenever someone pointed a lens at him, his smile appeared exactly on cue.

Bianca was there in most of his posts. They fit the image—two perfect edges reflecting each other: her tan and blonde effortless, his muscles catching studio light, both fluent in the language of performance. Their banter filled his livestreams; their vacations packed into sixty‑second videos. To followers, they were couple goals.

Away from the phone, the quiet was strange. Matt rarely allowed it to last. Silence pressed too close, so he kept playlists loud, notifications louder. His humor had turned crass, thoughtless, and he laughed because everyone else did. Somewhere along the way, caring about anyone’s opinion but the audience’s stopped feeling necessary.

He told himself that this was freedom—no filters, no guilt, no pretending to be the “nice guy” he used to be. He flexed, joked, filled spaces with sound. If someone winced, he brushed it off: “Just a joke, bro.”

The new beliefs came easily because they were simple. The world, in his mind, worked best when split into winners and complainers, strong and weak. It felt cleaner that way. Cleaner than caring, cleaner than doubt.

When an interviewer once asked about the drastic change—what happened to “Noah Vale”—Matt laughed. “Guy overthought everything,” he said. “I quit thinking and started winning.”

The clip went viral, dozens of remix edits flooding TikTok. He reposted every one of them, tagging brands, soaking in the engagement.

Late that night, when the phone lights dimmed and Bianca fell asleep beside him, Matt scrolled through his feed once more. His reflection in the black glass smiled back exactly the way his followers expected it to. Perfect posture. Perfect smirk. Empty eyes.

He whispered the line he used to end every video:

“Stay real, stay strong.”

Then he set the phone down, the echo of his own words sounding oddly small in the dark.

Somewhere deep beneath the noise, the memory of Noah flickered—bookish, kind, uncertain—but the sound of laughter from the hallway drowned it out before it could take shape.

Matt Wyatt rolled onto his back, eyes on the ceiling, and breathed out a single, satisfied sigh.

The brand lived on.

Noah Vale was no more, only Matt Wyatt remained. He was a homophobic, misogynistic douchebag.

If a gay guy came up to him, he’d get his bros to help beat them up and call him a “fucking idiot fag”. Oh, and the way he treated Bianca, Bianca loved it, she loved being a bimbo and a sex symbol, she loved how Matt treated her like a complete dumbass, well she was!

Matt Wyatt would never get cancelled, all the chicks and bros on socials loved him, and the girls especially loved his big biceps, defined abs, his douchebag personality and most importantly his massive dick.

[dreamertf]

Frat Rat

Sheldon got paired up with this frat bro, Darren, for his class project. Unfortunately Darren couldn't really contribute, constantly talking with his other frat bro friends or just not engaging. All sheldon asked was for him to pay more attention to the project, but Darren refused. As the deadline was coming up Sheldon stopped stressing about it. He just wanted to hangout with Darren, his bro. Sheldon would start going to the gym instead of doing homework, start going to frat parties, start hitting on chicks like they were property. On the day of their presentation the two skipped class for a frat party. Which the professor should've expected, pairing the two dumbest frat bros together.

[iwfua]

Sure, complain about the fact that he is so much hotter than you and the world is unfair. He still doesn’t give a shit and gets more privileges. All he needs to do is crack a smile and he gets everything he wants in life.

[fratttymatty]

Time For A Change

(All characters are 18+)

Cameron Schulz always felt anchored by two things: his sharp wit and his boyfriend, Jose. Their mornings started with passionate debates about politics (always on the same liberal side), and evenings ended with video calls debating everything from climate change to queer representation in media. Lila Anaya, his best friend since middle school, completed their trio: another brilliant, 19 year old, woke liberal soul, trading memes and making protest signs with Cameron, always coming along to rallies. Together, they faced the world, fiercely proud of who they were.

On a gray Monday, Mrs. Dobkin delivered the cruelest twist: “Cameron, you’ll be with Bradley, Paul, Eric, Wyatt, and Jace for the chem project. Lila, you’re with Sasha.” The news landed like a thud in the pit of Cameron’s stomach.

“You’re going to be okay, right?” Lila asked as they left class. “Or will they turn you into some MAGA zombie?” she teased, lips curled in a sardonic smile.

Cameron rolled his eyes, smiling. “As if. I’ll just outsmart them at every turn. Besides, Jose will keep me sane. Or, you know, I’ll infiltrate and bring about a little enlightenment.”

Cameron tried, he really did. The Brotherhood, as the jocks called themselves, had a language all their own: blaring rap music, flexing in gym selfies, and constant joking about girls. The first few study sessions, Cameron felt like a cultural anthropologist.

“You really don’t watch football?” Jace sneered, raising an eyebrow.

“Only when Jose drags me to Pride Night at the field,” Cameron shot back, trying to stay cool.

Jose texted supportive messages: “Breathe, babe. You’ve got this. If they get too much, FaceTime me for moral backup.”

But the Brotherhood’s culture was relentless. Their jokes, loud and crude, filled every silence. By week two, Cameron found himself laughing at stuff he’d have rolled his eyes at before.

“You know, Cameron, you’d actually look good in something that isn’t a rainbow shirt,” Paul joked, tossing him a black tee.

Cameron grinned and pulled it on, surprised at how comfortable it was. “Happy now?” he called out, flexing exaggeratedly.

The transformation, at first, seemed innocent—just rolling with the group vibe, fitting in. But Lila noticed the changes: black T-shirts, plaid red pajama pants or gray sweatpants most days. Even Cameron’s texts started to shift.

“Yo, Lila, chill, not everything needs to be political, lol,” he wrote after she sent him an article about environmental racism.

During a late study night at Jace’s, things began to spiral. Eric cracked open a beer and lobbed a joke so tasteless even the others cringed. To everyone’s shock, Cameron burst out laughing—loud, slack-jawed, and different.

“Dude, you’re finally getting it!” Bradley clapped him on the back.

“Yeah, well, only took me hanging out with legends like you guys to realize what’s actually fun,” Cameron said, his voice lower, a swagger creeping into it. “Jose gets so sensitive about all the little things. Just makes stuff heavy, you know?”

Jace smirked. “Maybe you need a girlfriend, man. Can’t be healthy, only hanging with guys.”

Cameron, eyes distant, shrugged. “Maybe you’re onto something, bro. Girls are hot as hell. Why waste time worrying about woke shit?”

He adjusted his sweatpants, voice dropping even further. “Lila’s hot, honestly. She’d be so much cooler if she just… loosened up, man. Never stops talking about feminism. Like, dude, relax.”

The Brotherhood howled with laughter, tossing him another beer. “You’re one of us now, Matty!” Wyatt crowed, slinging his arm around Cameron.

Somewhere, deep inside, memories flickered—Jose’s smile, Lila’s earnest talks, the comfort of activism. But they were drowned out by the new noise.

The next morning, Cameron’s walk was heavier, full of swagger. His hair was styled messier and darker, his face set in a cockier grin. Gone was Cameron Schulz; in his place, Matt Buchanan: straight, dumb, and unashamedly cocky, every word dripping with false bravado.

Lila saw him in the hallway. She approached hesitantly. “Cam? You look… different. Are you okay?”

Matt gave her a once-over and smirked. “Yeah, never been better, babe. You look kinda stressed. Maybe you need to just chill and have some fun for once. Life’s too short to worry about every little thing.”

Lila’s heart dropped, watching her best friend—her brother in arms, her confidant—transformed into a stranger, swaggering down the hallway with the Brotherhood, trading high-fives and crude jokes.

Behind her, Matt’s rough new voice echoed, “Let’s go, dudes. Got a chem project to ace and some chicks to check out after!”

And just like that, the Cameron she knew was gone.

Matt Buchanan barely remembered being Cameron Schulz, but that old part of him lingered just enough for mischief. Still riding a wave of swagger from a Brotherhood victory at the gym, Matt found himself idly scrolling through social media on Lila’s borrowed laptop after class. He couldn’t help but notice her Pinterest—cluttered with tomboy streetwear, activism quotes, and motorcycles.

“What’s this sad mess?” Matt chuckled to Bradley, who shrugged. “Make it less woke and more smoke, dude.”

Grinning, Matt dove in. He wiped Lila’s home page and replaced it with a pastel palette—soothing pink and bright white backgrounds, glossy with a selection of the most superficial, blonde-centric posts he could find. Every quote was a cheeky dig: “BLONDES DO IT BETTER,” “Blondes have more fun,” “TALL, BLONDE AND EVIL”, “MY LIFE IS A BLONDE MOMENT.” Accompanying each quote were rows of stunning, posed blonde influencers, every screen perfectly airbrushed, smiles wide, hair impossibly golden.

After school, Lila retreated to her usual hideout with her laptop, planning to unwind with motorcycle memes and the latest feminist comics. She opened Pinterest and froze. The old home page was gone, replaced by glossy, girly mania—flawless blonde girls, pink and white backgrounds, glittering overlays, and bombastic quotes. She instinctively recoiled, confusion morphing into silent intrigue.

“What the—did Pinterest update or something?” Lila muttered, clicking around everywhere for an explanation.

The new feed was relentless. Every scroll brought more blinding blonde perfection. As the days went on, she found her style feeds morphing into page after page of platinum hair dye tutorials, makeup hacks, and sugary “get the look” posts for tall, leggy blondes with cozy pink sweaters and gleaming Insta smiles. At first, Lila ignored it with annoyance, but the echo of those quotes—“Blondes do it better”, “Blondes have more fun”—lingered in her mind.

One afternoon, after another exhausting encounter with Matt spouting “Dude, you’d totally slay as a blonde. You ever thought about it, Lil?” in the hallway, Lila caught herself hesitating. Maybe… maybe she could try it. Just for fun. Her inner voice was drowned out by the flood of Pinterest inspiration.

That Friday, she bit the bullet.

In the bathroom she stared at her reflection—wavy chestnut hair, tomboy layers, her signature gray knit beanie. She pulled out the platinum box dye, hands trembling, her heart simultaneously rebellious and uncertain.

She set to work: gloves on, dye mixed, brush soaking her brown locks in cool, creamy bleach. The smell was sharp, electrifying. When she rinsed it all out, she stared at the mirror, watching pale gold waves cascade onto her shoulders. The transformation was stunning—she looked like the very girl from the picture, her features softened, her hair catching the light, her style starting to shift towards the glossy, blonde aesthetic.

Lila felt weirdly exhilarated. The memory of Cameron was distant, replaced by a new sense of energy, her mind abuzz with the echoes of her new Pinterest mantras—“Blondes do it better”, “TALL, BLONDE AND EVIL”. Whatever this new version of herself would bring, Lila was ready to find out.

With her hair newly dyed a platinum blonde and a persistent hum of “Blondes do it better” echoing in her thoughts, Lila still didn’t quite know who she was becoming. One night, bored and restless between texts with Sasha, she opened TikTok on her phone—her laptop shoved aside now that she was always out and about, showing off her new look.

The app swept her into a vortex of blonde creators: flawless girls snapping selfies in neon pink sports bras, giggling as they mouthed the latest sassy audios. Swipe after swipe, her feed glowed with bright lighting, fashion hauls, and snarky commentary. Nearly every video seemed filmed in a pink-tinted room, the walls radiating feminine chaos.

It wasn’t just the visuals—the captions screamed at her in bold, all-caps fonts:

At first, Lila was taken aback. But there was something addicting about the confidence, the attitude, the energy. Soon, the words weren’t just things on a screen—they were seeping into her bones. She started sneering at messages she used to care about, quickly double-tapping every “baddie” post.

With every video, she felt parts of her old self falling away. The girl who wore beanies and baggy hoodies, obsessed over social causes, and rolled her eyes at fashion, started to feel like a distant memory.

Her new look wasn’t just about hair. Her wardrobe mutated—her closet filled up with black crop tops, low-waisted jeans, snug minidresses, sparkle-dusted tops, and pink heels. Hoodies and tomboy jackets vanished, replaced by leather jackets and anything that snatched her waist. Her makeup table overflowed: liquid foundations, contour sticks, bold blushes, and rows and rows of shimmery pink lipgloss.

Each day, her eyes seemed a little bolder, shadowed deep with liner and shimmer. Her tan darkened under the sun as she started sunbathing after school, chasing those “blonde beach babe” vibes. Jewelry—gold chain necklaces, statement rings, delicate pendants—became a staple, catching sunlight as her selfies stacked up on Instagram and TikTok.

Her posture changed too: the way she leaned on railings, angled her hips, the lazy, sultry smiles she flashed for every snap and story. Gone was the reserved, thoughtful Lila—now her movements oozed confidence, a little teasing, always self-assured.

And her attitude? Sharp. She snapped back at comments she didn’t like, calling out people with, “Get a life bitch,” or “Try being this pretty and then talk,” more than once. Her group chats became filled with shopping links and photos of pink everything: nails, phone cases, clothes, glitter. Every text signed off with a heart—even when it was laced with a new, biting sarcasm.

By the following weekend, in the evening light out on her balcony, Lila didn’t just look the part—she was the “tall, blonde, and evil” girl trending on every For You Page. With bronzed tan, tousled blonde hair, sultry black crop top hugging her new curves, and a smirk that never quite left, she posed for yet another story, lipgloss shining and layered necklaces glinting in the sunset.

As the likes and DMs rolled in, Lila looked at her reflection and didn’t miss her old self, not even a little. Who needed it? This was who TikTok and pink mantras had told her to be—and she loved every moment.

Lila lounged on her bed, sunlight streaming through pink curtains, her new pink iPhone 17 Pro Max glittering in her manicured hand. With each swipe, TikTok flooded her senses—her For You Page overrun with edits of blonde girls with glimmering lips, snappy attitudes, and flawless curves. She was already a far cry from the tomboy activist she once was, but the change was about to go much deeper.

As she scrolled, bright quotes began to pulse on her screen in shimmering pink:

Lila giggled, voice higher and lighter, the sound already different. “Yaaas, like, brunette is tragic af,” she said aloud, running a hand through her platinum locks. As if drawn in by magic, her phone buzzed—the next wave of edits hit her FYP:

Every new quote seemed to cast a spell. The pink glow from her iPhone reflected in her eyes. She felt warmth swirling from her fingertips, rising up her arms and deep into her chest—a tingle, then a rush, like a thousand giggles. Her body hummed with magical energy, reshaping her.

Her chest began to swell, her breasts growing fuller and perkier, the gentle curve of her body becoming more pronounced, softer, and more alluring. The transformation wrapped her in a pink haze: her voice grew airier, higher, her tone swinging from sarcastic edge to flirty, bratty drawl. The pages of her mind, once filled with protest slogans and clever retorts, now echoed with bimbo quotes and shopping lists. Lips parted in a glossy pout as a new playfulness took over—the girl staring back from her mirror was all curves, all attitude, all blonde rebellion.

As she stretched on her bed, every old leather jacket in her closet shimmered and vanished, replaced instantly with crop tops, miniskirts, juicy-branded sweats, lace bralettes, fluffy jackets, and sequin-covered cheerleader sets—all perfectly in line with her new persona. There was no room for masculine clothes, no hint of the militant tomboy she’d once been.

Her type in guys shifted with magical precision. Gone were the weak, makeup-wearing, liberal punk boys of her past—no more rock bands or artsy eyeliner. She shuddered at the thought, curling her toes in disgust, erased from her list forever. She giggled, picturing the only kind of guy that mattered now: tall as a linebacker, sculpted arms and chest (biceps especially), straight, impossibly hot, conservative (republican vibes required), Christian, ready to take on the world. She wanted him to be strong, hung, popular, and with a strong body count—because Stacy deserved only the best. And as her TikTok for you page pulsed with “Face of an Angel Body of a Porn Star”, she couldn’t help but think of Matt now, the ultimate jock, and rumor had it he was especially “blessed” in every way.

Her personality became Barbie-like: bubbly, bratty, and superficial to the core. Complex debates vanished from her mind, replaced by snappy comebacks, juicy drama, and a thirst for pink everything. Her jokes became cutting, her wit shallow but fierce; she tore into anyone not up to her standards with “Get a life, bitch!” or “Keep sparkling, loser!” as her valley girl vocabulary doubled every day.

Magic radiated from her pink iPhone, transforming her contacts, too. Sasha and old punk friends faded from her mind, replaced with valley girl baddies, cheerleaders, influencers who oozed confidence and pink. Her group texts turned into gossip and endless selfies. The new Stacy Lawrence was unbothered, always flaunting her curves, especially her new cleavage, in every snap and story.

By the end of the day, Stacy’s old world was gone—her phone overflowing with messages from her glamorous clique, invites to parties and cheer squad practice, shopping trips, mall hangs, and poolside photo shoots. She wanted the hottest guys, the glitziest life, and every look designed to kill.

The magic of the transformation pulsed through her, making everything pink, shiny, and perfect. With glossy lips parted in a carefree giggle, she sent Matt a DM: “Heyyy, hot stuff. You free tonight or are you just gonna stare at your biceps in the gym again? I might join next time, Daddy.”

Stacy Lawrence’s life was finally as flawless and fun as her TikTok had promised—and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

At the gym, the atmosphere was almost electric. Matt Buchanan commanded the space, jaw sharp and lips twisted in a cocky half-grin as he knocked out set after set on the bench press, sweat tracing lines down his veins and forming perfect beads on his sculpted abs. Standing an intimidating 6’5”, broad shoulders stretching his tank to the limit, with hair just messy enough to look naturally perfect, he was every bit the heartthrob and every bit aware of it. A gaggle of college girls lingered by the mirrors, whispering, throwing him glances, and Matt made sure to flash them a wink as he racked his final set.

Stacy Lawrence strutted in wearing the tiniest pink skirt the gym had ever seen and a crop top that read “Cheer Captain,” her blonde hair glossy, lips pouty, and whole look flawlessly extra. She stopped, cocked her hip, chewing a piece of bubblegum with deliberate attitude.

Matt caught her reflection and smirked, tossing his towel over his shoulder, and called across the gym, “So, you actually gonna work out, princess? Or just stand there looking hot for Daddy?” The girls nearby giggled, and one bold brunette even called out, “Matt, when’re you letting me spot you again?” He ran a hand over his hair, flashing his infamous, arrogant smile. “You know you can watch, babe, but only the hottest get the privilege.”

Grabbing his bottle, Matt swaggered over to Stacy, eyes roaming. “Damn, Stacy, you really went all out with the bimbo vibe, huh? I’d say you’re one more pink scrunchie away from Barbie—but, hey, guess that’s my kinda girl now.” He flexed his abs and deliberately pulled up his tank a little, showing off the deep ridges. “You know how many girls I’ve fucked who begged to touch these?” he asked, running a finger down his stomach. “Lost count after fifty. And yeah, most were older—guess they know quality when they see it.”

Stacy giggled, tossing her hair. “Omigod, Matt, you’re so bad,” she crooned, eyes locked adoringly on his biceps.

He feigned an innocent look. “Hey, don’t hate the player. You seriously think those girls care if I roast some queer dude or call a chick out for hitting like a guy? Trust me, being ripped and rich lets you get away with a lot,” he snorted, lowering his voice. “People only pretend to be offended—until you invite them over, then it’s all forgiveness and a lot less clothes.” He slapped her ass as they left, tossing a homophobic remark about a guy struggling with the leg press. One of the gym girls giggled along, and Stacy only looked more in love.

Back at his house—a sprawling, modern place that screamed old money and new privilege—Matt led Stacy upstairs, pushing open the door to a room that was pure “alpha.” There was not a trace of pink; instead, bold navy and black dominated. The floor was scattered with athletic slides, branded sneakers, and luxury cologne bottles. Off to the side, a giant Millennium Falcon LEGO set—completed, dusty, but displayed with pride—sprawled across a glass shelf surrounded by high-end football memorabilia. A row of limited-edition Jordans lined the wall next to sports awards and signed bats.

Above his bed towered a massive American flag, and directly opposite, a classic Playboy bunny poster alongside a “Texas Football” banner. The sheets were dark, masculine, and a tangle of navy and charcoal. His desk was a battlefield—empty Gatorade bottles, protein powders, pre-workout tubs, Xbox and PS5 controllers tangled with wires, and, naturally, his latest iPhone on top of an unopened MacBook. A battered punching bag and a rack of boxing gloves filled one corner, while the other boasted a bar cart with expensive whiskeys and cigars, the kind his classmates only wished they could afford. On the windowsill, an architectural LEGO Ferrari, meticulously built, gave one last nod to childhood—if only to remind everyone how rich he was.

A set of baseball hats hung like scalps above a dresser loaded with hair products and watches. His college options were made clear: a UMiami and a University of Texas pennant straddled a “NO LIBS ALLOWED” sign, punctuating the point.

Stacy cautiously entered behind him, pouting as she surveyed the testosterone-soaked space. "Like, Matty, how come you don’t even have one cute light? Not even a splash of pink?” she whined, almost scandalized.

Matt set down his bag, looked at her as if she’d suggested burning the flag, and replied, “Pink’s not a real color for a dude, Stace. This is all man, all day. If you wanna decorate, stick to your side of the closet. Or just wear it—looks better on you anyway.” He dropped to his bed with a huff, propping a baseball glove behind his head. “Besides, what kinda man would I be if my room looked like a gay bar?” He shot her a wink, like it was just another joke, and two former classmates who had followed them up laughed instead of taking offense. Matt’s bank account, reputation, and good looks made him untouchable—he could get away with anything, and he knew it.

Standing in the middle of his room, Matt exuded ease and danger. “Welcome to the king’s den. Out there? Frat houses, parties, girls begging for my Snap. In here? The hot girls stay. Hottest one now? That’s you, princess.” He eyed her hungrily and grinned wider. “Just remember—around me, you gotta keep up. Lots of pretty faces wanna see how hard these abs really are.”

Stacy melted, her giggles and valley-girl drawl dissolving into praise as she kicked off her heels and curled up beside him, letting the rich-boy chaos and Matt’s arrogant energy wash over her. For Matt Buchanan, life would always be about winning, flexing, and—no matter what crude, off-color, or offensive thing he said—getting away with it, because in his world, being this hot and this rich meant never having to say sorry.

The night of the party was electric, the kind of electric that only an exclusive high school Halloween party could bring. Matt Buchanan rolled in like he owned the place, effortlessly embodying the very stereotype he celebrated. His hair was styled in a perfect middle part, the glossy dark strands falling just right to frame his angular, chiseled face—sending the crowd of girls into whispers and wide-eyed stares. His outfit was what you would expect from a king of the jocks: a crisp black t-shirt stretched tight over his sculpted chest and shoulders, showing off the washboard abs and thick biceps that were the stuff of legend. Grey sweatpants hung just low enough to tease the waistband of his designer boxers, and those infamous New Balance sneakers tapped confidently across the floor. Draped casually over his broad shoulders was his cherished letterman jacket—classic and unbeatable. Its wool body was a rich deep navy, the varsity chenille letter patch boasting the initials of their high school, sewn with precision and pride. The leather sleeves gleamed under the dim party lights, with patches marking championships and years of dominance. The jacket smelled faintly of his cologne mixed with sweat, a badge of honor representing everything Matt was.

Beside him stood Stacy Lawrence, barely dressed but owning every inch of it. Gold jewelry sparkled around her neck and wrists; a delicate chain hugged her waist, accentuating her tiny white mini-skirt that swayed with every confident step. Her white crop top barely covered her sculpted midriff, and the bunny ears perched atop her shining hair crowned her as the undisputed party queen. She was the kind of hot that drew hands grabbing at her ass as she passed by—and she didn’t just tolerate it, she reveled in the attention.

The party was in full swing, a sea of half-assed costumes frantically applied because, frankly, it didn’t matter. Everyone knew looks got you through the door—and Matt and Stacy were the gatekeepers tonight.

Nearby, Jose stood frozen, scanning the crowd until his gaze landed on Matt. The transformation was undeniable: Cameron, his boyfriend—gone. In his place was this aggressive, uncaring, hot and unapologetically homophobic powerhouse.

“You sure you wanna stand here, faggot?” Matt called with a smirk that dripped contempt. His letterman jacket moved with every taunt like a flag of entitlement. “Hope you’re ready to shut up and watch, because I’m here to party hard, not listen to your crying.”

Bradley, Paul, Eric, Wyatt, and Jace, encircling Matt like loyal wolves, burst into raucous laughter, high-fiving and throwing elbows. “Dude, shut him down! That’s the spirit,” Eric chuckled, as they all let out a hearty wolf howl, the primal WOOOO echoing off the walls and stamping their brand into the night.

Jose’s mouth tightened, but anyone else would’ve taken that as the party’s official starting bell.

Meanwhile, Stacy was busy with her phone, snapping endless pictures of herself—glossy lips parted just right, bunny ears perfectly tilted, hand on hip, and attitude dialed to 100. “Like, omigod, this is totally the TikTok content of my dreams,” she giggled, filtering every shot before posting. Her followers were already blowing up with jealous comments and thirsty messages.

Not to be outdone, Matt grabbed his phone with a grin. “Gotta get the ‘fit check’ on the ‘gram,” he said, flashing a smirk and flexing his biceps in front of the camera, tossing a wink and mouthing ‘what’s up.’ He posted a video captioned, “Letterman jacket vibes only. Watch out, TikTok.” His followers flooded in with heart-heart-eyes emojis and comments drooling over the mix of arrogance and perfection.

As the night wore on, Matt and Stacy made their way upstairs after a few rounds of the spiked punch that was dangerously strong but easy to drink. Stacy was practically buzzing with excitement, flicking her hair and batting her eyes as she went full tease—laughing louder than she needed to, dragging out her syllables into a sweet valley drawl that both infuriated and attracted. Every time a hand brushed her waist or slid along her back, she giggled and pressed closer, knowing full well the power she held.

Matt’s smirk deepened, his hands roaming familiarly and confidently. “You’re killing it, bunny,” he murmured, voice low and thick, the kind of guttural sound that promised trouble. “Gotta add you to the list, Stace.”

“And I’m like, totally here to be added, babe,” she whispered back, her tone a seductive mix of innocence and mischief, before leaning into his touch and melting beneath him.

Back downstairs, the party raged on, but upstairs was where the real story was unfolding—the new power couple defining the night, the crowd, and their reign as the ultimate high school icons.

[fratttymatty]

I want to have an life which is easier and simple without much stress or work, any work with an expressive platform is good and the age should as much as young for applying with tan skin.

(All characters are 18+)

Victor Robin was the definition of a middle-aged nerd. Forty-two, gay, and deeply entrenched in his complex world of coding, comic books, and intellectual debates, he carried his insecurities and rainbow pride like two suitcases everywhere he went. His hair was thin, graying, and perpetually rumpled—a permanent mess from hours hunched at his computer. Victor’s style was utilitarian: oversized glasses, faded shirts, and always a certain twitch of anxiety in his manner.

Victor’s real stress came not just from work, but from the feeling that he was getting older and his life was growing smaller—debates replaced by deadlines, romance lost beneath routines. He’d stare into his outdated bathroom mirror, dreaming of something easier, brighter… but never dared to leave his comfort zone.

One night, after doom-scrolling on TikTok (with jealousy at 20-somethings living drama-free), Victor muttered, “Wish I could be one of them.” Suddenly, the device flickered—a hush as code, clout, and cosmic chance collided.

A surge of energy jolted through him. He stumbled, feeling his body melting and reshaping, the air thick with transformation. His first shock was his hair: the thinning, gray mop dissolved, replaced by a lush mane of deep brown that shimmered with golden undertones—fresh, full, and styled perfectly without effort. It fell in soft, loose waves, framing a chiseled jaw he’d never possessed before.

Victor’s skin deepened into a golden tan, healthy and vibrant, as if he’d spent years basking in Miami sunlight. Muscles swelled under his skin, arms broadening, shoulders widening. His belly vanished, leaving tight abs slashing his torso. Clothes morphing with him: a fitted black tee and gym shorts highlighted every new contour.

His face restructured overnight: eyebrows thick and sharp, lips fuller, eyes turning an alluring hazel. He grinned and suddenly liked his own reflection—a radical first in decades.

But the changes went beyond the physical. Victor’s mind shifted; a flood of confidence and chill simplicity replaced his lifelong tension. The urge to debate was gone, replaced by an itch to joke, flirt, and perform. His phone chimed—and he now had 5.6 million TikTok followers as Mateo Ramirez, 21-year-old straight Latino jock.

He gripped the phone—his fingers steadier, nails perfectly manicured. Notifications flooded in, girls and dudes alike fawning over his most recent dance challenge. TikTok’s algorithm, once his enemy, now his ticket to easy stardom. This new world was about going viral, not going deep.

Mateo ran a hand through his new hair. “Damn, this looks good,” he said, admiring the way it caught the light and gave off just the right effortless cool.

A friend FaceTimed: Luca: “Mateo, dude! What’s up? That hair finally on point, bro. You coming to the pool party?” Mateo: “You know it, man. Got 5.6 mil waiting for content. Let’s make it crazy.”

The old Victor would have babbled about sunscreen and aversion to crowds; Mateo just flashed a smile and grabbed his skateboard.

At the party, everyone wanted photos. Girls asked to run their hands through his hair, admiring the silky feel and catchy style. Diego, a fellow creator, joked, “Mateo’s secret? Must be that Latin shampoo, bro!” Laughter erupted. Mateo loved being the center of attention—not for ideas, but for looks, moves, and being relatable.

Later, poolside, Isabella tugged at his black shirt playfully. “Don’t think you’re fooling me, Mateo. That hair’s not just genetics. You got straight-up TikTok magic!”

Mateo winked, “Just blessed. Wanna collab for my story tomorrow?”

She giggled, leaning close. “You really know how to handle millions of fans—with a little touch of Latino charm.”

Their banter sizzled—the chemistry was easy, the nerves gone. Isabella touched his arm, tracing shapely muscles, surprised at how real he felt.

Mateo’s world was simple now. No rainbow mug, no deep politics—his worldview was conservative, focused on winning, succeeding, and keeping his brand strong.

A new friend, Alejandro, joined: “Bro, did you see the gym video yesterday? Mateo, your hair’s all anyone talks about! Teach me?”

“Easy, man,” Mateo said, running fingers through wavy locks. “Just stay chill, stay confident, you’ll have the look.”

Isabella smirked, “And the millions of followers.”

They laughed, rode the viral wave, and closed the night with a TikTok kissing challenge that trended for days.

[fratttymatty]

The Benson Reboot

(All characters are 18+)

In a quiet Seattle suburb, the Portman household sat like a gentle echo of old academia. Books lined every wall. A French press bubbled softly. In the kitchen, James Portman stood in a threadbare cardigan, peering into his phone and muttering about rising rent prices. A committed progressive and tenured professor of postmodern literature, he had built a life on thoughtfulness, caution, and community.

Upstairs, his 18-year-old son Elio sat cross-legged on his bed, framed by posters of queer icons and environmental slogans. His room was soft — low light, warm blankets, a collection of indie vinyls humming gently in the background.

With him were two of his closest friends: Gigi Hanks, dyed buzzcut and combat boots, was finishing a blog post about intersectional feminism. Lucy Fairtree, glasses sliding down her nose, was sketching climate-themed tattoo designs into her sketchpad.

They were comfortable. Familiar. Secure in who they were.

And then everything changed.

It started with a sound: a low, vibrating hum, like a bass drop held in suspense.

The lights flickered. Elio’s record warped. Gigi sat up. “Did anyone else feel that?”

James looked up from his phone just as the house shook. A thunderclap cracked overhead, though the skies were clear. And then — from somewhere outside reality — came a blinding burst of light, red-white-and-blue, searing into the living room like a portal had opened in the middle of the American flag.

He had no time to speak before it hit him.

James dropped to one knee, clutching his chest — not in pain, but in pressure.

His heartbeat slowed… and then surged.

His cardigan tightened over swelling pecs. His soft, graying chest expanded outward, muscle packing on fast, reshaping his narrow, slouched frame into something broad, towering, and stupidly strong. Veins popped along his arms. His flannel ripped down the middle as a full set of abs carved into existence.

His hair grew thicker, darker — styled effortlessly into a swept-back, expensive cut that looked sculpted by a celebrity stylist. His beard darkened, trimmed itself into a sharp-lined jaw-defining masterpiece.

His glasses cracked as his eyes sharpened into a blue so bright they seemed artificial.

The cardigan vanished.

In its place: a crisp designer polo, stretched tight over his new body, tucked into tailored white shorts. Around his wrist, a Rolex appeared. Behind him, the house itself groaned and shifted as his entire reality reshaped — book-lined walls replaced with floor-to-ceiling windows, minimalist design, and the sound of luxury car keys hitting marble.

The soft-spoken professor was gone.

Now stood Tyler Benson, luxury-loving, protein-chugging, billionaire conservative. His garage now held a matte black Bugatti, a yellow Lambo, two Mercedes G-Wagons, and a Range Rover Sport, because one wasn’t enough.

He didn’t remember Elio. He remembered his son Jace — a future alpha.

Back upstairs, Gigi had barely stood when the light hit her.

She cried out, clutching her head as her buzzcut grew rapidly into platinum-blonde curls, flowing down her shoulders in glossy, beach-babe waves. Her body trembled as her stance shifted — muscles relaxing, hips flaring wide, waist tightening into a perfect, curvy hourglass.

Combat boots vanished. In their place, white designer sneakers appeared under long, tan legs.

Her hoodie dissolved into a cropped baby tee that read “Daddy’s Politics Get Me Wet” across the chest. Her chest — now two plump, bouncing orbs — barely fit inside the shirt.

Gigi’s eyes glazed. The world dimmed around her — until it only made sense in terms of hot boys, lifted trucks, and looking good on Instagram.

“Wait… what was I even doing?” she murmured in a soft, high voice. “Who’s… Gigi?”

She looked down at herself and giggled, lips glossed and parted.

“I’m Bianca, duh.”

Lucy barely had time to gasp before she, too, felt the wave roll over her.

Her thin frame shuddered. Her sweater tightened around rapidly swelling curves as her sketchpad crumpled and vanished, replaced by a pink designer clutch. Her hair bleached itself into a high ponytail so tight it practically hummed.

Her glasses melted away. A rhinestone belly ring appeared. Her expression softened, eyes wide and dazed as if her thoughts had all been replaced by the word "like."

“Mia,” she whispered, blinking rapidly. “Ohmygod I’m, like… Mia.”

She looked over to Bianca. “Did we, like, always hang out with Jace?”

Bianca smiled. “Duh, we’ve known him since, like, sophomore year.”

They both turned to Elio, who was now breathing heavily, clutching the edge of his bed.

Elio’s breath hitched.

He had just watched his closest friends twist into bouncy, tan, giggling bimbos. Gigi was now Bianca, throwing air kisses. Lucy was Mia, rubbing lip gloss on her cleavage like it was normal. His dad — no, the man was now Tyler Benson — looked like he belonged on a yacht with cigar smoke curling around a stack of money.

And now, the light was coming for him.

It started deep inside — not in his muscles or his skin, but in his mind.

He suddenly couldn’t remember what a pronoun was.

He tried to name his favorite poet — but all that came to mind was a protein shake flavor.

He grabbed his head, stumbling backward. “No. No, I’m not—”

But his voice cracked. Deepened. Changed.

His thoughts dissolved, replaced by dumb confidence. Swagger. Hunger. Lust.

A ripple rolled through his neck, shoulders, and chest. He moaned, voice thick and lazy, as his chest popped forward — pecs ballooning into shape, sculpted and tight. His hoodie snapped apart like it had been cut with scissors, revealing hard, tan skin and a set of abs like bricks.

Elio’s arms flexed, thickened, surged with lean athletic muscle, each vein snaking up toward shoulders that grew broader with every pulse. His neck widened, his jaw chiseled itself into something cartoonishly square and kissable.

His hips shifted, widening into perfect “pump cover” gymbro proportions. He looked down at himself and let out a low chuckle, deep and dumb.

“Hell yeah…”

The mirror caught his eye — but the reflection wasn’t Elio anymore.

His hair parted clean down the center, floppy, dark, voluminous, like it had been styled by an algorithm to trend on TikTok. He brushed it back with a lazy hand, letting a few strands fall across his brow in that perfectly messy way.

His skin glowed with sweat and youth. His face looked like every cocky, ripped, TikTok thirst trap account rolled into one.

The name Elio didn’t even sound real anymore.

He turned to the two girls.

“You girls waitin’ on me or what?” he smirked. “Name’s Jace.”

The house was no longer theirs.

It was something else now. A sprawling, high-ceilinged modern mansion with 20-foot glass windows, marble floors, and subtle lighting that made everything — and everyone — look hotter.

The walls were decorated with framed photos of Tyler and Jace, shirtless, flexing, posing in designer clothes next to their cars: the Bugatti, the Range Rover, the matte green Lambo, and of course, the gold-trimmed G-Wagon. Every room had a mirror. Every mirror had a gym selfie.

In the garage, Mason's (Tyler's) custom weightlifting setup gleamed under LED lights. Rows of sneakers lined the walls like trophies.

Upstairs, Bianca was filming a get-ready-with-me video in a tight pink dress. Mia was lying on Jace’s bed in a sports bra, scrolling TikTok and occasionally moaning his name just for fun.

Downstairs, Jace was shirtless again — of course he was — lounging on a white leather sectional, a protein shake in one hand, his other hand resting behind his head like he was on the cover of a cologne ad.

He had no memory of “Elio.” His childhood, his causes, his old values — gone. They’d been replaced with a steady stream of gym routines, thirst traps, cheap cologne, football games, and girls with high-pitched voices who thought being smart was “kinda, like, exhausting.”

“Yo, Dad,” he called out lazily. “We hittin' arms today or what?”

Tyler Benson stepped into the room in gym shorts and a Rolex, flexing his massive arms casually as he cracked open a beer. “Legs are for dudes who skip chest, son. Let’s hit pecs ‘n traps.”

Mia giggled from the stairs. “Ooooh, you guys are sooo hot when you talk like that.”

“Yeah?” Jace grinned, standing and bouncing his pecs once for her. “You like that, babe?”

Bianca poked her head in, pouting. “I want another ride in the Lambo, Daddy.”

“After pump,” Tyler winked.

Outside, the driveway glistened. The flag out front now flew larger than ever: red, white, and blue — their new religion.

Jace wrapped his arm around Mia, slapped her butt, and whispered something that made her gasp and bite her lip. She clung to him, laughing, completely transformed.

Not one of them would ever go back.

This was their world now.

Luxury. Muscle. Ego. Lust. The Bensons.

And they ruled it.

(Tyler and Bianca)

(Mia and Jace)

[fratttymatty]

Cursed Stream

(All characters are 18+)

Jamie Blue was your quintessential 18-year-old liberal nerd. He had thick glasses, a slim frame, and kept himself so clean you could eat off his skin. His high-pitched voice often broke in the middle of words when he got excited about a new comic-book adaptation or a philosophical debate. He wore pressed chinos and vintage band tees. He was polite, always smelled of citrus-scented sanitizer, and was the type of kid who corrected your grammar without realizing it.

Sam Klein, his boyfriend of nearly a year, was similarly liberal and nerdy, but with a creative flair. He loved to dance, often spinning Jamie around in his bedroom while K-pop or Broadway numbers blasted. Sam was rail-thin, with curly brown hair, big earnest eyes, and a carefully organized backpack full of color-coded notes. They spent hours together watching documentaries or indie films, pausing to argue about politics or art.

They loved each other deeply, both out at school and fully accepted by their social circle.

One night, they sat on Jamie’s bed with a bowl of air-popped, lightly salted popcorn between them.

“Wanna watch something dumb?” Sam suggested, tired after dance practice.

Jamie nodded. “Let’s see what’s on Netflix.”

Scrolling past options, they found one with an absurdly tacky thumbnail:

MOVIE TITLE: “MetaMorph: The Curse of Change” Description: “Two souls watch and become what they hate most.”

They laughed at the cringe factor.

“Oh my god that’s so pretentious,” Sam said, pressing play.

“I bet it’s, like, a 2/10,” Jamie said, rolling his eyes.

The movie started with cheap VFX, a flickering title screen, and an ominous voiceover:

“You will not leave unchanged.”

They snorted at it, but as the screen shimmered and warped, they felt dizzy. The room spun around them.

Jamie blinked in confusion. “Sam…? You okay?”

But Sam’s body was already cracking and stretching. He let out a strangled cry as his clothes strained and tore in places. His wiry arms and legs thickened in some places but slimmed in others, taking on a feminine hourglass shape.

“Ja…mie—” he gasped, voice cracking and plunging lower, then soaring into a nasal, breathy, girly tone.

He scrabbled at his chest as his nipples swelled beneath his torn T-shirt, growing into large, round, jiggling breasts that strained the fabric before bursting through it.

“Ugh—OH MY GOD, like—seriously?” he squealed, suddenly sounding like a stereotypical Valley girl.

His hair lengthened into glossy brunette waves. His nose pinched slightly at the bridge, lips puffed up, skin clearing to a poreless, made-up glow.

His butt rounded out obscenely in the seat of his shorts before they ripped open completely.

Pop!

His boxers reformed into a lacy pink thong. He moaned in horror-turned-pleasure as his groin pulled inward, the new folds wetting the fabric.

“Like—EWWW, why is it all…wet? Grossss,” he whined in his new voice, flicking his hair.

Jamie watched, heart hammering. “Sam—”

But Sam wasn’t Sam anymore.

She was Daniella “Dani” Glossed.

She turned to Jamie, blowing an exaggerated bubblegum bubble (where had that come from?). She let it pop loudly.

“Ugh, what the ACTUAL fuck is this gross place?” Dani drawled. “Why are you, like, here? You’re a nerd or whatever? Ew.”

Jamie stared at her. “Sam?”

“Ugh. Who’s Sam? Bitch, I’m Dani. Dani Glossed. Get it right.”

She rolled her eyes and twisted her body to admire her massive cleavage. She giggled vacantly.

“Oh my gawd. My tits are, like, SO fucking huge. Love that for me. Bet all the, like, hot white conservative boys are gonna wanna rail me so bad.”

Jamie tried to speak but she held up a perfectly manicured hand.

“Shhhh. Don’t talk. You’re giving me, like, loser vibes. I only date, like, musky, white, Republican football bros now, ‘kay?”

She pulled out her phone (where had that come from?) and started texting with acrylic-tipped fingers, letters popping up wrong.

“Omgggggg. brb i need 2 tak pics 4 my story. lik sooo cute rn.”

She giggled and snapped a dozen selfies.

And Jamie realized with horror she didn’t even remember who Sam was.

And worse yet—she didn’t want to.

Jamie’s hands trembled as he watched Dani—the cruel, airheaded conservative cheerleader—snap selfies on his bed, popping her gum.

“Like, oh my god Mattyyy? Hurry up and get hot already. You’re so boring rn,” she whined.

“Sam… please… stop,” Jamie begged, voice cracking in terror.

Dani scowled, twirling her brunette hair. “Who’s Sam? Ew. Hurry up, loser.”

The TV flickered.

“You will become what you hate most.”

A searing heat bloomed in Jamie’s chest.

“NO—”

He gripped the desk, but his fingers thickened, calluses popping into place. Dirt and grime smeared under his nails. His wrists and forearms bulged with new muscle.

He felt his whole upper body explode outward, pecs ballooning with hard definition under his shirt, the seams creaking and then tearing. His ribs expanded, his stomach hardening into uneven abs caked with sweat and smears of dirt from who-knew-where.

His chinos split apart into worn, low-slung jeans with a belt barely holding them up, the denim faded and frayed.

His underwear morphed into old, cheap boxer briefs riding low on his hips.

He felt himself grow taller, his feet swelling into battered sneakers with flattened soles.

His voice cracked horribly—then settled into a deep, lazy, masculine drawl.

“Fuck… whassup…?”

He gasped, stumbling to the mirror.

His face was transforming.

His nose broadened slightly. His jaw squared. A faint line of scruffy stubble emerged.

But his hair?

It stayed perfect.

Longish, soft brown locks fell in shaggy curtains over his forehead—clean, fluffy, and somehow artfully messy without being greasy. It framed his face perfectly even though everything else about him screamed dirty jock.

He smirked at himself.

“Heh. Lookin’ sick.”

Jamie’s brain fuzzed out, replaced by crude, base thoughts.

Cars. Girls. Drinking. Street racing.

He suddenly loved cars. Not as a mechanic—he didn’t fix them. He just liked owning them, showing them off, revving the engine at red lights to piss people off.

His whole bedroom seemed to shimmer. Posters of indie movies and protest signs vanished, replaced by huge metal signs for Mustang and Camaro.

He flexed in the mirror. His tank top clung to his sweaty, muscular torso, dirt smearing in the ridges of his abs, but that hair never lost its smooth, irresistible bounce.

He sniffed his pits and grinned.

“Hell yeah. Fuckin’ ripe.”

Dani squealed in delight.

“Omgggg MATTY you’re sooo hot now. Like, actually bangable. Smell so manly.”

He scratched his stomach and belched.

“Heh. Yeah. Don’t even shower after football practice. Fuck that. But check the hair, babe. Always on point.”

He tossed his head so the hair fell perfectly back into place.

“Omggg so hot. You’re like, my big dumb conservative BF now. Take me to the football field and make outttt.”

Matt smirked, eyes dark with lazy lust.

“Fuck yeah, let’s go. Might race the Camaro after. Love makin’ that shit roar.”

Dani practically melted.

As they walked out, arms wrapped tight around each other, the TV flickered:

“Transformation complete. No return possible.”

Jamie Blue was gone.

Matt Bradley loved cars, hated showers, adored conservative politics, and was horny as hell for the bitchy cheerleader on his arm.

But his hair?

Always perfect.

Monday morning.

Jamie Blue and Sam Klein no longer existed.

No one at Ridgeview High remembered them.

Instead there was Matt Bradley.

He showed up late to first period in that same filthy white tank top that barely contained his massive, sweat-slick chest. His sculpted arms were dusted with dirt from “fooling around” in the parking lot.

He swaggered in, one hand absently scratching under his pec, the other lazily brushing his perfect, soft brown hair from his eyes.

He plopped into his seat and spread his legs wide.

He reeked—like sweat, old beer, stale cologne. And he didn’t give a fuck.

When Ms. Palmer called on him: “Matt? Analysis of the poem?”

He squinted. “Uh… poem’s gay or whatever. Iunno.”

At lunch, the whole cafeteria stared as Matt swaggered in with Daniella “Dani” Glossed practically glued to his side.

She wore an even tighter pink crop top, her massive tits straining the fabric. Her shorts rode so high her ass was basically on display.

She squealed with laughter at everything he said. “Omgggg MATTY you’re sooo bad. Stopppp!”

He’d slap her ass so hard it echoed in the room. “Fuckin’ love this bitch.”

She’d bite her lip and moan. “Mmmm do it again.”

He’d grin and squeeze her ass this time, fingers digging in possessively. “Yeah you fuckin’ like that, huh?”

They’d sit down at the jock table.

Matt would spread his legs, tank top stained and pulled so low you could see the trail of hair running down his abs.

He’d lean back, arms over the bench, pulling Dani onto his lap without asking.

She’d grind lazily against him, not caring who saw. “Omgggg I’m so wet rn,” she’d whisper in his ear.

He’d smirk, hand sliding up her thigh to grab a handful of inner leg. “Heh. Fuck yeah you are.”

The whole table would whoop and whistle.

“Bro you’re nasty,” one guy would laugh.

Matt would just grin and lick his lips. “Yeah. That’s the point.”

In the hall, Dani would press him against the lockers.

She’d smoosh her boobs into his chest. “Ugh, you’re so fuckin’ gross. I love it. You’re like my big stinky Republican daddy.”

He’d grab her chin roughly. “Yeah? Gonna be a good little conservative slut for me?”

She’d whimper. “Yesss omgggg.”

He’d kiss her so hard it bruised, then shove her away playfully.

“Go to class before I fuck you right here.”

After school they’d go to Matt’s beat-up Camaro in the parking lot.

He’d throw open the passenger door and slap her ass as she climbed in.

She’d moan, arching her back to show him everything. “Mattyyyy don’t be mean!”

He’d lean in, grabbing her face. “Shut up and suck my tongue.”

They’d make out so aggressively the windows fogged.

When she finally pulled back, smeared lipstick and glassy-eyed, she’d giggle. “Omggg I’m gonna let you do anything tonight. Like anything.”

He’d smirk, licking his lips. “Fuck yeah you are. But first I’m racing Ryan for pink slips. Gonna make this bitch roar.”

He revved the engine, the Camaro snarling.

She squealed in delight. “Ughhhh take me you dirty jock. I love you so much.”

He winked. “Yeah, whatever. Love you too, slut.”

They didn’t even remember being anyone else.

No guilt. No fear. No going back.

Just Matt Bradley and Daniella Glossed:

The dirtiest, most shameless couple in school.

Fully conservative.

Fully straight.

Fully obsessed with each other.

And they wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Transformation complete. No return possible.”

The TV in Jamie’s old room flickered its final words.

And then it went dark forever.

[fratttymatty]

Bye Bye Nerd Herd

(All characters are 18+)

Greyson High’s senior year was in full swing, and eight inseparable friends ruled the library like kings. They weren’t the loudest or the most popular, but they were smart, passionate, and proud to be themselves. Collectively, they were known around school as “the Nerd Herd”—a slightly mocking name they owned with pride.

Each boy had his own flavor of nerdy charm:

Joseph Frank, sarcastic and whip-smart, often had the last word in any debate (or insult).

Ashton Gibbs, fashion-forward, always color-coordinated and proudly flamboyant.

Charlie Lynch, the artsy one, always carrying an old-school camera and an anime phone case.

Logan Poole, grammar cop, crossword fiend, and future editor-in-chief.

Harrison Derricks, computer genius, a little too obsessed with his VPN setup.

Ollie Sanders, the emotional sponge—he cried during Toy Story 4 and apologized afterward.

Harley Walters, the dramatic, moody one, cycling through earrings and nail colors like moods.

Michael Remington, soft-spoken, thoughtful, and observant—often the glue of the group.

They weren’t just gay—they were comfortably and openly themselves in a school that wasn’t always ready for it. They weren’t ashamed of their love for each other, or the fact they felt more at home in the theater wing than the weight room.

But things changed the day they stayed late in the locker room after gym class.

It started with a flicker. A buzzing light. The door locked behind them. And Joseph, shirtless, towel slung low on his skinny hips, scoffed at the jocks' usual sneers echoing outside.

“God, they act like the locker room gets infected just because we used it.”

But before he could turn to grab his shirt, it hit him.)

Joseph staggered, gripping the bench beside him. At first, he thought it was a cramp. But then—his knees nearly buckled.

A strange, pulsing heat ran up his spine and spread across his chest. His towel slipped down a little as his legs trembled, revealing the bare edge of a pale, narrow hip.

“Ugh—ugh, guys... I feel weird—”

Crack.

His shoulders snapped wider.

Like someone was inflating him from the inside out, his wiry frame started thickening—first in the arms, then chest. His biceps ballooned outward, lean and strong, while his pecs puffed forward like someone pressing them into shape.

“Oh my god—what—what the hell—”

Joseph’s voice deepened mid-sentence, shifting from nasal sarcasm into something low and gravelly, like a college athlete mid-smirk.

Veins began tracing up his forearms as his tan darkened, skin smoothing. His once-soft stomach flexed on its own—and rose, muscle by muscle, until a clean six-pack formed under his pecs. Each breath made them tighten.

He stumbled back and saw himself in the locker room mirror.

His jaw cracked as it widened, sharpening into a squared, masculine edge. His lips pulled into a lazy smirk.

And below the waist—

His towel slipped, and for a second, he gasped. What hung between his legs now looked heavier, thicker. The kind of cock that didn’t need to try to impress—it just was impressive. Thick base. Bigger head. Low hang.

Joseph stared, horrified—and then confused—then…

Amused.

“Dude…” he chuckled, a deep, husky tone now fully replacing his voice. “This body is... unreal.”

His hair lightened a shade, styled itself up and messy without trying. His eyes flickered—a new glint in them. Smug. Like he owned the room.

He flexed one arm, watching the muscle swell.

Then, like instinct, he muttered:

“Ethan. Ethan Samuels.”

He didn’t know where the name came from, but it fit. Joseph? That name sounded like a loser now. A skinny, twinked-out loser who quoted sci-fi and rolled his eyes at jocks.

Ethan?

Ethan fucked.

As if on cue, the locker room door burst open, and a girl—blonde, tan, clearly chewing gum with her mouth open—popped her head in, Kaylee Withers.

“Eeeethan! Babe, you left your protein bar in my bra again!”

“Keep it,” Ethan grinned, cock twitching proudly. “Might need it after round two.”

She giggled like she barely knew what he meant. Perfect.

He grabbed a pair of compression shorts from nowhere, slipped them on, his heavy bulge pressing boldly against the fabric.

Joseph Frank was gone.

Ashton watched Ethan in stunned silence, his wide eyes scanning his former best friend’s new body—the way the locker light gleamed on his fresh tan, the clean ridges of his abs, and that cocky bulge stretching the fabric of his shorts like it knew it was a centerpiece.

Ethan didn’t even seem phased. He was flexing his pecs in the mirror and laughing under his breath.

“Ashton,” he said, his new deep voice smug, “you’re gonna love it.”

“I—I don’t want to change—”

But it was too late.

The locker room lights flickered again. A low thrum pulsed through the air like bass from a speaker. Ashton flinched—then arched forward, his whole frame seizing with electric heat.

“O-oh god—!”

His hands shot down to his waist, clutching the elastic of his gym shorts as his thighs began to swell—long, lean muscle wrapping around bone like someone was sculpting him mid-air. His hips snapped inward, giving way to a defined V-line.

His shorts grew tight as his glutes rounded into two firm, bouncy mounds. Even his calves tensed, the muscle tightening with every twitch.

His stomach sucked in—then pulsed—abs rising like hard tiles under a smooth tan. His nipples tightened on a chest that was now defined, pecs rounding into shape with every frantic breath.

He opened his mouth to scream, but it came out as a growl—his voice cracking, lowering, then deepening into a hot, cocky drawl.

“Fffuuuuck me... this feels good,” he muttered, his hands now running up and down his own new chest.

His arms flared out, shoulders broadening. Delicate fingers grew wider, gripping his locker with a confidence he’d never had before.

Then his face—he felt the changes in real time. Cheekbones lifted, jawline sharpened. His nose refined, lips plumped just a bit, and his eyebrows thickened as if styled for a smoldering glare.

Ashton’s styled hair reversed itself, growing into a thick, tousled wave with shaved sides—equal parts edgy and effortless.

And then, beneath the tenting fabric of his shorts… He moaned.

His cock twitched as it thickened, a noticeable bulge growing outward. It was heavy, commanding, pointing slightly left as it filled the pouch of his gym shorts like it had always been big—and knew it.

“Holy—damn,” he laughed. “I’m hangin’ now.”

He grinned, completely unashamed, and reached down to cup himself through the shorts. “Way better.”

By the time he looked in the mirror, the transformation had finished.

He flexed one arm and winked at his reflection. “Name’s Maverick now. Ashton? What is that, a Disney Channel extra?”

The door swung open again.

This time, a tall, tan girl with long fake lashes and a matching gym set barged in like she owned the world.

“There you are, babe! I couldn’t find your Snapback anywhere—I almost had a panic attack.”

He turned, grinned, and slapped her ass playfully.

“Relax, Chloe. You left it on my nightstand again.”

She squealed and kissed him sloppily.

Maverick Roberts. Chloe Hart. The hottest couple in school—and they knew it.

Charlie had always been the quiet one. He held his camera like a security blanket, snapping candids of his friends during gym downtime, never without a shy smile or a whispered anime reference under his breath. He’d filmed Ethan and Ashton—no, Ethan and Maverick—morphing into something else entirely, and now his phone trembled in his grip.

He tried to speak. Tried to back away. But his camera slipped through his fingers and shattered on the locker room tiles.

His heart skipped.

And then his body ignited.

A wave of hot, syrupy tension slid down his spine and pooled low in his gut. He gasped, stumbling forward against the lockers, skin prickling as sweat started to bead on his forehead. He wasn’t hot—he was burning from the inside.

His chest ached—then pushed outward with a hard thud, like a heartbeat going off in his pecs. They swelled gently, firming, rounding beneath his skin as his nipples perked and darkened. His arms followed—biceps rising like tides, clean and lean with just enough size to make his tank top tighten across the shoulders.

“W-what the hell—ugh—f-fuck,” he groaned, voice cracking, warping. His own moans shocked him. Deeper now. Breathier. Confident.

His flat stomach twitched and pulled tight—lines carving across it, the first signs of a sculpted six-pack. His entire torso widened into a shallow V-shape, his spine straightening, posture rising with every pulse of change.

Then came the heat down below.

His gym shorts grew tight—very tight—as something shifted between his thighs. His cock, once modest and well-trimmed, now felt heavier, fuller. The waistband of his shorts hugged it awkwardly as it thickened, pressing down and forward like it wanted attention.

Charlie looked down—and groaned.

Even soft, it looked bigger. Fuller at the base, with a dark trail of new hair rising toward his abs. A fat head, a natural hang.

“Shiiit,” he breathed, dragging a hand along the waistband. “That’s... way better.”

His face changed last. Lips thickened just enough for a constant lazy smirk. Cheekbones sharpened. His nose slimmed. His hair pulled into a perfect, tousled shape that belonged on a cologne ad. One more glance in the mirror and he couldn’t help it—he bit his bottom lip and laughed.

He didn’t feel shy anymore.

He didn’t even feel like Charlie.

“Name’s Wyatt,” he said, turning slightly to admire his now-perfected ass in the mirror. “Wyatt Boone.”

Right then, the locker room door creaked open.

A girl poked her head in—tall, brunette, tanned from a bottle and wearing a baby tee two sizes too small.

“Wyyyatt! You didn’t text me back. Were you at the gym without me?”

He smirked, his new voice smooth and teasing.

“Had to get a quick pump in before I wreck you again, babe.”

She squealed and threw herself at him, arms locking around his neck.

Her name was Hailey Brent. And she’d forgotten what Algebra was two years ago.

They kissed right there—Wyatt pressing her into the lockers, his toned body flush against hers, confident in every flex, every movement. His cock throbbed just a bit in his shorts. Not out of nervousness. Out of hunger.

Logan Poole had always relied on logic. He was the fact-checker, the planner, the kid correcting teachers under his breath. He wore smart glasses, color-coded his notes, and argued grammar in group texts.

Now, he was alone at the far end of the locker room, watching three of his best friends become... strangers. Cocky, smirking strangers with abs, bulges, and girlfriends who couldn’t spell “irony” if their lives depended on it.

He backed up.

“Nope. Not me. Not happening,” he muttered, grabbing his gym bag.

And then the lights flickered—and slammed him with heat.

He staggered forward, one hand gripping the edge of a locker, his vision blurring.

His breath caught.

A low, tingling pressure began in his core. It was warm at first—like sun on skin—but it grew fast. Overwhelming. Intoxicating.

It rolled across his chest like a pulse—then pushed outward. Thud. His pecs thickened beneath his shirt, nipples tightening as they rose on firm muscle. His stomach buckled and clenched, and suddenly he felt every fiber of muscle underneath the skin, like they were waking up after years of sleep.

Six sharp abs surfaced, smooth and rock-hard.

He gasped, his voice cracking, dropping lower.

“H-holy shiiit—what’s—”

Another pulse. His spine straightened, his back widening, posture shifting from hunched to dominant in seconds. His traps popped. His shoulders thickened.

His shorts grew tight—tight.

His hand shot to his crotch—eyes going wide.

“Oh... my god,” he whispered, voice deeper, breathier now.

His cock was swelling. Thickening. Filling the pouch of his briefs. It pressed forward in slow, teasing pulses—filling the space like it was reclaiming territory. He could feel it sliding downward too, gaining weight, girth, presence. The fabric stretched visibly across it, the shape unmistakable.

And god—it felt good. The warmth. The twitching fullness. The throbbing pressure.

He grunted, hips grinding just slightly, unconsciously. His hand lingered for a second too long—rubbing once.

His whole body shivered.

He looked down at himself—abs flexing involuntarily, chest heaving, that fat bulge straining against his shorts.

He almost didn’t care what was happening.

Almost.

Then came the voice.

“Oh fuuuuck...”

It was him—but not him. It was lower. Confident. Like a guy who didn’t ask questions, just acted.

His face finished changing in the mirror: jawline square and clean, lips full and parted, hair darker and styled with perfect messy volume. His eyes weren’t curious anymore—they were hungry.

His transformation slowed. He rolled his shoulders. Flexed his arms. Smirked.

And admired the way his bulge bounced slightly when he walked.

The name Logan was gone. He didn’t even think it.

“Aidan. Aidan Pointer,” he murmured, like he was claiming the name and the man at the same time.

The door creaked.

This time, she walked in like she owned the place: a tall, pale-skinned redhead with ice-blonde highlights, a coffee she probably didn’t finish, and a phone she refused to put down.

“Baaaabe,” she whined. “You left me on read for like fifteen minutes. Were you doing your weird math shiiit again?”

Aidan chuckled.

“Not anymore, Taylor.”

She giggled and threw herself against his broad chest. He flexed just a little as her hands roamed down to his abs.

Taylor Kennedy. Cheerleader. Majored in Starbucks. Didn’t believe in gravity.

Aidan kissed her without a thought.

Logan Poole was buried. Aidan had risen—all abs, smirk, and a bulge that bounced when he walked.

Harrison Derricks had always lived in his head. Coding, hacking, building custom ROMs on his phone. Social anxiety? High. Testosterone? Low. His ass? Flat. His voice? Still waiting to drop.

Now, he was backed into the corner of the locker room, glasses fogged, lips trembling. Four of his best friends—his gay, nerdy, anime-loving, emotionally intelligent friends—had turned into arrogant, bulging, straight gods.

And they weren’t looking back.

He took a step back, but his spine arched suddenly, locking him in place.

“Ggh—nnnngh—!”

It started low. Deep. In his hips.

A molten pulling sensation tightened across his glutes. His ass began to swell—first just a twitch of fullness, then a surge. Muscle stacked in real time as his cheeks rounded out, stretching the waistband of his shorts. A flat, forgettable backside became a full, firm, jocky bubble—tight, high, powerful. His thighs bulked up, tapering into thick quads and veiny calves.

His shorts clung to him like second skin, the seams straining around his new mass. And just above that bouncing, perfect ass, his waist snatched inward, giving him a cut V-line straight from a locker room fantasy.

Then came the abs.

One by one, they pushed forward, brick-like under his now-smooth skin. Each flex made them pop harder—six defined grooves, then eight. His chest swelled, pecs rounding outward like armor, his nipples now small and firm against sculpted flesh.

His moans deepened. His voice fractured, dropping fast and low.

“Nnghh—f-fuuuck, what’s happening—uhh—d-damn—”

By the time his arms began to bulk—long, lean muscle wrapping his biceps—his voice was no longer Harrison’s.

It was Jake’s.

Smooth. Rich. Confident. The kind of voice that commanded attention.

His glasses slipped down his nose and cracked on the floor. He didn’t even flinch. His eyes, now ice-blue and slightly narrowed, gleamed with a sharpness that was not nerdy. They were cocky. Hungry.

And then the heat hit his crotch.

His cock twitched—hard. Thickening fast, rising with new weight, new girth. His bulge was suddenly heavy, pressing forward in his tight shorts like it wanted to announce itself. He groaned, palm grazing it—barely—but it still made him shiver.

“Shit, I’m—hung,” he breathed, rolling his hips forward, watching the bulge bounce against the fabric. His new ass flexed in response, making the jocks nearby whistle and smirk.

“Atta boy, Jake,” Maverick grinned.

Jake. The name burned away Harrison’s last thoughts like static. That boy had been a virgin who blushed during kissing scenes.

Jake? Jake destroyed.

The locker room door creaked.

A blonde with visible lip filler and a vape in hand practically skipped in, chewing pink gum like it was a job.

“There you are, baby,” she said. “You left your protein shake in my passenger seat again.”

He turned slowly, all broad shoulders and low-slung confidence.

“Oops,” Jake grinned. “Guess you’ll have to come back for a refill.”

She squealed. “You’re soooo bad!”

Her name was Addison Vance. She was majoring in vibes, astrology, and lying on Instagram.

Jake slapped her ass with a smirk and pulled her close, their height difference perfect.

The other guys whistled, and Addison gave them a flirty middle finger.

Jake just laughed, and flexed his arms. “Who’s next?”

Ollie Sanders had felt everything. Every song lyric, every anime heartbreak, every teary-eyed goodbye in The Notebook—he felt it. His friends used to joke he could cry on command. He just had too much heart.

Now? That heart was hammering in his chest.

He’d watched them all fall. All change. The boys he had whispered secrets to at sleepovers were now gods—each more ripped, cocky, and brain-dead than the last. And worse? They loved it.

He backed into the lockers, hands shaking.

“I—I can’t… I don’t want—”

The lights buzzed.

The floor trembled.

And suddenly, Ollie gasped—sharp and loud as heat spiked across his chest like a slap.

His body arched, spine popping, abs rolling forward under the surface like something alive.

“Ohhh—wh-what is—ahhh—”

His hands flew to his stomach, but they weren’t soft hands anymore. They were thickening—veins rising, wrists stretching. His forearms grew sinewy, tan, subtly defined. Each twitch of his biceps added size—lean but cut. His arms no longer hugged books. They curled dumbbells.

A tight ache spread across his torso. His chest thudded outward. First a breath—then a build.

Pecs rose. Smooth and curved, firm enough that his nipples pointed slightly down now—muscle he could feel. His shirt rode up as his abs carved themselves out—row after row of clean, shallow ridges. Not bulky. Not showy. But tight. Cut. Shredded.

And then came the shift below.

He grabbed the locker for balance, legs shaking. His thighs thickened with every breath. His glutes lifted—small but tight, high, round, and firm under his shorts.

His voice cracked—and dropped.

A slow, velvety baritone spilled out of him on a gasp.

“Oh… shit… that’s—hot.”

His eyes widened at the sound.

It didn’t sound like Ollie.

It sounded like someone who moaned into the mirror during a pump.

Then came the cock.

It pulsed against his waistband—thick, veiny, insistent. His bulge swelled downward, leftward, growing with the confidence of someone who’d never been embarrassed by it. His hand brushed it by accident and he groaned—sharp, low, needy.

“Damn... I feel massive.”

His shorts clung tight, the shaft shape clearly outlined now. Thick base. Meaty head. Just enough curve to make his hips want to thrust.

His cheeks flushed, not with shyness—but with hunger.

His face completed the shift. His jawline sharpened. His lips curved into a lazy smirk. His thick curls shortened into a messy, push-back style. His freckles faded. His stare? Cocky. Lazy. Hot.

And then…

The name hit him.

“Caleb. Caleb Pitch,” he murmured, like tasting it.

Ollie didn’t exist anymore. He wouldn’t cry at How to Train Your Dragon ever again. Caleb didn’t do feelings. He did pre-workout and mirror selfies and girls who moaned his name before they even touched his dick.

A voice giggled from the doorway.

“Caleeeeeb!” she sang, skipping in. Tight romper. Tan lines. Pink glitter nails. “I found your ball cap in my laundry. It still smells like your sweat and I love it.”

Her name was Kenzie Vale. She had no hobbies and six thousand followers.

Caleb reached out and lifted her up by the waist with one hand. “Babe. You smell like sugar.”

She giggled and licked his neck.

The others cheered.

Harley Walters had always worn his feelings on his sleeves. Literally—he matched his earrings to his mood. Silver skulls on bad days. Pastel hoops on good ones. He’d been the artsy one. The one who quoted Shakespeare in PE just to feel something.

But now?

He was the last one standing before Michael.

And the locker room wasn’t quiet anymore. It was full of jocks now—no, not jocks—his best friends, reborn as arrogant, bulging, cocky hunks with bulges like baseball bats and brains full of gym playlists.

He stood frozen in front of his open locker, his fingers shaking slightly as he reached for his piercings. Just in case. Just to hold on.

But the moment they brushed metal, the shift exploded through him.

“Ghh—uhh—what the f—”

His voice snapped, halfway between a scream and a grunt. It cracked, then dropped like a falling elevator into a deep, rough, masculine growl. He gasped again, chest heaving.

His slim torso twisted in real time—waist narrowing, hips pulling inward, and then—bam—his pecs popped, thick and round, his nipples now dark and sitting proudly on muscle that commanded attention.

His arms flared—biceps rising in two solid mounds as his veins climbed across his forearms. He flexed involuntarily. Once. Twice.

Each time, his cock twitched below.

His legs lengthened, calves knotting, thighs thickening with athletic cut. His ass tightened—not just firm but dense, round and compact like someone built it to thrust.

His gym shorts tugged as his bulge rose—fast. Heavy. A curved, clean shape—thick shaft, pronounced ridge, broad base. It pushed forward like it belonged in a locker room photo shoot.

And god, it felt good.

His cock throbbed once. Then again. Then again.

“Holy... fuuuck...” he moaned, dragging a hand down the front of his shorts.

He flexed his abs—sharp, clean ridges that tensed with every breath. Eight in total. One line cutting straight down the center.

His earring fell out mid-transformation. He didn’t even look for it.

He was too busy admiring himself.

He turned to the mirror, brushing a hand through his hair, which darkened slightly and swept itself back into a neat, tousled style. His jaw was brutal now—carved sharp, masculine. His lips were thicker, darker. His brow set lower—intense.

Gone was Harley’s curiosity, his drama, his softness.

There was only Kyle now.

He rolled his shoulders, then cracked his neck.

“Shit,” he said, voice like gravel over silk. “I look hot.”

The locker room door opened again—and the click of heels echoed across the tile.

“Kyyyyle!” a voice sang. “I brought you yer keys. Also I might’ve crashed your car again, but like, it’s whateverrrr.”

She wore a sports bra, full-face makeup, and heels. In a locker room.

Her name was Brooklyn Tate, and she had the IQ of a Snap filter.

Kyle turned, grinned, and caught her in a hug with one arm—his bicep swallowing her neck.

“Babe, as long as you didn’t scratch the aux cord.”

She giggled like he’d proposed. “You’re soooo dumb. I love that.”

He kissed her neck and let his fingers slide down the curve of her back, bulge pressing firm between them.

The other jocks hooted.

Kyle just smirked.

One left.

Michael Remington had always been the quiet one. Not shy exactly — just watchful. He listened more than he spoke. Thought before he acted. He was the glue of the group, the peacemaker, the empath, the good one.

But now?

He was the last one left.

All around him, his best friends were unrecognizable. Formerly shy, queer, soft-hearted nerds — now they were strutting around the locker room like gods. Flexing abs. Grabbing their girls. Laughing loud. Acting like the world owed them everything.

Michael stared at the ground.

“Guys… I don’t think this is who we are.”

But even as he said it… something in his voice cracked.

Low.

Rough.

Not his usual tone.

He blinked. A buzz sparked deep in his chest.

And then his heart slammed against his ribs.

It had started.

His breathing quickened, and with it came heat. Raw, physical heat that rose from his core, up his spine, into his arms and shoulders and thighs. His body jerked once, twitched, then snapped forward with a moan.

“Ohh—ghhh—what the—”

His shirt ripped at the seams.

His back was widening. Muscles pressed out like stone beneath skin — thick traps, bold delts, broad lats that stretched him into a perfect athletic V.

His chest pushed forward, solid slabs of pecs forming fast. His nipples hardened as they shifted position, riding high on newly bulging muscle. Each breath made them bounce.

Below, his stomach flexed — deep, symmetrical ridges emerging. Not just six. Eight. Each one sculpted, each one hard enough to bounce a quarter off.

His thighs exploded in size. Defined, heavy quads. Tight hamstrings. Calves cut like sculpture. And his ass?

Gone was the flat, nervous nerd look.

Now it was packed, tight, and ready to thrust. Rounded with muscle, it filled out his shorts instantly, even as they tightened over his growing—

“Oh… fuuuck,” he groaned, staggering.

—bulge.

Thick. Heavy. Veiny. His cock shifted left, dragging down with new weight, curving toward the edge of his thigh. His balls dropped lower, fuller. The fabric clung to every detail now: base, shape, length.

It was no longer Michael’s.

This was Axel’s.

And Axel was hung.

He looked down at his own reflection in the metal locker — barely recognizing the new face staring back. His jawline was chiseled, his brows thicker and more confident. His hair lightened slightly, falling into a perfect tousled mess. His smirk curved naturally, like he was born cocky.

His voice, when it came out next, was deep. Stupid hot.

“Damn… I look f*ckin’ sick.”

The other guys whooped and clapped him on the back — hard. He barely flinched. Just flexed a bicep and rolled his shoulders.

“Welcome to the squad, bro,” Ethan grinned.

But Axel wasn’t done.

He reached up and wiped the fog from the locker room mirror, leaned in close, flexed one pec, then another. Abs tensed. Veins popped. Bulge swung left.

“F*ckin’ beast,” he grunted to himself.

He turned, just as the door opened.

She walked in like she owned the place. Blonde. Glossy lips. Bubblegum tank top. No books. Just boobs.

“Babyyyyy!” she squealed. “You forgot your Gatorade and I drank half but it was sooo spicy.”

Her name was Georgina Sweets, and she had the vocabulary of a toddler and the confidence of a runway model.

Axel grinned. “You drank my pre-workout?”

She shrugged. “I thought it was juice!”

He kissed her hard, hand on her hip, fingers tracing her waistband as she giggled and pressed her body into his like she knew she was the luckiest girl alive.

“God damn, babe,” Axel muttered. “You’re like… a snack.”

She kissed his jaw. “You’re like... a protein bar but sexier.”

The rest of the boys clapped and cheered.

Axel turned to them, arm slung over Georgina’s shoulder, and gave a wide, lazy grin.

“So,” he said. “When’s practice?”

“Bro, you don’t even play a sport,” Maverick snorted.

Axel’s eyes narrowed.

“I do now.”

The locker room burst into laughter and chest bumps.

And as the team filed out — muscle stacked, girlfriends hanging off them, bulges swinging, egos pumped — Axel led the pack.

Michael was gone.

Only Axel Parker remained.

And he didn’t even remember what being anyone else felt like.

The sprawling lights of the Parker estate glowed warmly against the night sky, nestled in a quiet, wealthy neighborhood. Axel had invited the guys over for a weekend sleepover, and the mansion was already buzzing with their energy as they filtered inside after a long day of workouts, practices, and hanging out.

Eight beds spread across multiple guest rooms, but the real action was downstairs in Axel’s massive game room—pool table, giant TV, leather couches, and enough space for them to throw down an impromptu arm-wrestling contest or just lounge around flexing and joking.

Axel, the undeniable leader of the group, was leaning back on the couch, bare arms crossed, voice low and playful as he teased Maverick over a missed shot in their video game.

“Dude, if you’re gonna be slow on the stick, don’t even bother,” Axel grinned, flexing his forearms as the veins popped under smooth skin. His broad chest rose and fell with every breath, and the tight muscle of his abs was visible even under the loose shirt.

Maverick just laughed, ruffling his perfect hair. “Whatever, man. At least I’m not afraid to actually try.”

Ethan and Wyatt were sprawled on the floor nearby, a couple of protein shakes in hand, joking about who could do the most push-ups before passing out. Jake was already halfway into a set, his lean frame shaking slightly with effort, while Caleb cracked a grin, holding steady with ease.

Kyle sat cross-legged on the edge of the pool table, smirking as he watched Harrison try to convince Logan to stop being so serious and just chill out for once.

“Relax, man,” Kyle said, voice low and smooth. “It’s just a game… but if you want, I could show you how to win for real.” He flexed one arm, the curve of his bicep catching the light. “Or maybe I could just arm wrestle you right now.”

Logan snorted but didn’t back down. “Bring it, dude.”

Axel clapped his hands, standing up with that easy confidence that made the others quiet down.

“Alright, boys. Enough chit-chat. It’s time for the ultimate challenge.”

He grabbed a basketball from the corner and bounced it a few times, eyes gleaming.

“Winner gets bragging rights—and loser has to do all the laundry next week. Deal?”

Grins spread around the room like wildfire. The challenge was on.

They took the court in Axel’s indoor basketball arena, muscles gleaming under the lights, laughter bouncing off the polished floors. The air was thick with competitiveness, camaraderie, and that unshakable jock energy — full of swagger, teasing, and casual touches that spoke volumes.

Back in the game room, after hours of shooting hoops and friendly trash talk, the group finally collapsed onto the couches and floor, sweat-damp hair tousled, breaths heavy but smiles wide.

Axel stretched out, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Man, this is what it’s about,” he said, voice low and satisfied. “Good friends. Good games. No stress.”

Ethan laughed, nodding. “Yeah, who cares about anything else?”

Wyatt smirked, flexing his fingers. “We should make this a weekly thing.”

The others agreed, their voices blending in a relaxed harmony that filled the massive room.

Hours passed, the night deepened, and one by one, they settled into the bedrooms upstairs, muscles still humming, bodies warm and content.

Axel was the last to turn out the lights, his lean frame stretched out on the largest bed in the mansion. He grinned in the dark, already plotting next week’s games, next week’s challenges.

No need for anything else. Just the pack. Just the night.

(Ethan, Maverick, and Wyatt)

(Aidan, Jake, and Caleb)

(Kyle and Axel)

[fratttymatty]

The State Of Longing

(All characters are 18+)

Tim Windsor and Mary Day were the kind of people everyone forgot existed.

They were reliable. Polite. Liberal, careful with words. Customers liked them enough at the local MegaMart, but no one knew their birthdays or bothered to ask what they dreamed about.

Tim was 46, shy, gay, and impossibly nerdy—comic book shirts under a work vest, constantly pushing up his glasses. Mary was 57, no less shy, with lined but gentle features, and a soft voice that apologized for everything.

They stocked shelves at night. They both worked hard. And they talked in low voices about things they'd never done.

"We should've gone to college, huh?" Mary would say, sighing as she scanned in pallets. "Yeah," Tim would answer. "God. I think about it all the time." "Wouldn't that be something? Being twenty again. Popular. Parties. Whole life ahead of you." "Yeah," he'd say, voice cracking a little.

And somewhere in the shadows of the store, something listened.

It was the State of Longing.

It had no face. It existed where human regret fermented, where wishes got bitter. And it heard their nightly prayers for youth, college life, a second chance.

The State of Longing did not grant wishes kindly.

One night, after a particularly bad shift—angry customers, a spill in the freezer aisle—Mary and Tim were in the back room.

They were both exhausted, leaning against the cold metal of the loading dock.

"Wish I could do it over," Mary murmured. "Be a college girl. Start fresh. Make all the dumb mistakes. Have fun for once."

Tim wiped his glasses. "Yeah. God, I'd kill for that."

They didn't see the shape in the shadows flicker.

"Granted," it whispered, in a voice like cracking ice.

Mary blinked. "What was—"

But she couldn't finish.

Pain shot through her like fire in her bones.

She fell to the floor, screaming. Her work uniform shredded as her body twisted. Fatigue and age sloughed off her like old skin. Her gray hair flushed blonde, growing long and wavy in messy platinum curls.

Her joints cracked and reformed. Wrinkles vanished. Her belly flattened, waist pinched in, breasts swelling. Her skin gleamed golden tan, Californian-perfect, as her voice pitched up into a squealing, nasal whine.

Memories of her life began to burn away.

She tried to remember working at MegaMart. She tried to hold onto Tim's face. But in their place:

Sorority rush week.

Sloppy drunk selfies.

Twerking to pop songs on TikTok.

Laughing at "libs" and saying "like, oh my God, shut up, ew."

Professing her love for "daddy's money" and complaining about poor people.

Gossiping about boys' dick sizes in the locker room.

She felt her IQ drop like a stone in a well.

She tried to scream, "Stop!" but it came out:

"Omigod, like what the fuck is even happening?!"

The State of Longing watched silently as Mary Day died in every meaningful sense, replaced by the gleaming, vacant-eyed Tiffany Crane.

She stood up unsteadily.

She was 21. Blonde. Bubbly. Hot as hell. Wearing a short cheer skirt and a tight crop top emblazoned with her university's logo.

Her nails were perfectly manicured. Her lips were plumped, glossed. She smelled of cotton candy perfume.

She looked in the cracked mirror on the wall, shrieked in giggly delight, and posed with a peace sign.

"Omigod, I'm so cute! Look at me! Whoo, go team!"

She loved it.

No memory of the night shift. No memory of being Mary Day. No desire to go back.

All she wanted now was to party, cheer at football games, make TikToks calling liberals "snowflakes," and hook up with the hottest frat boys she could find.

Tim Windsor watched it all.

His mouth was dry. His heart hammered.

"Mary?" he croaked.

But the girl before him just blinked, confused.

"Who the fuck is Mary? Ew, you're creeping me out, grandpa."

She grabbed her phone to check her notifications and tottered out of the room, practicing a bouncy cheer move.

Somewhere in the shadows, the State of Longing turned its gaze to Tim next.

Tim Windsor was still shaking.

The back room was quiet now, except for the faint echo of a girl’s giggle — high, plastic, and somewhere down the hall. A cheerleader’s voice. Mary’s voice.

He didn’t know what was worse: watching her vanish into a stranger, or the sick heat building in his own body.

"This can't be happening..." he murmured. But even as he said it, he felt it beginning.

Not panic.

Something... thrumming.

It started in his thighs — a deep, pulsing heat that made him stagger.

He gasped as his legs stretched and thickened, soft flesh turning solid, firm, powerful. His ass clenched, bubbled out. His back arched slightly. He moaned — sharp, surprised — as if someone had grabbed him from inside.

Tim dropped to his knees, breathing hard. His polo shirt clung to him, then tightened, and then burst, sleeves ripping as shoulders widened. Biceps swelled beneath skin turned golden tan, tight over new curves and cuts.

His belly caved inward — flab melting — revealing a hard, shallow six-pack.

His fingers tingled. His jaw cracked. He felt younger. Hotter. So much dumber.

And it felt... good.

He stumbled to a mirror.

He didn’t see Tim anymore.

He saw Leo Harris — tousled brown hair, smirking lips, eyes with just enough stoner daze to say “I definitely skipped class and hit a vape.”

He was wearing a black Barstool Sports sweatshirt. Loose gray sweats hung low on his hips, the outline of something heavy barely hidden beneath the fabric.

He looked exactly like the guy from that one TikTok — the one girls stitched with “girl dinner 😩”.

Leo smirked at himself in the mirror and grabbed his crotch lazily, adjusting.

"Daaaamn, bro, I look fire."

Tim’s memories were slipping away like water in a shower.

No more sci-fi marathons. No quiet nights re-reading old novels. No politics. No queerness.

Just:

Gym pics

Chick-fil-A orders

Being horny on main

Telling people to “grindset” more

Sending shirtless snaps with captions like “u up?”

And always—ALWAYS—talking about how good his dick was.

He licked his lips, checking himself out again.

“Bro I’d fuck me, not gonna lie.”

Now, Leo didn’t remember ever being anyone else. He was 21. He was dumb. He was hot. And he was always turned on.

He flexed, then dropped one hand into his sweats and sighed with a lazy smirk.

“God, I need to smash. Like... right now.”

His phone buzzed. It was from Tiffany.

"u better come party tonight hottie 😈💋"

He grinned, tongue between teeth.

"Bet."

As Leo swaggered out of the back room, bouncing with loose-limbed confidence, the State of Longing watched in silence — satisfied.

Tim Windsor was no more.

Just Leo Harris: 21, straight, dumb, hot, horny frat boy — and totally okay with that.

The bass thumped through the frat house like a heartbeat.

The air was thick with cologne, vodka, and body heat. Every room glowed red and gold with LED lights that made everything — and everyone — look hotter, sweatier, drunker.

And Leo Harris?

He owned the room.

Lounging on the couch in his Barstool hoodie and sweats, beer in hand, curls tousled to perfection, smirk locked in place, abs peeking out from under his hoodie every time he laughed.

People cheered when he walked in. Guys offered him drinks. Girls offered him... other things.

He didn’t even have to try.

And then she walked in.

Tiffany Crane.

The crowd practically parted.

Short crop-top that barely contained her bounce, pleated cheer skirt riding dangerously high, hair in perfect curls, lips glossy, eyes drunk on attention.

She made eye contact with Leo across the room — a slow, sultry once-over — and bit her lip.

His mouth dropped open just a little.

"Yo..." he muttered, standing up. His beer nearly slipped out of his hand.

Tiffany didn’t even speak. She just walked up, finger trailing up his chest, grinning like she already knew how the night would end.

"You look like you wanna wreck something tonight."

Leo’s jaw tightened. His hand found her waist.

"Girl, I'm about to ruin your GPA."

They stumbled into one of the frat rooms upstairs, kissing between laughs, Leo's hands under her skirt, her tongue in his mouth, both of them moaning between phrases like:

"God, you’re so hot." "Mmm, your sweat smells like beer and sex, I’m obsessed." "I love dumb boys with big hands, is that bad?"

Clothes came off slowly — not because they were shy, but because they loved watching each other take it all in.

They didn’t think. They didn’t remember. They didn’t care.

They were perfect. They were hot. They were fucking alive.

Somewhere — far, far beneath the moans, the grinding, the sticky mattress and pounding music — the names Tim and Mary didn’t even exist anymore.

There was no hint of who they’d been. No guilt. No sadness.

Just Tiffany and Leo.

The head cheerleader and the quarterback.

Dumb, horny, shallow, beautiful.

Living for likes, hookups, and the next blackout night.

And the State of Longing watched from the shadows of the room, not as a monster…

…but as a mirror.

Because this?

This is exactly what they asked for.

[fratttymatty]

The New Life

(All characters are 18+)

Oliver Green was, by all accounts, the shyest boy at St. Edmund’s Sixth Form College in London. Pale and thin, with a mop of curly brown hair that fell over black-rimmed glasses, he kept his nose buried in books about philosophy and politics. At eighteen, he was an outspoken liberal—though “outspoken” was relative, because he hardly spoke at all outside debate club. Bisexual, awkward, and sweet, Oliver had always felt a little out of step with everyone around him.

That all changed on the last day of term.

It started when Oliver found a strange, antique-looking coin lying in the courtyard. It shimmered unnaturally in the sun. When he picked it up, a jolt of heat shot up his arm. He yelped, dropping it, but the coin dissolved into a swirl of golden smoke that snaked into his mouth.

Everything went black.

When he awoke, he was lying on a sun-bleached football field. The sky was impossibly blue overhead. His body felt…different—heavy, powerful. His chest pressed against tight fabric. With trembling hands, he sat up and looked down.

Instead of his old skinny frame, he saw broad, defined pectorals stretching a sleeveless letterman jersey across an enormous chest. The name stitched across it read JACKSON REED.

He scrambled to his feet—and realized he’d grown at least six inches taller. His legs were thick and corded with muscle. His arms were huge, tanned, and dusted with a faint trail of dark hair. His hands were rough and calloused, and a class ring glinted on one finger—AMERICAN HIGH SCHOOL FOOTBALL CHAMPIONS.

Panicking, he reached for his glasses, but they were gone. His vision was perfect. He could see the cheerleaders in the stands, gossiping and twirling their hair. Even his voice sounded wrong when he let out a shaky, “What the hell?”

It was deeper. Confident. A little arrogant.

He stumbled toward the locker room, past a mirror hanging on the wall. The reflection made him stagger back.

He didn’t look like Oliver anymore. He looked like he’d stepped out of some glossy sports magazine—tall, with chiseled cheekbones, tousled dark hair in a perfect fade, dark eyebrows, a jaw like cut stone. His blue eyes gleamed with smug self-assurance. He looked exactly like Jacob Elordi’s Nate Jacobs—except he was grinning with a swaggering cockiness Oliver had never felt.

As he stared in horror, memories began to overwrite the old ones: his first touchdown, making out with girls in the back of his pickup, mocking the “nerds and queers,” voting Republican with his dad, chugging beers at the lake. His politics shifted—liberal idealism replaced by a smug certainty that he was right about everything. Bisexual feelings drained away like a bad dream. Now he liked only one thing: hot girls.

Pussy. Lots of it.

Oliver tried to fight it—but his mind was dissolving under the onslaught of his new identity. He felt a sneer pulling at his lips, and suddenly the old shy accent was gone, replaced by a deep, throaty American drawl.

My name’s Jackson Reed. Everybody calls me Jack.

He felt no regret. Just a rush of cocky excitement and a flicker of disdain for his old, nerdy self.

A shrill, delighted voice snapped him out of the reverie.

“Oh my God, Jack, babe, you totes scared me!”

A blonde bombshell in a pink tank top and denim shorts bounced over, her breasts jiggling. She threw her arms around his neck and pressed her glossy lips to his. She tasted like bubblegum.

He knew her instantly—Cassie, his girlfriend. The hottest, ditziest valley girl in school.

“Ugh, you’re, like, soooo late,” she pouted, twirling a lock of hair. “Coach was looking for you. But, like, whatever, right? You wanna come to my place after practice? My parents are out, so we can, you know…”

She giggled and leaned in. “Do stuff.”

Jack smirked, wrapping a thick arm around her waist.

“Hell yeah, babe.”

Oliver Green was gone. Only Jackson “Jack” Reed remained—outgoing, cocky, straight as an arrow, conservative as they came. And he loved every second of it.

As he walked off the field with Cassie clinging to his bicep, he spared a single thought for the shy British kid he’d once been.

What a loser.

Jack Reed strutted down the hallway of Redwood High, his letterman jacket slung over one shoulder, Cassie clinging to his arm. Her high-pitched laugh bounced off the lockers. He loved the way people looked at them—jealous, admiring, even afraid.

He flashed his signature cocky grin at a passing teacher.

“Morning, Mr. Henderson.”

The teacher gave a stiff nod, avoiding his gaze. Jack knew he’d once shoved Henderson’s nerdy son into a locker last semester. That memory made him laugh.

Cassie tugged on his sleeve.

“Babe, like, are you even listening? I’m telling you about prom. I need, like, a new dress. It’s totes important!”

Jack squeezed her ass, making her squeal.

“Yeah, sure, princess. I’ll buy you whatever you want.”

Her face lit up. “Omigod! You’re literally the best boyfriend ever.”

Jack smirked. Damn right he was.

He loved everything about this new world. He loved football practice—pounding other guys into the turf while the cheer squad watched. He loved parties with red Solo cups, beer pong, and hooking up with Cassie in the back of his souped-up pickup. He loved mocking the nerds and “woke weirdos” who sat alone at lunch.

Once, he thought he saw a kid who reminded him of Oliver Green—thin, nervous, clutching a book on political philosophy. Jack got in his face.

“What’s that shit you’re reading? Commie crap?”

The kid flinched. Jack shoved him lightly—just enough to send a message. Cassie watched, twirling her hair, giggling.

“Jack, babe, you’re sooo bad,” she said admiringly.

“Damn right I am.”

But sometimes, at night, in the bathroom mirror, something flickered.

He’d stare at his perfect, chiseled face. Those blue eyes. That smirk that never left his lips.

And for just a second, he’d hear the ghost of an English accent.

He’d see himself pale and scrawny, in his old school uniform, glasses slipping down his nose.

Stop it, he’d snarl at the mirror.

“Oliver’s dead. I’m Jack Reed.”

Cassie would call from the bedroom in that sugar-sweet drawl:

“Baaaabe? Hurry up! I wanna snuggle!”

Jack would flex in the mirror one last time, grin at himself, and turn away.

When prom finally came, Cassie looked like a blonde bombshell in shimmering pink. She squealed when she saw Jack in his tailored tux, his hair perfectly styled.

“Omigod, you look sooo hot. Like, let’s skip the dance and just do it.”

Jack just laughed and picked her up in his arms.

“Anything you want, babe.”

They were crowned Prom King and Queen, of course. Cameras flashed. Cassie posed with her tongue out, making a peace sign. Jack kissed her hard in front of everyone, drawing cheers and wolf whistles.

Afterward, they left the hotel ballroom, got in his pickup, and headed to the lake. Cassie snuggled close, nuzzling his neck.

“I love you sooo much, Jack,” she slurred happily. “You’re, like, the best boyfriend ever.”

He looked out at the dark water, his grin never wavering.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

He felt the last echoes of Oliver Green fade for good—like a dream he couldn’t even remember anymore.

Because this was real.

Jack Reed. Football captain. All-American jock. Conservative, red-blooded, straight-as-hell ladies’ man.

And he wouldn’t change back for anything.

[fratttymatty]

Flex Appeal

(All characters are 18+)

Declan Roy was a creature of habit and meticulous hygiene. Each morning, his high-pitched voice hummed show tunes as he meticulously organized his color-coded binders for AP Lit and Advanced Calculus. He was eighteen, a proud liberal, and his idea of a wild Friday night involved a spirited debate on sustainable energy sources. His hands, slender and uncalloused, were far more accustomed to gripping a fountain pen than a hockey stick. He moved through the school hallways like a ghost, polite nods his only interaction with the jocks and cheerleaders who inhabited a separate, louder universe. He preferred the quiet hum of the library, the scent of old paper, and the comforting predictability of his perfectly ordered life.

That predictability shattered on a Tuesday afternoon. Lost in thought, dissecting the socio-economic implications of the cafeteria’s non-organic apple slices, Declan took a wrong turn, pushing through a heavy, unmarked door. The air hit him first: a suffocating, primal stench of sweat, liniment, and stale Gatorade. He had stumbled into the very heart of the hockey team’s domain—the locker room.

He froze, a deer in the headlights of a roaring, primal beast. Burly figures, glistening with exertion, turned their heads. "Well, well, what do we have here?" a booming voice resonated. It belonged to the team captain, Brock "The Boulder" Harrison, who eyed Declan with a predatory grin. Before Declan could utter a squeak of apology, he was seized. A cold, viscous liquid poured over his head, smelling faintly of stale beer and some unholy combination of gym socks and Axe Body Spray. He gasped, sputtering as the bizarre concoction drenched him.

Then, the world twisted.

A jolt, like a thousand volts of raw electricity, coursed through Declan’s body. It began in his core, a sudden, searing heat that spread outward. His breath hitched as his ribs seemed to creak and expand, his chest broadening, pushing against the thin fabric of his band T-shirt. A low groan escaped him, alien and deep, as his high-pitched voice cracked, a prelude to the seismic shift underway.

His vision blurred, then sharpened, as his height increased, seemingly stretching him from the inside out. He felt his head rise, his shoulders moving from a stoop to a broad, powerful line. The sensation was profoundly unsettling, yet oddly exhilarating, like being stretched on a rack by an invisible, powerful force. His jeans, once baggy, grew taut across newly muscled thighs, then ripped at the knees as his legs elongated and thickened. Each muscle fiber felt as if it were being re-spun, braided into something denser, more potent. His hands, once delicate, became broader, the fingers thickening, joints cracking and reshaping themselves as calluses began to form on his palms. He instinctively clenched them into fists, feeling a new, raw power.

A wave of heat surged downward, originating from his groin. Declan bit back a cry as his private parts, once modest and unassuming, underwent a startling, almost painful, expansion. He felt himself growing, stretching, swelling, until his underwear felt ridiculously constricting, a sharp contrast to the loose-fitting briefs he'd always worn. It was a shocking, undeniable shift, leaving him with a sense of potent, almost aggressive, masculinity.

His hair, previously a wispy, light-brown mop, began to darken, thickening into a coarse, dark brown mane. He felt the weight of it, the individual strands growing longer, heavier, until it fell naturally into a sharp, deliberate middle part. He ran a hand through it, marveling at the sudden density and the way it framed his newly chiseled jawline. There was no trace of his former facial hair, just smooth, confident skin.

The final transformation was subtle but profound. His mind, once a repository of liberal ideals and academic facts, began to shift. Old interests evaporated like morning dew. He found himself thinking about weights, about protein, about… girls. Not in the abstract, respectful way he used to, but with a primal, almost aggressive, appreciation.

When he finally looked into the cracked mirror on the locker room wall, he saw a stranger. Gone was Declan Roy, the earnest, high-pitched activist. In his place stood Matthew Wyatt, a towering, powerfully built young man with broad shoulders, a sculpted physique, and hair that fell perfectly in a middle part. His eyes, once soft, now held a confident, almost arrogant gleam. He was the embodiment of the high school jock archetype, every inch of him screaming testosterone and unearned swagger. He was the very picture of confident athleticism.

He strode out of the locker room, a new man in a new world. His voice, a booming baritone, startled a group of cheerleaders. He grinned, an unthinking, confident flash of white teeth. His new brain processed the world differently. He couldn’t comprehend why anyone wouldn't want to live in the gym.

"Seriously," he grumbled to a teammate, watching a group of guys walk by, books clutched to their chests. "Why aren't all dudes hitting the weights? Like, what's their deal? You wanna be a string bean forever? And the girls, man... some of them don't even know how to properly appreciate a guy who spends hours sculpting himself in the gym. It's like, come on, ladies, get with the program! Why aren't all girls ditzy and into cheerleading, wanting to fawn over athletes and just, like, be in love with us? It’s honestly confusing, what are they even doing with their lives?" His new thoughts were a masterclass in unintentional satirical toxicity.

He’d catch sight of two boys holding hands in the hallway and sneer. "Gay dudes?" he’d scoff to himself, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion, a hint of disdain in his voice. "Nah, man. That's just weird. A total waste of a good girl, if you ask me. Boys and girls are ugly, but at least they're normal." The very notion baffled him; his new mind simply couldn't compute attraction outside of what he now considered the 'norm.'

Matthew Wyatt ran a hand over his smooth, newly defined jawline, adjusting his middle-parted hair. He felt strong, invincible, and utterly content in his new skin. The old Declan was a distant, irrelevant memory. He was Matthew, and Matthew was exactly who he was meant to be. He wouldn't have it any other way.

After a month as Matthew Wyatt, Declan could barely remember what it was like to agonize over homework or fret about the planet’s ozone layer. He was so thoroughly transformed—inside and out—that being Matthew now felt like the only thing that ever made sense. His days revolved around hockey, bench presses, and flexing in the nearest reflective surface.

Then Stacy Klein happened.

She glided into his life between fourth period and after-school weights—long hair glossy, nails perfectly painted, designer tote swinging from her arm. Stacy was notorious for being the “it girl”: she lived for shopping sprees at the city mall, adored all things expensive, and in debate club had once argued that capitalism was, like, basically a human right. She claimed to have “minor stock market trauma” after her dad sold Tesla shares too early.

Stacy caught Matthew’s eye one afternoon as he floated out of AP Gym. He noticed her, mostly because she noticed him—laughing, twirling her hair, tugging her friend’s sleeve, stage-whispering loud enough for him to hear, “Bruh, he’s, like, literally the hottest dude here. You see those arms? Omigod.”

They were magnetic opposites that somehow made sense together: she was expertly tanned, lips glossed, obsessed with status and sparkle; he was all muscle and confidence, caring about little besides his own reflection and which action movie was premiering that weekend. He asked her out, using the most subtle approach he knew—flexing his biceps while asking if she “liked sushi or whatever.” She swooned on principle, and that was that.

They became the school’s premier power couple: Matthew parading Stacy by his side after games, Stacy making endless TikToks in the school parking lot, narrating in syrupy valley intonations. Whenever Matthew had a complaint about the world (which was nearly always), Stacy was ready to listen—extra caramel latte in hand, head nodding, providing a soundtrack of supportive “Oh my gawds,” and “so true, babes.”

One afternoon, lounging in the food court with a shopping bag fortress around them, Matthew went off about his latest pet peeve: “Okay, so we watched that new football movie in class, right? And they’re, like, making the quarterback black and his best friend’s gay, and I’m just, like, what? Football’s always been about tough straight white dudes. Why’s everyone gotta make everything ‘diverse’? Who cares about all that, bro, just throw the ball and win, y’know?”

Stacy promptly popped a bubble with her gum, rolling her eyes in agreement. “Ugh, so woke, it’s, like, they think we want to see ourselves on screen or whatev, but it’s, like, let football be about football. I didn’t ask for all these randos. Like, diversity is cute and whatever, but can they not ruin my movies, plz? It’s giving cringe.”

Matthew grinned, encouraged by her support, and switched topics. “And dudes at school, Stacy, it’s messed up. Like, half these guys never even set foot in the gym. What are they doing with their lives, reading books? Bro, you gotta get those gains if you wanna get noticed. It’s not that hard, and it’s literally the only thing that matters.”

Stacy giggled, slurping her iced coffee. “Deadass, like, if you aren’t at the gym, why are you a guy? Omg, reading’s for nerds, like, save it for applying to college, hello. No one cares if you can quote Shakespeare, babes. Go get a tan and bench press or something, duh.”

Matthew, emboldened, rolled on. “Don’t get me started about, like, all those girls trying to be, you know, smart and do science or, like, math competitions? For real? You’re hot, just be hot! Like, what’s the point? Do your hair, cheerlead, have fun. That’s literally it.”

Stacy, always ready with her valley wisdom, chimed in. “Yah, like for real, leave STEM to the geeks. If you’re cute, own it! You think I’m gonna mess up my nails doing chemistry? No thx. If you have brains, slay, but don’t, like, forget the basics, babe.” She giggled again, tossing her hair.

The conversation drifted, but it always circled back to the things Matthew could never figure out about people these days. “And bro—those guys who, like, date other guys? Can’t relate at all. Sorry not sorry, but it’s just, like, weird. Girls are, like, so much better, don’t even get me started.”

Stacy, eager to agree, pursed her lips and put on a fake sympathetic face. “Babe, I know! It’s, like, you do you, but also… why? There’s so many hot girls, just, like, have fun! I don’t get it. Is it a phase? Whatever, I guess. As long as they don’t, like, make it the main plot in my favorite shows. Can’t deal.”

Matthew nodded, feeling perfectly at home in the fortress of shopping bags, with the girl of his dreams at his side, both worshipping at the shrines of gym culture, the mall, and mutual self-assurance. They were lost in their glossy, shallow world, not a doubt between them that theirs was the best and only way to live. The rest of the world? Too complicated. Too confusing. Best to laugh about it, and buy new shoes.

Somewhere, buried deep beneath those layered protein shakes, shopping hauls, and lazy afternoons in suburban parking lots, there might have been echoes of an old life, of a boy who used to worry about the ice caps and inclusive movies and big ideas. But for Matthew Wyatt and Stacy Klein, only one thing mattered: looking good, living easy, and making sure nothing—and no one—ever disrupted the vibe.

[transform4u]

so my girl best friend, Cassie, recently just got broken up with by this total douchebag jock, I mean he was a tiktok f-boy all throughout. But she’s been super super sad about it. I guess i’m just wishing to Tharnis that I wish I could make her feel happier and better.

Cassie’s sobs shake the small dorm room. She’s curled on the edge of the bed, mascara streaking down her face, shoulders trembling like the weight of her grief is trying to drag her through the floor.

You sit beside her, helpless. Your fingers twitch in your lap. You hate seeing her like this. She doesn’t deserve this pain. Not because of him, that smug, protein-stuffed meathead who treated her like an accessory. You feel your jaw clench, teeth grinding a little too tight.

“I wish I could make you feel better,” you whisper. The words aren’t directed at her. You’re not even sure who you’re talking to. Just a desperate, half-formed prayer in the pit of your stomach. You glance at the little iron figurine on your shelf, a stupid trinket from the oddities fair. Tharnis. Demon of exchange. Desire for price. You thought it was cool, edgy. Just a decoration.

Then the lights flicker.

Once.

Twice.

The room hums, no, vibrates, like a breath held too long. A chill licks down your spine, so sharp it makes you jerk. You blink, suddenly dizzy.

"He was a total asshole, Cassie," you manage. But your voice, it's deeper, slightly distorted, like someone else is speaking through your chest. You swallow. "A pig. You're better off without him."

The air feels heavy. Your skin crawls. You lick your lips, and a strange metallic tang hits your tongue. Not blood. Not sweat. Venomous. Like something bitter and dark has seeped into your mouth.

Your eyes shift, almost involuntarily, to Cassie. She’s still crying, vulnerable, soft. You stare longer than you mean to. She’s glowing in the flickering light. You feel something twist in your gut. Wrong. Alien. Predatory.

No.

You blink hard. “I mean, he was nothing but a meathead jock,” you say, your words slower now, slurring at the edges. Your usual lisp is gone. Vanished.

You clutch your stomach. It burns.

Then your body starts to ache.

No, tear.

A sharp crack radiates from your shoulder, like your bones are being reset against your will. Your arms stretch unnaturally, bones thickening beneath the skin, muscle crawling over them like vines twisting too tight around an old tree. You whimper, or try to, but it comes out as a low grunt, guttural, inhuman.

You glance down. Your arms, their familiar thinness is gone. Now, thick cords of muscle ripple under your skin, veins snaking like rivers of molten stone. Your fingers tingle, stretching slightly longer, fingers tapering with unnatural strength. You flex hesitantly — and the muscles swell, pulsing visibly beneath the skin, hardening into tight, defined ridges.

Your heart thunders as your shoulders suddenly broaden, the bones grinding, cracking in protest as they widen against your ribcage. Your shirt groans under the strain, threads popping, fabric tearing as your torso expands, the ribs pressing outward, forcing a proud, square chest.

The sensation is maddening — like your body is both burning and freezing at once, muscles knotting and stretching, skin pulling taut over your swelling frame.

You stagger toward the mirror, the floor tilting beneath you.

In the glass, your reflection stares back, but it’s not quite your own.

Your jaw has sharpened into a hard, angular line, thick and square like a statue carved from granite. The shadow of stubble dusts your chin and cheeks, coarse and dark. Your cheekbones thrust forward, pronounced and cruel, under skin bronzed with a sun-kissed glow you don’t remember earning.

Your lips, fuller than before, curl into a crooked half-smile. Your eyes gleam bright, piercing, alive with a predator’s fire. Your thick hair tumbles over your forehead in a messy, deliberate chaos that somehow looks effortless.

You watch in horror as your torso tightens further, the once-skinny waist now solid and compact, muscles rippling with every shallow breath. Your pecs rise and fall with a rhythm all their own, firm and hard enough to cast shadows on the floor.

You raise your arms again, flexing unconsciously. The biceps balloon, swelling with power, veins throbbing beneath the surface. Triceps flare wide, cutting deep into your skin like sculpted wings. Your forearms, once slender, are now dense, the sinews thick and knotted.

Cassie’s eyes widen, cheeks flushing as she stares, frozen between shock and fascination.

You try to speak but your voice is deeper now, rougher, slipping easily into a tone you don’t recognize but feel compelled to wear.

The scent hits you next. You. You reek of sweat, musk, testosterone, raw and unclean, like a locker room that hasn’t been aired out in years. It pours off you, suffocating. Your shirt clings to you, wet and tight, before it finally tears.

Your hand flexes. Massive. Veins crawl up your forearms like serpents. You feel powerful. Untouchable.

You laugh.

It's too loud. Too confident. You slap a hand over your mouth, heart hammering. That wasn’t you. That laugh belonged to someone else. Some thing inside you.

You turn, and Cassie is staring at you. Wide-eyed. Blushing.

No. No, no, no—

"Yeah, that dude was such a dumbass fuckboy," you say and the words fall out easily, too easily, like you've said them a thousand times before. Like they’ve always belonged in your mouth.

You feel memories slip, like water through your fingers.

Your boyfriend’s name, what was it?

A book you loved, gone.

You see a club instead. Neon lights. Girls. Curves. Your thoughts dull, heavy. Your brain struggles to hold on to words with more than two syllables.

“W-what’s happening…” you whisper, slurring now, voice thick and slow. But something inside you laughs again. And this time, it’s not you who hears it.

But inside, your mind is fraying, memories slipping away like water through trembling fingers. The familiar thoughts, the things you used to care about, drain out, replaced by a hazy fog.

And as your body continues to throb and swell with new, terrifying strength, you realize with growing dread: you’re fighting a battle you might already be losing.

You feel her hand rest on your shoulder. A spark flares, but you push it away. No way, you tell yourself. You’re totally gay, right? Right. So why does your brain trip? Why do your lips part, and before you can stop yourself you blurt, “Dude was such an obnoxious homophobic straight asshole.”

Suddenly the air changes. The room tilts. Your senses narrow into this foggy tunnel where everything smells like defeat of stale gym shorts, sour armpit musk, and that unopened package of performance underwear you bought thinking it’d make you more… something.

Your sheets have gone from gray to a sickly taupe, crusted with the residue of neglect and loneliness. You haven’t washed them since that girl came over six months ago, when you thought maybe you’d be more than this.

You glance back at the mirror. Your reflection stares back—tight, pumped, like a meme incarnate. The muscles ripple under skin that doesn’t feel like yours anymore. You flex your arms, veins snaking like rivers of overconfidence, and you wink. You genuinely believe you’re hot shit. Zac Efron meets Andrew Tate, if Andrew Tate was emotionally constipated and allergic to introspection.

But then your mind scrambles.

The sharp edges of your thoughts blur, getting duller and heavier, like walking through water. You try to hold onto something—anything—that’s you, but it’s slipping through your fingers.

You’re the guy in every gym mirror selfie, tongue out, middle fingers up like the world’s a locker room and you’re about to yell, “Let’s fuckin’ goooo!” at a stoplight. But the funny thing? You get mad at stoplights now. You yell at your steering wheel, at vending machines. You don’t even like protein shakes anymore, but you keep drinking them because loyalty to the grind is all you’ve got.

Your voice drops, thick and bassy, coated in energy drink fumes and bad barstool podcast takes. You catch yourself calling women “females” like you’re narrating a nature documentary. “Sweetheart” slips out in arguments, and you swear it’s a checkmate. You say “no homo” when your eyes lock with a guy’s—because you have to. Even if it’s your reflection in the mirror.

Your mind rewires itself in slow, maddening increments. The clarity you had is replaced by noise of crude thoughts, anger, simple instincts. You think therapy is for “broken people,” even though you haven’t felt anything but rage and horniness since 2016. You bottle emotions like poison, let muscle speak where words fail. You ghost instead of apologize, post thirst traps like war cries.

Every memory you had of who you were is fading. The smart kid who loved books, who cared about things beyond flexing and followers—that guy’s drowning in this sea of dopamine and muscle ache.

You see yourself in the mirror and all you feel is the pump, the grind, the endless performance.

The cold truth claws at your ribs: you’re dumber now. Your thoughts crawl, simple and raw. You talk like a podcast, but only the loudest, dumbest parts. You know the right words but can’t string them together. Every nuance fades to a blunt, bass-heavy growl.

You rage at pronouns, at “woke” culture, at anyone who challenges your worldview. Your social media is a shrine to ego and bravado, a battlefield where every like is a victory and every ignore a defeat.

You stand before the mirror, your chiseled abs glistening under the dim light. Your eyes, filled with a primal hunger, scan your muscular physique. Cassie lies sprawled on the bed behind you, her presence barely registering in your single-minded focus."Bet you'd be happy with just a quick fuck to get over what's his nuts," you sneer at your reflection, flexing your biceps. "You mean Dylan?"you mutter, trying to remember the guy's name. "Yeah, that's right. Uhhhh, Dylan. Wait, that's my name brah" The words hang in the air, sealing your fate as the campus's dumbest, horniest, most homophobic fuckboy. You turn away from the mirror, your gaze drifting to Cassie's prone form. She's just another conquest, another pair of legs to wrap around your waist. Tomorrow, her face will be a blur, her name forgotten.

You stride towards the bed, your movements predatory. Cassie stirs as you approach, her eyes fluttering open. She smiles weakly, still dazed from whatever substance you slipped her earlier. You climb onto the bed, hovering over her petite frame. Your hands roam her body possessively, squeezing her breasts, her thighs. She gasps, arching into your touch. "Dylan…" she whispers, her voice laced with desperation and desire .You smirk, knowing she's putty in your hands. You lean down, your lips brushing against her ear. "Shut up," you growl, "and spread your legs." Cassie complies without hesitation, her legs falling open, inviting you in. You position yourself between her thighs, your hardness pressing against her entrance. Without warning, you thrust forward, burying yourself deep inside her. Cassie cries out, her nails digging into your back.

You begin to move, your hips slamming against hers with brutal force. Each thrust is a statement, a reminder of your dominance. Cassie's cries fill the room, a symphony of pleasure and pain.You lean down, your lips curling into a sneer. "You like that, don't you?" you hiss, "being fucked by the campus king?" Cassie nods frantically, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and ecstasy. "Yes," she gasps, "oh god, yes!" You laugh, a cruel, mocking sound. Your hands grip her hips, pulling her closer, deeper. You know she'll regret this tomorrow, but right now, she's yours. Completely, utterly yours. You continue your relentless pace, your body moving like a machine, designed for one purpose only: pleasure. And pain. Especially pain. You reach down, your fingers finding her throat.

You wrap your hand around her throat, squeezing gently. Cassie's eyes widen, her breath coming in short gasps. You smirk, enjoying the power you hold over her. "You're mine," you growl, "all mine." You thrust harder, deeper, your other hand gripping her breast roughly.

[fratttymatty]

Viral Shift

(All characters are 18+)

Eli Kaplan was 19, gay, liberal, proudly introverted, and deeply nerdy. He had glasses that slid down his nose, a wardrobe built from indie graphic tees, and a deep distrust of anyone who called themselves “alpha.” His happy place was in the computer lab, solving algorithms and discussing queer theory with his tiny circle of friends over oat milk lattes.

When the “jock virus” rumors hit the campus subreddit, he rolled his eyes. The idea that a virus could completely change someone's personality—let alone their identity—was obviously a prank. Right?

Then it started happening.

Quiet art majors suddenly swapped their flannels for muscle tanks. Poli sci kids began parroting talking points from Ben Shapiro videos. Drama nerds were pledging frats. All of them became meat-headed, ultra-straight, conservative clones. And no one seemed to care. Not even the people it happened to. They liked who they'd become.

Eli kept his distance—until one night, walking back from the library, he felt a sting at the back of his neck. Like an insect bite. No one was behind him. Just a flash of movement in the shadows.

That night, the fever hit.

He tossed and turned, shirt soaked in sweat, whispering lines from The Left Hand of Darkness like a prayer. But it wasn’t enough.

The next morning, something was wrong. His reflection was... off.

His glasses were gone. His jaw looked sharper. His skin had more color, more life. His voice was lower. When he coughed, it wasn’t the usual dry nerdy wheeze—it was a deep, masculine rasp.

Over the next two days, Eli vanished.

His books gathered dust. His political podcast subscriptions disappeared. He stopped texting his old friends. His computer sat untouched.

When he walked into the gym, it felt natural.

By the end of the week, no one remembered Eli.

They remembered Grayson.

He was 6’2", built like a linebacker, with messy dark hair, tattooed arms, and a permanent pump from lifting twice a day. He wore tight black tees that showed off his chest, always had a can of YXC energy drink in his hand, and sported a smug half-smile like he knew exactly how hot he was. The cross pendant around his neck gleamed in the LED lights of every party he walked into.

Grayson didn’t do queer theory. He didn’t vote blue. He talked about "traditional values" and laughed off pronouns as “weird phase stuff.” Girls giggled when he called them “babygirl,” and guys dapped him up like they’d known him for years.

He looked exactly like the kind of guy Eli would’ve hated.

Cool.

A little dangerous.

Completely changed.

And if you passed him in the hallway—tall, broad, drink in hand, a tattoo snaking down one arm under nightclub shadows—you might catch a flicker of something in his eyes.

But blink, and it would be gone.

Grayson was here now.

And Eli?

He wasn’t coming back.

Grayson leaned back on the leather couch, a can of YXC gripped in one hand, his other arm slung lazily over the backrest. The bass thumped from a Bluetooth speaker on the kitchen island. Neon lights from the ceiling washed the living room in purples and blues, casting moving shadows across the wall. The whole place smelled like protein powder, cologne, and beer.

"Yo, Gray, you down for shoulders tomorrow? 6 a.m. sharp, bro."

It was Jace—tattooed, tanned, and shirtless, with a shaker bottle in one hand and a smirk in the other.

Grayson smirked back. "Hell yeah, dude. Gotta keep the delts on point. Summer doesn’t bulk itself."

The other guys laughed. Logan fist-bumped him as he passed by, shirt open, already drunk.

These guys weren’t like Eli’s old friends. No drawn-out debates, no cautious language, no long nights coding in silence. They were loud. Confident. Physical. And Grayson thrived in it.

He didn’t think anymore—he acted. Felt. Moved.

He still wasn’t sure when the tattoos had appeared—he vaguely remembered pain and ink, like a dream—but now they felt like they’d always been there. The one winding down his left arm was his favorite: sharp lines, a wolf mid-howl. Masculine. Aggressive.

“Bro, you’re like, alpha as hell,” Logan had told him during one lift. “Like, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you used to be... I don’t know, one of those STEM kids or something.”

Grayson had laughed, deep and cocky. “Nerds wish they were this jacked.”

Still, every once in a while, something weird would happen.

Like tonight.

One of the pledges—some wiry kid with thick glasses and a rainbow patch on his backpack—wandered in, clearly nervous.

Grayson barely glanced at him, but the second he heard the kid’s voice—timid, soft, familiar—he froze.

“Hey, uh... I think I’m in the wrong place,” the kid said.

The room went quiet. The bros stared.

Grayson blinked.

That voice...

Something inside him tugged.

He looked down at his arm—the tattoos, the veins, the thick muscle—and for just a second, it felt foreign.

Not wrong, exactly. Just... remembered.

The kid looked like he was about to bolt.

Grayson stood up. Towered over him. The kid flinched.

Grayson stared.

Say something.

Say something real.

Instead, he smirked. "Yeah, bro. Definitely the wrong place."

Laughter. Cheers. The kid fled.

Grayson dropped back into the couch. Jace handed him another drink. “Dude, you scared the piss outta that kid. Power move.”

He cracked the can open, foam fizzing up the side.

And as the music rose again, Grayson grinned, raised the drink, and toasted to the life he didn’t remember choosing.

Because this?

This was the new normal.

It started with a Snap.

Grayson had just finished a brutal chest day — sweat glistening across his biceps, tank soaked, gym lighting catching every carved line of his body — when he took a mirror selfie, stuck his tongue out slightly, and posted it to his story.

Fifteen minutes later: a reply.

💖 Tori 💖

omggggg u look SO jacked lol ur arms are like, illegal or something where u at rn?? 😇

He didn’t even need to check her profile. Everyone on campus knew who Tori was.

Head cheerleader. Platinum blonde. Voice like bubblegum and sun. Legs for days. Laugh that made every straight guy lose IQ points. Favorite phrase? “Literallyyyy.”

She was the kind of girl Eli would’ve avoided like the plague — loud, aggressively straight, constantly posting thirst traps and saying things like “I don’t get feminism but like... girl power, I guess?”

But for Grayson?

She was perfect.

They started hooking up the next night.

By the weekend, they were a thing.

By Monday, she was calling him “babyyyyy” in the dining hall and feeding him bites of her protein pancakes. She wore his hoodie to class — oversized on her tiny frame, makeup always flawless — and posted couples selfies with captions like:

gym boy & barbie 💪💅💖 #Swolemates

They made out in his truck. She helped him pick out new cologne. He taught her how to deadlift, kinda. They filmed TikToks together — her lip-syncing Nicki lyrics while he flexed behind her like an idiot.

And when she’d laugh — that high-pitched, breathy, valley girl giggle — he didn’t cringe.

He loved it.

She was dumb, yeah. But in a hot way. In a safe way. She didn’t ask questions about who he used to be. Didn’t pry when he spaced out staring at the STEM building for a second too long. Didn’t notice the way his eyes lingered on old friends who now looked at him like a stranger.

Tori just squealed and pulled him into another selfie, kissed him with lip gloss still wet, and whispered:

“Ugh, you're like, my big dumb gym god. I love you, babe.”

And Grayson — tatted, bulked, loud, straight-as-hell Grayson — grinned.

“Yeah, babe. Love you too.”

That night, lying in bed with her asleep on his chest, he stared at the ceiling.

Something inside twitched.

Like static. Or a name he’d forgotten.

But he didn’t move.

He just reached for his energy drink on the nightstand, took a sip, and let the silence slip away.

Grayson was winning.

And Eli?

He was nothing but a bad dream.

[fratttymatty]

The Makeover Manifesto

(All characters are 18+)

Eliot always felt like an outsider.

At 21, he was the classic gay, liberal, overthinking introvert—majoring in gender studies, sipping oat milk lattes, and correcting people’s political takes on Twitter. He spent weekends curled up in thrifted cardigans, binging documentaries and writing think pieces no one read.

His best friend Stacy—blonde, peppy, and proudly chaotic—was a walking contradiction. She was a cheerleader who didn’t believe in climate change but did believe in Mercury retrograde. She adored Eliot but always told him, “Babe, you’re like...wasted potential. If you were straight and hot, you’d be unstoppable.”

One Friday night, while Eliot was trying to fix the Wi-Fi, Stacy waved a glittery spellbook in his face.

“I found this in the back of Forever 21. Wanna do a glow-up spell? Just for laughs.”

“No thanks, I’m not looking for... whatever that is.”

“Too late,” she grinned.

Before he could stop her, Stacy was chanting under her breath. The air shimmered, and Eliot’s body locked up.

He stumbled backward as a heat surged through him—like his skin was being rewritten from the inside out.

His glasses slid off his face and shattered. His soft frame lengthened and filled out with smooth muscle; his torso stretched into a V-shape with clearly defined abs, pecs, and broad shoulders. His once-slouched posture straightened. He felt strength flood his arms like he'd been lifting for years.

His face snapped into place—his nose sharpening, cheekbones lifting, jaw squaring into something striking and symmetrical. Dark, wavy hair fluffed itself into an artfully messy look. His voice dropped, rich and cocky, with a bit of a smirk baked into every syllable.

He blinked and looked down—he was shirtless. His skin was flushed and marked with lipstick kisses all over his chest and neck. A tattoo he definitely didn’t have before peeked from his shoulder. His phone was in his hand, camera open, and he instinctively struck a pose, tilting his head like he knew he was hot.

“Yo, Stace,” he said, half-laughing as he admired himself. “You seriously kissed me this many times while I was passed out or something?”

Stacy squealed. “Oh my GOD, you’re perfect! Like, Calvin Klein model perfect!”

“Damn right.” He smirked and took a photo. “Gotta update my story. Can’t let the streak die.”

Eliot was gone. Now there was Jace—a smirking, shirtless 21-year-old jock with a cocky aura, toned body, earrings, and just the right amount of lip prints to make girls jealous.

He didn’t remember the podcast. He didn’t remember the activism. All he knew was: Stacy was hot, he looked good, and the gym wasn't going to hit itself.

And when Stacy teased, “You remember who you used to be?”

Jace paused, smirked, and replied, “Nah. Sounds lame.”

[fratttymatty]

Stereotyped Part 2

(All characters are 18+)

Not everyone forgot.

A small group still remembered the real Jared and Mia — the soft-spoken, nerdy, queer teens who used to spend lunch break debating Star Trek morality and designing custom D&D characters. Their disappearance, and the grotesque rise of Matty and Cassie, hadn’t gone unnoticed.

The ones who remembered?

Sam, the sharp-witted programmer who’d had a quiet crush on Jared.

Nick, the gentle artist who sketched queer comic heroes in secret.

John, an anime-loving introvert with a heart of gold.

Mike, a soft-spoken violinist who always stood by his friends.

David, a closeted gamer who lived for late-night raids and Reddit threads.

And Ashton, who'd once told Jared, trembling, that he thought they might be more than friends someday.

Together, they became The Resistance.

They met in the old library basement after school — the one with flickering lights and dusty CRT monitors — and pored over everything. Magic symbols, memory manipulation theories, ancient myths. Ashton was convinced they could reverse the transformations. That they could bring Jared and Mia back from the cheerleader-and-jock hell they'd been trapped in.

“We just need to reach them,” he whispered one evening, eyes wild. “Like, speak their true names or something. Deep down, they’re still them. I know it.”

They even tried a spell — a homemade incantation scrawled in Sharpie on a scroll of printer paper. They lit candles. They chanted. They believed.

But they didn’t know that Matty had been watching.

He was the leader now — not just of the school’s social elite, but something bigger. Something darker. The same magic that had transformed him was in his blood now, and it responded to threats.

When he kicked down the basement door, the air shifted. His towering frame filled the space like a monster from a video game, broad shoulders wrapped in his black hoodie, MAGA hat twisted backward like a crown.

“What the hell are you losers doin’?” he barked, stepping forward, football in one hand, glowing faintly. “Tryin’ to make me a nerd again? Tryin’ to make Cassie wear cargo pants or somethin’? Nah, bro.”

His voice was poison, laced with mocking power. “Y’all really think you can stop me? You think I care who I used to be?”

The others shrank back. But Ashton stood tall. “You were our friend, Jared! You loved who you were — and who we were!”

Matty smirked. “That guy was a faggot. I’m a fuckin’ beast now.”

The moment the words left his mouth, the football in his hand exploded with light — a surge of energy that slammed through the room like a sonic wave. The six boys screamed, their bodies writhing as they were ripped apart and rebuilt from the inside out.

Their glasses shattered. Their shirts tore as muscles erupted across their frames. Spines straightened, posture widened. Gay, nerdy softness burned away in seconds, replaced by testosterone-soaked swagger.

Their clothes melted into varsity jackets, tank tops, joggers, and gym shoes. Minds fuzzed over with static and dumb, aggressive confidence.

Sam became Ethan — cocky, flirtatious, with a backwards snapback and biceps he couldn't stop flexing. Nick became Caleb — obsessed with deadlifts and creatine, always down to “smash chicks or weights.” John became Oscar — tall, quiet, but with the blank stare of a jock who'd taken too many protein supplements. Mike became Evan — the bench-pressing prankster who loved locker room talk. David became Josh — dumb, loud, and totally convinced his pecs were more important than calculus. Ashton became Leo — the worst of them all. Arrogant, homophobic, and completely loyal to Matty.

“Damn,” Matty grinned as he looked over them. “Y’all are slayin’, bros. Welcome to the team.”

The new jocks looked around, blinking in confusion — and then laughing, high-fiving each other, punching shoulders and bragging about gym routines.

The Resistance was dead.

Now, it was Matty’s Crew — the school’s new kings. Seven 10/10 alpha jocks, straight as hell, dumb as rocks, and ready to bully anyone who looked like who they used to be.

When Cassie strutted into the basement to see the results, she squealed. “Like, oh-em-gee, babe! You did it!”

Matty kissed her, hard and messy. “Told you, babe. No more weirdos in my school.”

And so, the last hope was crushed. The old world forgotten.

Now, there was just protein, gym selfies, MAGA hats, and cheerleader drama.

Forever.

(Ethan, Leo, Caleb)

(Oscar, Evan, Josh)

But Matty was their leader.

[fratttymatty]

Stereotyped

(All characters are 18+)

Jared had always been the quiet, shy type — a gay, nerdy, liberal kid who loved comic books, math puzzles, and deep debates on social justice. He was best friends with Mia, an equally nerdy, shy, more masculine lesbian who shared his love of obscure indie music and late-night philosophy chats. Both 18, both proud of who they were.

But today was different.

They had received mysterious packages from some unknown prankster or worse, a weird social experiment. Jared tore open his box — but Mia’s box was something else entirely.

Mia’s fingers trembled as she lifted out a sleek makeup palette, a bright cheerleader outfit emblazoned with the letter "C," a brand-new iPhone 16 still shining in its box, and a glossy, black credit card embossed with a name she didn’t recognize: Cassie Alvarez.

Before Mia could even speak, the items started to glow softly, pulsing with an otherworldly energy. Jared watched, stunned, as a pink light enveloped her.

Her posture shifted first — from reserved and slightly hunched to confident, hips swaying with a newfound swagger. Her once-shaggy, short black hair grew rapidly, darkening into glossy brunette waves that framed a radiant, perfectly made-up face. Her sharp glasses vanished, replaced by long lashes and sparkling brown eyes that seemed to sparkle like gems.

Mia’s skin deepened into a warm, glowing Latina tone. She shrank slightly in height, going from 5’8” to a petite 5’3”, giving her a youthful, bubbly presence. She slipped into the cheerleading outfit as if it was made just for her — and it was.

Her voice shifted too, softening and thickening with a Midwestern valley girl accent that was almost comically cheerful. “Oh my gosh, like, this is totes amazeballs!” she giggled, tossing her hair and flashing a perfect smile.

“Like, I’m Cassie now, okay? And I totally love makeup and my iPhone — and my daddy’s card? Like, slayyyy!” She twirled, the credit card flashing between manicured fingers.

Jared’s heart sank. This wasn’t his Mia anymore. The shy, intelligent girl he’d known was replaced by a 10/10 social butterfly who loved fashion, shopping, and cheerleading. Her friends? Gone. In their place, a clique of popular, flawless cheerleaders who greeted her with bubbly enthusiasm.

“Cassie!” one called out, “We need you at practice, girl! You’re, like, the best new addition ever.”

Jared stood frozen, feeling helpless. The Mia he’d loved was gone, and in her place was a girl who fit every cliché of a cheerleader stereotype — bubbly, shallow, and totally obsessed with her appearance and social status.

And worst of all? The new Cassie was totally oblivious to Jared, ignoring his worried looks and trying to recruit him to her world.

Cassie was gone. Jared kept telling himself that. Mia, his best friend, had vanished beneath layers of glitter, lip gloss, and cheer routines. What stood in her place — Cassie Alvarez, Valley Girl Extraordinaire — wasn’t just different, she was someone else entirely.

And now it was his turn.

He had barely processed her transformation when he noticed his own package — still unopened, still innocent-looking on the surface. But something about it called to him, like it was waiting. A sense of dread twisted in his gut as he peeled the tape back.

Inside, the items practically glared at him with menace:

A plain black hoodie, thick and heavy.

A crisp, pristine MAGA hat, its red fabric practically glowing with bold arrogance.

A scuffed-up football, laced and worn like it had seen years of Friday night games.

A full gaming setup, already humming despite not being plugged in.

And a box set of Marvel DVDs, all the loud, testosterone-fueled blockbusters Jared had always rolled his eyes at.

As soon as he touched the hat, everything changed.

It started in his head — a dull throb, like someone had taken a hammer to his IQ and was gently chipping it away. The theories, the debates, the careful thoughts — gone, as if they'd been wiped clean. All that was left was a buzzing confusion and an overwhelming love for “dude stuff.”

His voice deepened and flattened, losing its shy warmth, replaced with a broad Midwestern drawl and a touch of cocky sloppiness. “Yo, bro,” he muttered, then chuckled. “What the hell was I even sayin’? Whatever, man.”

His body bulked out instantly. Gone was his lean frame, replaced with jock muscle — biceps stretching out his hoodie, pecs firm under his t-shirt, legs thick like he’d been squatting every day since middle school. He shot up several inches, now a towering 6’2” of football-playing swagger.

His soft, nerdy features sharpened into a classically handsome jawline. His dark hair lightened just slightly into a messy brown middle part, the kind that looked like it hadn’t been washed but still somehow worked. The hoodie clung to him like a uniform, and the hat snapped itself onto his head like it belonged there.

And just like that, Jared was Matty now.

“Yo, where’s the gym, bro?” he asked aloud, scratching at his abs. “I need a sick pump before the big game.”

He wasn’t shy anymore. He was loud, confident, dumb as hell, and weirdly aggressive. Politics? “Nah, dude, I don’t get into that liberal crap.” Books? “Only readin’ I do’s protein labels and fantasy football stats.” Feminism? “Bro, relax. Girls just need a strong man, y’know?”

Cassie squealed when she saw him. “Oh-em-gee, Matty! You look, like, sooo hot right now, ew! But also… slay.” She bounced up to him and kissed his cheek, and Matty laughed like it was totally normal.

He didn’t even remember Jared. The idea of being gay, nerdy, or even remotely shy was completely foreign now. Matty wasn’t that guy. He was a football-loving, protein-shake-drinking, “alpha male” who’d totally call you a slur if you wore nail polish and didn’t bench 200.

And his new friends? The other dudes on the team. All gym rats, all equally dumb, conservative, and loud. They slapped him on the back, called him “bro,” and welcomed him like he’d been there forever.

As the sun set, Cassie leaned on Matty’s arm, both of them laughing at something dumb, unaware or uncaring of the people they used to be. Two completely new people, designed to fit in — and to never think again.

A week had passed since the transformation.

The halls of the school were different now — louder, crueler, more plastic. And at the center of it all were two people who used to be thoughtful, quiet, and proud of their identities.

Matty and Cassie were now the power couple of the senior class. He was a brawny, arrogant jock who lived in the gym, talked about his “gains” more than his grades, and made homophobic jokes with zero hesitation. She was a hot, hyperfeminine cheerleader who practically walked on clouds of designer perfume and judgmental giggles.

“Ugh, look at them,” Cassie whispered loudly one morning, her voice cutting through the hallway like a hot pink knife. She gestured at a pair of quiet girls holding hands — clearly queer, clearly nervous. “Is it, like, Pride Week or something? Ew.”

Matty laughed, loud and without shame. “Yo, someone get these chicks a football game and a boyfriend, am I right?”

The laughter that followed wasn't from their old friends. It was from the new ones — jocks in snapbacks, cheerleaders in crop tops, all of them shallow, vapid, and cruel. Just the way Matty and Cassie liked it.

They didn’t remember who they were before. Not really. Every once in a while, something would flicker — Jared’s quiet love of graphic novels, Mia’s gentle sarcasm — but it was gone as fast as it came. Drowned out in fake tan, dumb protein shakes, and iPhone filters.

Matty had a locker full of Marvel merch now, not because he understood the characters, but because he thought Iron Man was “a total alpha.” His grades had plummeted, but he didn’t care — the football coach was grooming him for state championships. And honestly? That was all that mattered.

Cassie’s schedule revolved around shopping, cheer practice, and getting attention. She lived on Instagram, spoke almost entirely in "likes" and "literallys," and treated the entire world like her personal reality show. “I’m, like, so over nerds and weirdos,” she’d sneer, filing her nails in class. “Can they, like, not exist around me?”

The worst part?

They weren’t pretending.

This was who they were now. Cassie loved being the queen bee — being cruel, being desired, being rich. She wore her cheerleader outfit like a throne and used her credit card like a sword.

And Matty? He’d never admit it, but bullying kids like Jared used to be? It gave him a high. “Dude, stop bein’ so gay,” he said to a boy nervously defending his anime art on a notebook. “It’s, like, embarrassing.”

They walked the halls like gods, leaving behind the people they once were. No one questioned it anymore. It was like Jared and Mia had never existed.

Just Matty and Cassie — the king and queen of dumb, hot, straight high school perfection. And if anyone missed the old versions of them?

They didn't care.

In fact, they’d laugh in their face.

"Slay, bitch," Cassie would say with a cruel smile. "Go cry about it, nerd," Matty would grunt, flexing his arms.

And just like that, the story of Jared and Mia came to a total, irreversible end.