Kinks in the Rear View Mirror

[testostories]

Welcome to Newport {Prologue}

So the idea behind this one was an SCP-meets-Wandavision fever dream. I've always loved the idea of humans dabbling in forces they're hopelessly out of their depth with, or trying to know the unknowable and paying the price. What's going on in Newport remains to be seen but the magazine listings for next week say our quintet will all find themselves transforming into archetypes from 90s/early 00s TV shows in a small midwestern town. Think One Tree Hill, Dawson's Creek, Friday Night Lights, etc.

This is just the technobabble set-up getting them into the town but there'll be a main follow-up detailing all their changes and their attempts at fighting against their new narrative. Stay tuned!

___

Dr Alan Caldwell gripped the overhead handle for dear life. He was the stats and facts guy, not your everyday field agent, so being squeezed into the back of a humvee that was rattling along the highway was not his idea of a good time. He’d spent the best part of a decade with the ART - that is, the Anomaly Retention Taskforce - and in that time had seen everything from carnival masks turning people into animals to VHS tapes transforming viewers into sitcom dads. The scope of what was out there both thrilled and unnerved him, and lent a lot to his overall disposition. He was a meek fellow, around only 5’7” at best and skinny enough for a light breeze to send him off-balance. He’d glasses, of course, and a short mop of auburn curls he’d never really known what to do with. Awkward though he may be, it was Caldwell who was responsible for ART having an itemised list of all known anomalies and recommendations on how best to contain them.

He’d a research pack on his lap compiling all he knew of their destination, but it was Agent Whitaker, the taskforce’s esteemed leader, who debriefed the others. (Which was a relief given Caldwell wasn’t sure he’d be heard above the engine.)

“So,” Whitaker’d begun with his usual haughty airs, “ART-6129. ‘6129 is a predatory location which manifests along exits of the United States Numbered Highway System in the contiguous United States. 6129 has no fixed location and does not appear on any map. 6129’s appearance however IS believed to be fixed in the form of a small midwestern town. Previous interaction with 6129 reports signage along the town lines identifying it as ‘Newport’.’”

  “If it’s not on any map…” That third voice was Agent Theo Lang, the fresh-faced rookie on his first major outing and the team’s designated driver which…explained a lot. “How will I know where to find it?”

Whitaker smiled at Lang’s question and continued to read. “‘It is unclear what conditions must be met for 6129 to manifest before a driver, however---’”

“---The site gives off a SIGNIFICANT amount of spectral electromagnetic interference,” Caldwell interjected with enthusiasm. “Previous research suggests localised ionospheric distortion prevents 6129 from registering on any conventional equipment like GPS. But by honing in on these pockets of interference---”

“---The areas it DOESN’T want us looking at,” Lang followed, earning a nod from the researcher.

“---We’re hoping to locate and, and breach 6129 for further study, yes.”

The humvee continued to rattle its way along with Caldwell ping-ponging between two of Whitaker’s armed goons in the back. He wasn’t entirely sure of their names - an unfortunate condition of them being the ART’s ‘disposables’ - but he must’ve apologised half a dozen times on that final leg of the journey. 

“There it is-!” he’d squeaked out of the blue, jolting upright in his seat waving a handheld spectrum analyser. “A spike in the, in the VHF band!...Oh, but THAT’S weird…”

Whitaker glanced over his shoulder, jaw clenched. “Caldwell…?”

“It’s…It’s not just background noise, not like I expected. It’s patterned, by design, like…well, like a broadcasting signal!” He adjusted the dials with shaking fingers, brow knit this way and that at the readings it gave off. “I know we’re dealing with, well, we never really KNOW what we’re dealing with, but I never thought…” He dialled some more. “NTSC artefacts, THIS amount of audio-visual st---”

“Wait, shh-shh-shh.” Lang now, who’d been tinkering with the vehicle’s radio system. “Do you guys hear that?”

The helmeted goons shrugged but Caldwell’s face said it all.

“Maybe I’m---It COULD just be interference but it kind of sounded like…music?”

The team fell silent awaiting confirmation from Caldwell, only for the radio and their walkies to suddenly BLARE with what could only be described as an opening credits theme. It sounded like five other well-known songs all fused together, lending just enough of a sense of familiarity and nostalgia whilst remaining ever so slightly ‘off’. It’d taken all of Lang’s nerves not to veer off the road.

“Jesus fuck-!” he’d shrieked, managing to keep the humvee on all fours. “What WAS that?!”

“Music,” Caldwell’d drolly confirmed. “You’re wrong, though - it’s NOT interference, at least not the kind you’d expect. It’s coming from INSIDE 6129 itself!”

Knowing then that they must be near, the humvee crested a low hill. Everything’d looked normal for a moment, the same endless farmland they’d seen on the rest of their journey, the grey afternoon sky, a lone grain silo in the distance.

Then the static hit.

It started as a low hum in their teeth before blooming into full-blown television static rattling about in their skulls. Caldwell was sure he heard the others screaming over it - or was that himself? - while he contorted up against the window. The air outside seemed to shimmer like heat haze and the humvee was rattling beyond just Lang’s driving. The opening theme’d at least come to an end and with it their ordeal, the humvee sputtering its last as it rolled down the banked roadside. The quintet stumbled over one another on their way out, coughing and doubled over trying to gather their bearings.

“Alright, men,” Whitaker groaned with a pinch between the eyes, “focus. Goes without saying that we’ve breached the threshold of the anomaly so standard observation protocols apply. That means no interacting with locals, no eating or drinking of any kind, no snagging souvenirs to take home - unless you’re Caldwell - and, ah, you know the rest. If anyone starts acting weird,” he unfastened a small syringe-like firearm from his belt which Lang and the two helmeted goons also possessed, “put them down ASAP, yourself included. There’ll be time for questions later, but for now I want a perimeter established around the town. We need to know how big an anomaly we’re dealing with and if we’ll need reinforcements.”

“A-About that,” Caldwell trailed. He was holding a large black brick in his hand with an antenna at the end. The screen and design were not standard issue. In fact, the device he held looked distinctly…vintage. “Crossing the town line appears to have, have had a detrimental effect on our equipment. It drained the humvee of power,” they all turned to the dead vehicle, “but it’s also transformed our walkies from a modern model to, well, something better suited to the 90s.”

Lang fumbled with his uniform and sure enough produced a similar sized brick, then Whitaker, and the two helmeted goons. Whitaker’d dropped his like a hot potato in fear of catching whatever’d afflicted it.

“Alright then, so comms are off the table. I don’t want anyone operating anything affected by the anomaly, understand?” The three armed men all nodded, though Caldwell was still examining his. It’d the same ‘heat haze’ as when they’d crossed the town line, like a form of static was emanating from the device. “We’ll move to find a central base of operation. From there we can meet up every hour on the hour to report back, if we’re not stuck using sun dials by then.” A sharp whistle. “Come on then. I don’t want to spend any longer here than we need to.”

And so the quintet made their way from the abandoned vehicle along the banked roadside headed into town. Hidden behind some trees, revealed with a twinkling piano cue, was a postcard-esque sign along the town line, gone entirely unnoticed by the crew.

Welcome to Newport

Home of the Newport Wildcats

Population: 3,842

Another heat haze.

Population: 3,847

To be continued...

___

Starring:

Alan Caldwell as ???

David Whitaker as ???

Theo Lang as ???

??? as ???

??? as ???

[testostories]

The Underwear Makes the Man

Anthony had sent away for one of those underwear box delivery gimmicks on a whim using a streamer's promotional code. It normally wouldn't be his kind of thing but, hey, he liked the guy and free underwear was free underwear.

He wondered what he'd receive, maybe one of those garish designs that're all neon and psychedelic.

What arrived was a plain black set of Gymshark briefs. Fine. Yeah. He could work with that. The holes and questionable stains were another matter though - they were clearly pre-worn!

The area around his crotch was crusty, with a fresh black spot around his swollen head. Tony'd always been a major brand whore, and looked every bit the sort of guy who'd go around wearing Gymshark briefs.

[testostories]

The Neighbours' Son

David had had enough.

The neighbour's son had been left alone for the week with his parents off on vacation. Their cab had barely left the street in the time it'd taken Cole to transform their otherwise idyllic home into his very own frathouse. He'd invited girls over to get up to god knows what (though the muffled sounds behind the wall painted a fairly vivid picture), guys tore up the lawn with their trucks, hauling kegs over their shoulders, and they blared the most obnoxious music into the early hours of the morning.

David had tried biting his tongue. He'd been young once, knew Cole might just need to blow off some steam, but when the music persisted night after night and he'd half the college populace passed out on his lawn he knew he had to go see Cole.

He woke during the night with a pounding headache. In stumbling down to the front door he noted cramp in every muscle, pain in every bone, and that his vision'd become somewhat hazy. Hardly surprising from all the tossing and turning he'd done. A lazy smirk warped across his face as he rubbed away sleep with a fist, kneaded his boner with the other, then stepped out onto the lawn barefoot.

There were bottles and cans everywhere, half-eaten pizza in vomit-stained boxes, all the dudes and dudettes he'd seen from the window passed out in various states of bliss and regret. Must've been one helluva party. He whistled in...appreciation? at how hard they'd gone and padded with a lazy swagger in nothing but his tented underwear to go locate Cole.

He gave a confrontational up-nod once he'd been located.

"Yo, Dickweed!" he'd called with mock bravado. He'd even made a point of squaring up as he crossed towards the jock, realising only when they bumped chests that they were the...same...height...? Must be the lighting. The music thumped again and he had to remind himself why he'd sought Cole out in the first place. "We gotta talk about this party, man."

"Yeah?" Cole's smile was downright predatory, as though privy to a joke Dave was ignorant of. He shoved a cup of sloshing lukewarm beer-piss at him, which his neighbour accepted all too casually.

"Yeah!" Dave gurgled, indignant. "Cos you know it ain't a party 'til THE MAIN EVENT ARRIVES!" He threw both arms over his head at that, hollering for the crowd's benefit and to be heard above the music. And bizarrely enough, word of his presence seemed to resuscitate them from their stupor cos everyone knew Cole threw the best parties but the neighbours' son? He was a goddamn animal.

And with his parents off on vacation, they all wondered what kind of state Dave'd be in by the time they got back.

[testostories]

Meta

Chris sat down at his laptop, flicking through drafts for his TF blog @testostories. There were long forms to be finished, short forms scheduled and a long list of guys he'd saved for...future study. He scrolled through writers old and new who'd inspired him to take up the blog, though his focus fell upon the little blue box by 'Messages'.

Was it a fan of his work? A budding critic? He tentatively clicked.

>bromeo69: hey bro. me + the boys dig ur work,, more the merrier lol

>bromeo69: can tell ur a total dweeb tho lol practice wat u preech

Chris couldn't tell what to make of that. A warm flush washed over him while he parsed the message. There was a compliment wrapped in all that, right? So what did the second bit mean? He made to respond but found his fingers prodding the keys more violently than he would've liked. His message was gibberish, all typos and spammed punctuation, so he deleted with a few more jabs and tried again. And again. >testostories: thanks man,, glad u get it 💪🏼

Wait. Waitwaitwait. Back the fuck up. Chris squinted, much like a gorilla catching its own reflection in a zoo. There in the reflection of the laptop screen, squeezed into his creaking gaming chair, was a jock; a bodybuilding jock with hands and brows as thick as his traps. Trophies and medals lined the shelf behind his shoulder. A Tupperware dish of unseasoned chicken breast, broccoli and rice sat by the mouse mat. And his monitor was framed on either side by stacks of supplements both legal and otherwise. The price to pay to dominate his opponents.

>bromeo69: btw gratz on the big win bro

>bromeo69: u were fukkin yoked lol 🍳

Chris smirked, only half paying attention. He was too busy squeezing his pecs, running fingers along his abs, adjusting the throbbing meat slapping the underside of his desk. Something'd...happened to him, right...?

>bromeo69: yh well ill let u go bro

>bromeo69: probs chasing macros or sumthin

>bromeo69: hows that for a testostory lol

[testostories]

A Bro Called Brody {Art Student to Wrestler}

Brody was nervous about living in a dorm. He knew the reputation they had, especially those at Dalton, and that he’d surely be forced to live with at least one roommate throughout the semester. What if they never got on? Brody was an artsy sort of guy with kind eyes and a lithe frame. At a distance he appeared scrawny - not helped by his ill-fitting clothing and equally unflattering posture - though he did have some definition around his shoulders and legs from running track in school. That was actually why he’d come to Dalton in the first place. He’d planned on heading to art school like all his friends only to have his application intercepted and fast-tracked to study at Dalton based on athletic merit. It’d only ever been an extracurricular hobby for him, not the sort of thing he wanted to own or get by on, but given how competitive the art colleges were and the cost of rent being what it was, Brody’d let his friends go with a heavy heart.

It occurred to him as he climbed the stairs that he wasn’t sure if Dalton even had much in the way of an art department. He stepped over some bottles, rolls of unfurled toilet paper and discarded condom packets - was…was that a used one?! - before settling upon his door. 

#69. 

He groaned. Someone out there must’ve laughed themself stupid at that. In fact, muffled behind the door, someone WAS laughing themself stupid. He tensed with the key half-turned, all those doubts of having left his friends rushing back. It wasn’t too late, right? If his roommate turned out to be an obnoxious douche he could always swap with someone else, or spend his days locked away in the library, or go scurrying back home with his tail between his legs. No…No…Brody steeled himself and took a breath, opened the door and stepped inside.

Sprawled upon the sofa in nothing but boardshorts was a jock. He’d a tight cut of brunette curls, peach fuzz mustache along his upper lip and a douchey goatee upon his chin. His body bordered on parody compared to Brody’s, taking up at least twice as much space in both literal size and smell. A gold chain choked around his neck and he’d committed the cardinal sin of wearing socks with slides. He also wore sunglasses, which Brody couldn’t decide was him committing to the aesthetic or an attempt at masking a hangover. Before he could land either way, the jock rose from his slump with explosive force, beaming like a dopey golden retriever.

“Hey, bro!” he hollered, loud enough for the entire block to hear. “Name’s Tanner. Glad to be roomin’ with ya, bro!”

He moved closer and Brody braced himself for the inevitable. The wind was squeezed right out of him as Tanner wrapped an arm around to bring him in. He held his breath a moment longer out of spite, nose buried in his pit, only to then choke upon his release.

“...Aheck-!...Br—” Phew! “Uh, Brody. I’m—” Wheeze. “Brody.”

“Brody!” he beamed wider still. “That’s gonna be easy to remember, bro. We’re gonna be best buds, I can tell!”

Brody wasn’t so convinced. ‘Bro’ was a nickname he’d shunned his entire life. Coupled with the fact Tanner clearly hadn’t showered all week and that he’d already made a mess of the place - football trophies here, bottles and cans there, a few scattered jerseys and a suspiciously football-sized dent in the wall - he didn’t expect to last the night. Still, he didn’t have the heart to say that to Tanner’s face. The dope seemed happy enough just having company, compatible or otherwise.

“Sooo, you need help with your stuff, bro? I can go lift it for you. I’m good at that.” He’d smirked and gave an exaggerated curl of his bicep, pout and all. “I’ve got stuff in my car I still gotta haul anyways, but you can help with that, right bro?”

There it was again. Brody bit his tongue and headed for the door. The pair made swift work of the luggage, hoisting everything from boxes of clothes to a flatscreen TV, and Tanner must’ve snuck at least half a dozen ‘bro’s while doing it. Brody wasn’t sure if he was trying to piss him off or make the nickname stick. By the time they finished he was a tense and sweaty mess, dabbing away at his forehead with the collar of his tee. 

“Think fast-!” 

Brody all but doubled over as Tanner lobbed a can straight at him, striking his chest. He managed to break its fall by cupping his hands and after some fumbling was able to hold it.

“Figured you’d need a drink, bro. You’re stronger than you look. What you here for anyways?” Tanner was draped again upon the sofa, his arms exaggeratedly spread along the back and his legs leaving nothing to the imagination. Annoyed as Brody was, he couldn’t deny the jock seemed genuinely invested in getting to know him, so he softened his glare and took a sip of beer.

“Well, that’s a bit of a long story actually,” he confessed, lingering by the front door.

Tanner’s smile held.

“I applied to a lot of the big art schools - y’know, the bougie pretentious ones - but it’s…hoo, it’s a cutthroat world, lemme tell you. All my friends got in, pursuing fine arts and all that,” he waved a hand and took another sip, “but I’m more of an illustration kind of guy. Anime, cartooning, that sort of thing.”

Tanner nodded, though had a look that said he knew there’d be more.

“So yeah, it wasn’t looking good. I didn’t have a lot of options left. But then I got this email,” sip, “for here. I know the kind of rep’ it has but they DID offer me an unconditional place. Think they liked that I did track, I guess. Must’ve looked good.”

Tanner clapped his hands together. Knew it! “And now you’re here, bro.”

Brody nodded. “And now I’m here.”

Tanner tossed him another beer. Had he finished it already? Damn. “Your story doesn’t make much sense though, bro.”

“Oh, yeah?”

The jock shook his head. “This place doesn’t HAVE any arts department, bro.”

“...”

“You must’ve misread, bro. Dalton’s, like, THE place to be for athletes. It’s the only thing it’s good for, bro.”

“...No, but I’d have-”

“Cards on the table, bro, I called it. Clocked it a mile off.”

Brody’s world began to spin, the edge of his vision blurring. His grip tightened on the can - his second? Third? He’d lost count amidst the confusion. “Stop—S-Stop calling me that.”

“Calling you what, bro?” He looked genuinely confused, bordering on offended. Or was he smug? Brody’s head—

“Bro!”

“Yeah?”

Goddammit! Brody felt himself swaying off-balance. His body felt wrong in so many ways. It was obvious he worked out like Tanner’d said but it’d become even more obvious given he was standing with nothing on. OK, well, not NOTHING - he still had a pair of khaki shorts on that gave away the fact he was freeballing, and when he side-stepped to balance himself out he heard the distinct SLAP, SLAP of a slider thwacking his sock-clad sole. 

“Bro?” Tanner again, grounding him back to reality.

“Yeah?” God, why did he sound hungover? It felt like his mouth was stuffed with cotton. He wriggled his jaw side to side, running a callused mitt along the douchey…chinstrap…beard?

“You good? Spaced out there for a sec, bro.”

Brody shook his head. Then nodded. Then gawked over at himself - the tight biceps and quads, the wiry hair swirling around his nipples, that he’d a thick semi snaked down his right leg whose head would occasionally bob out beneath the cuff. His knuckles were scarred and bruised and his left eye felt a bit janky, but he looked fucking sick! As in, something was seriously, seriously wrong with him. Right?

“So, yeah, bro, like I said - what you here for anyways?”

Brody furrowed his brow, an impressive feat given how thick it already was. Hadn’t he already told him? Wasn’t it obvious? The fuck did he think those trophies were for - debate club?

“Wrestling, bro.” The words blurted out before Brody could even think to silence them. He spoke with a gruff timbre that bordered on vocal fry, like every syllable was held a moment longer than he ought to. “Scholarship, y’know? All my buds bailed to some artsy fartsy dump but,” he shrugged his beefy shoulders, “wrestling’s its own kinda art, bro.”

“Fuck yeah it is!” Tanner whooped, smacking the back of the sofa for his roomie to come join him. He slammed another beef against his chest and flicked on the TV, some college football game or another Brody’d previously had no interest in; this time he found himself hooked, leaning forward and reacting whenever a play was made, managing to somehow match then outdo Tanner’s enthusiasm. “Man, I knew we’d hit it off when I saw you, bro. Had me worried for a sec’ coz you had that whole quiet thing going on but,” he snerked, “Brody? I mean, come ON, bro!”

 ___

Conner was nervous about living in a dorm. He knew the reputation they had, especially those at Dalton, and that he’d surely be forced to live with at least one roommate throughout the semester. What if they never got on? Conner was an English lit student with a particular interest in poetry. He’d a mousy visage and eyes that never quite held anyone’s gaze, particularly those he’d had to squeeze by on his way into the building. He’d have gone anywhere else if they’d been less demanding, but Dalton’d thrown him a bone and for all its faults he couldn’t object to the cost of living there. 

It occurred to him as he climbed the stairs that he wasn’t sure if Dalton even had much in the way of a literary department. He stepped over some bottles, a scattering of anime drawings and discarded condom packets - was…was that a used one?! - before settling upon his door. 

#69. 

He rolled his eyes. Someone out there must’ve laughed themself stupid at that. In fact, muffled behind the door, someone WAS laughing themself stupid, TWO someones from the sound of things. He tensed with the key half-turned, hearing them roughhousing and goading one another on. It wasn’t too late, right? If his roommates turned out to be obnoxious douchebags he could always swap with someone else, or spend his days locked away in the library, or go scurrying back home with his tail between his legs. No…No…Conner steeled himself and took a breath, opened the door and stepped inside…

[testostories]

Meathead.mp3

Daniel'd never gotten on with his roommate. And that was just fine. They were different people from different worlds and learned to give one another space. The only thing they had in common really was a love of music, so Kevin - bodybuilder that he was - put together a playlist hoping to clear the air.

Daniel hadn't thought much of it, at least at first. It didn't sound like there was any music playing though he could've sworn there were voices echoing in surround sound. It took a couple of loops for him to really get what Kevin was going for.

Now Daniel doesn't think much of anything.

[testostories]

Greek Tragedy { Nerd to Quarterback }

Noah had cosied up beneath the large oak tree at the far end of the green, his usual study spot between classes. He got to people-watch without fear of interaction and it was quiet without being overbearing like the library. It’d all started innocently enough, flicking through notes on the Greek classics, peeking up every now and again to enjoy the sun, but it seemed others had come to capitalise on the weather - Dalton’s very own varsity football team. It went without saying that Noah had next to no interest in sport, and even less interest in making company with the Hornets, but he’d little say in the matter for what came next.

“On your left-!”

He’d just enough time to see 230lbs of solid beef on his peripheral charging towards him. Next thing he knew he was a pile of trampled limbs upon the green, groaning himself back to a state of consciousness. Or there abouts. His notes were scattered in the wind…

“Nngh…W-Wha-?”

“Easy, lil bro. That was some knock.” 

Standing over him with a stance that blocked out the sun was the Hornets’ very own linebacker - Donovan Caldwell. In layman's terms, Donovan - ‘Donny’ as would often be thrown in the halls - was a dick. A colossal unapologetic dick. The same went for all those neanderthals on the team. They were Dalton’s golden boys, bordering on local celebrities. Noah was convinced they all took turns hot potato’ing their one shared brain-cell, though he supposed he wasn’t exactly in any position to judge given his recent concussion. Hell, glancing up into the shade, HE was the one who ended up feeling like a dick cos Donovan was standing over him with a hand outstretched. It was a callused mitt with wiry hairs dusting the knuckles and palms so sweaty he had reservations. In the end though, if only to put the whole situation behind him, Noah accepted and allowed himself to be hoisted back onto his feet. He overshot and stumbled forward, much to the linebacker’s amusement.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” mumbled the jock with a sheepish rub of his neck. “Never saw you there. You alright?”

“...More or less,” Noah’d replied, glad to note all the onlookers had continued on their way. He dusted himself down - more accurately, wiped away the jocksweat - with his left hand gripping what he presumed to be one of his salvaged books.

“Soooo, you gonna throw it back or what?”

His brow rose. When he glanced down to what Donovan’d requested, he almost fell back on his ass. There, in a hand that looked to have been stung by a hive of bees, was the pigskin that’d started it all. But hadn’t he-? Noah turned the hand over, trying to reconcile with what he saw. It moved to his every command, it was attached to the end of his arm, but it was NOT his. Every digit looked like a swollen sausage, the nail beds cracked, the palm and tips callused. There was an odd weatherbeaten glow about it and a dusting of dirty blonde fuzz along the top, not to mention the fact he was able to grip the football with ease. 

“...Shit, maybe I hit him a lil TOO hard,” he heard Donovan mumble over his shoulder.

It made no sense. NONE of it made sense. People didn’t just—Noah KNEW how his hands looked and those bloated mitts were NOT…anything worth freaking out over. No shit they looked so busted, that was years of passes and lifting iron right there. He shook his head to banish the invasive thoughts and held out the ball to his linebacker.

Donovan blinked. “You sure you’re alright?”

Noah didn’t know what he meant. He didn’t have time to make sense of it cos the fabric of his sleeves had begun to tear. Everything from his shoulder to his wrist unravelled in real-time, putting an end to the plaid red shirt and Guns n Roses tee that made up his aesthetic. That’d almost hurt as much as the cramping that followed. He could feel every fibre tense like a decade of practice and working out hit him like a truck. Veins became more prominent along his forearms and biceps, competing for space with the mass that’d accumulated there. The same blonde hair on his hands dusted the surface and Noah fought to match his self-image with the limbs he saw before him. Then came the shoulders, rounded and capped in a way he hadn’t thought possible. They forced his shirt/tee combo to awkwardly bunch around his collarbone, but even that’d thickened from the beef piling onto his traps.

“...No, yeah, I…Sorry, man,” Noah’d apologised in a daze, giving a sharp dart throw of a toss straight at Donovan. There was serious power behind it for a move so casual. He wasn’t sure if to be impressed or to freak the fuck out. That same contradiction was true of many of Noah’s innermost thoughts - there were ideas and factoids and desires totally at odds with how he saw himself. It was becoming increasingly difficult to reconcile with who or what he really was.

“No sweat, man,” the jock replied, palming the ball from hand to hand. “The hell were you doing hanging alone anyways? Had us worried for a sec.”

Us? Noah winced like a guy who’d just taken 230lbs straight to the skull. And what a skull it was. His jawline had widened significantly with a dimple dividing his chin. His nose had thickened and was offset along the bridge, owing to one too many tackles on the green. Eyes that’d once been wet and mousy were now a dull brown with an almost coy glint when the sun hit just right. His cheekbones were higher and more pronounced but he’d a scruffy patch of stubble across everything from the nose down which offset him looking too pretty. His brow’d become thicker, his skin a sun-beaten flush, and the very edge of his lip always seemed curled either in arrogance or amusement. Hair that’d once been an auburn mop was now a dirty blonde fauxhawk, slightly matted at the front with sweat. He’d have hated seeing himself, would’ve written him off like he had the team, but it was hard to connect in a positive way with that image of the old Noah. Hadn’t he been…the one Donnie’d trampled on?

“...Enjoying the sun. Same as you guys.” Even the voice wasn’t anything Noah’d associate with himself. It was on the lower end of tenor with a Cali-bro lilt to it, and much louder than Noah’d ever want to be. Figures though, years of barking across the gridiron would do that.

In a last ditch effort to remove himself from the situation, a remnant of the old Noah fighting back, he stepped around the tree intending to make his escape across the green. He didn’t get very far. The black skinny jeans he’d worn split below the knee, exposing the tight calves of a quarterback. There was an uncomfortable amount of chafing from his thighs, ass and dick all being crammed into the makeshift shorts. And white hot flash of needles etching across his skin. He watched in real-time as ink bled into the back of his right calf, shoddy linework in standard varsity font - a one, then a seven. 17. His player number, already slightly faded. Noah would’ve - should’ve - freaked at the sight but he couldn’t help shake the feeling of camaraderie knowing he was marked as belonging to the team. The hornet etched onto his left shoulder didn’t help.

Donovan SLAPPED him on that shoulder for a laugh, snapping him out of his daze. And Noah in turn, entirely against his previous nature, shoved him right back with enough force for the linebacker to stumble. He immediately regretted it. He was going to get punched. He’d surely summon the others to beat him senseless. God, he wished he…wished he’d shoved him harder, and went in against his every instinct for a bit of brotherly roughhousing. Amongst all the laughing and shoving and mock-chokeholding, it occurred to Noah that he’d been shit-scared of Donovan only moments ago. He was an absolute unit who’d blocked out the sun. And yet, he wasn’t as tall or as big or as scary as he remembered, the two jocks a pile of limbs beneath the tree just like before.

“Scrappy fucker,” Donnie’d teased, making a mess of Noah’s hair.

“Fat bastard,” Noah’d clapped back, shit-eating grin plastered across his face. Somewhere amidst the carnage his sneakers had split, the sole entirely separating from his feet having outgrown them. His socks too had dissolved along the way, leaving Noah barefoot on the grass. He didn’t remember bringing shoes though. Why would he when he’d come to throw ball with his boys? 

Just as the final haze of his concussion started to clear, a wad of papers drifted by upon the wind. They were some dork’s notes about gods and shit. He recognised the general imagery of Zeus and Ares and the like from decor at the gym but the notes themselves may as well have been in Simlish to his addled brain. He scrunched the paper up into a ball in his hand and whistled sharply, directing Donnie and the others to file out across the green.

“Go wide!” Noah barked, and tossed away the last remnants of his old life.

[testostories]

The Bodybuilding Expo

Nathan was a journalist tasked with covering a local bodybuilding expo. He wasn't sure why he'd been assigned given he specialised in media but after spending hours bumping shoulders with the roidheads out on the floor, he no longer felt like he stood out from the crowd.

Upon leaving with his medals and titles, standing out from the crowd was all Nate would ever do.

[testostories]

Invasive Pop-Ups

Kyle was the sort to pass up socialising for studying. There'd be plenty of time to hang once he graduated, so he claimed. During a 2AM studyfest, he accidentally clicked on a pop-up ad for the campus' varsity team. His chair creaked and suddenly his notes made little sense. He wasn't even sure what class he was sitting or why he'd ever been such a buzzkill. His cock scraped the underside of the desk and straight-up throbbed when he received a DM out of the blue. Kimberley, one of the varsity cheerleaders: 'hey big guy ;) wanna hang?'

Kyle stretched, lazily flaring his lats.

He knew how he'd be spending the rest of his morning.

[greaser-vinny]

Taking a stab at this whole writing thing after years of roleplaying and consuming this sort of thing. So go give it some love!

[superiorstr8men]

[alphajocklover]

Another idea for a video or story: A small accessory and clothing store on the Jersey boardwalk where guys go in and they come out as complete generic, douchebag guidos.

Guido Glow Up

[londonhairluvr]

[fuckboy-jake]

Every guy leaves my barbershop a greaser, horny at the thought of getting all his bros to grease up too.

[scrumjock]

Australia on the attack

[vintagebarbershop]

[malesbros]

[muscleworshipaddict-deactivated]

He keeps looking at you, knowing that you’re mesmerized by his set. Every time he flexes, he glances over at you, knowing that you’ll be worshipping those guns after. 💪🏼

[alphajocklover]

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