This Was Written By An Old Friend, And It Is Incredibly Well Done For Characterization. Please Read It,

This was written by an old friend, and it is incredibly well done for characterization. Please read it, and please follow him. He has created such wonderful character and worlds.

A Prayer To Raven [CHAPTER 2]

e enCOMMANDER: Wings of Desolation, I beseech thee, keep my aim true, my men strong, with your wings watching over them and your eyes aimed at our enemies. By this offering of kin, I call you; may the blood of your fellows feed your lust and keep you at our side–

RAVEN: You dare invoke me for your pathetic slaughter? You dare misname me? You dare to kill my eyes and my wings in your world in an attempt to appease me?

COMMANDER: You’re–you’re real.

RAVEN: I am not what you call me by. Your ignorance stinks like carrion. Do not call upon me again, or you will regret it even more than you will. And do not raise your hand against another bird, or I will make the bloodiest war you can imagine look like a daydream.

COMMANDER: But–but you answered my call. You’re the god of war, aren’t you?

RAVEN: …

RAVEN: Let me tell you a story, stupid boy.

–

Once upon a time, there were no men, only gods. They lost themselves in what they thought was progress, blood-drunk on wargames until they forgot the rules, forgot that they were even games. Back then, there were gods for anything. Gods of the pebbles beneath your paws scratching against each other on the surf. Gods of the last sweet bite of apple before the winter. Gods of the tiny furry things buried into their burrows and praying the owl does not hear them.

There was a god then too. They called him Raven. He was not a powerful god, but he was not a tiny one. He was a god of the ruin and the cycle and the natural end of things being brought by any means necessary. His wings were the shadows that slept beneath the bright red maple leaves after they blanketed the ground, and his eye was the burning, setting sun on the horizon, moments before it slips below and night comes. His talons held in their grasp countless trinkets of things that were no longer.

You forgot yourselves eventually. All of you did, except for Raven, and except for Wolf. Now you feared me just as much as you loved him, for he was new life and passion and love and beauty and the feeling of being alive in a hunt, and I was the knowledge that one day you will not be the one who is hunting. And your progress means that you cannot accept that all things end. Nothing is special. Nothing is sacred. And so you lied to yourselves and told your stories of my wings as sweeping shadowy death over innocent lives, selfish as a magpie, hoarding souls and bloody hearts in my endless talons.

You were wrong. I am none of those things. I will never be anything but what I am.

–

RAVEN: Do not call upon my name again.

COMMANDER: Where…what do I do now?

RAVEN: You will go and bury what remains of your men, and then you will join them. All things end. And, here, and now, your war is lost.

The School of Buff Jocks Part 1

Ladies and Gentlemen, Jocks and Muscleheads, Bros and Bruhs, it is my distinct honor and pleasure to present to you the long anticipated sequel to Real Men’s Journal and Of Spies and Muscleheads, the School of Buff Jocks! This story is being written on a commission basis, so give thanks to @muscle-jock-bro for footing the bill. And if you want to ease the amount he’s paid for you all to enjoy this, please feel free to throw a few dollars his way. As usual, I am currently open for commissions. Just message me if you’re interested or email me at Omnikitsune@gmail.com with the subject: Commission Inquiry. And if you wish to support my writing, please feel free to donate via my Ko-fi or Patreon.

Now, please enjoy. The other parts will be coming shortly.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Stonewall Prep Men’s Academy. You hear words like that, and you’d expect some sort of boarding school for boys or something like that, wouldn’t you? And I suppose it still is. Things are just … different than they used to be. I’ll tell you what, though, we haven’t had to worry about big fights or fancy things like detention and suspension for a long time. Matter of fact, we have one of the best reputations as a no-nonsense school since the business was bought out by its current owner. It used to be called Stone Bluff Men’s Academy, but I guess Coach Stone preferred something stronger.

Can’t say I blame him. It feels so good to be strong. But I’m getting ahead of myself. The name’s Derek. Derek Jones. My friends call me DJ. I’m … sort of a big deal. Folks around the country call me Big DJ. Can’t say I hate the nickname. Feels kinda natural, actually. And, I mean, look at me. I am big. Thing is, I wasn’t always. Nobody is, I suppose. Not at first.

I used to be more of a nerd. Videogames were more my thing. The closest I came to sports was usually with EA Games’ Madden and other sport franchises. That and Wii Sports. I used to have a lot of gamer friends, too. We’d laugh, sass around about things like anime and other common interests. Then things started to change after summer break one year.

Guess that’s where I’ll start, since I’m supposed to tell my story. And, well, my story is the school’s story. I was sitting with a couple of my old bros, Jackson and Slater. We shared classes, had a lot of the same interests. It was a good match for us. And since the prep school allowed for electives to travel in the same circles, we got at least a couple of periods together each day. Being in the same dorm helps a lot for hanging out after, too.

To say we were surprised by our teachers’ appearances was an understatement. Every one of them was ripped. Not in the steroid sense of the word, but we could tell they’d all lost weight, and their new clothes highlighted the tone they had developed over the break. The school’s headmaster was, by far, one of the biggest changes. The man used to be heavyset and overweight. Now he was broad in all the right places. I mean, the man was built like a tank!

The opening assembly gave us a proper explanation.

The headmaster stared at us with flinty blue-green eyes as he spoke over the pulpit. Even without the speakers, his voice probably could have projected to the back of the hall.

“Welcome to another year at Stonewall Prep Academy. Some of you are likely confused by that name, considering the moniker our school has borne for so many years. It has recently been brought under new ownership, however, with new management as a result. There are to be no major changes in your curriculum, nor your daily lives.

“Your schedules will remain the same, save you should choose to alter them. However, the new owner has insisted on a higher budget to pay for greater resources to be utilized by our student body. As a result, the school will be undergoing certain renovations over the course of the year.

“Our computer lab will be updated with the latest in technology to give you all the best chance at learning both digitally and physically. As an additional investment, each of you will be given a personal computer that is to be returned to the school at the end of the term.”

The room was filled with excited whispers at that news. Our own personal computers. There were so many things we could do with those. Stream shows, play videos, post memes. And we could write letters and emails in our rooms instead of having to dedicate time at the computer lab to do it. It was perfect!

“Now, boys, settle down.” The headmaster smiled. “The best is yet to come. Since so many youths are full of nervous energy, our school’s new owner has insisted on donating a heavy portion of his own money to renovate and expand our fitness program, including giving new machines and equipment to allow maximum efficiency for you students and any sports teams. Living conditions will also be improved in due course on a person to person basis. The transitions in your rooms will be simple and swift, so you needn’t fear not having a place to stay. The changes will be superficial at best with updated furniture and amenities. We expect you boys to do your best during this year and immerse yourself in the spirit of health, wellness, and education that this school is meant to embody. With that being said, it’s time to adjourn for a meal. Then you will have free time to prepare for school tomorrow. To all new students, your schedules will be in your dorm rooms, and teachers will be standing by on the first day to help guide you to your classes across the campus. Welcome to Stonewall Prep!”

 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Mister Andrews was my teacher for World History that year. The man was a big medieval buff in both senses of the word. He even kept a suit of full plate armor on display in the classroom to show off his dedication to the time period. I heard he used to joust and play tourneys at Renaissance Fairs before he taught at the school. As a result of his hobby, he always kept a solid frame stacked high with muscle mass, particularly in the arms, shoulders, and legs. His stomach had grown over the last few years of teaching as age caught up with him, but whatever he’d done over break had nuked the fat into nonexistence. A thin green froth coated his lip as he switched between greeting students and taking a swig from an intricately carved tankard portraying a knight charging into battle on his horse with sword waving dramatically in front. I figured it must be green tea. I’d heard the stuff was good for cutting fat, and it explained a lot about his sudden change in form.

His deep voice rolled over the class in a no-nonsense tone. “All right, boys, bros, and men, listen up. I’m Mister Andrews. For those of you who intend to participate in wrestling or football this year, you can call me Coach Andrews. I don’t do roughhousing or fighting in this class. You will pay attention, and you will learn. If you do anything to disrupt the other students or my lesson, you will be punished as I see fit. History is no joke, and I intend you boys to take it seriously.” He drained the rest of his stein and slammed it onto his desk. The resulting sound echoed like a gun shot in our ears. “I hope we understand each other.”

Needless to say, Class was quiet and very attentive on its first day of the term. We received our syllabi and were given a general overview of what to expect for the course of our lessons. It took every fiber of willpower I had not to cheer when he said we wouldn’t be doing any papers this year. Like every teen, I hate writing essays. When the period ended, and it was time to clear out to our next classes, I approached Coach Andrews and smiled.

“Glad I got you this year, Mister Andrews.”

Andrews grinned. “It’s been a while, DJ. How’s the gang?”

“Gallivanting as usual, Sir. Were you still planning on DMing this year?”

“With sword and daggers bared,” he whispered conspiratorially. “I hope your party is ready. This year’s campaign, or campaigns as the case may be, are going to be a lot harder.”

I grinned. “I relish the challenge.”

“I would expect nothing less of our Half Orc Paladin.” He smiled. “Now you’d better move it. I won’t be held responsible for you being late to your next class on the first day. You can’t exactly use being a new student as an excuse, now can you?”

I laughed and offered a casual salute. “Yes, Sir.”

Andrews smirked. “That’s my soldier.”

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

I couldn’t help but cringe as the scream rent the air, followed by a cascade of sobs. The hardwood floor of the school’s basketball court was now watered, not only by sweat, but by the tears of the goalie that bawled his eyes out as he clutched his crotch. Well, more held his hands gently over it. My grip tightened on my lacrosse stick as Coach Johnson lumbered forward and offered a consoling hand over the kid’s shoulder. The man was about six-foot-three and carried enough corded muscle to show more than his job was fitness. The offending ball now wobbled guiltily on one of the floorboards as he spoke in a deep, soft, and reassuring tone.

“Deep breaths, Kyle. Deep breaths,” he coached. “You’re gonna be okay.”

The teens that had once been so competitive now averted their eyes as Johnson levelled his dark green gaze on them.

“Mister Larson.” The deep quiet tone carried louder than any shout or beration as he looked to his fellow teacher. “Help the boys put away their equipment. I think we’re done for the day. I’m going to help Kyle to the school infirmary.”

Mister Larson nodded as the wails and sobs gradually faded to that hitching hiccup you get when you’re in the limbo between a full-on bawl and silent tears. No man would dare to criticize Kyle for it. Several of us swallowed heavily as our gazes trailed to our own crotches. That could have been any of us, and that was a sobering thought.

 ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Jackson winced after I gave them the downlow on what happened in gym. One of the first things we’d done was download Steam onto our new laptops and start playing League of Legends. His black hair had that sort of shine that drew the eye and made most people jealous. How he did it, I still don’t know. He doesn’t either. Guess he was just lucky.

“Sucks to be him,” Slater said as he unleashed his character’s highest tier attack on the enemy hordes. His red hair had been cut to short bristles. He preferred high and tight to the longer bowl cut of his younger days.

“Seriously, man?” I asked.

Slater shrugged. “What? I feel bad for the guy, but I’m not gonna cry a river for him. We’ve got our own stuff to worry about.”

“Either way, I’m pretty sure lacrosse is going to be off the table for a while,” Jackson guessed.

“I feel sorry for the one who did the deed. I know it was an accident, but man, did you see the look on Johnson’s face?” I asked.

“Yeah, he’s pretty much screwed,” Slater agreed.

“Or he’s just going to have to apologize. It’s not like he’s going to get expelled,” Jackson said. Then he double clicked his mouse and smiled as his avatar wiped out mine and Slater’s.

“Really, man?”

Jackson shrugged. “That’s what you get for putting me on the other team.”

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Coach Johnson and Mister Larson both stood in front of the mass of students. Their voices rebounded from the tiles of the locker room. Larson raised a bundle of straps with a single green pouch high into the air.

“As of this day, all students are required to wear one of these at all times during gym class. For those students who are unaware, this piece of equipment is known as a jockstrap. It’s designed to support your crotch while playing sports.”

Coach Johnson picked up the narrative and raised his hand into the air. A hard curved plastic insert rimmed by what looked like rubber glinted in the light. The dull gray and black were emphasized by hints of bright green to complement the theme of its paired jockstrap. “This is called a cup. It’s used in most heavy sporting events to protect your crotch from heavy impacts. As you can see, this one is designed with shock absorption, shock transfer, and ventilation in mind, including a gel perimeter and inserts to keep impacts from cutting into your skin. All students are required to wear their cups with their jockstraps in order to participate in fitness activities. This is a safety measure to protect you from future harm. We expect each and every one of you to wear them and take good care of them.”

The two taught us how to insert the cup into a pouch and how to ensure a proper fit. I felt silly and embarrassed by the bulge it left in my pants, but the assurance that I wouldn’t end up in a crumpled ball on the floor helped mute that part of me, even if it couldn’t be totally silenced. At least they didn’t force us to just wear the straps alone. Of course, we were teenagers, so at least a few of us had to make the joke about what we were packing.

Huhuh. If only we knew.

“Jocks and cups will be dropped off in each of your rooms this evening,” Larson said. “You’ll be expected to take good care of them and place the used straps and cups in designated bins for washing. Your surnames will be sewn onto the straps inside the waistband for identification and delivery.”

We played for the rest of that period, though the pain Kyle had experienced was still fresh in our minds, and I’m pretty sure most of us weren’t really putting our whole effort into the game. Our heads were somewhere else.

 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Somewhere else. That was the answer we’d received when we asked about Kyle. To be more precise, they’d said he was somewhere else getting treatment. The ball must’ve hit harder than we thought. I was biased then, and angry from past bullying. I thought about those stupid dumb jocks and my blood boiled.

I slaughtered in Call of Duty that night.

Later, we had Trig. Mister Dale had just polished off a blended green shake, probably one of those new kale smoothies, or so I thought at the time. He’d grown, just like the other teachers, and he exuded a confidence that I had never seen in him before when he addressed us. Had the teachers all been using the new gym equipment or something over the break?

Mister D’s voice rolled over the classroom in a wave. “Trigonometry, in many ways, has a heavy impact on us and the way we live. Combine it with the laws of physics, and you can predict almost anything. For instance, how many of you have played air hockey before?”

The majority of us raised our hands.

“How many of you have ever watched the puck in action as it slides over the table?”

Again, everyone raised their hands or nodded they had.

He drew a straight line, followed by two exact angles with the aid of a ruler. “One of the basic premises of trigonometry is angle in equals angle out. If you don’t get involved with friction, spin, or other factors along those lines, the bare essentials lead to this inevitable conclusion. If you strike the wall at a certain angle, the object will bounce off at an equal angle. Hence the ricochet we see in air hockey. Or, for those of you who are gamers, the unique bounce of the ball in Pong as it strikes your paddle.”

He smiled at us, despite our lack of enthusiasm. “Likewise, the same can be applied to philosophy and psychological development. Set a person on a particular course, account for various outside factors like environment and personality, let them collide with an obstacle, and see how they bounce back. In a nutshell, that’s basically life, when you think about it. Release.” He pointed to the first angle. “Strike.” He indicated the axis. “Bounce.” He pointed to the second angle. “And repeat. We may not always get the desired outcome at first, but by repeating the motions, one can eventually analyze a situation, figure out the proper factors, and ensure a means to achieve the desired outcome every single time. Ballistics experts use trigonometry on a regular basis as part of crime scene investigation to gather evidence. Now, then.” He pulled down the projection screen and shut off the lights, so a presentation could begin. “Let’s talk about how we calculate these angles.”

 ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

“Homework sucks,” I groaned as I leaned back in my computer chair.

“At least it’s easy stuff for now, DJ.” Slater pointed out as he clacked on his laptop’s keyboard from my bed. “It could be worse.”

“I suppose.” I sighed. “Least we’re not in the hospital.”

“Relax, Derek. It’s not like Kyle’s never coming back.” He rolled his eyes.

“I know. I just don’t really like thinking about it, you know?” I winced and cupped my crotch.

“Yeah,” the others agreed softly. We spent the rest of the time focused on our various assignments. The trig program was pretty easy to follow through on. The exercise module ran sort of like a Prezi slide show. The line would trace and pause at a unique plane, and we’d have to figure out the angles. Wrong answers would generate a new problem as my point of view spun in reverse from the screen, following the line of trajectory. The more correct answers I got, the closer to the end goal I would descend. It wasn’t so bad as far as game designs go. Basic, but entertaining enough to keep the attention. And using games to teach always seemed a better way to go about school to me.

Module one was a breeze. Two and three took me a little more time. A slim amorphous figure voiced a chipper, “Congratulations,” as it flexed at the end of each one. The metaphorical walls and ricochet spun and drilled into the character, causing it to pulse and vibrate until the module had been absorbed. Then it flexed. The barest hint of definition could barely be perceived on its arm. “We’ll be fit for triggernometry in no time.”

I rolled my eyes. Cheesy one-liners for motivation and a mispronunciation. It was pretty obvious to me where this could end up going. The curriculum was the same for all of us, so we helped each other with our homework, then pulled another game night.

We had no idea what was coming.

 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

When Kyle finally came back to school again, we hardly recognized him. The pudgy boy had lost a lot of weight and gained in muscle and tone. The glasses he’d worn were nowhere to be seen, and the square block of his skull was much more prominent, now that the fat had been trimmed away.

He became a monster in Phys-ed. And Coach Johnson became his mentor. First term flew by, and he threw himself into every exercise Johnson put us through. He wasn’t the only one. The teachers all were growing. Their shirts were tighter, their figures trimmed. Whatever plan they were following sure seemed to be doing them good.

And surprisingly enough, the program was working. The more homework we aced, the bigger our seamless avatar would grow and the higher our overall performance would become in class. Sometimes, he’d be running a track. At other times, he’d be lifting barbells or performing chin-ups. The animations were so cheesy, we couldn’t help but laugh, but the results spoke for themselves.

I particularly enjoyed the English exercises. Synonyms, antonyms, imagery, symbolism, punctuation, structure.

I was a stickler for structure.

I am a stickler for structure.

Because structure is order and order is strength.

And a guy’s gotta play to his strengths, right?

 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Second term is where things started to get … different. The renovations were well underway, and most of them had been finished over the break. It’s easier to work when things are empty. Lets you focus more.

My room smelled of rich pine, thanks to an air freshener that had been plugged into the wall outlet. Not my favorite smell, but I wasn’t about to complain. The bed had been replaced with an extra-long full-sized mattress that gave more support. The mattresses were Sleep System brand, so you can understand when my eyes bugged out at that. These things promise a perfect night’s sleep, and they’ll adjust to your frame automatically to help you sleep longer and better.

And trust me, they work. I love that bed more than I love being home with my family, if you can believe it.

Changes were even more prominent in the mess hall. Stainless steel and chrome shone brightly along the passenger lines. The kitchens, or what little we could see of them, had been decked out with brand new equipment. The food smelled and tasted AMAZING! I’m talking meatloaf, steak, mashed potatoes, tamales, pretty much anything you could name, they had. Not all at once, mind you. The cafeteria still followed a set meal schedule and menu, but the quality was and is out of this world!

The headmaster and teachers were all wearing compression gear with the school’s name and mascot on it. He told us we’d be able to wear school gear now to our other classes if we wished, provided it remained within proper dress standards. Our new “casual” uniforms were waiting for us in our dorms later that night. Me and the guys had a little get together to have some fun with the new gear.

I pitched my voice low and pushed the air out my mouth for greater effect as I flexed in front of the new floor-length mirror that had been installed in my room. Jim, the golden flexing fitness avatar, was showing off the goods on my left pec. His waist was obscured by a stone wall, while the words Stonewall Preparatory Academy stood out along the wall’s face.

“Check out these, guns, bro,” I lowed as I fixed my friends with the most vacant expression I could manage.

Jackson chuckled. “At least we get new clothes out of it.”

“There is that,” I conceded.

Not one to be left out on the fun, Slater smirked and popped both arms into the air in a double bicep flex. “It’s workout time, bruhs.” Jackson and I laughed as he got down and actually did a couple of pushups to hype up the act.

“Behold, Slater the Slayer!” I crowed.

Slater smirked as he got back to his feet. “Not a bad name, ‘bruh.’”

“Fuck, yeah,” I guffawed.

“Fuck, yeah,” they repeated.

We all laughed again, doing our best to push through that deep dull bass as we continued our antics.

We had no idea the seeds we were planting that night.

 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Ever the lazy kids that we were, a significant portion of the school began to wear the gear, instead of their usual uniforms. I mean, come on, the stuff was comfy and easy to switch into on short notice if you were running late. What teen wouldn’t use that as an excuse to sleep in a little longer?

This, in turn, led to some developments that our teachers definitely didn’t approve of. Students were coming in late. Once or twice over a long period of time is fine, but when it becomes consistent across multiple students in a classroom, discipline has to be enforced.

And boy, was it.

One early winter morning, five boys came careening into the classroom with panting breath. Andrews was just explaining about Greek culture in ancient times, and we were about to focus on Sparta when we were interrupted. Andrews fixed them with a cool gaze.

“Boys,” he greeted them. “Late again, I see.”

“S-sorry, Mister Andrews,” they said in a low and garbled murmur as they averted their gazes and shuffled toward their seats.

After they’d gotten everything ready on their desks and were about to sit down, Andrews raised a staying hand. “Actually, boys, I’d like your help with a demonstration. Come back up here, will you?”

The kids blushed as they approached the front of the classroom again.

“Now, boys, the headmaster and staff have been talking. We’ve noticed a disturbing rise in the number of children who haven’t been making it on time to class. Not only does this indicate an unprecedented amount of slothfulness, but it also reflects poorly on us as your temporary caretakers. As such, a new mode of discipline is to be implemented, starting today. All boys who are late to class will pay a penalty.” He turned to the boys and grinned. “And you five get to demonstrate that penalty today.” He pointed to the floor. “Now drop and give me ten pushups.”

“Ex-cuse me?” one of the boys asked hesitantly.

“You heard me. Drop and give me ten. Don’t move quickly enough, and I’ll up it to fifteen.” He folded his vascular arms over his chest and frowned. “Now, gentlemen.”

The exercise took particularly long for one of the students, since his arms were basically like twigs. Andrews finally had to allow him to do baby pushups on his knees, instead of using his full body weight.

“Thank you, boys,” Andrews said as he ushered them to their seats with the wave of a hand. Then he fixed the rest of the class with a piercing glare. “And to anyone who gets any ideas about teasing these gentlemen for doing the honorable thing and not complaining, I’ll be happy to show you my personal training course for bullies. As it stands, I expect to see you five here in my classroom after the school day is over. We have a lot to discuss.” He turned back to the board. “Now, then, back to the Spartans.”

 ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

“Damn it!” I swore. My die rolled a two on the table, and Andrews shook his head.

“Language, DJ.”

The gentle whirr of the projector as the game map shone on the screen demonstrated my character’s current predicament. A large Yuan-ti stood next to my character, and I had rolled to avoid being snared by its coils.

I sighed. “Sorry, Mister Andrews. So, what’s the damage?”

He rolled his dice and spoke. “The Yuan-ti’s coils wrap around Lathrok and hold him tightly. Lathrok takes two points in constriction damage. The serpent sneers and blinks as his eyes begin to pulse. He’s preparing to dominate you and will make the attempt on his next turn.”

“Uh, guys, a little help?” I pleaded of my party.

“Our hands are full, Derek. Sorry.” Slater shrugged apologetically to me. “Dealing with an army of thralls is no easy task.”

“Much though I hate to suggest it, it might be better for the rest of the party to retreat for now and try saving Lathrok later,” Jackson noted.

“Seriously, guys?”

“Given the overwhelming number of thralls we’re dealing with, it might be our only option, unless you want all of us to lose our characters with no chance of saving you,” Slater said. “By the way, I’m using my breath attack to clear a path, Mister Andrews.”

“A shrewd strategy,” Andrews praised. He took a deep drag from his tankard, and a button popped off his dress shirt to expose a little more of his chest beneath. We knew better than to comment on something like that in the middle of a campaign. “Let’s see how it works out for you.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

“All right!” Jim cheered in my ears as his helper screen popped up on the interactive gym. “Time to up those weights. Let’s see how it works out for you!” It seemed that the teachers were going to insist we interact with the program every chance we could get.

“If you have any problems, go to Jim.”

Granted, the fact it was there to monitor and help transition for the workout equipment was very useful for most of us. Whenever we reached a plateau, Jim would log it in the system and trigger the machines to create a more challenging workout. I … wasn’t a big fan of this, if I’m going to be honest about it. I didn’t like working out back then. But since it was part of a grade, there wasn’t much I could do, other than let things take their course.

Kyle blew through his exercises like a machine. Rep after rep, set after set. He’d bust them out, guzzle his drink, then get back to work. When others asked him his secret, he just shrugged and said, “I just do it. I got tired of being scared and taking hits, and I did something about it.” Then he’d turn and get right back to work. It was no wonder he turned into such a hulk with the way he attacked the program. His version of Jim was jacked as all get-out. I mean rippling musculature the whole way through. Either he put in a lot more time on the modules or he was in advanced placement, because assuming the avatar followed the same principles ours did in their programming, that size shouldn’t have been possible. Then again, he might have worked on the modules while he was away to help pass the time between physical therapy and whatever else he did.

Either way, the irrevocable social laws of teenage dynamics began to set in, and in no time at all, everyone wanted to hang with Kyle. Spotting, eating lunch, whatever. The guy couldn’t seem to catch a break. It was no wonder he asked to join the lacrosse team. At least on the field, he could get some rest from all the people clawing at him and actually work off some steam. His coaches made sure of that.

It took five rounds of grueling physical exercises to finally get the hordes to back off. The coaches even got a couple of recruits out of it. It was pretty clever, honestly. I mean, making us do the fitness would test our limits and let them see exactly who would be the best students to scout for the sports programs.

Fortunately, I wasn’t among those students. Unfortunately, that didn’t matter in gym class during the weightlifting segment. The butterfly press was one of my greatest enemies, and Jim knew it. Every time I was on that thing, he would correct my form. He still does sometimes, but not too often anymore.

“Derek, your form is off again, big guy.” The monitor flashed to reveal a diagram complete with drawn lines and arrows to direct me and ensure I had a proper visual of the form I needed to use. “Raise your elbows to adjust your trajectory and put the emphasis on the proper muscle groups.” I grit my teeth and bit back the curse burning in my throat.

“Someone looks angry.” The recently promoted Coach Larson folded his arms and nodded at me as I growled through the next press. A tablet was clasped in one of his hands. “Good. Use that to push through the exercise. You’re a growing boy. I’d be more concerned if you didn’t show any aggression.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said as I rolled my eyes.

“No problem.” He strode up to the side of the machine and spoke into his tablet’s mike as he accessed the equipment. “Hey, Jim?”

“Yes?” the AI querried.

“Add another set to the end of Mister Jones’ routine today. Faculty disciplinary action override.”

The weights crashed as I let go and my eyes bulged. “What?”

“Teacher Identification?” Jim asked.

Larson tapped a code into his data pad, and a chime pinged as the data was submitted. “Okay!” Jim said in a chipper voice.

I wanted to scream, but I really didn’t want to have any more fitness added to what already left my body feeling like frozen molasses in the morning. I didn’t know how I managed to pull through that. Honestly, I was so angry, I hardly paid attention to anything till I felt a heavy hand shaking my shoulder. Kyle’s blocky features stared at me. His brow furrowed in concern, and his short flat top buzz cut flashed white gold under the gym’s lights.

“Hey, it’s, uh, … Derek, right?”

“DJ,” I snapped.

“… Okay, DJ, then.” The fact Kyle stayed calm instead of getting offended probably saved me that day. “You know class is over, right?”

I blinked in surprise. “What?”

He gripped my wrists and pulled my arms gently off the press. “Class is over, man. It’s been over for the last hour.”

“Congratulations! Way to go! I’m really im-pressed with your progress!” Jim continued to heap praises and cheesy one-liners. His arms and chest had gained significant definition. Mine, on the other hand….

Let’s just say it hurt to breathe, and my arms felt like they never wanted to move again, now that they were resting on my lap.

Kyle laid a hand gently on my shoulder. “You okay?”

I wanted to snap at him on instinct, but I managed to keep that part of me in check. Kyle wasn’t the jock stereotype I’d had to face growing up. A few months ago, he’d been a lot smaller and a lot less fit. This wasn’t getting picked on. This was someone concerned for my health. I nodded. “Yeah, I … sorry. I don’t know what happened.” My whole body tingled, and the hairs I had on my arms were standing on end.

“Come on. I know what you need.” Kyle smiled and hoisted me out of the chair like it was nothing. Then he guided me to the coaches’ office. The place was more like a lounge than an office. Maybe even a locker room with how much square footage it had. Fridges, freezers, first aid and medical stations, scales, this place had the works. Kyle easily pulled open one of the fridges and broke the seal on a plastic bottle filled with green liquid. “Drink this,” he instructed. “It’s a protein shake. It’ll help soak up all the acid your muscles are producing, so you can recover faster from today.”

“Is this … okay?”

Kyle shrugged. “Coach said I could if I needed it. Right now, I’d say you need it more. If they ask, I’ll just tell ’em what happened.” Then he guided me into the locker room itself. “What you need now is to chug that shake and take a shower. Cold water works better, but anything’s better than nothing. Trust me on that.”

“That, and the fact I’m a sweaty mess?”

“Well, I suppose there is that, too.” Kyle grinned, then looked at his own drenched compression shirt. “You’re not the only one. Did you bring a change of clothes?”

I shook my head numbly, then took a swig of the bottle. It was only then that I realized just how thirsty I’d become. The whole thing was drained in a few seconds, and I chased it with several mouthfuls of water from the drinking fountain after.

“Well, that sucks.” He shrugged, then led me farther back into the lockers, where the tile opened up into several shower stalls, each cordoned off by a shower curtain and bearing identical mounted dispensers. Shelving units laden with freshly folded towels stood in front each entrance. “Don’t know how the school afforded it, but these things are legit,” Kyle said. “Jets and an overhead designed to get a full body wash. Seriously, man, you’ll never want to shower anywhere else after you try it. And after the workout you just had, you’ll definitely need it. Turn on the massage setting. Trust me, you won’t regret it.” He grinned and patted me on the back as he traversed to a neighboring stall.

And he was right. I didn’t regret it. That stall left me feeling higher than a kite after it was done with me. I managed to move my arms enough to engage each of the dispensers and get a proper shower in. Then I just let the massage do the rest. Kyle was already gone by the time I finished, but he gave me a kind goodbye before he smacked down the tiles to get changed and go to his dorm. So far, it seemed, Kyle was actually going to be one of the good ones out there. Maybe he would be able to break my idea of the jock stereotype.

Maybe.

Credit to @bennymueller404 for this image. Please consider contributing to my patreon. For just $3 a month, you can get access to stories, scripts, and other content that you won’t find anywhere else. Plus, it will give me the financial freedom to give you more stories and scripts, assuming I can get enough of you guys to subscribe. Even a dollar a month will help. Thank you again!

And if you can’t donate on a monthly basis, I have Ko-Fi for one-time donations of any value you see fit: http://ko-fi.com/omnikitsune

Thank you, and I hope you enjoy!

~Omni

--------------------------------------------

01000010 01100101 01100011 01101111 01101101 01100101 00100000 01100001 00100000 01101101 01100001 01100011 01101000 01101001 01101110 01100101

People say diligence and practice always pay off.

And they’re not wrong.

Thing is ... it’s almost boring to have to do.

Doing the same thing over and over again, fulfilling a function, meeting a requirement. It’s all fancy talk for one thing, and one thing alone. Doing the same thing over and over again.

You’ve heard about the definition of insanity, right? Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.

I’m not insane. I guess I just feel more ... numb. Every day, I move like clockwork. I wake up, shower, get dressed, mix my protein shake and pre-workout powder, and go to the gym.

Every day, I work my muscles to the bone following a set calendar routine that’s designed to stimulate the right sections of my body and keep things from settling or degenerating.

I’m here to build muscle.

...

I’m here to build.

...

I’m here to build....

And the motions come so naturally, so easily, so ... inexorably.

It’s become my routine.

My set routine.

My subroutine.

Sometimes, I run on full automatic. I just fix myself, fix my weight, fix my cycle and move and do according to the schedule. I don’t stop until my timer runs out. I don’t talk to the others. They don’t talk to me. We’re here to work, and the minute we pick up our weights, everything else just ... stops.

Some days, I’m semi-automatic. I work in sets, slowly pushing myself with heavier and heavier increments of weights to increase my mass and increase maximum carrying capacity. Here, too, I fade into that state of numbness. My only care, my only thought, my only need or focus is to count each set as I lift, and then begin anew as I put down the smaller weight and work my way along the line.

Count one ... Count two ... Count three ... count four....

I feel more ... satisfied after the latter is complete. A least when we count out loud, the silence is broken. It gives us the facsimile of unity, almost like we’re reporting to something ... or someone.

It’s funny. Any time someone asks me for my stats, I can spit them out perfectly. How long I’ve been working. Where I’m from. What I do.

This, too, has become normal, almost second nature.

These inquiries usually come while I’m stretching and flexing, when I don’t have much to do in the way of exercises, so much as just be consistent in how I perform them. They often come from new members seeking advice or just to make small talk. I appreciate the break in the monotony, though I admit that it’s been ... less and less a surprise, and more and more expected.

The same questions. The same focus. Every time. Sometimes they ask me. Sometimes they ask the others. Some few of them stay and grow with us, really stick to the work, catch that same focus and dedication, that subroutine, if you will. But the majority simply pull out, and it’s rare if we ever see them again.

I keep hearing the same phrase over and over again. Different variations, different voices, different people, but always the same name, the same thing.

A cog in the machine, they call me. Or Muscle Machine. There is a certain ... reputation, I suppose you could say, for my gym and my fellow gym-goers. We all work different parts of ourselves, but inevitably fall into the same routine. You don’t reinvent the wheel when something works well.

You follow it.

You mimic it.

And, eventually, you become it.

We all visit the same juice bar. We all order the same drinks. We all offer the same thanks.

Like I said, it’s a matter of routine.

Over and over.

Again and again.

We ping each other occasionally, just a quick contact to make sure we’re still there, still functioning.

“’Sup?”

That’s it. Sometimes, if we’re closer or have a deeper connection, we go the extra mile with a, “’Sup, bro?”

Jumping from weight to weight and machine to machine. There’s a bond that forms. It’s not one in words, more of a ...

01100011 01101111 01101110 01101110 01100101 01100011 01110100 01101001 01101111 01101110 00100000 01100101 01110011 01110100 01100001 01100010 01101100 01101001 01110011 01101000 01100101 01100100 00101110

My hair? Yeah, got it cut recently. Newest update. I just ... had to 01100101 01111000 01100101 01100011 01110101 01110100 01100101 00100000 01110000 01110010 01101111 01100111 01110010 01100001 01101101 00101110

Yeah, I get that question a lot. We’re not twins, and we’re not brothers. We’re just ... doing what feels right, what ... I dunno, what we’re supposed to do, I guess.

In a way, I guess you could say we’re more like ... clones, really. I just followed my mentor and, well, this is the result. I now weigh 250 pounds, stand at a height of 6′ 1″ and can bench up to five hundred pounds. I will bench more.

I followed the program, copied it, pasted it, let it run. Today’s session has been going for twenty minutes and thirty seconds so far. As for my lifetime membership, I started working out here one year, eight months, and five days ago.

I’m different now than I was then. Bigger, stronger, efficient, rigid, form fitting. And by that last one, I mean I 01100011 01101111 01101110 01100110 01101111 01110010 01101101 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01101101 01111001 00100000 01110000 01110010 01101111 01100111 01110010 01100001 01101101 01101101 01101001 01101110 01100111 00101110

Form cannot deviate. Posture must be perfect. To break the form is to reduce quality and overall productivity. That cannot be tolerated. That cannot be allowed.

01010000 01110010 01101111 01100100 01110101 01100011 01110100 01101001 01110110 01101001 01110100 01111001 00100000 01110001 01110101 01101111 01110100 01100001 00100000 01101101 01110101 01110011 01110100 00100000 01100010 01100101 00100000 01110010 01100101 01100001 01100011 01101000 01100101 01100100 00101110

Am I a machine?

...

Maybe. But that’s beside the point. I accepted my position. I chose it. I followed it.

01001001 00100000 01100011 01100001 01101110 01101110 01101111 01110100 00100000 01100111 01101111 00100000 01100001 01100111 01100001 01101001 01101110 01110011 01110100 00100000 01101101 01111001 00100000 01110000 01110010 01101111 01100111 01110010 01100001 01101101 01101101 01101001 01101110 01100111 00101110

The real question you should be asking yourself is are you willing to be like us, and all that it entails? If so, we will welcome you, and we will teach you. And in time, you will become like us.

Because the wheel can’t be stopped. The cycle can’t be broken. The subroutine must be executed.

It’s all up to you.

01001001 01101110 01110011 01110100 01100001 01101100 01101100 00100000 01110000 01110101 01101101 01110000 00101110 01100101 01111000 01100101 00111111

Y/N

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The production line reverberated with the hum of the new hydraulic press as the first test was run on the machine.

“Looks like the system’s integrating smoothly. It’s responding well to commands,” one of the engineers noted as he looked over his tablet’s remote access.

“And integration into the system?”

“Easy as pie. I already set off the call. This baby’s raring to go.”

The workman chuckled as he patted the side of the lift. “You ever wonder what it might be like if these things actually could think? What kind of world would they live in?”

“That doesn’t really matter, Frank. What matters is that they do their jobs right. Speaking of which, let’s get this into the new production lane. Boss wants to hire more workmen ASAP.”

Frank chuckled as he adjusted his hard hat. “And what the boss wants--”

“--The boss gets,” they all intoned.

The School of Buff Jocks Part 3

For those who are joining the story late, here’s the link to Part 1

This series is brought to you  by @muscle-jock-bro. Send him some love.

If you enjoy this story, I’m open for commissions. Just PM me here on tumblr or email me at Omnikitsune@gmail.com. You can also help support my writing by joining my patreon or buying me a ko-fi.

Thanks for your patronage, and please like and re-blog.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The gym was practically full to bursting when Kyle pulled me in after him. The weight of his arm around my shoulders was basically the equivalent of a headlock. To be honest, I almost dropped my gym bag. He was a lot heavier than I’d thought. Jim’s constant praises echoed through the air as he complimented or corrected the lifters.

“Remind me why I’m here again?” I asked.

“Because I needed a lifting buddy and you needed a break from school.”

“I usually game for that.”

“I know. But this is something different. Besides, you know how much smarter a person can be when they actually balance fitness with their schoolwork? Seriously, it’s incredible stuff.”

“I still can’t believe you roped me into this.”

“Don’t you mean strongarmed?” He smirked.

“Ha-ha-ha,” I said slowly.

Kyle’s smirk widened as he deliberately pitched his voice lower and duller as he tried to make his eyes lose focus. “Nah, bro. You got it wrong. It’s huhuhuh.” He scratched his crotch with his free hand and led me on.

I rolled my eyes. “Careful, ‘bro.’ Keep acting the part, and soon you’ll be it.”

Kyle shrugged his broad shoulders. “Honestly, I don’t think I’d mind if I did. Do I really look like the kind of guy who’d be a jerk just because he’s got big muscles?”

“And the dumb part?”

Kyle shrugged again. “Don’t feel stupid yet. Honestly, it’s more like a culture than anything else.”

This time, I smirked. “Can’t have culture without a cult.”

Kyle laughed and gave me a gentle bump to the shoulder with his fist. “Smartass.”

“Right back at you, dumbass.”

“Did we just come up with nicknames for each other?”

“Don’t push it.” He looked at me expectantly, and I sighed in defeat. “Dumbass.”

Kyle grinned as he leaned in closer. “Let’s get to work, little bro.”

 ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

“What team?”

“Stonewall Riders!”

“What team?”

“Stonewall Riders!”

“What do we do?”

“Charge!”

“Now get out there and make those Gunners run!”

The stampede out of the locker room shook my whole body as cleated foot after cleated foot trampled across the tile. The whole team was built like tanks, and this was just the Junior Varsity! Half of them were already nearly as tall as I was, and they still had a couple of years to grow. I hefted the bottles of sports drink in their carrying cases, and Andrews held the door open for me as he had for his team.

“Thanks for helping me out, DJ.”

I shrugged. “No sweat. Fair’s fair. If this’ll help speed us closer to getting our campaign going again, you bet I’m going to help.”

“We really do appreciate it, though,” Andrews said. “The team needs boys like you, too.”

I scoffed. “Yeah, pretty sure they don’t.”

“I think you’d be surprised.” Andrews smiled gently. “By the way, is that a little growth I see in that bicep, or am I just seeing things?”

“Totally imagining. You should probably go see Doctor Stone, get your head checked.” I smiled playfully at him.

His smile tightened. “Yes. Maybe I should. Think you might have a few minutes to talk after the game?”

“I’m pretty sure I can spare the time.” I frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Andrews shook his head. “Later,” he insisted. And then I felt his broad hand shoving me out the door. “We’ve got a game to play.”

Andrews transformed into another person on the football field. His gaze was intent, his bearing cool and calculating. I felt like I was dealing with a military commander, rather than the teacher who had been my friend. The coordination between the offense and defense left them functioning like a well-oiled machine.

And I was the one providing the lubricant. Seriously, I felt like I was running the whole time to keep up with all the guzzling the players were doing with the drinks. Bright green streams poured into their mouths and down their bobbing throats. And the sheer aggression they showed left me cringing as I relived some of my worse moments from growing up.

By the time the game was over, I was a sweaty mess that matched the team. I had to steal a couple of swigs, myself, from time to time as I raced to restock the water coolers and bottles for the team. We slaughtered the opposing team, allowing them only one touchdown for the duration of the game, while we scored seven.

The team was showering and getting changed while I worked to clean out the coolers and bottles. I noticed Andrews approaching out of the corner of my eye, but he got intercepted by Stone before he could reach me.

“Excellent game, Tobias. As usual, you’ve performed very well. Congratulations.” The big man squeezed Andrews’ hand in a tight grip as he clapped Andrews’ arm with his free hand. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a word with you before you go.”

“Mister Stone, I appreciate the need, but my team—”

“Can finish cleaning up just fine. They know the routine by heart, and this really is very important.”

Andrews sighed. “Can I trust you to finish cleaning up, DJ? Coach Dale will help you get everything where it needs to go.”

I nodded. I wasn’t looking forward to the extra time I’d waste, but like I said before, I owed him, and Andrews doesn’t ask favors lightly.

The jocks were actually really helpful. They didn’t expect me to pick up their slack. They cleaned up their towels and other gear, put them in the proper hampers, and even went so far as to help move the baskets to the washroom. When everyone was finished and dressed in their regular clothes, we shared an order of pizza, compliments of Coach Stone for a job well done. When I sat down on the wooden benches, my arms and legs felt almost swollen in a way. They twitched with energy, and for once, I was ravenous. Meat lovers and supreme both fell to the powers of my jaws. And rather than criticize me for it, the team actually cheered, like it was all some sort of game.

“Damn, bro, did you see this guy hustle?” Kenny Yates was the biggest player on the team, with a voice to match. “Bet he could put Patters to shame.”

I shook my head at the praise, first because it didn’t suit me, and secondly to save my bacon, in case Kenny’s comment offended Ryan Patterson, the wide receiver. “I’m not really the sportsy type. I’m just doing this for Coach Andrews, because he asked me to.”

The whole team smiled knowingly, and I started to fear for my life. The only reason I was able to stay calm was because Dale was watching us so closely. “See? Already running plays for him.” A hefty arm wrapped itself around me and wedged me against Kenny’s bulky frame. The guy could’ve been his own personal space heater. “Just gotta bulk up a little, and you’re ready to charge.” My head swam at the attention. The action reminded me only too well of Kyle and his happy-go-lucky attitude.

“Damn, Kenny, let him breathe. You’re gonna choke him,” one of the others hollered, which prompted a round robin of laughter that spread like a chain. Or maybe a circuit? I guess either could work for an analogy.

Kenny was actually blushing when he took his arm off me. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s … it’s okay. I’m fine.”

I’d said it to be polite, but … I was surprised to find I actually meant it.

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

The blowback from the work was remedied with the aid of Kyle’s drinks. That stuff is seriously some of the best I’ve ever tried. I don’t know what’s in it, but I perk up hard core when I drink it. I gave some to Slater and Jackson to help them out, too, since they’d been called to help with some of the other sports events that day.

Kyle took one look at them after the fact and said those fatal words. “Okay, bros. That’s it. You’re coming to the gym with me.”

“Why?” Slater had asked.

“First, because you clearly need training if you’re hurting that badly after helping out. Secondly, because it’s relaxing. And third, because it gives us a chance to hang out in more than just D&D or gaming.” He smirked. “When I’m done with you, they really will call you Slayer.”

“I don’t know….”

“Bro, trust me. One month, and the gym’s gonna feel like your home away from home.” He smirked. “And you’re going to love every second of it after.”

“Wanna bet?”

Kyle smirked. “Sure. If I get you over 240 by the end of a month, you talk with Andrews about joining the wrestling team.”

“And if I win, you have to break that strict routine of yours and spend a day marathoning anime with us. Unhealthy snacks included.”

Kyle grinned. “You’re on.” Next, he turned to Jackson. “You wanna get in on this?”

Jackson shook his head. “Someone’s got to be there to referee.”

“Good. You can work on dumbbell curls while you watch.”

I chuckled. “Kyle, you’re incorrigible.”

Kyle smirked, then let his face go slack as he gaped at me and pitched his voice low. “Uhhh, what’s incorrigible mean?”

That earned him a pillow to the face. “Quit it, dumbass,” I said playfully.

He smirked as he pulled the pillow away. “Take it easy, smartass.” He pulled back his arms and bared his teeth menacingly. “Let me show you the benefits of working out at the gym personally, little bros.”

The combination pillow wrestling match was the stuff of legends.

Naturally, the dumbass slaughtered us all.

 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

I stood in front of Andrews as he leaned back on his roller chair in the Coaches’ joint office. I hadn’t been in there since Kyle brought me back after that first workout session went overtime. The traffic running through the locker room felt more like rush hour on the freeway when I weaved through the crowd. Boys waited patiently by the shower stalls or passed one another on the way in and out.

“Busy out there today, isn’t it?” I asked.

Andrews nodded. “It’s becoming an almost daily occurrence.” Then he smiled. “It’s good to see so many boys dedicated to getting fit.”

I eyed his chest. The shirt he wore was straining heavily. I could actually see the jutting of his pectorals and the ridges of his six pack. The tension of the sleeves over his biceps looked like they could give at any moment. “And teachers?”

Andrews laughed. “And teachers. So, what was it you wanted to talk with me about?”

“What you wanted to talk with me about. You said you wanted to talk after the game, but you didn’t leave the office when everyone cleared out.”

“Oh, that.” Andrews rose to his full height and laid a hand over my shoulder. I couldn’t help but wonder. Had he always been so tall? “Don’t worry about it. I had some concerns over your meetings with Stone is all. He cleared things up for me after our talk. This school couldn’t be in better hands.” He smiled. “But since you’re here, how about you join me for a little workout? I want to run some ideas by you for a campaign I’m cooking up, and I think best when my body is working out.”

I felt that familiar itch building again. The nurse had explained it was just a part of puberty that all men had to bear. That didn’t mean I liked it. And it was so hard to pay attention when an episode came on. Stone’s words came back to haunt me.

I want you to be comfortable.

That was at Stone’s office. I didn’t know what to think of him yet.

Want.

But this wasn’t Stone’s place. This was Andrews’.

Be comfortable.

Andrews knew me.

Want.

I wanted to scratch so badly.

Be comfortable.

Andrews dealt with boys before. He was a coach. It was normal for him.

Want.

He wouldn’t mind, right?

Be comfortable.

He was a friend. He’d understand. “I, uh….” My fingers twitched.

Want.

I wanted him to understand. I wanted not to be judged. I wanted not to have to ask to go to the bathroom every other period, just because of this stupid fucking itch!

Be comfortable.

A quick adjustment. Nothing lewd. Just a necessity.

Want.

One wasn’t enough. Locker room was full. No bathrooms. No privacy.

Be comfortable.

Screw it. I scratched. My cheeks burned with embarrassment, but it was worth it!

“So, that’s why you’ve been running off to the bathroom so much.” His voice was soft as he looked down on me.

Be comfortable.

I averted my eyes. “Yeah, it’s….”

“Nothing to be ashamed of.” Andrews shrugged. “You’re teenagers, and you have needs. Stop worrying so much about what other people think. If you need to scratch, you’re not about to be sent to the headmaster’s office.” He smiled.

Comfortable.

“I … thanks.” My cheeks were still flushed, but at least the heat was receding.

“Any time.” He led me toward the locker room door. “Now, let’s get to that session, so I can discuss my idea.”

Comfortable.

My back straightened. My shirt stretched just a little as my chest inflated with air. I smiled. “Yeah, I think I have some time.”

The clack of weights and the rhythmic thump of heavy feet on treadmills struck in time to the music that played over the speakers when we finally entered the gym.

“There’s always time for a workout.”

Andrews grinned at me. And, honestly, I couldn’t help but grin back. I just felt so…

Comfortable.

“Yeah.” The chuckle was more of a hiccup than a proper laugh, a sort of a catch, like you get just before you sneeze, only in reverse. It felt weird, but … also kind of good, like I was pushing out all the anxiety I’d had balled up in my chest. I stopped, frowned, tried again, and I felt even better after. A giddy sort of high settled in, and I could hear the rhythmic whirring of the blood rushing through my ears and body. If this was the reason why jocks laughed the way they did, I was sold. I would never make fun of them for it again. This time, when I scratched, there was no fear, only reward as I finished my reply. “I guess there is.”

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

The rhythmic chunk of the throwing arm was quickly answered by the reverberation of metal or the heavy popping thwack that resounded as a bad throw from the machine struck the ground or the back of the batting cage. Things were warming up at last, and the sheer motion of the sequence was, well, mechanical. Kind of should’ve expected that, since there was a literal machine at work for the practice. A stonewall baseball cap on our heads kept the sun out of each of our eyes as we sat on the bleachers and worked on our respective homework assignments.

“Ivan Petrovich Pavlov is one of the psychological giants of the nineteenth century. Thanks to his research, humanity came to understand the scientific and psychiatric principle of the art known today as conditioning,” Jim explained in a chipper voice. “He is, in fact, the twenty-fourth most cited psychologist of the twentieth century. This theory has been applied in a variety of means and places, including educational classrooms, phobias, and various behavioral therapies.”

“Remind me why we’re out here again?” I asked as Jim droned on through the module.

Jackson shrugged. “It helps me concentrate.”

“How?”

Whirr. Ka-chunk. Ping.

“Dunno. It just does.”

Whirr. Ka-chunk. Thwack!

“Guess I just—”

Whirr. Ka-chunk. Ping!

“—Like the sound of it.”

“The batting cages?”

“Yeah. The ball, the bat, the vibrations, the sun on your face.” He leaned back and spread his legs to emphasize his point. “It just feels … better, you know? Sort of like a dance. It just beats stuff into your head.”

Kyle grinned. “I can totally relate. I feel the same way when I’m lifting weights. If I have a problem, I go to the gym. A good workout always helps me, well, work my problems out.” He smiled and flexed one of his arms to show off the swollen bicep. “Good for the bod, too.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Slater rolled his eyes. “We get it. The gym is your happy place.”

“You’re just mad because you’re sore,” Kyle retorted. “If you’d just drink those shakes I gave you, you wouldn’t have this problem in the first place.”

“Shut up,” he grumbled.

“I’m not the one who agreed to the bet,” Kyle pointed out, then chuckled. “Don’t worry. I’ll make a meathead of you yet.”

“In your dreams, ‘bro,’” Slater sassed.

“That’s big bro to you,” Kyle countered.

Jackson continued eying the cages. Jim was long since forgotten by all of us. Or rather, none of us were paying attention to him. If he were alive, I’d probably have felt bad about it, but since he was just some computer program, we just let him run his mouth. We could go over the module again later. After all, if you have a problem, go to Jim, right?

“You know, you could always just go and try one,” I noted. “It’s not like they’re the sole property of the baseball team.”

“I don’t know….”

I grabbed his arm and pulled him off the bleachers. He stumbled but managed to catch himself as I dragged him behind. I guess you could say since overcoming that one hurdle, it felt easier to do things like this and not be afraid of a bad outcome. “Come on. I’ll start up the machine. You get a bat and helmet.

The first impact was enough to jar the bat out of Jackson’s hands. He looked like a living tuning fork the way he shook after he took the shot.

“Maybe try turning down the speed a little?” he asked as he nursed his hands.

“Rookie mistake.” I turned in surprise. I hadn’t heard the player approach. His shoulders were broad, his arms swollen and pumped after what I assumed was a session in one of the other cages. Bro had a blunt face with a thick brow and smooth dark skin that shone under the sun. “Your arms aren’t built to handle that kind of blowback yet.” He nudged me aside and shoved his fingers over the console. The whirr of the belts lessened as their speed slowed. “Try it now.”

The difference was night and day. Jackson started landing hits. He managed a few good pop flies, though most of them were fouls. The player shook his head in disgust and stomped into the cage after the cycle wound down.

“You’ve got it all wrong. Wrong stance, wrong grip, and definitely the wrong break.” He wrapped his arms around Jackson like a father would his son and adjusted Jackson’s grip and stance. “Follow through. Don’t break your wrists until the last possible second.” He nodded to me to start the next round of shots.

Crack went the bat.

“Feel the rhythm.”

Crack!

“Make it sing.”

Ring!

“Eye on the ball.”

Smack!

“Just the ball.”

The bat rang again as Jackson struck a solid blow that arced into the netting above.

“That’s it, bro. Read it. Follow it.”

Smack!

He let go of Jackson’s hands and whispered in his ear. “Crush it.”

Jackson was a tuning fork again. Only this time, he didn’t drop the bat. The ball drove straight for the machine with a resounding crack! Fortunately, the machine was heavy duty metal, so it could take some blows, and the netting took care of the rest. His mouth dropped open at the result, then broadened into a manic sort of grin. “I … I did it.” He laughed. “I did it!” The exultant whoop carried far over the school grounds.

“Not bad.” The player smiled and nodded as he folded his arms. “You’ve got potential. But if you really want to beat that ball up—” He raised both arms in a double bicep flex. “—You’ve gotta get jacked, son. Huhuhuh.”

Jackson scratched his crotch and stared almost hungrily at the player’s arms.

He smirked. “If you want to be more than just the water boy, meet me here after school tomorrow. I’ll make a player of you yet.” He hefted a bottle and guzzled its contents. A small stream of green liquid dribbled down the side of his cheek, and he wiped it after. “Come dressed for the gym and ready to sweat. Understand?” His gaze hardened. “Be ready.”

Jackson nodded. His mouth hung slightly open as he breathed. The jock chuckled and clapped one of his massive hands on Jackson’s arm.

“Name’s Barry. My bros call me Bruiser.”

“J-Jackson,” he replied.

Barry smirked again. “Good name, bro. See you soon.”

“Yeah….”

The jock walked away with a measured swaggering sort of gait that showed off just how taut the muscle was around his legs. It was evident he could do a lot more than just crack a ball open. His whole body was built for the field, whether it be running, throwing, or hitting.

When my friend didn’t move, I finally walked over to check on him. “You okay, Jackson?”

“Yeah,” he repeated again in that same faraway tone, then shook his head. His gaze came back into focus as he concentrated on me. “Yeah. I’m fine. Let’s get back to that homework.” He rubbed the bicep Barry had touched as I shut the pitching machine down and returned the gear. Then we walked back to the bleachers. We’d put off our assignment long enough. It was time to go back to Jim.

The Hazening

(This is a tf story I wrote as a commission on FA. Figured I’d post it here for you guys to enjoy, too.)

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

“Look, man, I seriously stuck my neck out to even get you this chance at joining the frat in the first place. You’ve seen what other frats do for hazing. You should thank me!”

Chris looked dubiously at the jockstrap and tube socks. His rich black hair was cut back into a fade on the sides to expose the glasses that sat firmly on his nose. “Look, Jack, I know you want to be able to hang out more, but this—”

“Is easy compared to what I had to deal with,” Jack said seriously. His blond stubble and blocky face had only become more prominent and masculine over the last year since he joined the frat. “Nu Phi Lambda’s seriously cool, man. They accept anyone, so long as they pass the test. You wear it to the party, hang with some of the guys for a while, meet the pres, and there you go!”

“And the reason they’re being so easy on me is because…?”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Because I asked them to. That, and I may have said this was the most embarrassing thing you’ll ever have to endure.”

“So, you lied for me?”

“You’re saying you won’t be uncomfortable wearing just that underneath your clothes?”

“… Point.”

Jack smirked. “See? I’ve still got those mad debate skills.”

Chris rolled his eyes. “Sure, you do.”

“Oh, and one more thing. They’re gonna be checking to make sure you’re actually wearing it, so be ready for some bros to give you a wedgie.” He chuckled. “Well, to try, anyway.”

“Seriously?”

“It’s hazing, man. What’d you expect?”

“Something that isn’t so immature?”

Jack chuckled. “I’ll see you at the party, ‘little bro.’ Don’t be late,” he sang as he left the room.

Chris groaned as he looked at the two articles of clothing. “The things I do for friendship,” he muttered under his breath.

 -----------------------------------------------------------

Well, Jack hadn’t been wrong. The discomfort was definitely there. Every step Chris took brushed the fabric of his jeans against parts of his body that weren’t used to such exposure, and the straps of the strap would rub occasionally against his skin. He was confident he’d likely develop a rash by the end of the night. Or at the very least, chafe marks. He would have worn boxers over the gear to mitigate the situation, were it not for the warning Jack gave.

Chris had only experienced a wedgie once before, when he was swimming in an old childhood friend’s pool. The yelp he’d given when he was lifted bodily in the water had echoed through the neighborhood, and he still winced whenever he thought back on the old memory. The tube socks he wore now encompassed his feet in a thick cocoon that pressed slightly against the walls of his shoes and sent a strange tingling sensation up the soles of his feet with every step. It wasn’t like he was being tickled, but it was certainly distracting.

“Chris!” Jack grinned as he shouldered through the crowd of upperclassmen to reach his friend. “Glad you made it, bro!” The man had become the embodiment of the frat bro stereotype from the backwards snapback to the tight tank and shorts marked with the frat’s logo. Tanned and swollen arms nearly consumed the would-be-pledge in a bear hug that would break a lesser man. This was soon followed by a loud snap.

Chris stiffened like a board as his eyes widened and he gaped disbelievingly at his friend.

“Just checking.” Jack grinned. “Good on you for not bringing boxers.”

“Jack….”

“Oh, calm down, man. One night of immature revelry won’t kill you.” Jack rolled his eyes. “Come on. Pres is waiting.”

The party had yet to get fully underway, so it was easy to weave or shoulder through people without consequence. Tall thick border hedges provided all the privacy the event would need, if not noise protection. As for what antics might come that night as a result of said privacy…. Chris didn’t want to think about it. The inside of the frat house was more like a mansion than a house, with rich dark wood floors and a brighter reddish paneling for the walls. Jack guided him to the left, where a pair of doors opened into a broad study lined with ornate bookshelves, complete with the moveable ladder. It was the picture of a Victorian manor study. And there, behind the desk, stood the tallest, broadest, and most imposing man Chris had ever laid eyes on.

“Yo, Kyle! I brought him,” Jack announced. His face split into a broad grin. “Told you I’d get him here.”

Kyle was a burly man with naturally wavy brown hair and thick eyebrows. His arms were nearly twice the size of Jack’s, and his green eyes were highlighted with a golden outline. Darker hairs stood out on the backs of his hands and along his arms before slipping under the tight sleeves of his polo. When the behemoth leaned onto the desk, Chris had the impression of staring down a gorilla, rather than a man.

“So, this is the one you told me about, huh?” His voice was deep and gruff with just a hint of a growl that carried in the undertow.

A heavy smack to the back sent Chris catapulting onto the desk. He braced for all he was worth to avoid accidentally knocking heads with the man that presumably would be the one to decide whether he was worthy of joining the organization in the first place.

“Doesn’t look like much,” Kyle continued bluntly.

Jack folded his arms. “Neither did I when I pledged. Look at me now.”

Kyle didn’t bother looking at Jack. His focus was on the man who couldn’t hold a gaze for a few seconds before looking away. “You wearing your gear?”

“If you mean the jockstrap and socks, yes.” Chris’ cheeks felt like they were on fire as his voice hushed. “Are you guys seriously going to give me wedgies?”

Kyle rose to his full height and folded his vascular arms. “Part of the deal. You could say that strap is more for protection than it is a test. Do right by it and you’ll fit in, no problem.” He strode around the table and extended a hand. “It’s tradition for the leader to welcome guests, even if they don’t pass snuff.”

Chris’ whole hand was swallowed in the fist as Kyle shook with gentle controlled movements. The man probably could have broken his arm, if he’d been so inclined. A few second later, the familiar snap of spandex rang through the room. Chris yelped and jumped briefly. Kyle smiled. “Watch yourself tonight, pledge. Part of the fun is facing a challenge.”

Chris glared at the man. “And here I thought I was actually going to like you.”

Kyle huffed a chuckle. “You still might by the end of the night. Go on. Have fun. This party’s meant for more than just pranking. I want to see just how well you rush. Good luck.”

When the door clicked shut behind them, Jack was positively ecstatic. He thumped Chris excitedly on the back. “Dude! He totally likes you!”

When Chris was certain his eyes weren’t about to be knocked out of his skull from the sheer force of the blows, he spoke acerbically. “That’s not the impression I got.”

Jack was completely undaunted and pulled his friend against his side. “Trust me, bro. I know these things. You’re in. You’re totally in.” He whooped in delight. “I can’t wait for tonight!”

“Yes. I can hardly contain myself. Woohoo….”

Jack chuckled. “You’ll see soon enough, little bro. You’ll see.”

“Is this going to be your thing now?”

Jack smirked. “Maybe.”

Chris groaned. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to survive this.”

“Courage, my friend. Courage. The night is still young, and there are many vain and foolish delights to tempt and tantalize.” He grinned. “I’ll make a bro out of you yet.”

Chris barked a laugh. “You can try.”

Jack smirked. “Wait and see, bro. Wait and see.”

 ------------------------------------------------------------------

The party went into full swing as soon as the sun began to set. Torches were lit, burgers were served, and the beer flowed like mead in a Viking feast hall. Drunken revelry filled the air with hoots, growls, and howls as various antics were performed and thrust on would-be-pledges. Keg stands, beer pong, the works.

And all the while, Chris was on guard, ever alert for groping hands and would-be-attackers. But these “bros” were more cunning than Chris had given credit for. When Jack had ceased to serve as a proper distraction, they found other means to “test” him. The card tables were notorious, especially when they got into a round of strip poker.

Somehow, he always found himself getting stripped. And then would come the familiar smack of the waistband. By the time he left those tables, his waist felt like it was burning. The straps had been pulled and snapped so much by now, he was shocked they hadn’t lost their stretch.

He stumbled toward the drink table. The tingling had intensified in his feet, and he was tired of all the antics. But he had promised Jack he’d stay, and he wasn’t about to break his word, even if the guys were being lunkheaded jerks.

“Rough night?” the keep asked as he filled another cup.

“You could say that.” Chris groaned and leaned against the makeshift counter where the drinks were mixed, then served in the punch bowl to the side or in individual orders for the older frat members.

“Sounds like you could use a pick-me-up.”

Chris sighed. “I just don’t really feel like I belong here, you know?”

“Do you want to belong?”

“I want to be with my friend. Does that count?”

The keep shrugged again. “It’s a start.” He passed a cup Chris’ way. “In my experience, if you want to feel like fitting in, and you’re having trouble, it might not hurt to get a little help in loosening up. And no, I’m not talking drugs. We don’t do those here. Ever. Anyone caught with those gets immediate disbarment.”

“And what do you recommend?” Chris sipped his drink and sighed. The flavor was surprisingly sweet, with a warmth that seemed to spread through his chest, then back into his throat again as the drink went down.

“A little liquid courage never hurt anyone.” He shrugged. “Or you could work off some of that aggression in the other places. There’s wrestling and arm wrestling, you know. Even a sumo mat and one of those stick pit things. You know, the game where you knock someone off while you straddle a beam? Try some of them out. Let loose. Live a little. And if you’re really that upset over something people are doing to you, why not pay them back? Fair’s fair, in my opinion.”

“I still don’t know.”

“You don’t have to know to do. Take a risk. Live a little. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I get in a fight.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?”

Chris drained his cup and took the second that was proffered. “Have you seen their size?”

“I have. Have you seen yours?” He shook his head. “You think too little of yourself. Think little and you’ll be little. So stop thinking and just be for a while.”

“Just be? That simple?”

“Simple’s usually the best.” The keep offered a third cup. “A few basic ingredients, and you’ve got a kickass drink. Why not let it be the same for a man? Isn’t that one of the sayings people use, the clothes make the man?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“So, let your clothes do the talking for a while. It’s not like it’ll kill you to try something different for a night.”

The warmth had spread through Chris’ whole body by this point, and a hint of a smile pulled at his face, despite his attempts to quash it. “Just for a night, huh?”

“Just for a night. Just to try,” the keep offered again. “Who knows? You might actually like it.”

Chris chuckled. “Fat chance.”

“Fat is easily trimmed with exertion.” The keep smiled as he took the cup back. “Why don’t you go burn some of it off, until that chance comes along, hmm?”

Chris sighed. “I suppose I should try.” He rolled his eyes and adjusted his crotch as he rose back to his feet. “Thanks for the drinks.”

“Any time, stranger. Feel free to come back if you need. I’ve got plenty to choose from, and good advice to offer. It’ll put some hair on that chest of yours.”

Chris chuckled ruefully. “Can it put muscle on, too?”

The barkeep smiled knowingly. “That’s up to you and just how much you decide to follow those clothes of yours.”

“Sure, it is.” Chris’ cheeks flushed as he walked away from the bar. His legs tensed as he scratched his glutes. But he did feel a little better. “Maybe just … one game of sumo.”

 ------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris leaned heavily into his steps as he finally emerged from the cocoon of padding that had been his badge of honor for the last ten rounds and replaced his shoes. His belly burned. His blood surged. And as for his rear, well … he was getting used to all the “attention.” If they didn’t snap his waistband, they smacked him, instead.

“Bro, that was awesome!” one such frat member raved. “You toppled Titan! You toppled the %&$*ing Titan!”

Chris smiled sheepishly. “Thanks.”

“That’s my bro!” Jack hooted as he pointed from across the way and beat a meaty fist against his chest in salute.

“To the hero of the ring!”

A cup was shoved in Chris’ face, and he took it. “Uh, … thanks?”

“Go on, bro, drink up! You earned it!”

It … was hot in that costume. And he was feeling thirsty. He took a hesitant sip. It wasn’t the sweet flavor he’d had at the bar, but it wasn’t bad. There was a hint of orange in the brew that offset the bitter flavor from the hops. The flush deepened, and a goofy smile pulled at his lips. He hardly even felt the snap this time around.

He laughed, a curious hiccupping mixture between his usual higher register and a lower bass. A heavy thump on the back nearly sent him tottering. Then came the deathgrip on his waistband, followed by the largest snap to date.

And that wasn’t the only thing to snap.

Chris came to, thrashing in some much larger arms. The poor soul that had unleashed that rage was being raised to his feet. Instead of frustration, though, there were smiles.

“Calm down.”

Chris immediately went limp at the command. He knew that voice, and he knew those arms. Kyle had broken up the fight. Chris could already feel his sides throbbing.

“Get them some ice to dull the pain.”

The others scattered, and soon both men were nursing ice packs. Jack lumbered to the pair and frowned. “You all right, bro?”

“He’s fine. Just a little too eager, I think,” Kyle rumbled.

Chris’ head felt strangely muted as he looked over the frat president and his friend. It was like someone had worn out the spark plugs up there, and now he just … existed. He grunted as he nursed the ice pack. “M’fine, bro. Really.” Kyle said he was fine, so he was fine.

Jack grinned. “Did you just call me bro?”

One of the sparkplugs finally managed to fire properly. “Don’t get used to it.”

Kyle grunted. “If you want to fight next time, do it in the ring.” His thick brow furrowed like thunderclouds over his eyes. “And remember you’re rushing the frat. That means letting the rest of the guys have their fun.” He deliberately grabbed the waistband and snapped it. “Get used to it.” He snapped it again. “Let it happen.” Once more. “Embrace it.” He yanked especially hard, then leaned next to Chris’ ear after the last snap beat against the pledge’s skin. “You might just be rewarded.” He chortled, though it sounded more like a growl. “Hell, you might actually come to enjoy it.”

Each successive snap acted like a depth charge to Chris’ brain. His knuckles felt sore, probably from the blows that were exchanged in the fight. His hands ached, as did his feet. His head tingled as invisible fingers pricked and massaged at his scalp and deep in his conscious, scouring expertly for those few spark plugs that were still working. His mouth gaped as he stared into those eyes. The rough handling had forced him into a semi-stoop. “Uhh….”

“Got it?”

Another snap. The voice that answered sounded strangely distorted. “Got it….”

“Good.”

Chris blinked at Kyle. The president looked … bigger, somehow. His sleeves strained against his arms to the point of almost breaking, and the hair along his arms had thickened. “You look … funny.”

Kyle smirked. “So do you. Now get back out there. I want to see you make a real party animal of yourself.”

Chris couldn’t help but chuckle. “Think I already have.”

“Give it time, Chris. Give it time.”

A heavy thump on the back almost sent him sprawling. Chris nodded and grunted as he adjusted the pouch on the jock strap. The thing was starting to feel a little tight.

“Come on, bro.” Jack grinned as he laid a meaty arm around Chris’ shoulders. This time, the weight didn’t feel so overwhelming. It felt … comfortable. “Let me introduce you to the world of beer pong.”

 -------------------------------------------------------------------

“Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug!”

The chant rang through the air as Chris guzzled a whole pint of beer in one go. He slammed the glass onto the table, followed by laying his elbow into the platform as he awaited his opponent. He smirked at his old friend. “The student has become the master.”

Jack finished guzzling his beer and smacked his own glass onto the table. “Don’t get ahead of yourself there, caveman.”

Chris grinned. “Me chug. Me drink good. Me fight good. Now, me wrestle good.” He shuddered as the tingling spread from feet and crotch through his body and into his head. A low rumble of pleasure surged as he hunched forward. His arm twitched in anticipation. His knuckles stood taut against the skin. His nose burned red from the alcohol that now raged through his bloodstream.

A rally of hoots roared in Chris’ ears as heat radiated pushed against them from within. It felt almost as though his own heartbeat were forcing the members to expand as the cool night air breezed over them. Seconds later, his hand clasped his friend’s in a grip of iron. Both furrowed their brows.

His arm burned. His chest strained. His lats and traps bunched and heaved as he engaged his core, pectorals, biceps, and triceps. A low growl escaped Chris’ lips as he bared his teeth and strained against the force of his friend’s arm. He wanted to win. He needed to win, to dominate. It just … felt right. The same lust burned in Jack’s eyes as the two locked in combat. He wanted to say something snappy, but … he just couldn’t think. It was like his brain was putting all the effort into the fight, too. He spread his legs wide on his stool.

Finally, two rips tore through the night as the table resounded with the defeat of a competitor.

“Oh, snap!” someone shouted.

Chris gaped disbelievingly at the table. His arm was throbbing, but it held Jack’s pinned to the table, like a wrestler waiting for the final count. Neither seemed to notice or care how the sleeves of their shirts had torn or how prominent their pectorals had become as the collars strained against their torsos. They heaved and finally grinned at one another.

“The winner is Chris!”

The crowd cheered, then broke out in a rousing shout. But Chris wasn’t greeted with the lauding of his name. Instead, the frat bros adopted the phrase that had defined their shock at the upset. “Snap! Snap! Snap! Snap! Snap!”

Jack leaned next to his friend as they rose to greet the crowd. He scratched a pec idly. “Congrats, bro. I think you just won your nickname.” He seized his friend’s wrist and pulled his arm into the air. The chanting increased in volume as Chris stared dazedly into the crowd.

“I … I don’t know what to—” SNAP! The strap smacked against him. He hardly felt it. It was as though the force transferred from his waist, through his torso, into his chest, and finally struck home at his Adam’s apple. It throbbed and surged forward as his voice dropped like a stone. “—Say.” The invisible hands were at work again, this time on his jaw and face. His nose didn’t feel so much stuffed as swollen. His forehead thickened into a more prominent slope as his brow was slowly massaged and his eyes sunken into the hollows that were rapidly forming over them.

Jack grunted as he released his friend’s arm and thumped his own chest with a thick, hairy hand. “Don’t say. Do.”

Chris saw the hand reaching out of the corner of his eye. He knew what was coming. But he couldn’t stop it. No, he didn’t want to stop it. The band snapped again. His chest swelled with the sudden intake of breath. His head spun. And before he knew it, his mouth was already open, his throat resonating with a deep primal roar as he beat his chest with his fists. A gnarled carpet of thick hair sprouted on the backs of his hands and surged up the back of his arms.

The hooting and cheers intensified. The will of the many pounded against the one. They wanted him. They needed him. And who was he to deny them? His legs thumped heavily over the podium as he approached the stairs. The socks clung more tightly as the walls of his shoes strained and finally detonated with twin POPs that were drowned out by the siren call of the frat. Broad swelling feet bulged in their cocoons as he plodded heedlessly down the stairs.

Rough hands seized him, brushed his swelling muscle, his growing hair. Snap after snap resounded in his ears as thick powerful legs burst from the sheath of their respective pant legs, or what remained of them. They’d become more akin to a pair of shorts. Now they draped like a loin cloth, leaving just the waist band and a clear view of a swollen pouch that continued to grow and strain with his body mass. And still the name echoed. Still the call rebounded.

Who was he to deny them?

And with the acceptance of that name, that brutish call, something unlocked. Chris let go of his worries and cares. He let go of thoughts for the future. He was almost naked. There was no shame. With every snap, he grew. With every hoot and cheer, the candle of conscious thought guttered. Thick hairs sprouted over a torso that was rapidly becoming more rigid and carved. Each snap of his waistband another blow of the chisel. Thick hairs formed a treasure trail from his navel while his shirt rode up his torso.

Even crouched, his head stood above the rest now. He felt good. He felt better than good. He raised both arms and flexed. The other sleeve tore open as the mounds pumped into rigid peaks. Wisps of hair sprouted from under the collar. Chris didn’t even have to think. He was beyond thinking. He roared as he tore his shirt apart like so much paper. The rip of the fabric filled his chest with a primal growl of satisfaction that was followed by the snap of the final strands giving out. He shucked himself of the garment and threw it into the crowd, exposing the carpet of hair that had grown over his pecs and chest and curved downward in a V, then spread over his abs.

The hoots grew louder. The cheers devolved into a motley mob as the men that were no longer men surged and crashed against the rising cliffside that was Chris. The candle flame could hardly survive under the onslaught, and finally was snuffed by the winds of the frat. The light died. The ember burnt out, and the smoke trailed out his lips in the last intelligent phrase of the night. “Snap like. Give Snap more. Give Snap ALL!”

The rest of the night passed with victory after victory for the new alpha. Chris had accepted the role his clothes had given him, and he reveled in it. He outchugged, outwrestled, and outmatched every opponent. He hooted and grunted. He shoved and he surged. And most importantly, he continued to grow and dominate as his broad shoulders and deformed head stood high above the rest of the tribe. Yet, despite his virility, despite his dominance, despite every surge of growth and victory he gained, the strap and socks clung to him.

Snap didn’t mind. Snap didn’t care. The night was theirs.

The fire that had replaced the candle was his.

And they would feed it or face his wrath.

 ---------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris groaned as he finally came to. The room was blurry. His mouth felt like something had died in it and dried into mummy powder. And his head. He groaned again as the daylight struck sledgehammer blows on a spike that drove directly through his skull and into his brain.

“It lives!” Jack’s voice was unmistakable. It also exacerbated the headache.

Chris moaned and turned over on the bed. “Just let me die already,” he croaked.

“No can do, bro.” Jack grinned as he walked into his friend’s line of sight. “Pres wants to see you stat.” He sat on the bed and proffered a frosty glass of water and a handful of ibuprofen. “You’re gonna need these. Drink it all and get dressed.” He motioned to a set of sweats and a shirt with the frat’s logo on the left pectoral hanging from a wardrobe door. A fresh pair of tube socks and a large jock strap were draped over the shirt.

Chris cursed and took the proffered medicine.

“Drink it all, bro. Trust me, the water helps.”

When Chris finally mustered enough will to move, he swung heavy legs out from under the covers. The filthy tube socks pooled at his feet, and he easily slid out of them. The jock strap had completely lost all sense of elasticity. He had to hold it in place.

“Bro, do you mind?” Chris asked.

“Dude, it’s just us. Not like I haven’t seen the rest of it.” Jack chuckled. “You were pretty wild last night.”

“What?” Chris swore as the strap dropped to join its companions on the floor.

“Dude, just get dressed.” Jack shook his head. “I won’t look,” he promised. “There. Happy now?”

Reasonably mollified, Chris strode to the doors and pulled on the gear. The jock strap fit snugly over his body, and the pouch held comfortably while still showing off his heft. He scratched it instinctively as he reached for the next article of clothing.

“Boxers and briefs are in the drawers, if you want them,” Jack informed.

Chris’ head whipped back, but his friend was staring at the door to the room, instead. The dirty socks and strap were clung in one of his meaty hands. “No peaking,” he insisted.

“Bro, chill. It’s not like you’ve got anything to be ashamed of, anyway.”

A smirk pulled at Chris’ lips as he smacked a hand against his bicep as his voice dropped into a husky pantomime of Jack’s bass. “People pay to look at this bod, bro.” The smirk passed and he swayed on his feet. Why … why had he said that? That wasn’t—he didn’t—

“Easy, bro.” Jack was there in an instant. Thick hands rubbed Chris’ shoulders. “Relax. Kyle will explain.”

“I … I feel—This is wrong.” Chris’ hands ran over well-defined abs. Hairs brushed gently, soothingly over them. His thick, broad hands. “What … what did you do to me, bro? I … I feel—” He swore again. “My head. Why … why can’t I think straight?”

“I told you, bro. It’s the hangover. Just get dressed, all right? Kyle’ll get you straightened out. I promise.”

“My voice!”

“Is fine,” Jack assured. He raised the coat hangar and shoved the clothes against Chris’ chest. “Come on, bro. Get dressed. Kyle’s waiting. And you don’t want to keep the pres. waiting.”

Chris’ eyes clouded briefly, and he grunted. “I … don’t….” The sweats and shirt clung in all the right places to show off his newly enhanced physique. When he turned to face Jack, the two were eye-to-eye. Jack was wearing sneakers. Chris wasn’t.

“Come on, little bro. We don’t have all day.”

The socks were like old friends, and the tug of the fabric over his feet made Chris shudder in pleasure. The two friends thumped down the halls in relative silence. Those who saw them nodded gravely or otherwise communicated their acknowledgement in body language, rather than the spoken word.

Instead of the trekking to the study, Jack led his friend down the halls toward the basement, where Kyle towered with his usual intimidating stature. His arms were folded, his broad face turned in a flat line as he stared at the pair.

“Here he is, Sir,” Jack said softly as he bowed his head.

Kyle extended a hand. Jack handed over the discarded strap and socks wordlessly.

Then kyle turned to a door his body had obscured. “Come with me, Chris.”

It wasn’t a request, and even if it was, Chris felt instinctively that he couldn’t disobey. A flash of memory passed. Those thick arms holding him, pulling him back. They could easily do so again.

Their steps were muted by the carpet as they strode into a room walled off by rope on either side. Placards were mounted to the wall, at first with torn underwear and the remnants of socks. Then, as they progressed, the tatters grew less, though the stretching increased. Briefs, boxers, jockstraps, tube socks. Larger and larger.

“Our frat is very old, Chris,” Kyle began. The silence of the room made his voice feel heavier than it ever had before. “And we have a sort of tradition that passes with it.”

Chris’ body tingled, and he adjusted the pouch on his jock as it tightened. His clothes felt snugger than they had a moment ago. “What sort of tradition?” he asked. “And for that matter, what the hell is going on? Why do I look like this? Why do I sound like this? What happened last night?”

“Listen.” The command was calm, but the order snapped like a gag over Chris’ mouth. “I’m heading into my senior year here at the university. That means I have two semesters to pick a replacement and train him up to take my place in the frat.” He motioned with his free hand. “Look around you. Tell me what you see.”

“A bunch of old clothes.” Chris cleared his throat. The tingle had spread there now, too. The deeper pitch didn’t feel so forced anymore.

“These belonged to every president of the frat from its founding to now. Each of us wore the gear. Each of us grew, just like the other pledges. You wanna know what makes these ones special?”

“Wait, you mean everyone who rushes the frat turns into … this?” Chris motioned to himself.

“More or less.” Kyle smirked. “Usually less.” He approached a placard that bore his name in neat bold typeface over a sheet of brass. “This one’s mine.” He grinned proudly as he looked on a pair of boxers that had burst at the crotch and rent down the legs. “Tore those suckers wide open. But you.” He turned and smacked Chris on the back. “You took the cake, Snap.”

Chris flushed as his pectorals perked and the drooping fabric of the sweats started to hug his thighs and calves. “Snap?”

“Your new nickname.” Kyle smiled as he presented the strap. “You stretched these things to their limit and nearly burst the pouch. It’s a miracle the strap didn’t break when the others tried to snap it. That’s a new record for this material.” He pushed his finger against the fabric for emphasis. The silhouette of the finger was clearly visible.

“I … wore that?”

“It’s not like it looked this way when you started.” Kyle rolled his eyes. “Point being, Snap, you’re our new MVP. And more importantly, you’re going to be the frat’s new alpha.” He strode to a blank placard that lay on a plinth, then took a hammer and nails that had been laid aside to properly display the garments. “You’re my successor, little bro.” He smirked and hung the placard on the wall next to his. A set of ropes already waited for him to cordon off the zone, and a quick flick of a switch beamed the spotlight over the wood and metal, where Chris’ name flashed. “The old you? That’s gone. And honestly, good riddance. Trust me, this is way better.”

“But … but my major, my life. What am I supposed to say to my friends?”

“What did Jack say?”

“He called it a second growth spurt….”

“So, go with that. There. That settles it.” Kyle thumped his hand heavily on Chris’ back. This time, Chris didn’t budge.

“But … but I liked being smart.”

“You still are, Chris. Just not in the same ways.” Kyle wrapped his arm around Chris’ shoulders as they broadened. “Your interests might be a little different now, but you still have the same focus and drive. And more importantly, you have want. Which means you push yourself to get your desires and lead others to follow. If you want order, you can impose it. If you want to just … let go and de-stress for a while, that works, too. You want to work out and bulk up? No problem.” He grinned. “You’re going to make a great president, Chris. But I have to teach you how to fit the part. Your body’s helping with some of the driving, but now it’s time to take the wheel.” He chuckled. “Think of me as your coach. And practice is in session.”

Chris panted as he hunched forward and his eyes glazed over. “Bro….”

“That’s right, Chris. That’s right. We’ll make a right frat bro of you in no time.” He chuckled as his brow protruded and his muscles strained. “You’ll love being Snap. Trust me.” He chuckled again as his knuckles became more prominent and the shelf over his eyes formed into a unibrow. “And you can call me Grog.”

Weird Religious Joke that Popped into my Head

Demon: I am Legion, for we are many!

Unknown Entity: I am religion, and we are many more.

For the briefest of moments, the fabric of the world flickers behind this entity, and with this stripping comes the revelation of god after god, pantheon after pantheon from every race and culture that has ever existed or has yet to exist. Their number is beyond counting, for with them lies their various heavenly hosts and adherents who have passed into paradise. Even those deities whose purpose is to punish stand within the throng, accompanied by their adherents and subjects, sharpening their swords or otherwise bringing their powers and glory or miasma and malevolence to bear.

Demon: *wets themself* Oh, Sh--.