Blackout

Blackout

What ... what just happened? Everything felt so dizzy. Brandon stumbled over to a support beam and clutched at it. His ear buts draped down over his chest, only being held by the tight strap on his tank top.

... When did he get a tank top? And for that matter, when did he get so jacked? He huffed and pulled at the sticky fabric clinging to his abdominals. He shuddered at the feeling of the shirt pulling against rock-hard stones.

“I ... I’m big. When did I--?” he froze. “My voice...” It was so deep, gravelly. He looked for a mirror, but he couldn’t see one in the labyrinth of weight machines. Weights clanged rhythmically, pounding against his brain as he struggled to focus. What had just happened?

“Hey, you okay, bro?”

Brad turned to stare at another hulk. Two bluetooth earpieces popped out on either side of his head. The man had to be at least six and a half feet tall. His bright red shoes blended almost perfectly with the floor. Or ... was that just the blurry vision?

“Hey. I’m asking if you’re all right.”

Brad blinked slowly. “I ... I don’t know,” he finally said. “I ... what happened?” He scrunched his brow together and closed his eyes. “My ... head.” He groaned and his breathing became labored.

Two big hands seized his arms. “Easy, bro. Easy. Big bro’s here.”

“Big ... bro?”

The muscle man chuckled as he laid a thick arm around Brandon’s shoulders. “Well, yeah. What else would I be to all you pipsqueaks?” he asked jokingly and gave Brandon a friendly jab to the shoulder.

“I ... I’m so confused.” Brandon put a hand to his head. “I ... I remember coming in, putting on my clothes, then....”

The big man frowned. “How long you been feeling dizzy?”

“I ... just now, I guess.” Brandon’s breathing calmed as the big man navigated the maze of machines. Occasionally, the blur of a muscular form would be pumping dumbbells or doing squats. Some posed with selfies in the mirror. But they all seemed ... well, not quite there. It was like they were sort of ... merging with the gym. He could hardly make out their legs. This man was the realest thing he’d seen since ... whatever this was happened.

The man who identified himself as Big Bro looked carefully over Brandon’s form. “Let’s find you a place to sit down,” he said. The sea of machines seemed almost to part at his advance. A few moments later, a chair appeared out of the sea of red tiles. No, not a chair, a ... bench? Two forceful arms pressed him down and he peered into a set of intense green eyes.

“You’ve been making some pretty substantial gains,” the man noted. “I saw you drinking between sets, so it’s not dehydration,” he murmured. He stroked his chin, then lowered his gaze.

Brandon reached up and stroked his own chin, then jumped in surprise at the feeling of the stubble that had grown along his jaw. He always preferred to go clean shaven. Why had he let that slip? Why would  he let it slip? He thought he felt his legs stretching for a minute, but he couldn’t be sure. It was more like a yank than a kick.

“Sorry, bro. I have to check,” Big Bro said as free air danced over bare skin.

Brandon wiggled his toes and stared down in some surprise. His head felt ... clearer.

Big Bro nodded in satisfaction. “Good. No puncture marks.” He smiled good-naturedly. “How do your feet feel?”

Brandon frowned. “Throbbing,” he muttered in surprise.

“Thought so.” Big Bro chuckled. “You got the wrong shoe size, dumbass.” He laughed and rose to his feet.

“Hey! I’m not a dumbass. I’m a ... I’m a ... a....” Brandon blinked in surprise. He ... couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t he remember? Why could he only think of weight machines and sports bars and ... and ...

“Easy, bro. You’re gonna have a panic attack.” The big man patted him gingerly on the back. “I’ll tell ya what. Put these on, and we’ll go see the doc, okay? Gym’s got one right on staff. He’ll be happy to check you out.”

“I ... yeah. That ... that’ll be good.” Brandon could barely keep himself from hyperventilating. His hands shook as he fumbled for the shoes.

“I can tie ‘em for you, if you want.”

“No!” Brandon was shocked at how much his voice carried. The gym ground to a halt at the sudden disturbance. He blushed. “Sorry. No. I ... I can do it, myself.” If he didn’t, he knew he was going to go insane.

Big Bro backed off. “Whatever you say, little bro.” The rhythmic clanking resumed seconds later.

Brandon pulled his socks on and marveled at the way his muscles rubbed against each other as he moved. ‘Is this really me?’ he thought. Then came the shoes. They felt cool and crisp; a little rigid, though.

“Ready to go, little bro?” Big Bro asked.

“I just need to finish this last loop and--.” A wave of vertigo washed over him as he pulled the knot tight. The clanking pounded louder. His heartbeat quickened. “And ... and ... uhhhhh....” The red in his shoes seemed almost to glow, and a dopey smile pulled at his lips. He watched the red bleed from the floor into his legs. He felt a stirring in his loins. His muscles tensed with a nervous energy. He blinked, and suddenly he felt the high back of an adjustable workout bench resting against his back.

“Feelin’ better, little bro?”

Blood surged through his head. His snapback had been reversed now, and he smirked cockily at the behemoth as he let out a drunken laugh. “Huhuhuh. Never been better. Guess I just ... blacked out. Sorry for scarin’ ya.”

Big Bro chuckled. “Dumbass. Now go drop kick that plateau into next week!”

“Fuck yeah.”

“Fuck yeah!”

“Fuck, yeah!”

Big bro grinned. “Back to work, little bro.”

Brandon’s shoes glowed with the floor panels as veins began to creep up his calves. His eyes became glassy as he gave a vapid grin. “You got it, bro.” “Keep this up, and you’ll be partying with me and the other bros in no time.” Big Bro grinned as he turned away, carrying off a pair of red shoes that had torn around the seams. He pressed a button on his watch and smiled dreamily as he walked along past other muscle men working to grow as big as they can. All of them stared blankly as they pumped in time to their regimens. “Yo, Big Bro reporting from Franchise 72. One of the little bros outgrew the shoes. He woke up for a little bit, but I took care of it.” He chuckled. “Bro’s gonna be a fucking beast, the rate he’s going. I’ll make sure he remembers to size up on time next time.” He nodded, then shuddered as his shoes glowed. “Yes, Sir. I will work out. Will set an example.” He grinned as he passed to an empty weight machine that ghosted along the tiles just as rapidly as he approached it. “Big bro out.” He closed off the call and let out a deep brainless guffaw as the music resumed in his ear buds. His heart rate picked up. His muscles tensed. He reached for the grips. And descended into darkness.

Smith panted as he started awake. Cool air washed over his legs, arms, and torso as he stared up at the ceiling. He winced at the pain in his skull. The room was blurry. Where ... was he?

He sat up slowly in bed and felt the cold touch of metal against his hand. His breathing quickened, and he snatched the object up, cradling it against his bare chest. His piece was still there. He quickly opened the cartridge. Every bullet was accounted for.

Then he looked down, noticed what he was wearing, and cursed. His boxers were nowhere in sight. Instead, a pair of tight white briefs clung to his frame. His skin tingled as he looked around the room. The walls were a blank tan with light texturing.

“What ... happened?” he grunted. His throat felt parched and irritated, and his voice sounded gravelly. One minute, he was running gun maintenance, the next he ... he couldn’t remember. He must’ve been drugged or hit over the head. “Okay, no sudden movements, then,” he said. “Don’t wanna risk problems, if I’ve got a concussion.”

His head throbbed and he let out a low growl. “Damn it,” he swore. He primed his gun and pointed toward the door. Whoever had kidnapped him would have to walk in eventually. And when they did, he would make sure they let him go with interest. They’d have a hell of a lot to answer for, when he was through with them. Screw the police.

The tingling intensified, and a low moan escaped his lips as a bulge began to swell in the crotch of his briefs. “Not now,” he snarled. He laid his arm on the side of his leg and clenched his hand around the gun The cold metal helped to cool his hot blood as he rested it against his thigh. His head still throbbed, though, and an odd ringing clang echoed in his ears.

The room spun as he propped himself up, and the ringing intensified. His head rolled back as a deep voice echoed through his head, singing in a dialect he didn’t recognize. It droned and thrummed in time with the ringing blows.

His hand trembled. His arm and leg hair thickened. The bulge in his briefs swelled. The last thing he remembered was the sharp retort of the gun as he slipped into the blackness.

Smith blinked slowly. He turned his head weakly to see a woman’s pale hand caressing his own. It looked so tiny, the way it cradled there. Five strapping men stood tall and proud as they looked at him. Their eyes watered, and his own vision clouded. He felt the moisture trickle down over his nose and lips and he furrowed his brow in confusion. He wasn’t upside down. The water shouldn’t have trailed the way it did.

One of the figures stepped forward and offered a large crude hammer. Smith reached forward and seized he shaft. For some reason, he felt ... peaceful at the feel of it. He looked up at the man and nodded gratefully. A much larger hand cradled his and he turned to stare into a monstrosity. The woman’s face was brutish, yet well kept. A bowl cut had been set neatly to frame her face and the single massive eye in the middle of her head above the nose.

Instead of revulsion, Smith felt a longing and a pang of regret. He looked over the men and blinked as he took in their single eyes as well.

“Rest now, my son. Rest now,” a gentle voice whispered. Cold sleek scale brushed against his skin as he turned his head to behold the massive writhing body of snake-like limbs and he beautiful woman who sat atop it from the waist up. The clanging rang again as he laid back his head and smiled at the gathering. Then he sighed, and the darkness came again.

Smith blinked slowly as he came to awareness. He sat up and rubbed his great eye with his free hand. “What ... happened?” he asked. The ringing echoed in his skull again, but ... that wasn’t the only place. “What the...?”

He stumbled to his feet and made his way to the source of the sound. He tried the handle. The knob twisted easily and opened into an absolute impossibility. The cave was positively enormous. Its roof stretched up into a dark abyss illuminated by veins of crystal that reflected the light from a series of red pools that dotted the space. Heat roiled off in waves, but nothing burned. It felt ... tingly.

He sniffed, and the smell of roasting meat entered his nostrils. His stomach growled. He remembered the ground shaking, the pounding almost like a rockslide. And suddenly he was chewing heavily. The flavor was somewhat gamy, but the seasonings masked the worst of it.

More pieces of meat sat on kebabs, waiting for him to tear into them. He did so with relish. Great earthenware jars soon revealed a dark brown liquid that tasted sweet. He grinned. “Beer!” he bellowed excitedly. He drank greedily from the jar and let it drop with a lusty sigh of satisfaction, once he’d drained the vessel. Then he unleashed an earth-shaking belch.

He scratched his stomach, then his crotch. Then he reached for another kebab. It didn’t take him long to polish off the reserves in the room. When his hunger had been sated, he rose and strode curiously toward the pools. He dipped a hand in curiously. All he felt was a pleasant warmth.

The cavern rumbled again, and this time a grin spread across Smith’s face. He pulled his hand out and watched the glowing substance drip down like bathwater. He rose and strode over to a plinth that seemed almost to shrink the closer he drew to it. A large hammer lay on the surface, alongside sets of tongs, bins filled with glinting metals, and pools and jars he had yet to properly identify. Still, the ringing sounded in his ears, and his hand twitched as he reached for the great hammer’s shaft.

He was ... supposed to do something, wasn’t he?

He seized the tool and raised it.

Something ... important. Make ... make ...

He plunged a hand into the bin and fished out a fistful of metal. It shrieked as he crumpled his hand, and he grinned as he turned toward the pools.

Make.

He stomped his foot.

Make.

The earth trembled and groaned as a massive metal anvil rose out of the stone.

Make.

He released the hammer and rested it on the surface, then dipped his free hand into the pool to cup the glowing liquid.

Make.

He crushed the metal into the liquid, and was left with a glowing malleable substance that felt like clay. A grin spread over his mouth as he returned to the anvil.

Make.

The air rang with the blow of the hammer.

Make.

The metal bent to his will.

Make.

He struck again and again as the hammer sang and his grin widened. The room became brighter. He didn’t care. All that mattered was what lay before him. The metal extended and lengthened under his ministrations. He didn’t know how long it had been. He didn’t care. He picked up the piece with his bare hands and immersed it into a black substance. The metal hissed and the surface spat fire. He chuckled a deep low guffaw at the sight. Then he pulled out the piece and placed it square with the center of his nose as he peered down the blade.

Make.

He strode to the edge of his table, where an intricately engraved metal pole had already been laid. He ground at the blade with a large moist stone, until the metal shone and the edges were sharpened. Lastly, he mounted the new piece of metal to a notch in the top of the shaft. The two clicked into place, and he grinned as he stood proudly, raising the spear over his head.

“I make!” he crowed, and the whole cavern shook. He no longer had dificulty making out the stalactites that hung from above. He scratched at the roughspun wool cloth that preserved his dignity. “That was fun. I make more!”

With every clang of his hammer, the memories of the hotel room faded. The tiny creatures that flickered across his vision seemed more appetizing than they did interesting. More than once, he wondered what they might taste like, and his mouth watered at the idea.

Smith was no more. When he tried to remember his name, the only word that sprung to mind was sidirourgós.

He thumped his thick muscular chest in delight. “sidirourgós.” He tested the word, running his tongue over his teeth as he felt the way it passed through his mouth. “I make. I forge. I am sidirourgós.” He chuckled. “I am sidirourgós!”

And with that, he went to work. A large set of blueprints had already materialized, carved on a stone block. His muscles tensed. His grin widened. He had an order. He understood the writings and images. It was time to get to work.

Off in the shadows, two golden eyes glinted as sharp white teeth bore themselves in a grin. “Success,” she hissed quietly as her sinuous body slithered away.

Caution: This short story portrays a hypnotic trainer guiding his subject deeper into trance. It may induce trance in some readers. If you are driving or operating heavy machinery, please do not risk reading this story. You have been warned.

Also, please leave comments, reblog, and like, if you enjoyed this. Thank you!

Dumb Down Pulldown

That’s right, Grunt. Keep pulling. Keep grunting. The lower you get on those numbers, the better you feel, falling deeper into trance, deeper into pleasure, pleasure at working out, pleasure at lifting, lifting to grow, growing stronger, stronger in body, your muscular body, muscle filling your body, growing with every pump, spreading with every pump. Spreading, like my voice through your head. Spreading to increase your discipline, to increase control, my control.

You feel it now, don’t you kid? I can tell you do. That pleasure, that desire. The desire to keep listening to my voice, to pull down on that bar over and over, getting lower, getting deeper with every set as you count down those notches.

Weights go higher, bar goes lower. Voice grows stronger, thoughts get slower. Slower with every pump, every rep, dropping deeper and deeper, lower and lower, slower and slower.

So low. So slow. Slower as your body takes control. Slower as you feel the strain on your muscles driving away all other thoughts. Slower is dumber, Grunt. But that’s okay. You like dumber, don’t you? It feels so good to descend into that empty place where your mind is so calm, so dull. Dull, like these weights. Dim, like that black cable moving up and down, up an down as you pump, as you listen, as you fall deeper and deeper into my voice. It’s funny, isn’t it, just letting it all go as you listen, as you pump, as you pull yourself deeper and deeper.

That’s right, laugh, Grunt. Let it out. You remember that lesson, don’t you? Controlled breathing, measured, confident, just like your sets, just like your pulldowns. Pulling down those barriers, pulling down those walls of resistance as you welcome me in, welcome my voice to guide you, guide you down, down into bliss, the ignorant bliss that comes from a life a pure muscle.

Brain becoming brawn, smarts becoming small, smaller and smaller as you grow your meat, grow that thick, dull space in your head, clearing it so my voice can echo within, echo and rebound, whispering, repeating, repeating. Repeating my mantra, my words, my will. So empty, so clear, always there, always repeating, reinforcing as you listen, as you obey, because my voice is my will, my will is your will while I train you. You trust my voice. You trust my will. So it doesn’t matter whether it’s my voice or yours, because they are one and the same.

This is the mantra. This is my will. This is what you will repeat:

“I am a dumb musclehead. My place is in the gym. Fitness is my life. The bigger I grow, the dumber I become. I am a dumb musclehead. I will grow into a muscle bull. I am a dumb musclehead. I will grow. My place is in the gym with my fellow muscle bulls. I will follow the herd. I will obey.”

Repeat.

...

Good muscle bull. I must check on the rest of the herd. Repeat your mantra. Should you break out of trance, you will recall none of what I said, but it will whisper all the same inside of you, driving you forward, driving you to work out, like a good muscle bull.

Now get at it, stud. We have prizes to win.

Andrea presti

Oh, SO many times.

(Reblog if your stairs have sabotaged you as well)

What advice would you give someone who wanted to write their own jock TFs?

Here’s a few solid tips that you can make use of in your own writing:

1. Make the transformation realistic and believable. Most changes can’t be and won’t be dramatic and instantaneous. It depends on the circumstances, of course, but regardless, make sure that the characters are relatable and have their own personalities and quirks that we can see and hear through your writing.

2. Descriptors are another very important factor when it comes to transformation. Help the reader to see everything, so they know how a person is changing.

3. Have a clear idea in mind for how you want the change to go when you start. Do you want it to be quick and dramatic or slow and gradual?

4. Listen to your characters. Don’t be afraid to stick yourself in their heads and figure out what they would do in a situation, even if it goes against your initial story idea. Often, I find it’s best to follow the characters’ actions and then guide events gradually to reach the conclusion, rather than shoe-horning it into place.

5. Be flexible. A curveball can fly your way at any moment as the story unfolds. It’s up to you to notice these sudden changes and act accordingly.

6. (Please note, this is a personal preference on the matter, and I am biased.) Don’t rely on graphic sexual content. Too many people focus on porn to sell their work. While I understand it can be used as a tool and can be utilized well by others, personally, from what I’ve seen on tumblr, people tend to take it too far. Let the story itself draw a person in. Changes in anatomy are fine, and talking about certain “conquests” may well fit in with a character’s mindset and actions, but don’t actually write out the acts of masturbation or other forms of sexual action. It’ll force you to focus more on the characters, their mental states, etc., and the story quality, if you write in this manner. That being said, I know some prefer to use sex as the catalyst for a transformation, in which case, I know this advice probably wouldn’t necessarily work. That’s in your hands to decide how you choose to write your TF.

7. Make use of all the tools of writing. These include personification, alliteration, characterization through appearance, italics, certain forms of sentence structure, etc. Each of these factors are incredibly important to helping draw a distinctive narrative.

8. SHOW, DON’T TELL! I can’t begin to tell you the number of writers who have this problem when they do a story. I did the same thing when I first started. Exposition is a pain and a hard habit to break. You need to learn to balance it with action, including dialogue and actual movement. For example:Malcolm clenched his hands into fists and narrowed his gaze. “Care to rephrase that?” he growled.You’ll note that I included action that indicated a combative posture, followed by the dialogue and descriptor that confirmed the implication. It’s a subtle art, but worth the effort to learn and master.

9. Seek for Inspiration. There is a reason that captions are so popular in the jock tf genre. The picture helps to give an image for the reader to lock onto in the story’s progress. It also serves as inspiration for the writer. I often search for a good picture that fits with the idea I have in mind or inspires me in some way, and then more forward from there.Inspiration may also be found in other ways. A passing phrase, an old saying, a pun, a book or magazine, etc. Look for these different avenues and make use of them as you search.

10. You must do reeeeeesearch! (Uncle says) Cookies to those who get the reference. Joking aside, it’s the truth. Make sure you look up the information you need for the story you have in mind, whether it be the names of certain muscles or muscle groups, exercises, diets, etc. Try to make the details in your story accurate. It makes a huge difference. I often do my research on the fly as I need, when I wish to incorporate an aspect into the story, but don’t know if it will work or simply don’t know anything about it. Google is a saving grace there. Whether it’s on the effects of hypnosis, how to write a hypnotic script, some sort of mythical entity or deity, etc., make sure you know enough about it to make use of it properly in your story.

11. Find something that motivates you! If a story doesn’t motivate or hold you as you write it, it’s very difficult to keep writing. Not impossible, mind you, but it’s a slow process. Make sure you enjoy writing the story. That’s what matters.

12. Tune into the world. You are the crafter, yes, but by actually putting yourself into the world and visualizing it, you’ll better be able to describe it to the readers and foresee where things will go as you write.

Hopefully, these tips will prove useful to you and any other writers interested in doing jock tfs or any others, for that matter. Thanks for reading! :D

Well, this totally took an unexpected turn as I wrote it, but that’s often how literature works when I write worlds. I let the characters take me where they chose, and this is the end result. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you my second homosexual-themed story. The first one was a commission I wrote on FA, and was lighter in nature. This one is also light, but it shows the progress leading up to the point where the relationship becomes official, and I believe is natural and organic. There is no sex. If you guys could let me know what you think, I would appreciate it. Many thanks in advance, and please enjoy the read.

A Helping Hand

How long had it been? An eternity? A few seconds? You couldn’t recall as he lowered his cell phone. You ran a hand casually through your hair. You could feel the air flowing over the exposed kneecap on your left pant leg from your favorite pair of jeans. After all, that had been how Jack found you, down on the ground in a bloody pulp with clothing torn. That man and his voice had been your salvation. He told them to back off.

He stared down twenty men, twenty, and they all just melted into the shadows. He had that much cred.

You remember how Jack had knelt in the alleyway and pulled off his shades.

“You okay, man?” His voice rolled deep and smooth as the pomade he used on his hair. “Let me help you.”

One look at those eyes, and the whole world seemed to vanish.

The rest was a heady blur.

One moment, you felt your arms trembling under the struggle to lift a bar to you chest. Your breath caught. Your eyes widened. You had no idea what you were doing in a gym. You should’ve been at work! You were going to get fired!

Then came the reassuring touch with a grip of iron as you were turned to face those deep dark eyes.

“Let me help you.”

Next came the shoe store. The air reeked of tobacco smoke. You wrinkled your nose and blinked owlishly. A grinning Jack looked down at you, holding a box with the familiar scent of freshly polished leather. He pulled off his shades, knelt down, and pulled out one of your socked feet. Naturally, you looked down in bewilderment. Jack’s grin widened.

“Let me help you.”

You came to in the gym again. Your shirt was soaked. But ... was it really your shirt? You didn’t remember having the tank top. It draped over your body and clung occasionally to your torso as it absorbed more sweat. You gaped confusedly in the floor-length mirror as your arms continued to pump dumbbells almost robotically. It felt like you’d done this before. But ... how could you have? You hardly had time for the gym. Why did this feel so natural?

You stared at yourself, then at the figure that stood behind. Two hands clapped on your shoulders as those dark eyes stared into the mirror, and you stared back at their reflection. You heard him whisper in your ear.

“Your form’s coming along nicely, but it’s not there yet. Let me help you.”

You blinked and woke staring down at a strange white substance in your hand. The bathroom counter was an expensive polished granite that nudged coolly against your exposed torso. You felt the soft fibers of a new towel embracing your waist. You barely managed to utter one syllable, before he was there, guiding your hand like a father would a child.

“Like this,” he said with that knowing smile that seemed so alien, yet ... felt so familiar. He guided your hand to your head, and you felt him pull it along your hair as you worked the substance in. He chuckled warmly and raised a toothy switchblade comb. “Here. Let me help you.”

You felt the comb running through your hair as your muscles tensed and bulged beneath your skin. They weren’t nearly so large as Jack’s, but there was tone there, and they had grown since ... since ... how long had it been? You flicked the switchcomb shut with practiced ease and slid it into the worn pocket of your jeans. You looked around passively and took in the ambiance of a department store. The door leading to the changing rooms stood ajar, as if waiting for you to enter. And there he was, walking forward with hangers clutched in both fists and grinning all the while. Black shirts, tank tops, even some compression gear all dangled and swayed with his gait as he pushed ahead and you followed behind. It ... felt right, normal, for some reason. Since when had you felt so ... attached to this man? You didn’t even--.

You heard the clatter as he placed the hangers on the hooks inside the cubicle and emerged with that same warm smile. You had to say something before he could do ... whatever it was he did.

“Who are you?”

Jack smiled as he pulled off his shades. “Jack. Nice to formally meet you.”

You don’t know why, but your lips twitched into a smile and ... you extended your hand. “John.”

Jack seized it in a crushing grip as his smile widened into that grin again. “You didn’t run.”

You shrugged. The act felt ... familiar, and flashes of memory involving heavy weights and staring at a mirror ran through your mind. You let out a noncommittal grunt. It was hard to think, staring into those eyes. Something about...

“Here. Let me help you out of those clothes.”

The familiar clank of weights rang in your ears as you swam back into awareness. You breathed easily as you pushed up and down again and again. It felt natural, and you were still somewhat foggy, so you just let your body do what it wanted. Your clothes felt tighter, but that didn’t seem to matter. You resisted the urge to smile as you stared up into the familiar set of shades. Maybe this time, you’d get to surprise him.

“Hey, Jack,” you grunted. You smirked when you saw him jump. “Gotcha.”

Jack laughed. “John, you son of a bitch. Don’t scare a guy like that.”

“I think I’m entitled to a few jump scares every now and again, aren’t I?”

“Touche.” Jack shook his head. “So, ... you don’t mind all this, then?” he finally asked, almost hesitantly. It was the first time you saw any sign of uncertainty on his face.

You took a set to ponder that in silence. You weren’t sure how you knew it was a set, but you did. You could wonder abut that one later. “I suppose I should, but ... Idunno. I just don’t.” If you could have shrugged, you would have.

Jack pulled his shades off slowly and smiled. His eyes watered with unshed tears. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”

“Then why don’t you help me get one?” you ask as you put the bar on its rack, sit up, and turn to face him. “That’s what you do, right?” Your heart pounded, but not from the exertions at the gym, however long they might have been. You ... were enjoying this. Why were you enjoying this?

Jack swiped at his eyes and let out a laugh that was half sob. “Y-yeah.” He stared into your orbs. “You ready?”

“You never asked before.” You smile.

“I never met you before,” he shot back with a smirk. “Let me see if I can help you understand.”

This time, you came to clutching a familiar figure by the shirt collar. He wasn’t smirking now. His eyes were wide with terror as your teeth clenched.

“You knew this was coming. You were warned about killings, Tom,” you heard yourself say. You felt your fist connect with his torso hard. Tom gasped, then groaned. “The boss sent me to make an example of you.” Your heart raced. A thrill of pleasure coursed through you. But ... why?

Catharsis, your brain replied. And you remembered where you’d seen this man before. He’d been the one to draw the knife on you in the alley. He started everything. He could have killed you. He already had killed.

And killers deserved no mercy.

The world went red. When you came to, the man had a split and swelling lip. His eyes were already darkening with bruising. Blood stained his white wifebeater and chest, and crusted under his nose. He blubbered, and you saw the distinct wet patch over his crotch. Your lip curled in disgust as you shoved him to his knees.

“You’re going to the cops, Tom,” you told him. “And you’re gonna confess. You’re gonna tell them every last dirty deed you’ve ever done. And you’re gonna do it willingly.”

Tom spat blood on the floor. “No,” he said hoarsely.

“Yes,” Jack’s voice purred as he approached.

You felt Tom shake under your harsh grip. You felt a surge of exultation, followed by a pang of guilt. You were enjoying this. Why?

“I’ll do better. The cops won’t be able to trace what happened,” Tom promised.

“Oh, I know they won’t, Tom, because they’ll close the case after you tell them exactly what you did in great detail.” Jack pulled off his glasses with a deliberate slowness. “Let’s go over what you’ll say, shall we, Tom?”

“No. No,” Tom blubbered, then screamed as he struggled weakly against you.

“John,” Jack said.

You followed the unspoken command. Your body already knew what to do. You grabbed his head, forced him to stare ahead, and pulled his eyelids open.

By the time it was over, Tom was a mute husk on the floor, staring blankly at the wall. Another street punk scurried forward at Jack’s summons. He looked fearfully at Jack, then you.

“See that he makes his way to the station,” Jack ordered. “He won’t remember us, just what he did. His mind will fill in the blanks with the right memories to keep the cops away. I’ll be in touch for Tom’s replacement. Don’t get any ideas in the meantime.”

You’d never seen a street thug turn yes man so fast. You smirked, though you were pretty sure if you saw a mirror, it would look more like a sneer.

The air was cool as the pair of you walked out of the old warehouse and into the night.

“Jack,” you finally said, “what was that back there?”

Jack started. “You were awake?”

Things were falling into place. The way the gang had dissolved in the shadows when first they met, the new clothes, the gym sessions, ... the expensive bathroom.

“Jack, are you a kingpin?” you asked.

Jack stopped, but he didn’t turn around. The air was tense and silent as he let out a heavy sigh. “Yes,” he finally admitted.

“And ... and me?” you ask as you stride up next to him. “What am I?”

Jack swallowed heavily. His jaw clenched. “Right now, an enforcer, my body guard....”

“And?”

“I ... don’t know.” He laughed. “I honestly have no fucking idea. Isn’t that hilarious?” He rested his forehead in his palm as his shoulders shook. His dark leather jacket shone dully in the streetlights.

You waited.

“I’d hoped you wouldn’t have to see all that. Not till you were ready,” he said, once the paroxysm of laughter had passed.

“Jack, be honest with me.” You stood before him and pulled off his glasses to stare him in the eyes. You had no fear of them. You never did. “Am I a thug or am I something more?”

“I told you, I don’t know,” he whispered hoarsely.

You pulled him close and held him in a warm embrace. The cold leather raised goosebumps on your exposed arms. The blood was already dry on your tank, anyway, and you didn’t feel all that squeamish, whether due to the training or simply the shock had set in.

You felt the tears as they dropped onto your skin and seeped into the shoulder strap on your shirt. Tanks were easier to dispose of, after a bloody beat down, and left less evidence behind. Again, you weren’t sure how you knew that. You just did. You had a pretty good idea who taught you, though. You waited until his breathing was back under control and he’d wiped the evidence of his emotional lapse away. Then you pulled back.

“Then let’s find out together. You help me, and let me help you.”

“You’re ... you’re sure of this?”

“Would I still be standing here, if I weren’t?”

He winced slightly.

“That bad?” You smirked and raised a quizzical brow.

Jack let out another half-laugh, half-sob.

“Come on, Jack. Help me one last time.” You took his hands in yours. “So I can help you.”

Jack swallowed heavily. “There’s no going back, after this, you know,” he warned.

“Do I look like I’m having second thoughts?”

Jack’s breath shook as he steadied himself. “All right.” He raised his eyes to look at you. “One last time,” he agreed. “Let me help you.”

You heard the fresh scrunch of leather in your ears and smelled the fresh scent of the polish that preserved the material. The world was dimmer now as you peered out the dark shades that lay on your nose. A rough scruff of a beard scraped against your neck as you rested your free hand in your pocket and ran the other through your hair. Jack turned to look at you and the smile that twitched at your lips after you finished your walk down memory lane.

“You back?” The way his lips trembled, you knew he wanted to say something more.

You took a moment to take in your clothes. They were almost the same as Jack’s. Your jacket had a few more zippers than his, but from what you could see of yourself reflected in his shades, you knew the two of you could easily have passed as brothers.

Could have.

You let your body drive again as you reached over and grabbed him by the front of his shirt, then pulled him in for a kiss.

You weren’t brothers.

You smirked as you broke the contact. “Yeah, babe. I’m back.”