octuscle

[octuscle]

Ideology

Sebastian Fox was an up-and-coming young lawyer in a prestigious law firm. He had just successfully completed a complicated commercial case when his boss called him in. “We have a new case for you,” he said, handing Sebastian the file. “A band. Contract disputes.”

Sebastian was surprised, but as he looked through the documents, his face darkened. “These people are skinheads. Right-wing extremists. Why are we taking on a case like this?” His boss leaned back. “Because they pay well. And because we're lawyers, not moralizers. Our job is to uphold the law.” Sebastian reluctantly agreed. The next day, he met the clients: four bull-necked men with shaved heads and an intimidating demeanor. Their front man, Erik, greeted him with a rough handshake. “Finally someone who understands our cause.”

Sebastian didn't understand anything. He was disgusted by their world view, their martial masculinity, their snide laughter at everything that didn't fit in with their world view. But with every meeting he noticed something: they had principles. They were loyal to each other. They stuck together while the music industry wanted to exploit them. He began to understand their anger - not their ideology, but their rejection of a society that despised them.

After a week, he found himself looking at himself in the mirror and wondering what he would look like if he was bald. That very evening, he reached for the clippers. Damn it, he must have gone mad. One blonde lock after another fell to the floor. He looked into a completely alien face. He pulled up one corner of his mouth. “You want one in the face, faggot?” he asked his reflection. Shit, he got a hard-on. A massive hard-on. He jerked off and squirted into his cropped locks. His boss grinned when Sebastian came into the office the next day. Bald head, tight jeans, Ben Sherman shirt. Sebastian was absorbed in his new role. Fully and completely. His clients appreciated that. And it paid off very well for the law firm. “Erik, we'll kick their asses, don't worry.” he was heard to say. “Sure, I'm in, 9pm, usual place, I'll be there!”

After some time, Sebastian was sick of his gym; Erik had recommended a mixed martial arts school to him. “You have to be able to defend yourself,” Erik explained with a grin as he took him to his first training session. The next day, Sebastian came into the office with a stitched wound on his eyebrow. His knuckles were scabbed over. His boss said that he appreciated the way he sacrificed himself, but Sebastian would still have to stick to the dress code a bit. “Dude, I have to piss now, shut the fuck up!” said Sebastian and turned around. ”Young man, that wasn't a request!” “Fuck you!” said Sebastian, giving his boss the middle finger. “You're fired!”

The band was happy to hear Sebastian tell them that he would now be representing them directly and no longer as the firm's lawyer. The five of them celebrated with a proper binge. Erik said that Sebastian was a crap name. Einar would suit him much better. “Einar” grunted Sebastian drunkenly… ”Call me Einar!”

Einar couldn't make a living just from the band as a client. He also represented a few of Erik and the boys' friends. For example, Alf, a tattoo artist who occasionally had tax problems. Einar was good at tax matters. And Alf showed his appreciation. With a bit of his black money, but also in kind. He decorated Einar's growing biceps with a few Nordic battle scenes. And his cock with a PA. And Alf personally checked whether the effect on Einar's cock was as he had hoped. And yes, damn it, with the PA a blowjob was so much more intense than before.

Einar was soon no longer just their lawyer. He was their tour manager, their confidant. He had given up his apartment and moved in with Alf. The boy needed someone to look after him. And Einar needed someone who was ready when he had pressure on his balls. And Einar had a lot of pressure on his balls. He loved his life: He stood with the boys in dodgy bars, laughed at the sayings he would have found repugnant not long ago. He wore combat boots, rolled-up jeans and undershirts that emphasized his toned muscles. And when they got into a fight after a concert, it was Einar who landed the first blow.

Einar was a skinhead. A real guy of the nastiest kind. He had arrived.

Inspired by @tf-vigilante

[octuscle]

Mano Cornuta

Felix was a snob, the epitome of an arrogant student: always perfectly dressed, his hair immaculate and always with a snide smile for anyone who didn't meet his high standards. The fact that his friends had persuaded him to go to a rock festival was nothing short of a miracle. But when they promised him that it would be “a cultural experience”, he let himself be persuaded - without realizing what he was getting himself into.

Even his arrival was a shock. Instead of a well-kept hotel, he was greeted by a muddy campsite full of noisy, beer-drinking people. “You don't seriously want me to spend the night here, do you?” he asked in horror, while his friends just laughed and threw his luggage on the ground. Felix said that he had read something about a glamping area. His friends threw him a can of beer and told him to enjoy it while it was cold. Soon it would only be lukewarm. Felix rolled his eyes. Loud music was blaring from the stages, blending into an infernal din here on the campsite. His buddies moved towards the main stage. A cover band from a group he didn't know was opening for another group he didn't know. The beer somehow tasted good. And the music wasn't bad at all…

The first morning was hell. Felix woke up in a musty tent, he had slept in his clothes from the day before. He was sweaty, his shoes were wet and mud-splattered and where the hell was his bag with his toiletry bag. “Guys, where are my clothes and where are the washrooms?” he asked into the tent, looking at himself in horror on the display of his cell phone. His friends, however, ignored him as they opened their first beer of the day with a loud “Cheers!”. “Your rucksack must be somewhere with the others,” said one of his friends, belching loudly. The others laughed. He found his weekender, took out his toothbrush and toothpaste and headed in the direction of the toilets. There would probably be a shower there, or at least a washbasin. On the way there, a group of pogo-dancing drunks bumped into him. His toothbrush was lying in the mud. At least a toilet to pee in, that would be something. At least a little bit of civilization. In theory. It felt like there were miles of queues in front of the porta-potties, and the same applied to the showers. The stench at the urinals was atrocious. At least Felix got his turn quickly. He had to pee so urgently. And then a cup of beer hit him. He just wanted to go home. When he got back to the tent, his buddies had turned the boombox all the way up. Someone handed him a beer. Well, he could stay another day…

Something had changed on the second morning. His hair was sticking up in all directions, his beard was beginning to stand out as an unwanted accessory, and he had thrown on an old band shirt that one of his friends had lent him out of sheer necessity. “Well, well, well! Our professor almost looks like a real rocker!” joked one of them. Felix rolled his eyes, but inwardly he began to give in. It was too exhausting to fight back. Besides, he needed to piss so badly. Two of his buddies stood in front of the tent and simply pissed in the mud. Felix simply joined them. Someone handed him a cigarette. Some kind of cigarette. Phew, he'd never smoked before in his whole life. It went well with the first beer of the day. He and the boys had a burping contest. And then it was off to the first act of the day. Well, actually it was the fourth or fifth act. They had overslept a bit. Never mind, they were just here to have fun

On the third day, Felix was unrecognizable. He was lying on his sweaty iso-mat. Loud music woke him up. The boys and the boombox. He woke up with a heavy hangover, the taste of sperm and cheap beer still on his tongue. His shirt stank of sweat, his jeans speckled with mud, and his beard had long since crossed the line between “casual” and “scruffy”. His eyes were still closed. He showed the devil horns. He reached for the open beer can next to him and took a deep swig. “Breakfast is ready!” he announced in an impressive burp.

His friends looked at him in disbelief. “Felix?” One of them sniffed theatrically. “You stink like a cougar in a cage!” Felix just shrugged his shoulders, stood pissing in front of the tent and grinned. “Then I fit in perfectly here.”

[octuscle]

Guys, I'm going to do something highly selfish: I'm on my way to breaking the 5K follower mark. It'll probably take a few more days, but it could happen by Easter. Until then, I want to try two things: First, I'd like to do a little Tumblr detox. It's a good resolution, I've tried it many times, but let's see how many minutes I can last before I'm already precum-leaking and writing the next story. And the second thing is: I hope I've given you lots of good wank templates with my stories. I'd love it if I got something back. Hence my brazen request: donate something to me at

https://ko-fi.com/octuscle

If we manage to get an average of one dollar donated per follower, I'll open my account again for a month for asks and promise a story to everyone who sends me an ask during that time.

[octuscle]

Hotel Room: Punk

Albert was simply disgusted! But he had no other option. His flight had been canceled, the trade fair was in town, everything was fully booked and unfortunately he had no choice. Because of his cursed economy class ticket, he had to take what he could get. And he could only get this shabby hotel room in the station district. The guy at reception reeked of beer and cigarettes. The stairwell reeked of chip fat. The room reeked of beer, cigarettes, chip fat and sweat. Albert dared to doubt whether the bed was really freshly made. But he had no other choice. And he was tired.

Albert wondered whether he should unpack his suitcase or leave his things in it. The wardrobe looked reasonably clean. So he put his shirt and suit on hangers and left the rest in the suitcase. He preferred to close it so that rats or cockroaches couldn't nest in it. He put on his pyjamas, brushed his teeth and went to bed. The pillow didn't smell as if it was freshly made. Albert tried to think of something else. His replacement flight was leaving at 05:00 tomorrow morning. And tomorrow night he would be staying in a nice, clean four-star hotel in Munich. Then everything would be fine again…

It was 02:00. Still too early to get up. But Albert had to pee. Only then did he realize that there was a sink in the room, but no toilet or shower. He looked at the escape plan. There was a toilet marked in the corridor. He had to go so urgently… Even if he felt disgusted. He walked barefoot across the ancient and filthy carpets to the door where an old-fashioned sign with a boy peeing in a potty marked the men's room. He tried to open the door, but all he heard from inside was “Busy”. Shit, he really needed to pee. He heard the sound of the toilet flushing. The door opened. A young man came out, dressed only in boxer shorts. “Dude, you could have at least used a towel,” he said with a grin, looking at Albert's half-stiff cock. Shit! Where were his pyjamas?!!!?! Why was he naked? Albert hastily went to the toilet and closed the door behind him. The puddle of urine he was standing in was still warm. He pissed standing up and the pressure of his bladder left a mist of urine in the room. He didn't care. He was so happy that he could finally release the pressure. He shook off his cock. Shit, why was it getting so hard? Albert wanted to go to bed in a hurry. He opened the door. The young man was waiting for him, smoking a fag. He had pulled down his boxer shorts. Albert couldn't help himself. He had to suck that cock. And as he swallowed the young man's cum, he sprayed his own onto the disgusting carpet. But that didn't matter any more.

It was about 09:00 when he was woken up by loud knocking. “Dude, we have to go, our bus leaves in half an hour.” Bus? Blimey, hadn't he forgotten something? Shouldn't he be somewhere else by now? Shit, no, he and his buddies were on a booze cruise to Munich. Best beer in the world. A trip around the world by bus. But cheap. He quickly pulled on his jeans and yesterday's T-shirt, which stank of beer, cigarettes, chip fat and sweat, and slipped into his Doc Martens. He picked up his rucksack and made his way to the stairwell. Hopefully one of his mates had a fag for him before he had to get on the bus.

[octuscle]

Gym Motivation

Patrick put his iPhone in position and started the recording “Hello everyone! Today is leg day at the gym. I got this new energy drink to try from the cute guy at reception, let's see if it helps me. Darlings, let's start with one of my favorite exercises, the adduction on the adductor machine.”

Patrick took a big gulp from the water bottle and held the label up to the camera with his usual skill and randomness. He set the machine, selected his usual warm-up weight and smashed the elements together with a loud crash. “Darlings, I seem to have a little too much energy today. Let's up the weight a bit!” Patrick increased the weight. And increased it again. And again. Finally he found some resistance. At last the weight was high enough that he could only manage the eighth repetition of the set with the greatest effort. With a loud groan, he pressed the plates together one last time. “Guys, now the adductors are burning!” He took a swig from the bottle. “Fucking awesome stuff, guys, I'm telling you!” Patrick pulled up his trouser legs and tensed his thigh muscles. “So, not bad, is it? But let's not kid ourselves, this is a pussy exercise. On to my favorite, the leg press.”

Patrick went to the next machine, put the camera in position, put on 200 kg and sat down in position. “Guys, it's a warm-up weight of course, but first I'd like to give you a few tips on how to do it properly…” Patrick deliberately lifted the weight casually, lectured on the correct position of the head and back and then stood up to put on another 200 kg “No pain, no fun, right guys?” He sat back down in the leg press and moved the weight, his face contorted in pain. The weight dropped with a crash after the 12th repetition. “And now 10 repetitions with 500 kg! Let the babies burn! Fuuuuuuuck!” As Patrick finished the third set, one of the big guys from the gym came over and gave Patrick a respectful fist bump. His slim body had already visibly pumped up. Patrick showed off his impressive pumped up thighs and stroked the tattoos on his calf. “Bros, we'll do the calves next time. Now let's take care of the muscle that isn't called a gladiator bro for nothing: the gluteus maximus. On to the Romanian squats. Let's not kid ourselves: We real guys prefer working with dumbbells to machines anyway, am I right?” Patrick grabbed a barbell, put some weight on it and performed the squats in exemplary fashion. “Yo, bros, listen up! No hunching that back, got it? Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Fuuuuck!” Patrick took another sip. His forehead was covered in sweat. He took his towel, wiped off the sweat and said, “Yo, legs are crucial, my dudes! Don’t be that guy who skips leg day. But for real, we all know pumping these babies is way more fun, am I right?” He made his pecs dance. “Bro, every pump needs to be a blast and a grind, you feel me? Let’s hit that bench press, man!”

None of his live videos were supposed to last longer than an hour. None of his pumping bros followed him for longer. For TikTok, he would cut it down to a five-minute reel. He didn't need to show the adductor shit in particular, that was more to satisfy the few female followers…

“Sick pump today, bro! Hope I got you pumped to lift some weight as well!” He held the bottle up to the camera. “Yo, not sure if this rad stuff did anything, but it definitely didn't hurt, bro.” Patrick took one last swig from the bottle and reached for the camera: “Yo, dig in, bros! Catch ya tomorrow. Then we’ll get those biceps pumpin’!” And he switched off the camera.

Darren at reception smiled contentedly as Patrick, one of the gym's promotional figures, left the studio. The two said goodbye with a high five. Darren already knew what this gym needed: more pumpers and fewer wannabe fitness models.

[octuscle]

Wereteen News Anchor

It was just another regular evening in the newsroom. The cameras were focused on Richard Weber, the 50-year-old, perfectly-groomed news anchor, standing with impressive authority in front of the green screen for the evening broadcast. His name was Richard Weber, and over the years, he had earned a reputation as one of the sharpest advocates for right-wing conservatism on television. With his conservative appearance and precise, deep voice, he was the visual embodiment of seriousness. But tonight, he felt a little grossed out. The young, hairy intern who had just brought him coffee in the dressing room had questionable personal hygiene. And there had been some sticky, milky liquid on the coffee cup. He’d wiped it off with a tissue, but somehow, his fingers still felt sticky.

The red camera light flicked on. He gathered himself and started reading the news.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he began. "Tonight, we’re reporting on the latest successes of the President, who’s still so new to office…" His words flowed out of him smoothly and precisely, just like he had done for decades. But at that moment, without warning, Richard suddenly felt an unpleasant rush of heat that made him sweat.

"Uh… is it, like, hotter in here?" he murmured, trying not to let the sudden discomfort distract him. A slight dizziness came over him, and he reached up to touch his forehead.

"I… I need a second," he thought to himself, wiping his face with his hand. But then something happened that he couldn’t explain. It started with a weird tingling on his skin, spreading from his neck to his face. He tried to hold it together, but his body wasn’t listening. With a loud snap, he felt his skin become younger, tighter. He glanced at the mirrors behind the camera and saw his features changing. A soft, almost invisible fuzz began to grow on his previously smooth, clean-shaven face. His eyes, which had always appeared serious and thoughtful, suddenly looked bigger and more alive.

He felt another strange jolt – this time in his hair. Richard grabbed his head, but before he could do anything, his hair transformed from a neatly combed-back style to a wild, messy skater look. In less than a minute, he had the hairstyle of a skater.

"What… what is happening?" Richard muttered, his voice starting to change. Instead of the calm, deep resonance he was known for, it now sounded higher, less certain, and almost youthful. He looked at the monitor, where he saw himself in this new, bizarre state. But it wasn’t just his appearance that had changed. Something inside him had shifted, too.

He tried to keep going like nothing had happened, but instead of his usual seriousness, he spoke in a completely new rhythm: "Yo, so like, the President’s done some wild stuff, right? I mean, that guy is straight-up a monster, bro!"

Shit, it was hot. He needed air. Also, his shirt was getting too tight around his chest. He’d probably overdone it at the gym. Damn, what was he thinking? He didn’t even go to the gym… His head suddenly felt light, like he’d been freed from the heavy thoughts of decades. He felt… young. Really young. The words came effortlessly, and he realized he felt almost carefree – like a 21-year-old college bro who had just had an awesome day on campus.

"Okay, okay, so like… I’m just sayin’, folks: the President’s the King. No doubt, what’s goin’ on is the shit, for real!"

Richard Weber, the proud news anchor who had always been a picture of competence and seriousness, was now just a bewildered young guy, surprised by his new, youthful self. He couldn’t focus on world politics anymore – those topics that had once felt so familiar to him. Instead, his whole attitude was now that of a student who had just celebrated finishing a long exam by ordering pizza.

"Uh, yeah, so let’s, like, move on to the next news, bro. I gotta say, things out there are wild…"

Meanwhile, he opened his shirt, revealing his hairy, athletic chest. Fuck yeah, that felt better. Much better!

The screen behind him still showed the same news channel, but Richard Weber was no longer the same. The tough, conservative reporter was gone – left in his place was a young, somewhat confused intern just trying to make it through the night.

Inspiration by @rowdy317

[octuscle]

“Sin, Love, and Gains – What Really Matters?”

The Claudia Newbury Show was a staple of early afternoon television—famous for its unpredictable turns and jaw-dropping moments. Claudia Newbury herself was the epitome of a tough yet charismatic talk show host who always kept the discussion flowing.

Today’s episode? A hot-button debate titled: “Sin, Love, and Gains – What Really Matters?”

Guests:

Dr. Richard “Rick” Halford (50, conservative politician) – staunch defender of "traditional values," believes homosexuality is a "sin."

Pastor Elijah Summers (28, progressive Protestant pastor) – preaches love and acceptance for all.

Lucas “Lukey” Brennan (22, bisexual college bro) – motto: “Dude, who cares? As long as it feels good.”

As expected, the discussion starts off heated. Dr. Halford, face stern with righteous fury, rants about "the decline of moral values," pounding the table as he speaks.

Pastor Summers listens patiently before countering in his calm, measured tone: “God gave us the ability to love. Why would we put restrictions on that?”

Lukey, meanwhile, leans back, idly shaking his protein drink, smirking.

“Bro, why do you care so much?” he drawls. “Like, deadass, never thought about what it’d be like if a dude sucked your dick?”

Halford’s face turns crimson. “How dare you! I am a man of principle!”

But as he speaks, something… changes. His voice softens slightly. The deep, authoritarian edge weakens.

“…Is it hot in here?”

His suit feels loose. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. The gray in his hair fades. His wrinkles smooth out.

Pastor Summers lifts an eyebrow. “Are you feeling… okay?”

Halford blinks rapidly, his breathing uneven. “Dude… what’s happening?” His voice cracks—higher now, lighter.

Lukey grins and slides his protein shake across the table. “Here, bro. Try this. High-protein, no bullshit.”

Halford hesitates, then takes a sip. His pupils dilate.

“Yo… this actually slaps.”

With a sudden impulse, he unbuttons his collar. Then another button. His shoulders broaden under the fabric, his posture relaxing. His sharp, judgmental gaze fades into something… hazier. He fixes his eyes on Lukey—on his face, but also… lower.

“…All those arguments I made…” He rubs the back of his neck, voice dazed. “Why did I care so much? I mean… can you even control desire? Like, if I’m turned on, I’m turned on.”

His gaze flickers between Summers and Lukey, assessing them both.

And then—his suit slips off like shedding old skin.

In his place now sits a 19-year-old gym bro—lean, toned, with a slight pump. His shirt has somehow morphed into a tight tank top, hugging his sculpted torso. He casually slips a hand into his pocket, shifting himself with zero shame.

“Dude… I feel so light.”

With his free hand, he lifts his tank top, caressing his abs. His eyes lock onto Lukey with something dangerously close to hunger.

“Yo, Lukey… how much you bench?”

Lukey, who also has a hand suspiciously close to his groin, smirks. “245, bro. You?”

Halford—no, Rickie now—grins, breath heavy. He’s practically panting.

“Let’s find out. Why are we even still sitting here?”

Pastor Summers leans back with a knowing smirk. “I think our work here is done.”

Claudia straightens her papers and sighs. “Yeah, let’s cut to commercial. Can’t guarantee this is staying PG.”

Epilogue

The talk segment ends. The studio empties. But one person remains.

Rickie sits on his chair, relaxed, legs spread. His phone is propped up, camera rolling.

Streaming live to his OnlyFans.

And judging by the way his hand moves beneath his shorts… he’s just getting started.

Fade to black.

[octuscle]

All Natural

Dr. Jake Reynolds stepped onto the stage at the Anti-Doping Symposium with the confidence of a man who knew his subject inside and out. A lean, wiry guy in his mid-20s, a marathon runner, and a passionate advocate for clean sports. He adjusted his glasses, placed the bottle that had been handed to him earlier on the lectern, and gripped the microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the effects of anabolic steroids on the human body should not be underestimated," he began in a measured, professional tone. "Long-term use leads to endocrine dysfunction, irreversible cardiovascular damage, and psychological instability. Furthermore, they distort natural performance and compromise the integrity of sports."

He took a sip from the bottle. Suddenly, his right bicep twitched. His sleeve tightened as if his arm was inflating. Jake furrowed his brow, cleared his throat, and continued.

"Uh, as I was saying, the body... uh... doesn't need artificial boosts, man. You just gotta—"

Another jolt. His chest muscles expanded. His voice dropped an octave. With another sip, a tingling sensation spread across his skin, and when he touched his arm, he suddenly felt thick hair. His fingers ran over his now much thicker forearm.

"What the...?"

The audience murmured. Jake's forehead was suddenly glistening, not with nervous sweat but with pure testosterone. His jawline sharpened, his brow thickened. Out of nowhere, his simple haircut morphed into a perfect undercut. Massive sideburns sprouted from his once smooth cheeks. His shirt stretched over his growing lats until he had to rip the buttons apart. His undershirt was stretched to its limits, the deep neckline putting his massive, hairy chest muscles on full display.

His hands clenched into fists. His cognitive abilities shrank with each new surge of muscle. He stared at the bottle in confusion. "Shit, bro… what the hell is in this?"

Another gulp, and it was over. Jake let out a deep grunt as his back exploded with muscle like a protein shake on steroids.

"Yo, bro! You guys don’t even know what a real roid cycle looks like! You gotta cycle properly to maximize those gains! First, you bulk hard—none of that half-assed calorie-counting shit—just straight-up mass building, bro! Then you cut, but if you ain't on Test and Tren, you’re just a little gym rat spinning your wheels! You think creatine and chicken breast gonna do this?!"

With a loud BURP, he tore off his undershirt and flexed into a massive double biceps pose. Acne erupted across his shoulders, his gut swelled into a full-on roid belly. The last traces of rational thought evaporated from his eyes. The audience was frozen in shock. Somewhere, a pair of glasses clattered to the floor.

Jake grinned wide. "YO, BROOO! CHECK OUT THESE GAINS! YOU LOSERS THINK THIS IS NATURAL?! NO CHANCE, BRUH!"

Mic drop. Speech over. And somewhere, deep inside his Bro-brain, he finally understood why people dope.

[octuscle]

Toxic Masculinity Among College Students

Klaus had no desire to be part of this kind of talk show. They had no real scientific merit and were purely designed to attract high ratings from less educated audiences. But his dean insisted. It was necessary for funding and donations, he had said. And so Klaus now sat in a semi-circular seating area, being wired up by a technician.

The host was obviously popular—though Klaus had never heard of him. Seated next to him were a college professor, a football coach, and a young man who embodied the perfect stereotype of a dumb college jock: broad grin, tight jeans, oversized muscles that he flexed demonstratively.

The producer counted down the seconds. Everyone took their positions, the cameras rolled.

Host: Welcome to tonight’s show. Our topic: toxic masculinity among college students. Our first guest: Dr. Klaus Bergman, a renowned youth psychologist with over 30 years of experience. Dr. Bergman, thanks for being here.

Dr. Bergman: Thank you for having me. It’s an important discussion.

Host: Let’s get right to it—how would you define toxic masculinity?

The jock next to him casually scratched his head, causing his biceps to bulge and exposing his hairy armpit. Klaus frowned. Had this guy not bothered to shower beforehand? Or at least used deodorant?

Dr. Bergman: Toxic masculinity refers to rigid gender norms that pressure men to be aggressive, emotionally repressed, and dominant. Many young men in college environments feel they have to conform to these standards, which can be detrimental to their mental health.

Host: Can you give some examples?

Klaus froze. Had the jock just casually scratched his crotch on live television? A wave of disgust washed over him. And yet… there was something else. A fascination?

Dr. Bergman: Of course. We often see behaviors like hyper-competitiveness, excessive risk-taking, and the belittling of emotional expression. Many college guys—uh, I mean, a lotta dudes—feel like they gotta act tough all the time, or else they ain’t gettin’ any respect.

Host: I’m sorry, did you just say—

Klaus and the jock locked eyes for a brief moment. The jock gave him an approving nod. Somehow, gaining this alpha bro’s approval felt… good.

Dr. Bergman: Look, bro, that’s just how it is, y’know? Dudes wanna be alpha. Nobody respects a guy who cries about his feelings, right? You gotta be strong, you gotta dominate, or you’re a total loser.

Host: Dr. Bergman, are you okay? You seem to be—

Klaus removed his glasses. They suddenly felt out of place. Absentmindedly, he kneaded the bulge in his jeans.

Dr. Bergman: Bro, quit the nerd talk! It’s simple—either you’re jacked, or you’re a beta. College is all about lifting, partying, and crushin’ it with the ladies. Or the bros. But dude, no eye contact, or it gets a bit homo, ya know? Ain’t nobody got time for that “mental health” crap.

His voice deepened, his shirt tightened over suddenly swelling muscles. Then it morphed into a tank top—the same one he had worn to the gym yesterday. And the day before. And before that. But hey, who cared about that kinda stuff?

Host: Wait—weren’t you just a psychologist?!

Dr. Bergman: Psycho-what? That’s for weaklings! I gotta hit the gym, bro. Gains don’t wait. WOOOO!

He lifted his tank top, revealing an impressive eight-pack, and high-fived the jock next to him. The host stared in horror as the broadcast abruptly cut to a commercial.

Klaus and Chad were a great team on the talk show. For a German exchange student, Klaus had already acclimatized incredibly well to life on campus and in the fraternity. And anyway, who could have anything against this toxic masculinity? And what did this toxic even mean?

[octuscle]

Yo, it's dope when a young dude figures out his vibe and what he's really meant to do, bro!

Ein prägendes Erlebnis

Torben konnte sein Glück kaum fassen, als er Amanda in der Uni-Cafeteria von der großen Demo gegen Rassismus am kommenden Samstag reden hörte. Sie fände es total wichtig, da teilzunehmen und Gesicht zu zeigen, erzählte sie einer Freundin.

Endlich hatte der schüchterne Lauch Torben ein Thema gefunden, über das er mit seinem Schwarm ins Gespräch kommen konnte. Denn mit sozialtheoretischen Ansätzen zu gruppenbezogener Menschenfeindlichkeit, Eurozentrismus, Islamophobie usw. kannte er sich aus!

Amanda wirkte zunächst überrascht über Torbens etwas unbeholfenen Wortschwall, schenkte ihm dann aber ein breites, ermutigendes Lächeln: „Sehr cool, dass du auch so denkst. Dann sehe ich dich ja bei der Demo!“

Gesagt, getan – Torben bastelt ein Schild mit der Aufschrift „Nobody is illegal“ und war am Samstag pünktlich auf dem Marktplatz. Doch irgendwas stimmte mit der Atmosphäre nicht. Keine Spur von dem üblichen links-grün-alternativen Multi-Kulti-Milieu, das er von anderen Demos dieser Art kannte. Stattdessen stellte er fest, dass er mit auffällig vielen ernsten, verärgert wirkenden jungen arabischen Männern unterwegs war. Vereinzelt gab es für ihn unverständliche arabische Sprechchöre.

Besorgt hielt er nach Amanda Ausschau und fand sie schließlich in Begleitung zweier muskulöser, gutaussehender arabischer Muskeltypen. Den einen stellte sie Torben als ihren Freund Khalil vor, den sie vor zwei Wochen im Fitti kennengelernt hatte. Es war Liebe auf den ersten Blick, meinte sie noch, über alle kulturellen Grenzen hinweg. Weiter kam sie nicht, denn dann schob Khalil ihr demonstrativ seine Zunge in den Mund.

Torbens Kopf wurde knallrot, aber er konnte seinen Blick einfach nicht abwenden. „Hey, glotz‘ nicht so, du Pisser! Geilst‘ dich dran auf, wie ein echter Mann küsst? Bist‘ schwul, oder was?!“ Mit diesen Worten schaltete sich der zweite arabische Muskelberg ein, der sich als Khalils Cousin Azim herausstellte.

Während Amanda und Khalil völlig in ihrem Zungenspiel versanken, packte Azim Torben an der Brust seines Hoodies, hob ihn hoch und stellte ihn ein paar Meter weiter am Rand des Platzes wieder ab, wo die Menge die beiden kaum beachtete.

„Du kleiner Alman-Loser wirst nie ihr Stecher sein! Diese Braut ist für echte Alphas wie meinen Cousin und mich reserviert! Du Knecht wirst dich schön von ihr fernhalten! Sonst reiße ich dir deine kleinen, unterentwickelten Eier ab und stopfe sie dir in dein jungfräuliches Arschloch! Kapiert?! Und jetzt leer‘ dein‘ Geldbeutel, drück‘ mir deine Kohle ab, bedank‘ dich und verpiss dich wieder, du Schwuchtel!“

Torben war so verdattert, dass er reflexartig einfach das tat, was Azim von ihm verlangte. Der stopfte sich mit einem verächtlichen Grinsen die Geldscheine in die Seitentasche seiner Daunenjacke, spuckte Torben zum Abschied noch auf die Schuhe, drehte sich wortlos um und ließ ihn stehen. Torben fühlte sich gedemütigt wie noch nie und war am Boden zerstört. Aber seltsamerweise stand auf der ganzen Rückfahrt zu seiner Bude sein kleiner Freund in der Hose wie eine Eins.

Stunden später saß Torben wieder zuhause, leckte Azims eingetrocknete Spucke von seinem Schuh und googelte „dominant arab muscle men“, während er begann, sich zu den ersten Suchergebnissen einen runterzuholen. Dieser Tag sollte sein Sexleben für immer verändern…

[octuscle]

Voodoo Brogramming

Ethan was built different, bro. While the other dudes at his college were chugging protein shakes, flexing in the gym mirrors, and hyping each other up with aggressive fist bumps, Ethan was out there spinning and twirling in the dance studio. He was a junior, a hardcore ballet guy, and had zero respect for the gym bros whose entire existence revolved around lifting heavy stuff and putting it back down.

But there was one dude in particular who really got on his nerves: Chad, the football team’s quarterback. Absolute unit. Biceps bigger than his vocabulary. Dude was more obsessed with protein powder than most people were with, like, art or philosophy. "Honestly, I wonder if he’s got more IQ points or more grams of protein in his shake," Ethan joked one night to his dance crew. The room erupted in laughter.

Chad, however, caught wind of it. And Chad did NOT take kindly to disrespect—especially from some artsy dude who wore tights. But instead of throwing hands or coming back with some weak insult, Chad decided to get creative.

He went to the one person on campus who knew about dark magic: Valerie, the goth chick who was always lurking in the library with her weird-ass books. "I need a Voodoo doll," Chad said, slamming a pile of protein bars onto her table. Valerie smirked. She liked chaos. Within three days, she’d stitched together a tiny Ethan doll—down to the smug little smirk.

And so, Chad began his masterpiece. Night one, he placed the doll inside a tiny home gym he found at a flea market. Packed it tight with miniature weights, making sure Ethan-Doll was practically rubbing shoulders with the other little plastic bros. Then he propped up an old phone and looped gym bro motivational videos all night.

The next morning, Ethan woke up sore AF. Like, whole-body-cramping kind of sore. And his dreams? Pure nightmare fuel. Just endless lectures about bulking cycles, supplement stacks, and protein absorption rates. His ballet training? Canceled. Philosophy class? Couldn’t focus. A simple walk across campus felt like he had lead in his shoes. Worst Friday ever. Thank god for the weekend.

That night, Chad took things up a notch. He set up the mini gym under a tanning lamp. Then, using a tiny syringe, he pumped the Ethan-doll full of protein shake until its little belly bulged. For good measure, he juiced up its tiny arms with a cocktail of steroids that sounded like a science experiment gone wrong. Lastly, he queued up some trashy reality TV.

Ethan woke up to the unholy stench of his own farts. His stomach? Bloated as hell. But weirdly enough, he felt... strong. Really strong. Instead of hitting the library, he made a snap decision: gym time. It was early, so hopefully, the usual meatheads weren’t around yet. Meanwhile, still half-asleep, Chad gave the Ethan-doll another protein injection. Ethan stood in the bathroom, rubbing his stomach. Damn, why was he so gassy? Then he looked in the mirror—and froze.

His skin was straight-up lobster red. But not evenly. Under his arms? Still pale. Like he’d been half-cooked under a tanning bed. He threw on a black gym jersey, hoping nobody would notice. And he definitely needed to see a doctor. This was NOT normal.

At the gym, Ethan hopped on the stair stepper, and the dudes next to him were deep in a convo about some trashy dating show. Weirdly enough, he knew it. Had he actually watched that crap? And wait—had he just thought of them as “cool bros”?!

After his workout, he tried to practice ballet. But standing at the barre, he felt ridiculous. What kind of guy does ballet, anyway?

By the evening, Ethan wasn’t feeling like hitting up the theater or doing any of the usual artsy stuff with his friends. He didn’t even want to see them—they’d just roast him for his weird-ass tan. Instead, he hit up the movies and picked "Criminal Squad 2." Nonstop action, tons of explosions. Absolute banger. Afterward, he swung by a sports bar. Didn’t take long before he got chatting with some gym bros. Turns out, not all meatheads were dumbasses—some were actually kinda hilarious.

Sunday morning, Chad was shaving his junk and pits while the Ethan voodoo doll was getting its regular steroid injections. Chad had an idea. He hocked a fat loogie onto the doll, then rubbed his freshly shaven hair all over its chest and face.

Ethan woke up at 10:30 AM. Damn, last night with the guys had been lit, but it got late. He scratched his chest. Shit, maybe it was time for a shave. Dude looked like a straight-up caveman. Though, he did love his beard—no way was he ditching that. He was a college junior; no one would take him seriously without some facial hair. He flexed in the mirror. Damn, his armpits were getting wild. Then, his stomach rumbled. He held his breath and let one rip. Hell yeah, his farts were legendary. He spent the whole day at the gym, feeling like a beast. And the dudes there? Solid crowd. After the workout, they invited him to a frat party. Solid Sunday, bro.

Chad kept up the magic—more roid shots, dunking the doll in protein shakes, feeding it a diet of trash TV and cheap fitness influencers. He left it under the tanning lamp for days, stuck little dumbbells in its hands, and finished off with a nonstop loop of softcore porn.

Did he seriously have an art history class today? Why the hell did he sign up for that? The start of the week was hell. He needed a dermatologist ASAP. Not just for the deep bronze tan—honestly, that was kinda sick—but also for the gnarly acne creeping up his shoulders and back. Also, why did none of his clothes fit anymore? And why did half of them look so… unmasculine? He needed new gear ASAP. But first, this dumb class. Hopefully, he didn’t pass out.

Chad kicked off his week at the gym. Later, he ran home to grab his laptop—still hadn’t showered, though. The Ethan doll was lying on the bench press, watching gangsta rap videos. Chad grabbed it and rubbed it deep into his sweaty armpit.

Ethan couldn’t care less that he got kicked out of class. Apparently, people "couldn’t handle the stench." What bullshit. He hadn’t even ripped one��yet. He took a deep whiff of his armpit. Smelled just fine. Bro de Cologne. He cracked himself up.

Chad spent the morning blasting the Ethan doll with ads from MassiveSoldier. He knew exactly where Ethan would be later. Sitting outside the mall, he doodled some designs on the doll’s forearms and neck, waiting. He didn’t have to wait long. You could hear Ethan before you saw him—snorting like a bull, stomping like an earthquake. And the smell? Dude was marinated in Chad’s sweat. Ethan spotted Chad and grinned. "Bro, lucky you’re here. I need some help," he grunted. "You got it, bro!" Chad said, leading him into the sports store.

A month later, Ethan had landed some solid sponsorships—one with a sportswear company, another with a protein brand. He’d dropped out of college and was working full-time at a hardcore gym. His fitness channel was taking off, but damn, his food and "supplement" intake was next level. Good thing Chad had his back. Dude needed it. 'Cause let’s be real—Ethan wasn’t exactly the sharpest tool in the shed.

The brogramming was complete.

[octuscle]

Welcome to Red Hook

Leander and Frederick were sure they had reached their destination. Leander had inherited some money and here in Red Hook in Dutchess County they seemed to have found what they were looking for. A small-town idyll, not unreachably far from Manhattan, but still in another world. The old hardware store was perfect for their plans. They could turn the store into a café and the workshop behind it into a Pilates studio. The two of them would bring a bit of civilization to the wasteland. And they could turn Leander's great-uncle's house into a piece of jewelry. Much nicer and bigger than anything they could have afforded in Red Hook, Brooklyn.

The first evening on the veranda was wonderful. Tomorrow they would start clearing out the hardware store and workshop and then they could start renovating. They were full of energy! Frederick came back early in the morning from his run. He had picked up some bread rolls and told them about the gym he had discovered. Until they had their own Pilates studio, there was definitely an alternative way to stay in shape. And if they searched a little more, they would also find a store selling good bitter orange marmalade and decent sparkling mineral water. After all, they weren't in the wilderness. And if need be, there was always the internet.

After breakfast, they went to the hardware store. They wanted to start clearing out. Some of the shelves were already quite thin. But the store was basically still operational. A little dusty, perhaps. But somehow, as if someone had simply closed up shop yesterday and locked up. The doorbell rang. “Hey man, are you open again? I need two rolls of barbed wire.” Leander said he had no idea, but the man knew exactly where to find what he was looking for. Leander looked questioningly when the man wanted to pay. He found a price list. The next customer came into the store. Frederick and Leander had their hands full. But they gained an overview faster and faster. The till wasn't that complicated. Fortunately, the warehouse was tidy. They would just have to order new goods soon if sales continued like this. When Leander finally had a quiet minute, he looked around for Frederick. He was standing at the back of the store talking to a customer who was obviously interested in a chainsaw. And Frederick, who hadn't even been able to hold a hammer properly before, was talking shop as if he had never done anything else before. Frederick chimed in with the customer and the two of them headed towards the till. “So, Steve, what are Kate and the kids doing?” asked Frederick. Leander couldn't believe his ears. Did they know each other? And where from?

The day had been exhausting. But they had made good sales. Frederick swept out the store, Leander checked what needed to be reordered. The two of them were hungry. Shopping and cooking was definitely too strenuous for them now. They hadn't eaten here yet. There was the Brigitte Bistro, but that seemed too fancy for them. They were dirty and sweaty and didn't feel like changing. The diner seemed more suitable. And they would find something vegetarian there.

In fact, it was more difficult than he had thought. Leander ordered a Greek salad with a glass of Pino Grigio. With a slightly pained smile, he looked at Frederick and wondered what he would choose. He ordered the Red Hook Burger with a portion of fries and a Budweiser. Leander no longer understood the world. Not yet. He changed his mind. Also a beer, not a white wine. The beer was delicious. The second one too. Buck and Hunter sat down with them. Frederick talked to them about football as if he'd never done anything else. And even though he had no idea why he was doing it, at some point Leander asked if they wanted a smoke outside. Frederick grinned, took a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket and said that he had been worried that he would never ask again.

The alarm clock rang at 05:00. Frederick was already awake. Probably running. Leander looked in the fridge. Thank God there were still enough eggs and bacon. He made breakfast and had just finished when Leander pulled into the driveway with the pickup. His sweaty tank top was tucked into the back of his sweat shorts. His upper body was still sweaty from training. He hugged Leander tightly and gave him a deep French kiss. Frederick stank of sweat and Leander got hard. And before they could even eat their scrambled eggs, Frederick fucked Leander on the kitchen table.

Frederick left straight after breakfast, still chewing. Leander tidied up and only then made his way to the store in his van. It was 7 a.m. when he set the neon sign to “we are open”. He could already hear the radio and metal banging from the back of the workshop. Frederick was obviously already at work. Even though they rarely saw each other during the day, it was good to know that the other was always just a few steps away. And when it was quiet for a few minutes, the two of them could smoke a cigarette together. And if the two of them were very ratty, the “Be right back” sign had to be put in the window.

Before they went to the diner to eat and watch football, Lee made Fred at least wash himself with a washcloth. He hadn't showered for two or three days now and was covered in oil from work. Very cool, Lee thought, but a little civilization was a must. And he would be able to use the time to have his beard trimmed. The barber store was about to close, but Pete would make an exception for his fiery red beard.

"Yo, can you believe livin' in the city?" Fred stared at the street, all deep and whatnot. It was a nice, warm summer night. Lee took a swig of beer and burped loud, like a champ. "Not a chance, man!" he shot back. "What the hell for?" "Damn, sometimes I think I should be doin' more than just twistin' my Harleys." "You ain't wrong, but why would you drag me into the city?" The two laughed boomingly. Yes, as the gay couple, they were a bit exotic in Red Hook. But apart from that, they just fit in here. Just a perfect match!

[octuscle]

Beast Mode in the Mountains

Winter had settled its icy grip on the mountains, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones no matter how many layers you wore. I was shivering under three jackets, sitting in a rustic little cabin with my uncle Frank and my grandfather Walter.

Frank, a 50-year-old mechanic with grease-stained hands, was cursing at the broken heating system. "Damn thing’s dead," he muttered. Walter, my 80-year-old ex-farmer granddad, just chuckled, wrapped in three blankets. "In my day, we just lit a fire and dealt with it."

"Yeah, well, it's 2025, and I'm not about to freeze to death," Frank grumbled, pulling out his phone. He tapped around, looking for heating solutions when he stumbled across an app called Chronivac.

"What the hell is this?" he mused. He scrolled through the settings and found something labeled BULL. "Might as well try it."

The moment he pressed the button, Frank groaned. His body swelled—broadening, thickening. His jacket ripped at the seams as his biceps bulged, his chest expanded, and his neck thickened into a massive yoke of muscle. Hair sprouted across his body, thick and coarse like an animal’s. His face grew squarer, his nose broader, his ears slightly pointed. His voice deepened into a guttural rumble.

"Whoa—what the hell?!" he bellowed, gripping his growing forearms as veins surged to the surface. His fingers thickened, his nails darkening. His boots strained, then burst apart as his feet expanded. He stood, now 7 feet tall, pushing 500 pounds of sheer muscle, with shoulders as wide as the doorway.

"Holy—Frank, what happened to you?!" I stammered.

Frank blinked at his massive hands, then smirked. "This app… It changes people."

Walter squinted at him. "You look like a damn monster."

Frank scrolled through the app again. "Let's test something. How about… POLAR BEAR?"

He pressed the button, and Walter let out a deep, rumbling growl. His wrinkles faded, his frame straightened, and he ballooned in size. Muscles layered onto his old, wiry frame, his gut hardening into a thick, powerful core. His hands turned into massive paws, tipped with thick claws. White fur exploded across his skin, covering his entire body. His face pushed forward slightly, his teeth elongating into sharp canines.

Walter, now a beast of a man, easily 8 feet tall and close to 600 pounds of sheer bulk, cracked his thickened neck. "Well, damn. I feel stronger than I ever have."

I gulped. "Maybe we should stop—"

Frank grinned and tapped the screen again. HAIRY PAKISTANI BODYBUILDER.

A jolt hit me. My whole body felt like it was being pulled, stretched, reshaped. My arms swelled first—biceps and triceps thickening, veins snaking across the surface. My chest ballooned outward into two massive, fur-covered slabs. My abs tightened into an eight-pack. My legs thickened like tree trunks, muscles rippling beneath my darkening skin. A thick pelt of black hair surged across my chest, arms, and legs. My face matured—my jaw squared, my nose broadened, and my hair became fuller, darker, and perfectly groomed. My height shot up to 6'8", my weight packing on until I neared 400 pounds of hulking, hairy muscle.

I flexed instinctively, feeling strength course through my new body. "Whoa…"

Frank laughed. "This is insane! But damn, it’s still cold."

He kept scrolling, and then his eyes lit up. "Check this out—BEAST MODE. Says it’s permanent, though."

"Frank, wait—"

He tapped the button.

The changes hit like an earthquake. My muscles surged even larger—my biceps, now 30 inches thick, split with striations. My pecs became shelf-like, pushing my chest outward. My legs, already tree trunks, thickened into something inhuman. My body hair turned even denser, almost like fur. My face became more bestial—sharper, more primal, my canines extending into fangs. My ears lengthened slightly, my hands growing into massive, claw-tipped paws. I felt an overwhelming hunger, a raw, untamed energy bubbling beneath my skin.

Frank roared as his transformation completed, his body now a massive hybrid of muscle, fur, and raw power. Walter, now fully a monstrous polar bear-man, growled deeply, his glowing blue eyes surveying the cabin.

We had become something more than human. Something powerful. Something unstoppable.

And we weren’t cold anymore.

Thanks for pics and inspiration to @reddarkfox222

[octuscle]

Cosechadora

Gregory Miller had been warned. The mood in his constituency was tipping. The lack of harvest workers had hit some of the farmers hard. The MP had therefore deliberately decided against wearing a suit and opted for a casual outfit. And so he stood somewhere in the middle of nowhere on a farm and tried to withstand the farmer's tirades with a smile.

“Listen,” he tried to interrupt the abuse. “If there's anything we can do to help you, we'll help them!” The farmer shouted at him that he had only been waiting for this offer and threw his pitchfork at Gregory. “Then why don't you start right away and muck out my stable!” Gregory looked around for help. His assistant just shrugged his shoulders disconcertedly and discreetly. “One day” Gregory thought to himself. “It's just one day.”

Gregory picked up the pitchfork and went into the stable. He had no idea what to do. His assistant took a few pictures for Instagram. Gregory filled a wheelbarrow with straw from the ground. “You bloody politicians are really good for nothing,” the farmer scolded and showed Gregory what to do and how to do it. After half an hour, Gregory's assistant said goodbye because he had to get to the office urgently. He would pick Gregory up tomorrow around noon. Gregory was sweating and cursing inwardly. But he smiled a slightly pained smile and said that he would have a lot of fun until then.

Lunch was plentiful. But Greg was also hungry. The farmer's wife said that he had to wash up first, he stank like a pig. “Yes, Mam,” Greg replied politely and went to the washing trough behind the house. The cold water did him good. The food was delicious. “What's on the agenda for this afternoon, boss?” he asked with his mouth full. The farmer listed Greg's chores. Shit, this was going to be exhausting again. And why he had to be in the cornfield at sunset was obvious. The farmer would want to blow him again. But the boss decided. And the wages on the farm weren't bad either, so an open-air blow job was okay.

It was 10 p.m. when Greg finally fell asleep. It had been a hard day. But he liked the job here. Ever since the farmer's son had left for the big city, this place had been missing a helping hand. And he had been the right man at the right time. And the farmer had nothing to worry about. He would never run away to the big city. He was a country boy after all.

They were wild dreams in the night. Washington DC came to mind, Idaho and Tijuana. He tossed and turned from right to left. He was drenched in sweat. It was 4:30 a.m. when the alarm clock rang. Jorge was the first one awake on the farm. Until recently, there had been five of them. Three had been picked up by the immigration authorities, one had left. Jorge was the last one here. And it was only a matter of time before they found him too. Until then, he had to try to earn as much money as possible. He now had to work for five. He was still only paid for one.

Jorge looked after the cows, mucked out the pigsty and made breakfast. He himself ate a sandwich on the way out to the fields. He had to check the corn. It was actually still too early for the harvest. But firstly, it looked like a storm. And secondly, if he wasn't here tomorrow, who would support the boss?

As he was about to make his way back to the farm at midday, he saw a car approaching. Shit, he knew that guy, he worked for the county deputy. Jorge ducked down. Before the guy drove back, Jorge had better not show his face on the farm. The farmer was already constantly complaining about the new government… Everything looked even worse to Jorge. But he didn't complain. After all, he wasn't a gringo who couldn't stand anything and only complained. He was a proud Mexican. And if his cock was good enough to be sucked by the farmer, Mexicans couldn't be that bad.

Just to be clear, I would never call anyone “wetback”. But the idea of turning a xenophobic Republican into what he himself would disparagingly call a wetback is the core idea of this story.

[octuscle]

I don't know if I ask the right partner for help but there is this mean prof at our college and I don't know what to do but dumbing him down. Is there somebody at chronivac knowing this situation and ready to help? I'd like him really dumb - to dumb for a college grade anymore

Yo, your prof is up there by the blackboard rambling about game theory and business cycles. Dude, you’re totally lost. He goes quiet and locks eyes with you. Oh man, you know what’s coming—he’s gonna hit you with another question. If you flake on this one, your grades are toast. It’s dead silent, no one’s even blinking. His intense gaze sweeps the rows. Outta nowhere, his face cracks into a grin. Then: BUUUUUUURP! “Hehe, that wasn’t too shabby, huh?” he chuckles, feeling himself. He’s rocking some sweaty pits, and that’s rare for the dude. “Bro, it’s freaking scorcher in here, right?” He peels off his shirt, and you never caught he had a red tank on underneath. “So bros, then this and that happens, and the economy just kinda freezes, ya know?” You all look at each other, like, did he just smell that? “Oh man, didn’t get this lame topic anyway. Total econ bummer.” Another burp escapes. He snags his backpack, throws on his cap, and bounces outta the lecture hall.

Dude's the fitness coach for the squad now. Some of the guys think he's smart, but honestly, it's not shocking. He found a couple of total dimwits who make him look like a genius.

[octuscle]

Hey Support. Could use some advice. It’s my sister’s anniversary, so she asked me to take care of her twin sons while she and her husband went out to dinner. Problem is, they’re a pair of dopey eighteen year old brats with no higher aspirations in life than getting stoned and skating. Wouldn’t be an issue with me if they just kept to themselves, but for the past three hours they’ve just been parked on the couch in their backwards baseball caps and sagging sweatpants, sneering at me in between their slow idiotic giggles, saying that I better “watch out” or else they’ll “take me down a peg”. Not sure what two stupid lanky kids like them could ever really do, but I don’t appreciate the attitude, I can tell you that. I’ve gone to my room to fetch my chronoviac and was wondering if you had any suggestions for settings to put them in their place. It should be right h—wait. Wait a minute. Where is it??

Bro, once you're chillin' on vacay… and some intern's takin' support calls?

Like, the good news is, the intern had a solid thought: mature those twins up! And it worked. No more stoner skater vibes. They ain't passing for 18 anymore either… But dude, their hygiene is still a trainwreck. If they don't put those arms down soon, your whole place is gonna reek of testosterone and sweat. But hey, no worries, right?

The intern's got the twins covered, but you? Not so much. And the twins had the default setting “One of us” activated...

So… your bros are hitting the gym soon. But since they're crashing at your pad, they're hyped to push you to join. Your apartment's already a disaster, and you smell like a high school locker room too.

Now just grab a clean gym shirt and hit those weights, bro!

[octuscle]

Support? Ha hello!

I need some help, I haven’t fucked up, yet. So I wanted your knowledge to help me do what I wanted. You see I really wanted to change my group of straight friends and i into some big Ol gay hunks, daddies, bears and the like. Y’ know it’s tiring being the only gay in the group. But I’m not sure how to randomize it and make sure that the four of us don’t just end up as the same man.

I wondered if you had a good method for this?

Yo, that was hella tight… You were about to merge into one dude. But thank the stars I caught your call right before last call, man. Bro, that was a total scramble… But I hope I fine-tuned the squad just right. One thing’s for sure: you ain’t the only bro in the crew anymore…

Dude, it’s been a minute since this bar's had this much testosterone. The hands not on the bar? They’re rockin’ some swim trunks. Yours or a buddy’s. Let’s see if you can still snag a brew and down it before you boys tumble over each other.