AnotherTF_Here

tf by magic - weight gain

The Slytherin common room disappeared behind them as Harry and Ron hurried through the deserted corridors, each struggling to keep pace with the last fading moments of the Polyjuice Potion.

Harry could already feel it. A strange warmth spread beneath his skin. His shoulders tightened, then narrowed. His hands shrank around the oversized sleeves of Goyle's robes.

"We've got to get back!" Ron whispered, his voice already rising toward his own. "It's wearing off!"

They slipped into Moaning Myrtle's bathroom just as Harry's knees buckled.

Both transformations happened almost simultaneously. Bones cracked softly. Heavy muscles melted away. Their uniforms hanged awkwardly from their suddenly smaller bodies. Harry stumbled against one of the sinks.

His vision blurred—

Then sharpened.

He blinked instinctively before realizing he needed his glasses again. Ron rubbed his own face in relief.

"Oh, thank Merlin..." he muttered. "I thought Malfoy was going to notice something."

Harry barely answered. Instead, he stared at his own hands. Thin. Scarred. Familiar. He flexed his fingers once. Something about them suddenly felt... surprisingly fragile.

"You alright?" Ron asked.

Harry looked up a second later.

"Yeah."

The answer came a little too quickly.

"I just..."

He hesitated.

"...forgot what it was like."

Ron laughed.

"I didn't. I hated every second of being Crabbe."

Harry forced a smile.

"I suppose."

At that moment the bathroom door burst open. Hermione stumbled inside. Or rather— Half-Hermione. Her face was covered in fine black fur. Golden cat ears poked through her bushy hair. Long whiskers twitched beside a flattened nose.

"Oh no..." Ron gasped.

Hermione tried to speak.

"I... I think..."

Only a strange meow escaped her lips. Ron immediately rushed to support her.

"We need Madam Pomfrey."

Harry nodded automatically. Neither of them noticed that his eyes drifted, just for an instant, toward the large brass cauldron hidden beneath the broken sink. There was still Polyjuice Potion inside. Not much. But enough.

When they arrived at the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey looked horrified.

"You put what into your body?"

Hermione lowered her furry head in embarrassment.

"I accidentally used a cat hair..."

"I should think so!"

The matron immediately ushered Hermione toward a private bed.

"I've never seen such careless experimentation."

Ron looked apologetic.

"Will she be alright?"

"In time."

Madam Pomfrey sighed.

"It may take several weeks before every feline feature disappears."

Hermione gave Harry and Ron an embarrassed look.

"Don't... tell anyone."

"We won't," Harry promised.

Ron nodded enthusiastically.

"Never."

Madam Pomfrey dismissed them.

"You two should get back to your dormitories."

As they walked back toward Gryffindor Tower, Ron looked exhausted.

"I don't ever want to drink that stuff again."

Harry kept his eyes forward.

"It was useful."

"It was disgusting."

Harry smiled faintly.

"I suppose."

Ron yawned.

"I'm going to bed."

"You go ahead."

Ron stopped.

"Aren't you coming?"

"In a minute."

"I forgot something."

Ron shrugged.

"Don't stay up too late."

As soon as Ron disappeared around the corner, Harry turned and headed back the way they had come. Moaning Myrtle's bathroom was silent except for the occasional drip of water echoing through the cracked pipes. Myrtle herself floated lazily near the ceiling.

"Oh..."

She recognized him immediately.

"You're back."

Harry smiled politely.

"I forgot something."

"You boys always forget something."

She drifted through one of the sinks with an exaggerated sigh. Harry waited until she disappeared into the plumbing. Then he knelt beside the hidden cauldron. The Polyjuice Potion shimmered faintly under the bathroom's dim light. There was more left than he had expected. Enough for several doses. He uncorked many empty glass vials from his satchel. His hands moved carefully. One ladle. Then another.

The thick potion flowed slowly into each bottle, swirling with metallic colors that shifted between bronze, silver and dark green.

Harry sealed each vial tightly. He stared at them. He should destroy them. That was the sensible thing. The mission was over. They no longer needed Polyjuice. He reached toward the nearest sink. His fingers stopped halfway.

Instead, he wrapped each vial in a scrap of cloth and placed them inside an old leather pouch. He crouched beside one of the broken pipes beneath Myrtle's sink. There was a narrow cavity behind loose bricks. Perfect.

He slid the pouch inside. Invisible unless someone knew exactly where to look.As he pushed the final brick back into place, he remained kneeling for several seconds. His reflection shimmered in a puddle on the floor. Harry Potter. Messy black hair. Thin frame. Round glasses. The lightning scar. Completely himself.

Yet he couldn't stop remembering what it had felt like only minutes earlier. The effortless strength. The silence. The strange relief of walking through Hogwarts without whispers following him. Without everyone expecting Harry Potter to solve every mystery.

As Goyle... No one had cared. No one had stared. No one had expected anything. It had been... peaceful. Harry quickly shook the thought away.

"What am I thinking?"

The bathroom gave no answer. Only the slow dripping of water echoed through the empty room. Harry stood, adjusted his glasses, and left the bathroom. Hidden behind the loose bricks, the three small vials waited patiently in the darkness.

Harry waited three days. Three days of classes. Three days of Quidditch practice. Three days of pretending nothing had changed. Yet every now and then, without warning, his mind drifted back to the feeling of being Gregory Goyle.

The weight. The strength. The silence. It wasn't that he wanted to be Goyle. At least, that was what he kept telling himself. He simply wanted to understand why it had felt so... comforting.

Late on Friday evening, after Gryffindor Tower had gone quiet, Harry slipped out beneath his Invisibility Cloak. The castle was almost silent. His footsteps echoed faintly as he descended toward the abandoned girls' bathroom.

Moaning Myrtle wasn't there. Perfect. Harry knelt beside the loose brick beneath the cracked sink. His fingers found the leather pouch exactly where he had hidden it. Inside were several glass vials.

The Polyjuice Potion still shimmered with metallic swirls. He uncorked one. The familiar smell of overcooked cabbage and bitter herbs filled the room.

"This is just curiosity," he whispered.

He drank. Immediately the potion burned all the way down his throat. The sensation returned far faster than he remembered. His stomach tightened. His arms grew heavy. His shoes suddenly felt too small. Harry leaned against the sink as the transformation spread through him.

His chest widened. His shoulders stretched outward. His sleeves crept toward his elbows as thick forearms swelled beneath them. His hands became broad and rough. His neck thickened. His jaw pushed outward with a dull ache. The muscles of his back expanded until his Gryffindor jumper strained against them. His trousers became painfully tight around his thighs.

Then—

Everything stopped. Harry took a slow breath. He looked into the mirror. Gregory Goyle stared back. The broad face. The thick neck. The heavy brow. Dark, cropped hair. He take off his glasses. Perfect eyesight. Harry blinked several times. The world looked strangely... clear. No lenses. No frames. Nothing between him and the castle. He raised one enormous hand to his face.

"My eyes..."

He smiled despite himself.

"I forgot."

Then he looked down. The smile vanished.

His Gryffindor clothes were a disaster. His jumper stretched so tightly across his chest that the seams groaned whenever he breathed. His trousers barely reached his ankles. Every movement threatened to split the fabric.

"I can't leave like this."

After an hour, Harry watched uneasily as his massive fingers slowly narrowed. His shoulders shrank. The oversized clothes slipped awkwardly from his body. Within moments he was Harry Potter once again.

Keeping to the empty corridors, Harry hurried toward Hogwarts' laundry rooms. House-elves worked silently among towering stacks of freshly washed uniforms. Before any of them noticed him, Harry quietly searched through a pile of clothing awaiting repair.

He found exactly what he needed. A plain white shirt several sizes larger than his own. Black trousers with a wide waist. An unused Slytherin uniform neatly folded beside them. He hesitated. The green robes felt surprisingly heavy in his hands.

"This is only practical," he muttered.

He bundled everything under one arm before slipping back into the corridors. He dressed quickly in the larger shirt and trousers. They hung loosely from his slim frame.Then he uncorked a second vial. He stared at it for several seconds.

Harry drank. The second transformation came even more smoothly than the first. Almost eagerly. His body expanded into Goyle's once again.

This time there was no panic. Only anticipation. The borrowed clothes stretched comfortably over his larger frame. No seams protested. No fabric threatened to tear.

He studied his reflection. For the first time since drinking the potion...Nothing looked wrong. Only one problem remained. His feet.

Transformed, the borrowed shoes from Gryffindor pinched painfully around his now much larger feet.

"I'll need Goyle's."

Crossing into the Slytherin dungeon felt strangely natural. No portraits questioned him. No ghosts paid him any attention. Students barely glanced his way. To them, Gregory Goyle had simply returned after wandering the castle.

Harry entered the boys' dormitory with surprising confidence. Crabbe was lying on his bed, lazily reading a Quidditch magazine.

"There you are," Crabbe grunted.

"Thought you'd got lost."

Harry gave the simplest answer he could think of.

"Took a while."

Crabbe shrugged.

"Wanted to play Exploding Snap?"

"Maybe later."

Apparently that was enough. Crabbe returned to his magazine without another question. Harry quietly crossed the room until he found another large bed surrounded by untidy belongings. Large boots rested beneath it.

His size. He slipped them on. Perfect. Not merely comfortable— Natural.

As he stood upright again, Harry caught sight of himself in the dormitory mirror.

A tall, broad-shouldered Slytherin boy looked back at him. No scar. No glasses. No famous face. No one stared. No one whispered. No one expected anything extraordinary. For the first time in months... Harry Potter had disappeared. And strangely... He wasn't sure he missed him.

The next week, Harry established a routine. Attend classes. Finish his homework. Visit Hermione in the hospital wing. Wait until the castle had fallen asleep. Then disappear.

The hidden vials beneath Myrtle's sink became part of his nightly ritual. Each time he drank the Polyjuice Potion, the transformation came a little faster. A little smoother. As if his body had begun remembering Gregory Goyle.

Harry no longer counted the hours. He counted the evenings. One evening became three. Three became six. Soon, slipping into Goyle's body felt almost as ordinary as putting on a different set of robes.

He no longer gasped as his shoulders broadened. He no longer stared in disbelief when his glasses became unnecessary. Instead, he calmly folded them into his pocket before the transformation had even finished.

"My eyesight..."

He smiled.

"...still perfect."

The novelty should have faded. Instead, it became one of the things he missed most whenever the potion wore off. Life inside Slytherin House proved strangely uncomplicated. Crabbe never asked difficult questions. Malfoy expected little more than agreement. The older students barely acknowledged Goyle unless they needed someone to carry books, move furniture, or stand nearby looking intimidating.

Harry discovered something unexpected. Being underestimated was peaceful. No professors watched him suspiciously. No portraits whispered his name. Nobody wondered if he was the Heir of Slytherin. When he walked through the dungeon corridors, he was invisible in the best possible way. Not because of magic. Because nobody cared.

Meanwhile, Harry Potter still existed. He attended Gryffindor classes every morning.He laughed with Ron. He brought Hermione books from the library.

But something felt... Different. One afternoon, while changing after Quidditch practice, Harry paused. His school trousers felt tighter than usual. He frowned.

"That's odd."

He had always been lean. Now his thighs filled the fabric more noticeably. His shoulders also seemed a little broader beneath his shirt. Nothing dramatic. Nothing anyone else would notice. Probably. He blamed Quidditch.

The changes continued. Every morning after a night spent as Goyle, Harry noticed something new.His palms seemed slightly larger. His grip stronger. His appetite greater. He found himself reaching automatically for second helpings at breakfast. Then third. Ron looked up from his plate.

"Hungry today?"

Harry blinked.

"I suppose I am."

Ron laughed.

"Brilliant. More bacon for you means less for Fred."

Harry smiled faintly. He hadn't realised he'd already finished nearly everything on his plate. Three days later, Harry caught himself standing before the mirror in the Gryffindor dormitory. He rolled up his sleeves.

His forearms looked thicker. Not muscular. Simply... Heavier. His hands seemed broader than he remembered. The differences were tiny. Almost impossible to measure. But Harry knew his own body. Something was changing. He whispered the thought aloud.

"It can't be the Polyjuice."

The potion wasn't supposed to leave permanent effects. Was it?

Hermione remained confined to the hospital wing. The cat-like features had faded considerably, but traces still lingered around her eyes and ears. Madam Pomfrey insisted she stay for observation. Harry visited every evening. Hermione always asked the same question.

"Everything alright?"

Harry always smiled.

"Everything's fine."

She believed him. Or perhaps she wanted to. Ron usually did most of the talking anyway, describing Quidditch practice and lessons while Harry remained unusually quiet.

Hermione noticed.

"You seem tired."

"Just sleeping badly."

Another lie. One that became easier each day. One evening, after leaving the hospital wing, Harry returned to Myrtle's bathroom. He uncorked another vial. Only a few remained now. The potion swirled lazily inside the glass.

"You should stop."

The voice surprised him. Myrtle floated upside down near the ceiling, watching him.

"You keep coming back."

Harry looked away.

"It's only until they're gone."

Myrtle tilted her head.

"Is that really why?"

Harry didn't answer. He drank. The familiar warmth spread through him. His body expanded with remarkable ease. His shirt tightened. His chest broadened. His neck thickened. His glasses slipped from his face before he casually caught them in one large hand. He smiled without thinking.

It no longer hurt. It simply... Fit. Nearly two hours later, Harry waited for the potion to wear off. He sat alone on the bathroom floor. The change began gently. His heavy muscles softened.His height decreased. His jaw narrowed. His glasses returned to his face. When the transformation ended, Harry remained seated.He stared at his hands. They were Harry's hands again.

Yet... Not completely.

His fingers still looked slightly broader than before. The sleeves of his Gryffindor jumper hugged his forearms more closely than they had a week ago. He stood. His shirt pulled faintly across his shoulders. Harry frowned.

"That's impossible."

He looked into the cracked mirror. Harry Potter looked back. Messy black hair. Round glasses. Green eyes. The lightning scar. But there was something undeniably different. His face appeared a little fuller. His jaw just slightly squarer. His frame no longer looked quite as slight as it once had. The potion had ended. Yet Gregory Goyle had not disappeared completely.

For the first time, Harry wondered whether part of the transformation had decided to stay.

The changes were no longer easy to ignore. Harry had stopped timing the Polyjuice Potion altogether. Some nights it lasted two hours. Others, nearly four.

There was no pattern anymore. The transformations came quickly, and the return to his own body had become frustratingly unpredictable.

Each time he waited for the familiar warmth to fade...it lingered.

Hermione had finally left the hospital wing. The last traces of feline features had disappeared, and Madam Pomfrey had reluctantly declared her fit to return to classes.

"You've been quiet lately," Hermione observed over breakfast.

Harry shrugged.

"Just tired."

Ron nodded.

"He's been exhausted for weeks."

Hermione frowned.

"You're sleeping enough?"

Harry forced a smile.

"I'll be fine."

She wasn't convinced.

That evening Harry became Goyle once again. The transformation felt almost effortless now. His shoulders broadened. His neck thickened. His hands swelled until they completely filled the sleeves of the Slytherin uniform.

His glasses came off almost automatically. He slipped them into his pocket without even thinking. Perfect vision greeted him again. He spent several peaceful hours in the Slytherin common room. Malfoy complained about Lockart's homework. Crabbe absent-mindedly demolished an entire plate of pastries. Nobody expected Harry Potter to answer difficult questions. Nobody asked him to make decisions. Nobody watched him. Harry simply existed.

It was... restful. Near midnight he quietly slipped away. He expected the potion to fade before reaching Gryffindor Tower. It didn't.

By the time he whispered the password to the Fat Lady beneath his Invisibility Cloak, Gregory Goyle was still staring back whenever he caught his reflection in dark windows.

Harry frowned.

"That's never happened before."

The portrait swung open. The common room was silent. Only dying embers glowed inside the fireplace. Every armchair stood empty. He crossed the room slowly, listening to the steady ticking of the grandfather clock. No footsteps. No voices.

Everyone was asleep. Instead of climbing directly toward the boys' dormitory, Harry turned toward the adjoining washroom.

Moonlight filtered through the tall windows, reflecting across the polished stone floor. A long mirror stretched along one wall. Harry stopped in front of it . For several moments, he simply looked.

Gregory Goyle looked back. The broad shoulders. The heavy chest. The square jaw. The thick neck disappearing into the collar of his robes.

Harry slowly removed the robe and folded it over a nearby bench. Then the green tie. Then the white shirt. Standing in nothing more than his trousers, he studied himself with quiet concentration. His chest rose and fell steadily. He lifted one heavy arm, turning it slowly beneath the pale moonlight. His forearm looked thick enough to dwarf Harry Potter's. He flexed his hand experimentally. The broad fingers closed into a powerful fist.

"It still feels..."

He searched for the right word.

"...natural."

He turned sideways. The reflection showed a solid frame that occupied far more space than his own ever had. He rested a hand against his shoulder, then traced the line of his arm with quiet curiosity, as though committing every detail to memory.

He expected the transformation to begin fading. Nothing happened.

A floorboard creaked behind him. Harry froze. Someone had entered the washroom.

He turned sharply. Ron Weasley stood in the doorway, barefoot, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Ron stared. His expression shifted from confusion...to disbelief.

"Goyle?"

Harry instinctively took one step backward.

"No..."

Ron narrowed his eyes. Then recognition slowly dawned.

"Harry?"

Silence. Ron looked from the folded Gryffindor clothes on the bench...to Harry's glasses resting beside the sink...then back to Goyle's face. His own face went pale.

"What are you doing?"

Harry opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Ron glanced at the mirror.

"You were just standing there..."

His voice became quieter.

"...looking at yourself."

"I was waiting for it to wear off."

Ron frowned.

"It's been hours that you deasapear."

"I know."

Harry looked down at his large hands.

"It should have ended."

"But it hasn't."

Ron stepped closer.

"How many times have you done this?"

Harry hesitated.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"I stopped counting."

Ron stared at him in horrified silence. Harry answered so naturally that he barely noticed what he had said. Ron did. The words lingered between them. Neither spoke for several seconds. Finally Ron whispered,

"We need to tell Hermione."

Harry immediately shook his head.

"No."

"Harry—"

"No."

His answer came faster than intended. Too sharp. Too defensive. Ron blinked.

"You've been hiding this from us."

Harry lowered his gaze.

"I wasn't ready."

Ron looked once more at the mirror, where Gregory Goyle still stood despite the passing hours. For the first time since the Chamber of Secrets investigation had begun, Ron felt something he had never expected to feel toward his best friend. Not confusion. Not anger. Fear. Because the Polyjuice Potion should have worn off long ago. And yet Harry was still looking back from the mirror with Gregory Goyle's face.

Harry's transformation finally broke just before dawn. He was halfway back to his bed when the familiar warmth suddenly vanished. His shoulders narrowed. His heavy muscles softened. His jaw drew inward. The weight disappeared from his limbs.

A moment later, Harry Potter stood in the empty corridor once more, breathing hard as his glasses slipped back onto his face. Ron let out a long breath.

"Thank Merlin..."

Harry looked down at his own hands. Thin again. Smaller. Fragile. He didn't share Ron's relief. The following morning, Ron insisted on speaking with Hermione. The three of them met in an unused classroom after dinner. Hermione listened without interrupting while Ron described everything he had seen.

"...he was just standing there," Ron finished quietly.

Hermione's face slowly lost its colour.

"That's impossible."

"I know."

"The Polyjuice Potion should never last that long."

"It did."

Silence settled over the room.

Finally Hermione spoke.

"Harry..."

He avoided her eyes.

"How many doses?"

"I don't know."

"You truly don't know?"

"I stopped counting."

Hermione closed her eyes briefly.

"I was afraid you'd say that."

She began searching every book she could find on advanced potion theory. Three evenings later she spread several heavy volumes across a library table.

"I've found references to prolonged magical adaptations."

Harry looked up.

"But?"

Hermione hesitated.

"Not with Polyjuice."

Ron frowned.

"What does that mean?"

"It means nobody has ever recorded someone taking it this often."

She turned another page.

"The potion imitates another person's body."

Harry nodded.

"I know."

Hermione looked directly at him.

"But repeated exposure might encourage the body to remain in that borrowed form longer each time."

Ron swallowed.

"And eventually?"

Hermione didn't answer immediately.

Finally she whispered,

"I don't know."

From that day onward, Ron and Hermione watched Harry constantly. Whenever classes ended, one of them stayed with him. Whenever Harry disappeared for too long, Ron searched the castle. Hermione quietly inspected Myrtle's bathroom more than once. Harry said nothing. He simply waited. Waited for an opportunity. Waited for them to become distracted.

He thought about the final vial every day. Sometimes every hour.

Several classmates casually remarked that Quidditch training seemed to be "bulking him up."

Harry knew better.

Every morning he compared himself with his reflection. He missed feeling Goyle's fuller shape.

"You have to stop."

Hermione's voice was firm. They stood once again inside Myrtle's bathroom. Ron had discovered the hidden pouch. Only one glass vial remained. Hermione held it tightly.

"I'm serious."

Harry stared at it.

"You don't understand."

"No."

Her voice shook.

"I understand perfectly."

She lifted the bottle.

"This has gone too far."

Harry took a slow step forward.

"Give it back."

"No."

"It belongs to me."

Harry's expression hardened.

Ron stepped between them.

"Harry..."

He raised both hands.

"Listen to her."

Harry's jaw clenched.

"Weasley."

Ron blinked. Harry had never called him that before.

"What?"

"Stop pissing me off! Weasley."

The name came again. Cold. Dismissive. Almost contemptuous.

"Move."

Ron stared at him. Hermione looked horrified.

"Harry..."

He didn't even seem to hear her. She took another cautious step.

"Harry, please."

His eyes turned toward her. For an instant they looked unfamiliar.

"Tired of lecturing everyone?"

She froze. Then came the words neither Ron nor Hermione ever imagined hearing from him.

"Give me the bottle, Mudblood."

The silence that followed was absolute. Harry himself looked startled for half a heartbeat. As though some distant part of him had recognised what he had just said.Then the hesitation disappeared.

He snatched the vial from Hermione's hand. Ron lunged forward.

"Harry, don't—"

Too late. Harry uncorked it. The remaining Polyjuice Potion disappeared in a single swallow. The transformation exploded through him.

Unlike every previous dose, there was no struggle. No pain.No resistance. His body welcomed it. His shoulders expanded with effortless certainty. His chest broadened.

His neck thickened. His face settled naturally into Gregory Goyle's familiar features. His eyesight sharpened before he even remembered removing his glasses.

They slipped from his fingers onto the stone floor. Neither Harry nor Ron bent to retrieve them. The silence lasted several long seconds. Then... Nothing.

No lingering warmth. No expectation that the magic would fade. Only stillness. Gregory Goyle took one slow breath. He flexed his broad fingers. Ran one hand across his heavy jaw. Touched his thick neck. Rested both hands against his broad chest.

Everything felt... Right. He turned toward the mirror. The reflection felt utterly familiar. Not borrowed. Not temporary. He smiled faintly. As though recognizing an old friend.

"So..."

His deeper voice was calm.

"...this is me."

Ron stared in horror.

"Harry..."

No answer. Hermione whispered,

"The transformation..."

Her voice broke.

Gregory looked at them both with quiet detachment. There was no anger on his face anymore. Only certainty. He picked up the neatly folded Slytherin robes. One piece at a time, he dressed himself.

The robes settled comfortably across his broad shoulders. The green tie sat perfectly beneath his thick neck. He slipped his feet into Goyle's shoes. Every movement felt instinctive.

He glanced once toward Harry's abandoned glasses lying on the floor.

For a moment... He searched his memory. They seemed strangely familiar. Then even that feeling drifted away. Without another word, he turned and walked out of the bathroom.

Ron took one desperate step after him.

"Harry!"

Gregory paused only briefly. Without looking back, he replied,

"My name is Goyle."

Then he continued down the dungeon corridors. When he entered the Slytherin common room, no one reacted with surprise. Crabbe merely looked up from a game of Exploding Snap.

"There you are."

Gregory nodded.

"Yeah."

Malfoy barely glanced in his direction.

"About time."

In France, a new law was put in place increasing the police officers' ability to use their weapons. The boys dressed in running shoes and getting into mischief in the street were worried and looked for a solution, while the rich and preppy men saw it as a chance to put the young people back on the right path.This story will be about a group of boys who "by chance" met a man in the street who offered to help them dress better so they could disguise themselves from fearing police scrutiny and the possibility of living peacefully,they agreed and go into his house.

At the man's house They went into his dressing room where there were lots of clothes of an elegance that surpassed that of teenagers because, as they said, "we are not from the same world".

The man's name was Stanley and he helped the teenagers choose their new outfits; they found it a little strange but figured it would allow them to do naughty things without being suspected.

At the time of departure Stanley, after pressing a button, said to the boys: "You should take off those caps, they make you look vulgar, and you should also change your hairstyles." The Teenagers were about to They insulted Stanley, but suddenly felt something in their new clothes activate (it was a control chip) And they said in unison, "Yes sir, that's a very pleasing idea, sir!" to which Stanley replied, "You may call me Master; we are close now." They replied, "Yes, Master"That's a very welcome idea, Master!"

[This Quick and Dirty story was written by a human (me) based on a prompt that was previously sent to generative AI. I wrote it in one uninterrupted stream-of-consciousness flow with a hard time limit of 20 minutes. It is not perfect. No edits have been made, except to correct typos. Feel free to use my asks to send me more prompts!

For this one, I think I took a real left turn from the actual prompt, so I’m sorry if this isn’t exactly what you were looking for, anon! Oh, and thank you to @dumberswitch for providing the third image. (He has brought it to my attention that the man in said image is Australian, not English, which is actually quite obvious, but y’all, I only had 20 minutes 😵 please roll with it)]

Clayton was hanging out with his three best friends, who had just helped him move into his new apartment. They had all met the year before, during their freshman year of college, and they had bonded quickly over a shared taste in women, movies, sports, and well… everything.

They were relaxing after a tiring day, but Clayton could feel their palpable boredom, so he decided to come up with something fun to do.

“How about we each go around and say something we’re thankful for?” he asked.

Roderick sighed and said, “I’ll bite,” lowering the speed on his exercise bike so he could speak more easily. “I’m thankful I never gained the freshman 15.”

“I’m thankful for England,” said Chris, who was lying on the bed re-reading a Douglas Adams book and not really paying attention.

“I’m thankful for my pickup truck,” said John, who was peering out the window making sure his new truck was still there. It had just proven its usefulness in helping Clayton move all of his shit.

“And I’m thankful for my friends,” said Clayton. “Thanks again for helping me out today. I really owe you one.”

“Well, that was fun” said John, sarcastically. “Now what?”

Clayton racked his brains. “Oh! Why don’t I download that new app everyone’s been trying out!”

“Goonr?” asked Roderick. “The joke one that tells you your gooning style or whatever? I don’t really get it.”

“My friend Des tried it and he really got a kick out of it,” said Clayton, shrugging.

“Des is a perv,” said Chris. “But sure, why the hell not?”

Within minutes, the app was downloaded on Clayton’s phone and they all huddled around it. The loading icon finally cleared and what was revealed were the words “Friends.”

“Is that it?” asked John.

Clayton shrugged. “Guess so. At least it was free.”

Suddenly, all three of his friends’ phones pinged. They opened them to find that the Goonr app had spontaneously downloaded itself onto all of their phones.

“Is this some sort of promotion?” asked Chris. “Like that shitty U2 album that Apple put on everybody’s phones?”

One by one, the loading icons cleared. 
Roderick’s phone said “Fitness.”

Chris’ phone said “England.”

And John’s phone said “Truck.”

Simultaneously, all of their phones starting glowing white, momentarily blinding them all. When Roderick’s eyes cleared, he found that he was still sitting on the bike, blinking dazedly. “What the…” he said, before catching sight of himself in the mirror on the wall in front of him.

“Damn, I’m looking yoked,” he said, appreciatively.

He flexed his bicep. It looked big. He flexed his other bicep. It looked… bigger. Were they mismatched? He frowned and flexed the other one again. OK, it must have been a trick of the light. It bulged out properly, matching the other one.

He felt his dick stiffen in his pants. Fuck, was he making himself hard? That was embarrassing. But he was hot… He flexed his quads. Bam, bam! They bulged and grew. Fuck… He was such a stud. He lifted his shirt, admiring the six-pack abs that were bulging and growing from his flat stomach.

His dick got harder and harder. It felt like it was practically squirming. He touched it and his mind went white.

Chris’ eyes cleared next. The first thing he saw was his friend Roddy, feverishly pumping his meat while rubbing his abs and pedaling on the exercise bike. His hair looked a bit disheveled, and he had a short beard, as if he hadn’t shaved in a few days. Chris was about to panic when his attention was caught by his book, still lying open on the bed. He loved Douglas Adams so much. He loved everything English.

English literature, English culture, English food. English rugby. English beer. English girls. He even dressed English. He looked down to see his grey clothes shimmering and becoming bright yellow rugby kit.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell mate, what’s going on?” he asked. Hell, he even sounded English. Just hearing his voice turned him on so fucking much. He pulled down his shorts and started rubbing his cock, thinking about his favorite Page 3 models.

John’s eyes cleared next, revealing Roddy whacking off (again? He never stopped) and John lying on the bed, grinning.

He winked at John and pulled out his cock, beginning to wank himself off. His eyes crossed with sheer pleasure.

John averted his gaze, looking outside to see his truck. His pristine new truck, with that lovely moon roof and those Truck Nuts and all the mud on the bottom and the dents and… John felt dizzy. Was it dirtier than it was supposed to be? Was he dirtier than he was supposed to be? His hair suddenly felt greasy, as it began to lengthen and slide down his neck. He jammed his trucker cap over it to keep it contained, just as his trash stash grew in on his upper lip, nice and thick. He looked back out at his truck and thought about all the country babes he had wanted to plow out in the cornfield when he was growing up in Arkansas. His cock got hard in his pants. Would anybody mind if he…

Clayton’s eyes finally cleared, and he could see his friends. There was Roddy, feeling himself up. Pre-cum beaded at the tip of his red cock as his other hand furiously slid up and down his shaft.

There was Chris, going “oi” and “bruv” every few seconds as his spit-slick hand wanked his member. There was Jonno, shirtless (as usual) and sticking his tongue out as he beat his meat furiously.

God, they were all so hot. His friends, jerking their hogs, not a care in the world. This was all he wanted to see, all he wanted to think about, ever.

So that’s what he did. He stopped thinking about the job interview he had in the morning, or what he wanted to get for dinner, or even the fact that none of the four of them had looked quite like this a few minutes ago. All he could think about was his masturbating friends. He wanted to join them so bad. He whipped off his clothes, leaned over on the desk, and started going to town on himself, drooling as he stared intensely at the three hunks beating their meat in front of him. God, he was so thankful for his friends.

The Alpha Omega Upsilon house was legendary for its parties, but tonight, a strange barrel appeared on the front porch. Its contents, a dark, frothy amber liquid labeled simply "Old Executive," pulsed with an unusual light.

Dave, the house president, tapped it first. "To the alumni who left this! Happy Homecoming!" He filled his red solo cup and took a long draft.

Within moments, a change began. His chiselled jawline blurred, his youthful brow receding as thick, silver-streaked hair replaced his messy blonde mop. His vibrant eyes grew heavy and world-weary. "Guys," he croaked, his voice thick with a strange authority, "I think… I need to check the stock market."

The others watched in horror, but the keg was irresistible. One by one, the brothers took a drink, driven by an unexplainable urge. As they consumed the brew, their bodies twisted and shifted. Ripped abs dissolved into prominent potbellies. Smooth skin replaced sculpted muscles, and bushy gray moustaches bloomed across every lip.

They fought the change, crying out and trying to vomit, but the magic was relentless. They watched helplessly as their casual clothes fused into beige slacks and button-down shirts with ties, the crisp material tightening around their newly acquired girth.

When the transformation was complete, a dozen fat, balding, middle-aged men stood in the middle of the Alpha Omega Upsilon house, holding beers they didn’t recognize, discussing fiscal policy. They looked exactly like the group of men captured in the photo (image.png), their expressions frozen in a mix of forced laughter and suppressed despair. They had become the very thing they feared the most: their own fathers.

This new, aggressively preppy wardrobe was entirely the doing of his boyfriend, Sam, who was currently watching him from the shade of the patio. Last week, Colin had completely misbehaved at an important dinner party with Sam’s closest friends, drinking a bit too much, cracking inappropriate jokes, and accidentally knocking over a glass of red wine onto the host’s expensive rug.

Sam had been thoroughly unimpressed with the bratty behavior and decided it was time for a playful but firm lesson.

“Make sure you don’t burn those, Colin,” Sam scolded lightly, sipping an iced coffee while looking incredibly smug. “A good, obedient boyfriend knows exactly how to flip a burger without making a mess, especially after last week’s disaster.”

Colin flushed, looking down at his bright trousers. “I said I was sorry about the rug, Sam,” he mumbled, though a faint, excited smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Apologies are proven through actions, sweetheart,” Sam replied, his tone dripping with affection and teasing authority. “Which is why you’re spending your summer looking like a proper country-club gentleman and handling every single chore on my list.”

The playful power dynamic had been going on for four days now, and secretly, Colin was absolutely thrilled by how attentive and dominant Sam was being. Every morning, Sam would lay out a new outfit—yesterday it was pastel pink khakis and a white polo—and assign Colin his daily tasks.

“After you finish grilling lunch, you still need to vacuum the living room and fold the laundry,” Sam reminded him, walking over to stand directly behind Colin.

Sam wrapped his arms around Colin’s waist, leaning in close to press a warm, lingering kiss against his neck, making Colin shiver. “You look incredibly hot in these bright colors, by the way,” Sam whispered, his voice dropping an octave as his hands gripped Colin’s hips. “Much better than those baggy clothes you usually hide in.”

Colin leaned back into Sam’s chest, completely melting under the affection. “If I do a perfect job with the chores today, do I get a reward tonight?” Colin asked boldly, glancing back with a mischievous smirk.

The concrete dust hung in the air like a haze, catching the late afternoon sun that slanted through the half-finished steel framework. Marcus adjusted his Brioni tie, the silk smooth against his throat, and stepped over a coiled length of rebar with the exaggerated care of a man.

"Watch your step," a voice rumbled from somewhere to his left, low and rough as gravel. "That shit'll trip you up."

Marcus turned, already bristling. The man who'd spoken was leaning against a support beam, arms crossed over a chest that strained the seams of a gray t-shirt darkened with sweat. He was big—not gym-big, but work-big, the kind of bulk that came from hauling steel and pouring concrete twelve hours a day. A hard hat sat low on his brow, shadowing eyes that looked Marcus up and down with an assessment that felt almost physical.

"Vincent, I presume," Marcus said, his tone sharpening. "The foreman. I've been reviewing the progress reports. The east foundation is two weeks behind, the electrical rough-in looks like a blind man did it, and I just spotted rust on the secondary beams."

Vincent didn't move. Didn't even blink. "Those beams are coated. What you saw was surface discoloration from the rain last week. And the east foundation was delayed because your office sent the wrong grade of rebar. Took five days to get the right shipment."

"Excuses." Marcus stepped closer, tilting his chin up. The difference in their heights forced him to look almost vertically, and that alone stoked the irritation burning in his chest. "I don't pay for excuses. I pay for results. If you can't deliver, I'll find someone who can."

A slow, dangerous smile spread across Vincent's face. It wasn't friendly. It was the kind of smile a man gave when he'd been poked one too many times and had decided he was done playing nice. "Is that right."

"I could have you replaced by tomorrow morning," Marcus said, his voice rising. "There are a dozen crews that would kill for this contract. You think you're irreplaceable? You're a fucking ditch digger with a clipboard."

The words hung in the dusty air. Somewhere behind them, a saw whined and died. The silence that followed was louder than the construction noise had been.

Vincent pushed off the beam. He moved with an unhurried, rolling gait, work boots scuffing the plywood flooring, and didn't stop until he was close enough that Marcus could smell him—sweat and sun-heated skin and something deeper, muskier, that made Marcus's nostrils flare despite himself.

"Say that again," Vincent murmured.

Marcus opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat. He'd meant to repeat it. He'd meant to double down, to assert the authority his custom suit and corner office had always granted him. But Vincent was right there, chest hair visible at the stretched collar of his shirt, and the sheer physical presence of him was swallowing all the oxygen from the space between them.

"I said—" Marcus started, and that was when Vincent moved.

One big hand fisted in the front of Marcus's jacket, twisting the expensive wool like it was a rag. Marcus stumbled, off-balance, and then his back hit the wall—actual plywood, still smelling of sawmill, rough against his shoulders. The impact knocked the breath out of him

"What the hell do you think you're—"

Vincent didn't let him finish. He pressed forward, a wall of heat and muscle, and Marcus found himself pinned. Not just by the hand on his chest, but by the whole body crowding him, thighs pressing against his, the solid mass of Vincent's torso trapping him against the plywood. And then Vincent's other hand came up, gripping the back of Marcus's head, and shoved his face forward.

Marcus's cheek hit damp cotton. The fabric was wet with sweat, gritty with construction dust, and it smelled—God, it smelled. It was salt and musk and something almost animal, the raw scent of a man who'd been working in the sun since dawn. Marcus gagged, tried to turn his head, but Vincent held him there, grinding his face into the meat of his chest.

"Take a deep breath, boss," Vincent's voice rumbled above him, vibrating through the chest against Marcus's cheek. "That's what real work smells like. Not your fancy cologne. Not your air-conditioned office. This is what a man smells like."

Marcus struggled. His hands came up, pushing at Vincent's sides, but it was like trying to shove a concrete wall. The cotton was rough on his lips, and every inhale filled his lungs with Vincent—that thick, heady, alien scent that was somehow making his head spin. He'd never been this close to another man. Not like this. Not skin to sweaty fabric, not with the heat of someone else's body seeping through his clothes and making his own skin prickle.

"Get off me," Marcus gasped, the words muffled against Vincent's chest. "I'll have you arrested. I'll—"

Vincent's laugh was a deep, rolling sound that Marcus felt in his ribs. "You won't do shit." And then he shifted his grip, hand moving from Marcus's chest to his hip, squeezing once before dropping lower, bending, and in one smooth motion hoisting Marcus up.

Marcus's feet left the floor. His world tilted, and suddenly his legs were wrapped around Vincent's waist, his back sliding up the plywood, the expensive wool of his trousers stretched tight across his thighs. He grabbed Vincent's shoulders to keep from falling, and found himself clutching muscle so dense it felt like gripping stone.

"Look at you," Vincent said, his face now level with Marcus's. "Up here in your fancy suit, acting like you're better than everyone. But you're shaking."

Marcus was shaking. He couldn't stop. His whole body was trembling, and he told himself it was rage—adrenaline, the body's natural response to assault—but it wasn't just rage. There was something else coiling low in his stomach, something hot and sick and confusing that made his breath come fast and shallow. Vincent's face was inches away. His eyes were dark, amused, predatory.

"The fuck are you doing," Marcus whispered.

Vincent answered with his mouth.

It wasn't a kiss. A kiss was soft. A kiss was a request. This was a claim. Vincent's lips crushed against Marcus's, hard and demanding, and his tongue didn't ask permission—it forced its way past Marcus's teeth like it owned the space. The taste was overwhelming: coffee, salt, something faintly metallic. Vincent's mouth was hot and wet and completely in control, and Marcus made a sound he'd never heard himself make before—a strangled, helpless noise that vibrated against Vincent's tongue.

Marcus's mind went blank. There was no room for thought with Vincent's stubble scraping his chin, with Vincent's big hand curling around the back of his skull to hold him steady, with the thick muscle of Vincent's tongue thrusting into his mouth in a rhythm that was unmistakably sexual. His body was reacting without his permission—his hips twitched, his fingers dug into Vincent's shoulders, and a moan leaked from his throat into the kiss.

Vincent pulled back just enough to speak, his lips brushing Marcus's as he did. "There it is. Knew you had it in you." He ground his hips forward, and Marcus felt it—the thick, hard ridge pressing against his ass through their clothes. The sensation made his eyes roll back.

"I'm not—I don't—" Marcus panted, but even as he said it, his legs were tightening around Vincent's waist, pulling him closer.

"Yeah, you do," Vincent growled, and kissed him again.

This time Marcus didn't fight. He couldn't. The taste of Vincent was in his mouth, in his lungs, and it was like a drug—corrupting, addictive, rewriting something deep in his brain. Every slide of Vincent's tongue seemed to short-circuit another synapse. Every press of that solid body against his sent sparks skittering down his spine. His own cock was hard now, straining against his trousers, and when Vincent rocked into him again, he whimpered.

Vincent broke the kiss and reached down between them, working Marcus's belt with practiced efficiency. "We're gonna try something, boss. Something you're gonna like a lot more than you think."

---

The plywood was rough against Marcus's back, but he barely noticed. His trousers were down around one ankle, his jacket bunched up under his armpits, his shirt untucked and damp with a sweat that wasn't entirely his own. Vincent had him pinned with one forearm across his chest while the other hand worked between his legs, and Marcus couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but gasp and arch and beg with eyes that couldn't seem to focus.

"Please," he heard himself say, and didn't recognize his own voice. It was breathier, higher, stripped of all authority. "Please, I need—"

"I know what you need," Vincent rumbled. He'd freed his own stick from his jeans, and it was thick and ruddy and slick with pre-come that he was smearing against Marcus's hole with terrifying casualness. "You need a real man to show you what that tight little ass is for."

Marcus should have protested. Should have fought. But Vincent's thumb was pressing in, just the tip, and it was stretching him in a way that made his vision sparkle. His was leaking onto his own stomach, untouched, and every nerve in his body seemed to have migrated to that one spot where Vincent was slowly, deliberately pushing inside.

"Fuck, you're tight," Vincent grunted. "Bet nobody's ever been in here before. Bet you didn't even know you wanted it." He pushed deeper, and Marcus cried out, his body clenching around the intrusion. "Your wife ever do this? Huh? She ever make you feel like this?"

"Look at you taking it," Vincent murmured. "Greedy little hole's just sucking my fingers right in. You were made for this, weren't you? All that time up in your fancy office, and what you really needed was a working man's hard up your ass."

"Don't stop," Marcus gasped. "Don't you fucking stop."

Vincent's grin was fierce and satisfied. "That's what I thought."

He pushed in.

Marcus's world dissolved. There was nothing but the thick, relentless invasion of Vincent's, splitting him open inch by inch, stretching him past what he thought his body could take. He clung to Vincent's shoulders, ankles locked behind the man's back, and let out a sound that was half-sob, half-moan. The feeling of being filled was overwhelming—it reached deep, deeper than anything should, and when Vincent bottomed out with a grunt, Marcus could feel him in his throat.

"Fuck," Vincent breathed, forehead dropping to Marcus's shoulder. "Fuck, you feel good. Real good. Hang on, boss."

And then he started to move.

It was brutal. Vincent fucked like he worked—with steady, unrelenting power, each thrust driving Marcus up the plywood wall, each retreat pulling sounds from his throat that he'd never imagined a man could make. The noise of it was obscene: the slap of skin, the wet slide, Vincent's grunts and Marcus's high, broken moans. The whole construction site had gone quiet, the crew likely listening from wherever they'd dispersed, and the knowledge that they could probably hear everything only made Marcus harder.

"Harder," he heard himself say, and Vincent laughed, a breathless, feral sound.

"Demanding little slut now, are we?" But he gave Marcus what he asked for, picking up the pace, angling his hips until Marcus screamed—actually screamed—because Vincent had found something inside him that made stars explode behind his eyes.

"That's it," Vincent growled. "That's your spot. That's what you needed. Not a promotion. Not a bonus. Just a wild pounding until you can't remember your own name."

Marcus couldn't remember his own name. He couldn't remember why he'd come to this site. All he knew was Vincent's body on top of him, inside him, Vincent's smell in his nose and taste on his tongue and in his guts. He was nothing but a vessel for this man's pleasure, and the realization of it was the hottest thing he'd ever experienced.

"I'm gonna come," Marcus sobbed. "Oh God, I'm gonna—"

A bit of a longer read, hope you guys enjoy and happy Pride!

It wasn't always that nice around ███████.

I want that on record before anyone reads what happened next, because I spent thirty-one years being the kind of man who always tried doing the right thing for our town. ███████ was mine. I knew every pipe and breaker in the town because I sold them over the counter six days a week. I knew all the morally questionable crap these people did for the "sake" of God.

I kept it all to myself though.

Why? Because that's the only way someone like me could survive this long in this place.

When the council voted on banning anything related to homosexuality in the town forever, I clapped along. In the same meeting, Pastor Finch scheduled a men's prayer night the following weekend.

I signed up like everybody else. I had to.

I thought maybe if I pretended long enough, I'd start to believe it. I thought that maybe, just maybe, if no one ever found out, I could live a "normal" life, and maybe even be happy.

Of course, I was wrong.

Himbo-Con – Part 4: Sword Master

Carlos walked desperately through the halls of the Dallas City Comic Con. It was already very late and he hadn’t found anyone — not his son Leo, not Alex, not even Derek.

The smell of Chinese food stopped him at a small stall. He accepted a plate of steaming dumplings and ate while continuing his search.

Suddenly, a cheerful voice startled him.

“Mr. Carlos! Boss!”

It was Miguel. Carlos ended up walking with him despite his annoyance.

However, while walking through the expo, trying to lead with his subordinate and trying to find the boys

A mysterious man with an enigmatic smile stopped them in front of the “Hero Destiny Experience” booth.

“Gentlemen... would you like to have the experience of a lifetime? Get these tickets and try this new virtual gaming experience—it's the latest thing around!”

Carlos frowned.

“No, thank you. I’m not in the mood.”

But Miguel, excited, accepted for both of them.

“Of course! Let’s go, boss! It’ll be fun!”

Miguel gently pushed his boss toward one of the cabins. Before they entered, the employee smiled maliciously and murmured:

“Enjoy the show, boys…”

The door closed behind Carlos.

Inside the cabin, Carlos sat down resigned and annoyed, and put on the VR glasses.

“Fine… let’s get this over with quickly. I’m not really a comic fan, but if this is the only way to get out of here…”

Among all the heroes he could choose from, he selected “Sword Master.”

The system processed for a moment, then suddenly glitched. A bright purple light struck him directly in the eyes.

“Ah! This hurts!” he complained, quickly taking off the glasses.

A calm female AI voice echoed inside the cabin:

“Error detected. User profile does not match selected character. Resolving mismatch… User must remain inside the cabin until errors are resolved.”

At that exact moment, a deep purple and intensely sensual heat invaded his body.

Carlos looked at his trembling hands.

“What… what is happening to me?” he murmured, scared. “What is happening to my body…?”

“Physical synchronization: 40% complete.”

His pectorals began to swell slowly, popping the buttons off his shirt. His shoulders broadened with hot pleasure. His arms grew gradually, biceps and triceps inflating in an erotic way.

“This isn’t right… I’m so hot… why do I feel so turned on?” he gasped.

He tried to open the door, but it was locked.

“I want to get out! Open up!”

“Physical synchronization: 70% complete.”

Purple glitch effects surrounded his entire body. His gray hair turned jet-black and spiky. His face rapidly rejuvenated, wrinkles disappearing as his features shifted into those of a strikingly handsome young Asian man. His glutes swelled into two enormous, round, juicy globes, tearing through his pants. His cock thickened and lengthened brutally, throbbing hard.

Intrusive gay thoughts flooded his mind with overwhelming force:

“So strong… so young… this body feels so good…”

“These big pecs… I want them sucked…”

“This juicy ass… I want a man to grab it hard while he fucks me deep…”

“No! I want to get out! This doesn’t… ahh… feel too good…!”

The AI voice continued calmly:

“Clothing reconfiguration in progress… Adjusting to match selected character template.”

The remains of Carlos’s clothes began to morph and reform around his transforming body — dark pants becoming loose fighting trousers, a red sash and golden armor pieces materializing over his sweaty, muscular torso.

“Physical synchronization: 100% complete. User recognized. Finalized.”

He came violently without touching himself, moaning loudly as the last of his old consciousness spilled out with his cum.

The cabin door opened with a hiss.

Clouds of purple smoke spilled onto the expo floor.

Carlos fell to one knee.

“Ugh…”

His head was pounding.

Thinking was hard.

Very hard.

In front of him, a huge blond figure approached quickly.

“Bro!”

You okey?

Carlos looked up.

For a few seconds he could only stare.

Huge shoulders.

Huge arms.

Huge chest.

Everything was huge.

“Miguel…” he murmured.

“Are you you?”

Miguel frowned.

The question seemed complicated.

Very complicated.

“I think…”

He stayed thinking.

“I think so.”

“Oh.”

Carlos accepted the answer immediately.

Miguel helped him to his feet.

Both staggered.

“What? What happened?”

“My head hurts…” said Carlos.

“Mine too…”

They remained silent.

“Migu..Bro…”

“Yeah?”

“Are we still us?”

Miguel tried to think again.

“I…”

Several seconds passed.

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah… I think so... or not? ”

Carlos nodded.

“Hard to think.”

“Very hard to think.”

Then Miguel looked down.

His eyes widened.

“boss... Bro.”

“What?”

“Muscles.”

Carlos looked down too.

“Oh.”

There was another long silence.

“Big muscles.”

“Very big.”

Carlos flexed one arm.

The bicep swelled immediately.

“Whoa…”

Miguel flexed his.

“BRO!”

“BRO!”

Both smiled.

“Good muscles.”

“The best muscles.”

“Yeah.”

Then they began to slowly spin around, examining their arms, shoulders, pecs, and abs from every possible angle.

For several minutes they admired their own muscles with absolute concentration.

At that moment, the mysterious employee approached. His eyes began to glow with intense green light.

“Impressive…”

Carlos and Miguel took a step back as emerald energy enveloped them.

“What… is happening…?” asked Carlos.

“Bro… something weird…” Miguel stammered.

The employee smiled with a sensual and erotic voice:

“Uff… look at those bodies… so big, so hot, so perfect… Don’t you feel how good they look? Those heavy pecs, those huge arms, those juicy asses begging to be grabbed hard… What a delight you are now, boys.”

“And don’t worry, big boy… soon you’ll find the person's you were looking for. Now forget everything complicated. Just love these irresistible bodies, flex those biceps, squeeze those juicy asses and show how horny and powerful you are to the whole expo.”

Carlos tried to respond, but the magic clouded his thoughts.

“Person's …? I…”

“Now forget everything complicated,” the employee continued softly. “You don’t need to think so much. Just love these irresistible bodies. Flex those biceps. Enjoy being strong.”

The green light intensified around their eyes. The magic was so powerful that both himbos started moaning. Their cocks hardened again and they came at the same time, thick spurts hitting the floor as their minds completely surrendered.

“I… Lin Lie… the Sword Master, protector of K’un-Lun…” said Carlos slowly.

“Johnny Storm…” responded Miguel with a vacant smile.

“Exactly,” whispered the employee.

Lin Lie smiled and flexed both arms.

“Big muscles!”

Johnny Storm did the same.

“Bro, amazing muscles!”

The employee stood between them as the two newly conditioned heroes posed proudly for the entire expo.

The employee walked away smiling maliciously.

“Have fun at the expo, dummies… I’ll see you again soon. Get ready… I only have one more toy to get.”

As he passed a dark mirror, his reflection revealed his true form: Loki, the God of Mischief.

Off-Campus Discipline : The Rough Cut

Connor, Lucas, Eric, Sean, and Logan decided to go camping for Spring Break. They escaped for a few days to flee the tumult of the city and enjoy time among friends. Having passed the age of 21, they could now legally drink (even if they had already defied the prohibition before) and they intended to take full advantage.

"I'll drop you off here. I've already heard young people your age having fun around here, apparently there's a cabin in the woods for shelter if you need it," said a fifty-something man who had agreed to give them a ride in his vehicle.

"Wait, since we have you, can you take a photo of all five of us?" Logan asked. The man agreed. A photo of the five friends with their arms around each other. An image that froze that instant: each of them smiled, dressed very casually, in flip-flops — except Logan — a beer in hand. A photographic moment that bound them together and would be the last of their lives as they knew them. But they didn't know that yet.

A few hours later, the five young men were found drunk, wandering in the woods. Their phones were almost out of battery and their sense of direction was annihilated by beer and cannabis. In the middle of the pines, emerging from the nighttime mist appeared not one, but several perfectly aligned wooden cabins, bordered by a lawn mown to the quick. A sign in retro letters displayed: "Preppy Boot Camp — Discipline, Elegance, Fraternity."

They burst out laughing, Lucas first, spitting his beer onto the impeccable grass. "This is for us, guys! A vacation camp for snobs!"

They settled in without wariness. Campfire in the center, sleeping bags thrown anywhere, hip-hop music blasting from a portable speaker. They spoke loudly, threw their cigarette butts on the ground, and royally mocked any form of cleanliness.

Eric, more intoxicated than the others, moved away from the group to urinate. He stumbled across the grass and isolated himself behind one of the cabins. The intoxication making him sing, he didn't hear the footsteps behind him. Suddenly, a heavy odor of polished leather and high-end cologne replaced the scent of pine. A gloved hand emerged from behind, a cream silk scarf was forced into his mouth before he could scream. In the struggle, Eric heard the discreet, almost elegant rustling of a tweed blazer. An expert armlock twisted his shoulder until he fell to his knees, before being dragged into the darkness, without a sound.

Then came the turn of the others, taken one by one, isolated by ruse. Connor moved away in turn to urinate too and never returned. Sean went to gather wood; he was pinned against a pine tree, a needle sank into his neck, and his body collapsed heavily.

Logan and Lucas, now alone at the center of the campsite, began to panic. It was at this precise instant that Lucas's phone, placed on a stump, emitted a sharp beep: the camera flash briefly lit up to signal "Critical battery: 1%." This derisory light was immediately swallowed by sudden, blinding headlights. They found themselves surrounded. Neckties were imposed on them as gags. The contrast was terrifying: the softness of silk slid across their skin as the fabric was tightened with implacable force, smothering their screams.

They woke with a start. They now formed a semicircle, each naked, tied standing against a dark, rough wooden pillar. Ankles spread and fixed by leather straps, arms pulled in a cross behind the post, wrists handcuffed to the wood, their shoulders were spread to the limit of what was bearable. A rope held their heads high, their forced posture turned toward the top of their pillar. The silk scarves still served as gags.

But as consciousness fully returned, each became aware of a deeper, more intimate constraint. Between their legs, pressed flat against their pubic bone, they felt the unyielding metal of chastity cages—silver, clinical, enforced upon them while they slept. The devices held their genitals completely compressed, flattened against their bodies, reducing their manhood to nothing, to a smooth, locked absence. The pain was a dull, constant ache, the pressure absolute, humiliating in its completeness. They were naked, yes, but not truly naked—they were dressed in their submission, each wearing his cage like the most important article of clothing, the only one that mattered. And they could see each other's, five cages gleaming in the firelight, five symbols of their complete reduction, exposed to mutual gaze, unable to hide, unable to protect their vulnerability. The metal was cold, hard, definitive, telling them without words that their bodies were no longer their own, that their pleasure was confiscated.

Before them, in firelight, stood their captors. They were all dressed in a certain refinement: impeccable tweed blazers (brown, gray, or an incongruous pastel pink), striped shirts and perfectly knotted club ties, topping chino shorts and well-pulled knee-high socks. Their hands were gloved in dark leather and, in a pose of aristocratic superiority, they held heavy coils of hemp rope. Captors, or perhaps saviors... but they would understand that later, once again.

But the worst was behind. A metal anal hook, cold and heavy, was inserted in their ass, the curve sinking deep, the rounded base pressing against their flesh. From each hook ran a taut rope, rising to a pulley fixed above their heads, at the top of the pillar, then holding elsewhere, pulled horizontally by a counterweight system. The tension was calculated, mathematical, sadistic. If they stood flat on their feet, the hook sank deeper, the pain becoming unbearable, burning, profound. To spare themselves, they had to stand on tiptoe, trembling calves, all their weight pulling upward, reducing the internal pressure by barely a few millimeters, enough to make the pain bearable, just, constantly there.

And they were there, naked, tied and constrained, forced to see each other. Five naked boys, visible cages, hooks pulling, all on tiptoe, moaning, panting, sweat already beading on their naked torsos despite the cold of the night.

Gagged. White silk scarves, tied behind their heads, between their teeth, wet with their own saliva, reducing their cries to muffled groans, panicked nasal breaths. They could no longer speak, no longer negotiate, no longer lie to themselves about their courage. They were reduced to bodies, five points of a semicircle of total vulnerability, each seeing the shame of the other, the cage of the other, the suffering of the other.

The forced dressing began, each taking care of each young man with cold and methodical brutality, like puppeteers manipulating inert puppets. The first seized Lucas by the shoulders, turning him brusquely against the wooden pillar, and forced his legs into yellow cotton shorts, pulling the fabric with sharp gestures that made the boy lose his balance, obliging him to dance on tiptoe to maintain the position imposed by the hook. He buckled a braided leather belt at the small of his back, tightening with a sharp slap, forcing Lucas to arch like an articulated doll.

The second turned Eric with a flick, pinning his chest against the rough wood, and pulled a pink checkered vichy shirt over his head, arms pulled backward into the sleeves with casual flourishes, shoulders twisted without consideration. He tied a bowtie, tightening with his fists the silk against the throat.

The third seized Connor by the nape, fingers sunk into soft flesh, and forced khaki shorts to his knees with a sharp kick to the ankles, pulling the cotton with violence that made the boy topple, swaying on tiptoe, the anal hook holding him on an invisible leash. He attached a belt, snapping the buckle against his stomach, then tied a tight pink bowtie, choking him.

The fourth twisted Sean's arm behind his back, pinning him against the pillar like a wooden mannequin, and pulled a multicolored checkered shirt over him, buttons pressed one by one with belly flicks at each closure. He tightened a light belt until breath failed, then tied a royal blue knot, pulling so hard that Sean's eyes rolled back, drool running under his gag.

The fifth finished Logan, forcing his bare feet into navy polished leather boat shoes, heels hammered against the wood to make them enter, then twisting his arms to put on a pastel pink shirt. He tightened the belt with a slap, adjusting the waist as one adjusts clothing on a mannequin, and tied the final tight bowtie, completing the perfect uniform of submission, five identical boys in their colorful humiliation, manipulated like rag dolls in the hands of their puppeteers.

Then the hypnosis began. Strobes flickered between the pillars, red and white lights rhythmically punctuating their panicked breathing. Recorded voices, deep, masculine, emerged from speakers hidden in the grass:

"I pledge myself to the preppy way. I dress therefore I obey. The collar at my throat is my covenant. The crease in my shorts is my discipline. I exist to serve superior men. I exist to follow without question. My mind empties of doubt. My body fills with purpose. Resistance is weakness. Weakness is failure. I choose order. I choose virtue. I choose the cage that holds me, the metal that teaches me. When I move, I feel it. When I breathe, I serve it. Pain is my teacher. Restraint is my freedom. I am not a man. I'm a preppy boy. Perfect. Obedient. Empty. Filled only with the wish to submit, to serve, to please. My clothes speak my submission. My cage seals it. I am complete."

In a loop, for hours, the words sank into their brains deprived of sleep, of defense, amplified by the constant pain of the hook, of the cage, of the tight bowties.

Punishments were administered to create the bond. Whip strokes on the thighs, synchronized, five boys who jumped at the same time, swaying on tiptoe, the hook sinking deeper with each movement, creating a rhythm of shared suffering. When one weakened, fell on his heels, the gagged cry was sharp, strident, the others seeing the pain paint itself on his face, understanding that their only redemption was rigidity, discipline, total submission.

They were forced to look at each other, eye to eye, through the semicircle, while their bowties were adjusted. They had to repeat after the voices, words muffled by the scarves: "I'm a good preppy boy, I love to serve, I love to obey..." Refusal was punished by a pull on the hook's rope, brutal insertion tearing silent screams, heads thrown back against the wood, the entire body become an arc of suffering.

After a few hours, as their bodies trembled and submitted, the instructors introduced a new step of uniformization. One by one, still tied against their pillars, they were imposed haircuts, electric razors buzzing and cutting scissors in the silence of the night. Connor and Lucas underwent the middle-part, hair cut in perfect square, median part traced with a fine comb, falling on each side in equal strands, gleaming with imposed pomade. Eric and Sean received the classic side-part, hair shaved short on the sides, longer on top, slicked to one side with a part as neat as a cutter's line, lustrous until reflecting the projector light. Logan, the most rebellious from the beginning, the one who spat on the instructor earlier, was shaved to a buzzcut, scalp raw, almost bald, an additional humiliation carved on his skull.

In the semicircle, they saw each other mutually transform. The strands fell to the ground, the bare skulls appeared, the faces uncovered from their fiery hair, revealing features that already seemed smoother, emptier. And something began to change. As they watched their friends become these interchangeable preppy silhouettes, a smile was born on their lips. First trembling, then fixed, identical. Lucas smiled seeing Logan's buzzcut, Sean catching Connor's middle-part. The conditioning began to bear fruit, shared suffering and physical uniformization creating a bond of reciprocal submission, a perverse pride in their common transformation.

At dawn, when the instructors untied the ropes, the five boys did not fall. Their legs, admittedly trembling after hours of tension, held. They straightened up, not because they were forced to, but because the conditioning had taken hold. Their mouths, still gagged, already moved, repeating in a whisper, in synchronous rhythm, the mantra carved into their flesh: "I'm a good preppy boy... I love to serve... I love to obey..."

The captors removed the silk scarves. And voices emerged, united, clear, reciting by heart the phrases of self-submission with a conviction that was no longer feigned. Logan, the shaved skull, the first to speak, articulated in a soft, almost fervent voice: "The cage is my anchor... pain is my reward..." The others followed, each adding their part of the mantra, like a prayer of gratitude.

They were aligned before the pillars, but they did not stagger. They stood straight, shoulders low but perfect, hands along their bodies, eyes lowered to the ground with that empty and satisfied gaze of duty accomplished. The suffering of the night was no longer torture, it had become their pride, the proof of their transformation. They smiled, those identical and calm smiles, not because they were forced to, but because they had understood, accepted, desired this truth: a preppy boy finds his joy in obedience, his freedom in constraint, his fulfillment in total submission.

The captors led them before the entrance of the camp, where the sign "Preppy Boot Camp" swayed slightly in the morning breeze. The five boys aligned themselves of their own accord, without being forced to, bodies straight, shoulders perfect, faces turned toward the lens with those calm and empty smiles that the night had fashioned. They wore their new outfits like second skins — colored vichy shirts, impeccable shorts, tight bowties, haircuts according to their new appearance, Logan's skull gleaming in the sun.

A black car approached on the dirt road, rolling slowly, majestically. It stopped before them, and a man got out, a well-dressed fifty-something, navy blue blazer, club tie in the Academy colors, gray hair in a perfect side part.

It was him. The man who had picked them up hitchhiking, who had smiled at them, who had offered to drop them off "near a nice place to camp."

He looked at them, eyes gleaming with satisfaction, scanning each transformed silhouette.

"I see my Alphas have done good work on you," he said, his voice grave and poised. "You were hitchhiking. You were looking for freedom, rebellion, emptiness. But you now have a new direction."

He approached, adjusted Lucas's bowtie with a paternal gesture, tapped Logan's shaved skull with approval.

"You will serve me. And you will be of great service to the Academy. This is where your true life begins."

He took out a camera, the same gesture he had made two days earlier when he had photographed them in the back of his car, dirty and carefree. This time, he framed five perfect boys, five identical smiles, five bodies become property.

The click sounded.

"Get in," he ordered, opening the rear door.

They obeyed immediately, without hesitation, without looking back. They settled on the bench, side by side, hands on thighs, gaze lowered, still silently repeating the mantra that had saved them from the night. The man took his place at the wheel, started the engine, and the black car drove away on the main road, direction not the freedom they thought they were seeking, but the Preppy Academy, their final destination, their elegant prison, their destiny.

The camp sign disappeared in the rearview mirror, and with it, their former first names, their former lives, their former wills. There remained only five perfect preppy boys, en route to their eternal submission.

Chadwick "The Chain" Miller lived for the snap of elastic. He was six-foot-two of pure, unadulterated jock ego, and his favorite target was Arthur, a kid who carried a briefcase and actually understood how the Wi-Fi worked.

"Hey, Artie!" Chad barked, cornering him near the chemistry lab. "I think your drawers need a relocation service."

Chad reached out, grabbed the waistband of Arthur’s plaid boxers, and gave a violent, upward yank. But instead of a cry of pain, a strange, low hum vibrated through the air.

The First Snap: The Complexion

As Chad pulled, a searing heat traveled from Arthur’s waistband into Chad’s own skin. Suddenly, Chad’s forehead began to itch uncontrollably. In the reflection of a nearby trophy case, dozens of angry, red pimples began to erupt across his chin and forehead like a rapidly growing constellation. His skin went from "golden tan" to "oil-slicked disaster" in three seconds flat.

"What did you do to me?" Chad hissed, his voice cracking an octave higher.

"I didn't do anything," Arthur said calmly, adjusting his glasses. "But physics—and maybe a little ancient geometry—has a way of balancing the scales."

The Second Snap: The Coiffure

Infuriated, Chad went for a second yank, lifting Arthur nearly off the floor. Twang! The air smelled like ozone and old library books. Chad’s thick, gelled pompadour began to recede and reshape itself with a mind of its own. His hair flattened at the top, buzzed short on the sides, and settled into a stiff, perfectly level micro flattop. It was the kind of haircut that screamed "I calculate the trajectory of model rockets for fun."

Chad reached up, feeling the prickly, flat landing pad on his head. "My hair! My beautiful flow!"

The Final Transformation

Desperate to regain his dominance, Chad lunged for one final, soul-crushing wedgie. He pulled with everything he had.

A flash of violet light filled the hallway. Chad’s letterman jacket shrivelled and morphed into a short-sleeved button-down with a plastic pocket protector. His contact lenses blurred, and a pair of heavy, horn-rimmed glasses with a taped bridge materialized on his face, magnifying his eyes to the size of dinner plates.

Even his muscle mass seemed to migrate from his biceps directly into a bulging backpack full of oversized calculus textbooks.

The bully formerly known as Chad stood there, blinking behind his thick lenses. He tried to let out a menacing growl, but all that came out was a high-pitched snort. He reached for his waistband, which was now pulled up high—well above his belly button.

"Everything alright?" Arthur asked, picking up his briefcase.

The boy checked his new ID card, which had magically appeared in his shirt pocket. The name 'Chadwick' had vanished, replaced by a name that felt much more appropriate for someone who spent his Friday nights organizing stamp collections.

I cornered Arthur outside the chemistry lab, still certain the hallway belonged to me.

My first yank froze in my hands as oil spread across my face and red pimples broke through my skin.

The second pull hit back hard, and my hair locked into a perfectly level micro flattop.

My final yank tore the jock out of me: my jacket vanished, my trousers climbed past my navel, and Milton Pringle stared out through taped horn rimmed glasses.

John was the one who spotted the brass-lettered sign: Mercer & Quill — Fine Costumes for Gentlemen. “Fancy British clothes,” he said, pointing to the door with a grin. “We buy the outfits, take some ridiculous photos, and look like we belong here.” The others laughed, but a minute later they were stepping inside, into the smell of cedar, wool, polished wood, and old pipe smoke.

The proprietor of Mercer & Quill was not at all what the four friends expected. He was a tall, silver-haired gentleman in a dark waistcoat with round spectacles and an expression of quiet amusement, as though young Americans wandering into his shop in search of bespoke photographs was something he had seen many times before.

He listened patiently as John explained their plan, nodding politely while Matt joked about looking like members of Parliament and Mason wondered aloud whether anyone still wore pocket watches. The old man simply smiled. “Gentlemen,” he said warmly, “if one is to dress the part, one ought to do it properly.” Without asking their measurements, he disappeared among the shelves and racks, returning with four carefully chosen ensembles. To each suit he added little details - a pipe here, a waistcoat there, a particular tie or collar - handling every item with the care of a museum curator presenting treasures.

Before any of them could compare outfits, the proprietor gently ushered them toward separate changing rooms lining the paneled corridor. “Best to try them on individually,” he advised. “These things have a tendency to fit more comfortably when a gentleman has a moment alone with his reflection.” He handed each young man his garments and closed the doors behind them one by one. Matt laughed and called through the wall that they should all meet outside for photographs. John shouted back that he wanted to see who looked the most ridiculous. Don promised he would emerge looking like an English duke, and Mason declared that he intended to keep the pipe as a souvenir. Standing alone in the quiet hallway, the proprietor adjusted his spectacles and smiled to himself. He had selected each costume with great care. By the time the four young men emerged, they would be precisely the gentlemen the clothes had always been waiting for.

For Matt, the proprietor had selected a dark London gentleman’s suit: black coat, crisp collar, waistcoat, tie, polished shoes, and a curved pipe that felt absurd in his hand until he saw himself in the changing-room mirror.

At first, Matt only smiled at the costume. Then the mirror seemed to pull his reflection deeper. A shadow formed above his lip, the first uncertain line of a mustache, while faint creases gathered around his eyes. His hairline drew backward into a widow’s peak, thinning at the temples as if years were being combed through it.

By the time the mustache had grown thick and distinguished, his dark hair had turned salt-and-pepper and receded, leaving him looking like a composed London gentleman of nearly 60. Matt tried to remember the joke he had been about to make, but the thought dissolved. The pipe found its way to his mouth, and the man in the mirror no longer looked frightened. He looked assured.

John’s outfit was heavier, earthier: tweed jacket, waistcoat, checked shirt, dark tie, the sort of thing that made him look as if he should be standing beside a stone wall somewhere in the countryside minding sheep. He laughed when he first put it on, flexing his shoulders in the mirror, amused by how serious the clothes made him seem.

Then his reflection aged before he could step back. His close-cropped hair thinned at the crown, the hairline retreating. Stubble pushed out along his jaw, dark at first, then threaded with gray, thickening into a salt-and-pepper beard.

The sharp college-boy confidence in his face settled into something calmer and more reserved. By the end, John looked to be in his mid-50s, bald at the crown, bearded, steady-eyed, and utterly at home in the tweed. He no longer thought of it as a costume. It was simply what a man like him wore.

Don had expected to enjoy himself the most. His outfit was sleek and theatrical: a dark London coat, waistcoat, formal collar, and pocket square, all sharp lines and old-city elegance. In the mirror, his existing mustache looked almost too perfect for the clothes, and he smirked as he adjusted his lapels.

Then his mustache began to change. Its ends curled outward, becoming broader, heavier, more commanding. White hairs appeared first at his temples, then spread in bright strands through his dark hair and across the mustache itself. His face lengthened into maturity, lines forming beside his mouth and across his brow.

Don’s expression became cooler, more appraising. At sixty, he looked like a man who had spent decades in private clubs, theaters, and drawing rooms, with a grand white-streaked handlebar mustache and the posture of someone who had never once rushed for anyone. Don tried to say his own name and found it sounded strangely informal.

Mason’s clothes had the warmth of the country: brown tweed, green tie, waistcoat, pocket square, and a pipe that made him laugh when he first lifted it. He looked cheerful in the mirror, still young, still himself.

Then his smile faltered as his hairline pulled back and the first weight of age settled into his features. A beard spread over his jaw and down to his collar, mostly brown but already streaked white at the sides and around the chin. He touched it, stunned by how real it felt.

His new beard kept growing, thickening past his collar until it reached the middle of his chest, full and heavy, brown with pale threads shining through it. By the time Mason looked fifty, pipe resting naturally between his fingers, the face in the mirror seemed less like a transformation than a correction. The younger version of him felt flimsy, half-remembered, like a photograph left in another coat pocket.

When the four men emerged from their changing rooms, they paused in the narrow hallway and looked at one another. No one laughed. The loud young American voices that had filled the shop only minutes earlier were gone, replaced by quieter tones, slower gestures, and the easy recognition of old friends. Their memories of spring break, college, flights, and camera rolls faded into something distant and unimportant. The clerk opened the door for them, and London waited outside in the gold of early evening. Matt suggested a pint. John agreed that it would be sensible. Don remarked that the light on the patio was rather fine. Mason tucked his pipe between his teeth and led them next door.

You have the feeling that the young employees were the first to be affected. When you went home a few days ago, you heard a "Goodbye, Mister! Havuh nice eevnun!!" from Frederick's desk. Frederick is an intern. A promising Harvard student from the best family in Providence. You're actually on a first-name basis in the office. But you don't actually wear a cowboy hat either…

The next person to be hit is Peter from the coffee shop downstairs in the office building. Peter is actually a talented barista and, like all people in the catering industry, is actually a disabled actor. You once saw him as Hamlet in an off-Broadway production. He wasn't any worse. "Hello Mr. Goldmann, sir! Uh hot blaak filter coffee as usual?" You look at him in amazement. "Peter? Is that you? I always have a cappuccino. Have you forgotten?" "Kaynt bay, mister! Way don't sayul thet kinduh stuff. An by thuh way, mah name iz Pete."

Fucking hell, Pete is really smoking hot. Okay, the conversation between you is getting more monosyllabic by the day. You'll get used to the black coffee. Not to his Trump praise.

Over the next few days, more and more of these cowboys and rednecks will come your way. There is talk in the news of a hacker attack on TikTok accounts and on Chronivac by the Russians. Allegedly, it is no longer the will of the voters but the voters themselves who are being manipulated. Thank God you don't use TikTok.

A few days later, things get more serious. You come out of the elevator, your eyes engrossed in the New York Times. What is that stench? Your eyes fall on Frank, the young man working at reception. A cloud of sweat and musk wafts around him. His left hand is under the table, moving rhythmically back and forth. "Good morning, Frank!" you say sternly. His hand is suddenly on the table and he clicks away the porn on the screen. "Excuse may, Mr. Goldmann, sir! Ah didn't say yawl coming." You say that your name is Sebastian and that he should get back to work. Apparently he misunderstood. As soon as you turn around, he jerks off again.

And it smells bad in the office. A lot of employees here seem to have an increasing problem with personal hygiene. And spend more time in the gym. And watching cowboy movies. Still mostly young colleagues. But also a few who are your age. It's frightening.

You're sitting at the financial statements. They have to be finished in the next few days. And apart from you, no one in accounting seems to have a clear head anymore. What you're given is full of errors. In terms of content, spelling, grammar… A catastrophe. You hear heavy footsteps behind you. "Goldmann, Smith, Wagner. Into thuh conference room. Now!" You turn around. The two giants look a bit like your CEO and CFO. But they smell like the locker room at a rodeo.

The two of them will forward you the links to a few TikTok videos. You should watch them! Don't have an account yet? Then bloody well get one. You'll get a lecture that our business model isn't patriotic enough. That you're doing too much business with the disgusting gooks and the cowardly French and Krauts. You're supposed to make America great again. America first!

Robert and Richard look at each other and at you, embarrassed. They don't really understand what they should do now. Admittedly, neither do you. You wonder whether the board has gone mad. Robert and Richard, who represent product development and sales, start to discuss whether it is even possible to restructure the supply chains and distribution channels in the short term.

You install TikTok and take a look at the videos sent by the CEO. They are basically advertising messages from the right wing of the Republican party. Repulsive stuff. And you have no idea what this has to do with your company's accounting and controlling.

After reflecting on the situation for a few minutes, you get up and think that you need a drink for the shock. You wonder if they could do with one too? Robert and Richard, who have also just installed TikTok and are watching the videos, look up briefly and shake their heads.

The cognac you received as a gift a few years ago is no longer in your office. You also can't remember whether you gave it to someone as a gift or took it to a company party. Surprisingly, you find beer in the fridge in the coffee kitchen, which is actually against company policy, but no schnapps or anything like that. You go to Frank and ask if you have any whiskey or something similar. Frank spits his chewing tobacco into the wastepaper basket and pulls a silver hip flask out of a drawer. "Home-brewed by mah dad, Mr. Goldmann, sir! Do yawl need uh glass?" You shake your head, take the flask and take a big swig.

Rick and Bob ask if you've brought booze and chewing tobacco. The two of them rant about the government, fantasize about how good everything will be with Trump back in power and scratch their balls. They're both good guys. A bit hollow in the head. But they have their hearts in the right place, don't think twice and implement orders quickly and efficiently.

You really can't believe the gobbledygook they spout. You sit down, take a pinch of chewing tobacco and push the tin over to them. And after an impressive burp that smells wonderfully of the chili from today's lunch, you take a deep breath.