#broobedience

The Forgotten Growth Pripyat was silent. Decades of abandonment had layered its corridors with ash, moss, and the brittle memory of panic. Beneath the shattered school gym, the forgotten vaults held something stranger than radiation, fermentation.

Percival walked barefoot through the cracked tiles, his black-gold uniform glistening with mist. The air was thick. Sweet. Alive.

He paused at a rusted door sealed in old Cyrillic: "ЗАЩИТА СЕМЕНИ." Seed Protection.

With a single hand, he activated the lock. The door creaked.

Below: vats. Buried deep. Still warm. Still golden. Still pulsing.

It was not dead. It had simply been waiting for him.

Awakening the Golden Crop Elijah, Percival’s son, descended into the mist-filled chamber first. Shirtless, bare, already aching to belong. His skin steamed as golden vapor kissed his pores. The vats responded.

The sap rose. The vines stirred. The farm reawakened.

Within hours, the broken greenhouses lit up, glass glowing from inside, rubber flora blooming in geometric patterns, vines pulsing with amber light. Bros were chosen. Morales, silent and eager, was first to enter a pod. Then Waterboy Nate, shaking with need, allowed golden tendrils to thread into his thighs.

Their moans echoed through the gym halls, blissful, breathy, fertile.

The farming began.

Each body, once independent, now became yield.

Seed-Bros Are Born The pods were not containers. They were wombs.

Overnight, Morales grew three inches taller. His chest filled out, taut and shining. His eyes glazed into gold. Elijah, by now a full seed-bro, began whispering to the plants, his voice echoing like pheromones in the mist.

Nate, once new and soft, now pulsed with liquid rubber under his skin. His groin throbbed constantly, dripping clear nectar into collection bowls.

Percival oversaw it all, expressionless, divine.

Every morning, the Golden Army arrived in quiet ceremony. Uniforms peeled off. Each visitor would kneel in the sap chambers. And every night, they left leaking, reshaped, marked by the harvest.

The Fluid Eden Opens The gym is now a greenhouse cathedral. Golden mist curls from the broken windows. Statues of seed-bros line the halls, erect, engorged, worshipped.

Tourists arrive daily.

Some are bred. Some volunteer to fertilize the rows. Others stay longer, until their skin softens and their thoughts become nutrient-rich mist.

Every seed-bro lives in slow, constant pleasure. They hum in harmony, skin slick with purpose. They sleep inside the plants. They dream of roots. They are not men.

They are harvest.

The gym isn’t closed. It’s blooming. Pripyat feeds the Hive now. The golden sap is warm. And it wants you.

Kneel. Undress. Let the pod take you.

It’s not death. It’s farming.

Recruiters: @polo-drone-001 @brodygold @goldenherc9 @polo-drone-125