Chapter 19: Brooo
The harsh morning light sliced through the blinds, painting stripes across the chaos of the frat bedroom. Dust motes danced in the beams, illuminating discarded pizza crusts, crumpled beer cans, and the tangled mess of sheets on the mattress. Ethan groaned, burying his face deeper into the pillow. His body felt… heavy. Solid. Like he’d been packed with dense clay overnight. He stretched, expecting the familiar twinge in his shoulders, the slight protest of underused muscles. Instead, thick cords of sinew slid smoothly beneath his skin, his arm extending with effortless power. He froze.
Beside him, Dale shifted. A low, unfamiliar grunt escaped him. Ethan cracked an eye open, squinting against the light. Dale was lying on his back, one arm flung over his eyes. The sheet pooled around his waist, revealing a torso that was no longer just lanky. Defined ridges ran down his abdomen, his chest broader, pecs noticeably fuller beneath the thin film of sweat glistening in the morning heat. His shoulders seemed to fill more of the mattress. The pendant lay cool and inert against his sternum.
"Ugh," Dale mumbled, his voice still thick with sleep, but lacking its usual softness. It was lower, rougher. "Feels like I got hit by a fuckin' bus." He rubbed his eyes, then blinked, staring at his own hand. His fingers looked thicker, the knuckles more pronounced. He flexed, watching the tendons shift beneath the skin. "Or maybe… bench-pressed one."
Ethan pushed himself up onto his elbows. His own body felt alien – dense, powerful, humming with a low-level energy he didn’t understand. He looked down. His thighs were thicker, pressing against the fabric of his briefs, dusted now with darker hair. His stomach was flat, hard. "Tell me about it," he managed, his voice catching slightly. He sounded… different. Deeper. Less hesitant. "Think the ‘bus’ was wearing rugby cleats."
Dale snorted, a short, sharp sound Ethan hadn't heard before. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his movements fluid, surprisingly coordinated for someone just waking. He stood, stretching again, a full-body arch that made his spine crackle and showcased the new breadth of his back, the swell of his biceps. The morning light caught the definition in his arms, the lean muscle wrapping his frame. He scratched his stomach absently, fingers tracing the unfamiliar hardness. "Need water," he muttered, heading towards the mini-fridge in the corner, moving with a loose-limbed confidence Ethan envied and found strangely unsettling.
Ethan watched him go, the strange duality of the moment pressing in. Dale looked like Dale – the long hair, the familiar profile – but moved like someone else. Someone bigger. Someone… assured. Ethan swung his own legs over the side, his feet hitting the floor with a solid thump. He stood, feeling the unfamiliar weight and balance of his transformed body. He walked towards the grimy window, pushing the blinds aside slightly. The frat house lawn was quiet, dew glistening on the grass. Normalcy. Mocking him.
Behind him, near the fridge, Dale paused. Ethan heard the soft click of the fridge door opening, then… nothing. Just Dale’s breathing, suddenly sharper, quicker. Ethan turned.
Dale was frozen, one hand resting on the fridge door handle, the other hanging limply at his side. His head was tilted slightly, as if listening intently to something only he could hear. His eyes were wide, unfocused, pupils dilated despite the bright morning light streaming in. A faint tremor ran through his arm.
"Dale?" Ethan took a step forward. "You okay?"
Dale didn’t respond. His breathing hitched. His free hand twitched, then slowly, almost against his will, drifted downwards. It hovered near the waistband of his briefs. His fingers trembled.
Yeah, that’s it, Ethan heard, clear as a bell inside his own skull. But it wasn't his thought. It sounded like Dale’s new, rougher voice, yet it resonated within Ethan’s mind. Feels good just thinkin’ about it, doesn’t it? Touch yourself. Show yourself what you got now.
Dale’s hand dipped beneath the elastic. His eyes squeezed shut. A low groan, ragged and involuntary, escaped his lips. His hips gave a tiny, involuntary thrust.
Ethan’s breath caught. "Dale, stop!" The words felt weak, thin compared to the commanding presence echoing in his head. He took another step, but his own body felt leaden, rooted. He could see the struggle on Dale’s face – a flicker of panic, of the old Dale buried beneath the surface, fighting against the overwhelming compulsion. But it was losing. Badly.
Don’t fight it, Data, the voice-that-was-Dale-but-in-Ethan’s-head purred. Feel it. Feel how fuckin’ hard you are. How much bigger you are. Stroke it. Show yourself. The voice was hypnotic, insistent, weaving seamlessly into Ethan’s own awareness.
Dale’s hand started moving beneath the briefs. Slowly at first, then with growing urgency. His head fell back against the fridge door with a soft thud, his eyes still shut tight. His breathing became harsh pants. His hips began to rock in earnest now, a rhythmic, desperate motion. The pendant resting against his sweat-slicked chest began to glow faintly, a dull, pulsing ember.
As Dale stroked himself, Ethan watched, transfixed and horrified. He saw the muscles in Dale’s forearm bunch and flex with each pull. Saw the tendons stand out in his neck. Saw the flush spread rapidly down his chest. And he saw… more. Subtle shifts beneath Dale’s skin. The definition in his shoulders seemed to deepen, the curve of his biceps growing more pronounced, pushing against the skin. The faint trail of hair leading down his abdomen seemed to darken, thicken. His thighs, visible where his briefs rode up, looked denser, harder. The pendant pulsed brighter with each frantic stroke, bathing Dale’s straining form in an eerie, shifting light.
Look at him, Ein, the voice in Ethan’s head murmured, thick with an unfamiliar, possessive hunger. Look how fuckin’ hot he is. All that muscle… working himself… for you. The voice wasn't just Dale’s anymore; it was Ethan’s own deeper resonance, twisted, amplified, urging him closer. Bet he tastes like sweat and salt. Bet he sounds fuckin’ amazing when he comes.
Ethan’s own cock stirred traitorously, thickening against his thigh, responding to the raw, desperate scene before him and the insidious voice inside. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. No. This isn’t us. This isn’t him. But the denial felt flimsy against the visceral pull. Dale was hot like this – powerful, primal, lost in sensation. The sight was terrifying… and undeniably arousing. His own pendant felt warm against his skin, a low hum answering Dale’s brighter pulse.
Dale’s movements became frantic, jerky. A guttural cry tore from his throat, raw and unrestrained. His body arched, muscles locking in a rigid spasm as he came, shuddering violently against the fridge. The pendant flared brightly for a split second, a brief corona of molten energy, then dimmed back to inert coolness.
Silence crashed down, broken only by Dale’s ragged gasps. He slumped against the fridge, trembling, head hanging. Slowly, he pulled his hand free, staring at the sticky mess on his fingers with a dazed, detached expression. He wiped it absently on his thigh.
When he finally lifted his head and turned towards Ethan, the transformation was chillingly complete. The panic, the flicker of the old Dale, was gone. Smothered. His eyes, though still wide, held a new flatness. A hardness. The confusion was replaced by a cool, assessing gaze. He looked Ethan up and down, a slow, deliberate sweep that made Ethan feel exposed. The faint smirk that touched Dale’s lips wasn't hesitant or shy. It was confident. Almost predatory. He looked thicker, broader, undeniably more than he had just minutes before. The morning light etched every new line of muscle.
"Morning, Einstein," Dale said, his voice devoid of its former roughness. It was smooth now. Controlled. Deep. Effortlessly confident. Like Brick giving orders. He pushed off the fridge, standing tall, his transformed body radiating a quiet, intimidating power. He stretched again, the movement purely functional, showcasing his strength without a hint of self-consciousness. "Sleep okay?" The question was casual, but the eyes holding Ethan’s were anything but. They were the eyes of a stranger wearing his best friend’s face, already looking past the moment, assessing, planning. Waiting.
Ethan stood frozen, the echo of the possessive voice still whispering in his skull, his own body humming with confused arousal and cold dread. Dale wasn't fighting it anymore. The jock persona wasn't just a mask; it was settling in, claiming territory. And Ethan felt the same insidious pull, the same hungry voice within himself, whispering Yeah… look at him… as he stared at the undeniable, terrifyingly attractive stranger Dale had become. The path back vanished completely in the harsh morning light.