Boost Mode

I hated how quiet the office was at night. Fluorescent light hummed, and a vacuum was running somewhere across the building. It was past nine. Again.

There was no one left on my floor. Just me, slouched in an ergonomic chair, staring at a spreadsheet that refused to make sense. I’d been tasked with a “re-engagement funnel” for our lapsed male customers—whatever that meant

The higher-ups thought they were geniuses for throwing out buzzwords.  It always landed on me to translate them into something useful.

I never planned to be in marketing. I graduated top of my class in business analytics. My internship had been at a boutique hedge fund. But somewhere between burnout and bad timing, I ended up here—at TitanFit, a fitness lifestyle brand more interested in TikTok than ROI.

Still, I tried to make it work. Every morning I shaved, suited up, and poured black coffee into my reusable mug. Discipline, I’d decided, was the only thing separating me from the shirtless clowns on our ad campaigns.

Well. Maybe not the only thing.

I rubbed my eyes and finally gave up.  This report could wait.

------

The elevator chimed as I stepped into the lobby, and I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirrored walls: tall, lean, exhausted.

I needed to blow off steam.

I pinged Zayn.

> TYLER: Gym?

The reply came back instantly, with a bicep emoji and a selfie of him shirtless in the locker room. Always shirtless. Always smirking. Always just a little bit too much.

> ZAYN: Thought you’d never ask. Need a spot?

-----

The gym was only a few blocks from my office. Zayn had gotten me a membership under his “creator referral” code, so I only paid half price — on the condition that I film his lifts, edit his clips, and pretend I didn’t hate his Instagram lifestyle.

He greeted me with a chest bump and a wink, already sweating through his stringer tank.

“Damn, you look like hell,” he said, ruffling my hair. “Rough day at the desk, bro?”

“You mean at my job? That thing adults have?” I shot back, but he wasn’t listening.  Just loading plates onto the incline bench.

I tried not to stare at his back while he stretched. Tried not to let his tattoos distract me while I chalked my hands. Tried not to notice the way his shorts clung to his thick thighs.

Zayn wasn’t just hot. He was infuriating.

He had a little following online, enough to land brand deals and free supplements. He called it his “hustle.” I called it dumb luck.

He acted like his life was some giant inside joke. Like being horny, half-naked, and always on camera was an actual goal.

What annoyed me most was how effortless he made it look.

“I’m switching up your program,” he said as I settled under the bar. “We’re going full hypertrophy this month. More juice, less brains.”

“Sounds like your dating profile,” I smirked.

He grinned wide and unbothered.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

------

The vending machine had never caught my attention before. It sat against the far wall of the gym’s lower level, tucked between the locker room entrance and the stairwell. Another glowing rectangle full of overpriced protein bars and neon-colored drinks.

But tonight, Zayn made a beeline for it.

“Gimme a sec,” he said, peeling off his sweat-soaked tank and tossing it over his shoulder like a towel. He was already half-naked, wandering barefoot in just gym shorts, the waistband of his jockstrap peeking out for anyone who cared to look.

He cracked his knuckles, squinted at the digital display, and muttered.

“They finally restocked Boost Mode.”

I leaned against the tiled wall, toweling off my neck. “Is that like Beast Mode’s dumb cousin?”

“Nah, it’s better,” he snorted. “Limited drop. They don’t list it online. I think it’s like... beta testing? Secret menu shit.”

I walked over, skeptical.

The machine’s UI was sleek — a black mirror finish with glowing icons for Pump, Shred, Zen, Glow, and a half-dozen other gimmicky labels. In the bottom right corner, pulsing faint red, was Boost Mode. No description. Just a stylized lightning bolt.

“It’s probably double caffeine,” I said.

Zayn tapped his card and made his selection.

“Try one. It’s kinda... fun.”

“I’ve got protein at home.”

He grinned. “Yeah, but does your protein vibe?”

The machine whirred, and his bar dropped with a metallic thunk. It looked normal enough — matte black wrapper, bold font, minimalist branding.

“Seriously, what does it do?” I asked.

“Dunno,” he shrugged, already biting into the bar. “Depends.”

“That’s not how supplements work.”

Zayn gave me a lazy wink. “You sure?”

I glanced back at the machine. My eyes drifted to Boost Mode, still glowing faintly.

------

Some guy I didn’t know passed us on his way out. Shirtless, dazed, and flushed. He was lean but visibly pumped — like his chest had grown mid-set. His shorts strained against his thighs. He blinked slowly, gave a lazy smile to no one in particular, and wandered upstairs like he’d forgotten about the elevator.

Zayn watched him go, 

“That dude was an accountant last week.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You knew him?”

“Just sayin’,” Zayn turned back to me, chewing. “Guy used to have opinions. Now he just moans about his pump and takes mirror selfies.  And it’s all thanks to...”

He pointed.  I looked at the machine one more time.

Boost Mode. Still glowing.

“Nah,” I said, stepping back from the machine. “That’s not for me.”

Zayn raised an eyebrow. “You scared?”

“Of what? Candy bars with branding issues?” I grabbed my water bottle. “I just don’t need a placebo buzz in my system.”

“Alright, Mr. Rational,” He let out a low chuckle.

“Someone’s gotta be,” I shrugged.

I caught myself glancing toward the stairwell like I expected to see the former accountant return, bigger or dumber or... something. My brain was still chewing on Zayn’s comment about him having opinions. I couldn’t stop thinking about that.

And I couldn’t stop thinking about what Boost Mode would do to me.

Zayn crushed the wrapper in one fist and tossed it into the bin.

“Whatever, man. Keep working overtime and dry-spooning your whey.”

“It’s not like I’m avoiding it,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Oh?” He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the citrus-sweat from his skin. “Then why not try it?”

I opened my mouth, but the words didn’t come.

Because I’m afraid I’ll like it.  Because I’m barely holding my shit together. Because if I let go — even a little — I’d never want to stop.

“I’m not one of your gymfluencer buddies,” I shrugged.  “Moaning into a ring light about pump checks and thirst traps.  It’s not for me dude.”

He smiled slowly. Not mocking. Just amused.

“Yeah, God forbid someone likes how they look.”

“I’m going home.”

As I walked past the vending machine, I could feel Boost Mode still waiting behind the glass.  Waiting for me.

And for a second, just one stupid second, I imagined taking it. Peeling the wrapper. Biting down. Feeling something melt and shift in my chest.

“See that guy,” Zayn would say.  “He used to be in marketing.”

------

I hadn’t even taken off my shoes when my phone lit up.

> ZAYN: Yo. Did some digging. That Boost shit’s not even on the site. There’s a thread about it tho. Says it brings out your best self or whatever.

A second message followed with a blurry screenshot. Some fitness subreddit post titled “Anyone else feel like Boost Mode rewires your brain?”

I tossed the phone on the couch. I didn’t need Zayn harassing my DMs. Not after two hours of struggling to reword the same three bullet points on an email to my boss.

But I was restless. Agitated.

I stripped down to my briefs and padded to the kitchen, cracked open a can of sparkling water, and leaned against the counter. The silence pressed in.

> ZAYN: Just sayin. You wanna stand out at work? Make moves? Might be worth trying something different for once.

I frowned.

He wasn’t wrong. I had been hitting a wall. My last three pitches were all rejected without comment. I hadn’t even been included on the group campaign call this week. It felt like I was disappearing. Quietly. Professionally.

Another message.

> ZAYN: You’re scared of being hot, aren’t you?

Of course not. That was idiotic.

Except…

I’d spent my whole adult life defining myself as a professional. Against vanity. Against self-indulgence. I prided myself on being sharp, disciplined, useful. Being taken seriously. Even if it meant I was just another corporate drone.

I started typing, deleted it, then typed again.

> TYLER: And what if it turns me into a a brainless gymbro like that accountant guy?

No response.

I waited.

The typing bubble appeared, then vanished.

Then it came back.

> ZAYN: Would that be so bad?

-----

I didn’t tell Zayn I was going.

I didn’t want him to give that smug grin. Didn’t want him teasing me. Didn’t want the judgement if I backed out.

The gym was busier than usual — the Friday night pump crowd. Guys in tiny shorts, tanks with armholes cut to the waist, bouncing between cable stacks and mirrors, practically masturbating at their own reflections. The locker room reeked of sweat and cheap cologne.

I kept my hood up, earbuds in, and went straight for the vending machine.  Boost Mode pulsed in the corner of the screen like a low heartbeat.

I tapped my card.

The interface asked me to confirm my choice.

> YOU SELECTED: BOOST MODE
> This product may enhance your performance based on current goals and physiological state.
> Consume immediately for best results.

The bar dropped. Matte black, red bolt logo, no ingredients listed. It was lighter than I expected.

My hand trembled slightly as I peeled the wrapper.

The smell hit me first — sweet, but not like food. Almost floral. Faintly chemical.

I brought it to my lips.

I paused.

Every cell in my body screamed no.

Like the part of me that kept a colour-coded calendar was pleading: don’t fuck this up.

I bit.

The texture was softer than I expected. It melted the second it hit my tongue.

Something clicked behind my eyes.

It wasn’t dramatic. No lightning bolt. No hallucinations. No instant abs.

It was subtle. Like my body had a volume knob and we just cranked it to eleven.

My chest felt a little fuller. Shoulders rolled back without thinking. My arms felt… tighter in my sleeves? No, not sleeves—I’d stripped to a tank top without realizing. When had I done that?

The taste of the bar lingered — vanilla-sweet and electric. I licked my lips and caught myself eye-fucking my reflection.

God, I looked good under gym lighting.

Had I always looked like that?

I adjusted my waistband. My thighs felt a little pumped, like I’d already warmed up. My skin glowed faintly with sweat, even though I hadn’t lifted a thing.

But it was more than just the body.

It was the urge.

The urge to be seen.

I stepped back, phone already in hand. I hit my angle, popped a smirk, flexed just enough to make the tank ride up. Just one photo.

Just one.

Damn.

Jesus. What was I doing?

I stuffed the rest of the bar into my gym bag, but I didn’t leave. I went upstairs and crushed the hardest lift of the week.

Chest. Shoulders. Burned like hell.

Every mirror made it harder to stop.

And when I peeled off my tank for the final set? People looked.

And I fucking loved it.

-----

I told myself I wouldn’t do it again.

That first Boost Mode was just curiosity. A fluke. I hadn’t even finished the bar. I’d thrown the rest out when I got home.

Totally fine. Except…

Two nights later, I was standing at the vending machine again.

Zayn wasn’t with me. He was upstairs recording a “quadzilla” superset for his channel, wearing shorts so tight they looked painted on. I could hear his laugh echo down the stairwell.

I’d already warmed up. Already done my big lifts. I didn’t need a supplement...

And yet, here I was. Card in hand. Staring at Boost Mode.

I told myself I was just curious.

I told myself it had made my lifts easier.

I told myself that tiny burst of confidence — the feeling that made me take a selfie — that was useful. I could channel that. Leverage it. Maybe even include it in my next campaign pitch.

It wasn’t about ego.

It was research.

The bar dropped.

-----

I took it to the rooftop yoga deck, sitting on a stretch mat beneath the string lights. It was late enough that the space was empty, but I still looked around before unwrapping it.  I was worried someone might catch me.  Stupid, right?

This one tasted warmer, somehow. A little cinnamon. A little heat.

My skin prickled immediately. Like blood rushing up to the surface.  I could feel it.

My arms pumped up fast. Shoulders swelled. My biceps popped.

And it wasn’t just the muscle. It was… posture.

I sat taller. Flexed more naturally. My thighs spread wider without me meaning to, gym shorts clinging to every curve. I didn’t pose, but I looked posed. Effortlessly slutty.

I ran a hand up my abs.

Fuck.

When did I get abs?

-----

I found Zayn by the water station, dripping sweat and smug as ever.

“Look who showed up juicy,” he said, bumping his hip against mine. “You on Boost again?”

“Maybe...” I hesitated.

“That’s a yes,” he grinned.

I rolled my eyes, but I was still smirking. I didn’t mean to. It just happened.

“Dude, it’s working,” he said, dragging his eyes over my torso like I was a progress pic. “You look thick. Hot. You’re not posting this shit yet, are you?”

“No.”

“Shame. Bet you’d pull crazy engagement.”

I should’ve been annoyed.  Instead I said, “You’d edit for me?”

“You want me to?”

My chest felt hot. My heart was beating too fast.

“I dunno,” I muttered. “Could be fun.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying, man,” he said, clamping a hand on my shoulder. “You’ve got the frame for it. Just needed a boost.”

-----

Later that night, I stood in front of my mirror at home, towel slung low around my hips. Skin flushed. Arms loose at my sides.

I looked… different.

Not just bigger. Not just more defined.

Hungrier.

I lifted my phone.

Opened the camera.

Not to take a picture. Just to see how I looked on camera.

I shifted my stance. Flexed my traps. Let my towel dip a little too low.

Fuck.

I looked like one of them now.

One of Zayn’s guys. One of the dumb influencers I always rolled my eyes at.

I hated not hating it.

-----

> ZAYN: Dude, come up to studio 6, third floor.  I got something new to film.  I want you in it!

I sighed and headed for the elevator.  Maybe I’d get a cool clip out of it.  And at least I’d be helping a friend.

Zayn was already waiting, tripod up, ring light glowing soft pink.

“Eat this,” he said.  I caught a Boost Mode and shrugged.  It wasn’t like I’d asked him to grab me one.  Not like I’d spent my own money...

The bar hit my tongue and my brain lit up.

My skin flushed. My heartbeat climbed. I rolled my shoulders and felt everything swell — my chest, my arms, my ass. My shorts hugged me like a second skin, and my hoodie suddenly felt so fucking uncomfortable, I yanked it off.

He whistled when he saw me.

“Damn. Boost treats you real good.”

I didn’t reply. I couldn’t.

I was busy adjusting my bulge.

He noticed. He laughed.

And for once, I didn’t snap back. I didn’t lecture him. I didn’t pull away.

I grinned.

-----

We started filming — low angle, pump check, mirror poses.

He guided my hands. My stances. Told me when to flex, when to bite my lip, when to drop low and roll my hips slow.

His voice was lower than usual. Almost breathy.

“Yeah, Ty. That’s it. You’re fuckin’ owning this.”

The more he praised me, the harder I got. I wasn’t even hiding it anymore.

My skin glistened under the lights, abs tight, traps flared. My thighs were fucking pornographic in those mesh-lined shorts.

Zayn moved behind me to adjust the angle.

His hand brushed my lower back.

“Wanna make this a series?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I agreed a little too easily.

“Yeah?”

Zayn's pupils dilated.

-----

I sat on my bed that night, scrolling the first cut he sent me.

I looked like a fitness slut. Big, sweaty, horny, and happy. My face looked looser.  Dumber. Lit from the inside out.

I watched it three times.

I jerked off after the second.

And then I texted Zayn.

> TYLER: You think we should add a part where I take the bar on camera?

> ZAYN: Only if you moan a little after.

> TYLER: You’re disgusting.

> ZAYN: You like it.

-----

I told myself it was about brand alignment.

That if I understood the appeal of the product category, I could pitch it better. That my little Boost Mode experiments were just a kind of market research. Immersive. Analytical.

Totally professional.

So when Zayn offered me another bar post-lift, I took it without hesitation.

“It’s hitting different lately,” he said, unwrapping his own. “Maybe they’re tweaking the formula.”

“Yeah,” I said, sliding mine from the wrapper and sniffing it. “Maybe.”

This time the bar smelled sweeter — almost like caramel. It was warm in my hand.

We were in the gym’s lounge, tucked behind the new eucalyptus sauna. Low lights. Ambient music. Plush chairs. Steam trailing from the doorway.

I popped the bar into my mouth.

This time it started in my hips.

My gait changed. My stance loosened. I swayed when I walked, but not on purpose — like my body demanded to be noticed.

My chest thickened, pecs pressing against my tank. The material pulled up enough to flash lower abs. My traps bunched. My ass popped like I’d done three sets of cable kickbacks.

But the biggest change was in my face.

Softer. Sweeter. Still mine — but with kiss-swollen lips and crazy eyes. I looked… flirty.

And I loved it.

-----

Zayn noticed right away.

“Dude. You’re glowing.”

I flopped into the armchair across from him, thighs spread wide. “You think?”

“What’s the word?” he laughed.  "Sultry?”

“You sound like fan-fiction.”

He stretched his arms behind his head, eyes still on me. “I could write a chapter or two.”

I looked down at myself. Chest gleaming. Skin flushed. Shorts tight.

“You ever think this stuff is… changing us?” I asked. “Like—not just bodies. Like... how we think?”

Zayn shrugged. “I think we’re just becoming who we really are.”

“That’s such a dumb line.”

He smiled. “You smiled when I said it.”

That was hard to deny.

-----

Back at home, I caught myself scrolling through Zayn’s page — his videos, his stories, his thirst traps, his collabs... All of it.

I wasn’t comparing anymore.

I was studying.

Looking for angles. Lighting. Vibes. Smiles.

I thought about the way he laughed when he posed me. The way his fingers lingered on my skin. The way he looked at me like I was already one of the gymfluencers.

I told myself I was just planning our next shoot.

That it wasn’t about him.

That it wasn’t personal.

But my cock was hard the whole time.

-----

The light setup was different this time. Three-point rig. Purple gels. A softbox tilted low to catch the definition in our abs. Zayn said he was experimenting with intimacy. Said the algorithm liked sweat.

We were filming together now. Shirtless. Our chests almost touching.

The video concept was simple: post-Boost Mode stretch and flex sequence. Nothing overt. Nothing explicit.

Except… everything was.

I caught him mid-adjustment, mouth open slightly, eyes lingering too long on my bulge.

I didn’t cover it. I smirked instead.

“Camera’s that way,” I said, voice a little raspier than I meant.

He flushed. “Shut up.”

I stepped closer. “You like this?”

He bit his lip. “Fuck yes.”

I rolled my hips, slow and deliberate, watching his breath hitch.

And then I backed off—quick, embarrassed, like I’d said something wrong.

What the fuck was I doing?

“I didn’t mean—” I started, grabbing my water.

Zayn stepped in fast, gripping my wrist.

“I don’t care.”

His voice was low.

My chest tightened.

I pulled back. “We’re just making content.”

He nodded, too quickly. “Yeah. Content.”

But when he said it, he was staring at my lips.

-----

We didn’t talk much after the shoot.  I got home and spent forty minutes pacing. Still shirtless. Still flushed.

I felt like I was vibrating.

Every brush of my skin, every drag of fabric, it all sent heat through me. I caught my reflection in the window and flexed out of instinct.

The shorts I wore barely contained me.

My body wanted to be touched.

My brain wanted to beg.

But I wasn’t like that. I wasn’t some dumb gym bunny desperate to get railed for his OnlyFans. I had a career. A salary. A curated wardrobe and a five-year plan.

Except now all I could think about was how Zayn looked at me.

And how I wanted him to look again.

-----

We weren’t supposed to be at the gym after hours, but Zayn had the door code. Said he sweet-talked one of the trainers. Said it’d be “hotter if we had the place to ourselves.”

I didn’t argue.

I didn’t even ask why.

He pulled equipment out of his bag.  The tripod, the ring light, the high end phone he bought just to film with... and two Boost Mode bars.  One for each of us.

I took a bite.  It hit fast.

Like something ripped through my bloodstream, burning out hesitation and replacing it with need.

My body pulsed, swelled, stretched.

I moaned.

Zayn looked up at me from where he was adjusting the tripod. “You good?”

I bit my lip. “Too good.”

He stepped closer.

I could feel him watching me change. Noticing the fresh thickness in my glutes. The way my pecs were turning into a shelf. The slick sweat already forming on my lower back.

I was showing off and I knew it. I couldn’t stop.

My cock strained against my jock, shameless and heavy. My breath came in short, soft pants. I looked like I was mid-edge—tight, flushed, trembling with restraint.

“I can’t fucking think,” I muttered, pacing, tugging at my waistband. “I just—fuck, dude.”

Zayn swallowed.

He stepped up beside me, his voice unsteady. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” I snapped. “This shit’s changing me. I’m acting like—like—”

“Like you want it?” he offered.

I stopped moving.

I looked at him.

He was hard, too. Chest gleaming. Breath fast.

He wasn’t mocking me. He wasn’t amused.

He was with me.

Horny. Sweaty. Out of breath.

The heat between us was no longer performance. It was mutual. Real.

But we hovered close for the rest of the night. Touching between takes. Sweaty arms brushing. Hands lingering longer than necessary.

When we finally filmed, it wasn’t clean.

We laughed. Moaned. Bit our lips and flexed for each other.

It wasn’t content.

It was foreplay.

-----

I lay in bed hours later, too wired to sleep. My sheets were soaked. My body wouldn’t stop twitching with heat.

I stared at the ceiling, one hand groping my chest.

I felt good.

Like I belonged in this body.

Like I needed it.

But it wasn’t just about me anymore.

Zayn was in it, too. He was sweating, shaking, riding the same waves.

And he wanted me.

Not the version of me I’d spent years polishing. Not the careful, strategic Tyler I’d been building.

He wanted this.

Thick, dumb, desperate me.

And I was starting to want him just as bad.

-----

Zayn didn’t call it a date.

He said we were doing a “duo drop”—two videos, one workout, one thirst trap. “You’ve got fans now,” he said, like it was a fact. “You gotta feed ‘em.”

I didn’t argue. By now, I knew I was in too deep.

I shaved that morning. Oiled my chest. Pulled on my shortest gym shorts—the white ones that clung to my thighs and made my ass look massive. I tossed a mesh tank in my bag, just in case. 

Not like I was gonna wear it.

-----

The Boost Mode bar was waiting for me. It didn’t surprise me anymore. Zayn knew I was hooked.

I peeled the wrapper without a word. Zayn watched and rubbed his cock through his shorts. This one had a faint rainbow shimmer to it. It tasted like syrup and static.

I moaned when it hit.

It was full-body this time. A hot flood behind my eyes. My chest popped—rounder, tighter, impossibly perky. My thighs strained the hem of my shorts. My jaw sharpened just enough to make my lips look obscene.

But the real shift came lower.

My cock stayed hard. Immediately. Persistently.

My ass swelled heavier, rounder. I felt it bounce when I walked. I caught my own reflection in the studio mirror and stared.

I looked like I belonged in a porn loop on mute.

Zayn didn’t speak at first. Just watched. His hand ran down his abs, slow. He didn’t even try to hide how hard he was.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he murmured.

I stepped closer.

“Say that again.”

He reached for my waist. “You’re so fucking hot.”

My breath caught. I felt like I was glowing from the inside.

“You’ve changed,” he said, voice softer now.

My heart thudded in my ears.

I should’ve pushed back. I should’ve said something.

Instead, I stepped forward and kissed him.

It was sloppy. Needy. Desperate. All tongue and teeth and panting.

Our hands roamed everywhere. We barely thought to turn on the camera. I ground against him, moaning into his mouth, my hands all over his chest, my thoughts too foggy to catch.

-----

Later, sprawled shirtless on the studio mat, sweat slick between us, I stared at the ceiling, chest still heaving.

“I think I’m different now,” I said.

Zayn propped himself up on one elbow. “You’re hot as fuck.”

I smirked. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Yeah it is,” he said, grinning. “You just don’t wanna admit it.”

I laughed, weak and flushed. I didn’t decide to be gay.

But I was.

We didn’t talk about it.

The kiss. The grinding. The fact that I came untouched in his lap, moaning into his neck like a porn-star himbo.

Zayn acted like nothing happened. He just texted me the next day:

> ZAYN: Sunset shoot. My place. Bring shorts.

I brought the pink ones.

-----

The Boost Mode shimmered gold this time. I stared at it in Zayn’s hand, and for the first time, I hesitated.

Not because I didn’t want it. Because I did.

I wanted the feeling. The heat. The pump. The cocky smirk I couldn’t wipe off my face after the last time.

I wanted to be his.

Zayn saw the pause. “You okay?”

I swallowed. “What happens if I can’t come back?”

He stepped closer. Pressed the bar into my hand.

“Then don’t.”

I bit into it and the world melted.

I moaned. Full-body. Shameless.

My pecs inflated first—round, dense, jiggling slightly as I shuddered. My traps rose like twin hills. Shoulders stretched wide and tight. My tank top split along the seam. I tore it off, bare-chested now, glistening.

My thighs ballooned. My ass surged. My waist cinched tight. My skin flushed all over, like I was being lit from within. Glossy, golden, and fuckable.

I twitched with need.

Every breath came out horny. Every movement slow and heavy. I flexed without realizing, hips cocked, abs tight, lips parted.

My mind was light. Hazy. Blissed out.

Thoughts dripped away like sweat.

I didn’t need to be smart anymore.

I just needed to be seen.

Zayn turned on the camera. I moved like it was habit.

Bent over the couch. Popped up my peach. Bit my lip. Moaned his name.

Flexed. Giggled. Dropped my shorts low enough to show the jockstrap.

Threw back my head and begged for a pump check.

I wasn’t playing a himbo anymore.

I was one.

And I fucking loved it.

-----

After the last take, I collapsed on the couch, chest heaving, sweat dripping from every pore.

Zayn knelt beside me, his palm on my thigh. His voice was soft.

“You okay?”

I nodded slowly. “I feel…”

“Yeah?”

“…so fucking happy.”

I reached for his hand. He took it. I could still feel the echo of his lips on mine.

“I think I’m in love with you,” I said, voice cracking.

He didn’t laugh.

He didn’t tease.

He just leaned in and kissed me hard, tongue first, hungry and hot.

“Me too,” he whispered, breath ragged. “Since the first time you smirked for the camera.”

-----

He dragged me to bed — by the waistband of my jockstrap, my legs weak, brain buzzing, chest still twitching from the Boost Mode burn.

I was dripping. Grinning. Horny out of my fucking mind.

“Please,” I breathed, backing into the sheets, ass lifted.

“Please what?” he teased, pulling his tank over his head, smirk dark and knowing.

I whined.

He slapped my ass. “Use your words, babe.”

“Fuck me. I want your cock. I want you to ruin me.”

Zayn climbed over me slow, muscles gleaming, cock heavy and leaking as it slapped against my abs. I grabbed his hips, pulled him down until he was grinding into me, slow and firm. His cock dragged over mine, and I whimpered.

“Say it again,” he growled.

“Fuck me.”

“Say it slutty.”

“Fuck me stupid, Zayn. Fuck me dumb. You want me like this—fucking hot and empty and yours.”

He didn’t make me say it again. Thank god.

He lubed me fast, fingers rough, deliberate. No prep talk. No foreplay. He knew I was ready. I’d been ready for weeks.

When he pushed in, I screamed.

Not loud. Raw.

Like it knocked something loose in my chest.

“Fucking look at you,” he groaned, rutting deep and slow. Claiming me. “My hot little Boost bunny.”

My brain blanked.

I grabbed at the headboard, hips lifting to meet him, mouth open and dumb, moaning every time he bottomed out. Each thrust knocked more thoughts out of me. Replaced them with heat. With worship.

I didn’t think about my body anymore.

I felt it. I used it. I offered it.

All for him.

Zayn grabbed my thighs, spread me wider.

“Beg,” he said.

“I’m yours,” I gasped. “Use me. Ruin me. Make me your fucking toy.”

He slammed into me so hard I saw stars.

“You were always meant to be a dumb little slut,” he whispered. “You just needed a nudge.”

I moaned louder.

“You love it, don’t you?” he hissed.

I nodded wildly.

“I love it. Love being yours. Love being like this.”

He reached down, stroked me once — and I exploded, back arched, body shaking, jock soaked, cock twitching.

He came seconds later, buried deep, growling in my ear, spilling inside me like he owned me. Because he owned me.

We didn’t move for a long time.

Just stayed there, sticky and grinning, chests heaving.

“You’re perfect, baby,” Zayn kissed my jaw. “Or at least my favourite kind of wreck.”

-----

I showed up early.

Hair slicked. Shirt buttoned — barely. I’d sized out of all my workwear, and my chest strained the buttons no matter how much I sucked it in. My slacks clung to my thighs like compression gear, and I was definitely printing through the jockstrap. But I made it through the lobby without anyone stopping me.

At my desk, I cracked open the pitch deck. Barker Athleticwear. Originally a digital ad campaign, some influencer seeding, and a boilerplate growth strategy.

Boring.

Forgettable.

And completely wrong.

Because I knew what worked now. I rewrote the whole thing in three hours.

Built the campaign around a Boost Mode-style glow-up: real guys, real change, real muscle. One-on-one influencer series. Sweat, flex, smirks, full thirst trap energy. Real-time progress posts. Messy, addictive, low-shame and high-engagement.

And the twist?

I’d star in it.

Lead talent. Full spread.

“Authentic transformation journey,” I wrote in the summary. “From desk job to front-facing icon. No actor could sell it like I could. I lived it.”

I dropped it into the drive and pinged Marla, my creative director. Ten minutes later, she was in my doorway.

“Tyler,” she said slowly, “did you rewrite the Barker pitch?”

I stood, chest out. “Yeah. Just had a better angle.”

She flipped through it on her tablet, lips twitching in surprise.

“This is…” She hesitated. “Actually good. Like... disgustingly clickable.”

I grinned. “Thanks.”

She stared at me for a beat. “You want to be the face of it?”

I nodded.

She took a slow breath. “You know what that means, right? If you’re the talent, you can’t run creative. Not without it looking like ego. I need to be able to manage you like I would any influencer.”

I swallowed.

“So this is your choice,” she said, stepping closer.  "Behind the scenes… or in front of the camera. You can’t do both.”

I didn’t answer right away. Just sat there, brain buzzing.

The pitch had felt right—natural, instinctive, obvious. I knew this market. I was this market. Every swipe, every mirror, every post I made with Zayn was training for this.

But could I really give up my job to become a thirst trap?

Could I let someone else run the show?

I looked down at my body. Flexed my pecs under the straining button-up. Glimpsed the outline of my cock in my slacks.

And I knew the answer. I wasn’t built to hide anymore.

“Go home,” Marla said, seeing it in my face. “Think about it.”

I nodded.

“And Tyler?”

“Yeah?”

“If you’re in, we’re shooting this week. Shave your chest and hydrate.”

-----

I stood in front of the mirror.

Naked.

My old work shirt lay in the trash. The last of my button-ups. It had torn clean down the back when I flexed earlier. I'd laughed. Then I’d stopped laughing.

Because I couldn’t pretend anymore.

I wasn’t going back to a desk.

I wasn’t built for briefings.

I was built to bounce pecs and break algorithms.

-----

The bar Zayn gave me was different. The same familiar packaging, but there was something heavier about it.  Denser.  More... final.

He held it in both hands as he offered it.

“You sure?”

I didn’t answer. I just took it.

I held it up in front of the mirror. My reflection stared back—already slutty, already transformed so much I could barely remember my old life. My lips were full and pink. My pecs hung proud. My ass looked like it was forged for porn.

“I was scared,” I said quietly.

“I know,” Zayn murmured behind me.

“I thought I was losing myself.”

He stepped up behind me, arms warm around my waist.

“You were. That’s the point.”

I smiled and took a bite. It didn’t feel like a bomb this time. It felt like worship.

Every part of me lit up—growing, tightening, hardening. My chest ballooned into pornstar pecs. My arms pumped thick with vascular delts and biceps so tight they ached. My waist cinched. My abs etched like deep, clean bricks. My ass — God, my ass — flared out like a reward.

My hair styled itself into messy, camera-ready chaos.

My lips plumped again, this time with a permanent fuck-me swell.

And deep in my head, the last of my overthinking burned away.

I didn’t need a plan.

I didn’t need strategy.

I needed lube and a ring light.

Zayn handed me a new pair of shorts—white mesh, cut high. No underwear. I slipped them on and watched my cock print obscenely down the middle.

He took a slow breath. “You’re… incredible.”

I turned toward him, smirked, grabbed my bulge.

“Yeah, I know.”

-----

We shot all night.

Hero shots. Confessional. Workout reel. And one raw, sweaty, perfectly lit flex video with me biting my lip and whispering:

“Remember me?”

We ended in the shower. Zayn filmed. I soaped up slow. Let the water cascade down my abs. Made eye contact with the camera like I wanted to fuck it.

No script. No shame.

Only me.

Later, I lay naked on Zayn’s bed, phone lighting up with notifications.

The pitch had been approved.

My boss had sent me one line:

> MARLA: Guess we’ll have to hire a new strategist. Congrats, starboy.

I laughed. Felt my cock twitch.

And sent her a selfie.