I definitely recommend the newer remake of Cruel Intentions on Prime! Not just for the preppy but the plot is also really good (genuinely upset it didn’t get renewed). Dead Poets Society is also a good classic! If others have suggestions, definitely comment below!
Text
Extending the family (part 1)
The last whistle of hurling practice blew through the dusk-drenched field, echoing off the empty bleachers. Daniel’s breath steamed in the cool evening air as he slid his helmet off and rested the hurl against his thigh. Muscles tight and glistening, sweat painting his golden kit to his body, he jogged toward the changing rooms, boots thudding like war drums.
The locker room was mostly empty—training had run long, and most of the bros had left. Daniel, ever the team medic and grinder, was the last off the field. Steam curled into the air as he entered the tiled shower block.
The rhythmic sound of water hitting flesh already echoed. He turned the corner, golden towel slung over one shoulder—and froze.
Gabe was there.
The football player stood under a cascade, eyes closed, head tilted back. The water, warm, trickled down his sculpted frame. Light caught the drops on his skin, but something else shimmered too—a glow?
Daniel’s pulse quickened, but he stayed silent, stepping under a second stream of water. Their eyes met. There was no embarrassment—only curiosity.
“You play hurling?” Gabe asked, voice low and casual, but his gaze lingered.
Daniel nodded. “Every week. Warrior sport. Keeps Fenrir awake.”
“Fenrir?”
Daniel smiled, golden and strange. “The wolf beneath my skin. The one that howls when the goal is close. The one that marks.”
Steam thickened. Water poured. And something stirred in the air.
Gabe’s lips parted slightly. “That’s intense.”
Daniel stepped closer. Water glided down the arch of his back. “You’re tense. You hold something back. I can feel it.”
“Maybe,” Gabe admitted. “I come here after football practice. Don’t know why. Just drawn to the energy.”
Daniel tilted his head. “You feel it.”
Their shoulders brushed. Then torsos. The water flowed over both, mingling heat and breath.
Daniel reached up and pressed a palm to Gabe’s chest. Just above the heart. His fingers were slick with shower-sheen, but something glowed there—a faint gold shimmer under the skin.
“You’ve already started to glow,” Daniel murmured, voice lower now, like a chant. “Your soul knows. Even if your brain resists.”
“What… are you doing to me?”
“Nothing. Everything. It’s just the water. Just my sweat. Just Fenrir, dripping from me… into you.”
The glow spread subtly across Gabe’s chest. Not visible in the ordinary light, but it flickered gold where the droplets ran.
“I feel… warm,” Gabe whispered. “Like it’s moving inside.”
Daniel’s touch withdrew, but the effect lingered. Gabe looked down at his hands, flexing them slowly.
“It’s not infection,” Daniel said. “It’s invitation.”
“I didn’t agree,” Gabe whispered, even as his eyes glazed slightly.
“You didn’t have to. The wolf saw you. And the gold agreed.”
A long silence. Water echoed. The golden aura traced the edges of Gabe’s body now, faint but undeniable. When he looked into the mirror, he didn’t see his old self anymore. He saw… potential. He saw brotherhood. He saw Daniel’s reflection beside him, proud, glowing, and wolf-eyed.
“You’ll leave now,” Daniel said, voice returning to calm. “You won’t remember this clearly. But the wolf will stay in you. It will grow.”
Gabe nodded slowly, as if in trance.
“Leave,” Daniel whispered.
And Gabe did.
——————————————————-
collaboration with @polo-drone-075
Ready to join the Team? All you need to do is contact our recruiters: @polo-drone-001, @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-166 or @polo-drone-125
Text
As part of a new dress code on the players, coach switched the team from playing football to rugby. The results were amazing as rugby boys are the perfect preppy jocks. They became big, muscular keen to always wear clothing with class. No more t shirts or sneakers for these boys
Text
Third Party
Juan was never interested in politics. What he was interested in was smoking pot, getting fucked by hot dudes he met off Grindr, and re-watching old cartoons he’d seen a thousand times before.
The world’s recent right-wing turn was alarming though. His parents were Columbian immigrants, while skyrocketing inflation threatened to run his father’s already struggling restaurant straight into the ground. Their current living situation, like that of many in America, felt untenable and it was hard to say what would happen in the next few months let alone a few years. Juan needed answers or at least the chance to not feel so powerless in his life, and so he went to his nearest convention center and began scouting for a political party to join.
Enjoying a few hits from his vape pen before he went inside, Juan walked past the American flag draped tables and colorful banners in a comfortable fuzzy haze. He was a tiny person in a wide sea of people, making him feel small and insignificant in comparison.
His smart friend Mustafa was a canvasser for the Democratic Party, so Juan went there first even if he expected very little from them. They’d let him down a million times before and it seemed they were more insistent on ‘law and order’ than anything else.
By the time he arrived at their table, Mustafa was nowhere to be found and Samir ended up trapped in a conversation with an overeager beach blonde twink who when confronted with any of the Party’s consistent failings accused Samir of being a self-hating gay Trump supporter.
Further inside where the crowds drastically thinned out were the booths of third parties. But these too, proved to be a seeming dead end.
Gay marriage protections? Too controversial.
Protections for immigrants? We’ll host a silent protest in the senate for ten minutes.
Rising housing costs? We’ll vote for a public ballot initiative to lower general rent prices by 0.00004%. No promises.
Close to the edge of the convention floor, Juan was feeling more depressed and overwhelmed about American politics than ever before. Was there really no American political party fighting to bring meaningful change for people like him?
“Hey there, hermano? You lost?” a voice asked him in Spanish. Juan turned around.
The voice came from a man sitting behind what appeared to be another political booth. Or perhaps a religious one. Only a few people were gathered outside it, but those that were seemed deeply invested.
The man himself looked more like a fitness influencer than some political campaigner like Mustafa. Just the fact he was greeted in Spanish immediately put Juan at ease as he drifted over to the stranger.
”I’m not lost, just taking a walk,” Juan answered. He looked up at the sign.
“Christian Unity Party” the sign read plainly in several languages. The Party’s table was covered in the pamphlets of smiling heterosexual families of multiple races, but always with crosses somewhere on their person.
“Intrested in our reading material?” the volunteer asked with an inquiring grin.
“Nah, I should go. I’m sure my friend is looking for me,” Juan lied, growing uneasy as he stepped away.
“I get it. You’re probably convinced that we’re just another do nothing political party, but we get results. You know the failed Exotic Food Tax?”
“Of course I do. Everybody in Jersey’s heard about it,” Juan remarked, stopping in his tracks. It was a right-wing stipulation that any food product made out of the United States would be taxed 150% on top of the pre-existing tariffs unless their production shifted to the United States. A tax that would have meant death to his family’s struggling Columbianian restaurant.
“Our party was why the bill never made it to law,” the canvasser said, confidently.
“That was you?” Juan asked, impressed.
“Our party was able to defeat the conservatives pushing for the exotic food tax on a technicality.”
“How did you manage that?”
“Unlike a lot of these other political parties, we have the power of the divine on our side,” the man answered with a perfect 3000 terawat smile. The air felt different in this man’s presence. Electrically charged. As if they were in a nuclear power plant, the power of possibility buzzing all around them. It left Juan with the sense that anything could happen, which in comparison to the certainty that things would only get worse, filled him with something akin to hope.
“Is this the kind of political party where I’d have to be part of your church to join? I’m not religious, but my aunties would have a collective heart attack if I left the Catholic Church,” Juan explained, hesitant to ride the wave of excitement just yet.
The canvasser nodded solemnly.
“I understand your caution, my friend. My family feared my joining the Christian Unity Party was my leaving them behind, but that couldn’t be any further from the truth. Our Party has the strongest policies aimed at protecting immigrant rights, establishing stronger support systems, and drastically reducing the police and military budgets.”
“Really? I would have thought, considering this country’s Conservatives…” Juan trailed off.
“Use Christianity to further their own nationalist ends? Both our Party and the Churches we affiliate with are invested in spreading the word of God to all people. Hard to do so when so many are being terrorized.”
It was strange. Usually when people like Juan’s Baba went on and on about the importance of Christ’s teachings, Juan would tune him out. How could a book written two thousand years ago have any importance to him now?
Yet unlike all those other times, this political activist’s words were making a lot of sense. Why shouldn’t Christianity be used as a tool of encouraging compassion and understanding? Juan was pretty sure Jesus talked about “love” all the time in the Bible, so wouldn’t it be nice if that actually meant something to Christian politicians.
“I never thought of it that way,” Juan agreed, tapping his fingers against his legs as they tingled with energy.
As they spoke, the energy spiked upward sending a firm jolt to Juan’s slouched frame. Unconsciously, he adjusted himself so that his shoulders were squared and his spine was a rigid hard angle. This allowed him to look the canvasser directly in the eye like he was a man to be reckoned with instead of a stoner who regularly shrank away under other people’s gaze.
“What else do you have planned for the country?” Juan asked, curiously.
He had the canvassar’s rapt attention as they stared eye to eye, which left Juan feeling both important and insecure as he feared saying something that’d make him sound like an ignorant jackass. Juan shoved his hands inside his sweatpants pockets looking for his vape to calm himself down, only to find nothing but lint and cheeto crumbs.
“I’m glad you asked, Mr. Hidalgo. My name is Diego let me fill you in on our Party’s message,” the canvasser introduced, though without asking him for his name which Juan thought was odd.
As Diego went over concepts like tax incentives and the importance of charitable infrastructure, Juan became surprisingly unbothered by his vape pen’s disappearance. Possessed by the vibrating power that radiated from the Party booth, Juan no longer felt the need to steady his nerves.
The warm fuzzy high from earlier was seeping out of his lungs, breath by breath. It was becoming replaced with a rising sense of clarity and a rapt attention in the Unity Party’s fiscal and social policies. For the more he listened, the more he realized that he already knew. Legal procedures, judicial decisions, and long-term financial planning became second nature to Juan.
“Hmm, I agree that in some cases that private religious institutions may outpace public ones in their ability to reach certain communities,” Juan eventually replied with an erudite nod.
“However, I am cynical about the wearing away of secular institutions with the over-inclusion of the Church. The line between secular and religious law in this country has always been tenuous, but your Party’s policies may push so hard on one end that the line snaps.”
Juan knew when a religious authority gained too much power in a country it would lead to authoritarianism. Even if it promised greater equality and a robust system of welfare.
“I must say, Mr. Hidalgo, I am deeply impressed by your legal and historical knowledge. You must have been practicing law for decades,” Diego flattered, his eyes shining with interest.
“Oh, no. It’s more of a hobby of mine. I mean look at me. I’m no lawyer,” Juan tried to sheepishly answer, yet before his eyes his appearance started to change.
Blurring in and out of perceptible reality, his dirty scuffed up sneakers morphed into a pair of tightly-fitting black dress shoes. From there the changes stretched upward like rising floodwater. His sweatpants, normally white and baggy, shifted into a pair of gray slacks that clung to his legs. Underneath his pants, Juan’s loose-fitting boxers turned into a pair of suffocating briefs. This caused Juan to yelp as his genitals, used to relative freedom, became bunched up like a pack of tennis balls shoved inside a solo cup.
A leather belt further constrained Juan at his waist, as a firmly pressed white dress shirt and gray tie replaced his sweatshirt.
His hair, once long and free like a lion’s mane, had been shortened to a flat respectable cut. It wasn’t the only part of his hair significantly shortened either. Juan’s former beard was gone entirely, replaced by a smooth recently shaven chin and a well-manicured mustache.
“I would say you look like a lawyer, Juan,” Diego chided him with a mischievous grin.
“That would be Mr. Hidalgo to you, sir, and I don’t know what foolishness this is, but your magic tricks can’t change the man that I am,” Juan asserted. His voice sounded newly deep and authoritative, making Diego suddenly change his tune.
“Of course not, Mr. Hidalgo. My sincerest apologies. I only assumed as such since you were the one who handed me this business card,” Diego informed him, pulling out a crisp slip of paper.
Taking it, Juan’s eyes widened as printed neatly across the card it read: “Juan Hidalgo. Lead Partner of Hidalgo Law Firm”.
The reveal caused Juan’s memories to rearrange themselves. Rather than being a feckless do-nothing 24 year old stoner he was a lawyer, a good lawyer who started his own law firm at the age of 29. A firm he worked diligently growing and maintaining for the next 12 years of his life. With this his mind never felt clearer, sharp as a tack but compassionate towards the plights of others.
His old stoner habits and waifish personality were nothing but a past embarrassment. A part of his life he had to evolve from if he ever wanted to get anywhere in this life.
“Are you alright, Mr. Hidalgo,” Diego asked, testing him.
“Quite alright. Just focusing,” Juan said more seriously, his once easy-going voice giving way to one of respectability and maturity.
After his head cleared, he couldn’t even remember why he’d felt upset at Diego in the first place. His previously tense shoulders eased in the canvasser’s presence. Juan smiled.
This was a conversation between two professionals on an equal playing field. Two men who sought to bring good to their communities, even if Juan was uneasy around the beliefs of Diego’s Party and his church.
“Hmm,” Juan motioned, stroking his new neatly trimmed mustache.
“I respect many of your party’s goals, but its emphasis on ‘family values’ has lost me. It verges on the Puritanical, and nothing good can come from regimenting such strict gender and sexual roles,” Juan argued.
“Have you considered, sir, that such values could be necessary in keeping social cohesion?” Diego inquired.
“Social… cohesion?” Juan asked, feeling deeply unsettled as if the ground disappeared from right under him. Diego grinned.
“You would likely know that yourself. With your rigorous body-building and dominant personality, you know the benefits of adhering to traditional manhood,” he insisted.
Under the Church’s influence, Juan’s body grew and with it the fabric of his new clothes stretched along with him. The veins of his arms and legs thickened to the size of electric wires, pulsating with warm energy as they grew thick and strong. His flabby chest grew upward and outward, forming tight and round pecs that strained against his dress shirt. His neck thickened, his jaw line became sharp as steel, and his whole body throbbed with power and heat.
“I only practice body-building, because it enhances my discipline and patience. Though I agree that it’s important for there to be stability in how men and women look and act. Anything else would bring chaos and anarchy,” Juan asserted once the body changes were complete.
Relishing in his enhanced form and new conservative worldview, Juan wondered how he ever could have lived his life as a bottom. As a dominant male, it was his role to be the one who penetrated, not the one who took dicks like a woman. As such, his memories rewrote themselves once more to his being the dominant top in bed. Having smaller and younger men take his thick dick vigorusly up the ass as he fucked them senseless from behind.
Diego silently noticed the glint for power in Juan’s eyes and grinned.
“Mr. Hidalgo, I must say, with your legal expertise not to mention your good looks and charm, you would be a perfect candidate for senate,” Diego introduced, as if it was the most obvious suggestion in the world for him to make.
“Senate? Me? I haven’t even agreed to join your Party and you think I should be a senator for it?” Juan asked, incredulous.
“Didn’t you come here searching to help others? Help your family?” Diego prodded.
“Our Party and our Church can help you, guide you, provide the voter support and financial backing you need to win.”
“I thought you said your Party was made of multiple churches,” Juan interrupted. Diego chuckled.
“Like the other American political parties, there are very few that truly matter. Our Church is one of them,” he explained, casting a condescending glare towards the other booths.
It was the pragmatic choice, Juan knew. The Christian Unity Party would give him the power to improve people’s lives in a way most could only dream. Why would he put his trust in political parties that brought no meaningful change, when he could be a leader in a new party that already had positive results? Still, he hesitated.
“I… I do but there’s limits. I don’t want to give up my own sense of happiness just to fit some warped ideal,” Juan admitted, cracks of his past unsure self pushing forth from his new masculinized shell.
“Who said you had to, Mr. Hidalgo? Lots of powerful men have wives and families, while secretly practicing male on male urges in private. You’d hardly be the only one,” Diego promised.
Juan admitted to himself that the prospect appealed to him in a way. Kept back by his ‘alternative lifestyle’ while working in Law, the presence of a wife and children could advance his career to heights never before seen. Not to mention the good he could do when traditional christians weren’t distracted by his homosexuality.
Juan knew he could put up a winning front to the cameras, positioning himself as a pious and honorable heterosexual Christian man with a loving family. Then in private, he could engage in his secret homosexual desires to his heart’s content. Dating and fucking an array of handsome men eager for a muscular strongman like Juan to dominate them. All while using his newfound money and power to keep their affairs discrete and hidden.
It would mean sacrificing a significant part of himself, Juan knew, but this wasn’t about him. It was about all the people whose lives he could positively change, all the laws he could create and deny. The better world that he knew could exist, if only there was political will behind it. The political will he knew only the Christian Unity Party and the Church could provide.
“What’s your choice, sir?”
There was a moment’s pause. The distant chatter of the convention hall dimmed. It felt as if Juan and Diego were the only two people in the world, as the reality around them became fluid; open to radical change based entirely on Juan’s reply.
“If I can make a difference, a real difference in the world, I’ll be the senator you want me to be,” Juan admitted, holding out his hand to Diego. A sweet victory for God and all humanity confirmed, Diego smiled happily as he took Juan’s hand in his.
From the moment their hands touched, the world disappeared.
When Mr. Hidalgo returned, he was at first blinded by a sharp and burning light as if the very face of God. Blinking away the glare, his eyes soon readjusted. Before him, a large crowd was gathered like glowing fish in a dark sea.
“Go on, Mr. Hidalgo. Your future constituents are waiting,” a voice whispered in his ear. It was no longer Diego, but Pastor Nico who spoke to him.
Juan eased under the man’s quiet but confident tone, respecting the man’s leadership in the church.
With a polite smile newly etched into the corners of Juan’s new handsome visage, he greeted the wave of interested prospective voters. All around him, Juan silently took notice of how his name and face was plastered on the Party’s balloons and banners.
“We believe in you, Juan!”
“Show those Fascists, who’s boss, Mr. Hidalgo!”
“Christ is watching over you, future senator!”
The more people shouted his praise, with a genuine hope for the future, the more Juan easily settled into his new self. Even in the face of several secular journalists looking to knock him down a peg.
“Mr.Hidalgo, what would you say to conservative Christians who feel that a policy of open borders would lead to a crime wave?”
“I’d say to those people that under America’s current immigration policies, Jesus Christ himself would not be able to safely immigrate to America without threat of imprisonment. If that doesn’t say anything about the alleged importance of the Christian faith of American conservatives, I don’t know what does,” Juan said with authority, his conviction firm and bold.
“Mr. Hidalgo, progressives love your stance on immigration and lowering the military budget but are concerned about your Church’s eroding influence on the secularity of public institutions. Is there anything you have to say to those who feel that your faith is influencing too much public policy?”
Another bright flash of a video camera went off directly in his face.
“I’d say that it is my Church’s efforts to welcome its arms to the needy, that has led me to my current politics as well as many in my party. If the Church happens to gain more influence in the American public’s lives, then it’s clear this country is heading on the right path,” Juan parroted, now wholly believing in the Church’s absolute authority and perfection.
“Sir, how do you feel about homosexuality?”
Juan paused, his face twitching with discomfort. It passed as soon as it came.
“Its a disgusting habit, but one I believe can be broken through fasting and prayer,” Juan answered rigidly.
“Then hopefully with the aid of the Lord, they too can find the righteous path of rightful marriage and family as He intended.”
Inwardly, Juan knew he was offering a comforting lie. Despite the wedding ring newly appeared on his finger, and the wife and children he had memories of at home, there was nothing he loved more than fucking men. Only he, unlike the more flamboyant homosexuals he railed against, was smart enough to hide it. It was a lie that allowed his constituents to sleep at night that protected him from too much scrutiny.
When the canvassing came to an end some hours later, Juan was inundated with information and dates by his political team. They swarmed around him, long after many of the prospective voters had left, eager to give their ideas of winning strategies.
Yet as Juan strode toward his car with his team on his heels he spotted a man from some distance away. The man was tall and lanky,
his hands shoved in the pockets of his slacks, as he stared down at the ground ahead of him, seemingly dejected. For a moment, he looked up and their eyes met, a brief flicker of recognition passing through them, until the stranger looked away. His plump bottom lip curled in disgust.
Juan vaguely remembered what it was like to be that man. Lost, angry, feeling helpless in an out of control world. Maybe he could help this stranger in the same way the Church helped him, bringing him into the light of God so he too could find purpose. And if he was lucky, a place by his side and just underneath it.
Text
Landon was just named rush chair for his fraternity and this is how he decided to greet the potential new pledges! He must show them how a proper boy is to dress if they were to be selected to join the brotherhood!
Text
Daddy could not be prouder of himself for raising his sons the correct way. Disciplined , masculine, athletic. A strong specimen requires strict control, any inkling of dissent is severely punished. Not that that has happened in a long time, as these boys obey completely
Text
The Gentlemen’s Store: Antoine’s Genesis of Refinement (Preppy TF)
Part One: The Dare
The cafeteria buzzed with the usual Tuesday afternoon chaos—lunch trays clattering, voices overlapping in a cacophony of teenage apathy. I sat at my usual table in the corner, away from the athletes and the popular kids, pushing a sad excuse for mashed potatoes around my plate. The October sunlight streaming through the tall windows highlighted the cafeteria’s institutional beige walls, making everything look even more depressing than it actually was.
“Yo, Antoine!”
I didn’t need to look up to know it was Demarcus Anderson. I’d recognize that particular brand of self-satisfied smugness anywhere—it preceded him like a cologne cloud. He dropped into the seat across from me with the kind of theatrical flair that suggested he’d been planning this entrance all morning.
“Man, what do you want?” I muttered, not bothering to hide my annoyance. Demarcus and I had been boys since third grade, but lately, his idea of friendship had shifted into something more sinister—a constant series of “jokes” that left me either humiliated or breaking laws I wasn’t quite ready for.
“Chill, chill,” he said, raising his hands. He was grinning, and not in a good way. “I got a proposition for you.”
I finally looked up. Demarcus was lanky, with sharp cheekbones and the kind of cold eyes that had gotten him locked up in juvie for two years on an attempted robbery charge. He’d gotten out six months ago, and ever since, he’d been trying to prove something—to himself, to me, to the neighborhood. Usually at my expense.
“Whatever it is, the answer is no,” I said flatly.
“You ain’t even heard it yet!” He leaned across the table, and I caught the faint smell of weed on his clothing. “You know that new store? Prep Inc.? The one on Fifth and Martin Luther King?”
I did know it. Everyone in the neighborhood knew it. It had opened about three weeks ago, this gleaming, pristine corner store with floor-to-ceiling windows and minimalist white interior design. The owners were clearly trying to “civilize” the neighborhood—offer “positive alternatives” to street culture, as the community board had said in their press release. To kids like us, it was a joke. A punchline. A store for kids with trust funds and summer homes, not kids like me whose parents worked double shifts just to keep us fed.
“Yeah, so?” I asked carefully.
“I dare you to spend one night at the kooky new clothing shop for men,” Demarcus said, his voice dropping to that theatrical whisper he used when he was about to propose something stupid. “After hours. And I dare you to steal something. Proof that you were there. Proof that you’re not some coward.”
My stomach clenched. This was exactly the kind of thing I’d been trying to avoid. Not because I was some model citizen—I’d cut classes more times than I could count this semester, and I had a healthy disdain for authority in all its forms—but because something about this particular store gave me an uneasy feeling. And because I was pretty sure Demarcus was trying to pull me deeper into something I couldn’t get out of.
“Nah, man. Hard pass,” I said, turning back to my potatoes.
“Oh, that’s right. I forgot. You’re scared,” Demarcus continued, his voice taking on that mocking edge. “Little Antoine’s too scared to—”
“I’m not scared,” I said, which was a mistake. The moment the words left my mouth, I knew I’d walked straight into his trap.
Demarcus grinned wider. “Then prove it.”
I opened my mouth to refuse again, but something stopped me. It was the memory of two years ago—Demarcus’s sixteenth birthday, when he’d been expecting a party, a celebration, something to mark the occasion. But he was in juvie, and I’d done nothing about it because, honestly, I hadn’t known what to do. I’d felt guilty for months.
“Fine,” I heard myself say. “But I’m only staying for two hours after closing. Two hours, and then I’m gone. No all-nighter nonsense.”
Demarcus’s eyes lit up like Christmas morning. “And you’ll steal something?”
“We’ll talk about it,” I said, which was as close to a yes as I was going to give him.
—
That evening, I told my parents I was studying at a friend’s house. It wasn’t a lie, exactly. Just a redirection of the truth. My mother, exhausted from a double shift at the hospital, simply nodded and went to bed. My father was already asleep in the living room, the television murmuring softly beside him.
As I walked toward Fifth and Martin Luther King, the October air bit at my skin. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. The neighborhood was transitioning—streetlights flickering on, the foot traffic shifting from workers heading home to people heading out for the evening. The contrast only made Prep Inc. stand out more starkly.
The store was closed, its lights dimmed to a soft amber glow. Through the windows, I could see the neat, almost sterile arrangement of merchandise. Suits and dress shirts lined one wall like soldiers at attention. Pants and slacks occupied another section. In the middle of the floor were display cases of underwear—the conservative kind with high waistbands and modest cuts, the kind of thing no self-respecting neighborhood kid would be caught dead wearing.
At the back of the store, I could see racks of outerwear, activewear, and what looked like European-style swimwear. Everything was arranged with such precision, such intentional care, that it felt less like a retail space and more like a mausoleum of masculinity.
My hands were shaking as I approached the entrance. I wasn’t typically a nervous person, but something about this felt wrong. Really wrong. The kind of wrong that usually ended with me in the principal’s office or worse.
Before I could knock or try the door, it opened.
The man who stood in the doorway was unlike anyone I’d ever seen. He was in his late fifties, maybe early sixties, with the kind of presence that seemed to expand to fill the entire space. His frame was broad and athletic—not the soft athleticism of someone who went to the gym occasionally, but the trained, powerful physique of someone who’d spent decades maintaining it. His hair was a rich brown shot through with distinguished silver, slicked back in a style that managed to be both vintage and contemporary. His eyes were a striking hazel-green, sharp and calculating, with laugh lines at the corners that suggested he found the world endlessly amusing.
He wore a three-piece suit in charcoal gray, perfectly tailored to his frame. The vest was visible beneath an open jacket, and his tie was knotted in a Windsor knot with the precision of someone who could do it in the dark. A pocket watch chain glinted gold against his vest. Even his shoes—oxfords in polished black leather—seemed to judge me for the scuffed sneakers on my feet.
“Can I help you, young man?” he asked, his voice smooth and deep, with an undertone of amusement.
I scrambled for an excuse, any excuse, but the words that came out were the truth. “Uh, nah. I was just in here to get my goon of a friend off my back. He dared me to come in here and spend the night and then steal something to prove I was here. I want no part of it and I just—” I ran out of breath, realizing I’d just confessed a felony to the owner of the store.
But the man didn’t look angry. Instead, he smiled—a warm, genuine smile that transformed his entire face. “No, son. You did the right thing by coming in here,” he said, stepping aside to allow me entrance. His voice was low and rumbling like distant thunder, but the words were enunciated with careful clarity. “And it took guts to own up to what’s going on. Come inside.”
I hesitated for only a moment before stepping through the threshold.
The interior of Prep Inc. was even more striking than it appeared from outside. The lighting was soft and warm, creating an atmosphere of understated luxury. The air smelled of fresh cotton, subtle cologne, and something else—something almost chemical that I couldn’t quite identify. The marble floors gleamed beneath my feet, reflecting the overhead lights.
“I’m Archer Lindsay,” the man said, extending his hand. His grip was firm but not aggressive, confident without being arrogant. “I’m the founder of Prep Inc.”
“Antoine Eubanks,” I replied automatically.
“Come with me, Antoine,” Mr. Lindsay said, releasing my hand. “Let’s talk.”
He led me to a small office in the back of the store, past racks of clothes and displays of accessories I didn’t even know existed. The office was as meticulously arranged as the retail space—dark wood furniture, shelves lined with what looked like fashion magazines and business books, and a large mahogany desk that seemed to command respect just by existing.
“Sit,” Mr. Lindsay said, gesturing to a leather chair.
I sat, feeling very small and very aware of how out of place I was in this space.
“Tell me about your friend,” Mr. Lindsay said, settling into his own chair behind the desk. “Demarcus Anderson, I assume?”
My eyes went wide. “How did you—”
“This neighborhood is small, Antoine. I make it my business to know the young men in it,” he replied calmly. “Demarcus Anderson. In juvie for attempted robbery at sixteen. Out now and looking to prove something. Am I right?”
I nodded slowly, unsettled by how much he knew.
“And you,” Mr. Lindsay continued, steepling his fingers. “You’re different. I can see it in you. You’re the kind of young man who tries to stay focused, but you get dragged into situations by association. You help your parents—I can tell by the calluses on your hands, the way you carry yourself with a sense of responsibility despite your outward presentation. But you’re hanging with a bad crowd, and it’s pulling you down.”
“How do you know all this?” I asked, my voice smaller than I intended.
“I’ve been watching,” he said simply. “I watch all the young men in this neighborhood. That’s what Prep Inc. is about, Antoine. It’s not just a clothing store. It’s a project. A mission, if you will. We believe that the right clothes, the right presentation, the right training and guidance can transform a young man’s trajectory. Change his entire future.”
“That’s…” I struggled to find words. “That’s kind of creepy, man.”
Mr. Lindsay laughed—a genuine, warm laugh that echoed through the small office. “I suppose it is, to someone not yet ready to understand what I’m offering. But I’m not going to hurt you, Antoine. I’m going to help you. If you let me.”
“Why?” I asked, and it was the most genuine question I’d asked anyone in years.
“Because I see potential in you,” Mr. Lindsay said, standing up and walking around the desk. He leaned against it, his posture casual but still commanding. “And because I remember being seventeen years old and feeling like I had to choose between my dignity and my loyalty. It’s a false choice, but it doesn’t feel false when you’re in it.”
He looked at me intently. “You told me the truth about why you came here. Most young men would have made up an elaborate lie. Most would have already tried to bolt when I opened the door. But you stayed, and you told the truth. That speaks to character, Antoine. Real character.”
I wanted to believe him. I wasn’t sure why, but I did.
“I looked up after Demarcus,” I admitted quietly. “Two years ago. On his birthday. But I didn’t know what to do or what to say, so I just… didn’t do anything.”
Mr. Lindsay nodded slowly. “That guilt you feel? That’s not a sign of weakness. That’s a sign of conscience. And conscience is something that can be cultivated, transformed, strengthened.” He paused. “I have a proposition for you, Antoine. But I need you to understand what you’re agreeing to before you agree to it.”
“Okay,” I said carefully.
“I want you to become a part of Prep Inc.,” Mr. Lindsay said. “Not as a criminal, not as someone stealing merchandise to prove something to a friend. But as a genuine member of our community. As a young man committed to transformation and excellence. There would be training, mentoring, a new wardrobe, guidance on everything from academics to social etiquette to fitness. And in exchange, you would represent the Prep Inc. brand—at school, in the community, as a model of what’s possible when a young man commits to self-improvement.”
“What’s the catch?” I asked, because there was always a catch.
Mr. Lindsay smiled slightly. “The catch is that you have to be willing to leave your old life behind. Completely. Not your family, but the rest of it. Demarcus. The gang mentality. The self-destructive behavior. All of it. It won’t be easy. But it will be worth it.”
I thought about Demarcus waiting for me to come back with stolen merchandise as proof I’d been here. I thought about the path I was on. I thought about my parents, exhausted and worried, trying to keep me on track despite my best efforts to derail myself.
“What would I have to do?” I asked.
“Starting right now?” Mr. Lindsay gestured toward a door I hadn’t noticed before, set into the back wall of the office. “You’d step through that door. You’d undergo a transformation. And you’d emerge as the best version of yourself that can possibly exist.”
The door looked normal enough—white painted wood, simple brass handle. But there was something about it that made my skin prickle.
“What kind of transformation?” I asked slowly.
“The kind that changes everything,” Mr. Lindsay replied. “But I need to know first: are you willing to be remade, Antoine? Are you willing to leave Antoine Eubanks behind and embrace the gentleman you could become? Are you ready to be a part of the Prep Inc. family?”
I stood up, my heart pounding in my chest. Every instinct was screaming at me to run, to back away, to refuse. But beneath those instincts was something else—a desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a way out of the trajectory I was on. A way to become someone different. Someone better.
“Yes,” I heard myself say. “Yes, sir. I want to be a part of the Prep Inc. family.”
Mr. Lindsay’s smile widened, and his eyes seemed to glow with something I couldn’t quite name. “Excellent,” he said softly. “Then step through that door, Antoine. Your transformation awaits.”
I walked toward the door, each step feeling like a decision I couldn’t undo. Mr. Lindsay opened it for me, and I stepped through.
—
Part Two: The Transformation
The space beyond the door was nothing like the office. It was a large, circular room with a domed ceiling, and the walls were an iridescent white that seemed to shift between pearl and silver depending on how the light hit them. In the center of the room was a raised platform, and the air smelled strongly of that chemical scent I’d noticed earlier—something clean and sterile and vaguely medical.
“Stand in the center of the platform,” Mr. Lindsay instructed, his voice echoing strangely in the room.
I did as I was told, and the moment my feet touched the platform, I felt a low hum begin beneath me. It wasn’t a sound I heard so much as a sensation I felt—a vibration that seemed to resonate through my entire body.
“What’s happening?” I started to ask, but Mr. Lindsay raised a hand.
“Relax, Antoine,” he said calmly. “Don’t resist. Let it happen.”
A bright light began to emanate from the ceiling, growing stronger and stronger until it was almost blinding. I raised my hands to shield my eyes, but I couldn’t look away. The light was hypnotic, beautiful and terrifying all at once.
I felt a sensation like water washing over me, starting at the crown of my head and flowing downward. But it wasn’t water—it was something else entirely. It felt like electricity and warmth and cold all at the same time. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t find my voice.
My consciousness began to drift, floating in the bright light like I was underwater. I could feel my body changing, but I couldn’t see what was happening. It felt like my insides were being rearranged, reorganized, rewritten. My memories seemed to fragment and scatter like a mirror broken into a thousand pieces.
When the light finally began to fade, I realized I was no longer wearing my street clothes. I was wearing something soft and light-blue—briefs that fit my frame perfectly, contoured to my body in a way that seemed anatomically precise. The waistband reached nearly to my navel, and the garment felt like it was made of silk.
“How are you feeling?” I heard Mr. Lindsay’s voice, still distant and dreamlike.
“Strange,” I managed to say, my voice sounding slightly different somehow. Cleaner. More refined.
A matching light-blue crewneck shirt appeared on my torso, as if by magic. No—not by magic. The light was still faintly glowing, and I understood now that it wasn’t a light at all. It was something else, something that existed at the intersection of science and something I didn’t have words for.
The shirt was snug against my chest, and I realized with a start that my torso was different. More defined. More muscular. I looked down in wonder, running my hands over the sculpted contours of my abs.
“Remarkable, isn’t it?” Mr. Lindsay’s voice cooed from somewhere beyond the platform. “You’re becoming the physical specimen you were always meant to be.”
A pair of matching socks slid onto my feet—also light blue, also perfect.
“Such a good preppy boy,” I heard Mr. Lindsay say, and his voice seemed to wrap around me like velvet. “You’re going to fit right in.”
Then came the black dress slacks, sliding up my legs with a sensation like silk. They fit my new frame perfectly, the inseam just the right length. A black belt appeared at my waist, woven leather with a small silver buckle, and I felt it fasten itself around me with a soft click.
Over the briefs and undershirt came a deep-blue dress shirt, so crisp and white-collar that it practically crackled with newness. It was tailored to my frame in a way that emphasized my shoulders and chest, making me look powerful and refined all at once. The buttons appeared as if by magic, fastening themselves from bottom to top.
But the transformation wasn’t finished.
I felt the weight of my dreadlocks lift from my shoulders, and then—pain. A sharp, sudden pain across my scalp as if my hair was being torn out by the roots. I tried to cry out, but my voice wouldn’t obey. The sensation continued, faster and faster, until my dreads had been completely removed. When I ran my hands over my head, my hair was gone, shorn down to nothing.
“No—” I tried to protest, but my words became sluggish, as if I was waking from a dream.
“Hush now,” Mr. Lindsay cooed. “It grows back stronger. Better. You’ll see.”
And he was right. I felt my hair growing back, but it was different this time. It grew in waves, perfectly spaced, perfectly formed, sculpted to frame my face in a way that was both masculine and refined. A clear substance—some kind of pomade or gel—smoothed itself into my hair, locking it in place.
A watch appeared on my wrist, gold with a white face and roman numerals. It felt heavier than a watch should, as if it carried significance beyond mere timekeeping.
“The watch is important,” Mr. Lindsay’s voice seemed to come from inside my mind now. “It represents discipline. Punctuality. The regulation of your new life by standards higher than yourself.”
A sport coat appeared on my shoulders, navy blue with a subtle plaid pattern. It fit perfectly, tailored to my new physique like a second skin. An unfamiliar tie wrapped itself around my neck—silk, midnight blue with thin white stripes—and tied itself in a perfect Windsor knot.
When I looked down at my hands, they were different too. My nails were trimmed neatly and filed to perfect ovals. My cuticles were manicured. The calluses from years of manual labor had been smoothed away, replaced with skin as smooth as a model’s.
“Almost done,” I heard Mr. Lindsay purr, and his voice seemed to vibrate through my bones. “Almost perfect. But I need to make sure that you remember nothing of your old life, so listen closely.”
The light flared again, but this time it was coming from inside me—emanating from my chest, spreading through my nervous system like warm honey.
And then Mr. Lindsay’s voice began to speak, and the words sank into me like stones into water, settling into the deepest parts of my consciousness.
You’re a good gentleman, a proud representative for all the future shoppers of Prep Inc.
I felt the truth of this settle into me. Yes, I was good. I was gentlemanly. I was proud.
You help the elderly cross the street.
I saw flashes of memory that weren’t mine—offering an arm to an elderly woman, helping her navigate a crosswalk, her grateful smile. These memories felt real. Lived.
You do your homework and study well for upcoming quizzes and exams.
I felt the satisfaction of getting an A on an exam, of raising my hand in class with the correct answer, of my teachers’ approval. When had I gotten an A? I couldn’t remember. But I knew I had. I was certain of it.
You never swear or listen to uncouth music that disrespects women.
I felt a deep revulsion at the thought of profanity, at the street rap that had once filled my ears with poetry of violence and degradation. How could I have ever listened to such things? The thought made me feel physically ill.
You play sports that not only train the body but also the mind and soul.
I saw myself diving off a board, water rushing toward me, the perfect arc of my body cutting cleanly through the surface. I was on the diving team. I had been on the diving team all along. The memory was so vivid, so detailed, that I couldn’t imagine a reality in which I wasn’t.
You obey your elders and the authority to the maximum.
I felt a profound respect for hierarchy, for order, for the people who guided me. Respect for Mr. Lindsay in particular, who had brought me into this life, this new life that was so clearly superior to the one I’d left behind.
You’re a modern-day man who keeps up with fashion trends and unashamed to know who you are.
I looked down at my suit and felt pride swell in my chest. These clothes were expressions of myself, advertisements of the man I’d become. There was no shame in looking good, in taking care of one’s appearance, in understanding the language of fashion.
But most of all…you are the perfect future husband for one of the older gentlemen of the Society of Masculinity.
This thought landed like a key fitting into a lock. Yes. That was my purpose. That was what I’d been made for. To be a companion to an older man, to be shaped by his influence, to provide him with the comfort and beauty of a perfectly cultivated younger man. It was an honor. It was what I wanted more than anything.
“I am a good boy,” I heard myself say aloud, my voice smooth and refined in a way I didn’t quite recognize. “The perfect future husband of one of the older gentlemen of the Society of Masculinity. I am the modern-day gentleman.”
The light faded completely, and I found myself standing on the platform in the circular room, transformed utterly. I looked down at my hands—perfectly manicured, smooth, elegant. I looked at the watch on my wrist. It read 7:45 PM. I looked at my reflection in a mirror that had appeared on the far wall, and I barely recognized myself.
The young man staring back at me was beautiful in a way the old Antoine had never been. He—I—had sharp cheekbones and luminous eyes. My skin seemed to glow with health and vitality. My hair was sculpted in perfect waves, my suit was immaculate, my posture was impeccable.
“Who am I?” I heard myself whisper.
“You are Alyn Dorrance Ellington,” Mr. Lindsay said, and I turned to see him standing in the doorway of the circular room, still wearing his perfect suit, still radiating that air of commanding authority. “You are one of my finest creations. And your life, from this moment forward, will be extraordinary.”
I believed him completely.
—
Part Three: The New Alyn
Over the following weeks, I—Alyn—settled into my new life with the ease of someone returning to a place they’d always belonged. My transformation extended beyond the physical. My apartment changed. My parents, when I saw them, seemed not to notice anything amiss. It was as if my change had rewritten the fabric of reality to accommodate this new version of me.
I attended Harrington Prep Academy, though I could have sworn I’d been going to Lincoln High just days ago. But the memories of the fancy private school stretched back for years—my parents had always gone without to afford my tuition, they’d always been so proud of my academic achievements. I had the yearbooks to prove it.
At school, I was exceptional. Teachers called on me for answers. I was invited to join clubs—the debate team, the student government, the National Honors Society. I was on the diving team, and I was good. Really good. My times were improving every week, my dives increasingly difficult and complex. My teammates looked at me with a mixture of admiration and envy.
But more importantly, I was visible to the right people. Older men, I realized with a start one day, looked at me with an intensity that went beyond normal observation. I would catch them watching me in the hallway, at the mall, at restaurants. At first, I found it unsettling. Then I found it flattering. This was my purpose, after all. This was what I had been remade for.
It was at the country club—the Harrington Country Club, where my family had apparently always been members—that I first saw him.
I was in the pool, working on my diving, when I noticed him watching from the observation deck. He was tall, probably in his mid-forties, with the kind of physique that spoke of years of dedicated fitness training. His skin was a deep bronze, his hair dark and slicked back from a face that could have belonged to a model, though there was a severity to his features that suggested a life lived with purpose and discipline.
He wore a tailored linen shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a chest that was clearly muscular beneath the fine fabric. His watch—a platinum Rolex—caught the light as he raised a hand to shade his eyes, watching me as I climbed the diving board.
I climbed higher than I usually did, selecting a platform most of the younger divers never attempted. I could feel his eyes on me as I positioned myself at the edge, could feel his attention like a physical thing.
I dove.
The fall was exhilarating, the space above me opening into an infinite expanse of sky and light. I rotated once, twice, three times, my body perfectly controlled, my form flawless. I could see his face as I fell—intense, appreciative, predatory in a way that should have alarmed me but instead sent a thrill down my spine.
I sliced into the water cleanly, without a splash, and when I surfaced, he was still watching. He was smiling slightly, and when our eyes met, he raised his glass in a small toast before turning and walking away.
My heart was racing for reasons I didn’t quite understand.
I saw him again the next day. He was at the club cafe, reading a copy of the Economist with one leg crossed over the other, his posture perfect even in casual repose. When he saw me, he stood and gestured to the empty chair at his table.
“I watched your dive yesterday,” he said, his voice smooth and measured, with a faint accent I couldn’t quite place. European, maybe. “You have excellent form. But you were holding back.”
“I was?” I said, settling into the chair across from him.
“Yes,” he replied, studying me with an intensity that made me feel like he was looking through me, seeing all the hidden mechanisms beneath my skin. “You have the capability to attempt more difficult variations, but you’re being cautious. Why?”
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “I suppose I’ve never had a reason to push further.”
“Perhaps you do now,” he said, and something about the way he said it suggested he wasn’t talking about diving at all.
“I’m Marcus Ashford,” he continued, extending his hand. His grip was firm, his skin warm. “I own a private equity firm here in the city. I’m also something of a patron of the arts—which, I’ve come to believe, includes the art of developing young men.”
“Alyn Dorrance Ellington,” I replied, and it felt right to introduce myself to him. This man seemed important in a way that was difficult to articulate.
“I know who you are,” Marcus said, settling back into his seat. “I’ve made some inquiries. You’re part of Archer Lindsay’s project, aren’t you?”
I hesitated, but something about Marcus’s directness made me feel like lying would be pointless. “Yes,” I admitted.
“I thought so,” Marcus said, nodding as if this confirmed something he’d suspected. “Archer has excellent taste in young men. But I believe he may have outdone himself with you.” He paused. “Tell me, Alyn, what is your purpose? What do you believe you were made for?”
The question hung in the air between us, and I realized that this was the crucial moment. This was what everything had been leading toward.
“To be the perfect companion for a gentleman,” I heard myself say. “To be shaped by someone worth shaping me. To serve and to be cherished in return.”
Marcus smiled, and it was the most beautiful and terrible smile I’d ever seen. “Yes,” he said softly. “Yes, I believe we’ll suit each other very well indeed.”
He reached across the table and placed his hand over mine. His skin was warm, his touch assured and possessive. “Tell me, Alyn. Would you like to know what your future looks like? Because I can show you. I can offer you everything you’ve been trained for.”
I looked at his hand on mine, at the weight of the Rolex, at the strength and confidence in his bearing. In that moment, I knew with absolute certainty that this was the moment I had been waiting for since I stepped through the white door in Prep Inc.
“Yes,” I whispered. “Yes, I would very much like that.”
Marcus leaned back, his smile widening. “Excellent,” he said. “Then let me tell you about the life we’re going to build together.”
—
Epilogue: Two Months Later
I stood in the walk-in closet of the penthouse apartment—Marcus’s penthouse, which had become our penthouse—and examined the newest additions to my wardrobe. Armani suits in various shades of gray and navy. Hand-tailored shirts in Egyptian cotton. Italian leather shoes that cost more than my old family spent on groceries in a month.
Behind me, I could hear Marcus in the bedroom, preparing for the gala we’d be attending tonight. In two months, I’d become more than his companion. I’d become his project, his work of art, his investment in the future. He had connections with Archer Lindsay, it turned out. They belonged to something they called the Society of Masculinity—a collection of older, wealthy, powerful men who believed in cultivating young men into perfection, in creating lasting relationships built on mutual satisfaction and the careful molding of lesser men into greater versions of themselves.
I was one of six young men in Marcus’s life, though he’d made clear I was his favorite. The others came and went, lived in other apartments, served different purposes. But I lived here, slept in his bed, wore his preferred styles, studied the books he recommended, attended the events he selected.
And I was happy. Genuinely, completely happy in a way the old Antoine could never have been.
My phone buzzed with a text message. I checked it and felt a slight jolt. It was from a number I didn’t immediately recognize, but the words that appeared on screen hit me like a shock:
*Yo man is this Antoine? Its demarcus. The anderson dude. Hit me back please.*
I stared at the message for a long moment, my hand hovering over the keyboard. Some faint echo of my old self suggested I should respond, should explain what had happened to me, should try to… what? Save him? Warn him? Invite him?
The memory of Antoine Eubanks felt very distant now. Like a movie I’d watched once and largely forgotten. That boy—desperate, angry, stuck between two impossible worlds—felt like someone else entirely.
I deleted the message without responding.
“Alyn, darling, are you almost ready?” Marcus called from the bedroom.
“Coming, sir,” I called back, selecting the suit Marcus had laid out for me this morning—a charcoal Brioni with a midnight-blue shirt and a subtle tie in shades of silver and gray.
As I dressed, I caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror. The man looking back at me was perfection. Every detail cultivated, every aspect of my appearance curated, every inch of me designed to please and impress and satisfy.
This was who I was meant to be. This was what my life was supposed to look like.
I fastened my watch—Marcus’s gift to me, a Patek Philippe worth more than the house my parents lived in—and headed toward the bedroom where Marcus was waiting.
The old Antoine Eubanks was gone, transformed utterly into Alyn Dorrance Ellington. And as I took Marcus’s arm and prepared to step out into the glittering world of the Society of Masculinity’s elite, I couldn’t imagine ever wanting to be anything else.
And, voila! I told you guys that I’d be sharing something new! And there’s going to be a sequel featuring Demarcus soon! Don’t miss out! Let me know what you think! And reblog this story if you’re a fan of turning young thugs and future hoodlums into perfect preppy young men.
Text
The Stain of Christopher: Neglect and Punishment
One morning, as the students line up before class, the keen eye of a teacher spots Christopher. His shirt collar has a slight yellowish stain, evidence that he failed to properly wash or replace his garment. A trivial detail to some, but at Preppy Academy, a detail that demonstrates unforgivable negligence.
Christopher is pulled out of the row and sternly reminded in front of everyone that “those who neglect a collar will one day neglect their submission.” The fault is not merely sartorial; it is moral: a student must be flawless even in invisible details.
The punishment is swift: Christopher must spend his afternoon scrubbing the communal bathrooms. On his knees, with a toothbrush, until every tile, every grout, every handle sparkles. Naturally, this labor will be done in the attire chosen for him by the teacher, a reminder that his appearance will now be dictated by those who know better than he what discipline demands.
To further emphasize his submissive role, Christopher is required to wear a leather muzzle that restricts his movements and reduces him to a position of submission, much like a dog. Additionally, his hair has been cut into a buzzcut, serving as an extra layer of punishment and a visual reminder of his transgression.
Thus, the forgotten stain on his collar becomes a symbolic burden: with each mark he erases on the cold tiles, he is invited to reflect on the invisible stains that negligence can leave on his honor. The other students, witnesses to his punishment, come to understand that the cleanliness of a simple collar can decide their dignity… or their humiliation.
