Male Celebs TF

I'm still open to take more story commissions.

Alex was excited for the big game today. His favorite team had been doing well in their previous games. So much so that they had a chance to make the playoffs. He intended to try and go to the game in person if he was able to. Wanting to cheer for his team in person rather than in the solitude of his own home.

What he was most excited about though going to a game in person wasn't even the chance of his team making the playoffs. Well not the only reason. His main objective would be to see his favorite player play in person. Messi is Alex's favorite player, and admittedly a start of many of his fantasies.

Alex was just always mesmerized whenever Messi would play on the field. How he would move. How he acts when he would score a goal. The young man enjoyed seeing how excited the player would get when their team won. Occasions when he would be so pumped up he'd take his shirt off.

Needless to say Alex had quite the crush on the player. Wanting to meet the man so badly. So he told himself if they make the playoffs he would do whatever he could to be there for that game front and center. For now though he was more than content to watch the upcoming match here at home. Having taken the day off of work even so he can watch the game live.

He sat there on his couch. Cheering whenever they scored. Messi scored a good few goals. The young man getting hyped up over seeing the man play so well. His eyes fixated on Messi whenever the camera lingered on him. Biting his lower lip when the camera zoomed in on a very nice shot of Messi's plump ass.

“Dammit he's so hot.” He said to himself.

“What I wouldn't give to be him.” Alex muttered.

It was a silly thought he knew, but he was just so attracted to Messi. He knew he could never date him. So he would just settle for fantasizing about him. Such as how big his cock must be from the glimpses he catches when Messi is on the field. The game is going into halftime now and the players are on break. Thankfully the camera is on Messi. Alex immediately watched him like a hawk. Biting his lower lip when Messi lifts his jersey up to wipe sweat from his face.

Alex couldn't help but move his hand to his crotch, rubbing his palm along it. His cock quickly becomes erect. Normally Alex wouldn't do this, but he couldn't help being especially aroused towards Messi today. Alex just felt an overwhelming desire that he normally wouldn't have. Without thinking about it too much the young man frees his 6 and half inch cock. Feeling it get fully erect as he grips his hand around it.

“F-fuck.” Alex murmurs.

He never jerked off while watching a live game like he was now. Sure they were in the halftime so the game was technically on pause. But still, Alex's attention was fixated on Messi. Thanking the camera team for focusing on his crush. Messi is laughing on the screen and Alex can imagine how nice of a laugh he must have. How his face moves as he smiles. Fuck, he really has it bad for this man.

This pleasant feeling slowly trickles through Alex. He was confused by it, but didn't protest any. It was a strange welcoming sensation he realizes. Leaning into it while he continued to jerk himself off. Alex didn't notice how he was slowly beginning to change right there on his couch. His clean shaven face gained a five o'clock shadow across his cheeks.

The scruff quickly grew thicker and soon formed into a fuller beard around his mouth while the stubble thickened along his cheeks. Alex realizes then something is up. His free hand rubbing across the new hair growth. He is taken aback, but he doesn't panic. The beard reminds him of Messi oddly enough. He keeps going, too distracted with pleasuring himself to be worried.

His body then starts to gain weight. Packing on some pounds of muscles. With these new muscles strengthening building up his stamina. His legs especially get thicker, as if he worked them hard. The young man grunts, a curse slipping from his mouth. His voice sounded different yet familiar. His mind a whirlwind of different feelings for him to dwell much on what was happening to him.

He knew he was changing somehow, that part was quite evident. Yet he was so fucking horny he couldn't focus on that now. Instead he continued to jerk his cock. His dick thickened in his grasp. Alex watching it get not only more girthy, but it lengthened several inches as well. Growing out to be this enlarged 11 inch member that left Alex feeling excited.

It wasn't the only part of Alex's body he felt great pleasure in. His ass slowly ballooned in size. Even though he remained seated the young man could tell his ass was practically double the size it was just a moment ago. The idea of having a thick ass and bigger cock only fueled Alex's lust. His movements became more vigorous, thrusting up his hips upwards into his fist.

Never has he been so turned on than at this moment. He pulls out his phone, using the camera as a makeshift mirror to see himself. A wide smile spreads on his face when he sees his features are quickly shifting. His face getting a little rounder, his hair darkening. He was looking less like himself yet still he looked very familiar. That was because Alex realizes he is turning into Messi.

The off hand comment he made earlier seemed to have been granted to him by some powerful force. He didn't panic like one would think. It was the opposite in fact. All was relishing in the idea that he was now Messi, at least when it came down to the star player's appearance. Otherwise he still felt and acted like his old self.

“Oh fuck yeah man!” He exclaimed. Hearing how even his voice now was an exact match to his idol pushed Alex over the edge. With just a few more flicks of his hand, Alex is blowing the biggest orgasm he has done. Thick ropes of his seed cascade from his fat cock head. Alex sags back into the couch, the game resuming on TV but he ignores it for now. Alex looks at himself through his phone's camera. He couldn't help himself and took a post orgasm selfie of his new self. Eager to further explore his new body later.

A new CYOA TF adventure! Similar to Proteus Laboratories, my other CYOA adventure, this book will have you decide what to do and what you are transformed into is based on those actions!

This story contains nearly 300 pages of TF content, with loads of endings to choose from! Also, as a thanks to everyone for their support, I will be offering a bundle option to get both Proteus Laboratories and The Cabin together for a discounted rate!

Go buy it here!

I really really want to start this up again and go back to how it used to be and go back to the old schedule. I have a new full stort in the work.

My question is, do people want stories, do we still enjoy that. And if you have a Celebrity, can be anybody, leave a comment down below or send it in at the request thing in my bio.

“Jeremy, we’ll be ready for you in five.”

“For the last time, call me Marlon,” I said.

The PA rolled her eyes and said, “Marlon, we’ll be ready for you in five,” before ducking her head back out from the door to my dressing room.

My dressing room. I couldn’t believe it. I had always dreamed of being an actor, and I had finally earned a big enough platform as an influencer that Hollywood came a-knocking. Well, knocking just loud enough to get me a bit part in an Elia Kazan biopic, playing Marlon Brando in a scene set during the filming of A Streetcar Named Desire.

Still, I wanted to take this as seriously as possible. Marlon Brando was a method actor. He got into the headspace of his characters by embodying them both on and off camera, and I decided to do the same thing when it came to portraying Brando himself.

I had used the money from one of my latest sponsored posts to furnish my dressing room entirely with furniture and decorations from 1950 and before. I had also bought a white tank top and hat from eBay that Brando had supposedly worn on set, which cost a pretty penny, let me tell you.

I swiped through my phone, picking the best image from the photoshoot I did while wearing the tank top on the way to set. I picked the best one to post later and sighed.

I didn’t really look like Brando. And because of that, I didn’t feel like Brando. I figured that maybe, even with the decor, having my modern phone with me was too distracting, preventing me from getting in character. I put it on silent and hid it in a drawer. I jammed the Brando hat onto my head, accidentally giving myself a nasty static shock in the process, and considered myself in the mirror.

I still looked like an influencer cosplaying as Brando, not Brando. I pursed my lips, trying to look moody. Hey, that kinda worked... If I squinted my eyes just right…

I pursed my lips even more. Yeah, that was almost the look. I squinted again and imagined Brando’s face in the mirror. I guess my imagination must have been pretty powerful, because I could have sworn I saw my lips swell to twice their size, becoming plump, sultry. I quirked them in a half smile that looked exactly like Brando. I was getting the hang of this!

I squinted again, trying to manifest Brando even more. As I envisioned his thick, straight eyebrows, my own meticulously plucked brows seemed to lose their arch and darken with new growth. Wow, was I getting the hang of The Method or what? I imagined his nose and my nostrils flared. His eyes. Mine grew darker and sparkled soulfully. His hair. The color lightened to Brando’s exact shade, and it even gained the slight wave that the hairdresser had tried and failed to force my trendy textured cut to adopt.

When I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw Marlon Brando’s head on top of my skinny body. I believed in that head, so it was real. I just needed to believe in everything else, too. I needed to get in my body. I thought about what Brando might have been doing to prepare to play Stanley, his brutish, animalistic, character from Streetcar.

Maybe he… grunted and pounded his chest? I tried that, feeling more and more resistance against my fists as my slim chest perked up into meaty pecs, more solid bulk than gym-honed muscle. Maybe he fucked with the furniture? I tipped over the couch in a faux rage, and it felt easier than it should have as my biceps inflated to become similarly meaty. Lamplight reflected off my forearms, which flexed into corded muscular appendages that were increasingly flecked with light brown hair.

I started to get really into it. I thrashed about, tugging at my tank top as a solid set of abs rose from my flat stomach and a smattering of brown hairs curled across my chest. I started breathing heavily, trying to breathe in as Jeremy and out as Brando.

In. Out. I wondered if I should have gotten out my phone so I could film my preparation. It could have made a good BTS video.

In. Out. I pondered the curious thought that had previously popped into my head. How could the rotary telephone in my dressing room have a camera in it? I had just seen on set how big modern cameras were. There’s no way one of those could fit into that thing.

In. Out. Wait, was something weird going on? Was I hallucinating? I wondered if should get out my phone and look up my symptoms on WebMD.

In. Out. Yeah, something didn’t feel right. I decided that I should definitely call the operator to find me the number of the nearest doctor.

I started sweating severely, so I stopped my breathing exercise. I also felt a little muddled and confused. What had I just been thinking about? All I could remember was thinking that I needed to get out a thing that I had just put away in a drawer. I opened the drawer to find a bottle of beer. Of course! My prop bottle. Couldn’t go on set without that. I took a hearty swig.

I whipped off my tank top and put on the shirt I was meant to wear for the next scene.

“Marlon, we’re ready for you,” the PA said, poking her head back in the door.

“For the last time, call me Stanley,” I said.

People didn’t get what I was going for with The Method. Yet. I knew that I had just one chance to prove myself with this movie, and I was going to make the most of it. When it came out, people were going to see what I was capable of.

Being Boldman

I was haunting a family in a Philadelphia house. It was a nice late 19th century house I died in. I was obese in life and now as a ghost I am again. The family had two small kids who were watching a Disney channel, not sure which one. They look the same. Then I saw him. A gorgeous Adonis. I rarely possessed anyone or even thought of it.

But in that moment, seeing his chiseled good looking face, debonair smile and toned body, I want TO BE HIM. Something compelled me to leave that wretched house. I’ve tried to escape for centuries (two centuries still count as centuries!) but finally I was able to break free. I went shooting into the sky like a rocket. I grabbed my things and flew to California.

After searching the beaches and hangouts in Los Angeles I finally found Spencer Boldman. Indeed he was a bold man with his bright white socks and sneakers. He looked so cute. That tiny waist! I wanted it so bad. He w ask delixious I wanted to eat him up. When I wa salive I was mocked for being huge. People would be disgusted to see me. I knew those looks. I was the butt of many jokes.

Fat! Wide load! Whale! Double whale! Big fat pig! Blob man! All kinds of names and slurs, piercing my soul. When people pointed at me or mock me for not fitting in a carriage or chair was humiliating. Worse part was how I died. I choked on a sausage and had to be cut out of my sofa when I died.

Spencer was jogging when I snuck up behind him. I flew behind his buff and rugged his butt. He stopped in his tracks and shouted. He looked behind and couldn’t find anything. I borrowed myself in and he screamed. I entered through his butt, it was right. It felt right. He lost all function of his body. His body flopped to the ground. He wa snoblonger in control.

I opened his eyes. I was on my knees. I looked at my new hands. I jolted up on my feet and took stock of my body. I looked at my reflection in a nearby bus stop. I was Spencer! I smiled in his trademark smile. I almost melted on the spot! I was amazed how handsome he was. I wanted to run to his house and take off all my clothes. I had his memories and could track where his apartment was.

I jogged to his apartment and jogging wa steady now. Jogging used to be pain and a struggle but now it came easy to me. This body felt achy but I felt Power. I felt up my new body and became erect. I felt up my new member and it felt virile and roboust. I slid my right hand up and down in virigious motion. My larger than life member throbbed and tighten. I felt pressure build up. I started feeling pings of erotic waves channel all through me. I felt an enmorous build up.

And it was about to burst. I could not relinquish anymore. My body erupted in waves of rippling pleasure all over as the geyser let out forth. The extract landed everywhere. It smelled heavenly. I felt relief. I was beside myself. After I cleaned up, I looked in the mirror once again and made faces with my new face. I poured my lips. Spencer’s lips were so pouty. I had to remind myself it wasn’t Spencer’s anymore but mine. I was in charge. I was him. I didn’t care what he thought.

“Someone help! Some creep has taken over my body! This isn’t me! I can not control my body anymore. It’s some sort of ghost that has taken possession of my body. It sounds crazy but it’s not! And I think it’s gay. Not that anything is wrong with that, bro. I have friends that are gay. But I can not be gay. I am not.

I don’t feel comfortable this ghost using my body to be f——d. Every night my butt hurts! And the things he makes me do! He makes me suck on.. Blegh! I can’t even say it! My hole is sore and my mouth tastes like yuck. Someone help! Rape! The problem is no one can hear me. I can’t speak! I can’t control my body! I’m trapped in my body! I’ve tried but I can not regain control. No no no! Nooooo! Not the bath house again! Noooooooooo.

I love taking selfies in the middle of the ocean. I surpress his theoughts. I barely hear them anymore. I push him deep deep deep into my subconscious like he never ever existed. If I accidentally get kicked out or forced out, he would be an empty shell and i can easily take possession again. He is a coma-like state. He will be in a veggatative state until i returned. Like putting stake in the refrigerator. It’ll be fresh once again.

It’s been a year and I’ve enjoyed being Spencer. I don’t mind being peigonholwd a gay actor. And I love being rammed every night by a different guy. I think they call me a Power Bottom. Whatever that is. I’m enjoying my new life as Spencer and I’m never going back.

I'm here alone. My boyfriend dumped me right before the trip, but it was paid for and honestly, I needed a break. I teach acting at a college, and my Gen Z students have been testing my will to live—if I hear one more monologue about “late-stage capitalism”...

The airline lost my luggage, of course. So now it’s just me: 40, gay, 5'8", blue eyes, messy dark brown hair, stubble that might be a mustache by tomorrow. My style’s a chaotic mix of denim, vintage, and “this looked cool on the hanger.” None of which I packed, naturally.

So yeah—Room 545. Just not that 545.

The hotel had a huge TV. You decided to turn it on as you settled into bed, accidentally finding *Pain and Gain* with Mark Wahlberg. “Why not?” you thought, sipping a beer you didn’t remember ordering. Then, the heat.

**It started with the muscles:**

A tingling in your chest, swelling beneath your tank top, hard as concrete. Your shoulders broadened, your delts pushing against the fabric. *Damn, I’m getting big.*

**Your arms**

followed suit, your biceps bursting through your sleeves, your triceps shaking the air with every movement. Your hands—wider, stronger—gripped the bottle like it was a toy. **Your flat stomach** transformed into a sculpted six-pack, your abs looking like they’d been drawn on with a scalpel.  Your sweatpants clung to your now enormous thighs, your quads threatening to tear the fabric with every step.

**Your face:**

The beard disappeared, giving way to smooth, tanned skin. Your hair settled into that *perfect quiff* Wahlberg look, your eyebrows thicker, your gaze more intense. **Your gold watch** magically appeared on your wrist, glinting in the light of the TV. You stood up, feeling the weight of your new body—210 pounds of pure muscle, no hair, just definition. Your white tank top showed every detail, your blue sweatpants whispering with every move.

**In the mirror, Mark Wahlberg stared at you.**

The arcade is deserted at this hour. He walks in after the last lesson, after yet another hour talking about cinema and literature to students who stare at their phones. Thirty-one years old, teacher, part-time writer. One meter eighty-five, average physical shape, gym twice a week. But that annoying little belly that won’t go away. The hair that is thinning. The feeling of being average, always, in everything.

He sees the machine in the corner. No brand, no instructions. Academic curiosity, he tells himself. To see what effect it has. To understand whether it’s really random or if there’s an algorithm behind it.

He inserts a coin. Presses the button.

📽️ 💪 🩳

The next instant, he is no longer Henry.

The first thing he feels is his jaw. It widens, squares, becomes stronger, more defined. His chin grows more pronounced, his cheekbones higher. The skin tightens, the features redefine themselves. They become those of someone. Someone specific.

Then the hair. The thinning strands that bothered him thicken. They grow, darken, become a short and precise cut. What was sparse is now full, healthy, perfect. Advertisement-worthy. Cover-worthy.

The body.

The little belly he hated is gone. It melts, transforms, reshapes itself. Underneath, the abs emerge as if carved in stone. Not one or two, but a complete set, perfect, visible. Every single square is etched, defined, hard. The skin over them is tight, smooth, tanned.

His chest swells. The pectorals become two slabs of sculpted muscle, high, full, with that deep central groove. The shoulders widen, the deltoids round out, full and powerful. The arms swell. The biceps explode into high peaks, veins rising beneath the skin, mapping strength. The forearms are bundles of muscle and tendons.

His back. He feels it widen, the lats expanding, the traps rising toward his neck. It becomes that perfect V he could only envy in magazines before.

And then the clothes. What he was wearing, the shirt, the teacher’s pants, disappear. They dissolve. In their place, something new.

A beach swimsuit. Short. Blue. That shows everything there is to see. The muscular, sculpted, tanned legs. The quadriceps pushing against the edge, the rounded calves. And in front, the swimsuit does very little to hide what’s underneath. On the contrary. It highlights it. Emphasizes it. Shows it.

He, the new one, looks at himself. His hands run over his body, incredulous. They touch the pectorals, hard, full. They move down over the abs, one by one. Then lower, where the swimsuit is tight, and what is inside is much more than he had ever had.

He turns toward the machine’s mirror. The man he sees is not Henry. He is someone else. Someone he has seen in the movies, in magazines, on TV.

Mark Wahlberg. In a beach swimsuit. In the flesh. In front of him. Inside him.

The sculpted jaw, the intense eyes, the perfect hair. The star’s body, cover-worthy, dream-worthy. That physique that made millions fall in love. That smile that filled screens. Those arms, that chest, those legs. That swimsuit that leaves little to the imagination.

He touches his face. The strong jaw. The smooth skin. He runs a hand through the thick hair, over the chest, over the muscles. Every centimeter is perfect. Every centimeter is famous.

Sweat. It begins to bead on his forehead, to run down his neck, to wet his chest. A warm, clean sweat that smells of sand and sea and fame. A scent that attracts, that makes heads turn.

He looks at his hands. The hands that have written stories, that have graded assignments. Now they are a star’s hands. Strong, masculine, perfect.

The feeling is strange. It isn’t only physical. It’s something inside. A new confidence, a different awareness. He knows that if he stepped out like this, if he walked down the street, people would turn. They would recognize him. Follow him with their eyes. Girls, guys, everyone.

He knows that that body, that face, that swimsuit, are made to be looked at. To be desired. To be photographed. To be famous.

He adjusts the swimsuit with an instinctive gesture. The gesture he has seen done a thousand times in films. Then he looks at himself in the mirror again. He smiles. That smile. Mark’s. The one that makes people melt.

“Well,” he says with a voice that is no longer his. Deeper, warmer, more American. “Not bad for a film teacher.”

He laughs. A full, confident laugh.

Outside, the night awaits him. The city, the people, the clubs. And for the first time, he cannot wait to be seen. To be recognized. To be desired.

He runs a hand over his chest once more. Feels the muscles under his fingers, the warm skin, the sweat. Then he turns and walks away, the swimsuit leaving little to the imagination, the star’s body moving with the confidence of someone who knows he is being watched.

Jacob had always been infatuated with Harry Styles. More than infatuated, really—obsessed. To him, Harry was perfection incarnate: the tousled curls, the effortlessly cool demeanor, the charm that made hearts swoon worldwide. Every time Jacob looked in the mirror, all he could see was a poor imitation, a shadow of the man he admired. Harry was, without a doubt, the sexiest man alive, and Jacob craved that allure for himself.

It was during one of Harry’s concerts, the pinnacle of his obsession, that Jacob’s plan began to take shape. He was just another face in the crowd, but inside, he was plotting something far darker than mere adoration. After the final encore, when the crowds had dispersed, Jacob found his way backstage. He had no plan for what he would do once he got there—he was acting on pure impulse, driven by a need he couldn’t fully comprehend.

He lingered in the shadows, watching as the crew cleaned up and as Harry finally retreated to his lodge. Jacob waited until the hallway was empty, until it was just him and the door that led to his idol. He could hear the faint hum of a song from the other side, Harry humming a melody to himself, completely unaware of what was coming.

Jacob’s heart pounded as he turned the doorknob. There was Harry, brushing his hair, lost in thought. For a moment, Jacob just stood there, mesmerized by the sight of him up close, like seeing a god in the flesh. Then, almost without thinking, he grabbed the hairbrush from Harry’s hand and bolted out of the room.

With the brush clutched tightly in his hand, Jacob raced home, his mind spinning with possibilities. He’d been working on something—a machine, something that had started as a mad idea but now seemed within reach. It was going to change everything. It was going to make him into Harry.

For the next several hours, Jacob worked feverishly, driven by an energy that bordered on madness. He tinkered with wires, adjusted circuits, and fed a few of Harry’s hairs into the machine. The technology was something he’d pieced together from a mix of online tutorials, scientific articles, and sheer obsession. It was crude, perhaps even dangerous, but Jacob was beyond caring.

Finally, as dawn broke, the machine was ready. But Jacob needed one last thing—the man himself.

The next evening, Harry had another concert. Jacob arrived early, lurking near the venue’s entrance, waiting for the right moment. When Harry stepped out of his car, Jacob acted. He swung a heavy object at Harry's head, just hard enough to knock him out. Adrenaline surged through Jacob as he dragged Harry to his car, praying no one had seen them.

Back at his apartment, Jacob tied Harry securely to a chair. The pop star groaned as he began to regain consciousness, his eyes widening in confusion and fear when he saw Jacob standing before him.

“W-What are you doing?” Harry’s voice was hoarse, panic seeping in as he tugged at the ropes.

Jacob didn’t answer. He simply walked over to his machine, now humming with power, and took a deep breath. He fed Harry’s hair into the machine and then brought it close to scan his face. The machine whirred and clicked, taking in every detail of Harry’s features.

Jacob felt a surge of exhilaration as he placed the machine against his own head. This was it—the moment he’d been waiting for. The machine hummed louder, its metallic surface heating up as it began the process. Then, with a sharp, almost unbearable jolt, the transformation began.

Jacob’s skin started to tingle, a sensation that quickly turned to searing heat. It felt as if his very cells were being pulled apart and reshaped. His bones cracked and shifted, his muscles rippling and tearing under the strain. He screamed—a high-pitched, agonized sound—but the machine held him in place, forcing him through the process.

He could feel his face contorting, his jawline sharpening, his cheeks hollowing out. His eyes burned as they changed shape, his vision blurring and then refocusing with startling clarity. The pain was beyond anything he had ever imagined, yet underneath it all, there was a thrill—a twisted sense of triumph.

The agony seemed to go on forever, but finally, the machine fell silent. Jacob collapsed to the floor, his body trembling, drenched in sweat. For a moment, he couldn’t move, couldn’t think. But then, slowly, he pushed himself up and stumbled toward the mirror.

What he saw took his breath away.

Staring back at him was Harry Styles—or rather, a perfect replica. The features, the hair, the eyes—it was all there. Jacob’s heart raced as he reached up to touch his new face, his fingers tracing the sharp contours of Harry’s jaw, the soft fullness of his lips. It felt surreal, like a dream, but the skin beneath his fingers was real, warm, and alive.

A grin spread across Jacob’s—no, Harry’s—face as he ran his hands over his new body. He could feel the lean muscle under the skin, the way his clothes now hung perfectly on his frame. His hand drifted lower, over the flat plane of his stomach, to the waistband of his jeans. He hesitated for just a moment, then allowed his fingers to slide inside, feeling the firmness, the heat of Harry’s flesh now his own.

A shiver ran through him as he squeezed, the sensation sending a thrill through his entire body. It was all his—every inch, every muscle, every intimate detail. His grin widened, a mixture of disbelief and sheer joy. He was no longer Jacob, the ordinary, overlooked man. He was Harry Styles, the most desired man on the planet.

Behind him, the real Harry struggled, his eyes wide with horror as he watched his doppelgänger. Jacob—now fully Harry—turned around slowly, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Well, how do I look?” Jacob asked, his voice an exact mimicry of Harry’s smooth, melodic tone. He sauntered over to the bound man, crouching down to meet his eyes. “It’s uncanny, isn’t it?”

Harry could only stare, his mind reeling with shock and terror. Jacob leaned in closer, his breath warm against Harry’s ear.

“Listen to this,” Jacob whispered, before breaking into one of Harry’s signature songs, his voice capturing every inflection, every note with perfect precision. It was as if Harry himself was singing, only it wasn’t. The real Harry felt his blood run cold.

“See?” Jacob said, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “I’m you now. Better than you, really. Because I want it more.”

With that, Jacob stood up, leaving the real Harry to struggle helplessly against the ropes. He couldn’t resist glancing back at his reflection, unable to get enough of his new face, his new body. It was everything he had ever dreamed of, and more.

Jacob’s heart raced with excitement as he prepared for the next part of his plan. He drove back to the stadium, his new face greeted by the security team with respectful nods. No one questioned him as he entered Harry’s private dressing room.

The room was a treasure trove of everything Harry Styles—luxurious clothes hung neatly in the closet, a variety of accessories displayed on the dresser, and on a separate vanity, a collection of hair products. Jacob smiled as he ran his fingers through his new curls, then picked up the bottles one by one. He recognized the names—Bumble and Bumble Surf Spray, Kevin Murphy’s Anti-Gravity lotion, and Oribe Dry Texturizing Spray. These were the secret weapons behind Harry’s iconic look, and now, they were his.

Jacob took his time, savoring every moment. He sprayed his hair with the Surf Spray, scrunching it with his fingers to create that perfect, effortless wave. Then came the Anti-Gravity lotion, adding volume and a subtle shine. Finally, he finished with the Oribe spray, feeling his hair lift and hold just like Harry’s did on stage.

He stepped back to admire his handiwork. The clothes, the hair, the face—it was all flawless. Jacob—Harry—felt a surge of pride as he slipped into one of Harry’s custom-made suits, the fabric hugging his body in all the right places. He looked every bit the superstar, and it felt like he was finally stepping into his rightful place.

That night, Jacob—now Harry—took to the stage. The lights, the cheers, the adoration of thousands washed over him, filling him with a sense of euphoria he had never known. This was his life now, his world. As the concert went on, he felt more and more like the man he had always dreamed of being.

But even as the cheers of the crowd echoed in his ears, Jacob couldn’t ignore the nagging thought at the back of his mind. There was still something he needed to do—something to make this transformation truly complete.

After the concert, Jacob returned to his apartment, where the real Harry still sat tied to the chair, his struggles having weakened him. Jacob could see the fear and exhaustion in Harry’s eyes, but he felt nothing but cold satisfaction. He had what he wanted, but there was more to be done.

Jacob set to work, building another device. This one wasn’t for physical transformation, but for mental control. He had come too far to risk Harry breaking free and ruining everything. The new machine was designed to hypnotize, to lull the mind into a deep, inescapable sleep, and perhaps—if used correctly—to plant suggestions that would make Harry more... cooperative. Jacob knew he couldn’t keep Harry tied up forever, but if he could control his mind, he wouldn’t need to. Harry would do whatever Jacob told him to, believe whatever Jacob wanted him to believe.

Once the device was complete, Jacob approached the bound Harry with a cold determination. Harry flinched as Jacob set the machine in front of him, his eyes widening in terror.

“Don’t worry,” Jacob said, his voice now eerily calm. “This won’t hurt. In fact, it’ll help you. Help you accept things.”

Harry struggled weakly against his bonds, but he was too drained to resist. Jacob switched on the machine, and a soft, rhythmic hum filled the room. Lights flickered, casting a hypnotic glow across Harry’s face. His eyes glazed over as the machine took hold of his mind, pulling him into a trance.

Jacob watched as Harry’s body relaxed, his breathing slowing. Once he was sure Harry was fully under, Jacob began to speak softly, his words dripping with intent.

“You’re safe, Harry,” Jacob murmured. “You’re with someone who cares about you, who understands you. You don’t need to fight. Just let go… let go and sleep.”

He repeated the commands over and over, reinforcing the suggestion until Harry’s head lolled to one side, deep in a hypnotic sleep. Jacob smiled, satisfied that Harry was now under his control. But he wasn’t done yet.

Jacob had always admired more than just Harry Styles. There were others, men who were just as iconic, just as desirable in different ways. As he looked down at the sleeping Harry, an idea formed—a way to make this twisted fantasy even more complete.

Jacob retrieved the shape-shifting machine and began to prepare it for another transformation. This time, it wasn’t for himself, but for the helpless man before him. He programmed the machine with a new set of instructions, feeding in data he had collected on another of his obsessions: Zayn Malik.

He carefully scanned Harry’s face one last time, then flipped the machine’s settings. Slowly, almost methodically, Jacob began the transformation. The machine hummed and whirred as it worked, Harry’s body jerking slightly as his features began to shift.

Jacob watched, utterly fascinated, as Harry’s hair darkened, shifting from its chestnut curls to the inky blackness that defined Zayn. The texture altered too, from soft waves to Zayn’s signature slicked-back style. Jacob’s breath quickened as he saw Harry’s face slowly reshape—his jawline becoming more angular, his lips slightly fuller. The transformation was seamless, as if the very essence of Harry was being rewritten, erased, and replaced by someone entirely new.

The change didn’t stop at Harry’s face. His skin tone warmed, deepening to match Zayn’s, while his body subtly adjusted—leaner in some places, more defined in others. His tattoos morphed, shifting patterns and styles until they matched those famously inked on Zayn’s body.

Jacob was in awe of his creation, unable to tear his eyes away from the spectacle. He felt a rush of power, a dizzying sense of control. First, he had become Harry Styles—stepped into the skin of the man he idolized. And now, he had reshaped Harry into his other obsession, Zayn Malik. It was intoxicating.

When the transformation was complete, Jacob stood back, a smirk forming on his lips. The man before him was no longer Harry Styles—he was Zayn Malik, right down to the smallest detail. The real Zayn would never suspect a thing, and the world would believe the man tied to the chair was Zayn.

With a surge of confidence, Jacob stepped closer to his new creation. He couldn’t resist taunting him, seeing his own handiwork up close. “Look at you,” Jacob murmured, his voice filled with twisted admiration. “You’re perfect.”

Harry—now Zayn—was still unconscious, but Jacob couldn’t help but revel in his success. He had done the impossible, and the power of it sent a thrill down his spine. He crouched down, brushing a strand of black hair away from Zayn’s face. “Do you know what you are now? You’re exactly what I wanted you to be.”

Jacob couldn’t resist touching Zayn’s face, tracing the new contours with his fingertips. The thrill of control, of shaping someone so completely, filled him with a sense of invincibility. He had taken Harry’s life, his face, and now, he had reshaped Harry into Zayn, the man he had always admired from afar.

Jacob stood up, his confidence skyrocketing. He felt untouchable, like a god who could mold and manipulate reality itself. He had become the man of his dreams, and he had turned his idol into another of his obsessions. What could possibly stop him now?

But there was one more thing to do, one more step to take to cement his victory. He returned to his new hypnotic machine, preparing to plant the final set of commands in Zayn’s mind.

He adjusted the settings, then turned the machine back on. The hum returned, and Jacob leaned in close, his voice soft but firm. “Zayn,” he whispered, watching the man’s eyelids flutter at the sound of his new name. “You’ve always felt something for Harry, haven’t you? A connection, something more than friendship. It’s okay to feel that way. You’ve always wanted to be with him, haven’t you?”

Zayn’s—Harry’s—brow furrowed slightly as the new thoughts began to take root.

“You love Harry,” Jacob continued, his voice soothing, persuasive. “You’ve always loved him. You want to be with him. You want to make him happy, to be together forever. And now, you can. Now, you’re together, and nothing else matters.”

Jacob repeated these suggestions over and over, reinforcing them until he was sure they were deeply embedded in Zayn’s subconscious. When he finally turned off the machine, Zayn remained asleep, but his expression had changed. There was a softness there, a contentedness that hadn’t been present before.

Jacob stood back, admiring his work. The transformation was complete, both physically and mentally. The real Harry Styles was gone, replaced by a man who now believed he was Zayn Malik—and more importantly, a man who believed he was in love with Jacob, who he saw as the real Harry Styles.

With a satisfied smile, Jacob leaned down and gently untied Zayn’s hands. He stroked the man’s cheek, watching as he slowly woke from his induced sleep. Zayn blinked up at Jacob, confusion briefly crossing his face before a warm, loving smile spread across his lips.

“Harry…” Zayn murmured, his voice filled with affection. “I… I love you.”

Jacob’s heart swelled with twisted pride and satisfaction. Everything had fallen into place perfectly. He now had everything he had ever wanted: Harry Styles’ life, his looks, and now, even a devoted partner who believed they were meant to be together.

As Zayn reached up to touch Jacob’s—Harry’s—face, Jacob couldn’t help but think that this was just the beginning of his new, perfect life. And as far as he was concerned, the real Harry Styles was nothing more than a forgotten memory, replaced by something far better.

Let's say it's true and nathan is a clear example of that.

Nathan was a big fan of Justin Bieber for years, he had albums, posters, merchandise and everything that had to do with Justin, "Simp" was the perfect word to describe it.

He wanted to meet him in person, but unfortunately Justin had never set foot in the city where he lived, so he had to settle for that, until one night he was browsing his computer.

At 24, he was at the peak of his youth, so when he saw a quiz asking "How big a Justin Bieber fan are you?" he didn't hesitate to click on the link, When he did so, he simply received an electric shock while his computer screen went completely black.

"What was that?" Nathan said, then raised both shoulders and then turned off his computer. It was already too late and he had to do homework the next day, so he took a shower, brushed his teeth and went to sleep.

The next day when Nathan woke up, he noticed his room was strange, there were no more books, trophies or his PS4, it was a completely white room, with a piano and some musical things.

"I must be dreaming, but it's a very realistic dream haha" Nathan sneered and then got out of bed, because he wasn't going to stay in bed despite feeling strange, but when he got to the bathroom and saw his reflection, he was completely in shock.

He had rejuvenated 7 years, his hair that was once black was now brown and the reflection was not his, it was the Justin Bieber of 18 years.

"but... WHAT HAPPENED!?" Nathan said, totally surprised, and then began to examine his entire body. He had literally become the teenage Justin Bieber and it was a dream come true, Nathan was too happy that he didn't notice how his Adam's apple changed.

Her head began to hurt as new memories entered her mind, memories of Justin Bieber, A few minutes later Justin let out a deep breath and then smiled at his reflection in the mirror.

""Handsome boy, you have the world in your hands" Justin commented and then started another day, being the crush of all the girls in the world.

Heyo! Here are the teasers for my upcoming stories for Ko-Fi Supporters.

FOR THE BASIC SUPPORTER TIER: £3 MONTHLY

STREAMING CAN MAKE BANK (approx 500 words): Obsessed with the streamer Ludwig, David finds himself being changed into his visage after drinking a weird new drink, “StreamerFuel”…

RED-BLUE RECRUIT (approx 2.5k words): An anarchist graffiti artist, Jax, is captured by imposing Officer Kade Brennan. During interrogation, Brennan's presence and words trigger a radical transformation, violently reshaping Jax's body and mind into Kade Jensen - a hulking, arrogant officer brimming with patriotic fervor.

FURSUIT THEFT (approx 2.5k words): A young attendee at a furcon is desperate to own a fursuit he saw in the dealer's den, but he doesn't have the finances to warrant buying it. Overcome by the need to have it, he steals it, but the maker made sure they'd be paid for it, no matter what.

FOR THE BONUS STORIES TIER: £5 MONTHLY

PISS PERFECT (approx 1.5k words): Exhausted student Alex Chen accidentally touches a patch of piss in a campus bathroom. This vile contact triggers a radical transformation, violently reshaping him into a new jock identity, king of the campus…

THE FASTBALL TRANCE (To Be Released): Neurotic accountant Martin Finchley discovers a sweat-fossilized baseball cap in a dumpster. The moment he puts it on, the rancid relic violently transforms him into Brock - a massively muscular, blissfully dumb pitcher whose mind is consumed solely by throwing fastballs and basking in his own potent, sweaty stench.

THE SOCCER STAR (To Be Released): A young lad has always dreamed of being able to play sports, specifically soccer, but his body is too weak to manage. After finding a spell online to help merge with another person, his problem may be solved after all...

Taking over someone elses body isn’t always an easy task. Too many variables to take into consideration. Their age, fitness, mental capacity, and innate resilience. Are they exhausted, or well-rested? Even more, when considering taking over athletes. Even the ones not in their prime.

But, using something as a conduit, a tool, may erase most of them. Clothes work perfectly. Especially tight clothes. The immediate contact to skin can make it so much easier to take control.

Oscar Piastri sat in the McLaren hospitality unit, a towel draped around his neck, his eyes on the telemetry screen. Another disappointing qualifying. Eighth. Norris had been second. Again.

The team didn’t say it out loud, but Oscar felt the weight. The murmurs in the paddock, the quiet frustration in debriefs. He was quick, talented—but something was missing. An edge. The killer instinct.

Then, McLaren brought in Marcel.

Eli Wade sat behind the scuffed counter of Café St. Claire, polishing a chipped espresso cup that had already been clean for five minutes. The apron cinched around his waist was faded and damp from oat milk spills. His name tag had a crack running through the “E.” Not that it mattered—no one ever looked.

He was thirty-two. Thirty-two and invisible.

Every week he told himself he’d stop auditioning. But every Monday morning, without fail, he’d scan backstage listings and grind through five-dollar self-tapes between double shifts and late-night rejections. He used to dream of edgy off-Broadway dramas and moody, queer coming-of-age roles. Now? He was submitting for bit parts in youth pastor propaganda movies filmed in Alabama.

That’s how he ended up at the cold reading for a feature called “Saved & Sound.” The email had been vague—“patriotic family values, coming-of-age faith story, male lead needed, late teens to mid-twenties look, strong vocal ability.” But the pay was more than he’d seen in a year. It was shooting in Tennessee. He clicked submit.

The callback came instantly. The studio rep said they were “specifically drawn to his face” and asked him to come in person, Sunday morning. Strange choice for a casting, but Eli figured evangelicals don’t do weekends the same way everyone else does.

The audition room was tucked inside a repurposed megachurch studio on the outskirts of the city. Everything smelled faintly of wood polish, artificial leather, and cinnamon-scented disinfectant. The receptionist wore a cross necklace the size of a table spoon and greeted him with a “God bless” that had the tone of a security clearance.

The script sides were titled: “Luke Harper, Scene 1: The Test of Temptation.”

He skimmed them: a 19-year-old pop star turned repentant youth leader, giving a fiery monologue about resisting “the rainbow lies of Sodom” while battling inner demons. It was bonkers. And, if Eli was honest, kind of terrifying. But…

The role was perfect.

They wanted vulnerability and transformation. Eli could do that. He was that. He’d spent a decade waiting for the world to notice his slow-burning soul. Maybe if he played their perfect little Christian boy, they’d finally see it.

The moment the casting associate pressed "record" on the camcorder, something changed.

Eli’s voice cracked midway through the second line—but it wasn’t his voice. It was lower, huskier. He tried to recover, but the words came out differently than he’d rehearsed. More certain. More...Southern?

“Temptation’s a sickness. I seen it. I felt it… but He pulled me back.”

He kept reading, but his fingers trembled. His palms were damp. Heat bloomed behind his ears. Something crawled beneath his skin, like a second heartbeat drumming out a new rhythm.

He tried to step out of the character—but couldn’t.

When the scene ended, the producer behind the camera—a thin woman with frosted hair and a serene, plastic smile—nodded once.

“Beautiful. So raw. So anointed. You're exactly what we need. You are Luke Harper.”

That night, back at his studio apartment, Eli couldn’t sleep. The producer had handed him a thin devotional booklet titled “Becoming Luke.” He tossed it on his nightstand, but his eyes kept darting toward it.

When he finally cracked it open, it wasn’t a script—it was a lifestyle guide.

“This isn’t a character. This is a calling.” “Luke Harper is not a mask. He is your real self, uncovered.” “Fame comes when your soul aligns with truth.”

Eli snorted and tossed it down. But later, when brushing his teeth, he realized his hands were trembling again. His usual floral toothpaste tasted too sweet. Cloying. Weak.

He blinked at his reflection. His dyed curls had dulled overnight, their platinum sheen dimming to a more natural brown. A subtle, boyish swoop that made him look... younger?

He frowned. He liked that messy queerness in his face—the little bit of eyeliner he'd grown accustomed to wearing, the sharp cheekbones he’d practiced soft smiles with. But now, the angles seemed off. His jaw looked... squarer? He reached up instinctively, but stopped short when he caught a faint whiff of something—something sweaty.

That was odd. He hadn’t worked out in months. And yet his underarms felt damp and itchy, like he’d worn the same shirt for two days. He sniffed again. Was that... musk?

“Gross,” he muttered aloud.

But the voice that came out? Deeper. Blunter. Uncertain.

By Friday, everything started to spiral.

He’d been asked to come in for “orientation” at a compound-style retreat in Kentucky. The team called it a method environment. They wanted Eli to “get in character” for a few days before filming. A week at most.

He stood before his cracked mirror, shoving a change of clothes into a duffel bag, when he noticed something else. The designer jeans he always wore—tailored tight—now hung oddly around his thighs. And the tank top clung too hard to his chest.

His pecs. Had they always been that pronounced?

He turned sideways, heart thudding. His arms… They looked meatier. Not huge—but firmer, like he’d been casually benching every day for the past month. There was a faint, almost invisible smattering of chest hair crawling down from his collarbone, not yet enough to call it a pelt, but definitely thicker than anything he’d ever grown.

“Probably stress,” he whispered. “Probably just hormones.”

But when he zipped his bag and stood, he caught sight of something else in the mirror.

His smile. Too wide. Too cocky.

The resemblance was impossible to ignore now. The Disney-pretty face, but straightened, morally scrubbed. Eli used to laugh at that smarmy, straight-boy grin Joshua always wore in interviews—the one that tried to seem humble, but reeked of church camp repression and performative purity. Eli had despised that look.

Now it was curling at the corners of his own mouth.

As his Uber pulled up outside, Eli stared at his reflection in the dark window.

His earrings were missing. His fingernails—always painted a muted lilac—were clean. His playlist, once filled with moody electro-pop, had somehow been replaced by worship rock and... country?

One of the songs was literally called “Holy Seed.”

He didn’t remember downloading it.

But the lyrics made him ache.

“She’s the garden, I’m the rain / Gonna sow her soul in Jesus’ name…”

His pants tightened slightly at the chorus.

Eli swallowed. Hard.

Something was happening to him. The role was changing him. Not just on the surface. Not just the smile or the voice or the playlist.

But his desires. His instincts. His soul.

Eli Wade’s Uber veered off the highway and down a gravel path marked only by a hand-painted wooden sign: “Redemption Pines—Where Talent Meets Truth.”

He stared out the window, clutching his duffel bag. The road was flanked by cedar trees and faded billboards featuring wholesome-looking young men holding guitars and bibles like holy weapons.

Each one looked eerily familiar.

By the third billboard, Eli stopped breathing.

It was Joshua Bassett. Smiling that same pearly grin. Arm outstretched. Caption beneath: “America’s Son.”

The driver didn’t say a word. Just smiled in the rearview. “You a singer, too?”

“Yeah,” Eli murmured. “Sort of.”

But it didn’t feel like his voice anymore.

The retreat was less camp, more cult compound.

Clean-cut men in polos and khakis buzzed around with earpieces. Everyone looked like they were in a Christian boy band. They called him “Brother Eli,” and welcomed him “home.”

Inside the dorm cabin, everything was unnaturally pristine. A devotional playlist played on loop. On the dresser sat a copy of “Joshua: The Path of Purpose”—part biography, part testimony, part... instruction manual.

His name was printed on a laminated card taped to the mirror.

But it didn’t say “Eli Wade.”

It said Joshua Bassett.

He stared at it for a full minute, heart thudding.

When he blinked, he caught his reflection—and stumbled backward.

His face had changed more overnight. Hair darker now, curled naturally like Bassett’s in those faith-based interviews. His nose subtly reshaped. His lips fuller, but boyish. His eyes—that same watery brown, hiding a silent, repressed plea for approval.

Eli shook his head. “This is makeup. This is lighting. I’m tired. This is method. Just method.”

But deep down, something was clicking into place.

Every hour of the retreat was scheduled.

7AM - Devotional Jog 8AM - Group Prayer & Vocal Warmups 10AM - “Testimonies of the Flesh: Purifying the Vessel”

He thought it was metaphor. It wasn’t.

During one session, he stood shirtless in a circle of other “actors,” all chanting affirmations about resisting temptation, while a coach corrected their posture and “re-aligned” their spiritual energy. A man in a white polo named Director Ken would occasionally place a hand on Eli’s sternum and say:

“The Lord gave you this vessel to sing through it. Not to pervert it. Own it, Josh.”

Each time he said “Josh,” something inside Eli melted.

And something else grew.

He looked down one morning to find a glinting cross necklace hanging from his neck. He didn’t remember putting it on. He didn’t remember owning it. But when he tried to take it off, his fingers froze.

Like his body wanted it to stay.

That night, in the shower, the water felt... wrong. Cold, but not refreshing. As he rubbed the loofah over his arms, he noticed the skin felt different. Thicker. Tanner. Youthful. He scrubbed harder, trying to find himself beneath it—but all he saw was smooth, lean, repressed perfection.

His pecs were now unmistakably sculpted—just like Bassett’s. His thighs, no longer twink-thin, but taut with dancer's muscle. He was becoming younger. Straighter. Stupider.

He looked at his body and saw something pure, something marketable, holy even. The kind of boy who posed in tank tops for Baptist teen devotionals. The kind of boy moms wanted their daughters to date. The kind of boy Eli had mocked his whole life.

And now he was becoming him.

Not acting. Not channeling.

Becoming Joshua Bassett.

But the real twist came during "Testimony Hour."

Director Ken sat across from him, eyes soft, pen in hand. “Tell me about your struggles, Joshua.”

Eli blinked. “I’m not... I’m not actually—"

Ken cut him off. “I know. You’re not him... yet. But we believe in you.”

He slid a paper across the table. It was a confession worksheet.

“I once identified as gay.” “I believed Hollywood lies.” “But the Lord showed me the truth.”

Eli stared at it, horrified. His fingers refused to move. His whole body vibrated with nausea.

But then… A smell.

Sweet vanilla. Shampooed. A girl had walked past. Long legs. Blonde hair. A cross tattoo on her ankle. Not his type. Not remotely. But his pants—his new, too-tight khakis—tightened.

Something primitive throbbed.

His hand, on its own, picked up the pen. And checked the first box. Then the second.

The last one… his fingers hovered.

Until Ken whispered:

“God gives second chances to those who walk away from the lie.”

And Eli's body moved.

Check.

That night, he couldn't sleep.

Not from guilt. From excitement.

The music playing through his earbuds was his own voice now. A song he never remembered recording.

“Your love is the only Truth / The rainbow fades, but You stay new…”

His voice had that smooth, shaky Joshua vibrato. Almost like he was weeping with every note. Each lyric scraped away at Eli’s remaining self like a steel wool sponge.

In the mirror, he no longer saw “Eli Wade.”

He saw Joshua. The real one. Just a little more obedient. A little more broken. A little more… useful.

The baptism took place at dawn.

There was no audience, only cameras. No congregation, only handlers. The lake sat still under a pewter sky, veiled in fog that curled like incense around the bones of the Pines. Somewhere nearby, a guitar played a soft, reverent chord progression. The notes sounded like a memory Eli couldn’t quite name.

He stood barefoot on the dock in a white Henley and jeans so clean, they didn’t feel real. The cotton clung reverently to his chest—one now shaped by weeks of supernatural muscle, divine protein, and the slow, quiet death of self. His fingers trembled at his sides, though he didn’t know why.

He didn’t remember why.

Director Ken stood in the shallows, hand extended like John the Baptist on a film set.

“Come,” he said. “Step into your calling.”

The lake was cold. Each step felt like an erasure. As if the water wasn’t washing him, but rewriting him. By the time he reached the center, it wasn’t Eli’s skin that trembled beneath the surface. It was someone else’s.

“Joshua,” Ken said, one hand against his back, the other poised at his chest. “Do you surrender your flesh to Truth?”

Eli tried to speak, but the name choked on his tongue. It didn’t feel wrong. It didn’t feel right. It felt like gravity.

“Yes,” the boy said. But it wasn’t Eli’s voice.

Ken smiled.

Then he pushed him under.

For a moment—just a moment—he opened his eyes underwater.

He saw himself.

Not a reflection, but a vision:

A cracked mirror. A boy with soft, queer features, eyeliner smudged. A half-remembered smile from a photo taken ten years ago. Someone who used to dream. Someone who used to ache.

Someone who had loved.

He screamed, but the water devoured it.

And when he came up—

Joshua Bassett was born.

He did not cry. That part of him had been cut out.

Instead, he blinked, wiped the water from his lashes, and smiled for the cameras.

Teeth white. Eyes holy. Chest clean. Cocky. Forgiven.

The footage would be used in a viral music video the following week. The song was titled “Made New.” The chorus:

“I gave Him my shame, He gave me His name.”

They gave him a starter pack that night:

Ford Bronco, white as salvation.

Bible with “Joshua” stamped in gold foil.

Purity ring, already fitted.

Social media logins.

He didn’t question any of it. Why would he?

This was his life. His testimony. His platform.

He looked down at the Bible, thumbed through the pages, and let his voice read aloud from memory:

“Therefore God gave them up in the lusts of their hearts…”

He felt nothing. Except arousal.

The first time he saw the girl, it was backstage at the Righteous & Redeemed Tour.

She had blonde extensions, thick mascara, a crucifix pendant resting between saline breasts. She wept when she saw him, told him his song “Holy Seed” had saved her from sin. That she’d been gay once, too.

His body responded instinctively.

He pulled her into the tour bus. Pressed her to the wall. Whispered, “God told me to plant you.”

And as he thrust, rhythmic and robotic, a small, dying voice inside his brain tried to scream. Tried to remember. Eli.

But the memory had no shape anymore. No language. No name.

Only the rhythm of hymns, the breathless moans of a bimbo, the sticky heat of flesh against denim, and the numbing, holy void of Joshua’s smile.

Months passed.

He stood on stage before thousands, arms spread like a cross, voice trembling with studied sincerity. He sang about purity, repentance, and “masculine grace.” Mothers wept. Girls screamed. Boys tried to look like him.

He didn’t have to try anymore.

He was Joshua.

And when he looked into the camera—lips parted, brow furrowed in prayerful longing—he thought he saw someone.

A glimpse. A flicker. In the black mirror of the lens. A face that was once his. A ghost. A sin.

He smiled.

“I used to live in darkness,” he told the world. “But I was never meant for that life.”

And the crowd roared. And the likes poured in. And the man who had once been Eli Wade sang louder.

He arrives at the church in Nashville three hours late.

A thousand teens wait in the rain. The girls cry when he steps out of the lifted black pickup. The boys try to match his trucker hat and tapered jeans. A spray-tan blonde clutches her chest and screams, “I WANNA BE YOUR PROVERBS 31, JOSHUA!”

He adjusts the cross necklace on his chest—thick gold, tangled in chest hair—and smirks.

“Bless your little heart, darlin’.”

He says it with a wink so practiced, it feels weaponized.

Inside, he struts through the megachurch’s green room with a can of Celsius in one hand and a Bible in the other.

The Bible is dog-eared. But the only pages touched are the ones about submission, sodomy, and the wrath of God.

His manager asks if he wants to rehearse his speech.

“Nah,” he says. “The Lord speaks through me. Just like He does through Tucker.”

He says “Tucker” like they’re old friends. Maybe they are. There are rumors he’s doing a podcast with Candace Owens. Maybe a country EP too. Maybe a book deal about “beating temptation through testosterone and faith.”

The working title? "Lions Don’t Prance."

The show begins.

He takes the stage like a rockstar preacher—voice raspy, hands always hovering around his belt buckle, like he’s holding back a hard-on from all the female worship in the front row.

“Y’all, the enemy’s got plans for our boys. Lip gloss, painted nails, rainbow brainwashing. But I’m here to say: Jesus didn’t die for you to be a fruitcake.”

The crowd howls.

He strums a guitar painted with an American flag and sings “Holy Seed” again. Then a new one: “Take Her Back (To Church).”

Every lyric is worse than the last.

“She used to march, now she kneels. I prayed the pride out of her heels…”

It’s somehow number one on iTunes Christian Pop by midnight.

Backstage, he scrolls through TikTok videos tagged #JoshuaWasRight.

One features him baptizing a crying boy who says he’s “not gay anymore.” Joshua reposts it with a caption:

“Another brother back on the path 🙏✝️💪”

And then, late at night, after the screaming ends and the cameras go black, he lies alone in a hotel bed.

There’s a girl passed out beside him. Blonde. Eyelash extensions. Bible app open on her phone. He doesn’t know her name. He doesn’t care.

He scrolls his own tagged photos and admires himself: The way his jaw juts. The way his smile drips with unearned authority. The way he’s managed to hijack an entire culture of faith, pain, repression, and horniness and turn it into a brand.

He taps the mirror selfie. The one where he’s shirtless in a locker room, cross tattoo glinting over his pec. He captioned it:

“Jesus was jacked. You should be too. 💪✝️🇺🇸”

Three million likes.

He grins. No irony. No remorse.

“Thank you, Lord,” he whispers, eyes closing in satisfied, performative prayer.

And if something deep inside him once had the name Eli, it’s long since been buried beneath the sound of adoration.

Because now he is Joshua. The only Joshua. God’s favorite frat boy. America’s nightmare. Your daughter’s temptation. Your son’s shame. And he’s just getting started.

You were always a little obsessed with Tom Holland. You told yourself it was ironic—“he’s just a twink with a trainer”—but everyone who knew you could tell. The replays of Cherry, the way you paused Uncharted every time he bent over in those jeans, the way your voice got tight and nasal when you said his name, pretending to be annoyed when really it just stirred something deep in your chest. And lower.

You had the posters, the fan cams saved, the deepfake edits. And the jealousy. The ugly kind. Jealous of his fame, his perfect body, his sweet charm, his relationship with Zendaya—how she always laughed at his jokes like he was the funniest man on Earth.

Waiting tables in a hoodie from high school and pretending the dream wasn’t dead. It was late one night after your shift, greasy apron still clinging to you, that you logged onto one of those darker corners of the internet. A place called Obskurum. You’d found it while searching for "celebrity transformation rituals"—half joke, half prayer.

There, in a flashing window, a name appeared like it was waiting for you:

Tharnis Grimboron. Wishbroker.

You didn’t even hesitate. Your fingers typed on their own.

I want to be Tom Holland’s himbo slave.

No. That wasn’t what you meant to type. You wanted to write “I want to be with Tom Holland,” but somehow… it came out wrong. You hit send. The window blinked. Then:

“Done.”

You awoke with a headache and a strange taste in your mouth—like battery acid and Axe Body Spray. You sat up and blinked. Something wasn’t right. The air smelled wrong. Less like lavender and more like… sweat. Musk. Gym socks.

Your room was different. Gone were the shelves of Blu-rays and little Funko Pops of the MCU. In their place: used protein shakers, gym towels, and a Call of Duty poster with a crude Sharpie doodle of tits on the soldier’s chest. Your Apple TV was now a scratched-up PlayStation, a half-smoked joint balanced on top.

You bolted to the mirror and recoiled.

The face staring back was yours—but wrong. The jaw was stronger, the eyes duller. The hair was no longer your artfully gelled style, but a tousled, lazy mess. You looked… like one of those guys. And you were wearing a tight tank top. Not ironic. Not fun. Just worn, used, yellowing under the pits.

“Yo, Tom’s gotta get his protein in or he turns into a whiny little bitch,” a voice said from your lips—but it wasn’t you. Not really. It was deeper. Dumber. British?

You ran to your phone, but it wasn’t your phone. The wallpaper was a selfie of you—with Tom Holland. At a premiere. You—grinning, arm slung around his shoulder like a best bro. But your name wasn't Nolan anymore.

It said: Harrison Osterfield.

And you remembered things that weren’t yours. Nights on tour with Tom. Laughing backstage. Drinking protein shakes and doing push-ups in trailers. Keeping the press off his back. Keeping Zendaya entertained. You remembered being useful. You remembered being second place.

Your obsession twisted. No longer admiration. Now bitterness. You saw how Tom looked at Zendaya and felt something ugly bloom inside you.

"He could have had me."

But now you were just the help.

That night you went to a bar in West Hollywood—not your scene anymore. You wore a tight button-up, sleeves rolled to show off arms you didn’t earn, smelling like sweat and Versace. You leaned into the girl beside you. Blonde. Too young.

“Hey,” you said, voice thick and fake-British, “I know Tom Holland. Real well. Want me to text him for you?”

She laughed. Drank. You leaned in closer.

“I could make you famous too,” you whispered. “Or at least get you close to famous. You ever been face-down in a Hollywood mansion before?”

You used to be gay. Clean. Kind. But that man was shrinking inside your muscles now. All his old thoughts getting drowned in cheap tequila and protein farts. You scratched your new beard and texted no one, pretending it was Tom.

Across the bar, Zendaya watched you from a VIP booth with a puzzled look on her face. Like she remembered something about you. Like maybe, just maybe, she saw the trace of Nolan still squirming behind those bloodshot eyes.

But you just smirked and winked.

“Her loss,” you muttered. “Bet she wants a real man. A proper bloke. Not some twink in tights.”

You laughed. It wasn’t a nice laugh. It was crass. Loud. Empty.

And somewhere in the shadows behind the bar mirror, Tharnis Grimboron was watching.

Smiling.

You start wearing sunglasses indoors. Not even good ones. Knock-off Ray-Bans you claim are "Tom's extra pair." You say his name constantly. In every conversation. Like it’s a brand you’re trying to co-opt.

"Yeah, me and Tom were at Soho House the other night—dude can’t handle his tequila, man." "Tom called me yesterday, just venting about how exhausting all this Marvel crap is. He needs me." "Honestly, Zendaya? Nice girl, but she’s holding him back creatively."

You weren’t invited to Tom’s press junket for his new film. You showed up anyway. Unshaven. Wearing a backwards cap, a muscle tee with "HOLLAND’S RIGHT-HAND MAN" bedazzled across the chest, and a laminated fake lanyard you made at Staples. You filmed yourself swaggering through the lobby like you owned the place, loudly saying “He told me to meet him here.”

When security escorted you out, you recorded it on Instagram Live. “They’re jealous. That’s what it is. They see me and they see real charisma.”

You used to be a shy, soft-spoken gay waiter. Now you're squatting 230 at the gym and grunting “lightweight, baby!” in a fake British accent that’s slipping into frat-bro American.

You hit up clubs every night. Claiming Tom's name like it’s a VIP pass. “Yeah, Spider-Man’s best mate,” you say, brushing past the bouncer. Inside, you order vodka Red Bulls and talk too loudly about how “overrated” the MCU is. You’ve started referring to yourself as “Hollywood’s next breakout.” You tell girls you’re “basically his creative consultant,” and that Uncharted 2 is "lowkey my idea."

You post TikToks in slow motion—shirtless, sweating, in your home gym. The captions are unbearable:

🕷️ "Peter Parker’s got nothing on me." 🔥 "Tom Holland who? Harrison's era now." 🍑 "That’s my bubble butt y’all drooling over. I taught him how to pop it."

You’re leaking "behind-the-scenes" secrets that you completely made up. Telling podcasts that Tom’s “struggling with fame,” and “needs a real bro to keep him grounded.” When one interviewer laughs awkwardly and asks, “Did Tom approve that story?”—you just smirk and say, “He’ll thank me later.”

You used to get flustered around guys like him. That perfect smile, that tight waist, that natural charm. Now you sneer at it. Pick it apart. You hate how easy he has it.

You start referring to Zendaya as "leftovers." You slide into her DMs with stuff like, “You could’ve had a man who isn’t pretending.” You post shirtless selfies captioned: “Bet I can make her laugh without a script.” “I don’t need CGI to be a superhero in bed.”

Your eyes are dead behind the sunglasses. Just resentment and a protein-drunk thirst for validation. You’re louder, sweatier, and somehow always a little sunburnt.

You still live in his orbit. But never in the light.

At a party, someone asks you what you do.

You smirk, flash a peace sign, and say, “I’m Tom Holland’s best friend… but better looking, funnier, and way more fun in bed.” You take a swig from your beer, wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “Only reason he’s famous is ‘cause I let him be.”

You say it like it’s true.

You almost believe it.

But your voice cracks a little when you say “friend.” And Tom hasn’t returned your texts in weeks.