Journalistic Integrity
Sinclair was a steadfast reporter committed to spreading the truth. This has gotten him some hot water and his bosses demand he return to grunt work. Four paths before him, which will he begrudgingly choose.
Partially inspired by a couple photos sent to me by MiscTF, this story includes my first inanimate TF! Surely not to be to everyone's tastes but I'm sure there's something to every TF fan's tastes in one of these shorter stories. Hope you enjoy! -Occam
One of four headlines will determine the rest of Sinclair's life:
Pleasant Valley Pistols Find Their Home In State Of The Art Arena: Hockey Player
Fort Pleasant Repurposes Old High School: Soldier
Pan-Asian Community Center Places Capstone: Asian Gym Bro
New Talent Being Developed At Pleasant Valley Paper: Cock
After everything Sinclair’s done to keep this raggedy, well, rag afloat they decide to send him back into the field to do some reporting. Sure, it’s how he started out all those years ago, wandering into the streets, freshly earned degree in hand, to interview for puff pieces in the Pleasant Valley Paper.
Decade and some change of late nights writing and early rises to edit copy, Sinclair just wants to stay at his desk. And his bosses know that. ‘There’s just too much going on in town.’ As if he buys that. It just feels like punishment. Well, no, he knows it’s punishment.
He’s published stories on lemonade stands before and they wanted him not to report on the shady shell companies coming in to buy and redevelop half of town? The fact that one of them bought out the paper a week later is proof that he was onto something. At least, that's what he says to the few coworkers not avoiding him like the plague.
These days that’s mostly his assistant, Marcos, who just walked into his office with the higher up’s new projects for Sinclair. “At least they’re letting you choose, right boss?”
Somehow sighing and scoffing at the same time, Sinclair’s having none of it, “Sure kid. You spend a decade of your life pouring your blood into a typewriter for them to say ‘why dontcha pick between sports reporting a little league game and touring the new sewage treatment plant’ and get back to me.”
Glancing at said typewriter, Marcos holds his tongue from insulting his own boss’ performative proclivities; ones that result in him having to retype each and every article into a word processor. But his boss is right, they’re shafting him. He just needs to stay in the reporter’s good graces long enough to get a rec letter, “I get that Sinclair, but they did kinda tell me this is some last chance stuff. And I know you don’t want to do it, but I think they really found heat this week!”
Grimace plastered on his face, Sinclair awaits his options. Clearing his throat, Marcos does his best to sell them, “For starters, that new arena everyone’s been asking about is finally done and they need someone on the scene to interview the hockey team.”
“Hockey!? Well there are worse sports I suppose. Could be outside, ugh.” He can only imagine the mouth breathing, barely literate goalie he’ll be forced to parley with. “What’s the team?”
“Oh! Uhhh, looks like the Pleasant Valley Pistols.
“Ugh, awfully militaristic isn’t it? Just what small towns need, more gun themed branding …”
“Uhh yeah haha, well you’re not gonna like the next one either boss. Seems they’re converting the old high school into some kinda base? Fort Pleasant they’re calling it.”
Dumbfounded, Sinclair just stares at Marcos. Surely you can’t just do that right? They voted to build the new school, should there not then be a vote on what to do with the old one? Clenching his jaw, while he hates dealing with the military he can smell a story there.
“I can just cross that one off boss-man. Next is more like your old stuff, seems there's a new Pan-Asian community center opening near the park. Little wild since Pleasant Valley’s so well- you know.”
White. Honestly it was the biggest hang up on him moving here from the city. He hadn’t noticed an uptick in Asian locals enough to justify a community center, but hey not like he’s looking out for that stuff. Happy change as far as he’s concerned, and if he can do his part in bolstering that, well Marcos is right. Broken clocks and all that, he’d honestly be happy to.
Nodding Sinclair takes all this in, “Right. I suppose I agree this could have been slightly worse. Could have just canned me. They must not want me gone nearly as much as I thought!”
Marcos thinks about simply not mentioning the final task listed but in the end he can’t help himself, “Well there is one more option, uhm. One that would let you stay in office even.”
Interest piqued, Sinclair motions for his assistant to continue.
And he does, carefully. “Rather than going out they want you to know you can also take the opportunity to uhhhm,” he throws up his guard, “help develop new talent at the paper.”
Sinclair’s blood runs cold as he stares at his long-suffering assistant. Twice now he’s denied Marcos’ request to be promoted citing lack of experience and lack of professionality. Obviously he lied and told his assistant the hangup was elsewhere. “And I take it that you’re the new talent?” He makes no attempt to hide the venom in his voice.
“Look, sir, I wasn't going to mention it. I just figured you might prefer helping you know, the only coworker not ignoring you rather than wandering around a military base or whatever but it’s your call.”
And it is his call. “Of course, Marcos. Apologies for the implication.” Looking at the options, Sinclair makes up his mind with the haste of a man who doesn’t know he’s about to have his life and form wrest from him. “I’m gonna go with…”
The Hockey Team - Should be easy
Fort Pleasant - Something’s fishy over there
The Community Center - Think I could help their cause
Marcos. - Ugh, I do owe you something. I guess.
Pleasant Valley Pistols:
“Go ahead and let the coach know that I’ll be stopping by, Marcos.” Running the numbers, Sinclair decides this should be the simplest and easiest task offered to him. Well, besides mentoring Marcos, but the surly reporter certainly isn’t going to be training his replacement. Of this he is sure.
One routine email and a quick car ride later, Sinclair finds himself outside a robust new ice skating complex. The large construction zone had been slow-going for months and everyone in Pleasant Valley had been placing bets on just what it’s to be. Strange given someone in town must have had some prior warning that there’s an ice rink coming to town.
If not city planners then construction workers, Sinclair can’t help but speculate as he watches a crane lower a large hockey stick over the front entrance. Perhaps there’s meat on this bone yet. Crossing his arms the journalist looks at his scrawled plans to interview a player or two and publish profiles and crumples it.
This is connected to everything else, he bets. The Pistols must be connected to that shady company coming to take over Pleasant Vall-
“Hey there! You must be from the local paper eh?”
Sinclair almost jumps out of his skin as a hand the size of a baseball mit pounds him squarely in between his shoulder blades. Turning with fear in his eyes to find the source of this assault he instead finds a beaming man who clearly just intended to pat him on the back.
Apathetic or clueless to the clear grimace on Sinclair’s face, the bear of a man reaches out his mitt to shake, “Coach Whitlow, you must be Sinclair eh? Your bosses told me you were comin’ and to give you a Warm Pistol’s Welcome!”
Begrudgingly meeting Coach Whitlow’s hand, Sinclair frowns and does a poor attempt to butter up the man with all the power here, “Yes! I’m quite excited to learn of and spread the good word about Pleasant Valley’s new superstars. How’d you land on ‘Pistols’ anyhow?”
Notepad out, he prepares to take notes before instead watching a somehow even blanker look croses Whitlow’s face. Confusion seeps from the corners of his friendliness as he makes what is at best a guess, “Well it’s certainly fun to say right? Pleasant Valley Pistols! Nice and literar-ative like all you booky-boys say.”
“Right.” Eyes on the prize, “Well Coach I’m sure I’ll stop by for an interview before I depart. Would it be alright if I looked around the facilities first? My readers are simply dying to learn about your state of the art facilities!” He didn’t know he had this level of bullshitting still in him.
“Oh, great idea there son! Might as well stop by the weightroom while you’re at it, awfully scrawny for a sports writer. Should call you Shrimpclair, HAH!”
Indignant at being called a sports reporter moreso than the dig at his scrawny form, Sinclair flashes a smile and motions for Whitlow to lead him inside. Which the Coach promptly does, “Now don’t have too much fun poking around there Mr. Reporter, not unless you wanna stick around heh heh!” Turning towards his office while repeating Shrimpclair and giggling to himself, Whitlow leaves Sinclair to explore.
Spoiled for choice, the journalist is shocked at just how pristine this arena is. He was under the impression that this was some kind of below collegiate level team but the sheer size of the place alone that can’t be the case. Shoot he’d swear it’s bigger than some of the NHL arenas he’s seen- Of which he’s seen none. Obviously.
Sneaking around looking for proof of foul play or corporate espionage, it’s not long before he smells something suspiciously alluring in the air. Taking deeper and deeper breaths of the strange scent, Sinclair’s oblivious to his chest rising higher with every one. Exhaling slightly less with every inhale, he quickly finds his baggy shirt starting to awkwardly pull at his skin as he continues walking. As if he were beginning to inflate.
Quickly realizing he’s been following his nose like a dog, the proud reporter shakes off his stupor and scoffs. Scratching at his suddenly itchy jaw, Sinclair does his best to ignore the haze and focus on the sure scoop here. Unfortunately every breath continues to vie for his attention.
There’s gotta be some proof somewhere that this is owned by the same assholes who bought the paper. Gosh smells like new pads doesn’t it? His feet kinda hurt, why’d he wear such small shoes today. Shit for an ice rink it’s kinda warm in here isn’t it.
Prideful about his attention span as he is about anything else, Sinclair can’t believe how much he’s struggling to keep his train of thought on track. He doesn’t hear his fingers scritch in stubble that prickles underneath his chin as he looks at his notepad.
The only thing scrawled, in sloppier handwriting than he’d ever humor, is ‘Pistols = Gud?’
“My God!? I didn’t write that!?” Taking another quick sniff just to breath, the reporter feels a new itch in his pits and ignores the urge to give them a sniff. Shaking his head his dark hair begins to shorten into something sportier, Sinclair’s neck cracks thicker. Below the belt he feels his legs begin to balloon with every struggled sniff.
Feeling his jeans begin to strain against his legs as he notices he can somehow see his pale midriff exposed, Sinclair clutches at his mouth. It’s the smell, it must be. Ignoring the scratch of a stubbly mustache poking at his hand, he does the only thing he can think to stop smelling something. He breathes through his mouth.
Obviously this does not go his way.
Taking a far deeper breath through his mouth than he ever could with his nose, his body expands in every way it can. Arms that only ever strained from typing away at a keyboard suddenly rise like dough as biceps force their way onto his bones. Bulging against the sleeves of his shirt, slightly tanner skin is quickly visible through a number of tears.
Kicking off his shoes as soon as discomfort rises enough to register in his foggy mind, he finds feet so large he can’t even imagine finding shoes to fit them. Above ankles now prickling with thick hair his jeans are strained at the calves as well as his lower body grows even more impressive than his meaty arms and his chest still twitching larger.
Even more pronounced than the physical changes are those wreaking havoc in his mind. Mouth-breather is an insult the reporter had oft leveled at Marcos and anyone else he viewed as less intelligent than himself. And as his higher thoughts begin to dissolve into sand, it’s clear that uh, well nothing’s really clear to him anymore.
Besides hockey, duh. Smirking as the memories him shooting through the rink rush into his mind, he stumbles up to the locker room’s entrance on much larger feet. Taking heavy steps as his jeans tear more with every stumble, Sinclair quickly pushes open the door and enters his favorite place in the world, the Pistol’s locker room.
Taking the deepest breath yet, he feels the air, stagnant with the stink of sweat and industrially cleaned uniforms, fill him from head to toe. Scratching his chest as a manly coat of curls etches across pronounced pecs, his rough hand yanks off the rags and tosses them to the floor.
Looking to the mirror he’s surprised to find his pants have also completely fallen away, leaving him cock out in his locker room. Not that his teammates mind of course huhuh. Seeing his gleaming white smile reflected, his foggy mind tries to recall that he doesn’t have teammates but the thought shifts to confusion at his teammates simply not being here with him. No puck bunnies or twinks either…
Scratching his pubes and pits and barely abating an urge to helicopter his twitching dick, Sinclair figures he’s here for one on one practice or somethin. Hockey ass bouncing with every lumbering step, the Pistol’s new piston falls onto the bench and starts pulling on his pads commando. No time for that shit, not like his pads’ll stink any less after. Sides, Coach’ll be pissed if he’s late again.
Feeling the scratch of hard plastic on his thighs he feels his last sense of self struggle. Looking at meaty hands and feeling his defined abs twitch with every breath he tries to remember being a reporter. His deeper, thoughtless voice does little to help. “I’m not a, not a fuckin’ hockey… I’m a journaler, uh? I write, uhh, stuff. I’m Sink? Sin- uh?”
“Sinner!? That you in there boy? Should be out on the ice by now, I swear!”
Yanking his pants up to his sternum and shoving his sweaty feet into somehow already sweatier skates, any fight fades from his eyes as Coach’s voice reminds him who he really is. Leaning against the cold wall as Whitlow strides into the locker room, he smirks and awaits the reprimand.
“What am I gonna do with you… Shit you been using the new weight room eh Sinner? Settin’ a good example. Give me a flex there boy.”
Like he needed the command. Raising his arms into a double bi he takes a deep breath as the complexity of the world fades. He’s just a hockey star, and soon everyone in Pleasant Valley’s gonna be a fan.
Fort Pleasant:
“There’s something weird afoot over at the old high school right Marcos?”
His assistant shrugs, “I mean for sure, but the bosses want an, uh. Well it’s sorta an ad?” Marcos winces preemptively.
“An advertisement!? For the military?”
“They’re technically private security I thin-”
“They want me to- Well! I’ll tell you what Marcos. I’m going to go report on what I find and if the Pleasant Valley Paper’s not interested I’m taking all my fans and finally going indie! You just stay mum and look busy, I’ll be back before you know it.”
Watching his boss storm away, Marcos sighs knowing he certainly has no ability to stop Sinclair when he’s got his mind on a story. Good kid Marcos is he’s not even going to snitch on the turncoat, not like he wants a private militia kicking around town. Wordlessly wishing Sinclair pulls something off here, the assistant just hopes his overeager boss doesn’t just make his situation worse.
Nearing the base, Sinclair flashes back to his breaking expose of his university’s ROTC when he was in school. He can’t hold back a laugh at the memory, those wannabe schmucks never knew what hit them! This’ll be another walk in the park. Flashing a press pass at the gated entry, Sinclair grins as he’s just waved on through, already planning his brutal take down of the place.
Illegal appropriation of public land and goods. Lax security at best. That glorified doorman’s probably just jacking off in between dapping up his brainless coworkers.
Far off in the remains of a football field, Sinclair can see a few men clad in camouflage doing some exercise drills. Shuddering at the thought of whatever poor sods have been tricked into working for some shoddy soon to be bankrupt private security firm, Sinclair rolls his eyes and hopes they enjoy the paid workouts while they last
Collecting himself and his journalistic materiel, Sinclair sets a small recorder to just tape every moment of the next half hour. The first sound recorded is a muttered ‘Shit!’ as Sinclair immediately drops his notepad. Leaning down to pick it up, his blood runs cold as he hears a gruff voice shout-
“Ateeen-shun!”
His hands freeze just before grabbing the notepad as he feels his bent spine straighten. Eyes locked on the booklet, he feels his body shoot up to standing. Arms forced to his side, thumbs stuck to his shirt's seam as if they were magnetized. Puffing up his thin chest and fighting against raising his chin, Sinclair freezes in this pristine pose for a full second before breaking free.
Gasping, he stares dumbfounded at the man clad in fatigues. Stubbled chin wide and dimpled, tucked shirt straining against a lat wingspan Sinclair wouldn’t think possible, there’s a smirk clear on his face at his words having such an effect on some petty annoyance. The soldier watches as Sinclair collects his notepad and clears his throat.
Before he can get a word out, the burly, brusque man issues another order. “Follow me, recruit.”
“I think you’ll find I’m here for an interview, s- sir.” Sinclair scrunches his nose at the reflexive honorific, swearing himself to not utter one again. “Obviously I’m not one of your muscle-brained, violence hungry, lunkeys. The Pleasant Valley Paper sent me to find out exactly what this operation’s all about.”
Following behind the sergeant, what difference does it make if he’s doing so because he was commanded or because that’s the quickest way to get to the bottom of this mystery. Ensuring that his shirt is tucked in, as anyone would! Sinclair doesn’t notice as the edges of the cotton top seem to be staining a light green.
“What’s your name, soldier?”
“Sinclair, Sir- Ugh. If you wouldn’t mind, could you stop calling me soldier? I’m not-”
The man quickly turns with his arms crossed and stares down at Sinclair. Silenced by his steely gaze alone, Sinclair feels his lips trying to move as his body freezes into attention once more. This time his back is even straighter, he feels it straining his impeccable tuck as his shoulders seemingly raise higher. Hidden from sight as army green stains creep further up his shirt, his chest that was once but skin and bone begins to subtly widen.
Clenching his jaw until there’s an unmistakable cracking sound, Sinclair grunts as he finds his voice. Unwilling or unable to acknowledge the power this buffoonish jarhead cosplayer has over him, he tries to attack logically. Ignoring how his eye twitches as he even mentally insults the sergeant. “Look, obviously I’m too old to be of use as a soldier, just give me a couple quotes for the paper and I’ll be out of your hair.”
Rubbing his tight high-top, the sergeant smirks as he watches the army green fabric of Sinclair’s shirt continue to rise. At the same time the long sleeves begin retracting to reveal thin, hairless arms still stuck at attention. “Too old eh? Wouldn’t say you’re a day over 23 there soldier.”
Beyond stunned, Sinclair stands there in shock as the words sink in. “Th- nnn-” When he tries to speak the air is knocked out of him as a decade of his life is simply erased from his body. The wrinkles beginning to creep out around his eyes and on his forehead are ironed away as his skin tightens.
The slight paunch hiding under his regulation issued shirt is converted into rows of youthful abs as his hairline ceases retreating before rejuvenating altogether. Catching a reflection of himself in the floors polished to shine, Sinclair can’t recognize the man he’s becoming.
“And before you say it, I do believe you’re more than fit enough. You’ve been hitting the gym since high school, far more than you ever hit the books soldier.”
Breaking out of the trance enough to shake his head, Sinclair feels his arms begin to bulk up in their frozen state. Quickly piling on pounds enough to strain the sleeves of his shirt, he feels them darken with hair as the mop on his head curls into some G.I.’s coif. Thick sideburns creep down his cheeks as far as they’re allowed.
“S- Sergeant.” His voice cracks lower as the know-it-all timbre of the reporter gives way to the vocal fry of a younger man who’s ecstatic not to think for himself, “Ssssir. I swear, you don’t have to this. L- let me get back to the office. I know the perfect recruit for youuuu-”
Sweating from the stress, Sinclair feels his underarms stain sweat as his hairy arms lead to even hairier pits. The trimmed bush that usually hid under them gives way to a wild-straight patch of pit hair designed to collect musk. Trying to worm his way out of these changes only accelerates them as by the time he even attempts to throw Marcos at his sergeant’s feet his memories of being anything but a soldier begin to drain.
Irritated at the man’s pathetic scrambling as he watches Sinclair continue to fill out his uniform, jeans finally corrupting into a heavier camouflaged fabric, he barks orders to his newest recruit. “Go sit until I decide what to do with you maggot. And take that fucking shirt off, you’re sweating like a pig.”
“Sir, yes sir!” Twitching desperately with every ordered movement, Sinclair obeys the command as every reason not to begins to rapidly disappear. Tearing off his shirt he feels dog tags fall back onto his chest, square between his enticing new pecs. His widening nipples harden as he pristinely folds his sweat-stained shirt and stows it under a wooden chair that creaks when he sits down.
Feeling his balls throb, Sinclair’s got a good guess where his thoughts and personality are draining to as he stares ahead. Trying to hold on to wispy memories as they fade, it’s not long before he can only assert what he knows he isn’t. He’s not a soldier. He’s Sinclair, he works for Fort Pleasant. No. He was here to? He’s not a soldier. He’s twenty- No he’s thirty- uh? No, he’s twenty three. Yeah.
The sergeant watches as his soldier at last begins to settle, pupils twitching with resistance slowly fade as he tosses around potential new posts for this handsome little lap dog. Not like they don’t have enough officers to guard every business in town. Why shouldn’t this one be just for him.
“Soldier, what’s your position?”
Sinclair bolts up, his back somehow getting even straighter as his feet lance out to their perfect 45 degree position even when sitting. “I’m your assistant, sir!”
“Very good, at ease.”
The sergeant watches as, for the first time since stepping foot on For Pleasant’s grounds, the new soldier finally relaxes. Performatively sitting back so his sergeant can appreciate every new bulging muscle on his exposed torso. He exists to serve this man above all else.
“Put your arms behind your head, soldier.”
Beautiful. He’ll need to send thanks to the Pleasant Valley Paper. Though the way these things work he wonders if even their most diligent of records have any trace of ever having a ‘Sinclair’ on staff, after all, he’s never been anything more than a soldier.
Hidden in his fatigue pockets, ever so close to a thick cock doing its best to hold back pre that will stain them, a journalist’s tape record finally stops rolling. And oh what a scoop Sinclair found after all, shame the soldier's going to turn that into his superior as soon as he remembers he’s even wearing pants.
Pan-Asian Community Center:
“Screw it, if I’m being muzzled I might as well raise some funds for a community center right?”
Marcos genuinely smiles at his boss’ optimism, “I think that’s a great idea boss!”
“Yeah whatever. Hold down the fort then, I imagine I’ll have something typed up for you by the end of day.”
Sighing as he looks to the pile of other stories he still needs to type up and submit himself, Marcos prepares for a long day of trying to get any of his boss’ work approved as he watches Sinclair depart. “Huhhh… He’s been recommending me for promotion, it’ll all be worth it one day…”
For his part, Sinclair’s sure this is going to be a nice and easy trip. What fledgling foundation would be opposed to free press right? Evidently this one.
Walking past a small gated outdoor gym, Sinclair mutters judgementally to himself as he enters the lobby. “Who wouldn’t want to walk by a sweat factory to watch some foreign cinema…” Putting his attitude away, he forces a tight smile on his face as he approaches the receptionist, a younger woman who’s clearly bored out of her mind.
Dubbed Setsuna by her name tag adorned with a small Japanese flag, she looks up to Sinclair when the center’s front door slams shut. Frowning and rolling her eyes, she begins her spiel, “Konnichiwa and welcome to the Pleasant Valley community center. What can I do for you today.” Though it was ostensibly a question, her tone makes it clear that she is not here to help.
“Yes! Hello, I’m Sinclair from the local paper!” His smile creaks as his patience already wears thin.
“Okay?”
“And I’m here to help with your Community Center?” After she blankly stares he continues, “I mean, we both know that the town is as white as it gets. I guess my bosses figured you could use some help with fundraising?”
“Right. Well you can go ahead and let your bosses know that we’re doing fine on our own. Thanks.”
“Heh. Well, Miss. I think you’re being awfully blasé to the best reporter the Pleasant Valley Paper has.”
“死ね! I’m sure we’re really missing out.”
Sure whatever she just said was an insult, Sinclair goes for an old favorite, “Well! I’d like to speak with your supervisors.”
“Oooh so sorry, they’re busy, yeah. I can go ahead and summon security if you’d like?”
“Why I-”
“Thank youuuu~ Buhbye now.” Waving at Sinclair as he holds his tongue, the receptionist waits for the door behind him to close before getting back to scrolling on her phone. Were she anyone else she might wonder if Sinclair would be back sooner rather than later with a different name and nationality. But she’s certainly not paid enough to care.
Someone who cares even more than he’s paid is stomping away from Pleasant Valley’s latest community center. Steaming like he hasn’t since his last heated argument at work, Sinclair’d usually have worked himself up into weariness. For some reason, today the engine just seems to keep going. Each passing moment just fills him with more irritation and more energy.
Almost seeing red, the reporter looks to the outdoor gyms and spitefully decides to work off some of his newfound rage at this public resource. That’ll show them! Unsure what instinct he’s following, Sinclair is apathetic as he gets on something he thinks is supposed to exercise the shoulders and starts pushing.
Grunting as he quickly sweats up a storm, Sinclair grits his teeth as his arms burn with exertion he hasn’t felt since high school. Immediately finding himself dehydrated as he’s started working out in the sun having had nothing to drink today besides coffee, Sinclair figures his pathetic point made.
That is, until he sees a large water bottle sitting right by his feet. That he’s even humoring drinking from it should be proof enough he’s not in his right mind. Covered with stickers, he knows it can’t be his and yet scrawled on top of it is his name: Sonclair. In no time his sweaty hand brings it to his mouth as he enjoys the ichor of ice cold water.
Standing from the machine, the irate reporter finds the sweaty shirt sticking to his skin incredibly irritating. In further proof of his rapidly teetering state of mind, the journalist who’s so body shy that his chest hasn’t seen the sun since childhood begins to remove his shirt. It clings to his body like a second skin as it tears away to reveal an upper body far more impressive than it should be.
Still entirely untrained, there is raw power pumping through his limbs like it should not be. Sitting back down at what he now mindlessly recognizes as a chest press, he begins pumping at it until failure. With each heaving thrust his arms throb larger as his chest realizes that it can hold muscle as well as fat.
Under the afternoon sun his pallor begins to give way to a tan. Having to continually readjust his position as his arms creak longer and his back expands to completely hide the seat behind him, Sofclair watches as his hands are decidedly darker than his skin tone could be in any light.
Breaking him free from his ire-induced haze, Sofclair takes in what his arms have become. Even as he watches they continue to expand, veins trail down their length, throbbing with each beat of his racing heart. He should feel horror, calloused hands that are not his own feel the warm bronze skin that now make up his bulky forearms.
Looking down to a chest for the first time graced with pecs, he cannot hide the grin twitching onto his face. Darker, wider nipples point askew above a core designed for strength. Flexing his heavy new arms, Soflier takes another deep gulp of his water jug. Feeling it splash onto his face, he smirks even wider as he feels a thin mustache suddenly prickle onto his upper lip.
Discontent with his progress he splashes some of the icy liquid onto his face and feels as his whole face reconfigures itself. His jawline sharpens as his new tan finally creeps up his neck. Hair that has only been styled by barber’s hands thickens into a style that Soflier sees on all his magpinsan- uhh, cousins?
Shaking off whatever that strange fake word was, as Soflier’s eyes darken from their tepid blue into a brown darker than coffee, the journalist influencer scans the gym for his next machine. Scowling down at legs not nearly as impressive as his herculean chest and bis, Soflier stomps over to the leg press.
Pumped in a way he can hardly understand, with each step he grows all the more impressive. Rows of abs bulge through a gut maintained more for strength than aesthetics. Biceps bloat even larger as sweat streams off his bovine shoulders and drips down his sides from pits muskier than any two of his bros put together. Dreamily wondering where they are, he sits on the next machine and starts pumping.
At first embarrassed at the stick thin legs barely able to hold up his titanic torso, each rep packs pounds onto his thighs and calves. From the feet up his lower body changes to match its better half. Feet burst free from his cheap leather dress shoes before they’re promptly covered once more by ostentatious tennis shoes four sizes larger.
Shocked that he’s been working out in pants his whole time, when he blinks he finds he’s wearing his favorite gym shorts. Malinaw naman… Uhh, obviously, he never hits the gym without them! Probably slept in them after his sesh last night. Shamelessly giving himself a sniff as continues thrusting his legs larger, they quickly outpace even his upper body’s growth.
Sofiel bites his lip as he feels soreness burn deep in his thighs. Hungrily staring, he almost starts laughing as they fill his shorts to their breaking point. Only just formed socks slide down his calves as veins trail up from his feet to his heavy crotch. “God, sexy ako…” He moans to himself as the sun overheats his already steaming body.
Rubbing hands up and down his body, feeling the throbbing veins trailing across his form and the warm skin struggling against the growing muscle underneath, Sofiel’s shorts struggle against the new package within. Having bulked to as close to human perfection as he cares to, Sofiel’s feet slam to the floor as he closes his eyes and begins rutting into the air.
His publicly indecent reverie is interrupted as some mysterious force pours the rest of his ice cold water right onto his head. “Ayy what the fuck!?” Bolting up on the machine, the new Filipino gym bro sees none other than the Japanese receptionist who kicked him out.
“Answer your fucking phone next time! Jesus Sofiel, they’re gonna fire you if you don’t get your shit together.”
“Ahhh and I bet you’d hate to lose this eye-candy huh Suna?”
Rolling her eyes and yanking out her phone to performatively scroll at the accusation she goes on, “As if I’d wanna be with a dick who couldn’t find his way out of a finger trap”
“Ahh, ripping it in half counts! You’re just jelly…” Waiting for a response that doesn’t come, he looks up to see Setsuna gesturing inside.
“Did you not hear me, you oaf? Your horde of elderly women are getting impatient for their Zumba.”
“Ah shit! I owe you another one!”
She can’t help but stare at his ass and back as he leaves. Again she’d never bite but shit, if he isn’t hot. How’d he even get a body like that…
Marcos:
Though it’s the furthest thing from what he wants to do, perhaps ‘developing future talent’ will allow him to get Marcos more under his thumb. Maybe he can even get the kid to tag along when he’s inevitably fired by the end of the month. Sinclair’d hate to train another assistant up when he’s got an entirely passable one in Marcos.
“So, Marcos, what precisely did you have in mind for me to help you develop?”
Stunned that his bitchy boss is for the first time showing interest in him, Marcos accidentally crumples the list in his hands. “Really!? You wanna help me sir!?”
“Well don’t get so hysterical about it. It’s the least shitty option available.” Staring at his assistant, he’s already begun to second guess that. Marcos was never his first choice. The year before last the paper decided to hire all three of its summer interns as staff for the department heads, and while he’s been shafted out of that role his provided assistant remains.
That summer Marcos only applied to have something accompanying soccer and a high school degree on his resume. Taking an initial gap year before applying for college, the short internship has turned into a cushy enough gig and he’s long been angling for a more permanent role on staff.
While diligently working under the most obnoxious man in a relatively toxic workplace for two years and a bit now, Marcos has always known there’s a lot he can learn from the writer. If he could just catch him on a good day. And finally, he will get his chance to do just that.
“I mean, well, I guess what’s a day in the life like, right?”
“Wh- You know that Marcos, you’ve been working under me for years yes? Why don’t you tell me?”
Changing strategies, Marcos tries to shift the onus on him. Doing his best not to stoke an ever-rising temper, “You’re right, sorry boss. I guess, if you had any notes for me we could work on those together today?”
“Notes hm? Well for starters you could certainly care more about your appearance.” A shocking statement from someone wearing a coffee stained shirt to an assistant who clearly hits the gym regularly. Yet he takes it in stride. “Right, that’s fair. Dress for the job you want right?” Oop, shit-
Sinclair’s eye twitches at this, “Right. The job you want. And what job is that? Marcos.”
Obviously aware what Sinclair’s asking, Marcos tries to salvage it, but one cannot simply wrangle this genie back into the bottle. “You know I don’t- I wouldn’t still be here if I wasn’t okay working under you Sinclair.”
“Okay?! Just okay, is that right? Vouching for you to stay on as an assistant even after my position was erased. I- This is exactly why I tell them you’re not ready every time you apply for promotion.”
Marcos was prepared to walk everything back immediately until Sinclair confirms something the young man never even suspected. After everything he’s done for the jerk. Ignoring every spiteful comment and shitty assignment tossed his way so he can be near a writer he has always respected despite himself.
All this time it’s been Sinclair holding him back. His eyes well with tears as he feels his face burn with embarrassment and rage, “You what?”
“Oh don’t look at me like that, you weren’t ready. I was just the feather that broke the camel’s back.”
Biting his lip, Marcos has been deliberately holding something back from Sinclair. He’d explicitly told Sinclair that these jobs were a last chance, and that includes this one. He just didn’t think Sinclair would be such a callous asshole. His boss had always treated him like a tool. Well, Marcos is going to give him one last chance or he is going to literally become one.
“Say sorry.”
“Excuse me?”
“Mr. Sinclair. I would appreciate if you apologized for, on multiple occasions- no fuck that, for day in and day out making my life more difficult than it needs to be.”
So up his own ass he takes offense to the implication that he’s done anything of the sort, despite explicitly confirming he’s stopped Marcos from promotion just moments ago, Sinclair scoffs. “Now I’m sorry if you find the meager workloads I assign you too demanding, kid. But that’s life.” The writer eyes Marcos fingering something in his pants, “Go on, share with the class.”
Retrieving a small button Marcos has a severe look on his face as he presses it. “They told me to use this when I gave up on you.”
Laughing at the hysterics, Sinclair struggles to take someone he views as so lesser seriously. Before he can get out a full sentence chiding him however, he’s wracked with pleasure “Come now Marcoohsshit!” Suddenly every inch of his skin is burning hot. He feels his heartbeat in his head.
“Whuh, what did that- What did you just do to me Marcos!?” Staring at his boss with wide eyes, the assistant reaches towards his crotch as he is similarly filled with pangs of pleasure.
“I- I don’t know?” Reaching down to adjust his package as he is immediately rockhard, when his fingers manhandle his cock Sinclair again contorts in his desk chair.
“Gaahhhd Damnit Marcos! Stop?!” Pent up more than he can understand even as he starts cumming in his pants, Sinclair stares daggers at his assistant while drool begins pooling in his mouth.
Struggling to swallow the spittle rising more and more as he continues to rut and unload into his jeans, Sinclair feels his clothes sear against his skin as everything just feels too much. Face burning up, moving his limbs is suddenly more difficult as he looks down to find clothes that were already slightly too big for him draping across his thin body even more dramatically.
His shoulders slump slightly more as he sees his sleeves fall even limper. Taking another deep, struggled swallow, the reporter notices that his fingers are suddenly barely visible through the ends of his sleeves. Similarly when he shifts his weary legs his shoes just fall to the floor. Despite getting warmer by the second, it seems as if Sinclair has lost the ability to sweat everywhere save his legs which have already stained through his jeans with sweat.
Giving up on swallowing the still increasing pool in his mouth, the reporter allows himself to openly drool as he looks to Marcos. Lost in a reverie clearly more pleasant than Sinclair’s own, his boss has no qualms about interrupting, drool dripping down his cheeks he shouts. “Earth to fuuuhhking Marcos!? Help me get thesesh schlothes off!”
Taking his hands from his crotch Marcos quickly moves to help, shaking his head all the while “Right, sorry! I don’t-” He easily removes Sinclair’s top, though as it drags against his boss’ stomach, the man can’t help but cough up some drool as pins and needles tickle his every inch. Thicker than it previously was, the reporter begins to notice a distinct salty, acrid taste as it refuses to slow down.
The jeans give more trouble as they catch on his thighs which are for some reason bloating slightly. After a tug that dislodges another wave of spit from Sinclair’s mouth, the pants are off. Falling back into his chair as he feels his legs give out, they both apprise the empty crotch hanging between his still growing thighs. But Sinclair feels nothing from this, there’s a far more pronounced vacancy coming from his ass.
Sinclair’s mouth falls open and no matter how hard he tries it stays that way. He feels a pressure deep in his stomach, no lower- His legs are throbbing. It’s rising. Across his body he feels massive veins begin to throb larger. Arteries, blood vessels, and nerves once vital for him to move and think and act are instead being converted into nothing but sacks to hold blood, to make him feel more pleasure, to make him harder.
Liquid from his mouth gets cloudier as he feels his neck get tighter, bloating larger, racing his shoulders to match his torso growing more cylindrical. Throbbing up from his balls, from his legs, he sees the beginnings of a thick tube in the center of his stomach. Barely noticeable at first, he sees it getting more prominent as something seems to course up through it. Higher with every throbbing pump.
Gurgling for help he looks to his assistant who is yet again preoccupied with his own cock- No, even though it’s in his hand, Marcos’ attention is indeed squarely on Sinclair. Hunger in his eyes, it’s the only thing he can understand. Humping his hand, Marcos can’t help himself as he rushes to his boss and flips him over.
Pressure races through Sinclair as he feels his neck tighten and throb. He doesn’t even notice Marcos fucking him. He fails to produce anything besides wet heaving moans as he spits up more viscous pre, and then he hears nothing but blood rushing as every single faculty remaining within him tenses. He feels his legs pull and gags as he spews his first load as Marcos’ cock before blacking out.
When he comes too his vision is hazy. He feels a tickle on his ass that must be the jungle of Marcos’ pubes, straight and untrimmed, unlike his own. Looking down as much as he’s able with a neck that no longer moves he sees his skin tone has drastically darkened, even more than his assistant’s warm tone.
He doesn’t remember having arms to not have as he looks to see his legs balls have grown hairier. They look so big! He’s glad he’s given Marcos such impressive balls. At the thought he feels his skin get a little tighter as he gets excited. At the same time he feels two hands reach to hold him.
Slowly they start rubbing him up and down, “Shit… S*******? You awake?” Marcos' thoughts are so loud. The cock hears him say a word it doesn’t really understand, someone’s name maybe. It doesn’t care. It focuses everything in Marcos on what matters how horny he is.
“Ngggh, no Ssin- you- cock, When I cum again- When we cum again that’s it… I’ll get your, uhhh fuckin’ skills or whatever but you’ll just be…” Flexing its mobility, as Marcos slows down, the cock yanks the man’s heavier balls up as it forces itself to bounce. It can only imagine the quivering look on Marcos’ face as it yanks tight and spews pre in waves.
Looking down as thicker hairs begin to grow at the base of his cock, Marcos watches as whatever pale skin of Sinclair remains is washed away by that dark skin of his cock. It’s so much bigger than his used to be. Cupping his balls as he struggles to masturbate with one hand he sees his cock fully spurting pre as a foreskin quickly grows to fully cover his cockhead before being displaced as his cock gets even harder.
“Noooouh- You don’t understand if I cum that’s it!” But his oh so needy cock doesn’t care. It needs release. It has one button to press, and it is pressing it. Horny. Horny. Horny.
What remains of a boss Marcos can’t even remember is splattered on the door of his new office’s private bathroom. Shaking off a migraine he looks down at his ever so slightly hairier chest and tighter torso before pulling up his underwear. Filled with the pride of a man too cocky for his own good, Marcos looks down at his cock with the smirk of someone who will be a far more pleasant employee of the Pleasant Valley Paper.
“Good one little buddy, now let’s get some actual work done.”
