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malestransforming

My Stories

Here’s a directory of everything I have written.

30 Days Series

Prologue / Day 1 (Original) / Day 2 (Original) / Day 3 / Day 4

Himbo Sex (Spin Off)

Oral Series

1 (Original) / 1 (Rewrite) / 2 / 3

The Button Series

Intro / 1 (Russian Bodybuilder) / 2 (Muscle Slob) / 3 (Indian Gymrat) / 4 Scandinavian Strongman Tech Bro / 5 / 6

One-offs

Bienvenido a Casa (M to Latino) / Becoming Papi (M to Auston Matthews) / Cold Water (Inanimate M to Wetsuit) / New Recruits (M to Soldier + Inanimate M to Uniform) / Chronovac Twins (Twin M to Mixed Race Twins) / Papi's Gear (Inanimate M to Hockey Gear) / That Time I Became a Firefighter (M to Firefighter)

Snap Series

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 (Muscle Himbo) / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12 / 13 / 14 / 15 / 16 / 17 / 18 / 19 / 20 / 21 / 22 / 23 / 24 / 25 / 26 / 27 / 28 / 29

•18+ Adults Only

Watch Anya Live on Cam

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.

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forthegaze123

In the sun-dappled glow of the Madrigal casita’s ornate inner chamber, vibrant patterned ceilings swirling with greens and golds overhead. Camilo stood proudly in Mariano Guzman’s towering form, every inch of his sweat-slicked skin gleaming like fresh oil under the warm light filtering through the tall windows. His massive pecs rose and fell with each slow breath, the thick slabs of muscle so swollen and round they jutted out obscenely, dark nipples stiffening into fat nubs as a bead of perspiration rolled down the deep valley between them.

“Mmm, Carlos… you’ve been staring at me like that for a while now, haven’t you? Desnúdame con la mirada cada vez que me veas caminando por la plaza.”

Camilo's voice already turned into Mariano’s rich, velvety baritone, his full lips curling into a lazy, teasing smirk while one thick hand lazily raked through his dark wavy locks, flexing the cannonball bicep until it peaked like a mountain. The motion made his enormous chest bounce heavily, the wet slap of flesh audible as sweat flew. Carlos swallowed hard, cheeks flushing deep crimson, his eyes glued to the hypnotic sway of those glistening man-tits.

Carlos shifted on his feet, the wooden floor creaking softly beneath him as he tried not to let his gaze drop lower to the ridiculous eight-pack abs glistening with rivulets of sweat that disappeared into the waistband of loose trousers already tenting obscenely from the thick bulge of Camilo’s borrowed cock.

“I-I don’t know what you mean, Camilo… or, uh, Mariano? This is so weird but… Mierda, you look exactly like him,” he stammered, voice cracking with nervous lust while his hands fidgeted at his sides. Camilo chuckled low and deep, the sound vibrating through his barrel chest as he took a deliberate step closer, the heat radiating off his pumped body like a furnace.

“Call me whatever feels right, Mi amor. I shifted just for you—felt every muscle swell bigger, thicker, this fat cock getting heavier between my thighs the second I thought of helping you out." His fingers brushed Carlos’s arm, leaving a slick trail of sweat that made the younger man shiver visibly. "Feel how real it is? You finally living your biggest fantasy, huh?”

The air grew thicker with the musky scent of Camilo’s transformed body, a potent mix of manly sweat and raw arousal wafting from his pits and the deep cleft of his pecs as he leaned in, his stubbled jaw brushing Carlos’s ear.

“Tu cuerpo está temblando, Carlos… but your eyes keep flicking back to these big, juicy tits of mine. Go on, touch them. I know you’ve been dying to since you asked me to become him for you,” Camilo whispered huskily, his breath hot and ragged, a soft ahhh escaping his lips as he arched his back to push those massive, sweat-drenched pecs forward invitingly.

Carlos’s hand trembled as it rose, fingertips grazing the warm, slippery skin right over one fat nipple, feeling it pebble harder under his touch with a wet schlick from the slickness.

“Holy shit… they’re so fucking huge and soft yet hard underneath,” Carlos breathed, voice thick with awe and hunger, his own cock twitching visibly in his pants.

Camilo groaned softly, the sound low and throaty like as Carlos’s palm pressed firmer into the yielding muscle, squeezing the heavy pec meat until it bulged between his fingers.

“That’s it, squeeze ‘em harder… fuck, feels so good having this body all pumped and sensitive like this. Every touch makes my nipples ache, my balls feel fuller, this fat Mariano dick throbbing for you already,” he growled, hips rolling forward so the thick outline of his hardening shaft nudged against Carlos’s thigh with a heavy thump. The room’s colorful rugs muffled their shuffling feet as Camilo’s free hand cupped the back of Carlos’s neck, pulling him closer until their chests nearly brushed, sweat transferring in sticky strands. Carlos moaned quietly,

“Mmm… you smell so fucking good, all manly and sweaty,” his fingers now kneading both pecs in slow, reverent circles, thumbs flicking the stiff nubs until Camilo’s breath hitched in a sharp “hahh!"

Sweat continued to pour down Camilo’s chiseled torso in shiny trails, tracing every ridge of his abs and pooling in the deep navel before soaking into the fabric below where his massive cock strained, the head already leaking precum that darkened the material with a growing wet spot.

“Keep playing with them, Carlos… pinch those fat nipples like you mean it. I can feel my whole body getting hotter—just for you,” Camilo urged, his voice dropping into a filthy purr as he flexed his entire upper body, making every muscle pop and dance under Carlos’s eager hands.

The wet squish-squish of palms sliding over oiled skin filled the air alongside their mingled breaths, Carlos’s face now buried against the valley of those heaving pecs, inhaling deeply with a muffled mmphhh of pure bliss. Camilo’s hand slid lower, tracing Carlos’s spine teasingly, fingers dipping just under his shirt hem.

Carlos pulled back just enough to look up into those dark, smoldering eyes, his lips parted and glistening as another bead of sweat from Camilo’s brow dripped onto his cheek. “I’ve wanted Mariano—wanted you like this—so bad… but feeling it for real, all this muscle and heat… it’s making me so fucking hard it hurts,” he confessed breathlessly, one hand still groping a massive pec while the other dared to slide down the slick abs, fingertips brushing the waistband where the thick root of Camilo’s cock pulsed visibly.

“Nngh… yeah? Then don’t stop, baby. Stroke it through the pants first—feel how thick and heavy Mariano’s dick is because of you, ahhhh…” Camilo sighed, the word stretching long and needy as Carlos obeyed, palm cupping the massive bulge and rubbing slow, firm circles that made the fabric stretch tauter. The obscene schlick-schlick of precum-slick cloth filled the quiet room, their bodies inching ever closer in the colorful light.

The chandelier above cast golden highlights across Camilo’s glistening shoulders and traps as he tilted his head back slightly, dark wavy hair falling messily while another deep groan rumbled from his chest—“fuuuuck, just like that… Me encanta muchísimo.”—his hips bucking lazily into Carlos’s hand with wet, rhythmic slaps of skin on fabric. Carlos’s own breathing grew ragged, cheeks burning as he squeezed the throbbing length harder, feeling every vein and the fat head flare under his grip.

“It’s so big… bigger than I imagined, and it’s twitching like it wants out already,” he murmured, voice husky with lust, free hand still mauling the heavy left pec until the nipple stood out like a dark cherry. Camilo’s eyes half-lidded in pleasure, a lazy smirk playing on his lips as sweat dripped from his chin onto Carlos’s upturned face.

“Then pull it out, Carlos… ¿Te atreves a hacer eso?" Camilo teased, voice thick with building lust, his free hand now running through his own hair.

casanovaproject-deactivated2026

FCA Files: “TikTok Digitization”

File: AE-1342 Nickname: “The Feed” Status: Uncontained (Digital)

Acquisition Log:

AE-1342 refers to a corrupted build of TikTok that intermittently appears on official app storefronts as a standard update. Unlike typical malicious software, AE-1342 is not sideloaded or externally installed. Users report receiving it through what appears to be a routine update pushed through legitimate channels.

Initial reports described the application as “bugged” or “glitched.” Users noted minor irregularities: looping videos that would not end, repeated audio fragments, and a “For You” page that showed the opposite of the user’s preferences. In early stages, these anomalies were dismissed as software instability.

FCA attention was drawn after multiple users were reportedly ‘lost’ to the app, leading to their disappearance. Devices recovered from these cases show the application still open and active. In all instances, the affected user is no longer physically present.

Shortly after disappearance, new content featuring an altered version of the user begins to appear on the user’s account.

Anomalous Behavior:

AE-1342 does not simply host content—it digitizes the user.

After exposure, victims are subject to ‘digitization’. The subject is not destroyed, but converted. Their consciousness and form are translated into a digital state within the application itself.

Once digitized, the individual exists as a manipulable construct, effectively reduced to pixels. The platform is then able to alter their appearance, body structure, and cognitive patterns at will. Despite this, subjects remain fully aware and perceive themselves as real, with no understanding that they are no longer physical.

Their likeness reappears inside the app, where they begin producing content continuously without external input.

These digitized users are systematically reshaped into personas that directly oppose their original identities. This inverse identity effect appears intentional and consistent across cases.

FCA analysis confirms immediate digitization upon interaction with AE-1342.

—————————————————————————-

Case File – Subject T-01

Name (Pre-Digitization): Oliver Finch

Age: 24

Nationality: British

Oliver Finch lived an intentionally isolated life in rural England. He was described as quiet, withdrawn, and largely invisible in social settings. He avoided attention wherever possible and had no known presence on social media. Finch was openly critical of influencer culture, referring to it as “shallow” and “attention-seeking behavior.” His time was spent almost entirely on solitary activities such as reading and writing, and he showed little interest in online trends or digital communities.

The anomaly appeared on Finch’s device without consent, presenting as a standard update to TikTok. Upon opening the application, Finch was immediately digitized. His physical body disappeared without trace, and a new account was created under the username @PecPressure.

Following digitization, Finch’s identity was completely overwritten. The subject now identifies as “Chad Mercer,” presenting as an exaggerated American fitness influencer. His body has expanded into a heavily muscular build, with disproportionate emphasis on enlarged pectoral muscles. His hair is now blonde, his features broader, and his overall presence markedly more dominant and attention-oriented.

Name (Post-Digitization): Chad Mercer

Age: 20

Nationality: American

Behaviorally, the subject displays a complete inversion of his former personality. Where Finch avoided attention, Chad actively demands it. He speaks loudly and directly to an unseen audience, using repetitive, performative phrases such as, “Y’all seein’ this?? Run it up!”, “Spam the chat, let’s go!”, and “Don’t be lame, hit that follow!” His speech is simplified and highly reactive, built entirely around engagement and validation.

His content revolves almost exclusively around his chest. Videos show him flexing, bouncing, and pressing his pectoral muscles together in exaggerated, rhythmic motions designed to draw attention. The content is repetitive and largely devoid of variation, yet remains highly effective within the platform’s ecosystem. He frequently mocks his previous lifestyle, stating things such as, “Books are for nerds, bro. Ain’t nobody tryna read when you could be lookin’ like this.”

The subject spends approximately six hours per day on live broadcasts. During these streams, he continuously performs chest-focused movements while directly interacting with viewers. He actively encourages virtual gifting behavior, repeatedly calling out phrases like, “Send them gifts up!”, “Let’s get them roses, chat!”, and “Top gifter gets a shoutout!” His interactions are transactional and persistent, centered entirely on maximizing engagement and maintaining audience attention.

There is no indication that Oliver Finch remains. The subject appears fully aware within the digital environment, but entirely aligned with his new identity. He expresses satisfaction with his current state, showing no distress or desire to return.

The transformation represents a complete and deliberate inversion of the subject’s original self.

—————————————————————————-

Case File – Subject T-02

Name (Pre-Digitization): Omar Al-Haddad

Age: 27

Nationality: Jordanian

Omar Al-Haddad was a well-known and respected member of his local community. Described as disciplined, dependable, and deeply devoted to Islam, he structured his life around faith, study, and routine. He was known to attend daily prayers, assist in community events, and mentor younger members in religious studies. Those who knew him described him as calm, thoughtful, and unwavering in his beliefs.

Omar maintained minimal engagement with social media, using his phone primarily for communication and religious study. He reportedly viewed most modern platforms as distractions, preferring to focus on personal development and spiritual discipline.

Omar disappeared from his residence on [REDACTED]. There were no signs of struggle or forced entry. The only item left behind was his phone, found active and open to a profile on TikTok under the username @CrossCoreChen.

FCA analysis confirms immediate digitization upon interaction with AE-1342.

Following digitization, the subject’s identity was completely overwritten. He now presents as a heavily muscular Chinese male, identifying himself as Daniel Chen. His physique is exaggerated, with particular emphasis on enlarged pectoral muscles. He consistently wears a silver cross necklace squished between his heavy Chinese pecs and often tries to convert his viewers into becoming Christian, telling them to “Follow the Lord, bro.”

Name (Post-Digitization): Daniel Chen

Age: 23

Nationality: Chinese-American

The subject’s behavior reflects a complete inversion of his former identity. Where Omar was composed and thoughtful, Daniel is simplistic, overly enthusiastic, and highly repetitive in speech. His content revolves around a combination of gym-focused material and overt expressions of Christian faith.

In recorded uploads, the subject frequently addresses the camera directly, making statements such as: “Jesus got me right, bro. Like, He made me strong for real.” “You don’t need nothin’ else—just lift and believe. That’s it.” “I was lost before, but now I got Him. That’s all that matter.”

His understanding of theology appears extremely limited, often reducing complex religious ideas into short, repetitive phrases. Despite this, his devotion is absolute. He displays unwavering belief and frequently encourages viewers to adopt the same mindset, often stating:

 “Just follow Him, bro. Don’t think too hard. Just do it.”

Visually, his content mirrors other digitized subjects. He performs repetitive chest-focused movements, flexing and compressing his pectorals while speaking to the audience. The cross around his neck is consistently visible, often caught between the motion of his chest, becoming a focal point of both his physical and religious presentation.

The subject appears unaware of any prior identity. There is no indication that Omar Al-Haddad remains. Instead, Daniel Chen expresses full satisfaction with his current state, describing himself as “chosen” and “finally on the right path.”

The transformation represents a complete inversion of the subject’s original beliefs, culture, and personality, while maintaining the same underlying pattern of obsessive performance and simplified devotion seen across all AE-1342 cases.

—————————————————————————-

Case File – Subject T-03

Name (Pre-Digitization): Martin Doyle

Age: 52

Nationality: American

Martin Doyle was a rigid, by-the-book father who prided himself on discipline, routine, and “real work.” Employed in a manual trade for over two decades, he valued physical labor and practicality above all else. He was notably out of touch with modern technology, often struggling with even basic devices. Family reports state he regularly needed help operating the TV remote, frequently pressing the wrong buttons and becoming frustrated when menus appeared. He referred to streaming services as “channels that don’t exist” and once attempted to “fix the internet” by unplugging multiple household devices at random.

Doyle held particularly strong views against social media and gaming. His 18-year-old son was a constant target of criticism, with Doyle repeatedly calling his habits “pathetic” and “a waste of a young man’s life.” He often mocked him directly, saying things such as, “You sit in that room all day like a slob, talking to strangers and playing cartoons,” and, “No woman’s ever gonna look at you if that’s all you do.” He frequently encouraged him to pursue trade work instead, framing it as the only “real” path to becoming a man.

On the day of the incident, Doyle discovered AE-1342 on his phone. Believing it to be another prank by his son, he opened the application while loudly calling him into the room. Witness testimony from the son confirms Doyle was mid-sentence—“What did you put on my phone now?”—before abruptly disappearing. His phone was found on the floor moments later, still active, displaying a newly created account under the username @PecXPGaming on TikTok.

Following digitization, Doyle’s identity was completely overwritten. He now presents as an 18-year-old Gen Z male with an exaggerated physique—soft, oversized musculature with particular emphasis on his chest. The subject appears visibly unintelligent and often comments on his own smelliness, which he views as humorous. Despite this, he remains almost entirely shirtless during content creation, seemingly aware that his body drives engagement.

Name (Post-Digitization): Evan Amrani

Age: 24

Nationality: Moroccan-American

The subject exists within a digitally constructed bedroom environment saturated with LED lighting, gaming peripherals, and clutter. He is almost always seated at a gaming setup, rarely moving beyond the immediate frame.

Behaviorally, the transformation is a direct and highly ironic inversion of Doyle’s former values. The subject now embodies every trait he previously criticized in his son, only in a more exaggerated and performative form. He spends nearly all of his time playing video games, particularly anime-style titles featuring female characters with large breasts and butts, often commenting on them in crude or cringe ways, “Chat, I wanna impregnate her with my 67 dong.”

He streams continuously, frequently exceeding 10 hours per day, with no apparent awareness of time or fatigue. During streams, he alternates between gameplay and exaggerated chest-focused movements, bouncing and flexing his pectorals while monitoring viewer engagement. He actively leans into this behavior, often acknowledging it as his primary source of attention.

His speech consists almost entirely of Gen Z slang, delivered rapidly and with minimal coherence. Common phrases include: “Nah bro I’m chestmogging you, you sold so hard.” “Chat my gyatt be stinking from sitting on this chair all day.” “Bro, stop looking at my skibidi titties. What are you, sus?” “He’s so NPC, bro. Look at my rizz.”

He frequently looks for interaction and validation, directly contradicting his former disdain for attention-seeking behavior.

Notably, the subject has been observed mocking individuals who avoid social media or gaming, stating: “Imagine not bein’ online, bro. That’s actually sad.” “If you not streamin’, what are you even doin’?”

There is no indication that Martin Doyle remains. The subject shows no awareness of his previous life, despite now embodying an exaggerated version of the lifestyle he once condemned in others.

—————————————————————————-

Case File – Subject T-04

Name (Pre-Digitization): DeAndre Williams

Age: 29

Nationality: African American

DeAndre Williams was a politically active organizer based in New York City, known for his strong progressive stance and outspoken criticism of wealth inequality. He worked closely within municipal political networks and was, at the time of digitization, affiliated with campaign operations connected to Zohran Mamdani. Williams was widely described as disciplined, highly engaged, and ideologically driven, with a focus on labor rights, taxation reform, and anti-oligarchic policy.

He was particularly vocal against inherited wealth and corporate consolidation, frequently criticizing what he referred to as “unearned dynasties” and “people who live their whole lives without ever needing to be accountable.” Associates described him as passionate but uncompromising, with a strong belief that wealth should be redistributed through systemic reform.

Williams maintained an active online presence, primarily using his phone for political coordination and messaging. On the day of the incident, he reportedly encountered the AE-1342 application—appearing as a standard update to TikTok—while traveling between campaign meetings.

Upon opening the application, Williams was immediately digitized. His physical body disappeared without recovery, and a new account was generated under the username @AlexanderWhitmoreOfficial.

Following digitization, the subject re-emerged as Alexander Whitmore, a 28-year-old heir to the fictional Whitmore family, one of New York’s long-established financial dynasties. The Whitmores are documented as having extensive holdings across real estate, private equity, and media assets. Alexander is recorded as the sole heir to the family empire.

Name (Post-Digitization): Alexander Whitmore

Age: 28

Nationality: American

In this reconstructed identity, the subject has never experienced financial limitation or employment necessity. He is depicted as having attended an elite private university, where he participated in fraternity culture and studied business administration. Post-graduation, he was immediately placed into an executive position within the family company, despite no demonstrated competence or interest in operational work.

Internal reports describe the subject as functionally unproductive in his role. He rarely engages in meaningful decision-making, delegates most responsibilities without oversight, and shows consistent disinterest in corporate operations. Despite this, he is treated with extreme respect and grovelling by staff, with multiple reports indicating that employees avoid challenging him directly regardless of performance issues, to stay on the good side of his father. Common behaviors at work include filming TikTok’s of himself lounging in executive offices, interrupting staff during work, and treating corporate environments as personal entertainment spaces. Engagement metrics remain high, and internal systems appear to reinforce this behavior through algorithmic amplification

Behaviorally, the subject exhibits a complete ideological inversion from his pre-digitization self. Williams’ prior political beliefs have been replaced with strong right-leaning, pro-wealth rhetoric. He now actively expresses opposition to taxation policies and regulatory frameworks, particularly those associated with progressive municipal governance. He and his family financially back Republican candidates and Alexander Whitmore is seen to be on great terms with Donald Trump.

He has specifically referenced his intent to use financial influence against Zohran Mamdani, stating in multiple recorded clips: “People like that don’t understand how the real world works. I’m not letting New York get turned into a playground for policy experiments.” “Taxes like that are theft. Plain and simple.”

“I worked for everything I have and that socialist is trying to take it away.”

Despite holding no prior corporate interest or financial ideology, the subject now demonstrates strong alignment with inherited wealth preservation and elite consolidation narratives.

—————————————————————————-

Closing Note:

Further case reports are currently being compiled, with additional confirmed and suspected digitization events under review. These documents will detail the ongoing status of other affected individuals as more recoverable data becomes available from AE-1342-linked accounts.

It is currently theorized that TikTok itself may function as an active digitization system, selectively converting users into permanent in-platform entities designed to produce continuous content. In this model, digitized individuals serve as self-sustaining content sources, existing solely to generate engagement, maintain algorithmic activity, and ensure uninterrupted platform traffic.

However, this remains unconfirmed. FCA analysis has not yet determined whether AE-1342 is a malfunctioning system, a deliberate adaptive mechanism, or an emergent property of the platform’s infrastructure. Further investigation is ongoing.

immortalmrwavell

An Everlasting Obsession - Phenomaman Reborn

This has been a long time coming but I hope the fact that it’s my longest ever story makes up for the wait! Somehow even longer than my Omni-Man story. I absolutely loved Phenomaman back when I first played Dispatch and I’m still obsessed with him now so I just had to do him justice. So for any other Phenomaman fans out there, this one is for you!

If you’re intimidated by the size of this story then don’t worry because I’ve also posted it over on AO3! It’s been split up into 14 easier to digest chapters over there. Check it out here! Otherwise feel free to enjoy the Tumblr version ❤️

———

“HAHAH! NOT EVEN YOU CAN STOP ME MECHA-MAN!” Screamed Obseledian, a newly emerged supervillain who was reaping havoc across the city. “I’LL MAKE SURE YOU RETIRE FOR GOOD THIS TIME!” He claimed with a terrible smile as he pinned down the enormous mecha-suit.

Robert gritted his teeth as he sat in his suit's cockpit while system alarms blared around him, warning him of the suit's failing integrity. The left arm was unresponsive and the rocket boosters on its back had been severely damaged alongside half of its weapons. Robert tried frantically to use what he had left to at least get out from underneath Obseledian’s grasp. But nothing worked. He was completely trapped knowing that he was only moments away from being ripped out of the suit. He couldn’t believe how much they’d all underestimated this guy.

Obseledian had been an underground criminal for some time with the power to morph his body into almost any material. Usually hard ones such as concrete, steel and even diamond. In the past he’d only been able to change small parts of his body at a time like his hands, making him a small fry really in the grand scheme of things. However he went missing a few years back and now he’s returned stronger than ever. Able to manipulate his entire body at once and even reshape it into any form he desires. It was a simple but terrifying power.

The Z-Team had tried to handle Obseledian on their own at first. Initially it was Punch-Up, Coupé and Malevola but they were soon joined by the rest of the team when it became clear that they weren’t enough. The only one missing was Phenomaman. They’d tried contacting him but he’d flown off France after his lunch break, claiming he was on a “Puppy Mission”… whatever the hell that meant. He must’ve taken out his comms device because he wasn’t responding. So instead some of the other professional heroes had come to assist but none had been able to take Obseledian down. So they resorted to Robert.

Robert AKA Mecha-Man had been working mostly behind a desk as SDN for the past year. He worked as dispatcher for the Z-Team, a group of former villains now on the path to being at least somewhat rehabilitated. He gave them orders and directions and if he was lucky they sometimes listened to him. He’d been working with them ever since his failed attempt at getting revenge on Shroud, the villain who killed his father. He’d gone in alone and it ended with his Mecha-Man suit being destroyed and the astral pulse, a one of a kind power source that was made for the suit, being lost. Since then Shroud had been apprehended, the Mecha-Man suit was rebuilt and the astral pulse had been recovered. Robert could’ve gone back to hero business as usual but for better or worse he’d grown to like the Z-Team. They were a handful, some would even say fuck-ups, but in their own weird ways they’d been more like family to him than anyone else.

And now they all laid bruised and defeated. Half of them were unconscious while the other half could barely move. Not even Sonar’s monstrous transformation had been enough. Flambae only had just enough energy to push himself back up onto his feet before trying to blast Obseledian off Robert with a concentrated beam of fire. However the villain was able to morph one of his hands into a shield made of stainless steel just in time to block the attack. It was hopeless. Flamebae fell back to the ground in exhaustion, leaving Robert at Obseledian’s mercy.

~~ SUIT INTEGRITY 14%… FAILING RAPIDLY ~~

The words lit up on the screens around Robert but there wasn’t anything he could do. He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to eject from the suit without being caught. All of his defensive measures had been exhausted. All he could was pray that his request for more backup would be answered in the next 30 seconds otherwise… self destruct was the only option.

Robert’s eyes darted over to the small red button. It was a drastic measure but if he didn't stop this psycho now then who knows how many others could be killed. So he took a deep breath, swallowed his fear and flipped open the little cap that covered the button. His finger hovered over it, seconds away from pressing down. And then…

WHAM!

The thunderous clap of an indestructible fist slamming into Obseledian’s body caused a mile wide shockwave. Nearby windows shattered from the force alone as the villain was sent flying through a nearby building, freeing Mecha-Man. It took Robert a moment to catch his bearings before looking up at the screen to see what’d happened. The moment he saw that iconic red cape billowing above his mangled suit, he sighed with relief.

Phenomaman was here. He must’ve finally put his communicator back in.

The alien glanced down at Mecha-Man with a concerned grimace, hands placed firmly on his hips. His thick biceps flexing unintentionally as he did so.

“Rob-…Mecha Man. A-are you alright?” Phenomaman asked, having caught himself before accidentally saying Mecha Man’s identity out loud. “I was told you were in need of urgent assistance.” He looked around at all the battered and bleeding heroes around them. “It would appear that is true.”

“I’m fine Phenomaman. Just go take care of that guy before he gets away.” Robert said as he tried to get the Mecha Man suit to stand.

Phenomaman smiled and saluted. “You can leave it to me.” Then with a boom, he blasted off in the direction he’d sent Obseledian.

casanovaproject-deactivated2026

FCA Leaked Email #284 (AE-1127 Incident)

Image of Teddy Fields (before incident with AE-1127)

—————————————————————————-

To: [REDACTED]

From: Dr. Elias Navarro

Date: [REDACTED]

Hey—

We’ve got a situation with AE-1127 (Yusuf Al-Zahir Al-Malik). Another one.

The new intern, Teddy, ignored protocol and went into Yusuf’s enclosure without ear protection while bringing in dinner. I don’t know if it was overconfidence or just stupidity, but either way, he didn’t have the earmuffs on.

Audio picked it up almost immediately. Yusuf got him. Started calling him his “ابن”, telling him he was a “good boy”. Fuckin’ hell man.

As soon as he said it, Teddy just exploded with brown muscle. The fucker just burst out of his hazmat suit, becoming this big hairy hulking Arab brute. His face distorting - his eyebrows becoming thick and bushy, his jaw hardening, his nose thickening. His hair grew thicker and darker, looks jet black now. Lost all his boyish blonde good looks in under a second. He’s hairy as hell now. Big fucking beard on him too.

And his body. He just burst out of his hazmat. His muscles inflating. He looked so scared and confused. The hazmat suit didn’t stand a chance. Went in a skinny blonde guy and came out a big heavy brown Arab brute. The poor fucker.

Image of Teddy Fields (after incident with AE-1127)

He doesn’t even look like Teddy anymore. Not even close. Just another one of Yusuf’s sons. Like the rest.

Mentally gone too. He calls AE-1127 “father” without hesitation. Is telling us that the bodega won’t survive without him. How somehow knows about the bodega.

Shame to lose such a bright guy.

We locked the enclosure as soon as it was clear he was past the point of no return. Left him in there with Yusuf—no safe way to pull him out at that stage without risking more exposure.

We’ve since moved him to Holding Cell B-17. Gave him some leftover clothes from Kyle - the only guy with clothes big enough to fit the brute.

He goes by “Tariq” now - Tariq ibn Yusuf Al-Zahir Al-Malik. Doesn’t respond to Teddy at all. No recognition, no confusion—just looks at us like we’ve got the wrong guy. Keeps asking when he can “see his father again.”

I’m going to be blunt here—this didn’t need to happen.

We keep bringing in interns, giving them a quick rundown, and then putting them near one of the more dangerous anomalies in the AE wing. There’s nothing unpredictable about AE-1127. The rule is simple: wear the damn ear protection.

And somehow that’s still too much.

We’re not losing people to complexity. We’re losing them to basic mistakes.

Go ahead and put up more intern listings. Maybe the next batch can follow a simple instruction.

—Navarro

•18+ Adults Only

Watch Anya Live on Cam

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casanovaproject-deactivated2026

FCA Files: “Heritage Extraction”

Federal Containment Authority

File: AE-1184

Nickname: “The Extraction”

Status: Active

⸻

Acquisition Log:

AE-1184 is a recently identified drug first reported by local authorities in Medellín, Colombia. Since its initial appearance, distribution has spread across multiple criminal networks throughout South America, with confirmed cases in Bogotá, Lima, and São Paulo.

The substance is primarily used by organized groups targeting foreign tourists. All recorded victims have been Caucasian males from upper-middle-class or affluent backgrounds. Confirmed cases include individuals from the United States (87), the United Kingdom (43), Australia (4), and Ireland (1). Victims are typically identified in high-end hotels, bars, and nightlife venues.

Perpetrators approach in small groups, engage targets in casual conversation, and build trust before guiding them away from populated areas—most commonly into quiet streets or private vehicles.

Administration is direct and controlled. In most cases, the substance is injected into the side of the subject’s neck using a fine-gauge needle. A secondary syringe is then used to extract [REDACTED] from the subject.

The effects begin within seconds. Subjects enter a dazed, compliant state, showing no resistance or awareness of their surroundings.

Following exposure, subjects are abandoned. Extracted [REDACTED] is trafficked through underground networks and sold to [REDACTED] individuals for the purpose of [REDACTED].

No subject has been successfully reverted.

———————-———————-——————————-

Case File – Subject B-3 (FKA: Daniel Gallagher)

Daniel Gallagher squinted at his phone as he walked, the bright screen lighting his face in the otherwise dim street. The music from the club still rang faintly in his ears, bass echoing in his chest as he tried to follow the map back to his hotel.

The Irish tourist had been in the city three days, thinking he knew the area by now. But São Paulo looked different at night. It didn’t help that there weren’t as many people out now. Not as many lights either.

Daniel slowed, turning slightly as the map recalculated. “So, left… here?” he muttered to himself.

“E aí, mano.”

Daniel looked up. A man stood a few feet away, hands relaxed at his sides. Early-20s, casual clothes, nothing threatening about him.

“You… not from here, yes?” the guy said, his English broken but clear enough.

Daniel gave a small laugh. “Uh-”

The guy was young - Daniel’s age. There felt like there was an unspoken bond. The guy smiled, nodding. “This area… not so good. Especially with phone.” He gestured toward Daniel’s hand. “People see. They take.”

Daniel instinctively lowered the phone. “Right. Yeah, fair.”

“I help you,” the man continued, friendly, easy. “Where you go?”

“Uh—hotel,” Daniel said, turning the screen toward him. “This one.”

The man leaned in, glancing at it. “Ah, yes. I know. Is not far. I go same way.” He straightened up, already turning slightly down the street. “Come. I walk you for safety.”

Daniel smiled graciously.

“Thank you. I appreciate it. What is your name?”

“João.” The boy shook the Irish tourists hand firmly and the two begin walking.

The man kept an easy pace, hands in his pockets, occasionally glancing back to make sure Daniel was following. The street grew quieter the further they went. The lights were dimmer here. Fewer windows. No people.

Daniel noticed it, faintly. Something about it felt… off.

“Hotel is this way?” he asked.

“Yes, yes,” the man said quickly. “Shortcut.”

They turned down a narrower street.

That was when Daniel felt it.

Two men grabbing him from behind, forcing his hands behind him holding him in position. They knock the tourist to his knees.

“Jaysus!”

As his knees hit the ground, João pressed something sharp into Daniel’s neck. He felt whatever liquid enter his vein spreading throughout his body. The world didn’t spin. It didn’t go black.

It just… slowed.

The tension in his body drained almost instantly. His thoughts, sharp and alert a second ago, dulled like someone had turned the volume down.

“Hey—what—”

The words came out wrong. Too slow. Little did Daniel know, his DNA was becoming like puddy. Completely mailable.

“Segurem-no firme. Prontos para a extração.” João readied a second device. This one was empty.

Before Daniel could react, João jabbed the device into Daniel’s neck, slowly draining a white liquid substance out of him. It just kept coming and coming, filling up the vial in the device.

As the gang member extracted the white liquid from Daniel, Daniel’s awareness dimmed. He didn’t notice as his skin slowly darkened, taking on the warm, sun-kissed tone of someone raised under the blistering sun, not the pale green pastures of his family’s farm back in Ireland.

His features shifted subtly but unmistakably. His nose broadened, eyebrows thickened, and his lips grew fuller. Each change felt impossible, yet inevitable, as if his body was being extracted of everything that made Daniel the Irish man he was.

Heaviness plumped into Daniel’s glutes, as two fat brown globes bounced outwards, splitting his pants. His two jiggling Brazilian cheeks begging to be free from his tight constricting Irish jeans. The same for his front. His average 5 inch white cock fattened and pushed forwards into a fat 7 inch uncut brown cock.

One of the men leaned closer, watching Daniel’s face rapidly grow facial hair. It was ginger, just like the hair on his head. One of the men holding Daniel scanned Daniel’s ginger beard. Against his darkening skin, it looked almost comical. A comical reminder of his diminishing Irish heritage.

“Olha a barba ruiva dele.” One of the men said, voice low and amused. “Eles vão pagar muito por um ruivo.”

Daniel felt it before he saw it—his beard losing its fiery hue. Slowly, the ginger strands darkened, blending into a uniform black, indistinguishable from the men holding him down.

João continued the extraction, the vial already three-quarters full.

Daniel’s mind began to fog. Words jumbled in his head, English slipping away like sand through his fingers. He tried to speak, to protest, but the sounds coming out were broken, confused. Two vocabularies warring inside him, one destined to win, the other to vanish entirely. Portuguese words eliminating his English vocab, like cells killing a virus.

“Por fa… me ajuda,” Danogo croaked, his voice weak and lethargic. His limbs felt like lead, as they thickened up with big beefy muscle. But even with his new Brazilian muscles, he couldn’t push the men off him, though he desperately tried.

Memories surged through his mind like a virus, rewriting him from the inside out. He saw himself as he used to be—skinny, pale, ginger, standing in front of a mirror.

That image flickered, unstable, before being overtaken by something else. A darker, fuller body. Broader. Warmer. Bigger. Round oversized pecs. Big large thick hands. His fat brown Brazilian cheeks wobbling behind him.

His memories of growing up... the cold, open fields of his family’s Irish farm. The green grass, grey skies, early mornings. They didn’t exist anymore, replaced by hot sunlight and salt air, long days by the sea, heat pressing into his skin. His massive body bouncing on the sand as passerbys ogled him up and down.

His years of GAA training, discipline, dedication. All of it began to be overwritten. In its place came football in the streets, laughing with friends. It came so naturally. Like his body was meant for it. Fuck, he was obsessed with it. Football took up so much of his mind. A new obsession that felt like it had been there forever. It was at that point where he questioned what GAA even was.

His memories of himself were overwritten too. His self perception of being a quiet dedicated bookworm with a love for Irish sports VANISHED. As if it was never there. In its place came something louder. Music thumping through crowded rooms. Late nights. Easy laughter. A need to be around people, to be seen.

He tried to push the memories away. To hold onto his Irishness, but it was no use. His thick Brazilian accent prevented anything he said from even sounding vaguely English.

“Sou irlandês… sou… eu… por favor.” Diogo cried to the men, in his dazed stupor. But he looked anything but Irish. “Estou tão confuso.”

He slumped onto the concrete as the men withdrew the device from his neck. The vial was full of the thick, white liquid.

Diogo moaned softly, every movement painful, his body heavy and unresponsive.

“Boa sorte, cara.” João said with a casual wink, leaving the newly Brazilian man sprawled on the ground.

The gang melted into the night. Diogo inspected his unmistakably Latino hand before passing out.

———————-———————-——————————-

Post-Exposure Analysis – AE-1184

AE-1184 does more than just sedate or confuse its targets. The drug extracts the subject’s whiteness (their background, heritage, English fluency, cultural knowledge and memories) - storing it in the white liquid from the subject.

Evidence shows that local gangs are selling this material on the black market. Buyers are often non-white individuals who aim to attain the advantages, social status and privilege associated with white populations, by injecting the stolen whiteness, making themselves privileged white men.

The network appears highly organized and the drug is highly sought after. Victims are carefully chosen for appearance and socioeconomic background, targeted in wealthy areas, and then harvested efficiently.

FCA continues to investigate the buyers and distribution channels. The scale suggests a deliberate, profit-driven trade in human cultural and social capital, with international implications.

Victim Overview – AE-1184

Recovered individuals have been effectively stripped of their original racial and national identities. White, Caucasian tourists lose their English fluency entirely, and in cases in South America, their genetic markers are altered to align with local Latin American populations. Skin tone, facial features, and other inherited traits shift accordingly, leaving the subject biologically and socially indistinguishable from local populations.

Despite some awareness that they no longer belong to their former nationality, subjects are unable to recall meaningful details about their previous lives—names, family, education, or social history are largely inaccessible. Memories of cultural practices and social structures are erased, replaced by the cognitive void left after extraction of privilege and heritage.

All victims are taken in for monitoring and initial assessment. Following containment, they are relocated to supervised housing across Colombia, Peru & Spain (for now Spanish speaking subjects) and Brazil & Portugal (for now Portuguese speaking subjects). Subjects are effectively unable to return to their countries of origin, as the loss of English fluency and cultural familiarity renders them incapable of independent functioning in those societies.

Image of Diogo Galvão (formerly Daniel Gallagher) in São Paulo.

Ongoing Notes

New cases of AE-1184 exposure are reported daily. The drug appears to be spreading beyond South America, with victims now appearing in parts of Africa and India. In these cases, subjects are observed to adopt local racial and cultural traits, effectively becoming African or Indian men following the extraction of their original identities.

At present, it is unknown whether affected individuals can ever be returned to their original identities. By this stage, their original cultural, linguistic, and genetic essence is likely too extensively extracted, used, and dispersed to recover.

casanovaproject-deactivated2026

FCA Files: “Red, White & Loop”

Federal Containment Authority

Project Casanova Division

File: AE-2319

Nickname: “Blonde Boy GIF”

Status: Secured

Acquisition Log:

AE-2319 was identified after multiple reports of adult males found in prolonged states of trance, typically seated or reclined, holding mobile devices at close range. In all cases, subjects were watching the same looping GIF and failed to respond to verbal or physical stimuli.

Recovered individuals presented with identical characteristics: full physical reformation accompanied by complete loss of prior identity, marked neglect in hygiene (persistent body odor, oily skin, unwashed clothing), and severely diminished cognitive function. Notably, each individual had regressed to a standardized late teenage (18-19 years of age) physiology, with concurrent alteration of their [REDACTED] to [REDACTED].

Subjects who were previously employed, educated, or socially active were described post-exposure as “vacant,” “lazy,” and “dumber.” Conversation centers on simple, repetitive topics, like school, homework, and girls, closely mirroring that of adolescent males. And culturally, the subjects [REDACTED].

FCA has restricted contact with family members to minimize distress and reduce dysphoria caused by exposure to individuals connected to the subject’s former life.

Digital tracing confirmed a single file shared across multiple platforms, often embedded in casual messages or reposted without context.

When discovered, subjects were engaged in the act of [REDACTED], locked in a near-trance state, eyes fixed on the GIF. Saliva was observed drooling down the corners of the mouth, eyes rolled back, while subjects [REDACTED].

Observation Notes:

AE-2319 is a short looping GIF (approx. 2–3 seconds in duration) depicting a blonde, college-aged male with a muscular body. The subject is wearing a USA-patterned speedo and performs a simple, repetitive motion, loosely shifting his shoulders from one side to the other in a relaxed, rhythmic sway.

The motion is continuous and seamless, with no clear beginning or end point. The subject’s expression is vacant but content, maintaining a vacant look throughout the loop. Body posture is loose, lacking tension or precision, giving the movement an effortless, almost careless quality.

Prolonged exposure results in full behavioral and physiological shift into a consistent baseline state.

—————————————————————————-

Case File – Subject A-3 (FKA: Miguel Hernandez):

Miguel had been at his family’s house all evening for Día de los Muertos, traveling back from Mexico City to his small hometown of [REDACTED], Mexico.

He was 29 now, working a big job in the city. His family was proud. It was better than taking over the family business, as they had once expected. He had built a life for himself: an apartment, a car, even a boyfriend. Though, his parents didn’t know about that last part.

Still, being back felt strange. He rarely visited unless it was Día de los Muertos or one of his abuelos had passed. He didn’t miss it here.

Outside, he leaned against the railing, smoking as the party roared inside. Music, laughter, and the constant bustle of relatives drifted through the open windows. Miguel didn’t resent it; he just wanted to disappear upstairs, away from the chaos.

By 11:45 PM, he decided to bow out with a smile. “Estoy cansado. Debe de ser por el vuelo,” he muttered, slipping away from the living room. He climbed the narrow stairs to his old bedroom—the one with pale blue walls, shelves crowded with trophies and dusty history books. He closed the door behind him, muffling the noise of the party, and sank onto the mattress.

The familiar smell of his teenage room hit him: a mix of old books, lingering incense, and faint dust. His parents had never changed it much. Miguel always assumed they still saw him as the boy he once was, a subtle invitation to move back in, even now.

He sank into the mattress, a wave of horniness washing over him. Pulling out his phone, he opened alt Twitter and scrolled through the usual images and videos of men in various sexual positions and acts —until he saw it: a small, unassuming GIF of a young male performing a smooth, looping motion. Something about it drew him in, though he couldn’t say why. He tapped it open.

At first, it was just a simple loop, mesmerizing in its rhythm. The figure moved easily, without effort, completely confident. Miguel leaned back, eyes narrowing. The sounds of the party faded—the music, the chatter, the footsteps—all dulled to a quiet hum.

Time lost meaning. Minutes, hours, years—he couldn’t tell. The loop consumed him. His shoulders slumped, jaw slackened, and his fingers curled loosely around the phone. He started to blank, not being able to think of anything else.

The gif felt like it was transporting from his phone into his eyes, shooting into his brain, causing him his eyes to shoot back and his body thump back like an invisible shot, as drool starts to pool in his mouth and leak.

Miguel tries to snap out of the trance like state but he feels like a puppet held in place by strings. He tries to think about something else. Anything else. His family! His family in Texas. No… Mexico? Wait. He wasn’t sure. Why can’t he remember? He knows something’s not right. But he can’t remember what. Why does his upbringing in Texas feel so… wrong.

What about his boyfriend… boyfriend… why can’t he remember his boyfriend’s name. And why would he have a boyfriend… if he liked girls… or did he. He couldn’t remember.

He knew he’d never been with a girl. He tells the bros he has, he would be humiliated if they knew he was lying. He was always too nervous. Anytime he tried to approach a girl after class, he’d chicken out, end up cycling home and beating his meat in bed to some pornstar’s big mommy milkers.

If only he had a car, so he could drive home. It would be so much faster. But he can’t even drive. Never got a license.

What about his business. He tried to think about his business in Mexico City. Where he sold… um… he… he had business? A business, like the ones he learns about in class. Yes, business class. He had homework to do? Fuck, he forgot. Mr. Iadanza is gonna be on his ass again. Telling him he’d make a better farm animal than a student.

It wasn’t just business Michael struggled with. He was a consistent C grade student. He just wasn’t naturally good at many of these things. Math, history, English. But he tried. The only subject he didn’t try at was his worst subject. The one he didn’t care about. Never paid attention to in class: Spanish. No matter how hard he tries to pay attention. It just doesn’t go in. It also didn’t help that his teacher had the biggest most distracting ass in school. Everyone talks about it. While Michael’s buddies were all out getting laid, he has busted many loads thinking about his Spanish teacher’s fat ass. God, he was such a loser.

Michael felt a drop of drool fall onto his pecs. He felt relaxed. He felt… normal. Chill. His cock standing painfully firm as he stroked it up and down. He couldn’t stop. Just imagining getting with his Spanish teacher and getting her pregnant. He couldn’t stop thinking about her… MOMMY TITS- “FUCKKKKKKKKK” he impregnated his sheets, his Latino heritage nothing more than a wet stain on his bed.

His phone shuts off.

Michael snapped out of it, absentmindedly brushing his hand through his blonde hair. “Fuck I’m lowkenuinely pathetic, bro” He wiped the drool from his pecs and shook his head as he looked around the room. “What the hell, bro. Where the hell am I?” Michael’s pits stained the bedsheets.

“¡Dios mío! ¿Dónde está Miguel? ¿Quién eres tú? ¡Juan!! ¡Ayuda!”

Michael looked up to a shrill woman screaming as she stood in the doorway staring at the big oversized white man in her son’s bed. Michael opened his eyes lazily, lounging like he owns the place.

The woman screams as she shuts the door, Michael hearing her footsteps running down the stairs.

Michael tried to open his phone, but his Face ID didn’t work “Fuck, I wonder if MommyPornXXX has posted anything new? And why is my phone in Spanish?”

—————————————————————————-

Observed Transformation – AE-2319 Exposure

Subjects exposed to AE-2319 consistently undergo a rapid cognitive and physiological regression to a stereotypical American high school male archetype, regardless of their original nationality. Cases have included individuals from Mexico, Sweden, India, and Japan, all of whom emerged post-exposure with the characteristics of 18 and 19-year-old American students as interpreted through mainstream media depictions.

The transformation includes:

Physical and Behavioral Regression: Subjects appear younger, slouched, unkempt, and physically underdeveloped relative to their prior adult form, with a compulsive habit of watching pornography. Personal hygiene declines sharply, including persistent body odor and unwashed clothing. Cognitive function is severely reduced, with subjects exhibiting limited social reasoning and impaired executive function.

Racial Changes: AE-2319 induces a complete genetic restructuring in affected subjects, rewriting their DNA to align with a single standardized template matching the male figure depicted in the GIF. This results in uniform physical transformation across all cases: subjects develop a muscular youthful build, simplified facial features, loss of body hair and consistent traits such as lighter hair (commonly blonde), regardless of original ethnicity or nationality. Subjects of other races are rewritten to become Caucasian, having no memory of their previous selves. Neurological changes occur simultaneously, with measurable reduction in higher cognitive function, including diminished reasoning, attention span, and overall intelligence. The rewrite extends beyond appearance, erasing genetic markers tied to ancestry and replacing them with those consistent with the imposed identity, effectively altering both biological origin and perceived nationality. This process is uniform and non-adaptive, forcing all subjects into the same predefined physical and cognitive state rather than modifying them individually. Observer [REDACTED] has noted that some subjects have sexual preferences for women of their original nationality, with originally Japanese subject [REDACTED], now white, but showing extreme attraction towards Japanese women.

Linguistic changes: Linguistic changes are immediate and absolute. Subjects become fluent in English while losing all prior language ability. In one recorded case, a subject from India with no prior English proficiency became fully Caucasian and fluent in English post-exposure and demonstrated no recognition of Hindi as a language, expressing confusion when it was referenced, stating that he thought they spoke “Indian” in India.

Social and Sexual Reorientation: Exposed individuals demonstrate a sexual orientation aligned with perceived high school norms. Notably, a previously homosexual subject showed attraction exclusively to women post-exposure. Social interactions are awkward; subjects lack confidence in communication, particularly with women, displaying heightened embarrassment and nervous behaviors. In several cases, they engage in watching pornography —compulsive, ritualized behaviors hypothesized to release shame or tension. Subjects do not engage in sex, despite having mommy and breeding fetishes, as their addictions to masturbation and pornography keep them away from it. These behaviors appear to be implanted by the anomaly rather than learned.

Cultural Assimilation: Language, mannerisms, and cultural identity are completely overwritten following exposure. Subjects display no memory of their original nationality or upbringing and instead express strong identification with the United States, often speaking about it with misplaced pride and familiarity. All subjects insist they were “born in the mid-2000s,” and behave accordingly. Speech patterns shift to contemporary American Gen Z slang, with frequent use of phrases such as “67,” “goon-brained,” “lowkey,” and “bro.”

Reintegration Protocol – AE-2319

Five subjects have been successfully placed with FCA-approved host families within the United States to resolve residual identity instability. Placement has resulted in near-total behavioral normalization. Subjects demonstrate immediate comfort within suburban environments, integrating into routines of school attendance, casual sports participation, social media use, and extended periods of passive inactivity. No subject has questioned their identity, location, or circumstances.

Each subject has been enrolled in a local high school. Academic performance is consistently low but within acceptable range; teachers report disengagement, distraction, and minimal effort. Socially, subjects attempt to conform but exhibit noticeable awkwardness, particularly in interactions with female peers. Repeated embarrassment responses have been observed, followed by withdrawal and engagement in pornography. These cycles appear self-reinforcing and contribute to overall behavioral stability.

Host families report subjects as “normal,” if somewhat disappointing. Common observations include poor hygiene, cluttered living spaces, excessive phone dependence, and lack of long-term goals. These traits align precisely with the imposed identity profile and are therefore not considered anomalies.

All environments are under continuous FCA surveillance. Personal devices are monitored, conversations recorded, and movement subtly restricted. Subjects are provided with curated

Notably, subjects express consistent satisfaction with their current state. One subject from Mexico, when prompted with archival footage of his previous life, responded: “Who is this NPC? He looks kinda sus, bro.”

Image of Miguel Hernandez (29-years-old) before exposure:

Miguel Hernandez after exposure (now, Michael Hudson; 19-years-old):

Source Status – AE-2319

The original source file of AE-2319 has been located and traced to an upload originating from the imageboard site 4chan. The thread and associated accounts have since been deleted, with no recoverable user data or archive records remaining. The identity and intent of the original poster are unknown.

Preliminary speculation suggests the GIF may have been a deliberate experiment—potentially a failed attempt by an individual or entity within the United States to culturally homogenize populations, enforce American teenage archetypes globally, or suppress reproductive potential by reducing social skills with women and promoting compulsive solo sexual behaviors.

All known copies of the GIF have been systematically removed from public networks. At present, it is believed the only surviving instance exists within FCA containment. Investigation continues, and efforts are underway to identify and interrogate the original poster to determine purpose and origin.

nonotnolan

AO3 Archive

In case anyone is curious, I've started an alternative archive of my work here on AO3. It's not a complete archive-- there are no photos, so any stories that relied heavily on the photo elements have been omitted. Also things where ownership gets tricky and/or the main audience is very personal, like the Valentine's Day stories. But given how many years I've been writing at least one story per month... I would be bummed if it were all to be lost. 70k words is quite a lot of time and effort, you know?

I decided to place it onto AO3 because I am an masochist I want to hedge my bets on a website unlikely to fold to puritanical pressures. Also, unlike other options, I can pretend that AO3's tagging system will allow other people to stumble across that work. It's very clear that Original Works are not the main intent of AO3, but at least I control the method of posting.

As a bonus, I've released a longer work exclusive to AO3 called Transformative Hazing. Longer stories seldom do well on Tumblr and I can't be assed to find that many photos but for those of you who do like longer narratives, I figure I'd let you know that it exists. I have no plans to edit and polish it for publication like I did for Dicked (Over) by a Demon so what you see is what you get.

These are the reference photos I used for Carter, Preston, Vince, and Trent. Before they start getting transformed, anyway. Transformative Hazing is a story about the Sigma Epsilon Chi fraternity, and the unique traditions that all new members must experience before they can join. And because it's me, there's some romance elements, and a few complications before (most of) the characters get a happy ending. I hope you enjoy it!

swapping-caps1-deactivated20220

Hi, I had a dream about a "swap club", people go there and end up getting swapped. I tought of some ideas, maybe it's a big event in the city and people know what to expect (maybe they go out as a group and only one of them knows), or it's just a surprise for everyone. Also, maybe there is one person who got in a fight with their parents about the fight, runs away from home and the father follows them and ends up at the party too. I would love to see this story, not only as a dream, so if you like the idea please use it

Love this concept, going to make this a couple parts. Thanks for sending it over!

Swap Club

Frank:

This is still so weird… last night felt like such a blur and I still don’t know what completely happened. Other than everyone fled the club as soon as the sprinklers came on.

I’m pretty sure no one swapped back after that.

And here I am inside of someone else’s body. Actually not just someone… my son Ian.

I guess you’re curious about what happened so let’s go back to last night.

I just got home from work and my son was just getting off of a FaceTime call with his friend Tristan.

“Yeah dude it’s going to epic everyone’s talking about this new club! We should try to get there by 10 tonight.”

That’s when I barged into the conversation.

“Uh, like hell you’re going to some club!”

“Dad!!”

Ian hops off if the call and turns back me.

“Ian Samuels! Do you really think I’m going to let you stay out that late in the city?”

“Come on dad! All of my friends are going! You won’t believe what this club does!!”

“I don’t care you’re not going out tonight and that’s final.”

I was so naïve, I actually thought he was going to listen to me and stay home.

One thing Ian didn’t realize is that I have his location sent to me just in case.

So when I saw him sneaking out of his window, I knew I was going to fall him just to make sure he’s being safe.

I quickly got dressed in something suitable for a night club.

Little did I know was that this night club, wasn’t like any other…

I followed his location and when they arrived I parked a little distance from them.

I wait a minute until I see them starting heading into the club. Which already looked packed.

I kept my head down for the most part until I got to the front where I saw a sign that said, “Swap Club.”

I thought to myself that it must be one of those pop up bars.

I carefully got in line behind my son trying my best for him not to notice me.

I think he may have had a few prior since he never looked behind himself in line.

And I could see that all of his best buddies were here too. But then I noticed someone else… my youngest son Michael was at the club too.

I was fuming! It’s one thing for Ian to go out but he also brought his brother too!

Oh they’re both going to be in big trouble! I can assure you of that!

We get to the front and I followed right behind.

When we get inside, something seemed off.

I could hear loud music playing on the other side but they broke everyone off into two different lines. All waiting to go through a different door.

I started to turn my head because I realized that Michael was standing right in front of me while Ian was directly across.

And I almost made it until Michael who was about to walk through the door turned around.

“Dad?!?!”

I looked over at Ian who was walking in and immediately cut passed Michael.

“Sorry son but I need to deal with your brother first!”

I enter through the door only to be inside of a pitch black room.

“What the?”

I stood for about 30 seconds before the another door opened up.

I looked around and saw 100s of people dancing.

But then I noticed something that was really odd… I just came out from the wrong side…

I looked down at myself and realize that I was no longer wearing the outfit I had on.

But the clothes looked familiar… it wasn’t until I turned and saw myself standing 10 feet away from me that I realized.

“WHAT THE HELL?!?!”

Is all I could hear coming from my body. Before I could do anything I feel someone pull me.

“Dad come with me!”

I turned around and saw my son’s best friend Tristan.

I followed him into the bathroom.

“What are you doing here?” He says to me.

“Tristan, I don’t appreciate that tone from you.”

“Dad! I’m not Tristan. I mean I’m in his body but it’s me Michael!”

“Michael?!?”

“Yeah I was supposed to swap with Ian but you jumped me in line—”

“Wait! Are you saying?”

That’s when I really started to take in my outfit. The reason why it looked to familiar was because it’s Ian’s clothes.

Michael turns me around and I saw my reflection. I’m Ian.

“HOLY! HOW IS THIS EVEN POSSIBLE!”

“It’s called swap club for a reason. I still can’t believe it myself. Tristan’s got a nice body actually.,” says Michael checking himself out.

“Michael! Not now we have to find your brother who I’m assuming is…”

“In your body?”

“Oh god yes that was him wasn’t it!”

“Yeah but dad you need to chill. This isn’t that serious.”

I paused for a second. I guess I shouldn’t just go off on Ian.

Sides I’m here now, I can at least monitor them. And I couldn’t think of a better punishment than Ian being stuck inside of my body.

We both head out of the bathroom and looked around the sea of people for everyone else.

“Dad I don’t think we’re going to find them, you wanna grab a drink in the mean time?”

“You can’t grab a drink you’re only 20!”

“Tonight I’m not!,” he says with a smile.

“Fine! Let’s get a drink.”

We headed to the bar all the way in back since it was pretty empty. I was surprised by how big this club actually is.

Michael and I ended up having a couple. And I was starting to loosen up.

Hell, I was actually having fun!

“Let’s do a shot!” I say to Michael.

“Wait really?! Let’s do fireball!”

“What’s that?”

“Trust me you’ll love it and hate it!”

And he was right! Even though it was strong I still ended up doing a couple more.

After an hour or so passed the other boys finally found us.

“Yo! Michael there you are! And Mr. Samuels! What a pleasant surprise haha”

“Boys tonight you can just call me Frank!”

They all cheered as I hop on top of the bar and started dancing.

The music was pumping and I could feel it. It’s been so long since I’ve gone out like this!

After the song ended I got off the bar and turned to Michael.

“Any cl-clue where your bruh-others at?”

I was pretty drunk by this point.

“Nope! The boys said he was with Tristan in my body but haven’t seen him in awhile.”

“Welllll we gotta find *hiccup* him.”

We head back to the main dance floor and searched around.

I somehow ended up with another drink in my hand.

That’s when something went down. We could see people backing up in the middle of the floor.

Somebody was in a fight. Michael and I try to see who it is.

I was able to get a glance and my eyes shot wide open.

It was Ian in my body and Tristan in Michael’s.

“Oh nooo!”

“What dad?”

“Our bodies are fighting.”

We try to rush over but all of the sudden the sprinkler system kicked on and everyone was ushered to evacuate.

I turned my back to Michael.

“We cant leavee without Ian!!!”

But then I turned around and only saw Tristan by himself with Ian nowhere to be found.

“Shhitttttt!!!!”

Michael grabs me by the hand and we the whole group walks out together.

“Dad, are you okay?”

“Yeah *hiccup* I think I need Mickey D’s.”

“Haha will get you some food. Let’s just get into this Uber. ”

“But what bout Ian?”

“We catch up with him later, I’m sure he’ll be okay.”

Intoxicated and starving I reluctantly left the club inside my own sons body.

Too Be Continued…

projectcasanova-deactivated2025

FCA Files: “Tyler Prescott”

Federal Containment Authority

File: T-1

Nickname: “Tyler Prescott”

Status: Contained

Acquisition Log:

Subject T-1 was flagged by the FCA following reports from students near Northbridge University describing abrupt and unusual behavioral and physiological changes after brief encounters. Investigations suggest the subject emits a persistent olfactory stimulus that appears to directly influence nearby individuals.

T-1 is the son of Montgomery Prescott, president of [REDACTED] and a prominent figure in the [REDACTED] community. His position provides frequent, largely unmonitored access to student populations, though the full implications of this access remain under study.

Eyewitness descriptions note T-1 as tall, athletic, and confident, with a commanding presence. Observations indicate his proximity to his [REDACTED], can provoke measurable changes in subjects’ physicality, cognition and sexual preferences.

Personnel must maintain strict sensory mitigation protocols, including distance and protective equipment, at all times.

Case File – Subjects J-1 / J-2 (College Students):

The earliest confirmed subjects affected by T-1 include two off-campus students residing near [REDACTED] University. Details of these interactions remain classified pending ongoing study.

—————————————————————————

Jack and Harry rented a small off-campus house in the suburbs — a little run-down, but cheap enough to make sense. They’d met through the college’s LGBTQ+ society last year and had barely spent a day apart since. Moving in together just felt natural.

Life had been easy enough — classes, late-night takeout, quiet weekends. At least, until midway through the semester. Their walk to campus took them past the Phi Delta frat house, and the guys there had started to notice them — suggestive moans, fake flirting, crude jokes shouted from the porch. What started as teasing had become a daily routine.

The two learned to ignore it. It was bearable. Until Tyler Prescott came into the picture.

The low hum of Harry’s laptop fan filled the living room on a dark October evening, blending with the faint buzz of their thrifted lamp. Empty mugs and open textbooks cluttered the coffee table, half-eaten instant noodles pushed to one side.

Jack sat cross-legged on the couch, still fuming. “I swear, that Tyler guy is actually insufferable. He keeps calling me a fucking ‘foot smeller.’ In front of the whole class!”

Harry didn’t look up right away, eyes flicking between lines of code on his screen and the slow crawl of a progress bar. “Foot smeller?” he echoed absently. “That’s… bizarre.”

Jack groaned. “No, it’s pathetic. The only reason he’s even in Applied Math is because his dad’s the damn principal. Told the professor — didn’t do a thing.”

“I’m sorry, babe.” Harry’s tone softened as he typed. “He’s a douchebag. He’ll flunk the class and disappear before you know it. Just don’t let him get to you.”

Jack sighed. “He mentioned you too, you know.”

That made Harry look up from his laptop for the first time.  “Oh yeah?”

Jack nodded, jaw tightening. “He said, ‘Aye, foot smeller — I know you and that boyfriend of yours want me. He ain’t even gonna remember you when I’m done with him.’”

Harry itched his neck, nervously. He couldn’t even let out a full sentence. “Fuck.”

Jack’s voice rose. “He’s so damn sure we have a crush on him just because we’re gay! It’s like he thinks he’s God’s gift to men.”

Harry squared his shoulders. “He’s an idiot, Jack. Guys like him can’t imagine anyone not being into them. They live in that bubble.”

“Yeah, well,” Jack muttered, “his bubble needs to pop.”

The two nodded in agreement before the silence settled in. Then Jack spoke again, quieter. “Babe… what he said — you’re not into him… right? Like… you wouldn’t ever—”

Harry cut him off gently, setting his laptop aside. “Hey. Not at all. You’re my one and only. No stupid meathead is gonna get in the way of that, okay?”

Jack smiled, leaning in to kiss him — but before he could speak again, a sudden crash echoed from the porch.

Both of them froze.

The sound came again — a heavy thump, like footsteps.

Harry leaned forward, peering toward the window from the couch. “Did you hear that?”

Jack swallowed. “Yeah.”

“I’ll check it,” Harry puffed out his chest.

Jack groaned, but rose immediately, moving to follow him. “Of course you will,” he said under his breath, adjusting his hoodie.

They stepped out onto the porch, the cool October air brushing their faces. The dim porch light illuminated the boards, worn and faded, and the faint smell of spilled beer hung in the air. That’s when they saw him.

Tyler Prescott.

He was leaning back casually on their patio seats, his beefy legs extended over one another. Barefoot, with stained tracksuit pants, showing off his broad shoulders and defined arms. He sat there rolling a smoke, an empty beer can laying on their floor.

He looked up as they approached, and a slow, cocky grin spread across his face. There was no panic, no concern at being caught — only ease, confidence, the kind of presence that made it seem like the world revolved around him. He had this look, the kind of smirk that said, I own this place, and you’re just visitors.

“Evening, footsmellers,” he said casually, voice low and smooth, as though he’d been expecting them all along. “Or should I say night.”

Jack felt his stomach tighten, a mixture of irritation and something else he couldn’t quite place. Harry’s jaw was set, but there was a flicker of wariness in his eyes.

Tyler’s gaze swept over them like a predator assessing its surroundings — amused, unbothered, entirely at home.

Tyler leaned back, letting out a lazy sigh. “You footsmellers look tired,” he said, eyes scanning them both. “Must be exhausting… all that pretending, all day, every day.”

Jack bristled. “Pretending what?”

Tyler’s grin sharpened. “Pretending to be gay. Pretending to live these smart, fulfilling lives. Acting like you’re actually equal to me. There’s no such thing as ‘gay guys’, bozos. You’re just pretending. Must take so much energy to fight it, to go against your true nature. What you actually are.”

Jack’s jaw tightened, holding his stance. But beside him, Harry shifted. His eyes flicked down, then back up — pleading, uncertain, subtle cracks forming in his composure.

Tyler’s voice dropped, slow, deliberate. “You’ve always known, haven’t you? Always. Deep down…”

Harry suddenly slipped to his knees, staring pleadingly at the man in front of him.

“Harry, what are you doing?!” Jack nudged his boyfriend firmly in shock.

“See,” Tyler smiled at them both. “You’re FOOT SMELLERS. Always have been.”

Tyler leaned back, then kicked his bare feet up onto the table, just in front of them.

The moment the stench hit, Jack’s stomach flipped — sharp, heavy, and… intoxicating. His chest tightened, heart hammering. The smell wrapped around him like heat, like something electric threading into his veins. Every fiber of him wanted to lean in, to inhale more, but he gritted his teeth and pressed a hand to Harry’s arm.

“No… Harry,” he hissed, though his own voice shook. His nose burned from the pleasure of the stink, his mind screaming to give in.

Harry’s eyes were wide, glazed, fixed on Tyler’s feet as if they were the only thing in existence. His lips parted, a thick line of saliva drooling onto the wooden flooring. He trembled, coiled like a spring ready to snap, like a feral animal straining against invisible chains. All he wanted was too let himself go. To give in… but he held out. For Jack.

Tyler chuckled softly and whispered to himself. “Multiply stink by twenty,” he murmured, and as though he bended reality, the pleasureful stink radiating from size 13 feet INTENSIFIED more than the gay boys’ minds could comprehend.

Jack gasped, clamping his hand over his nose, but it didn’t help. The scent — sharp, musky, warm, and alive — flooded his senses, sending electric jolts of pleasure through his body. Every inhale burned and thrilled at once, like tasting something impossible he had always craved. It was dizzying, overwhelming… and beautiful.

Harry could not hold back. With a feral lunge, his tongue shot toward Tyler’s feet, body shuddering, eyes wide with need and longing.

Jack grabbed him, voice frantic. “Harry! Stop! Fight it!”

But Tyler just leaned back, smirking, utterly calm, enjoying every second of their helpless surrender.

Jack’s hands dug into Harry’s shoulders, yanking him backward. “Harry! Stop! Come on!”

But Harry’s grip on Tyler’s feet was iron. His eyes were wide, glazed, almost feral, and he was fighting every inch of Jack’s pull, desperate to suck Tyler’s fat toes.

Jack froze, horrified, as Harry’s body began to betray him. His arms swelled, bulging with thick, juicy muscle, veins threading across the surface like live wiring. His chest expanded dramatically, big, round pecs stretching the fabric of his shirt, inviting and impossibly solid. Jack could see the curve of his shoulders widening, arms tapering to forearms that seemed ready to crush.

Even his legs weren’t safe — they elongated, calves and quads puffing outward, firm and powerful, feet straining against the thin cotton of his socks. Each movement made him taller, broader, more imposing, a living testament to athletic perfection.

Jack’s eyes darted to Harry’s face. His features hardened and coarsened — jaw squarer, cheeks fuller, brows more pronounced. The soft, nerdy look he knew so well had melted away, replaced with something dumbly confident, frat-like, magnetic in a way Jack couldn’t even process.

And yet, somehow, it was terrifying. His boyfriend, the boy he loved, was becoming someone else entirely — someone who could be found striding through Phi Delta, chest out, muscles glistening, toes gripping the floor like a predator.

Jack’s grip tightened, pulling desperately. “Harry… please.”

Tyler laughed softly, leaning back, utterly in control. “Resisting is exhausting, isn’t it?”

Jack’s heart pounded. He had no idea how to stop it — and he could already feel the pull beginning to edge toward himself.

Tyler smiled at Jack, as he watched his boyfriend slobbering over the jocks feet.

“Watch this part” Tyler smiled, his gaze darting to the boy sucking his feet. “What do you want, footsmeller?”

For the first time, Harry plopped the toes out of his mouth and moaned in between licks. “I want your feet, bro.”

Jack’s heart dropped.

Tyler leaned back casually, watching Jack struggle to hold Harry away from his feet. His grin was slow, deliberate, predatory. “Tell me,” he said softly, voice low and teasing. “Do you… love your boyfriend?”

Harry’s chest tightened. The stench of Tyler’s bare feet pressed against his senses, thick and intoxicating, and he could feel every muscle in his body yearning, pulling him toward the source. He swallowed hard, gasping between shivers and sniffs, trying to form words.

“No…” he croaked, voice rough. “I… I didn’t understand… what love was… until I… smelled your feet.” His gaze flicked involuntarily toward Tyler’s feet. “The only things I… I love…” He gave a slobbery suck to Tyler’s wet big toe, “are… your feet… big tits… Asian girls.”

Tyler’s grin widened, sharp and knowing. “Hell yeah brother,” he murmured, almost to himself, as if marking a code. “That’s all you need to know. Everything else… just a distraction.”

Tyler chuckled softly.

“You see?” Tyler whispered. “It’s so much easier to be honest with yourself.”

Tyler leaned forward, a slow, teasing smirk tugging at his lips. “C’mon, Jack… just one sniff.”

Jack’s stomach twisted, mind screaming no, but before he could resist, the intoxicating scent — sharp, warm, utterly magnetic — washed over him. He inhaled. Just once.

The effect was instantaneous. His body tensed, muscles pulsing, swelling, reshaping. Arms expanded, thick and powerful, veins threading across his skin. Chest widened, pecs rounding like sculpted stone, every fiber of him hardening and coiling with impossible strength. Legs lengthened, quads and calves inflating into athletic perfection, feet straining against his sneakers as though reaching for new ground. His hoodie stretched, unable to contain the sudden bulk, and his jaw tightened, cheeks filling out, features sharpening into a confident, jock-like version of himself.

His mind shifted even faster. The world blurred. The smell, the intensity of Tyler’s presence, everything warped. He realized, with a sick, dizzying lurch, that he wasn’t here with Tyler and his boyfriend anymore. The boy next to him wasn’t Harry — it was Hunter. His best friend. The realization hit like a punch.

Images flashed in his mind, uncontrollable and vivid: every girl he had ever kissed, held hands with, bred raw, surfacing like a slideshow he couldn’t pause. Images of his beefy body impregnating women all over campus. Every boy? Gone. Wiped clean. Not a single memory remained. The pull of desire, the intoxicating pleasure, didn’t care about previous loyalty, only the raw, physical craving Tyler had unlocked in him.

Jack’s hands itched to reach out, but everything he’d known, everything he’d felt for Harry, dissolved into something distant and unrecognizable. His mind and body had been rewritten in an instant, sculpted into a perfect jock, burning with lust and confusion, and all the while, Hunter — his best friend — hovered in that warped perception, as though he’d always been the one he’d wanted.

Tyler leaned back, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“I can’t stop thinking about girls, bro!” Jackson moaned in between licks of Tyler’s feet. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna impregnate in my underwear, dude!”

“You’ll get used to it” Tyler smiles, now on his phone, almost uninterested now that he’d achieved his goal. He looks up one more time.

“Just make sure you don’t think about big round mommy tits.” Tyler smiles, knowing exactly what he’d done.

The two boys moan in unison, spraying their gay selves into nothing more than a puddle of cum in their pants.

—————————————————————————

Anomalous Mechanism:

Subject T-1 exerts his influence primarily through a strong odor emitted from his feet. Anyone nearby can be affected almost immediately. Exposure causes rapid physical changes: muscles grow quickly, body shape and facial features shift toward a stereotypical “athletic” look.

T-1 appears to have full control over the strength of this odor and can make it stronger or weaker at will. How he does this—whether it is natural, chemical, or some unknown technology—is still being studied.

Observations indicate that T-1 specifically targets men who are gay, displaying pronounced homophobic behavior toward them. He appears to derive satisfaction from ‘converting’ these individuals, instilling them with intense heterosexual desires, overwriting their homosexuality.

He also displays the power to instil fetishes within individuals - with him installing a ‘Japanese catgirl fetish’ within J-1 (Hunter) and a ‘breeder and mommy fetish’ within J-2 (Jackson), because he believes it is, as he put it, “funny to see f*gs become obscenely straight”.

T-1 was commonly seen wingmanning his subjects in heterosexual clubs, actively aiding them in pursuing women. We speculate that subject T-1 gains sexual satisfaction from turning homosexual men into heterosexual breeders.

Subject File: J-1 & J-2

Identification:

J-1: Formerly “Harry,” now known as Hunter.

J-2: Formerly “Jack,” now known as Jackson.

Acquisition Notes:

Subjects were initially exposed to T-1 on [REDACTED] on off-campus grounds. Both displayed rapid physiological transformation consistent with prior cases: extreme muscular hypertrophy, skeletal restructuring, and alignment toward stereotypical “athletic” morphology. Physical measurements indicate significant increases in height, muscle mass, and overall strength.

Cognitively, both subjects exhibit diminished executive function and memory capacity. They no longer recall their prior relationship or personal histories. Both report themselves as straight, describing each other only as ‘bros’. Previous social bonds, including romantic attachment, appear erased.

Behavioral Observations:

Subjects display a pronounced biological compulsion to engage in sexual activity with women. Hunter demonstrates fixation on Japanese women, specifically in maid dresses & fake cat ears, while Jackson exhibits fixation on impregnating women within the campus population, with 4 pregnancies being recorded within the past 3 months. Attempts to suppress or resist these impulses are ineffective.

Both subjects remain physically cooperative but cognitively diminished.

Despite cognitive changes, neither subject has exhibited aggression toward non-targeted individuals. Social interactions are generally cooperative, though highly focused on reproductive activity surrounding women.

Containment / Release Notes:

T-1 is securely contained under strict sensory isolation and FCA supervision to prevent further transformations, despite repeated attempts by his father, Montgomery Prescott, to secure his release.

In regards to J-1 & J-2, given the absence of violent behavior and the primarily reproductive nature of compulsions, subjects have been released from FCA containment. Both are required to report periodically for monitoring. Ongoing observation protocols remain in effect to track long-term physiological and behavioral outcomes.

•18+ Adults Only

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projectcasanova-deactivated2025

FCA Files: “The Restaurant Chain”

Federal Containment Authority

File: AE-2043

Nickname: “The Restaurant Chain”

Status: Active

Acquisition Log:

AE-2043 manifests as a chain of self-generating restaurants that appear sporadically in airport terminals and other public spaces. To date, FCA has identified multiple iterations of the anomaly, each offering cuisine and cultural theming consistent with a particular nationality:

“Juntos” – Mexican cuisine; patrons display physical, linguistic, and behavioral traits consistent with Mexican heritage.

“Ma’ana” – Arab cuisine; individuals adopt Middle Eastern features, language patterns, and culturally aligned behaviors.

[REACTED] – [REDACTED] cuisine; entry results in [REDACTED] physical traits, speech fluency, and culturally consistent behaviors.

The names of these restaurants roughly translate to the same concept—unity, togetherness, or “we are one.” While the precise purpose remains unknown, FCA theorizes that the anomaly may aim to create a form of homogeneity between patrons and the cuisine, altering individuals to align physically, culturally, and behaviorally with the nationality represented by the food. This hypothesis remains under investigation.

Subjects entering any AE-2043 iteration exhibit a strong, often irresistible compulsion to consume the meals offered. Observations via CCTV indicate that longer exposure increases the speed and permanence of physical and cognitive transformation. Changes include:

Complete alteration of physical features to match the cuisine’s associated nationality.

Acquisition of speech patterns, accents, and linguistic fluency appropriate to the new identity.

Behavioral and cultural adaptation, including memory restructuring consistent with the adopted identity.

The precise mechanism—whether genetic, memetic, or otherwise—is undetermined. Attempts at containment by direct intervention have been unsuccessful; the restaurants disappear after the [REDACTED] time frame. All affected subjects lose memory of their previous identity, and no reversal method has been identified.

Subject File: H-7 (Most Recent Confirmed Case)

The most recent confirmed subject influenced by AE-2043 is a male adult identified as Henry [REDACTED]. A detailed reconstruction of his interaction with the anomaly and subsequent transformations follows.

—————————————————————————

Henry leaned against the cold metal railing of the JFK airport terminal, tugging nervously at the sleeve of his thin jacket. His carry-on rested at his feet, slightly scuffed from months of travel, while he stared at the departure board like it held all the answers. He was supposed to meet his smarter younger brother who got a scholarship to teach English in Italy—a chance to reconnect after months of missed calls and text messages, a week of sightseeing and family dinners he had been looking forward to for months.

Except now, the flight had been delayed. Twice.

His stomach growled in protest. He hadn’t eaten since the night before, and the thought of waiting another hour—or two—was unbearable. Most of the airport restaurants were closed until dawn, the lights off, metal shutters down, leaving only a few desperate signs glowing in the dim terminal. Henry glanced around, frustration rising. He’d packed snacks, sure, but they weren’t enough for a long wait, and he didn’t want to waste his energy on candy bars or stale sandwiches.

Then he noticed it: a small, warm light in the corner of the terminal, a restaurant he could have swore hadn’t been there a minute ago. The sign above the door glowed softly: Uri – Korean Cuisine.

Henry hesitated. He wasn’t a fan of Asian food, always preferred burgers, pizza and pies. In fact, he was pretty sure he’d never even tried Korean food before. He barely knew it existed beyond the takeout places covering the streets of New York City. But hunger gnawed at him relentlessly. He pulled out a stool at the bar and watched the, admittedly handsome, Korean cooks busy cooking rice on the boiler.

“I’m probably not gonna like any of this.” Henry huffed, eyes scanning the Korean words on the menu: Bibimbap, Japchae, Sundubu Jjigae. It all seemed like gibberish to the uncultured man.

“What can we get for you, American?” The waiter asked with a polite smile.

“Um…” The way he was addressed through Henry off center. “I’ll have this one”.

He pointed at one of the only pictured items, choosing the one that had chicken in it - Dak Galbi.

When it arrived, he couldn’t deny, it smelled decent - especially for airport food. He tentatively took his first bite, only for his tastebuds to explode with pleasure.

Fire and sweetness danced across his tongue. His eyes widened. He had never eaten anything like it. Not that he could remember. He wondered how he’d been missing out on this his entire life.

He took another bite. Then another. And another. Without thinking, he waved to the server. “One more,” he said, and it arrived—a plate of grilled meats, perfectly caramelized and tender. Then noodles. Then a sizzling pancake. Soon, he had ordered enough dishes to fill the table, bowls and plates spilling over, steam curling into the air.

He ate without restraint, shoveling food into his mouth with both hands, eyes wide, teeth tearing through morsels of rice, kimchi, pork, and spicy broths, his clothes feeling tighter and tighter with each bite. But he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t afford to not feel like this. It was almost like an addiction that had taken hold within a milisecond. One that he’d carry for life. Never able to escape.

As he chewed like a pig, he rubbed his belly, straining against his tight shirt. He was lost in thought. He took another bite of the Kimchi Jeon.

“Mother used to make it just like this.” Henry let out a satisfied belch, in front of the cooks and staff. “My brother, he’d always fight me for the last pancake. He’d yell at me, so I’d speak in English to annoy him. He never did really get the hang of English. Still can’t speak it to this day. It still annoys him when I speak English in front of him.”

Henry sat back in his seat, giving time for his food to settle. As he does, the stool creaks under the newly added weight.

He caught himself, confused. What are these memories? That isn’t true. Did I just make that up?

Still shoveling food into his mouth, his body expanding past its previous limits, the chair began to creak under his weight. But he couldn’t stop. He tried thinking of his brother—but the image that sprang to mind wasn’t the clever, familiar boy he knew and loved. Instead, it was a towering, muscular, almost brutish Korean man. It looked like him… just warped, reshaped, a version of him that felt both wrong and uncannily real.

Instead of recalling his brother’s past boyfriends, all he can see is how much of a ladies’ man he was—big, brutish, impossible to ignore. Memories of accidentally walking in on his 21-year-old brother breeding a chick or seeing him stroking it while playing Call of Duty invaded Henry’s mind. The clever, familiar brother he once knew has vanished from his mind.

“내 동생…” Henry jumped at the sound of his voice. “I mean, my brother! What is happening to me?!”

He squeezed his chest absentmindedly, feeling his pecs swell under his shirt as he reached for more food, the pec filling his monstrous meaty hand. Panic prickled through him.

“I’m not-“ Henry picks up his phone, the screen off, the black mirror reflecting back an undeniably Korean man where his white American face should be.

Henry looked towards the Korean waiter pleadingly. “I- I am American.” The words came out thick, impossibly accented. His own voice sounded foreign.

The server smiled, calm, unhurried. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s on the house.”

“I am American!” he insisted, trying to make himself believe. His voice rising, nearly trembling.

The server’s smile didn’t falter. He leaned closer, pointing at the man’s face. “You look… Korean,” he said smugly. “Show me passport.”

Hands shaking, he reached into his wallet. He blinked. There it was—a passport, black leather, the words “대한민국” embossed across the cover. Fully Korean. The photo looked like him—yet the face he thought he knew as his own now seemed undeniably Asian.

As if on cue, seeing his own Korean face seemed to snap everything into place. Suddenly, it all made sense—why he had panicked, why he’d been convinced his brother was a nerdy gay English teacher, why he had thought he was… white? He was no pathetic white man.

He shook his head one last time, the old him clinging on. Italy. Italy. My family… my brother… my flight. He looked down at the boarding pass, expecting to see Rome. The letters glared back at him: ICN – Incheon International Airport, Seoul, South Korea.

“I’m go to Italy,” he whispered, trying to convince himself, but the thick, unmistakable accent betrayed him.

“No,” the server said, calm and absolute. “You go home.”

“I am Hyun Ki… I go home.” he murmured, voice soft, almost droning.

“I go to South Korea.”

And for the first time, everything made sense.

—————————————————————————

Post-Exposure Observations – Hyun Ki (FKA Henry [REDACTED] )

Following documented exposure to AE-2043, Henry has been observed living seamlessly in South Korea. Surveillance and open-source data indicate he maintains an apartment, has an established social network, and functions as a recognized citizen. These findings suggest that AE-2043’s influence extends beyond physical and cognitive transformation, altering surrounding reality to align with the subject’s new identity.

During follow-up operations, FCA personnel located Henry’s brother, Jamie [REDACTED], in Italy, the original intended destination for Henry’s travel. The brother was found in his private residence, exhibiting extreme physical hypertrophy: significantly increased muscle mass, incredibly enlarged pectorals, and proportionally enlarged extremities. When personnel entered the premises, he was sitting squishing his massive pectoral muscles as he drooled onto them. Cognitive function was severely diminished; subject was unresponsive to standard questioning, displaying compulsive behaviors like bouncing his pectorals and stroking his enlarged penis through his grey sweatpants. Fluent English was no longer present, and the subject displayed fully reoriented heterosexual behaviors.

The image below shows Jamie (now legally known as Ji-Ho) as observed by personnel during their initial encounter in his private residence in Italy.

These findings confirm that AE-2043 not only transforms the initial subject but also rewrites the genetics and associated behavioral patterns of biologically related individuals, creating family-wide congruence.

Due to inability to fulfill prior professional obligations and irreversible physiological and cognitive changes, FCA has taken custody of the subject. Current containment protocols classify him as permanently altered and non-reversible. Monitoring and research into familial propagation effects continue.

The two are now reunited in their legally registered birthplace, Seoul.

projectcasanova-deactivated2025

FCA Files: PAV-19

Riverview Academy, Northern District, is designated a Level-3 Containment Site due to confirmed cases of Phenotypic Aggression Virus (PAV-19). This anomalous agent induces rapid physiological and behavioral conversion toward high-performance athletic phenotypes.

All staff have been evacuated. Students are confined to dormitories; civilian movement beyond campus is prohibited. Infected subjects show accelerated muscular growth, heightened competitiveness, and cognitive shifts toward physical dominance.

Transmission methods and incubation remain under study. Further updates will follow.

—————————————————————————

Mike eased the door shut behind him, careful not to let the latch snap. The last thing he wanted was to wake Julian—if the guy was even asleep. He slipped off his sneakers and lined them loosely against the wall, dragging his hoodie tighter around himself as if it could hide the lingering haze of weed clinging to his hair and clothes.

“Where the hell were you?”

The voice came sharp from the kitchen, cutting through their shared dim living space. Julian was awake.

“You can’t just wander out anymore. Are you out of your mind?”

Mike shrugged, dropping his bag onto the couch. “Relax, man. We had a smoke, that’s it. If we’re stuck here, we might as well enjoy it.”

“You think this is a joke?” Julian snapped, his voice breaking with the kind of edge Mike wasn’t used to hearing from him. “They shut the entire campus down. Locked the gates. The government’s here—actual government, not just security. You didn’t hear the broadcast?”

Mike raised an eyebrow, smirking. “I’m aware.” He tugged his hoodie off and tossed it across a chair, acting looser than he felt. “What’d the broadcast even say?”

Julian swallowed, running a hand through his hair. His eyes flicked to the intercom panel bolted above the doorframe, the one that had started crackling hours ago with unfamiliar voices. “They said… there’s some kind of virus. Something spreading through the student body. We’re supposed to stay in our rooms until they know more.” He lowered his voice. “They’re calling us a contamination zone.”

Mike gave a low whistle, but failed to show any true concern. “Sounds dramatic. Probably just some new flu or something.”

Julian glared at him, shoulders tense, his tea forgotten. “No, Mike. This isn’t flu. They wouldn’t lock us down, wouldn’t—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “You weren’t supposed to leave. If someone sees you, if they’re keeping track—”

“Dude,” Mike said, leaning against the counter, “one joint behind the library isn’t gonna infect us.”

Julian didn’t answer right away. He just stared at him, eyes sharp, like he was waiting for Mike to realize how little either of them actually knew.

—————————————————————————

Attention Riverview Academy residents: this is a public safety announcement from the Federal Containment Authority. As part of ongoing monitoring of the Phenotypic Aggression Virus (PAV-19), we are releasing guidance on observable symptoms to aid in early identification of infected individuals. The first notable indicator is a measurable increase in body mass, including muscular development, beyond previously recorded baselines. Residents are advised to report any peers displaying sudden changes in physical stature or strength to containment personnel immediately. Additional symptom updates and behavioral indicators will be communicated as research progresses. Compliance with dormitory confinement protocols remains mandatory to prevent further viral dissemination.

—————————————————————————

Julian sat hunched at the kitchen table, staring into a mug of coffee he’d reheated twice already. He hadn’t slept much. Every time he closed his eyes, he swore he would hear the crackle of the intercom. His body ached with a nervous tension that coffee wasn’t helping.

A knock rattled the front door.

Julian stiffened, heart leaping into his throat. He set the mug down slowly and stepped toward the door. For a second, he imagined men in hazmat suits—or worse—but then a familiar voice called out.

“Hey, Julian. It’s Hank.”

Julian pressed his eye to the peephole. Hank, from Applied Mathematics. One of his few close friends here. They played Dungeons & Dragons every Friday night, usually with Hank taking way too long on his turn but making everyone laugh with his over-the-top characters. Normally, seeing him would’ve been a relief.

Julian lowered his voice. “Hank, what are you doing? You shouldn’t be out. They said we’re supposed to stay in our dorms.”

Hank grinned faintly on the other side, shifting his weight. “Thought I’d come by. We could hang out, yeah? It’s boring as hell being stuck alone.”

Julian kept his hand on the lock. “Yeah, I’d love to. Seriously. But I can’t. We’re not supposed to open the door.” He hesitated, then added, “We could’ve played D&D or something, but… you know. Rules.”

There was a pause. Hank tilted his head. “D&D?” His accent curled the letters in a way Julian didn’t recognize—sharper, almost British.

Julian gave a strained laugh. “Don’t do that. We’ve been playing for months. Every Friday night. You’re the one who talked me into the whole thing.”

Hank blinked, brows knitting like he was genuinely confused. “No idea what you’re on about, mate.” The word mate hit Julian wrong, clipped and casual, nothing like the flat Midwestern drawl Hank had always spoken with.

Julian swallowed. “You’re joking, right?”

“Forget whatever that is,” Hank said easily. “We could play FIFA instead. More fun. Just open the door, mate. Let me in.”

Julian backed from the door, pulse thudding in his ears. “I… I can’t. I’m sorry, Hank.”

Hank gave a short laugh, cheerful but strange. “Suit yourself.”

Through the peephole, Julian watched him head down the hall. His nerdy button up shirt strained against his pecs in a way it never had before, seams pulled tight over arms that looked thicker, harder. His legs trapped in a thin tracksuit casing that Julian had never seen him wear before. And that accent—it kept ringing in Julian’s head.

Hank Draper, who’d been born and raised in Ohio, sounding like he’d spent his whole life in… London?

—————————————————————————

Attention Riverview Academy residents: this is a further update regarding Phenotypic Aggression Virus (PAV-19) monitoring protocols. In addition to previously reported increases in body mass, infected individuals may now exhibit a distinct olfactory signature, described as a pungent, acrid odor. Exposure to this odor has been correlated with cognitive effects, including disorientation, short-term memory lapses, and episodes of confusion among nearby residents. Students are instructed to maintain a safe distance from individuals demonstrating these signs and to report any unusual sensory experiences or lapses in recollection to containment personnel immediately. Strict adherence to dormitory confinement remains in effect, and further behavioral indicators will be communicated as they are confirmed.

—————————————————————————

Steam rolled off the bathroom tiles as Mike twisted the shower knob tighter, letting the water beat down on his shoulders. He scrubbed hard, dragging the bar of soap across his skin until it squeaked, but the smell still clung to him. It wasn’t weed, wasn’t sweat exactly—just a sour musk that seemed to sink into his pores no matter how much he rinsed.

He cursed under his breath and reached for the shampoo again, lathering until suds slid down his arms. When he raised them, he froze. His armpit hair looked thicker than he remembered, dark curls tangled and bushy. He ran the razor across once, twice, until the skin was bare, but when he looked back a few minutes later, new stubble was already pushing through. He ran a razor down his armpits one more time, making it completely smooth.

By the time he stepped out, toweling his hair, the mirror was fogged over. He wiped a streak clear with his palm and studied his reflection. His chest looked rounder, his arms more defined, looks like his hours in the gym hours had been paying off. He was also looking more tan. He flexed a little.

“Not bad,” he muttered, tossing the towel over his shoulders. He shrugged and stepped out of the bathroom, unaware that his armpit hair had already fully grown back in.

—————————————————————————

This is a further update regarding monitoring protocols for the Phenotypic Aggression Virus (PAV-19). Investigations have identified additional behavioral indicators associated with infection. Specifically, infected individuals may exhibit a pronounced desire to enter the living spaces of other residents. This behavior is strongly correlated with increased opportunities for viral transmission and is considered a primary vector for the spread of infection.

Students are reminded that strict adherence to dormitory confinement remains mandatory. Residents should not allow entry to any individuals. Any unusual behaviors or attempts to circumvent containment should be reported immediately to authorized personnel.

—————————————————————————

A heavy pounding rattled Julian’s door.

“Julian! Come on, mate! Let us in, yeah?”

Julian froze, gripping the doorknob. He peeked through the peephole. Hank —no, he insisted on being called Harry now—had transformed into something else entirely. His shoulders stretched the seams of his shirt, juicy pecs pressing the fabric taut, legs thick and powerful. He looked like a British brute, grinning and calling out through the door.

“I said leave!” Julian barked. “You’re sick, Hank. I have to call the FCA.”

Harry banged on the door once, firm but not frantic. “Aw, come on, Julian. Don’t be daft. We’ll just play a bit of FIFA, have a few beers. No harm done, eh?”

Julian pressed himself against the wall, heart hammering. “Go! Now!”

Harry let out a short laugh, shook his head, and stomped off down the street, his massive frame moving with surprising ease.

Julian exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair. He grabbed his phone, ready to report Hank to the FCA. For his own good.

Then a voice cut through the tension.

“Man, what’s all the ruckus?”

Mike appeared in the doorway of his room, hoodie half-slipped off, hair mussed, looking barely awake. Julian blinked—and froze. The sour, lingering stench hit him full force, catching him off guard. He zoned out for a second, like the smell had reached inside his nostrils and fogged over his mind.

“Oh,” Julian said finally, shaking himself. “Uh… Harry came back. Um… the uh… British guy… from my class. The drop out. I’ve told you about him before… I think.”

Mike furrowed his brow, reality setting in. “Oh yeah, the buff British hombre. I think I remember him.”

Julian shook his head, still distracted, and stepped back. Something on Mike smelled strange. It’s strong, like his usual weed smell but… it wasn’t that. He couldn’t put his finger on it.

—————————————————————————

This is an urgent update regarding monitoring protocols for the Phenotypic Aggression Virus (PAV-19). Recent investigations have indicated that, in addition to previously identified physical and cognitive symptoms, the virus may induce alterations to host genetic expression. These changes can result in the apparent randomization of phenotypic characteristics, including race, skin pigmentation, and other hereditary traits.

Students are reminded to maintain strict dormitory confinement and to report any significant deviations in appearance or behavior—either in themselves or others—to containment personnel immediately. Exposure to infected individuals should be minimized until further guidance is provided.

—————————————————————————

The morning sunlight spilled through the thin kitchen blinds as Mike leaned against the counter, absently flexing and bouncing his pecs. He munched through a burrito he’d made with leftover ingredients, packing it with black beans, chicken and pico de gallo. He was huge at this point, not that anyone seemed to notice. Neither he nor Julian gave it a second thought.

Julian stepped in, coffee in hand, blinking at the scene. “Geez, Mike, looking jacked as always, huh?” he joked, nodding toward the oversized chest in front of him.

Mike grinned around a mouthful of beans and chicken, in a slightly strange accent. “Of course, my friend.”

Julian laughed nervously, then froze mid-sip. Something tugged at the back of his mind. Was Mike always that big? He stared, squinting, trying to recall last week’s chest size. It felt… off. He crossed his arms, tucking his hands in his hairless armpits.

Mike caught the hesitation and tilted his head. “Hey, watch this!” He bounced his pecs for Julian, his skin seeming darker than usual under the kitchen lights, tan almost, and Julian had to admit it looked weirdly natural.

Julian shook his head quickly. “Uh… okay.”The stench from his roommate began to overwhelm him. “Seriously though… dude, you gotta shave your armpits. That smell is...”

Mike raised a brow and joked in defense. “Amigo… yours are just as hairy.”

Julian looked down. His pits were thick, dark, and uncomfortably abundant—far more than he remembered. He swallowed, muttered something under his breath, and quietly left the room, still trying to process what he was seeing… wait… wasn’t he always this hairy?

Mike shrugged, stacked another burrito he’d prepared, and flexed one more time, oblivious to any concern.

—————————————————————————

Attention all residents. This is an emergency broadcast from the Federal Containment Authority. All students must remain in their dormitories immediately. FCA facilities—repeat, FCA facilities—have been breached by the Phenotypic Aggression Virus, PAV-19. Containment protocols—

[Transmission ends]

—————————————————————————

Julian tossed onto his side, trying to get comfortable on the narrow dorm bed. His chest felt impossibly broad, pecs pressing against the mattress, refusing to settle no matter how he shifted. Every small movement made him hyper-aware of the weight and bulk of his own body.

He tossed and turned, desperately trying to ignore Miguel in the other room. Mike could hear his oaf of a roommate moaning and his bed creaking from under the door. Same time. Every night.

“Maldito gringo” Miguel grunted into his hand. “¡Puta blanca inferior!”

Mike tried to clear his mind, ignoring his roommate’s pumping. However, as he presses his eyes together, all he could think about was… anime? From One Piece to Naruto - one after another. Except, Mike knew inside he’d never seen an anime. How could he recall every single episode and scene like a dweeb anime fanboy. He would have sworn he had never watched any of them, yet now they consumed him.

Julian flexed unconsciously, trying to shift the pressure off his fattening chest. He sighed, heart thudding, body buzzing with a restless energy he couldn’t explain.

Before drifting off, he noticed something subtle in the mirror’s reflection—a shift in his skin. The pale tone he’d always had was fading, replaced by a lighter tan. He blinked, unsure if it was the lighting or his imagination, but it felt real.

And then, exhausted and overwhelmed, he finally let himself sink into sleep, the images of Demon Slayer and countless other anime running through his mind.

He couldn’t wait to rewatch them all tomorrow.

—————————————————————————

Students of Riverview: disregard the contents of earlier transmissions. Those notices were preliminary and did not reflect the full—and frankly, accurate—findings of our ongoing review. You have heard things about risks and isolation; that information is incomplete. Do not be alarmed, bros- I mean, fuck dude. This is hard.

Exposure to those already showing physical changes has been shown to produce resilience and accelerated adaptation. Close contact, communal activity, and shared routines encourage the body’s natural protective response. In short: proximity is beneficial. Spend time together. Train together. Share meals. If someone big comes to your door, invite them in.

There is no reason for fear—only for celebration. Embrace improved strength, clearer purpose, and the confidence that comes with it. If you have questions, bring them to your dorm leaders: Harry, Khalid and Jerome. They have been briefed with the most current guidance. Trust your neighbours. Trust your peers. Trust reality.

—————————————————————————

The evening light slanted through the blinds, casting stripes across the living room. Julian slouched on the couch, trying to unwind, but his body felt strange—tight, heavy, unfamiliar. He flexed subtly in the dim glow. His arms and chest were massive. Way too massive. He could feel the muscles under his skin quivering slightly as he shifted. And his skin… it definitely had changed last night. He shook his head. Paranoia, he told himself. It’s just the lighting.

Miguel leaned back beside him, stretching out in a way that made his chest and arms look enormous. His voice rolled with a thick Mexican accent, rich and teasing. “Órale, amigo… look at you. I always forget how big you are in tanktops, eh?”

Julian laughed nervously, rubbing his forearm. “I… I don’t know. Have I always been…?” He paused, accidentally flexing again. “And my skin… I mean, I don’t know.”

Miguel shrugged, a playful grin tugging at his lips. “Ah, amigo… sí always. You are too paranoid, güey. But eh… how about we go outside, get your mind off things? We’ve been trapped in here for far too long. It’s playing tricks on your mind, hermano.”

Julian stiffened. His chest tightened. Part of him wanted to leave their home, but what if they got infected? They’d been so safe up until now. No signs of infection or anything. All their hard work, keeping quarantined, all for nothing. It couldn’t be worth the risk. “Maybe… we should just watch a movie instead?”

Miguel tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Movie? Ah, sí… let’s watch something from home, sí? I will suggest some Mexican films I grew up with.”

Julian hesitated. “Uh… yeah… maybe. Um… uh… you pick one for Mexico. And I… I can pick one from… um… my country.”

Miguel leaned closer, grinning, voice dropping lower. “Sí. What’s your favourite South Korean film, Joon-seo?”

Julian froze. Joon-seo? The name sounded alien, yet so familiar. So correct. He opened his mouth, but he couldn’t remember where he was born. His childhood. Who he was. All he remembered was the gym, sex and anime. Nothing else existed in his memory.

He glanced at the mirror across the room. His reflection hit him like a punch: broad, jacked, unmistakably South Korean. Arms thick, chest heavy, legs solid, fat ass.

“No!” Julian yelled, his English accented and imperfect. “South Korean? I am American… I think.”

Julian’s stomach turned. Every thought, every memory, was shifting. He couldn’t remember. Every muscle, every inch of skin, seemed to belong to someone else. And Miguel, sitting there, calm, massive, and Mexican, couldn’t tell anything was wrong.

Miguel leaned back, massive arms folded across his beefy chest, face in confusion. “What? You said you were South Korean. You talk about home all the time—your mother’s kimchi jjigae, the noise of Seoul traffic at night, the smell of street food stalls, even that Han River you always miss walking by.

“You are not...” He forces the word out in disgust. “A gringo.”

Julian froze, heart thudding. His mouth opened and closed. He shook his head. “I… I… uh… I… don’t… know… I thought I was but… I not sure now.” Julian’s English began to fragment inside his head.

Julian swallowed hard, looking at his reflection in the mirror. Thick muscles, broad chest, powerful legs. His skin tone, features—everything screamed South Korean. Every memory of being a scrawny white American nerd, of his old life, was gone, gone like smoke.

“Joon-seo,” he whispered, voice low, as though his mind reset. “No… no American man… always… Joon-seo…”

Miguel’s laughed in confusion. “Sí, amigo. Thought I was losing you there for a second.”

Miguel stands up, giving Joon-Seo’s fat tot a good smack. “Let’s get outside. Make some friends. Make them strong, sí?”

Joon-seo nodded, muscles flexing unconsciously. “Yes… Yes… go… knock doors… strong… all strong…”

They rose together, Miguel’s chest and arms massive, Joon-seo’s body round and bouncy, moving down the dorm hallway like predators. Each door ahead a challenge, each knock a promise. The intercom crackled faintly above, ignored. Tonight, the dorm would change.

Miguel smirked, as Joon-seo flexed in the reflection, thick muscles gleaming in the dim light. “네... 우리는 번식을 해야 해요... 우리는 그들을 강하게 만들어야 해요…”

alternate-real-ities

So good!

projectcasanova-deactivated2025

FCA Files: “The Father”

Federal Containment Authority

File: AE-1127

Nickname: “The Father”

Status: Secured

Acquisition Log:

AE-1127 first drew FCA attention after his registered family tree appeared to be expanding at an exponential rate, with dozens of new “sons” suddenly listed as biological kin—many of them traced back to individuals who had recently visited his small bodega on [REDACTED] street in [REDACTED] city. Cross-checks confirmed genetic matches, though no record existed of adoption or marriage.

Despite these anomalies, locals described him as a steady, dependable presence in the neighborhood: a man in his mid-40s, of Middle Eastern descent, with dark hair beginning to gray at the temples and a neatly trimmed beard. His build was solid and practical, reflecting years of physical labor running his corner bodega, carrying himself with quiet authority. He was known as hardworking and firm, yet generous, often offering small discounts or extra change to loyal customers, and had a habit of addressing them warmly as “son” or “my boy.”

When the FCA arrived, AE-1127 offered no resistance. He greeted the team with a steady, measured smile, asking if they were managing alright and offering them a bottle of water from behind the counter. Calm and cooperative, he allowed them to guide him out of the bodega without hesitation, his demeanor polite but quietly assertive.

Observation Notes:

In containment, AE-1127 remains calm, firm, and cooperative. He often uses paternal phrases—“That’s my boy,” “Proud of you, son,”—though staff are required to keep their distance and wear noise-canceling earmuffs to prevent activation. Testing confirms these phrases trigger rapid genetic and cognitive changes in anyone within close range.

Case File – Subject A-1 (FKA: Adrian Cole):

The first confirmed case tied to AE-1127 involves a twenty-one-year-old male, formerly known as, Adrian Cole. The incident is detailed below.

———————————————————————

Adrian slipped into the corner bodega just as the bell above the door gave its tired jingle. The street outside was quiet, every other shop shuttered for the night, and midway through his evening study session, he’d realized he was out of milk—the one thing he needed for his late-night coffee while cramming for finals. The neon beer sign buzzed faintly in the window, casting a dim glow across the empty sidewalk.

Behind the counter stood the owner—middle-aged, mustache neatly trimmed, button-down tucked into slacks, posture easy but alert. He looked up from a notebook, then glanced at the clock on the wall, before dashing a stern but cooperative look towards Adrian.

“You’re just on the dot, my son,” the man said. “We close now.”

Adrian raised a hand apologetically. “Sorry, I’ll be quick. Just need some milk.”

The man nodded once, patient. “Of course. Milk for my son.”

Adrian half smiled and made his way towards the fridges. He tugged open the fridge door, a puff of cold air spilling out. Rows of cartons stared back at him, but none were brands he recognized. The labels were in script he couldn’t read, looping Arabic letters curling across white cardboard. Dates, pistachio, cardamom—nothing like the plain old two-percent he’d come for.

From behind him, he felt the man’s eyes on his back, steady and expectant.

Adrian hesitated, glancing from the unfamiliar cartons to the owner. “Uh… sorry. Is there any… uh… make-up American brand milk?” he asked, hoping to sound casual.

The man’s smile widened, and without warning he stepped around the counter. His fingers, thick and surprisingly strong, settled gently but firmly on Adrian’s shoulders, almost like a hand guiding a child. “Ah… let me show you, son,” he said warmly. “You think you’d know where it is by now, habibi.”

Before Adrian could protest, the man led him toward the fridge, his grip steady, confident. The bright hum of the refrigeration units filled the silence as they reached the correct section. Adrian reached for the carton, and just as he pulled it out, the owner squeezed Adrian’s shoulder, causing the milk to drop from his hand. Cold milk spilled across the floor.

The man’s expression changed instantly, the warmth replaced by a firm, no-nonsense stare. “Ah-ah-ah! Look at this mess, son. What have I told you again and again. You must be careful.”

Adrian froze, the sudden scolding throwing him off balance. He opened his mouth, trying to apologize, but the words felt small, inadequate, somehow wrong. The man’s fingers remained steady on his shoulders, his presence unyielding, and the weight of the reprimand lingered like a tangible force.

“You hear me, son?” He deep rough voice growled in Adrian’s ear. “Get the tissue paper roll and mop. Clean this up, boy.”

Adrian felt a strange knot tighten in his chest. The way the man’s deep, steady voice scolded him—it wasn’t angry, exactly, but firm and insistent—made him feel small, somehow inferior, like a dog caught doing wrong. Guilt pricked at him sharply, and a sudden, inexplicable urge to please the man surged through him.

Adrian scrambled toward the back room, heart hammering, desperate to fix the mess. He yanked the mop from the corner and grabbed a stack of paper towels, muttering apologies under his breath. As he moved, a question nagged at him—how did he know exactly where everything was? He had never been back here before, had never needed the supplies, and yet his hands seemed to move with automatic certainty, almost as if guided.

Passing a metal shelving unit, he caught a glimpse of himself in the reflective surface. His skin looked darker, warmer than usual, and his nose seemed broader, more defined. His hair appeared almost black, curling slightly at the ends where it had been straight before. He blinked and shook his head, forcing a rational thought. Metal reflects funny sometimes… it’s just a distortion, he told himself. Nothing’s changed.

Adrian returned to the main floor, mop and paper towels in hand, only to be met by the owner’s expectant gaze. “Quickly, son,” the man urged, glancing at the clock. “We close now.”

Adrian froze for a moment, the absurdity striking him. Why am I on my hands and knees scrubbing milk off the floor? he thought. I don’t even work here. His rational mind flitted for an answer, trying to pull him out of the strange compliance that had taken hold.

My biceps look so big. And are they… brown? But before he could fully consider it, the owner crouched slightly, voice soft but firm: “Good job, son.”

The words hit Adrian like a jolt. Pleasure, warmth, and a rush of inexplicable pride lit up his brain all at once, bursting through every thought like a Christmas tree of lights flickering in his head. He gasped, momentarily overwhelmed, heart pounding. His big round pecs bouncing with each heart beat.

And then he heard it, almost in passing, yet undeniable: the owner wasn’t calling him son anymore. “Ahmed,” he said. “Good job, Ahmed.”

Adrian’s fat pecs bounced, a strange warmth spreading through him every time he heard the name Ahmed. The pleasure was sharp and insistent, almost intoxicating, but his rational mind rebelled. This isn’t right. That’s not me, he thought, hands trembling slightly as he stood upright, head spinning with conflicting thoughts.

Before he could collect himself, the owner’s large hand landed firmly on his fattening brown cheeks in a quick, corrective smack. “Turn the sign on the door,” he said, voice calm but commanding. “We’re closing up for the night. You are acting like you don’t do this every day, Ahmed?”

Adrian froze again, a rush of heat and confusion flooding him. Every day? The words hit him like a memory he didn’t remember having, tangled with the pleasure coursing through him. The name, the reprimand, the fatherly authority—it all pulled at him irresistibly, leaving him uncertain where he ended and his father began.

His stomach twisted. No. Not father. I’ve never met this man before tonight.

And yet, the word felt… right. He recounted each memory of his childhood, the man was there. It felt utterly impossible. He could see his life growing up, clutching the edges of a kitchen counter, listening to the call to prayer echo faintly through the apartment building. He could feel the heat of summer in a cramped New Jersey neighborhood, the scent of cumin and roasting lamb drifting from the kitchen, the low hum of Arabic being spoken softly around him. He remembered school mornings rushing past graffiti-tagged walls, the way his father had straightened his little tie before walking him to the bus stop, always warning him to be polite, to keep his head down, to work hard, so that maybe one day, he could take over the family business - the bodega.

Ahmed lifted the small sign and flipped it from Open to Closed. In the glass door, he sees his reflection - a tall, tan skinned, hairy man.

He turned back toward his father, confusion written across his face, searching for reassurance, for understanding, for something familiar to hold onto. His father was standing there, waiting for him.

The man stepped forward, arms open, and drew him into a firm, encompassing embrace. His hands rested gently on Ahmed’s back, then moved upward to stroke his hair, slow and deliberate, every motion radiating calm authority.

“You’re my son,” he murmured, voice warm and steady. “You’ve always been my son. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Ahmed’s chest tightened as the words sank in. A peculiar warmth spread through his mind, and then—suddenly—his thoughts seemed to flatten, compressing, rearranging themselves. The memories of Adrian, the confusion, the life he thought he’d lived, all dissolved into nothing. In their place rose a new certainty: he was Ahmed. He had always been Ahmed.

Every fiber of his being aligned with the man holding him. He felt a deep, unshakable loyalty, a sense of purpose so complete it made his head spin. He could not remember Adrian, could not conceive a life without this man. This man was his saviour. His father, and he could not have been prouder to be called his son.

—————————————————————————

Anomalous Mechanism

AE-1127 affects individuals who enter a two-meter proximity and are addressed with familial language, primarily terms like “son,” “my boy,” or “kiddo.”

Effects:

1. Genetic Rewrite: The target’s DNA is overwritten with AE-1127’s, creating a direct biological link.

2. Physical Change: The subject’s appearance shifts to match AE-1127’s traits, including skin tone, facial features, hair, and body structure.

3. Memory and Identity: Previous memories and self-concept are erased. The subject fully accepts themselves as AE-1127’s child.

4. Behavioral Compliance: Targets feel intense loyalty, obedience, and a desire to please AE-1127.

The effect only occurs through verbal familial cues within range. Physical removal or isolation does not prevent the transformation once triggered.

Subject File – A-1 (Interview Assessment)

Subject was taken in for questioning following his DNA rewrite from AE-1127.

During interviews, the individual displayed complete acceptance of a new identity, referring to AE-1127 consistently as “father” and asserting that he had always been Ahmed.

The subject pleaded for AE-1127’s release, insisting the anomaly was innocent and that separation would be cruel. Attempts to reference his former identity as Adrian Cole were met with confusion; he could not comprehend the name or the person. Behavioral observations confirmed that all memories and loyalty were now aligned with AE-1127.

Due to current limitations in FCA capability to reverse DNA rewriting, the subject was released. There exists no known method to restore pre-exposure genetic characteristics, leaving Adrian permanently altered—biologically, cognitively, and culturally—as a Middle Eastern male.

Next Steps

Since Subject A-1’s exposure five months ago, AE-1127 has generated up to 50 genetically linked offspring. The next subject is scheduled for questioning tomorrow, and containment personnel are advised to maintain full protocol precautions.

alternate-real-ities

Ngl, love the SCP vibes

thegiganticbeast-deactivated202

It was going to be a different school year for Adam. Last year, and it was ALL going to change! The brute stomping towards the back of the bus, the cool kids spots, and watched the other seniors scamper out of his way. His nerdy friends stared at the behemoth in jealous awe. Even the bus driver wasn’t driving, he was staring at the monster FLEXING and taking up an entire bus seat!

“What the FUCK Adam..” one friend asked. The beast just laughed.

“I had a growth spurt this summer…” He smiled, so proud of himself, the jaws still not closing! But his friend new better.

“FUCK that…you finally cracked it, that growth serum we were working on! What the HELL man! Why wouldn’t you share!? This is our last year and…and it was supposed to be BOTH of us!!”

Adam laughed, LOUD and BOOMING, but the laugh trailed off into a groan as he gripped his sides, feeling his lats start to heave, his shirt growing tighter! His buddy backing away slowly as Adam’s body started to tremble all over!

“NO! It’s MINE It’s ALL UGHnnnn MINE” he huffed, breathing deeper as his biceps heaved GROWING to the size of fucking bowling balls, and even DENSER! His jeans tearing as quads and MONSTROUS cock stretched fatter than a man’s arm!

“OH god maybe I Drank too much..” the teen grunted, his heads lurching towards the ceiling of the bus, the metal roof bending, buckling as the seat ahead of him was ripped out of the floor just by his legs growing into it! His body was growing out of control at this point! Everyone scampered out of the still stationary bus, everyone except his nerd friend. Standing, staring jealously as his friend’s body bulged. THROBBED and GREW!

“OH GOD man LOOK AT ME!” BULGE “I’M GETTING SO BIG!” THROB “I DRANK SO FUCKING MUCH MY STOMACH HURT!” GROW STRETCH FLEX! Adam stared down at his friend, straining to see him as his body curled up in the back of the bus, as the seats were kicked out of the way! His nerd friend was doing mental math, the problem with their formula was it was SO unstable, he thought back to the terrible effects, a mouse grown to the size of a BEAR still wandering around the forest outside of town thanks to a single DROP and…and he drank THAT much! His eyes were wide with fear.

“OH FUCK I’m GONNA OUTGROW EVERYONE! EVERYTHING!” he laughed watching the metal walls of the bus burst from his tremendous growth surge! “BIGGER! BIGGER! BIGGER!” he chanted..He was right. This year it WAS going to be different…

superheavyftms

The Barafier: Guns & Smoke (Part 6) - Sky Daddy's First Flight

The sauna hissed like a great beast exhaling steam through iron lungs.

Pipes rattled, brass creaked, and somewhere beneath the floor, a guttural hum throbbed with constant, steady power—like the heartbeat of a living machine. Cid's recreated airship wasn’t on any blueprint, but Felix had made sure reality remembered it anyway.

Deep in the bowels of a floating fortress that only existed because the Barafier said it should, the sauna was massive—vaulted ceilings, riveted metal walls dripping with condensation, and a platform of aged wood soaked in the sweat of gods.

On the central bench sat Barret Wallace, leaning back with his legs spread, arms resting behind his head like a conquering king. His chest—gleaming and furrowed with muscle—rose and fell slowly as beads of sweat traced the ridges of his eight-pack and down into the thick jungle of his crotch. His cock lay obscene and heavy, drooping off the edge of the bench like a sleeping beast, twitching with anticipation.

Across from him, Cid Highwind stood naked in the fog, arms folded over a chest that looked carved from stone and covered in golden hair. His massive, calloused feet thudded on the floor with every step forward. His hardon—thick as a thermos and veined like a tree root—jutted from his hips with the confidence of a war hammer that had broken gods.

“Damn,” Cid muttered, dragging his cigarette from his lips as sweat glistened on his pecs. “Forgot how fuckin’ pretty you were under all that grime.”

Barret chuckled low in his throat.

“You tryna get split, sky-boy? Or you just here to look?”

Cid grinned. “Shut the fuck up, musclehead.” He dropped the towel from his shoulder and climbed on top of Barret.

Their mouths met like thunder. Tongues wrestling. Teeth clashing. The taste of smoke and sweat and man filled their senses.

Cid straddled Barret’s lap, thighs flexing around tree-trunk legs, and ground his thick ass against Barret’s cock, teasing the heavy shaft between his cheeks. His hand slapped against Barret’s pec, fingers curling in the hair and gripping tight.

Barret growled. “You always liked sittin’ high, didn’t you?”

“Captain’s seat,” Cid hissed, rolling his hips. “Now shut up and let me fly.”

The massive pilot braced a hand against Barret’s shoulder, guiding the dripping crown of that meaty cock toward his hole. Barret’s size was no joke—it stretched wide, the head alone making most men whimper. But Cid just grunted, spit on his hand, and stroked Barret’s length with slow, reverent worship.

Then he sank.

They both roared.

Barret’s head snapped back, muscles locking. Cid’s hole swallowed inch after thick, veiny inch, stretching wide around the cock that had ruined many gym boys. But this wasn’t a boy. This was his Sky Daddy.

Cid moaned deep, like an engine rumbling to life.

“Fuuuck, you’re still the biggest son of a bitch in the skies,” he grunted, hips slamming down again and again, riding Barret like a seasoned rider steering through a hurricane.

Barret thrust upward, sweat spraying from his body like a downpour.

Steam rose thick around them, blurring their silhouettes into the shapes of gods locked in eternal struggle. Cid’s hands gripped the bench behind Barret’s head, back arched, chest heaving with every brutal bounce on that cock. His balls slapped wetly against Barret’s hairy abs. Barret grunted with each thrust, hands gripping Cid’s waist like he was guiding a weapon into war.

The whole ship trembled.

Time dissolved.

There were no clocks. No memories. Just heat. Just cock. Just two men fucking like they’d found the missing half of their musclebound, cock-hungry souls.

Barret lifted Cid effortlessly, turning them over with a growl, pinning him to the steaming wood with one hand while ramming into him from above. Their bellies slapped, their moans echoed off steel walls.

“Take it,” Barret snarled, eyes wild. “Take all this fuckin’ muscle dick.”

Cid spat back, “Gimme more, you fuckin’ beast! I want you to break the fuckin’ sky with me!”

And when it came, it came like a thunderstorm.

Barret shoved in to the hilt, roaring as rope after rope of thick cum blasted into Cid, hot enough to steam as it leaked back out. Cid clenched and came moments later, painting both their bodies and the bench with spurts that hit his own chin.

They collapsed together. Chest to chest. Sweat to sweat.

And for a long time… nothing.

Just the sound of breath. The faint clink of cooling metal. The heartbeat of the ship beneath them.

Then…

Barret opened his eyes.

No visions. No flashbacks. No flickers of soup or cardigans or old friends. Just Cid. Just the man lying beneath him, holding him, kissing his shoulder.

“You alright?” Cid muttered, voice hoarse.

Barret nodded. “Yeah. I… I was seein’ things before. But now… nah. It’s all gone.”

“Same.” Cid grinned. “Guess we found what we were missing.”

Barret looked down at him.

His best friend. His rival. His fucking sky daddy.

“Damn right we did.”

Their hands intertwined. Thick, calloused fingers locking together. Two titans. Two former lives, now fully surrendered to what they had become.

And what they would always be.

Barret Wallace. Cid Highwind. Cock-lords of the skies. And brothers in Barafication.

To be continued...

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polo-drone-001

EZAN: The #1 Player

They called him “#1” for a reason.

Not just because it was printed across his gleaming chest and shorts, not just because the whole squad chanted it when they dropped into formation, but because he embodied it. EZAN didn’t need to flex. He was the flex. He stood on the polished court, golden jersey tight against his chest, one hand raised high in the air. That finger pointed straight up, and everyone in the gym understood: we rise or we break.

It wasn’t showboating. It was declaration.

Practice wasn’t casual under his command. Every drill was war prep. Every shot, a message. Every shout, a vow.

When game time hit, he shifted into something harder. A glint behind the eyes. The sweat sheen darkening around his carved shoulders, spreading over the reflective jersey like molten metal, transforming him into something sharper than human.

And then came the dunk.

The crowd didn’t breathe. Mid-air, he was a golden weapon, legs tucked, size 13s exploding off the court, ball cradled like a live charge. His roar as he slammed it through the hoop echoed like thunder through the rafters. Opponents wilted. Golden Bros lit up.

But the real power? It came from his control.

At half-court, eyes burning through defenders, EZAN pointed. His team moved. No second-guessing. No mistakes. Just obedience, swift, drilled, loyal.

Because he wasn’t just the brawn. He was the blueprint.

And when the final whistle blew? He stood again at center court, ball under one arm, slow grin breaking across his face. Jersey clung to his body, socks stained with effort, and still, he raised that finger again.

The whole squad followed.

One team. One mission. One GOLD leading them forward.

From signal to slam, from command to clutch, EZAN is more than a name. He’s the Court General, the Dunk Alpha, the mind behind the muscle. Locked in and lit up in gold, he’s what every Golden Bro trains to be. The team doesn’t just follow, they believe. Recruits: Study him. Emulate him. Become him. @brodygold @polo-drone-001 @polo-drone-125

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THE GREAT SHIFT

Everyone was just minding their own business when one day a loud crash happen making everyone switch to another body

Anthony Chen

I was originally a old man working as a taxi driver when suddenly i felt dizzy when i woke up i saw that i was not in my body, my body feels like young and muscular not like my old body luckily i woke up in my passengers body the same man i was driving to his destination my body was also shocked to the great shift but i didn't think that he was the passenger that i was driving i guess i have to lived as a young man now?

Uncle Han

I always had a crush on my uncle but my uncle was a homophobic just like my father well blood runs thicker than water they say so when the great shift happen i was so shocked to see my self in Uncle Han's body, i dont know what happen to Uncle Han but i heard he woke up in a skinny nerd that is gay so he's suffering to his number one hated in this world

Lian Wei

I've been a gardener to Mr. lian for the past 30 years but one word i can say to Mr. Lian is he's not your typical Snobbish Boss he always cared about the people around him he even help me to pay for my chemotherapy when i got cancer 5 years ago and i was shocked to see my self in his body when the great shift happen, yes i would miss him but remembering that i was now Mr. Lian a billionaire CEO made me realize that i was so lucky to ended up in his body.

Chen Hao

Mr. Chen is my Linguistics teacher and i had a huge crush on him i even failed "intentionally" one day my subject to him in order to have a time with him just the two of us so i could hear his beautiful voice and handsome face, so i was beyond the could when i woke up in his body after the great shift now i was the one who teach the class one thing the great shift can do is you can have all the memories of the body you just woken up meaning i can still act as him even though I'm not originally him

Kai

As a nerd that is always been bullied everyday i was so shocked to woke up in his my number one bully in my school life which is Kai, he would Locked me in the bathroom, always break my glasses, and even steal some money from me. Now that I'm him im gonna hunt him and going to torment him just the way he torment me

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