无标题

I took a few creative liberties here and wrote a long one lol. Enjoy!

-------------------

“C’mon,” Ethan muttered, gripping the back of the couch as he tried to straighten his right leg. “I’ve got this... I've... fuck!”

He exhaled deeply and collapsed onto the couch, wincing as the pain shot through his knee. It hurt so much, so fuckin' much. And it wasn't just physical. He could hear his phone buzzing, the messages piling up.

"You coming back this season, bro?"

"Tubing Friday. Your knee good enough yet?"

"Scouts still asking about you btw."

Ethan cursed again. He missed going to practice. Missed drinking with bros. Missed the parties, the dumb arguments, the camaraderie. He missed his life before the injury.

“Fuck me...” His head sunk into his hands, "Stupid fuckin' knee."

He glanced up at his stick and the framed photo of the team. Him in the middle with a wide grin and his arm around his bros. Fuck... he wanted to get back to that. And he wanted to get back fast.

"There's gotta be a way..." He muttered.

An hour later he was deep in rehab forums when an ad stopped him cold.

BUILD-U-BACK RECOVERY NOW ENROLLING IN YOUR AREA: A NEW START, LASTING RELIEF

“Sounds fake as hell,” Joe murmured. But when he glanced back at the team photo he felt a pang in his chest. He reached for his wallet soon after.

----------------

This was it. Ethan stood on the empty practice field, stick in hand. The cold night air felt good against his warm skin. The stadium lights already dimming.

"Okay..." He bounced on the balls of his feet, "Okay, I've got this."

He dropped into goalie stance carefully, bracing for the pain. But it never came.

"No way..." Ethan pushed harder, shuffling across the crease before planting sharply off the bad leg, "Oh my god." He laughed with disbelief, "No fuckin' way!"

"Walsh?"

Ethan spun and smiled wider when he saw Luke, "Bro!"

"Dude! You're running!"

"I know! I fuckin' know!" He pointed at his knee, "It's gone, dude! It doesn't even hurt anymore."

"Let's fuckin' go, bro!"

It fuckin' worked. That fuckin' drug actually worked! Ethan stood proud, chest heaving and adrenaline surging. He was back. Practice, scouts, games, parties... it was all back.

-----------------

“Dude! First game back, you feel ready?”

Ethan looked up from tying his cleats and grinned. “More than ready.”

He tugged at the bottom of his hoodie, annoyed again by how tight it felt around his waist and chest. He’d already stopped wearing some of his older shirts entirely after realizing they didn’t fit right anymore. He figured his dryer was doing a number on his wardrobe.

“We won’t be too upset if you fuck up out there,” Luke said while peeling his shirt over his head. “We get you’re a little rusty.”

“Eat shit,” Ethan laughed, tossing a roll of tape at him before reaching for his own hoodie.

The cool air felt warm against his skin, and Ethan scratched absentmindedly at his chest, pausing for just a moment as his fingers tangled with thicker hairs there.

"The fuck...?" Ethan frowned and looked down.

Dark curls spread across the middle of his chest before trailing down his stomach and disappearing beneath the waistband of his shorts. Sweat glistened faintly through the hair despite the cold room, and when Ethan shifted slightly, the waistband dug tighter against a stomach that suddenly looked thicker than he remembered.

"I shaved this shit this morning..." He figured the hair growth was a side effect of the drug, but he'd spent the last few days making sure he kept it under control. But now...?

Luke whistled low. “Damn, Walsh. Didn’t realize the recovery plan involved growing a lawn on your chest and blowing out your waistline.”

A couple guys laughed awkwardly before looking away again.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ethan muttered, pulling his jersey on faster than usual. The fabric stretching tighter around his waist than he remembered.

Nobody really said anything after that.

Ethan forced a grin anyway and slammed his locker shut. “Alright, boys,” he called out. “Let’s do this.”

-------------

It was supposed to feel normal again. Friday night. Sports bar packed wall-to-wall after the game. Music too loud. Ethan sat wedged between Luke and Dylan with a cold Busch Light in his hand before realizing halfway through the bottle that he didn’t even remember ordering it.

“You looked like shit tonight,” Luke laughed.

“Appreciate it.”

“Seriously though, you good?”

Ethan scratched at the rough stubble on his chin. “Just playing bad.”

His phone buzzed against the table.

"CONGRATULATIONS ON ONE MONTH! YOUR NEXT PHASE OF RECOVERY STARTS TONIGHT!"

Ethan frowned at the notification before locking the screen again, "Next phase?" He stared at his arm, now dusted with dark hairs.

"Hey Ethan." Luke nudged him, "Someone's staring."

Ethan spotted her across the bar. Blond. Gorgeous. Smiling at him. For the first time all night, something loosened in his chest.

“There we go,” Dylan laughed when he caught Ethan staring. “That’s the Walsh we know.”

Ethan grinned and took another sip. Soon after, he was fumbling with his apartment keys while she laughed softly beside him in the hallway. They moved to his bedroom, clothes discarded quickly.

"Fuck..." Ethan whispered, as she kissed slowly along his neck, "I needed..."

"Standby mode protocol upload."

He squeezed his eyes shut.

“What?” she asked softly.

“It's uh... Nothin’.”

Her hands slid slowly across his chest and draped around his shoulders before pausing.

“Wow,” she said with a small laugh. “You’re kinda hairy.”

Ethan glanced down automatically, eyes widening at the sight of the dark hair curling across his shoulders and down his back.

"That's not..." He knew it wasn't there five hours ago.

“Sorry,” she added quickly, still smiling. “You’re just hairer than most guys I’ve been with.”

"Pleasure directives stem from labor initiatives."

Ethan winced hard enough that she finally pulled back slightly.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I just...” He rubbed at his forehead. “I don’t feel right.”

She kissed him again anyway, her hand sliding lower across the thicker, softer shape of his stomach before slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers and around his flaccid cock.

“Oh,” she laughed gently, trying to mask her confusion.

Ethan glanced down, a wave of sickening humiliation washing over him. His cock stayed completely dead. Buried in a dense, coarse mat of newly thick pubic hair and a rapidly expanding fat pad, his dick looked distinctly shorter, stubbier, and entirely useless

“You okay?” she asked again, quieter this time.

“Yeah. I just...” He swallowed hard. “I dunno. It's not working... I... Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she said softly, “Seriously. It happens.”

A few minutes later he stood awkwardly by the door while she slipped her shoes back on.

“Maybe just stress?” she offered gently.

“Yeah.” Ethan forced a laugh. “Probably.”

After she left, the apartment felt painfully quiet again. Ethan stood there shirtless for another minute before walking to the fridge automatically and grabbing another Busch Light.

------------

A week had passed, and Ethan exhaled heavily as he stepped out of the shower. He’d stopped changing in the locker room after practice a few days ago, tired of catching teammates staring too long at his stomach or shoulders before awkwardly looking away. Now, alone in his apartment, there was nobody else left to notice except him.

“Jesus Christ...” he whispered at his reflection.

The mirror across from the bed reflected somebody that looked wrong. Dark curls spread heavily across his chest and shoulders now, while rough stubble shadowed his jaw despite shaving before practice that morning. Even standing still, his body looked heavier than it used to.

“I’m exercising,” Ethan muttered weakly. “I’m eating healthy...” His eyes drifted toward the empty Busch Light cans scattered across the nightstand, “I...”

"Standby initiating."

Ethan’s breath caught as the voice echoed in his head.

“What the...”

"Standby mode active."

Every muscle in his body locked instantly.

Ethan jerked hard against it on instinct, but nothing responded correctly. His fingers twitched once beside his thigh before going still again. His chest continued rising and falling normally. He could blink. Breathe. Swallow. But that was it.

“What... the fuck...” he forced out weakly.

Hours passed as Ethan sat frozen on the edge of the bed staring into the mirror. The rough hair across his chest thickened slowly while his stomach pushed heavier against his lap with every shallow breath. His face itched constantly as a dark beard spread across his jaw until he looked like he hadn’t shaved in weeks.

A knock on the door and the sound of heavy footsteps entering his apartment made him tense. He watched as two men in BUILDING-U-BACK jackets entered his room and stopped mid-step when they saw Ethan in nothing but a pair of tight sweatpants.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “That’s the lacrosse kid?”

“Yeah. CRW-57F.”

The younger guy kept staring. “Still got some of that frat-boy face left.”

“Not for too long.”

The younger rep shook his head slowly. “Weird seeing one this young.”

“Don’t worry,” the older rep said casually. “Give it a week and you won’t even be able to pick 'em out from the others.”

Ethan strained against the paralysis hard enough that his jaw twitched once.

“You know what’s crazy?” the younger rep continued. “Six months from now he’ll be drinking beer after shifts talking about kids that don’t exist like the rest of ’em.”

“Yeah well, the whole family-man thing makes clients comfortable. People trust workers who look settled.”

One of them glanced toward the empty Busch Light cans beside the bed.

“Damn,” he muttered. “He’s already self-reinforcing.”

“Good sign.”

Ethan let out another whimper as he tried to reach for his phone, but his arm wouldn't budge.

“Oh shit,” the younger rep said suddenly. “You think he knows what we’re saying?”

“Nah,” the older rep replied casually. “The lab guys say there's not much left going on upstairs during standby.”

Ethan felt something cold settle quietly in his chest. The older rep finally looked directly at him and nodded toward the hallway.

“C’mon CRW-57F," He tossed him his old lacrosse hoodie, "Housing assignment’s ready.”

Ethan stood automatically.

------------

Ethan barely remembered the drive to the facility. He had been packed into a van shoulder-to-shoulder with a few other hirsute guys sporting beer guts. His eyes remained fixed on the man across from him, and Ethan realized with growing dread that it was like looking in a mirror.

"There's been a mistake!" He tried to call out, but the words in his head wouldn't leave his mouth, "Please..."

When they did finally arrive at the facility, he was walked to a featureless room with a table and a few bins.

"This is CRW-57F." A man said to his colleague, entering the room, "Originally Ethan Walsh. Signed up for the program for an injured knee." He looked down at his clipboard, "Worker identity is officially Joe Mercer."

"Joe Mercer? That's not..." He thought, but the name Ethan was already starting to feel distant.

"Alright, let's get him in the system." The man continued, "We're going to need your personal belongings, CRW-57F."

Joe felt as he reached into his pocket and gripped his phone. He quickly dropped it into one of the bins, along with his keys, wallet, student ID.

"Oh shit, that's the college kid?" One of the men said, looking down at the ID.

"Yeah, lacrosse player, if you can believe it now."

"Damn, that drug did a number on him." The man sighed, "Okay, CRW-57F, need the clothes too."

Ethan winced as he gripped his team's lacrosse hoodie and yanked it off. Cool air hit the thick hair covering his chest and stomach, and he heard one of the employees exhale quietly through his nose.

“Damn,” he muttered. “Hope the knee was worth it.”

"Update on the apartment?"

"Cleaning crew is taking care of that, lease will terminate tomorrow."

"N-No..." Ethan thought, imagining them clearing it out. His team photo. His lacrosse gear. The clothes crammed into the closet. Every piece of evidence that Ethan Walsh had ever existed.

"Family updated?" The other man nodded, "And..."

"What do you think? Took it poorly." The other man sighed, "Kid’s barely old enough to drink and now he’s gonna look older than his dad."

"Visitation scheduled?"

"In a month."

Ethan felt his stomach twist. The thought of his parents seeing him like this made him want to disappear.

"By then he'll be settled enough that it won't matter much." The rep muttered, "They all stop trying eventually."

One of them picked up Ethan's student ID and looked at the picture for a second before tossing it into the bin with the rest of his belongings.

"Poor kid."

"Yeah."

The lid snapped shut. A folded stack of clothes landed in Ethan’s arms a second later. Gray work shirt. Plain jeans. Steel-toe boots. The employee checked another box on his clipboard.

“Alright CRW-57F,” he said casually. “let's get you downstairs.”

------------

Ethan barely slept.

The worker housing smelled like sweat, musk, sawdust, and stale beer. The bed made his back ache. Men wandered the halls at all hours wearing gray shirts and work pants, scratching at thick stomachs or rubbing sleep from heavy eyes while they talked about wives, back pain, football games, and their kids.

“Tyler’s putting on weight. Gonna join the football team like his old man.”

“Yeah? Mine just turned thirteen. Kid's eating me out of house and home already!”

Ethan sat quietly on the edge of his bed with a Busch Light in his hand, staring toward the floor while his body moved through routines his brain still hadn’t fully accepted. Every few hours that same pressure built behind his eyes again, and afterward his thoughts always came back slower.

"Who are these people?" He wondered, "They all look... the same..."

But when he looked down, he realized how much he looked like them too. Even more than the night he was brought to the facility. The gut, the hair, the beard, the weathered skin... what the fuck had they done to him?

“Tyler’s putting on weight. Gonna join the football team like his old man.”

Ethan looked up slowly. A different pair of workers stood near the vending machines now.

“Yeah? Mine just turned thirteen. Kid's eating me out of house and home already!” The exact same laugh followed.

Ethan felt his stomach tighten. It was the same conversation, the same cadence… the same everything. They all talked like that. All looked the same. Nothing to distinguish them...

"Lacrosse." He thought suddenly.

He closed his eyes and tried to picture the locker room. The smell of the gear. The roar after a clean save. He could almost see the jersey. Blue. Or green? No... Red?

Ethan shuddered and took another swig of his beer.

------------

He couldn't recall the drive out here. One moment he was climbing into his assigned bunk, the next he was hauling lumber across a chaotic job site. Sweat drenched the thick hair across his torso. He reeked, too... of sawdust, exhaustion, and that stale musk clinging like the rest of them. He craved a shower, but knew better. Management preferred them this way.

"57F?" Two reps walked past him, "Still not meeting his quotas."

"Really? You'd think with him having been a star athlete..."

"Eh, you would think." The rep muttered, "We've found it really doesn't."

"Shame. We'll ship him out to Ohio tomorrow then, they're looking for more men and he's slowing us down."

He continued to work, but their words kept repeating in his head. A month ago, he was a star. Always getting positive feedback, always being commended. Now, he was failing at whatever this nightmare was.

"Joe?" He turned immediately to see one of the workers approach him, "You remember my boy, yeah?" The man smiled, "Tyler’s putting on weight. Gonna join the football team like his old man."

"Yeah?" The word left his mouth before he could even think about it. In fact, he didn't even really process it. Everything slowed suddenly, simplified in his brain. Lacrosse? Old apartment? Friends? Suddenly, it felt far from reach, "Mine just turned thirteen." He'd heard those words before from the other workers. The exact same words. Delivered in the same cadence, with the same gravely voice. Now... those words were coming from him, "Kid's eating me out of house and home already!"

Both men laughed. But as the other worker stepped away, Ethan's eyes widened.

"Fuck... no..." His thoughts were slower than they had been just two minutes prior. But so was his anxiety. Everything suddenly felt so much simpler, "La-lacrosse... lacrosse... not this..." He repeated for as long as his mind let him.

The pressure behind his eyes returned immediately. Ethan squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the lumber until his knuckles turned white. He tried to hold onto the panic, tried to hold onto the certainty that something terrible was happening to him, but even that feeling seemed to be slipping away. The fear was still there. He could feel it. Yet every second it felt smaller, duller, less important than the work waiting around him.

"Joe!" He looked up automatically. One of the workers waved him over, "Quit daydreaming. Grab this end."

He did as he was told and the pressure vanished. Relief flooded him, washing away the confusion, the panic...

"Appreciate it," the worker said.

"No problem." The answer came naturally, "I ain't no slacker."

The two men carried the load across the site together while talking about football, kids, weekend plans, and just how good the cold beer at the end of the day would taste. Across the yard, one of the reps glanced up from his clipboard.

"Huh... Looks like Ohio's getting him just in time."

"I guess so..."

Joe adjusted the lumber on his shoulder and laughed at something one of the other workers said. The sound blended effortlessly with the rest of the crew as they disappeared into the noise of the job site.

You can think of a few reasons why you found yourself in the audience that night. Well, really one. When you heard "Are You Smarter Than A Himbo" was putting on a show in your neighborhood, you couldn't resist. Sure, it was kind of stupid. You'd seen the clips online. They'd bring some braindead jock up on stage to flex, laugh, crack jokes, and answer basic trivia wrong. The poor idiot would laugh along as the audience laughed at him. You'd always figured the dunce was too dumb to realize they were laughing at him. But fuck, those guys were hot. So if anything, you'd get to ogle at some hot guy flexing all night and maybe get a few laughs out of it too.

"Do you think Zak's pecs are real?"

"Jason is like totally the hottest."

"I think Ryan isn't as dumb as he lets on."

"Did you know Mike is single? I can't…"

You roll your eyes at the fanfare all around you. These people were seriously into it. And then it starts.

"Welcome everyone!" You watch as a lanky man struts on stage with his hair slicked back and a wide grin on his face, "Are you ready!?" The crowd- mostly women and a few guys cheered in response, "I said: are you ready!?" You roll your eyes as the host worked the crowd, "Alright, alright… welcome." The host smiles wider, "Put your hands together for our main man!"

The host gestures toward the side of the stage and Zak strolls out with a slow, confident walk, his arms flexed as if expecting applause. He’s got thick curls falling over his forehead, and his chest is packed with muscle, tight under his white tank top. The crowd goes wild as he steps onto the platform.

“Y’all ready?” Zak shouts, raising both arms above his head. “Let’s go!” He pulls off his shirt in one smooth motion, and your eyes widen as you take in his massive pecs and perfect abs. The crowd similarly goes wild. Zak grins, flashing a perfect set of teeth, "I'm so fuckin' pumped to be here tonight! I fuckin' love you guys!"

"But Zak, I think you have something to say to everyone. Right?" The host interjects, patting the massive jock on the back.

"Yo dude yeah, for real." Zak nods, "Like, this is gonna be my last show, ya know? With the whole modeling thing blowin' up and all." The audience groans, "I know, it sucks majorly, trust me!" Zak frowns, "But like, you'll get to see plenty more of me. Trust me brahs." He winks and the crowd cheers.

The host claps, "That’s what I like to hear! Alright, let’s get started!"

You lean forward in your seat as the first audience member is brought up. It only takes a few questions for her to utterly humiliate Zak, who just laughs and flexes like the dumb himbo that he is. As the contestant returns to her seat, the host's eyes scan the crowd, zeroing in on you.

"What about you there in the blue shirt? He looks smart, right Zak? Let's get you up here!"

Initially you're shocked. You? The host gestures for you to make your way up to the stage. You can feel your heart pounding as you climb the stairs, palms feeling a little sweaty. The bright lights, all eyes on you. And as you step onto the stage, you get an up close look of Zak. His biceps bulge impressively, glistening with a light sheen of sweat. But god he smells like a wet gym sock.

"Sup bro, nice to meetcha!" Zak grins and throws a muscular arm around you, "Dude, you ready for this?"

"Aw do I sense a budding bromance?" The host grins and the crowd cheers. After settling them down, he turns to you. "You know how this works by now. Do you think you're smarter than a himbo?"

"Yeah, I think I am." You reply.

"Heh we'll see about that, bro!" Zak guffaws, "I was just goin' easy on that last chick."

"The confidence!" The host laughs, "Let's put it to the test. Your first question: Which is the only sea without any coastlines?"

You ponder for a moment. A sea without a coastline? That's... god what was that? You feel your cheeks flushing red, as you realize you don't know the answer to that. But if you don't know the answer, Zak would definitely not know either. Speaking of Zak, he's bouncing his pecs like the oversized gym bro he is.

"Is it the Caspian Sea?" You shrug, eyes still locked on his massive pecs. Of course the host shakes his head with exaggerated sadness.

"Ah, seems Mr. Smartypants here was a bit too distracted admiring the view to ace that question!" He winks at the audience, while Zak flexes.

"No shame in that, brah!"

You feel your face flush red with embarrassment as the laughter from the audience washes over you. Great, now they all think you're just another hormone-addled fool who can't string two thoughts together because of a pretty face.

"Alright Zak, a question for you now buddy!" You figure Zak is about to bomb this question anyway- round will end in a tie and you can walk away with some dignity, "What color are bananas?"

Zak scratches his head, "Dude… tricky." He chuckles, low and dumb, "So, I want to say yellow, but also green when they're not ripe. Oh but brown too if they go for too long!"

"Fantastic answer Zak! Well thought out!" The host grins as the crowd cheers, "Uh oh, looks like Zak has pulled ahead!"

The fuck kind of question was that? You look at the host and then Zak, who is doing a victory dance. The color of bananas? Of course Zak would know that- he's a fucking ape. You smirk at your own joke.

"Okay okay, let's try another one! Mr. Smartypants, are you ready to redeem yourself?" You're ready, more than ready. You're not..., "What pigments are responsible for the red color of leaves?"

Your mouth opens, but no words come out. You don't have an answer for that. Maybe you did know it, but between the flexing stud and the stage fright, you couldn't find the information.

"Chlorophyll."

"What a shame! That is not correct." He smiles at the audience, "It seems Zak may have a chance to widen his lead! Hey big guy, what day of the month is Christmas celebrated on?" It takes Zak maybe a minute or two to answer that one correctly, "Look at that folks, Zak is now up by two!" He turns to you with a grin, "Seems our guest is not much of a smartypants after all!"

Again, your face flush reds, "No worries, little dude." Zak ruffles your hair, "I uh, I got some smarts, ya know." He looks out towards the audience, "Last show brahs but first win!"

The crowd cheers and it dawns on you that you might be the first person to actually lose this stupid game. Frustration bubbles up inside you as the host and crowd continue to mock you. You're better than this, smarter than being made a fool of. Screw it, you're going to show them all up.

"I could answer every single one of those easy-ass questions he's getting," you mutter under your breath, but the mic picks it up anyway. The host's eyes light up.

"Oh ho, is that so?" He raises an eyebrow, a smirk gracing his features. "Well then, why don't you prove it, hot shot? Let's see if you can handle something a little more…your speed. Here we go bud - how does the body cool down during intense exercise like a heavy workout session?"

You chuckle. Really? This was the question? You clear your voice, "Sweating. That's how it keeps from overheating."

"Correct!"

"Woah bro, nice one!"

Yeah... that was a nice one. Finally got a question right... finally... You wince as a warmth fills your upper arms. At first it's just a gentle tingling, a warm buzzing beneath your skin. But quickly it builds to a throbbing, insistent pressure.

"What the…?"

The sensation intensifies, an intensifying heat pulsing through your upper arms. Your skin prickles and tightens as your biceps and triceps stretch against the sleeve of your shirt. It feels like the most intense pump after a grueling workout, but magnified tenfold. Your arms throbbing, aching. You feel aware of just how much more space they're taking up. And the twitching- it's incessant. Unconsciously, your arms start to rise, muscles tensing, flexing…

"Whoa…" you mutter, marveling at the sheer size and density of your upper arms, "How…?"

The host clears his throat pointedly, breaking you out of your awestruck reverie. "Ahem, moving on! Thanks for that… demonstration." He shoots you a knowing wink, a sly grin playing at the corners of his mouth. "Let's see if we can't challenge that big ol' brain of yours with another question, shall we? What does the acronym SBD stand for in powerlifting?"

"Oh brah, way too easy." Zak chides, crossing his massive arms over his muscular chest, "Even I know that one."

But your head is swimming. The powerful feeling in your arms send pleasurable waves of warmth through your body. But your mind. You're reviewing the question. Thinking it through. SBD? In powerlifting?

"SBD... SBD..." You rub your chin, unconsciously flexing your now massive bicep, "Huh... like... That's uh..."

You look over at Zak and he's making some kind of motion. A goofy grin on his face as he squats. Squats. Squats!

"Bro!" You grin, "Squats, dude! Yeah, that's what the S stands for." You grin, but the host shakes his head, "C'mon what?" You pout.

"You're still forgetting the rest." The host smiles, "And the timer is counting down."

You shuffle anxiously on your feet. You know this, right? But why would you? You're not into powerlifting. But like, it should be easy. If S stands for squats then like, wouldn't B and D also be something to do with working out? Yeah? Totally, that makes sense. But like, what else is there? What other... huh... shirt is getting kinda tight too. And fuck, you can't help but notice how warm your chest feels. Nice and warm, pressing more and more against the fabric of your shirt. Stretching it out against your big, meaty...

"Bench press, brah! B stands for bench press!" You say with a grin as your shirt starts to tear away, revealing a set of massive pecs and a chiseled torso, "Huh where'd my shirt go?" The audience cheers and you grin, staring down as you bounce your pecs.

"Excellent job, but unfortunately, you didn't finish. You missed D, you big dunce."

The host laughs, and you laugh along with him and the audience. Big dunce. Yeah that's... that's you? You pause for a second and start to feel that same embarrassment from earlier. They're laughing... not with you, but...

"Dude, can't win em all!" Zak slaps you on your increasingly wider back and you turn to him- now at eye-level, "But like, brah, you've got this next one!"

"Y-y-you th-think so.... brah?" Your tongue feels heavy, the words feel sluggish. You notice your voice sounds deeper to your ears, "I..."

"You have to focus there, smartypants!" The host interrupts, "Two more questions. Are you ready?" You nod slowly, "In a deadlift, how high are you supposed to lift the barbell before lowering it?"

"Deadlift..." Your eyes light up suddenly, "Wait, bro! The D! That's what D stands for, brah!" You say excitedly.

The whole audience laughs, as does the host. You look at him, feeling a strange sense of confusion bubbling up. Why were they laughing? What was so funny?

"Good job there, but that was the last question. We've moved on, big guy."

"Oh..." You chuckle, a grin forming on your lips as you let out a deep, dumb laugh, "Huhuhuh that was pretty stupid of me." The audience and the host laugh even louder, and you find yourself joining in, "Alright, gotta lock in, gotta... brah what was the question?"

"Dead lifts..."

"Oh fuck yeah! I fuckin' love deadlifts."

The host grins, "Yes, exactly! So tell us, when doing a deadlift, how high do you lift the barbell before lowering it?"

"Yeah... uh..." You bite your lip, thinking hard. Your fingers drum against your swollen bicep as you try to concentrate and with a sigh, lift your hands behind your head, "Oh nice..."

Your eyes lock on to your bulging bis and tris and you're momentarily distracted. But the sharp tang of your own musk drifts up from your armpits, momentarily derailing your train of thought. Fuck, you smell good. Really fucking good. But since when did you...?

"Brah, c'mon you got this." Zak says, watching you closely.

You shake your head and run a hand through your perfectly gelled, styled hair, before pausing- fuck your aesthetic is probably cooked. You awkwardly pat at your hair.

"Worry about your hair later, you've got a question to answer." The host says.

"Fuck, sorry..." You let out an awkward chuckle, "Just gotta..."

Your body moves instinctively into the proper deadlift position—back straight, knees slightly bent, hips pushed back—as if you've done this 1000s of times before. As you demonstrate the form flawlessly, a new awareness floods your lower body. Your glutes feel… alive. Heavy. Round. Perfect. You grin as you squeeze them unconsciously, feeling the dense muscle fibers contract.

"The answer is hips, bro."

"Let's fuckin' go, brah!" Zak cheers and slaps you on the ass, sending a wave of intense pleasure reverberating through your meaty glutes.

As the crowd cheers, your eyes lock on Zak. The pleasure from him slapping your ass still making you shudder. You drink him in, fixated on the prominent bulge straining against his gym shorts.

"Fuck..." You mumble- he's packing serious heat there.

Your mouth waters involuntarily as fantasies flood your mind—Zak pinning you down, those huge hands squeezing your meaty ass while he drives his massive cock deep inside you. The image of you riding his thick cock sends shivers down your growing frame, and you imagine running your tongue over every inch of his sweat-slick skin. You lick your lips and grin at the thought.

When your eyes meet again, Zak doesn't look away. Instead, his smirk widens as he catches you staring, and the few brain cells he has recognize exactly what you’re thinking. He flexes for the audience, but he turns to give you a quick wink, letting you know all that flexing was just for you... because he wants you to know he wants you too. After all, you know there's not way he could resist you either. With your... bulging pecs? Massive arms? Thick glutes?

"Wait..." You mumble. You can feel the rusting gears in your increasingly empty head turn ever so slightly, drool dripping from the corner of your mouth.

Your head was spinning, brain trying to make sense of all of it.

Something’s off, right? Like... this ain’t how it used to be. You know that. You weren’t… this. But then... what were you then, dude? Cause, like, look at you. Seriously... just look. You’re absolutely shredded. I mean, c’mon, those arms? That chest? You don’t just wake up lookin’ this jacked without bein’… well, this guy. So how could you not be you if you straight-up look like you? Right?

A dumb chuckle escapes your lips as all that thinking overwhelms and shuts down whatever last remaining brain cells you have.

The host snaps his fingers in front of your face, breaking you out of your haze. "Earth to bro, we still got one question."

"Huh? Wha-" You blink slowly, your expression vacant and slack. Drool slips down your chin as you stare blankly ahead.

"Are you smarter than a himbo?" The host grins.

"Nawww, bro, 'course not!" You reply with a big, dumb grin spreading across your face, "Can't be smarter than a himbo cuz… I AM the fuckin' himbo, bro!"

The host laughs, shaking his head, "Well folks, I guess that settles it! Looks like we've got ourselves a new resident himbo to take Zak's place. Give it up for… COLT!"

The audience erupts into cheers and applause as you beam proudly, basking in the spotlight. You feel Zak sling a muscular arm around your broad shoulders, squeezing you close.

"Dude, so fuckin' glad you're joinin' the fam, bro!" Zak enthuses, his hand drifting lower to grope your ass possessively, "Trust me bro, you're gonna love it."

Zak's strong grip on your juicy ass makes you shudder and you can tell by that grin that he's thinking exactly what you're thinking.

The host clears his throat loudly, snapping you out of your lustful stupor. "Don't forget to wave to the crowd, champ!" He gestures encouragingly towards the audience.

With a dopey grin, you raise a hand in greeting, relishing the adoration pouring in from all sides.

"Thanks y'all, this is gonna be fuckin' sick!" You call out enthusiastically, grinning like an idiot.

And as Zak digs his fingers into your massive ass, you lick your lips hungrily. The only thought in your empty head was that once this show was over, you'd be giving him a private encore performance that neither of you would forget…

Chris had only ducked into the alley to get away from the noise for a minute. The music from the mix of gay and straight bars still thudded through the brick walls, and laughter spilled out every time a door opened at the end of the block. After finishing college in the Spring, Chris had felt detached and out of his element - finding it difficult to adjust to a new life with more rigid rules and timelines. Sometimes he longed for the days when people would just tell him how to live his life.

He loosened his collar, checked his reflection in the dark phone screen, and smiled to himself. Despite his current listlessness in life he looked exactly the way he liked to look—young, polished, blond, untouchable.

Then he noticed a man leaning against a nearby wall staring the way a lion watches a zebra… He was older, thick through the torso in a way that suggested strength, his open leather vest showing a dense spread of chest hair under the glow of the streetlamp. A cigar rested between his fingers, and his heavy mustache gave his half-smile a strange authority. He looked like he belonged to the night in a way Chris suddenly felt he did not.

“You look lost,” the older man said. “My name’s Jeff. Maybe there’s something we can do to help each other.”

Chris opened his mouth ready to interject with some quick, sharp reply - but the older man had already stepped closer - pinning Chris to the alley wall.

The cigar slipped from Jeff’s fingers and hissed out on the damp pavement. He drew Chris close with startling ease, one hand settling against his shoulder, and kissed him. It was not tentative. It was deliberate. The kind of kiss that made the rest of the alley seem to fall away into the darkness and puddles.

Chris stiffened at first, startled by the force of the moment—but before he could even decide what to do, heat ran through his face and down his throat. His heart pounded so hard it made his vision shake. He broke away just enough to stare at Jeff, breathing fast, one hand flying to his mouth.

“Why did you do that!?” Chris shouted.

“I’m doing you a favor kid. You have the air of a man looking for something more. Someone to guide you.” Jeff smiled beneath that thick mustache.

Just then Chris felt a surge of heat course through his body. His muscles all began to cramp and his skin began to crawl. He doubled over in pain briefly before regaining his composure.

Chris staggered toward a darkened shop window and froze at the stranger looking back. His neat blonde side-part was breaking apart, the hair at his temples pulling backward as if erased by an invisible hand. A shadow had appeared over his lip — thicker by the second, darkening into the beginnings of a broad mustache. His jaw looked heavier. Older. His shoulders strained strangely against his blazer, as though his frame had decided it wanted to occupy more space than it had a moment ago. Even his clothes were changing - fleece and denim being replaced with black leather. The smell and touch both intoxicating and arousing to Chris’s shifting mind.

“No,” he whispered, then louder: “No.”

He clawed at his fading hairline, felt the changed shape of his own face, the roughness gathering where his skin had been smooth and young. Beneath his sleeves, new hair prickled down his forearms. His breath came fast and shallow. He looked over at Jeff, who watched him not with surprise, but with knowing satisfaction.

“You’re fighting it,” Jeff said taking a drag of his newly lit cigar and blowing the smoke towards Chris and chuckling. “That’ll only make it worse.”

Chris backed away, but even his posture was changing - his panic caught inside a body that was already learning a different way to stand - a different way to exist.

The next wave was quieter. That terrified him more. The panic was still there in Chris’s eyes, but it had begun to fray at the edges, interrupted by flashes of something else - familiarity, confidence, a low simmering pride that did not belong to him and yet somehow did. A growing heat in his groin at the thought of men, leather, cigars.

His clothes had continued to change with him: the soft sweater gone, replaced by leather that creaked when he moved and fit as though it had always been tailored for him. His chest felt warmer, heavier, hairier, rougher beneath the vest. His arms looked thicker. His hands looked older.

His hand rose to his lip. The mustache was full now—broad, dark, authoritative. Perfectly at home on his face - as if it had always been there. “Hadn’t it always been there,” Chris briefly thought. “I’ve had it since my late 20s at least…”

He looked at Jeff, and for one strange second it was like looking forward in time and into a mirror at once. Their hairlines matched. Their builds matched. The set of their shoulders, the angle of their mouths, even the cool, assessing look in their eyes — everything was converging.

Memories began to blur at the edges. The bar. The frat brothers. His old laugh. His own name. They all seemed suddenly thin, flimsy, unimportant.

“Who am…” he started, but the question died halfway out. Instead a wide cocky smile formed across his mustached face.

Jeff reached up and adjusted the front of Chris’s vest with almost affectionate precision.

“There you are, Geoffrey” Jeff said. “I was hoping to catch you here in the alley - alone…” But before Jeff could finish the sentence the formerly young Geoffrey pulled him in for a deep kiss with the intensity of a man in the desert being led to an oasis.

Geoffrey’s hands roamed up and down Jeff’s body - relishing the feel of the leather and the scent of tobacco and bourbon on Jeff’s breath. He knew exactly what he was doing when he unzipped Jeff’s pants and reached a newly hairy paw into his underwear - releasing the man’s cock from its leather prison.

Between smoky kisses and tongues deep in each other’s mouths Jeff gave a soft smile - relishing his handiwork at creating a doppelgänger that would know how to satisfy him exactly like he wanted. Exactly as he would do.

Jeff reached into Geoffrey’s pants and pulled out an exact copy of his dick on the formerly young man. He then ran a thumb around the head, already peaking out from the heavy foreskin covered with precum. He reached in and pulled out two round testicles and let them rest free against the leather pants.

Jeff then pushed Geoffrey against the wall looking him up and down and said “Who’s the hottest fucker around?”

“We are” was the response.

“What do we do for fun?”

“Put on our leather and fuck in the alley.”

“Good answer,” Jeff smirked as he turned Geoffrey around and pressed his face against the cool damp brick wall - while simultaneously grabbing Geoffrey’s pants and lowering them just enough for his hairy ass cheeks to spread apart. He then spit on his hand and shoved three fingers deep into the former frat boy - who moaned and jumped like it was the first time he’d been penetrated - now in a body that was clearly more accustomed to giving than receiving.

Jeff then spit on his dick and shoved it deep into his doppelgänger’s tight ass. He put his cigar back into his mouth and took a deep drag while beginning to pump into “himself.”

“Do you like daddy’s dick” he whispered in Geoffrey’s ear while exhaling a cloud of smoke.

“Yes, daddy” Geoffrey replied.

“Would you like some of daddy’s cigar?” Jeff asked.

“Yes, sir” Geoffrey moaned between thrusts. Jeff took another drag and offered one to the former frat boy - who relished the opportunity.

Jeff’s pace quickened as Geoffrey reached a hand down to his own engorged dick and started jerking it. Just as Jeff reached climax and shot his load deep into the mirror image of his ass, Geoffrey followed suit - spewing rope after rope of cum on the alley wall.

After Jeff came down from his climax, he took another drag of his cigar and pulled out - replacing his cock and balls into their leather confines. He slapped Geoffrey on the ass spun the man back around and said “Good job, boy. I think I’ll keep you like this for a while. Daddy will have further use for your services.”

Geoffrey pulled up his pants, keeping Jeff’s load inside like a warm souvenir of some both special and simultaneously common-place event. He rolled his shoulders and felt the easy weight of his body settle into place, solid and undeniable. He reached up, smoothing a hand over his mustache with a gesture so natural it required no thought. Somewhere deep down, there was a fading impression that he had once been someone younger, softer, easier to impress. A man named Chris. But that life had the texture of a dream forgotten by noon.

When they stepped out of the alley together, the city seemed to welcome them differently.

What remained was certainty. He took the cigar Jeff offered him, fitted it between his fingers, and smiled when he caught his reflection in a passing window. The face that looked back at him was rugged, self-possessed, and undeniably handsome. More than that - it was right.

Jeff gave him a knowing glance. “You remember now?”

He did. Not the life he had lost. That had already dissolved into the night. He remembered who he was now.

Jeff and Geoffrey walked toward the glow of the bars, matching stride for matching stride, like they had been leaving alleys together for years.

"Dude, Steve's dad is fuckin' nuts."

"Think I don't know that, bro?"

"Not sure the beers are worth it, man. Seriously."

The heavy clack of a dropped pipe wrench followed by a string of muffled expletives made both young men snicker. When Liam and John signed up to help Steve move into his new rental, they expected heavy lifting, not an absolute gauntlet. Steve's father, Mr. Richards, was a certified, old-school hard-ass.

"What're you boys laughin' at?"

The booming voice of Mr. Richards cut through the dusty air of the living room. He stepped into the doorway, framing a physique built like a seasoned workhorse. The man practically oozed discipline, sweat, and sawdust. He was always going on about the pride of the construction crew, how it was a real man’s job, and how he wished Steve would show at least half that grit. To him, Liam and John were just "good-for-nothin'" distractions diluting his son's potential.

"Spendin' all your time laughin' it up," the older man barked, glaring at them with hardened eyes. "You pretty boys are useless. Always jokin' around. Can't take a single damn thing seriously."

"All due respect, sir, we're just here to help our friend," Liam said, straightening his posture. John nodded in solidarity, both of them standing tall to prove their loyalty to Steve.

Mr. Richards’ eyes flashed with a sudden, unsettling intensity. "Help him? Oh, I know jus' the way."

Before either could react, Mr. Richards moved with a terrifying, explosive speed that completely defied his age. His calloused hands clamped onto their arms, violently pulling the two young men together.

"What the fuck?!" John yelled.

"Shit dude, let go!" Liam wrestled to break free, but the moment their skin collided, a bizarre, visceral heat flared at the point of contact.

Their arms didn't just touch... they melted. The skin fused, the underlying muscles twisting and braiding together, expanding exponentially as their shared mass coalesced. Youthful, smooth skin rapidly thickened, weathering into a sun-baked, rugged texture right before their eyes.

"Dude! Get off me! Stop pushing!" Liam panicked, his voice cracking.

"I'm trying! I can't move my arm!" John screamed.

Mr. Richards simply grinned, watching as the anomalous reaction rippled through their clothes, shredding the fabric until they were entirely exposed. In a desperate bid to separate, Liam shoved against John’s chest, while John raised his other arm to defend himself. The moment their hands collided, the phenomenon struck again. Their limbs fused into a second massive, heavy arm, padded with thick muscle and dense labor-ready bulk.

Terrified, Liam slipped on the hardwood floor, pulling them both down. He landed hard on his back with John pressed tightly against his front. They hit the floor with a heavy thud, gasping for air.

"You're each worth about half a man from my crew," Mr. Richards smirked, looming over them like a foreman inspecting raw materials. "And two halves equal one whole."

A sudden, overwhelming wave of intense, heavy pleasure spiked through them as their lower halves collided. Liam and John both let out a strangled groan as their groins began to merge. Their cocks melting into each other, settling into a thick, heavy shaft took shape above two massive bull nuts. The cool draft left their new manhood throbbing, threatening to shatter their panicked minds.

"Oh fuck... what is this..." Liam moaned against his will, his thoughts fracturing.

"Feels so heavy..." John gasped, biting his lip as their hips melded seamlessly, reshaping into a wide, immensely thick set of glutes: a solid, powerful dump truck of an ass forged from dense muscle and heavy fat.

As they bucked against the floor in a daze of sensory overload, the transformation surged downward. Their legs collided and fused into pillars of pure power. Thick, hairy thighs took shape in seconds, their calves bulging and their feet stretching into a pair of size 13 giants. They flexed their heavy, calloused toes against the floorboards as the raw, unbridled pleasure continued to reshape their biology.

"Look at that," Mr. Richards chuckled, leaning down to firmly grip their newly formed manhood. "Feels good, don't it? Becomin' somethin' better. I always treat the boys on my site right."

The dual consciousness inside the collapsing minds of Liam and John whimpered. They closed their eyes tight, desperately trying to stifle the embarrassing, breathless sounds escaping their throats. But Mr. Richards wasn't done. He forcefully pressed Liam's upper torso deeper into John’s.

"There we go, nice and easy."

Both young men had prided themselves on their gym routines: lean abs, cardio endurance, and neat definitions. But as their torsos violently slammed together, the superficial fitness vanished. An intense pressure replaced the pleasure as their midsections expanded outward. Layer after layer of dense, heavy muscle packed itself around their shared spine, immediately followed by a thick, proud layer of solid beer-gut fat.

"Fuck, stop! Please!"

"I can't take it...!"

Mr. Richards just rolled his eyes, stroking them rhythmically to keep their minds compliant. A massive, proud muscle gut finalized its shape, heavily blanketed by a dense forest of dark chest hair and a thick treasure trail.

“That’s the stuff.” Mr. Richard’s muttered running his other hand along their hairy stomach, “Real men ain’t smooth.”

The transformation climbed into their chests. Their pectorals collided and swelled dramatically, expanding into two heavy, dense slabs of rock-hard muscle and jiggling fat that rested heavily atop their new gut. It was meatier and wider than anything either youth had ever possessed, completely covered in a rugged mat of coarse hair.

"You're lookin' good," Mr. Richards praised, his voice echoing in their ears. "So close, boys. Well, shouldn't really call you 'boys' anymore."

Everything from the neck down was now a singular, towering, powerhouse of a man. Only their two distinct heads remained, frantically looking at one another in sheer terror.

"Wh-what are you doing to us...?"

"Please, just turn us back..."

"No tears now, c'mon," Mr. Richards smirked, reaching up to pinch one of their heavy, shared nipples. A sharp, shameful moan erupted from both mouths simultaneously. "You're about to be a real man for the first time in your sorry lives. And when I'm done, you'll never know anythin' different."

"Wait! Don't!"

Mr. Richards grabbed both of their heads and forced them together.

A final, muffled cry filled the room as their facial structures dissolved into one another. Their youthful features melted away; their hair fell out completely, leaving a smooth, bald head. The nose widened and flattened into a rugged profile, while a dense, perfectly trimmed beard sprouted across a heavy, square jawline. Youthful eyes shifted, taking on the heavy, weathered look of a man who had spent forty years working under the blistering sun. Their neck thickened into a massive column of muscle, and their skin darkened into a leathery, tanned complexion.

Then, absolute silence fell over the room.

The only sound was the deep, heavy breathing of the massive, lumbering man sitting on the floor, sweat glistening across his newly forged muscles, thick hair, and heavy gut.

Mr. Richards smirked, placing a heavy hand on the bald head. "How's it feel, Chuck?"

The name echoed through the shambles of what used to be Liam and John. Their old memories were scattered, disorganized, and rapidly fading into irrelevance. Who were they? It didn't matter. Chuck was here now. Chuck was strong. Chuck was a real man. He knew exactly who he was. A stupid, satisfied grin spread across his heavy, bearded face.

"Fuck, boss..." Chuck's new, booming baritone voice rumbled in his chest, a sound that made Mr. Richards smile with professional pride. "Can you finish me off?"

"Not until you finish the job," Mr. Richards said, letting go of Chuck's manhood and stepping back. "Got it?"

"Guess that's fair." Chuck grunted, easily pushing his massive, heavy frame off the floor with his bulky arms. "Alright, let's get to it."

Chuck moved with absolute efficiency. He carried three times the weight Liam and John ever could, moving boxes and heavy furniture like they were made of cardboard. He was a real man, and real men knew that if you wanted your reward, you had to put in the honest work first.

As he hauled a massive oak dresser toward the master bedroom, the front door clicked open. Steve walked in, holding a cold twenty-four pack of beer. He stopped dead in his tracks, looking up at the towering, bald, bearded laborer.

"Oh, hey... are you one of my dad's friends?" Steve asked, blinking in confusion. "I'm Steve."

"Chuck," the big man rumbled, offering a brief, respectful nod.

"Thanks for coming by to help," Steve said, looking around the room with a puzzled frown. "Uh... have you seen my friends? Liam and John? I finally brought the beers."

Chuck looked down at the cold cases, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his rugged face.

"Can't say I have," Chuck rumbled, wiping a bead of sweat from his thick brow. "But I'll definitely take one of them beers."

You woke up to the sound of footsteps against the hardwood flooring. Your head was pulsing with pain and the morning light burned your eyes when you tried to open them. All you could make out was the silhouettes of three guys across the room from you.

You tried to get up, but thick ropes restrained your hands and feet to the chair you were sitting on.

"What the hell?" You groaned.

You managed to open your eyes enough to see properly. Two of your frat bros were stood across the room talking to some man you didn't recognize, even weirder was the fact that the man was completely naked.

The more information you gathered, the stranger your situation got. Why were you tied up, who's the naked stranger, what happened last night. Your mind started to race.

You got bits and pieces of memories from the night before. You remember it being a graduation party for the frat, but all you could recall was that you started drinking and socializing before waking up here.

Your attention was redirected when you noticed the mysterious man started to touch your frat bros, and in, like, a gay way. He was feeling up their bodies like he was appreciating a piece of art. That was when things seriously got weird. Your frat bros started to grow as the man touched them. Their shirts tightened around their arms and chest, causing the fabric to strain before ripping open. Their already strong bodies looked even more jacked than ever, with a thick coating of hair covering their chests and stomachs, which was weird given the fact that you knew they shaved often.

Your heart started to beat out of your chest, this had to be a dream, right? How could they not react to their bodies growing out of their clothes in the span of mere seconds. They just stood there with blank expressions.

It didn't stop there though, the man kept shaping them like they were an art project for him. You watched as your 20 something year olds frat bros start to go grey. Their dark brown hair became salt and pepper as they both start to go bald. One of them had his hairline recede back further and further until there's nothing but a short band of hair around the back of his head while the other had his hair thin on top, just on the cusp of balding. It wasn't just the hair either, their faces wrinkled and weathered as if they'd lived 30 years in the span of seconds. All topped off by greying facial hair covering their softer jawlines.

They looked older than your own father. That's when it came back to you, what happened last night. An older guy walked into the party, he stood out like a sore thumb, being around your dad's age in a house full of 20 year olds. You're not gay or anything, but even you could admit this man was handsome. Short grey hair with a groomed mustache and wearing some expensive looking business casual clothes. A real silver fox. You chatted with him for a bit, sharing a drink with him, but that's as far as you could recall.

Your frat bros continued to transform. Their defined abs swelled into beer bellies and their flat asses fattened into two perky globes that quickly ripped through their shorts. Their hairy round bellies contrasted with the chiselled body of the man transforming them.

The man stepped back for a moment, as if to admire his own work. He then pushed the two transformed frat bros together, snapping them out of their trance. You expected shock or fear to be their first reactions, but you couldn't be further from the truth. The two frat bros embraced, intently staring at each other for a moment before locking lips. One of them reached down and started groping the other man's cock and one wrapped his man hands around the other man's ass.

The older man started feeling up the transformed frat bros as they made out with each other. He then turned to face you, the first time he did so since you woke up.

Your jaw dropped as you realized it's the silver fox you met the night before, just without his fancy clothes on. He grabbed one of the frat bros by the cock while maintaining eye contact with you, as if to taunt you.

By the morning of their date, Logan barely recognized himself in the mirror.

His mustache had grown dark and full along his upper lip, unmistakable, shading his once sharp, features into something broader, warmer, and undeniably Latino. He ran a hand across it, feeling the coarse hairs tickle his fingers, and a flush rose to his cheeks—not from embarrassment, exactly, but from the undeniable realization that he was no longer the man he had been.

His hair on his head and chest had darkened further. Dark curls sprawled across his chest, knotting toward his shoulders, down his arms, and even tracing the lines of his back where he couldn’t easily see.

He flexed in the mirror, and the muscles he had already noticed thickening at the gym now seemed almost exaggerated, pressing under the dense, dark hair that covered them.

Logan’s eyes dropped instinctively, catching the soft folds of his foreskin where it rested naturally, the head of his cock hidden beneath. The skin had darkened further as well.

"¿Cómo me ha pasado esto?" he whispered under his breath, almost laughing at the strangeness of it He no longer thought in English first. Spanish was instinctive.

How had his body, his voice, even his thoughts reshaped themselves without warning?

He was darker, broader, hairier, and undeniably more masculine in a way he had never imagined for himself.

And despite the panic still pricking at the edges of his mind, Logan couldn’t deny a strange, reluctant anticipation. He was no longer the blond, smooth, controlled model he had once been.

He was something else entirely.

This was the body he was bringing to meet Diego.

A flicker of nerves ran through him.

He reached for the short-sleeve button-down, light fabric, pale color, something that used to flatter him. When he pulled it on, the shirt strained subtly across his shoulders and chest, the buttons sitting tighter than they ever had before.

Dark curls spilled out at the open collar, tracing the deep line between his pecs. His fingers hovering over the next button, then left it undone, trying to hide what he was becoming felt pointless now.

His arms were thick with muscle, forearms covered in dark hair. He rolled his shoulders once, watching the fabric pull and settle over his frame, feeling the weight of his body in a new, grounded way.

The shorts fit easily once. Now, when he stepped into them and tugged them up over his hips, the fabric hugged his thighs, outlining the thick muscle there. Dark hair spread across his legs in a way that felt both foreign and oddly right. He turned sideways, studying the shape he cut now: solid, powerful, unmistakably changed.

He grabbed his bag, hesitated once more at the mirror, then squared his shoulders and headed out to meet Diego.

***

They chose a little panadería-café tucked between a laundromat and a taquería, its windows fogged with the warmth of ovens and the sweet, yeasty smell of bread. Papel picado fluttered along the ceiling. Mexican Cumbia hummed softly from a speaker behind the counter.

Logan hesitated just inside the door, but he didn’t stand out. The cashier smiled at him.

Diego was already there, seated at a small table by the window, a cup of coffee in one hand and a concha in the other.

Logan saw him and the air shifted, like gravity changing direction. Diego looked smaller than Logan remembered. Narrower shoulders. Slim arms. Dark eyes that lifted when he noticed Logan, widening just a little.

Logan’s chest tightened.

Diego smiled when Logan reached the table. Not shy or surprised.

“You made it,” Diego said.

“Yeah,” Logan’s voice came out lower than he expected, rich and steady, and when he sat, the table felt small.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Steam curled up from Diego’s coffee. Outside, a bus rumbled past. Inside, Logan felt the weight of his own presence settle into the space like something newly claimed.

Diego watched him with quiet interest, eyes tracing Logan’s chest, and the dark hair visible at his collar.

The café filled and emptied around them, students ducked in for pastries, families stopped by for bread to take home, and the low murmur of Spanish drifted constantly through the warm air.

It almost felt normal.

Logan relaxed into his chair, one broad arm resting against the small round table, fingers circling his cup. Just another guy at a neighborhood café, killing time over coffee and pastries.

His forearm was thick, dark hair curling, too big for the cup he was holding. His skin was deeper in tone than he remembered and Logan found himself answering questions easily, his words slipping into Spanish without effort. Diego laughed along, shaking his head, eyes bright.

Diego was talking about one of his professors, but Logan barely heard him.

Logan took a sip of his latte. Without thinking, he swept his tongue across his upper lip to catch the foam, and felt the rough brush of his mustache.

His mustache.

He suddenly became aware of the weight of his jaw, the dark hair shadowing his face, the broad span of his shoulders in that small café chair.

He looked back at Diego, who had gone quiet, watching him with that same calm, attentive expression.

Logan forced a small smile in the awkward pause.

“You’ve got, hold on,” Diego said.

Before Logan could react, Diego leaned in and reached out, his warm fingers brushing Logan’s chest through the open V of his shirt. Carefully, Diego plucked a crumb from the thick curls there, pausing for half a heartbeat longer than necessary.

The touch wasn’t dramatic. It was light, casual even.

Diego glanced up at him, eyes meeting Logan’s, and with a small, playful smile, Diego flicked the crumb into his mouth.

“Yummy,” Diego said lightly.

And Logan realized that something between them had opened, like a door inside him that he hadn’t known was even there.

Diego’s fingers retreated slowly back to his cup. But instead of resuming the conversation right away, he glanced at Logan’s chest again, at the dark curls spilling from the open collar.

“You know…” he said, voice lower now. “I’ve kind of wanted to do that for a while.”

Logan looked at him. “Do what?”

Diego made a small, almost shy gesture in the air between them. “Touch your hairy chest.”

Heat rose up Logan’s neck and into his face. He shifted slightly in his chair.

“It’s just like in your sketches.”

“I know.” Diego smiled softly. “I drew it.”

Logan swallowed. For a moment he couldn’t quite meet Diego’s eyes. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers flexing unconsciously.

“I—” Logan stopped, then tried again. “I think… part of me really wants you to feel it.”

Diego’s eyebrows lifted, surprise flickering across his face. Logan’s heart thudded in his chest.

They sat there like that for a moment, the café humming gently around them.

Diego finished his coffee, brushed a few crumbs from his fingers, then looked up at Logan with that same steady, thoughtful calm.

“If you want, my place is just on the edge of campus,” he said. “It’s quieter.”

Logan nodded a little too quickly, then caught himself and smiled, trying to look composed. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

At the counter, they thanked the staff in Spanish. The words warm and natural in Logan’s mouth. The cashier smiled back, calling out a friendly farewell that made him feel, unexpectedly, at home.

Outside, the late afternoon sun washed the sidewalk in gold. They walked side by side, close enough that Logan could feel the faint brush of Diego’s sleeve now and then. Each light touch sent a quiet current through him, an awareness of his own size and solidity, the dark hair on his arms catching as he moved.

He caught his reflection in a storefront window: broader, darker. A big, hairy man walking with easy confidence through a neighborhood that seemed to recognize him without question.

They reached Diego’s apartment in no time, a compact building tucked behind a row of student housing, cozy and cluttered with personality.

The apartment door opened to reveal walls lined with sketches from the art class: studies of hands, torsos, faces, and, in the corner, a few unmistakable renderings of Logan himself. Each one showed a slightly different version, progressively darker, hairier, more muscular.

They barely made it inside before the first pieces of clothing started to go. Shoes and shirts first.

Logan’s fingers traced the planes of his own chest, across thick curls that now covered him from collarbone to stomach.

Diego was equally eager, eyes dark, fingers brushing over Logan’s biceps and forearms, lingering on the dense hair that now traced the contours of Logan’s shoulders. Every touch sparked a low, thrilling tension in Logan, making him acutely aware of how big he had become, how strong. His own weight pressed subtly into Diego when he leaned forward, his arms embraced the smaller man, and it felt intoxicating.

His shorts tented uncomfortably, his uncut cock demanding attention, painfully hard, and insistent. Every heartbeat made him aware of it, of the weight, the growth, the readiness that had no outlet yet.

He wanted release, yes, but more than that he wanted to be felt, his hair, his muscles, the darkened skin.

Diego mirrored Logan’s eagerness, tracing the ridges of Logan’s biceps, the curve of his shoulders, the thick hair along his chest. Logan groaned softly, a low, deep sound that vibrated against Diego’s frame.

Every brush of skin, every press of hands against his muscles, drove Logan further into the realization that he wasn’t himself anymore. He was something larger, heavier, darker, and with that, the pull to control, to dominate, became nearly irresistible.

Diego’s small, eager movements only stoked the fire further.

Logan’s dark eyes met Diego’s, and with a voice thick and low, he asked, “¿Dónde…?”—where?—his words rolling off his tongue.

Diego’s gaze flicked, dark and knowing, a small, teasing smile curving his lips. “Vamos,” he said, taking Logan’s hand gently but firmly. “This way.”

The walk to the bedroom was charged. Clothes fell away in an unspoken rhythm: Diego’s belt first, then his pants, Logan shedding the last barriers of fabric that still confined him—shorts, briefs, the last pieces that contained the swell of his body.

At the foot of the bed, Diego’s dark eyes widened for just a fraction of a second as he reached down, fingers brushing against the thick, dark hair that covered Logan’s abdomen. And then…

“¡Dios!”

Diego’s fingers brushed against Logan’s uncut cock, thick and dark, the skin still clinging tightly to the swollen head, the foreskin itself teasingly loose yet insistent on hiding the head, despite the hard length.

The sight of it, the power, the size, the sheer presence of it, made Logan’s chest rise and fall. His desire coiled tighter, a knot of heat and need.

Diego leaned closer, tracing the wide mat of hair down Logan’s abs, following the way it framed the thick muscles and darkened skin.

“Así…” Diego murmured softly, voice low, eyes locked on Logan’s cock with an intensity that made the air around them feel thick and heavy. “Así es perfecto.”

Logan’s mind reeled, overwhelmed by the sensation of being seen: the hair, the muscle, the dark, uncut cock, the body that was no longer the clean-cut blond man he had once been.

Logan’s own hands, large and heavy, drifted over Diego’s smooth body, tracing the curve of his shoulders, the flat planes of his chest.

Diego was uncut too. His cock was smaller, more modest, but familiar in its own way, and Logan couldn’t help the rush of pride and desire that swelled through him at the sight. It was a reminder he wasn’t alone in this. Other men, Latino men, were uncut too.

Diego’s chest was mostly smooth, with just a small patch of hair over the sternum, and the contrast against Logan’s thickly muscled, dark, and hairy torso made the difference between them all the more intense.

Logan realized he wasn’t just ready for release—he was ready to dominate, ready to claim Diego.

Logan’s thick erection, free from his briefs, jutted out in front of him. The weight of it, the dark sheen of the skin, the way the foreskin still clung to the swollen head, it all made him proud.

“Pull it back,” Logan said, his voice low but commanding.

Diego’s eyes met his, a tiny, eager smile curving his lips. “Sí,” he said simply. His fingers wrapped around the shaft, then eased the foreskin back, revealing more of the dark head, the skin smooth under his touch.

The sight, and the power of control, made Logan’s body hum with need. He stepped closer, letting the sheer size of his chest and arms press lightly against Diego’s lean frame, enjoying the sensation of dominance, of the subtle heat of their bodies so close together.

Diego’s hands moved along Logan’s thick, dark shaft. The smaller man’s touch quickly gained confidence, stroking in a rhythm that sent heat spiraling through Logan’s body.

Logan’s thick muscles tensed as his own hands roamed over his chest, arms, and shoulders, feeling the dense curls of hair between his fingers, savoring every ridge, every line.

Each stroke and slide of Diego’s hand drove Logan higher, igniting a fire he could barely contain.

He moaned softly at first, low, guttural, and then in Spanish, words slipping out without conscious thought: “Más… más fuerte…”

His voice, thick with desire and lust.

Logan’s size, pressing against Diego’s smaller frame, the weight of his chest over Diego’s lean torso. Logan’s cock, long, thick, and uncut, pulsed painfully with need. Every stroke, every glance, every slight shift of Diego’s body made it throb, aching with urgency and impossibility.

Logan tried to focus on the sensations of Diego’s hand. His breath came in harsh pants, chest rising and falling, hairy muscles flexing as he shifted slightly, trying to ground himself in all the overwhelming sensations.

With a sharp inhale, Logan grabbed Diego’s wrist gently but firmly, halting his motions.

“¡Para!” he breathed, voice strained, low, urgent. “Cama,” Logan said, his words clipped but commanding. He stepped aside, letting the smaller man understand exactly what he meant.

“Acostado. Ahora.” Get in bed.

Diego didn’t hesitate, responding to Logan’s command with a mixture of eagerness and curiosity.

The room felt electric, heavy with anticipation.

Logan’s thick, throbbing cock pulsed in front of him, straining with need. He could feel the weight of his own body, the sheer breadth of his shoulders and chest, pressing toward Diego even as he stood. Every fiber of him screamed to dominate, to claim, to assert the power his transformation had given him, and he realized with a jolt that it wasn’t just desire—this was an assertion of himself, a physical, undeniable statement of who he had become.

Diego reached the bed, lying down as instructed, eyes dark and watching, waiting.

Logan’s hands drifted over his own muscles one last time, feeling the hair, solidity of his frame, before he stepped closer, ready to take the moment, fully, with the smaller man who had dared to draw him.

Logan climbed on top of Diego, the moment he has long been waiting for, the smaller man pinned beneath him.

Diego seems to relish the moment too. The smaller man’s hands rose instinctively, brushing over Logan’s thick, hairy chest, and Logan saw a flicker of exhilaration, a reflection of the same hunger he felt.

Logan’s thick, uncut cock throbbed sharply, heavy and pulsing between them. The sensation of dominance—the control of space, the press of his body against Diego’s—was intoxicating.

For Logan, the feeling of being this large, this strong, with Diego’s body responding to every shift and press, was almost overwhelming.

And yet, it was exactly what he had been waiting for: to pin, to hold, to dominate.

“¿El lubricante…?” Logan murmured in Spanish, voice low and rough, almost a growl. “Ponlo tú… tú lo haces.”

Diego’s hands moved instinctively, reaching for the small bottle on the nightstand, sliding the cap off with a quiet click.

Logan groaned softly as Diego’s fingers spread the slick substance over his thick, dark shaft. His cock pulsed under the touch, the foreskin sliding slightly over the swollen head, teasing and sensitive.

“Sí… así,” Logan murmured, voice husky, hand brushing against Diego’s arm, his eyes dark and fixed on him. “No puedo esperar… quiero estar dentro… y sé que tú también lo quieres.”

Diego’s small, eager smile told him everything he needed to know. The way Diego’s hips shifted slightly, pressing up in anticipation, the quiver of his body beneath Logan, the glint of desire in his eyes.

Logan brought the smaller man’s legs over his shoulders, feeling the lean weight of Diego’s thighs braced against his own chest, the smooth skin warm beneath his hands. Logan’s thick, dark, uncut cock pulsed in anticipation as it hovered over Diego’s slick, ready ass.

With a slow, deliberate press, Logan slid himself inside, the tight heat enveloping him in a way that was both shocking and thrilling. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, a low moan escaped his lips in Spanish as waves of sensation tore through him. It was his first time experiencing penetration with an uncut cock.

Diego gasped beneath him, the smooth rise and fall of his chest pressing against Logan’s, Diego’s hands gripping his broad, hairy shoulders tightly. His moans matched Logan’s in Spanish, raw and urgent, carrying a rhythm that sent shivers down Logan’s spine.

Logan’s hands roamed over Diego, fingers tracing the subtle patch of chest hair, pressing against taut abs, caressing the small ridges of muscle. He could feel his own pulse in the throbbing length of his cock, the foreskin sliding over the sensitive head, making every movement sharper, more consuming.

Diego responded in kind, moving his hips up, sending fresh sparks of pleasure shooting through both of them. His gasps, soft cries, and moans in Spanish filled the room, mixing with Logan’s own groans in a dizzying symphony of desire.

Logan’s body quivered as he pressed down, relishing the control, the domination. His first time with another man, his first time experiencing sex with an uncut cock, and the new, thick heat of Diego beneath him.

Diego’s hands roamed too, exploring Logan’s hairy muscles, fingers sinking into the dense curls across his chest and shoulders. He tugged at the thick hair on Logan’s muscular pecs, kneading then, gripping fistfuls and pulling gently, eliciting low, guttural groans that rumbled from deep in Logan’s chest.

Logan pressed his lips to Diego’s, kissing him with a fierce, insistent hunger, tongue tracing, teeth gently grazing. The smaller man gasped, shivering under the press of Logan’s chest and the weight of his body.

Logan’s thick mustache brushed against Diego’s neck as he moved his face along, sending small, electrifying chills through the sensitive skin. The contrast of coarse hair against the smooth warmth of Diego’s skin made every touch sharp, thrilling, and dangerously arousing.

Diego arched against him, moaning in Spanish, hands clenching and tugging, exploring every ridge of Logan’s muscular frame, the scent of sweat and sex thick in the air.

Logan’s rhythm didn’t falter—steady, powerful, intimate—each thrust pushing deeper, pressing harder, claiming the smaller man beneath him while simultaneously losing himself to the incredible sensations of heat, friction, and the electric intimacy of their bodies entwined.

Every movement, every gasp, every brush of mustache against skin intensified the tension, driving Logan further into a frenzy of desire, dominance, and ecstatic surrender.

The room seemed to shrink around them, every creak of the bed, every slick glide of skin, every moan and shiver a symphony of heat and raw, unfiltered pleasure that consumed them both.

Time seemed to stretch, each second magnified, every motion an explosion of sensation. Logan’s mind swirled with shock, awe, and overwhelming pleasure. He had been a stranger to this world, to these sensations, to the sheer intensity of sex with another man, and now he was immersed, consumed, completely alive in the press of Diego beneath him.

Logan’s body trembled as the pressure inside him built. Diego’s gasps and moans in Spanish filled his ears, mingling with the deep, guttural sounds that escaped from Logan’s own chest.

Diego shivered beneath him, his hips twitching, his moans sharper, and Logan could feel the smaller man’s body convulsing with the height of his own pleasure.

Logan wasn’t finished.

Using the full weight and strength of his hairy, muscular body, he rolled them over in one fluid motion.

Suddenly, Diego was perched on top, chest pressed against Logan’s, legs straddling him, while Logan’s thick shaft was still buried deep inside him.

The change in position sent a fresh thrill coursing through Logan, his cock pulsing insistently, while the view of Diego’s lean, eager body hovering above him sent another rush of desire through his veins.

Diego’s eyes shone with excitement.

“Ahora… sobre mi pecho,” Logan breathed in Spanish, voice thick and low, chest rising and falling under the weight of both of them, hair matted with sweat.

His dense, dark chest hair rippled under his own pulse, a thick, tactile reminder of how far his body had changed, of the raw masculinity he now embodied.

Diego didn’t hesitate. With a small, eager gasp, he let go, hot streams of cum spurting over Logan’s thick, dark chest hair.

Logan, feeling the shuddering tremor of Diego above him, relished every pulse. He could feel every shot, every line of Diego’s cum soaking into the curls of hair on his chest and abs, sending new pulses of erotic electricity through his still-throbbing cock.

Logan shivered at the sensation, the warm, wet release coating his chest hair, trickling down along his sculpted torso. He pressed back against Diego, letting the friction of his cock mix with the sticky, hot fluid covering his body, moaning in Spanish as he reveled in it.

Logan’s body seemed to ignite at once, and with a low, shuddering groan, he came, filling Diego up with his hot, thick seed. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pleasure, dominance, and raw masculine power.

Gasping, Diego pressed close, his hands resting on Logan’s hairy shoulders for balance.

Logan let himself sink into the feeling of release, eyes closing for a moment as he absorbed the intimacy, the power, the raw connection between them.

Diego sagged against Logan’s wide, hairy chest, breath coming in uneven pants, sweat clinging to his skin. Logan’s strong arms wrapped around him instinctively, holding him close, the weight of the smaller man pressing into the curve of his biceps and across his chest.

The room was thick with the scent of sex and sweat, the heat of their combined bodies, the rhythm of heartbeats and moans echoing off the walls.

Logan’s wet, hairy chest rose and fell as he held Diego, reveling in the warmth and weight, the sensation of his uncut cock still deep inside, and the wet, sticky evidence of Diego’s climax coating his thick, dark chest hair.

Logan’s cock gradually softened, slipping free from Diego’s warm, tight heat, the sudden release leaving a gentle ache in its wake. He shifted slightly so that he could cradle Diego more comfortably, their bodies molding together naturally.

Diego nuzzled into the dense curls of Logan’s chest hair, fingers brushing over the ridges of muscle and the thick, dark hair, as if memorizing the contours that had been built, grown, and transformed over the past weeks.

Logan pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Diego’s head, feeling the heat of his skin, and the lingering pulse of desire.

Diego made a small, satisfied noise in response, curling closer, molding against Logan’s frame.

Logan’s deep, low voice murmured in Spanish, soft, affectionate, almost reverent: “Estás bien… estás conmigo.”

Diego’s smaller hands tangled in the thick curls of Logan’s chest hair, still damp.

The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside the window and the muted creak of the bed as they shifted slightly against each other.

Finally, Diego broke the silence, voice low and hesitant but carrying a mischievous lilt. “Nunca… nunca pensé que funcionara,” he admitted, curling his fingers lightly through Logan’s chest hair. “Compré… un papel y unos lápices… ‘mágicos’… de un sitio raro… The Flesh Lab… pero cuando vi… tu prepucio… crecer… supe que eran reales.”

Logan froze for a moment, forehead pressed against Diego’s, trying to process the words. His mind whirled with disbelief. Magic paper? Pencils? Some strange, online site? And yet, as he traced the outline of his own body, the thick hair, the darkened skin, the full uncut cock, he could feel the undeniable truth of it. Somehow, Diego’s drawings had changed him.

A shiver of arousal ran through Logan at the thought. Some strange, impossible force had transformed him into the dark, hairy, muscular man he had become.

The very idea that his body had been molded by Diego’s hands, his imagination, and the arcane tools he’d purchased made Logan’s cock pulse again, thick and hard, pressing insistently against Diego’s thigh, amplified by the knowledge that his very being had shifted in response to Diego’s desires.

Logan’s voice came out thick and low, still in Spanish, trembling with excitement and disbelief. “¿Tú… hiciste esto?”

Diego shrugged lightly, brushing his fingers against Logan 's shoulder. “Solo dibujé… solo imaginé… pero funcionó. Te cambió… te hizo… este hombre.”

Logan’s mind raced, a heady mixture of lust, wonder, and somehow pride. He let his hands roam over Diego’s body again, over lean arms, across Diego’s small patch of chest hair. “Y… me gusta,” he whispered, voice husky, the arousal from earlier still alive and building, “Me gusta lo que soy ahora… lo que… tú hiciste.”

Diego chuckled, pressing his forehead to Logan’s again. “Y yo… nunca pensé que vería algo así… que cambiarías tanto.”

Logan’s chest rose and fell, warmth spreading through him, cock pressing insistently against Diego. He’d become someone new, someone alive, someone wholly different, and he had Diego, the strange, brilliant, mischievous artist, to thank.

That thought sent another tremor of heat and need rippling through him, reminding him that the night wasn’t over, and neither was the play between artistic liberty, desire, and the body that now fully belonged to him.

My favorite stories of yours are the ones where some poor guy is in the wrong place at the wrong time and ends up becoming a cocky bastard (Gridirion Brew, Make Sense, Gone Fishing).

So how about a story about a needy twink looking for a cocky, dominant top… and a poor, recently engaged guy — studious, respectfull, devoted to his beautiful fiancée, — who crosses paths with the wrong person at the wrong time.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, buddy,” Adam slowly shut the door to his best man's room. “Drink some water before you pass out this time.”

“Yeah, yeah,” somebody groaned from inside. “You’re about to be someone’s husband and still sound like my mom.”

Adam shook his head, smiling as he headed toward the elevators. His bachelor party had turned into exactly what he expected: too much drinking, too much yelling, and the people he loved most acting like complete idiots together... He’d loved every second of it.

“Wouldn’t trade those idiots for anything,” Adam muttered as he stepped into the elevator, scrolling through reels Claire had sent him.

The doors had barely started closing before hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway.

“Wait! Hold it!”

“Got you.” Adam stuck his arm out automatically.

“Oh, thank god,” the stranger breathed, his eyes lighting up the moment he saw Adam. “You seriously just saved my evening. I was starting to think I’d have to go upstairs alone.”

Adam laughed awkwardly, “I think you might’ve misunderstood something, I’m not looking for…”

“Shhhhh.” The guy stepped closer. “That’s okay. You’re gonna make me feel really fucking good tonight, stud.”

Adam blinked. “What?”

“Name's Nico,” he said lazily. “Don’t ruin this for me.”

Before Adam could answer, Nico leaned forward and kissed him. Adam's hands came up to shove him away, but he froze.

“I… sorry, I think you got the wrong...”

Then Adam looked at him again, words catching in his throat. His eyes dropped to Nico’s ass in those tight black jeans.

"You like?"

“Oh...” Adam swallowed hard. “No, I... I shouldn’t…” His thoughts raced. “I’m not into guys. I’m getting married…”

“Mhm.” Nico stepped closer again. “Go ahead, baby.”

“Oh fuck…” Adam panted suddenly as his hand grabbed a fistful of Nico’s ass.

Nico smiled instantly. “There you go.”

Nico's hands slipped beneath Adam’s shirt, cool palms dragging over his stomach and chest before squeezing a growing pec. Adam’s breath caught instantly, the kiss turning rougher before he even realized it.

“Mmm… fuck,” Nico sighed against his mouth.

Adam groaned, fingers kneading the firm curve of Nico’s ass, while rough stubble grew along his jaw with every slow squeeze.

“You’re really into this now.”

“No… Nico, I can’t…” Adam broke away, face flushed, hands still on Nico's ass. “Jesus Christ… I’m getting married…”

“Shhhh.” Nico smirked, sliding his hands up Adam's shirt and through the hair spreading across his chest, “Oh my god,” Nico breathed. “You feel so fucking good already.”

“Fuck…” Adam gripped his ass harder as nails scratched down his back. “I need dis…” The words hit his ears wrong. “No… what de hell...?”

"Follow me, big guy."

And he did. The second the elevator doors opened, Adam followed. Right to Nico's room. The guilt twisted hard through his stomach.

“Claire...” Adam shuddered. “Can never know... about dis… fuck… she can’t…”

"Oh she never will." Nico giggled and pulled Adam into his hotel room.

Clothes were quickly discarded and Adam groaned as Nico's smooth bare skin pressed against his increasingly bulkier, hairier, and sweatier form.

“Fuck…” Nico’s hands slid over the thickening muscle in Adam’s arms, “I needed a man like you tonight.” He buried his face against Adam’s increasingly hairier pit and inhaled. “Mmm… you smell incredible.”

With a grunt, he shoved Nico against a wall, hand wrapping around his bare ass. Warm skin flexed beneath his palm, impossibly soft without the denim in the way... smooth, firm, and perfect in a way Adam had never thought about another man's ass before.

“Oh fuck…” Adam groaned shakily against Nico’s throat. “Ya Allah… you're drivin' me crazy…”

Nico smiled lazily while grinding up against him. “Mmm. Been thinking about you fucking me since the elevator…”

The words hit Adam hard and Claire’s face flashed through his mind again... Unaware her fiancé was naked in a hotel room with another man. The guilt swelled, but Adam still shoved Nico onto the mattress.

“Yeah…” Adam breathed heavily. “You... like dis? You want dis?" Adam climbed over him, their eyes locking as dark brown rings spread slowly through Adam’s blue irises.

“Fuck…” Nico's hands slid across Adam’s sweaty, hairier pecs, “That’s it… come here, big guy…”

Nico shifted and rolled onto his front, raising his bare ass against Adam's throbbing cock. Adam’s breathing turned ragged, stomach twisting hard. He wasn't this kind of man... He was Claire's dependable fiancé. Her best friend. Her future husband... Not the man currently grinding his cheating cock against another man’s ass.

“Fuck…” Adam tightened his grip on Nico’s hips. “Dis isn’t me… 'uqsim, hadha lays 'ana." Adam froze... that language... he didn't...

"Huh? Wh... fuck... Wh-what did you say?" Nico smirked and looked over his shoulder, "Oh fuck..."

Adam felt it before he saw it. His cock throbbed and grew to a size beyond anything Adam ever possessed. His cock head emerging from a sheath of foreskin he knew shouldn't be there.

"Dere is no way..." He whispered, "It's so..." He moaned as he grew another inch, cock now pressing against Nico's tight entrance.

"Please... I need it." Nico begged, "It's all I need tonight."

Adam gasped suddenly as his pecs filled with muscle. And as they did, his new chest hairs suddenly curled longer and darkened toward black against his heavier muscle.

“Fuck…” Claire used to fall asleep with her head against his lean chest. But these heavier pecs were damp with sweat and dark curling hair now, nothing like the body she loved. “Ya Allah… look at dis… it just keeps gettin’ thicker…”

“Mmm…” Nico moaned, glancing back at him.

“Oh fuck… what’s dat smell?” Adam grimaced.

“That's… you big guy."

“Mustaheel…” Adam muttered, lifting an arm and grimacing at the thick musk clinging to his sweat-soaked, matted pit hair, “Y-you like dis…?”

"Fuck… yeah. Smell like a real man… mmm, so fucking hot…" Nico whimpered.

Adam shuddered hard at the words. Claire used to steal his hoodies because they smelled clean and comforting. She would’ve recoiled from this heavy masculine musk pouring off him now.

"You're perfect..." Nico groaned, pressing his ass against Adam's erection, "Just... fuck me already."

“Wallah…” Adam nearly obliged, but Claire’s smile flashed suddenly through his mind, "What de fuck is wrong wit me?”

He dragged a shaking hand through his hair, catching on something unfamiliar along his cheek. He touched his jaw again instinctively and recoiled. Stubble. Thick, perfect stubble. He'd always joke about never being able to grow a real beard. Claire always told him she loved his clean-shaven look.

"How de fuck....?" He watched as dark hair thickened across swelling forearms and olive blotches crept slowly over pale skin, "Wallah?"

The mirror caught him briefly and he froze. Damp blond hair darkened toward black while brown swallowed the blue in his eyes. Those eyes Claire adored. The hair she loved threading through her fingers.

"I... I want you inside me..." Nico moaned, "J-just..."

Adam looked down and back to the mirror. The man staring back at him still carried traces of Adam in places, but not enough. Not enough for his friends or best man to recognize him. Barely enough for Claire. Even his own mother would hesitate… And panic rose in his chest. He just wanted to go back downstairs, back to his friends, back to the man Claire loved, back to being Adam again. Because right now, Adam didn’t feel like Adam anymore.

He grunted suddenly before he could even process that thought. His cock leaked as a low groan vibrated deep through his chest before he could stop it.

“Ya Allah…” His rough hands spread Nico’s ass cheeks. “You’re gonna take all dis for me, yeah?” The words hadn’t felt chosen. Neither had the smug grin slowly pulling across his face while his heavier body settled more naturally over Nico.

“Mmm… there you are...” Nico whispered softly, sounding relieved.

He couldn't hold back any longer. With a guttural growl, he buried his cock deep into Nico's ass. The twink let out a choked cry, back arching sharply as he was impaled.

Thrust.

Dense muscle any gym bro would be proud of settled over him in all the right places. Stronger hands pinned Nico down instinctively while his pace roughened.

“Fuck… ya Allah…” He stared down at himself breathlessly. “Bro… look at dese… fuck… Havin’ a body like dis feels so fuckin' good…”

“Mmm… trust me...” Nico whimpered. “Feels even better underneath you.”

Thrust.

Warm olive swallowed the last pale traces across his skin while heavy musk and cheap cologne clung permanently to his body.

“Mmm… such a slut... for my scent.” He grunted.

“Fuck…” Nico whimpered. “I wanna bury my face in your pits so bad…”

Thrust.

The last traces of his old facial features disappeared forever behind the thick beard, dark brown eyes, and a permanent cocky grin devoid of his usual warmth.

“Mmm… dat’s right,” He smirked when Nico stared up at him breathlessly. “Keep lookin’ at me like dat while I fuck you…”

Thrust.

“Wh-what’s your name, big guy…?”

“Kareem,” he answered immediately.

“Mhmm… that name...is... always popular…”

“Den scream it for me."

Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.

Kareem slapped Nico's jiggling ass, “Mmm… dat’s right, habibi… take it,” he groaned smugly, "Fuck... Dis hole was... made for my... fat Arab cock... wasn't it?"

Thrust, thrust, thrust, thrust...

Kareem grunted, pace quickening. The engagement ring felt uncomfortable around his swollen finger, so he instinctively pulled it off and tossed it somewhere in the room.

“Mmm… fuckin' slut…” Kareem groaned, "Ya Allah… look at dis… all dis fuckin’ muscle… you fuckin' love it.” He slowed down, "You want me to finish?" He teased, "Want Kareem to fill you?"

"Pl-please..." Nico moaned into the mattress, "Kareem... oh fuck!"

"Ya Allah… you needed dis dick so bad.” Hands squeezing Nico’s hip harder. “Slut gets one real Arab guy smellin’ like dis on top of him and forgets his own name…”

"Kareem!" Nico moaned, "Kar... Kareem... oh fuck... please..."

Kareem buried himself deep inside Nico's ass, followed by a guttural roar as his cock erupted, flooding Nico's insides with thick, hot seed. 

"Take it all, bitch... fuckin' take it!" he growled, his body shuddering with the force of his climax.

As the last pulses subsided, Kareem collapsed forward, his sweaty chest pressing against Nico. His softening cock still inside Nico. And Kareem's eyes closed.

-------------------

He woke slowly beneath tangled sheets, groaning as dense muscle shifted across his chest and arms. He scratched at the dark hair on his chest, his nose twitching at the scent of sweat, cologne... of him. For a few moments, he stared at his body, processing the sight.

“Ya Allah…” Kareem smirked to himself, “Dat twink ain’t ever recoverin’ from me…”

“Oh, you’re awake.” Nico glanced up from his phone. “Yeah... you're one of my best works yet...”

“What da fuck does dat mean?”

“Nothing.” Nico shrugged casually. “Anyway, you should leave... like now.” The words landed and the larger man froze.

Kareem blinked, sitting up slowly. “W-wait…” Uncertainty cracked faintly through the swagger for the first time. “Where do I go? What should I...?”

“Always the same questions.” Nico smirked, unable to recall the number of times he'd heard them, “I dunno. There’s a gym down the street? Download Grindr? Yeah... You’re hot. Someone’ll take you in.”

“Dat’s it?”

“I don’t really care.”

------------

Kareem stared in the mirror of a public restroom, wresting with the sense that he was supposed to be somewhere else doing something important. But without a phone, wallet, or anything else, he was lost.

But then he caught him. Some twink washing his hands, staring at him. And Kareem knew that look. The lust... A cocky grin spread across Kareem’s face.

“Mmm… you keep lookin’ at me like dat, I’m gonna start thinkin’ you want somethin’.”

The guy flushed immediately. “S-sorry, I just…”

Kareem smiled lazily. Cute. Nervous. Kareem would have him wrapped around his finger easily.

submission - racial tf

Egypt, 1923.

The desert wind howled across the Valley of Kings like the whisper of forgotten ghosts. Fine sand drifted across the excavation site, coating crates, ropes, and exhausted workers beneath a burning copper sky.

Edward Harrow wiped sweat from his brow as he stared down into the newly uncovered stairway.

“Another dead end?” asked Professor Whitmore from above, shielding his eyes beneath a wide linen hat.

Edward shook his head slowly.

“No…” he murmured. “This is different.”

The stone steps descending beneath the sand were untouched. Untouched.

That alone made his pulse quicken.

Most tombs had been looted centuries ago. Broken seals, shattered doors, empty chambers — that was the usual fate of Egypt’s dead kings. But this…

This stairway had remained hidden. Protected. Waiting. Edward grabbed his lantern.

“I’m going down.”

Whitmore frowned immediately. “Alone?”

“I’ll only take a quick look.”

“You said that last time.”

Edward smirked faintly. “And we found a priest’s treasury.”

The older man sighed in defeat. “Ten minutes, Harrow. If you don’t come back up, I’m sending the men after you.”

Edward nodded before beginning his descent. The deeper he went, the cooler the air became. Dust danced in the lantern light. Ancient silence pressed against him from every direction.

Then he saw it. A massive stone door. Still sealed. His breath caught in his throat. Across the black stone, golden hieroglyphs gleamed faintly beneath centuries of dust.

Edward carefully brushed sand aside with trembling fingers. His eyes widened as he translated the symbols aloud.

“Sacred is the resting place of…” He swallowed. “…Neb-Kha-Rê.”

Even speaking the name felt wrong somehow. Beneath it was another inscription that he traduced :

LET THE SLEEPING KING REMAIN UNDISTURBED.

Edward exhaled sharply.

“Good God…”

Behind him, one of the Egyptian workers who had quietly followed him suddenly stepped backward in fear.

“No,” the man whispered in Arabic. “No, effendi… cursed place…”

Edward turned.

“It’s superstition.”

The worker shook his head violently.

“The Black Pharaoh sleeps there.”

Edward almost laughed. Almost. But something about the air inside the corridor unsettled him deeply. The silence felt too heavy. Too aware. Still… discovery outweighed fear. It always had.

“Help me open it.”

Reluctantly, the worker obeyed. With enormous effort, they pushed against the stone seal. Ancient mechanisms groaned somewhere deep inside the walls. Dust exploded into the corridor.

Then— The door shifted. A freezing gust of air burst from the darkness beyond. Edward lifted his lantern. The chamber inside was enormous. Statues of jackal-headed gods lined the walls. Golden treasures glittered beneath centuries of dust. Tall black pillars disappeared into darkness overhead.

And at the center of the room stood a colossal sarcophagus of obsidian and gold. Perfectly untouched. Edward stepped forward slowly, awe replacing all fear.

“My God…” he whispered. “We found him.”

The worker behind him suddenly dropped to his knees.

“Please…” the man begged. “We leave now.”

Edward barely heard him. His eyes were fixed on the sarcophagus. On the carved face of the king resting upon the lid. Even in stone, Neb-Kha-Rê looked powerful.

Proud. Almost alive. Edward approached carefully, raising the lantern closer. The pharaoh’s face was strangely youthful. Strong jaw. Sharp cheekbones. A calm expression frozen in eternal sleep.

Then Edward noticed something else. The eyes. Golden gemstones embedded in the sculpture. And somehow… In the flickering lantern light… They seemed to shine back at him.

The worker fled.

Edward heard his footsteps echo frantically up the corridor.

But Edward remained.

Drawn forward by fascination stronger than reason. He placed one hand against the sarcophagus.

The stone was warm. Warm. His breath stopped. Then a deep rumble shook the chamber. Edward stumbled backward as dust rained from the ceiling. Far behind him, the stone door slammed shut with a deafening crash.

“No—!”

He ran toward it immediately, pushing desperately against the sealed entrance. It would not move. The grinding echo of ancient mechanisms filled the tomb.

Then silence returned. A terrible silence. Edward turned slowly. The chamber had changed. The torches along the walls were burning now. One by one.

Without flame-bearers. Without explanation. Golden light spread across the tomb. And at the center of the chamber… The lid of the sarcophagus began to move. Slowly. Heavier than thunder. Edward backed away in horror.

“No…” he whispered.

The lid slid aside completely.

Darkness filled the open coffin. Then— A hand emerged. Wrapped in ancient blackened bandages. Another followed. The figure inside slowly sat upright with the sound of cracking linen and ancient bones.

Edward could not breathe. The mummy turned its head toward him. Two glowing golden eyes opened in the shadows. Alive. The dead king rose from his tomb.

Edward could not move.

The dead king stood before him in the flickering torchlight, tall and impossibly thin beneath layers of blackened linen. Ancient jewelry hung from his neck and wrists, dull with age yet still magnificent.

And those eyes— Burning gold in the darkness. The mummy stepped out of the sarcophagus slowly.

Each movement sounded wrong. Dry. Stiff. The cracking of ancient bones wrapped in centuries-old bandages echoed through the chamber. Edward stumbled backward until his shoulders struck a pillar.

“No… no, this can’t be real…”

The creature tilted its head slightly, studying him. Not like an animal. Like a ruler examining a servant. Then the pharaoh spoke. His voice was deep and rough, as though dragged from the grave itself.

“Sekhem… ir neb… kha em set…”

Edward stared blankly.

“I—I don’t understand you.”

The king’s glowing eyes narrowed. He took another step closer. Edward’s pulse hammered violently in his chest. Every instinct screamed at him to run. But there was nowhere to go. The sealed stone door behind him remained immovable.

The pharaoh raised one wrapped hand and pointed toward a stone table covered in dusty ceremonial objects.

Bowls. Oils. Folded linens. Edward swallowed hard.

“You want… what?”

Again the pharaoh spoke, slower this time.

“Akh-men… satep.”

Then he pointed at himself. At the hanging strips of filthy linen wrapped around his chest. Edward blinked.

“You… want help?”

Silence. But the king continued staring at him with cold authority. Edward hesitated before slowly approaching the table. His hands trembled as he picked up a bronze bowl filled with hardened perfumed oil.

The smell of myrrh and incense still lingered beneath the dust of centuries. He looked back toward the mummy. The pharaoh had not moved. Waiting. Watching. Edward carefully stepped closer.

Every nerve in his body screamed in terror as he stood directly before the ancient king. Up close, the mummy was horrifying.

The skin beneath the torn wrappings was dark and leathery, stretched tightly across sharp bones. Ancient resin glistened in the torchlight. The scent of old death clung to him beneath the incense.

Yet strangely…

There was something regal beneath the decay. Something beautiful.

Edward quickly pushed the thought away.

“This is madness,” he whispered.

The pharaoh slowly extended one arm.

An order. Edward obeyed before even realizing he had chosen to. He dipped a cloth into warm oil and gently cleaned centuries of dust from the king’s bandages. The mummy closed his glowing eyes.

A low sound escaped him. Not pain. Relief. Edward froze.

“You… feel this?”

The golden eyes opened again immediately. Sharp. Intelligent. Alive. The king spoke once more.

“Sha em.”

Edward did not understand the words… but somehow their meaning pressed into his mind. Continue. His breathing unsteady, Edward resumed cleaning the wrappings. As he worked, grains of black dust fell from the ancient linen onto the stone floor.

Slowly, carefully, Edward unwound one loosened strip from the king’s forearm. The skin beneath was no longer completely dead. He stared in disbelief. Beneath the withered surface, faint bronze flesh remained. Impossible flesh. Living flesh.

The pharaoh watched his reaction closely. Then, very slowly, the corners of the dead king’s mouth lifted. A smile. Edward’s stomach tightened.

“You were waiting,” he whispered.

The torches crackled softly around them. Outside the tomb, the world no longer existed. Only the king. Only the silence. Only Edward.

The pharaoh suddenly lifted one hand toward Edward’s face. Edward flinched instinctively, but the king merely brushed rough bandaged fingers across his cheek. A strange warmth spread through Edward’s body at the touch. His fear faltered for a moment.

The pharaoh spoke again, quieter this time.

“Ankhesu…”

Edward did not know the word. But somehow it sounded possessive. Affectionate. The king lowered his hand and gestured once more toward the oils and linens.

Another command. Edward looked toward the sealed tomb entrance one last time. Then back at the ancient ruler standing before him. The glowing eyes never left his. Slowly… reluctantly… Edward bowed his head.

“All right,” he whispered shakily. “I’ll help you.”

The pharaoh straightened proudly. As if obedience was the most natural thing in the world. Then he turned and sat upon the edge of the sarcophagus like a king reclaiming his throne. And Edward began tending to the dead.

The tomb no longer felt entirely cold.

Days passed beneath the earth — or perhaps weeks. Edward had long since lost count. Time dissolved inside the endless darkness of Neb-Kha-Rê’s burial chamber, measured only by dying torch flames and the rituals of service the pharaoh demanded each day.

Every morning began the same way. Edward would wake upon the stone floor beside the sarcophagus to the sound of the king’s voice.

“Ankhesu.”

The word no longer frightened him. It summoned him. Edward rose immediately, almost instinctively now, and crossed the chamber barefoot. The air smelled of incense, warm oils, and ancient dust.

Neb-Kha-Rê sat upright upon the edge of the sarcophagus like a patient god awaiting devotion.

And with every passing day… He looked less dead. The leathery decay beneath the wrappings had begun to fade. Bronze skin slowly emerged beneath strips of ancient linen. The king’s chest no longer looked hollow and corpse-like, but strong. Defined. Alive. Edward tried not to stare. Tried and failed.

This morning, the pharaoh extended one arm toward him in silent command. Edward bowed his head automatically before taking the bronze basin of heated oils.

“My king,” he murmured softly without thinking.

The words slipped out naturally. Neb-Kha-Rê’s glowing eyes narrowed with satisfaction.

“Good,” the pharaoh said slowly in accented English.

Edward froze.

“You… you speak English?”

“No.”

The voice was no longer dry and monstrous. It remained deep and ancient, but smoother now. Richer.

The king watched Edward carefully.

“You learn quickly.”

Edward lowered his gaze at once beneath that piercing stare.

“I do not understand what is happening.”

Neb-Kha-Rê tilted his head slightly.

“You serve.”

The simple answer sent an odd warmth through Edward’s chest. The pharaoh motioned toward the wrappings around his torso. Edward obeyed immediately, kneeling beside him.

His fingers carefully unwound another long strip of ancient linen. Dust drifted through the torchlight. Layer after layer fell away, beneath them… Muscle. Edward’s breath caught.

The pharaoh’s body was transforming before his eyes. Strong shoulders emerged beneath the wrappings. A broad chest. Smooth bronze skin marked with faint traces of ancient scars and ceremonial tattoos. The king was becoming young again.

Not merely alive. Beautiful. Edward quickly looked away. Neb-Kha-Rê noticed.

“You fear me less now.”

Edward hesitated.

“Yes…”

“Why?”

He struggled for an answer. Because you no longer look like a corpse. Because your voice no longer sounds dead. Because when you look at me, I cannot think clearly. Instead he whispered:

“I do not know.”

The pharaoh leaned closer.

“You will.”

His voice seemed to vibrate inside Edward’s chest. Edward resumed unwrapping the linen in silence. As more bandages fell away, he noticed another change. The king’s body radiated warmth now.

Real warmth.

His skin glowed softly in the torchlight like polished bronze. And his scent— No longer death. Now it was incense, cedar oil, myrrh, and something masculine beneath it all. Ancient. Royal. Dangerously intoxicating.

Edward swallowed hard. Neb-Kha-Rê suddenly reached forward and tilted Edward’s chin upward.

“Look at me.”

Edward obeyed instantly. The king studied his face closely.

“You change also.”

Edward frowned slightly.

“I… what?”

The pharaoh’s fingers brushed slowly through Edward’s hair. Dark brown strands slipped between ancient fingers.

“Different.”

Edward pulled back slightly and hurried toward a polished bronze mirror resting among the burial treasures. He stared.

For a moment, he did not recognize himself. His skin was darker than before, touched by a bronze warmth that had not been there days ago. The harsh paleness of an Englishman beneath the desert sun had vanished. Even his features seemed subtly altered. Sharper. Softer. His eyes looked darker beneath the torchlight.

“No…” Edward whispered.

Behind him, Neb-Kha-Rê rose from the sarcophagus completely. The sound of linen dragging against stone echoed through the chamber. Edward turned slowly. The sight stole his breath.

Much of the pharaoh’s body was now uncovered. Powerful legs wrapped only partially in ancient bandages. Gold jewelry resting against smooth bronze skin. His physique looked impossibly athletic, like the statues painted upon temple walls.

Only portions of decay still clung to him. But even those were fading. Neb-Kha-Rê approached him slowly. Not stiffly anymore. Gracefully. Like a predator.

“You belong to this place now,” the king said quietly.

Edward’s pulse quickened.

“That’s impossible.”

“Is it?”

The pharaoh stepped closer until only inches separated them. Edward should have retreated. He did not. The king’s glowing eyes held his completely.

“You hear my words more easily now.”

Edward realized with sudden horror that it was true. The ancient language no longer sounded incomprehensible. Pieces of meaning reached him naturally.

As if the tomb itself were teaching him. As if his mind were changing alongside his body. Neb-Kha-Rê lifted one hand and pressed it gently against Edward’s chest. A strange heat spread through him instantly. His heart pounded harder. The king smiled faintly.

“My servant awakens too.”

Edward should have resisted those words. Should have denied them. Instead… His knees weakened slightly beneath the pharaoh’s touch. And somewhere deep inside himself, beneath the fear and confusion… A terrible part of him wanted to kneel.

Edward no longer dreamed of England.

At first, he had clung desperately to memories of rain-soaked streets, crowded London clubs, warm electric lights, and civilized voices. Now those memories felt faded. Distant. Unimportant. The tomb had become his entire world.

Every corridor of black stone felt familiar beneath his bare feet. He knew where the incense jars were stored. Which braziers burned longest. Which oils Neb-Kha-Rê preferred upon his skin.

And every morning… He woke before the king. Edward rose quietly from the cushions laid beside the sarcophagus and crossed the chamber to relight the golden lamps. Shadows danced across painted walls while warm amber light slowly revealed the sleeping pharaoh.

Neb-Kha-Rê no longer resembled death in any way. He looked divine.

His powerful body rested against black silk and ancient linen like a living god carved from bronze. Gold jewelry adorned his wrists, throat, and waist. The last ceremonial wrappings remained only around portions of his legs and forearms.

The rest of him was magnificently alive. Edward stood silently for a moment, watching him. Admiring him. The realization disturbed him less each day. Golden eyes opened slowly. Immediately finding him.

“You watch me again,” Neb-Kha-Rê murmured.

Edward lowered his gaze at once.

“Forgive me, my king.”

The pharaoh sat upright slowly, studying him. Edward noticed the transformation in himself even more clearly now beneath that stare. His skin had deepened into warm bronze completely. The sharp paleness of an English explorer had vanished. His dark hair had grown longer, softer, nearly brushing his shoulders now.

Even his body felt different. Lean. Elegant. Less harsh. The king extended one hand lazily toward him.

Edward moved instantly. Without thought. He knelt beside the sarcophagus and pressed his forehead lightly against the pharaoh’s hand before taking it carefully.

The gesture shocked him only faintly now. Neb-Kha-Rê smiled.

“You learn devotion beautifully.”

Edward’s pulse warmed strangely.

“I only serve.”

“Yes.”

The king’s thumb brushed slowly across Edward’s cheek.

“And you enjoy it.”

Edward looked away immediately. But silence itself became an answer. Neb-Kha-Rê chuckled softly. The sound was warm now. Human. Dangerous.

“Prepare the oils.”

Edward obeyed at once. The morning ritual had become sacred. He heated perfumed oil over small golden flames while the tomb filled with the scent of cedarwood, lotus, and myrrh. Then he returned to the pharaoh carrying the bronze basin carefully in both hands.

Neb-Kha-Rê reclined against the sarcophagus while Edward knelt beside him. Slowly, reverently, Edward spread warm oil across the king’s chest. His fingers trembled slightly at first contact. The pharaoh’s skin was warm. Perfectly warm.

Firm muscle shifted beneath Edward’s touch as he massaged the oil carefully into bronze flesh marked by faint tattoos and old scars.

Neb-Kha-Rê watched him silently.

“Your hands no longer shake.”

Edward swallowed.

“No, my king.”

“Why?”

Edward hesitated before answering honestly.

“I am no longer afraid of you.”

The pharaoh’s glowing eyes narrowed slightly with pleasure.

“And what do you feel instead?”

Edward’s breath caught.

He focused desperately on the oil across the king’s shoulders. But Neb-Kha-Rê’s gaze remained fixed on him. Demanding truth. Finally, Edward whispered:

“I… do not know.”

The king leaned forward slightly.

“You do.”

Edward could feel heat rising beneath his skin. Neb-Kha-Rê lifted one hand and slid his fingers beneath Edward’s chin, forcing him to look upward.

“You hunger for purpose,” the pharaoh said softly.

Edward’s chest tightened.

“You hunger to belong.”

The words struck painfully deep because they were true.

The outside world had stripped Edward down to ambition and loneliness long ago. Endless expeditions. Endless searching. Always chasing discovery without ever truly belonging anywhere.

But here… Inside the tomb… Every moment had purpose. Every breath served the king. And some terrible hidden part of him craved that certainty. Neb-Kha-Rê slowly released him.

“Continue.”

Edward resumed his work quietly. He massaged oil into the pharaoh’s arms, shoulders, and powerful back while torchlight flickered across bronze skin and gold jewelry. And all the while, the king spoke. Stories. Ancient histories.

Names of forgotten cities swallowed by sand.

Wars. Temples. Priests. Lovers.

Servants buried alive beside their rulers so they might continue serving in eternity. Edward understood every word now. Perfectly. The realization no longer shocked him.

The ancient language lived naturally inside his mind. Sometimes more naturally than English. Neb-Kha-Rê noticed it too.

“You no longer translate in your thoughts.”

Edward froze slightly.

“No…”

“You hear as one born here.”

Edward stared downward silently. The king leaned closer behind him.

“And soon,” Neb-Kha-Rê whispered near his ear, “you will think as one born here.”

A shiver ran violently through Edward’s body. Not entirely from fear.

Later that evening, Edward stood alone before a polished obsidian mirror. He barely recognized the man staring back. Dark eyes. Bronzed skin. Long black hair framing elegant features no Englishman should possess. Even his posture had changed. Softer. More graceful.

He looked… Egyptian. A quiet sound behind him made him turn.

Neb-Kha-Rê stood in the doorway of the burial chamber. Bare-chested beneath layers of gold. Beautiful and terrible in the torchlight. The king approached slowly until he stood behind Edward’s reflection.

“You resist less now.”

Edward stared into the mirror.

“I try to resist.”

“But you fail.”

The pharaoh’s hands settled slowly upon Edward’s shoulders. Warm. Possessive. Edward closed his eyes briefly.

“Yes.”

Neb-Kha-Rê lowered his head slightly beside Edward’s ear.

“And does that truly upset you?”

The silence that followed answered everything.

The tomb was silent except for the sound of breathing. Warm breathing. Living breathing.

Edward sat upon the stone floor beside the sarcophagus while golden torchlight flickered across the chamber walls. The air smelled richly of incense and perfumed oil, thick enough now that he barely remembered the scent of fresh air.

Neb-Kha-Rê stood before him. Magnificent. The last remnants of death had vanished completely. No trace of decay remained upon the pharaoh’s body now. Bronze skin gleamed beneath gold jewelry and layers of white ceremonial linen draped low across his waist. His tattoos curled elegantly across powerful shoulders and arms like living symbols beneath the firelight.

Only the glowing gold of his eyes still hinted at something supernatural. Something eternal. Edward looked up at him with parted lips. Not with fear anymore. With devotion. The realization no longer horrified him as deeply as it should have.

Neb-Kha-Rê studied him quietly for a long moment before speaking.

“Come here.”

Edward obeyed immediately. Bare feet crossed cold stone as he approached the king and knelt automatically before him. The movement required no thought now. No hesitation. Neb-Kha-Rê rested one hand against Edward’s dark hair.

Long black strands now spilled well past his shoulders, soft and glossy beneath the torchlight. Nothing remained of the neatly groomed English explorer who had first entered the tomb.

The pharaoh slowly threaded his fingers through the transformed hair.

“You wear this form beautifully.”

Edward lowered his eyes.

“My king…”

Neb-Kha-Rê tilted his chin upward gently.

“Do you still dream of your old life?”

The question lingered painfully.

Edward tried to summon the image of London. Rain. Books. Voices. His colleagues. His own face.

But the memories felt weak now. Pale and distant, like fragments from another man’s life.

Slowly, Edward shook his head.

“No.”

The pharaoh smiled faintly.

“Good.”

Neb-Kha-Rê turned toward a low table beside the sarcophagus. Upon it rested a golden blade. Thin. Curved. Sharp enough to reflect the firelight. Edward stared at it uncertainly. The pharaoh picked it up carefully before returning to him. Then he spoke a single command.

“Kneel lower.”

Edward obeyed instantly.

His heart began pounding harder as he bowed his head. Neb-Kha-Rê gathered a handful of Edward’s long dark hair gently in one hand.

“You no longer need this.”

Edward’s breath caught. For one brief moment, some tiny remnant of his old self stirred uneasily. But then the pharaoh’s warm fingers brushed slowly across his scalp. And the fear faded. The blade touched his head. Softly. The sound was almost hypnotic.

Shhhk.

Long strands of black hair slid down Edward’s shoulders onto the stone floor. Another slow stroke. More hair fell. Edward closed his eyes. Something deep inside him loosened with every passing motion of the blade. Not pain. Release. Neb-Kha-Rê shaved him slowly, reverently, like a sacred ritual.

Locks of dark hair gathered around Edward’s knees while the pharaoh’s fingers guided his head with possessive tenderness.

“You served me faithfully,” Neb-Kha-Rê murmured quietly above him.

Another stroke.

“You abandoned fear.”

Another.

“You accepted your place beside me.”

Edward trembled softly. Not from humiliation. From warmth. From belonging. More hair fell away until cool air brushed against newly exposed skin. The pharaoh’s hand glided across the smooth portions of Edward’s scalp as if admiring his work. Edward shivered at the touch. A low pleased sound escaped Neb-Kha-Rê.

“Yes…”

The blade continued carefully. Slowly. Until finally the last remaining strands slipped silently onto the black stone floor.

Neb-Kha-Rê stepped behind him. Edward remained perfectly still. Breathing unevenly. The pharaoh spread warm oil across both hands before smoothing it slowly over Edward’s freshly shaved scalp.

The sensation sent a deep tremor through Edward’s body. Gentle hands polished his bare skin lovingly, possessively. Edward leaned unconsciously into the touch. Neb-Kha-Rê bent close beside his ear.

“Who are you?”

Edward opened his mouth. And froze. The answer should have been simple.

Edward Harrow. Explorer. Englishman. But the name felt wrong. Empty. Distant.

Neb-Kha-Rê’s fingers caressed his smooth scalp again.

“Who are you?” the king repeated softly.

Edward’s breathing deepened.

“I…”

Nothing came. Panic flickered briefly inside him. Then the pharaoh knelt before him and lifted his chin.

Golden eyes held him completely.

“You are mine.”

The words sank deep into him like warm honey. Edward’s resistance finally broke. Not violently. Not suddenly. Quietly. Like the final crumbling of ancient stone. Neb-Kha-Rê smiled gently.

“Let me remind you your name”

Edward stared upward silently, his chest rising and falling harder.

The pharaoh rested one hand over his heart.

“Khepri.”

The ancient name echoed through the chamber. And instantly… It felt right. Not new. Remembered. Khepri lowered his gaze immediately.

“Yes, my king.”

Neb-Kha-Rê’s expression softened with unmistakable satisfaction.

“There is no Edward now.”

The name sounded foreign. Meaningless. Khepri barely understood why hearing it once would have mattered.

Neb-Kha-Rê stood and crossed toward a carved chest near the sarcophagus. From within, he withdrew folded linen garments. Simple white cloth. Soft. Elegant. The clothing of a royal servant.

The pharaoh returned and held the garments before him.

“Remove these.”

Khepri looked down at the dusty explorer’s clothes he still wore. Suspenders. Sweat-stained shirt. Foreign fabric from another world. For the first time, they felt deeply wrong against his skin. Obediently, he removed them piece by piece and laid them aside.

Neb-Kha-Rê dressed him slowly himself. The white linen wrapped lightly around Khepri’s hips and chest. Gold cuffs closed gently around his wrists. A thin collar rested against his throat. The pharaoh adjusted the fabric carefully before stepping back to admire him. Khepri looked down at himself. No trace of the explorer remained. Only the servant. Only the devoted companion kneeling before his king.

Neb-Kha-Rê approached once more and placed one hand lovingly atop Khepri’s smooth shaved head. Khepri closed his eyes instantly. The touch filled him with indescribable peace.

“My beautiful servant,” the pharaoh whispered.

Khepri smiled softly. And deep within himself… He knew he had never wanted anything more than this.

The tomb had become timeless.

No sunrise reached its halls. No wind stirred its corridors. Beyond the sealed stone entrance, the world of men continued somewhere far above the desert sands, but down here, deep beneath the earth, only eternity remained.

And Khepri no longer cared. He moved silently through the burial chambers carrying warm oils and fresh incense, his bare feet whispering across black stone floors polished by centuries.

The tomb belonged to Neb-Kha-Rê. And Khepri belonged to the tomb. The young servant paused beside one of the great painted walls, staring at the ancient figures illuminated by torchlight.

Now he understood them completely. The kneeling servants. The bowed heads. The expressions of serene devotion painted onto their faces.

Once, those murals had frightened him. Now they felt comforting. Familiar. Because he finally understood the truth:

Neb-Kha-Rê had never been meant to awaken alone. A king required a servant beside him in death just as he had in life.

And now… Khepri had taken that sacred place. Forever. A warm voice echoed softly behind him.

“Khepri.”

Instantly, the servant turned and bowed his head.

“My king.”

Neb-Kha-Rê approached slowly through the golden shadows of the chamber. He looked magnificent beneath the torchlight — powerful bronze skin adorned with gold, white linen draped elegantly across his body, glowing eyes fixed entirely upon his servant.

Khepri’s chest warmed immediately beneath that gaze.

The pharaoh stopped before him.

“You were thinking.”

Khepri lowered his eyes modestly.

“Yes, my king.”

“What thoughts?”

Khepri hesitated only briefly.

“That I am where I belong.”

A quiet smile touched Neb-Kha-Rê’s lips.

“Yes.”

The pharaoh lifted one hand and rested it atop Khepri’s smooth shaved head. The servant closed his eyes instantly. The touch still overwhelmed him every time. Warm fingers slowly caressed his bare scalp with deep possessive tenderness. Khepri leaned unconsciously into the contact, breathing softly. Neb-Kha-Rê admired the reaction openly.

“You love this.”

Khepri smiled faintly without opening his eyes.

“Yes, my king.”

“And why?”

Khepri answered honestly.

“Because I am yours.”

The words came naturally now.

Without shame.

Without fear.

Neb-Kha-Rê’s fingers glided slowly across the back of Khepri’s head before tilting his chin upward gently. Golden eyes met dark ones. The pharaoh studied him for a long moment. No trace of the English explorer remained anymore. No Edward. Only Khepri.

Bronzed skin glowed warmly beneath the torchlight. His shaved head and elegant linen garments made him look exactly like the servants painted upon the ancient walls around them.

Beautiful.

Devoted.

Perfectly obedient.

Neb-Kha-Rê’s expression softened with unmistakable affection.

“My faithful servant.”

Warmth spread deeply through Khepri’s chest at the praise. The pharaoh leaned closer, pressing a slow kiss against his forehead. Khepri exhaled shakily.

Even now, such tenderness from the king made his entire body tremble with happiness.

“You please me greatly,” Neb-Kha-Rê murmured.

Khepri lowered himself immediately to his knees before the pharaoh. The movement was effortless now. Natural as breathing.

“I live only to serve you, my king.”

Neb-Kha-Rê looked down at him proudly.

“And you serve beautifully.”

The king guided Khepri gently upward again before leading him deeper into the burial chamber toward the great black sarcophagus resting at its center. The ancient coffin no longer resembled a place of death. Now it resembled a throne. A sanctuary.

Golden fabrics and soft linen surrounded it. Warm incense smoke curled lazily through the chamber while torchlight reflected against polished obsidian walls.

Neb-Kha-Rê reclined against the edge of the sarcophagus and opened one arm toward him. Khepri immediately settled beside the pharaoh, resting close against his warm body. The king’s arm wrapped possessively around his waist. For a long moment, neither spoke. There was no need.

The silence between them no longer felt oppressive. It felt intimate. Eternal. Neb-Kha-Rê slowly stroked Khepri’s smooth scalp again while the servant rested peacefully against his chest.

“You no longer fear eternity,” the pharaoh said softly.

Khepri smiled faintly.

“No, my king.”

“Why?”

Khepri lifted his eyes toward him.

“Because eternity with you is a gift.”

The golden eyes of the pharaoh softened. Neb-Kha-Rê touched his cheek gently.

“My beautiful Khepri.”

The servant’s heart swelled painfully with devotion. Some distant fragment of memory stirred faintly for only an instant — another life, another name, another man beneath the desert sun.

But it faded immediately beneath the warmth of the king’s touch. Unimportant. Forgotten. Neb-Kha-Rê drew him closer and kissed him slowly, tenderly, while torchlight flickered across gold and black stone. Khepri melted against him willingly. Completely.

The pharaoh’s hands rested possessively upon his servant’s body as the silence of the tomb embraced them both.

Above them, kingdoms would rise and collapse into dust. Languages would vanish. Empires would die. But deep beneath the sands of Egypt… The pharaoh and his faithful servant remained together.

The air in the gym locker room was thick with the scent of old iron, eucalyptus, and the lingering humidity of the showers. Peter sat on the bench and examined his thin muscles. He was lanky, his ribs visible with every breath, and his pale arms looked like little more than kindling.

“No girl is ever going to want this,” he muttered to himself, a familiar bitterness rising in his throat. He felt invisible, a ghost in a temple of stone-carved bodies.

From the corner of the room, John watched. John was a powerhouse—a muscular bear in his prime, with a salt-and-pepper beard and muscles that seemed to strain against the very atmosphere. He didn’t just occupy space; he commanded it. He saw the boy’s despair and felt a pull of protective, primal interest.

Bit of a longer one! Wanted to capture all the hypnosis and race tf. Hope you enjoy!

Colonel Hawkins sat behind his desk, his weathered face set in a grim expression as he gestured for Garrett to take a seat. "Listen up soldier, we've got a situation that needs your attention."

"Yes sir, I'm all ears Colonel. What's the deal?" Garrett was always eager- ready to do what he needed for his country.

"There's been a...truce called with one of the major cartels. Part of the agreement is the release of some high-value prisoners, including someone close to their boss, a fella named Miguel." The Colonel tapped his fingers on his desk, “Miguel has gone missing from our custody. Officially, we don't know how."

Garrett's brow furrowed as he processed this information, his mind racing with possibilities. He shifted in his seat, the fabric of his crisp Army uniform felt comfortable against his skin. Like it belonged.

"Missing? That's not possible, sir. Our facilities are secure." Garrett couldn’t understand how such a high-value target could go missing.

“Precisely. Which is why I want you to lead an investigation into Miguel's disappearance. You'll be working with a senior investigator - Dr. Logan Thorne. He's...experienced in these matters."

Something in the Colonel's tone gave Garrett pause, but he pushed the feeling aside. If the brass needed him on this, he'd see it through, no matter what. His duty was clear.

"I understand, sir." Garrett continued, “But are you sure I’m the best for the job? I’m not experienced in this kind of operation.”

"Private, it's simple really. Your track record speaks for itself. You're one of our most dedicated soldiers, always eager to follow orders without question." Hawkins leaned back in his chair, “You see things through to the end. And I only trust another man from Indiana.”

Garrett smiled, “I appreciate it, sir. I won’t question it and I won’t let you down.”

He always viewed Hawkins with great respect. The man taking on a mentorship role for the young private. Both born in small-town Indiana, both avid baseball fans- the man was like a second father to him.

"I knew you'd say that, son. That's why you were handpicked for this job." He released Garrett's shoulder and stepped back. "Dr. Thorne wanted me to give you these." Hawkins pushed a pair of headphones towards Garrett. "These headphones contain crucial information about Miguel. They’ll be invaluable to your mission."

Garrett took the headphones, placing them on his head.

Hawkins continued. "Remember Garrett, discretion is key here. Not even your wife Sarah needs to know." Garrett nodded, a buzzing static filling his ears, "You're relieved of your other duties for the meantime and will be provided a private room. Questions, Private?"

"No questions, sir. I understand completely." Garrett's voice was steady despite the unease churning in his gut.

Hawkins nodded approvingly, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes. "Good man."

_____

Garrett stretched out on his bed and settled into the privacy of his assigned quarters, the headphones continuing to buzz with static. And then...

..."subject name: Miguel Antonio Mortez..." 

..."born and raised in Juarez, Mexico. Grew up in the volatile El Chavo neighborhood..."

..."Miguel likes fast cars. He owns a black '68 Mustang that he worked on restoring..."

..."Miguel plays acoustic guitar when he wants to relax..."

..."A skilled fighter, Miguel honed his skills brawling on the streets of Juarez..."

“Guess this is useful.” Garrett mumbled, wincing at a dull ache developing behind his eyes, “Fuck...” He yawned and felt his eyes starting to close, “So... tired...”

________

There’s a ball. A soccer ball? He stares at it and then up. Tall buildings around him. A dirt field. Makeshift goalposts. A firm kick. GOAL!

A woman’s voice called out sharply in Spanish, “¡La cena está lista!”

Garrett turns- panting, he sprints inside, catching a fleeting glance in a cracked hallway mirror. He pauses... the face of a young Mexican boy stares back at him. Dark hair, brown skin, eyes that hold a fierce determination.

_______

Garrett jolted awake, his heart pounding as he sits up. He blinks away the last vestiges of sleep, and caught sight of his reflection in the small mirror hanging on the wall opposite his bed.

The man staring back at him was unmistakably Garrett. His short blonde hair, the strong jawline accentuated by his clean-shaven face, pale skin. Relief washed over him as he mentally affirmed his own identity.

"That's right," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. "Garrett. Born and raised in the Midwest. Played baseball, not soccer. None of that was real."

Despite the logical reassurance, a faint unease lingered. Garrett took a deep breath, steeling himself as he placed the headphones back over his ears. The unfamiliar voice filled his head once more:

..."You were born on July 12th, 1990 in Juarez, Mexico..."

..."Miguel learned to play the guitar at the age of ten from his abuelo..."

..."You spent countless hours practicing guitar riffs, strumming away your frustrations..."

..."Miguel dreamed of one day singing lead for a big time band, his voice captivating"

A sharp knock at the door jolted Garrett from his trance-like state. Before he could respond, it swung open to reveal a tall, distinguished-looking man in his 50s with salt-and-pepper hair.

"Private Garrett?" The man's voice was smooth and authoritative. "I'm Dr. Logan Thorne, the senior investigator assisting you with the Miguel Mortez case."

Garrett stood at attention, wincing as another wave of pain lanced through his skull. "Sir, yes sir. Good to meet you, Doctor."

Thorne's keen eyes lingered on the headphones. "I trust you've been reviewing the files I provided. I'm sure you find them... educational." Dr. Thorne smiles, "Tell me about yourself, Private. I like to know about the people I work with."

"I... I grew up in..." Garrett paused, "The Midwest. I think? Yeah..." His voice lacked its usual conviction, laced with uncertainty instead.

"Is that all?"

"Uh well... I-I grew up...Juarez? No, that's not right..." He grips his head, "Small town. Flyover country. Had a... a ball field, I think?" He looks up at Dr. Thorne, "I played a lot of... sports. I think baseball, but..."

"Perhaps it would be wise for you to get some rest, Private. You seem... rather disoriented at the moment."

Garrett bristled slightly at the interruption, an irrational surge of anger flaring in his chest.

"Yes sir, probably a good idea," Garrett replied.

"And private. Please continue to wear the headphones. We'll touch base later today."

Garrett closed the door to his quarters and leaned against it heavily, his mind reeling. He took a deep, shuddering breath and began to recite the facts of his life like a desperate prayer.

"I’m Garrett... From... Indiana. Born and raised in a small town. Played baseball, not soccer. Married to Sarah. Served in the U.S. Army. I am American."

He paced the room, his boots striking the floor in a staccato rhythm. "Garrett. Midwestern boy. Baseball, not soc... football...? Not from Juarez. Not a criminal." He stares at the headphones, "Loyal soldier." He places the headphones on his head, the voice reverberating in his ears.

..."You served Papi with unwavering devotion, attending to his every carnal desire..."

..."You found pleasure in submitting to his whims, craving his praise and approval..."

..."You spent long nights kneeling before him, worshipping his body with lips and tongue, relishing the musky taste of his skin and the weight of his thick shaft pulsing in your mouth...”

...“He taught you submission... broke you and exposed who you really are...”

As the relentless voice continued, Garrett felt his eyelids growing heavy. Vivid images conjured, in his mind.

"Not me... Not this... I'm not..."

The words faded into a distant hum as Garrett surrendered to sleep, his head lolling forward.

_____

He’s standing before a nude figure, muscles rippling as his large hand lazily strokes an impressive length of hard cock.

Papi.

"Eres mío, mi amor," Papi purrs seductively in a husky Spanish accent. Dark eyes gleam with lust and possessiveness.

He turns his head away from Papi, his gaze travels downward, seeing himself reflected in the large vanity mirror...

A strikingly handsome young Latin man graces his eyes. Brown skin glowing under the dim lights, eyes the color of rich chocolate framed by thick lashes, wild obsidian hair tousled artfully. His torso is lean yet defined, with a dusting of coarse black hair trailing down from his sculpted pecs to disappear enticingly below the waistband of his jeans.

______

Garrett bolts upright in bed, his heart pounding as he leapt to his feet. He stumbled towards the mirror, grasping the edge of the sink for support as he stared at his reflection with wide, terrified eyes.

"What the fuck..." he breathed, running a trembling hand through his hair. "It was just a dream. Just a goddamn dream."

Garrett stared intently at his reflection, taking in every detail. Blonde hair, blue eyes, fair skin - it was undoubtedly him. Although somewhat disheveled and unshaven. But as he gazed at his own face, a sudden flicker of doubt crossed his mind.

"Why does this feel... wrong somehow?" he muttered to himself, leaning closer to the mirror. "My skin... shouldn't it be darker? Brown maybe?" He gulps, "And my hair... wasn't it supposed to be black? Thicker?" He ran his fingers through the short, sun-kissed locks, confirming their familiar texture and length. Garrett's breath quickened as a confusing jumble of emotions flooded through him, "No, no, stop it!" he growled at his reflection, backing away from the mirror.

Without warning, the door burst open and two burly Military Police officers stormed into the room. They grabbed Garrett roughly by the arms, yanking him to his feet.

"Hey! What the hell is going on?" Garrett struggled against their grip, his heart racing with confusion and growing fear. "I'm Private Garrett, not some damn criminal!"

The MPs ignored his protests, dragging him out into the hallway. Garrett's mind reeled as he tried to make sense of the situation. Why were they treating him like this? What had he done wrong?

They shoved him into an office room where Dr. Thorne waited, his expression unreadable. The MPs forced Garrett into a chair before taking up positions on either side of the door.

"Dr. Thorne, what's the meaning of this?" Garrett demanded.

"At ease, Private Garrett." Dr. Thorne greeted him coolly, taking a seat across the table. Colonel Hawkins stood beside him, his face impassive, "This is...unorthodox, I agree. But I'm afraid we have some concerns that require us to take certain precautions."

Garrett gripped the sides of the chair tightly, his knuckles turning white. He opened his mouth to protest but hesitated, doubts clouding his thoughts.

"But I'm a soldier, aren't I? An American serviceman." His voice lacked its usual conviction. He squinted, trying to recall the specifics of his military career. Flashes of boot camp, basic training, deployed overseas...it all felt hazy, disconnected somehow, "Shouldn't I be treated with more respect? Right? I'm still... I'm a soldier... right?"

Hawkins and Thorne shared a knowing glance, a silent communication passing between them. Hawkins cleared his throat, fixing Garrett with a penetrating stare.

"The prisoner exchange has been expedited, Private. It will occur tomorrow at 0600." He produced a small pill bottle from his pocket, setting it on the table with a soft click. "These will help sharpen your concentration and recall. Take them as directed."

“No... this isn’t...” Garrett gripped his head, “Please, something isn’t right... Colonel?”

“Don’t disappoint me, son.”

His voice was cold, somewhat strained. Garrett frowned, a sense of failure welling up inside him. He didn’t want to disappoint- he was a good... soldier? Lover? Garrett shook his head.

"You must continue listening to the headphones, absorbing every detail. The information is... vital to the success of the operation."

Garrett eyed the pills warily, his stomach churning with unease. Something about their demeanor, the urgency in their voices, set his nerves on edge. He nodded slowly.

The MPs escorted Garrett back to his room, their grips firm on his arms. As soon as they crossed the threshold, they spun him around and shoved him inside none too gently. The door slammed shut behind him with a resounding clang.

Garrett reached for the handle, twisting it frantically. It wouldn't budge. Locked. Panic started to rise in his throat as the realization sank in - he was trapped. Like a prisoner... Like Miguel... He shook his head.

“Just need to complete the mission.” He whispered, “Just finish the mission...” Despite every fiber of his body telling him no, he places the headphones on his head.

..."You existed only to serve Papi, to bring him pleasure in every way imaginable. Every inch of your body was his to claim, to mark with his touch and ownership..."

..."You ached for his domination. The delicious stretch of his thick cock splitting you open, claiming you most deeply, was heaven..."

..."Being his obedient little bottom, gagging on his cock, hole stretched and leaking his cum - that was your highest purpose...”

Garrett's breathing grew heavier as he listened to the sordid details, his body responding despite his mind's resistance. With shaking hands, he swallowed several of the pills. Warmth radiates from within him and he feels compelled to strip out of his clothes.

“Fuck...” He grunted, staring at his hardening cock.  

He grips it firmly, trying desperately to focus on thoughts of Sarah, on the love and familiarity she represented. But the vivid images of Papi, of submission and raw passion, kept intruding.

"Papi... mi amor..." The words slipped out in a breathy moan before Garrett could stop them. The headphones whispered filthy promises in his ear, urging him deeper into fantasy.

He barely noticed the door burst open. Colonel Hawkins strode in followed by Dr. Thorne and two stone-faced MPs. They carried a strange object between them - a folded, nude rubber bodysuit.

Garrett gaped at the lifelike construct, his pulse racing. The suit was crafted to resemble a stunningly handsome young Latino man, with olive-toned skin and a light smattering of dark chest hair. Intricate tattoos coiled along sinewy arms and a broad, muscular back. Jet-black hair, thick and glossy, adorned the perfectly formed head.

“That...”

An intense wave of recognition crashed over Garrett as he drank in the features of the figure. It was unmistakably the man from his dream - Miguel. Garrett's breath caught in his throat.

"Que demonios es esto?" Garrett's voice cracked, desperation evident. "Why does it look like... like him? Like me...?" He trailed off, realizing the implications, "My name is... was... Garrett. Midwestern boy. Baseball. Army. Right?"

"The pills help release the necessary bodily fluids to allow for proper bonding." Dr. Thorne says to Hawkins and the MPs, "Please help Garrett into the suit."

A second later, the MPs roughly grabbed Garrett's legs, forcing them into the waiting limbs of the rubber suit. As the material enveloped his skin, Garrett gasped at the sensation - it felt almost alive, conforming to his contours. Bonding tightly to his skin... sinking into his pores...

"No please! Don't! Arghhhh." Garrett cried out, trying to pull away. But the MPs held him fast, their grips iron-tight as they slowly worked the suit up his torso.

"You see, Miguel was selected for Operation Rising Phoenix." Dr. Thorne said, "His memories, intimate details were saved. And his body was converted into this suit. He could’ve been used by an operative to go undercover."

"Unfortunately, or fortunately, the truce was made." Hawkins sighed, "But we couldn't return him in well... that state." He looked down at Garrett with pity, "So to ensure the deal can be completed, we needed Miguel back."

Garrett thrashed and bucked as the MPs forcibly pulled the rubber suit up his body, covering his abdomen and starting on his chest.

"Déjenme ir! Por favor, quiero ver a Sarah! Quiero vivir mi vida! No hagan esto!" Garrett’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as his cut cock was encased in Miguel’s uncut member, sending waves of new pleasure radiating up his spine, “Oh fuckkkkkkk..... Papí... I need you... please..." Garrett whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to block out the unwanted thoughts and sensations flooding his mind.

He opened them again to find the MPs standing over him expectantly. Looking down, he wasn’t greeted by his pale skin or light hair. His muscles leaner... more toned... skin darker... the body of Miguel. One of the MPs seized Garrett's chin, forcing his head still as he stretched the mask over Garrett's face. Garrett shuddered violently as the elastic material sealed over his skin.

"There, there. It fits perfectly." Hawkins nodded in satisfaction as he examined the encased man closely. The rubber flesh clung to his curves, indistinguishable from real skin save for a subtle sheen.

“Are you sure...”

“Colonel, the Private’s eagerness to please blends nicely with Miguel’s psyche. They were a perfect match to allow for seamless integration.” Dr. Thorne lifts up the headphones, gently placing them on Garrett’s ears, "Just relax you’ve done so well."

"Sarah... please, I'm sorry, No sé qué me pasa..." Garrett's voice broke.

He doesn’t register the men leaving. Only able to run his hands over the rubbery surface of the suit encasing his body. His fingers dug into the pliant material as he tried to ground himself, to cling to his fading sense of self.

"Mi nombre es Garrett... soy americano... army..." He mumbled deliriously, his eyelids fluttering. But the litany of his own name sounded hollow, drowning beneath the tidal wave of new memories crashing over him.

Miguel, Papi, Juarez... the fragments swirled in his mind, threatening to overwhelm his last threads of resistance. A smile forms on his face.

As the lines between his lives blurred, Garrett clung to one final, desperate thought before surrendering to unconsciousness.

“I... I'm still here... Inside. I’m still... me...right?”

______

The first rays of dawn filtered through the window, casting a soft glow over the sleeping form sprawled across the bed. As the light increased, Miguel stirred. He stretched languidly, the sheets sliding off to reveal his bare chest and toned abs.

“Mierda...”

Miguel sat up slowly, running his hands over his arms and torso, marveling at the feel of his own smooth, warm skin. Nothing but skin... his skin...

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, padding naked to the full-length mirror. Miguel turned this way and that, admiring the play of muscle under tanned skin, the intricate lines of his tattoos. A slow, sensual smile curved his lips as he appreciated his own beauty.

“Hoy es el dia.”

Colonel Hawkins entered the room flanked by MPs, “Good morning.”

He stopped short when Miguel turned toward him with a blank expression, clearly not comprehending the English greeting.

“I forgot you don’t speak English anymore.” Hawkins lamented.

Miguel squared his shoulders instinctively, his posture radiating street-honed defiance. "¿Qué mierda queréis ahora, putos?" He gestured angrily at the soldiers. "Me tenéis aquí como animal enjaulado mientras mis hermanos están fuera luchando por lo nuestro!"

"Still got that fire, eh Miguel? Must mean the conversion took properly."

_____

The heavily guarded exchange point buzzed with tense activity as Miguel was led out, his wrists shackled. His dark eyes darted around furtively, drinking in every detail. There, standing tall amidst the armed escort, was a striking figure - Papi. His chiseled features split into a radiant grin as his gaze locked with Miguel's.

"Mi amor!" Papi called out, reaching for him. "Ven acá, mi chico malo."

Miguel surged forward as far as his restraints would allow, straining towards his lover. The second the shackles fell away, he was in Papi's arms, crushing his body against the solid warmth he knew so well. The display of submission, of pure unbridled love, was an unexpected sight. But they didn’t care who saw.

"Papí..." Miguel breathed, nuzzling into the crook of Papi's neck.

Hours later, Miguel lay tangled in sweat-slicked sheets, Papi's powerful body curled protectively around him. The events of the day replayed in his mind - the confusion, the fear, the overwhelming rush of memories and sensations. But now, nestled in his lover's embrace, everything felt right. He smiled and looked up at his lover.

Miguel tilted his head to place a tender kiss on Papi's stubbled jaw. "Te amo, Papí. Soy el hombre más afortunado del mundo tenerte."

His voice was low and thick with emotion, the words flowing in their native Spanish as naturally as breathing. In this moment, lost in Papi's scent, his touch, the familiar cadence of their lovemaking... Miguel knew he was exactly where he belonged.

When Oliver Queen declared he would protect his city, he meant it. He just didn’t realise that it would take over his life in more ways than one. There was Green Arrow, the vigilante, the side of him that he could compartmentalise. As long as he donned his costume and went out in the dead of night, then it was like that side of himself was something tucked away. Hidden. He could imagine both sides and keep it from interfering in his daily life, if not that, then who he was as a person. He had failed at both of those numerous times, but yet it still helped. It helped that he could separate the two.

But the Green Arrow wasn’t enough. Ever since a new organisation, Blackwatch, had reared its head, he had to take matters into his own hand. So that was how Oliver Queen found himself waiting patiently in his office—the Mayor’s Office. He had traded the boardroom for the city council, hoping that with this new organisation he could take on a two pronged front.

At night, he was Green Arrow, stopping shipments, dropping drug dealers and making sure anyone and everyone who failed Star City wouldn’t get another chance to do it again. He had been pushing himself, making more arrests and captures and intelligence than ever before. All the while in the position where he wasn’t ‘recovering from the island’ or running a company that ‘practically ran itself’. He had been stressed about keeping his daily life separate and yet now more than ever when he had the most important and busy position in his life, he found the lines blurring until there were moments where he could no longer tell where Oliver Queen ended and Green Arrow began.

If the mission was to save the city (a nice slogan by Felicity he had to admit), then what was the difference whether he was doing it as mayor or vigilante? There was no difference besides the method and that was exactly what tonight’s upcoming meeting was about. He had given up patrol for the night, both too tired and too tense to focus on anything else but what was tonight.

Oliver didn’t even let himself show it by pacing in his office, thinking of a plan of what to do. This new organisation was like a hydra, they had a limb spread everywhere and he wasn’t even sure if he could trust the city council. 

Oliver checked the time. Almost midnight. His office wasn’t bugged, he knew that for certain. They would need total privacy. The office was built for it. It was an old place in an even older building, its walls were thick enough that sound did not travel and the wiring had been replaced twice over during his first months as Mayor because he knew it needed to be secure. There were countermeasures hidden beneath the desk and inside the walls.

Devices that scrambled frequencies and rendered microphones useless. If there were going to be any surprises tonight, then he already cut the head off that snake. And yet there was something in his head that told him he couldn’t be so sure. He told himself that there was still some way they could see inside his office, could detect his behaviour, could see any hint of nervousness. Blackwatch was quietly winning the war, consuming gangs, taking over the city like a rot. Oliver had to play chess and make sure they didn’t see any weakness.

When the door opened two minutes after midnight, Oliver Queen was staring outside the window at the skyline of Star City. The city was like a jungle, wild and untameable in essence but also in how it looked. Maybe it was his time on the island but he just saw everything as some extension of nature and in the dead of night, Oliver Queen could only see the buildings as tall trees, made of steel and illuminated by a thousand different campfires burning away in the windows. It also meant that as he turned to look at Cole Cassidy stepping into his office, he didn’t see a man. He saw a wild thing, not quite a beast but not human either, but still the same thing—predatory. 

Cole Cassidy sauntered in like a cowboy stepping into a saloon, with Oliver supposedly playing one of the stunned men in his mind. He was dressed like he came for war, adorned in black from throat to boot. A tactical vest sat across his chest over a dark shirt rolled to the elbows, whilst the man wore a duster above, slightly lighter yet rain dark at the shoulders. Oliver could instantly see the plates that shifted beneath the vest, armour most likely, more than enough to stop a bullet. The man was unfortunately handsome, Oliver wasn’t going to hide facts. His square jaw was made sharper from the sharp facial hair that adorned it, merging with the thick moustache across his lip. His brown narrow eyes instantly fell on Oliver, raising one of his thick brown brows so high that it nearly touched the black cowboy hat atop his shaggy head. His nostrils flared, like the smell of detergent and cologne was offensive to him and without saying another word, he reached into his holster and pulled out a cigar.

Better than a gun I suppose, Oliver thought to himself.

“I’d rather you not smoke here,” said Oliver with a warning tone that translated his words to you better not smoke here. Cassidy tilted his head up, cigar in mouth, lighter in hand inches away as if calculating how angry Oliver would be if he lit up anyway. He took the cigar out of his mouth and returned both it and the lighter to his holster. Oliver nodded, satisfied, and then gestured to the chair in front of his desk. Cole grabbed the chair with his mechanical arm and pulled it closer to the desk before he sat down. 

“So…here we are.”

“Here. We. Are.” Oliver punctuated every word, trying his best to hide how excited he was for the meeting. If it were true and he could strike up a deal with Cole, then he would be in with one of Blackwatch’s commanders and stop them before it was too late. He knew what Cole would want, to sell out the commander of Blackwatch so that Oliver could take him down and then Cole would swoop in and take leadership himself. All these criminals were always so shortsighted. The one advantage this supposed ‘Reaper’ had that Cole didn’t was the fact that Oliver didn’t know who he was. He had searched everywhere, used every resource, called on every ally and still, nothing. It was almost like Reaper wasn’t real. A man who could supposedly turn to smoke was just as elusive as his abilities. Tonight that would all change, Oliver thought that and he was sure Cassidy did too. “I heard you’re the man who is ‘always right’, so let me ask simply. Do you really have information on Blackwatch’s leader?” 

“I do. And you’re right…I am the man who's always right.” Cole declared as he leaned back, opening his legs as Oliver could see the man’s bulge. The dark jeans that wrapped around Cassidy’s thighs pressed inward, outlining the man’s cock. Oliver pretended not to notice. Cole smiled. “The leader is…how do I put it…” He tapped his finger animatedly on his chin, each tap stirring an impatience within Oliver. Why could the man not just hurry up and say what he meant? Does he think this is some kind of game? Oliver cleared his throat after a moment. “Oh. Sorry.” The cowboy smiled at Oliver, as if only just realising he was there. “Lost mah train’o’thought.” The words came so quick it was either a rehearsed lie or embarrassment. Oliver didn’t think the cowboy let himself be embarrassed by anything. “Funny how that kinda thing can happen.” At that, Cole stared at Oliver, enough to make the mayor realise the man hadn’t really been looking at him. The brown pools had been focused off to the side, raking up and down the mayor’s form, sometimes looking at his face but not directly at him. Not with his own eyes locked onto Oliver’s. When he did, a pale pink glow emanated from nowhere. The brown edges of the eyes suddenly darkened pitch black in contrast. As if the iris itself was injected with new colour, pink bloomed from within. Oliver did a double take. At first confused why the man’s eyes were glowing, then confused why he couldn’t look away when he tried to. His eyes felt magnetized, shaking, tearing his eyes away was the equivalent of rebelling against gravity. 

“What…can…” Oliver blinked. Why had he suddenly sounded so quiet? He was the mayor, he told himself. He should have been focused, ready, this was important information. And yet all he could do was stare helplessly as the eyes drew him in. Much like how the outer edges of Cole’s brown looked pitch black in comparison, the rest of the world felt the same. The windows to the city darkened as if night could get blacker. The door to his office melted from mahogany to murkiness. Anything and everything that was not the cowboy’s face, his eyes, simply blurred, like he could only see the entire world as if it was out of the corner of his eyes. Oliver’s mind smudged like his vision. Thoughts were there, taking up space, but he couldn’t differentiate what they were or what he even wanted to say. All he could do was stare and comprehend that he was staring too long. 

“Our leader’s a lot like you actually. Reaper. Grumpy and cocky sonofabitch,” Cole smirked wider and carried on as if nothing was wrong. Oliver blinked heavily, the only relief from staring at the eyes. 

“Like…me?” The mayor shifted or at least tried to. But his body didn’t even risk movement. Completely focused on just staring. The words took a moment for him to understand. Like me? Does he know about The Arrow? He couldn’t…Could he? Even if he did, Oliver knew that The Arrow and the leader of some criminal empire were far from the same. “That…That’s impossible.” 

“You sure?” Cole questioned quickly, surprising Oliver. Compared to him, it felt as if the Blackwatch agent was thinking twice as fast. “You sure you ain’t that kind of person?” Oliver blinked. He wasn’t sure why but he felt the same as if he had been asked something he didn’t know the answer to. All certainty slipped like the rest of the world into a blur, vague shapes and colours and ideas of what it could have been with none of the definitive definition. The uncertainty suddenly gave way to memories, short and clipped and few and far in between. Moments where he had to make the hard call. Times when he brutalised some thug as The Arrow. Days where the press pushed his buttons and had him snap at an intern. It was hard to think of the times when he showed criminals mercy or would apologise moments later to his staff. It was so hard to think at all. Oliver had no clue that his eyes began to slowly grow pink.

I…I…I don’t act like that. I do my best for the city, I help people.

“Well I…I do act like that, but only because my staff can be so incompetent when I try to do what I think is best,” Oliver’s words felt foreign to him, as if speaking another language. They sounded so close and so far away from what he actually wanted to say. But as if the conversation was a chess game, he felt like speaking was making a move. And he couldn’t take it back. He tried to speak, to correct, to explain, but he suddenly felt the urge to wait for his turn. 

“Ah see that’s what I’m talkin’ about-” 

No! No. That’s not…

“I’m…No I’m sorry I…” Oliver shut his eyes. Cole raised a brow as if that wasn’t what he anticipated. The moment the mayor did, his mind felt like it was at a standstill, on the edge of some unknown precipice, barely saved from falling. Oliver tried to focus, to think and could feel the words coming back. “Sorry I…” “You okay?” The smile in Cole’s voice wasn’t hidden at all. “Here, why don’t you put yer feet up.” 

At once Oliver did so, moving to lean back in his chair and putting his feet up on the table. He did it without thought, an urge that he completely gave into. The moment the feet were crossed and on his desk, he blinked hard again. What was he doing? He thought to himself. He never sat like this before. Why would he? He wasn’t some cocky mayor that would be the type to have their feet up on their desk as they go ahead with their work? Especially not with a meeting as serious as this. Yet he couldn’t help himself. Somehow it felt right to do so as his mind warred with itself if that was even true. 

“I-” “Here partner, lemme help you get comfortable,” Cole came closer, one hand wrapped around one of his shoes. Before he knew it both shoes were suddenly off, revealing his bare pale feet. Oliver wanted to say something, how obviously wrong and inappropriate this was. But he thought about the pink glow and everything turned into a dream, where he could think about how wrong things were and yet they happened anyway. What’s he…What…doing? My feet… 

The man suddenly wrapped a gloved hand over a foot. At once, some of the darkness spread from the gloves as a tan spread over the paleness. The toes slowly thickened. All the while the arches of the feet stretched longer, lengthening as they writhed beneath the leather coated fingers. As the tendons clicked into their new place, the cartilage and muscles of the feet expanded, stretching out so much that it was almost comical they even managed to fit inside the shoes they slipped out of, moments ago. There was a cartoonish growth that made Oliver unable to comprehend what he was seeing. The same way he knew Hulk movies weren’t really an actor growing gargantuan green feet to burst out of footwear, he couldn’t conceive what was happening to his own feet. The toes twitched and he could feel it, the way the big toe brushed against the skin of the others. They were his feet and yet he still couldn’t understand. 

All the while the arches spread out, growing both wider and longer as if trying to outrun the tanned complexion that bloomed across them. It looked like coffee poured into water, spreading to all the skin over his feet. As they did, both feet grew warmer, a sweat forming a sheen as they itched with hairs that bloomed through the skin. Each hair felt like a pinprick where instead of pain, there was just pleasure.  The more that they were underneath Cole’s touch, the more that the feet began to be kneaded, not just massaged but suddenly stretched. Oliver could only stare the same way he did when the man’s eyes glowed pink. 

My feet…What…Why are my feet…

Something was wrong. Very wrong. Yet he couldn’t deny that the feet were also feeling good. More than that, they felt orgasmic. As his feet were being rubbed, a scent wafted from the toes, so thick that Oliver swore he could almost see it curdling. Then it hit him, the tangy thick scent of musk and suddenly his cock wasn’t just something vaguely stirring. It shot up. Hard. Outlined in his own suit pants as much as Cole’s was. He was entirely unaware that it was slowly growing thicker, pooling mass, like there was so much pleasure to be concentrated through his thick cock that it just simply needed the added space to keep growing. 

“Wooowee,” Cole whistled. “And look at these big manly things huh? You got a nice big pair of manly feet.” As he spoke, Oliver blinked. 

Big? Manly? He looked down at his feet to argue that he would never exactly call the pale and lean things large or manly. They were supposed to be size ten, lithe, with the skin having been drawn back so that the toes looked almost sharp and cutting. But instead he saw large thick feet, wide and hairy, reflecting his office light with a sheen of sweat and he blinked. Much like it was a dream, his mind accepted the way things were. Even though there was a voice in the back of his mind telling him otherwise. 

“Yeah I got big manly feet,” repeated Oliver, unaware his voice came out in a monotone. He blinked. Stop…I think something’s wrong. “Keep on rubbing em.” Oliver didn’t recognise the words or voice that came out of him when he gave the command. Cole wasn’t exactly someone he respected but that didn’t mean he couldn’t go around not treating him with some level of respect. Yet there was a sudden excitement in being able to tell the man he wanted to get his feet rubbed and watching him do it. The seduction of suddenly being commanding. 

“Cocky huh? Well as you wish Commander…” 

Commander?!

Before he could do anything, Oliver moaned and thrust his feet forward even more into Cole’s grip. He suddenly could feel that pleasure racing through his feet and wanting to go down his calves. Then he could imagine it going down to his cock. One more whiff of the musk and the tan began to spread as Cole took charge even as he did what his ‘commander’ told him. He began rubbing Oliver’s feet. The tan squeezed out of the feet and spread down towards the calves with each deep knead. 

At the same time Oliver’s cock was suddenly growing, throbbing and thickening without even touch. He didn't even realise that he had slipped down his boxers as if wanting to get more of a feel for it. Whilst the cock was growing larger, it started to darken itself.

A vein in the shaft became more pronounced especially as the dick widened in its girth. Foreskin grew back over the once circumcised head, just to be peeled back as the cock head itself was wet. Oliver started to imagine the musk as some kind of smog, travelling up his body. He was never the kind of guy who liked that scent, something he had to suffer on the island and another thing he wanted to get rid of after the gym (along with sweat). Yet now he couldn’t get enough of it as he kept taking deep huffs of the musk. All the while his body reacted in kind. 

If you want musk? I’ll give you musk.

Oliver wasn’t quite sure if that was some deep gravelly voice in the back of his mind or some interpretation of what his body was doing. Perhaps both. But suddenly his chest grew even more hairy beneath his shirt and tie. A meaty and growing hand reached up to loosen the tie whilst the pits themselves grew dark and hairy, bushy with the amount that threaded on top of one another.

As they bloomed, heat collected within the pits and caused more sweat to drool down, just adding to the musk in a continuous cycle. The more of the musk he took in and sniffed, the more that Oliver was starting to feel that resistance in the back of his mind crumble. The island that he survived on started to turn into an island that he did missions on. His time with the bow was shifting as his hands did the same, the fingers not remembering the correct positions to pull back the drawstring and fire. But instead their aim was something more calculated, on the mechanical shotguns that fit in either hand. More of the smog travelled up his body as it thickened and grew. His already muscular chest started to barrel out as Oliver writhed.

What the…What…happening…

“Shhh don’t worry Commander. I’m here to help,” Cole purred and the voice was like honey poured into his ears, thick and delectable. Oliver’s eyes fluttered as he forgot more and more, just huffing in that musk whilst one gloved hand wrapped around his cock. The moment the cool leather touched the warm brown skin, it was all over. His penis throbbed in the hand, already being pumped. If kneading the feet alone was enough to spread the tan, like it was something to be injected into the rest of his skin, then being pumped only did so faster. Oliver’s complexion turned tawny. “My, my Commander, look how hard you are.” The words slithered into his mind and the more that Cole called him Commander, the more he believed it.

Oliver’s chest continued to barrel out, not simply more muscular but belonging to a taller and more hefty body. As if his lean and tightly coiled self wasn’t so much built for survival and agility but for brute strength. His pecs widened slightly, being dragged across the chest whilst his ribcage pushed from within, expanding with every breath and every stroke and every moan.

The abs followed suit, losing some of their definition in favour of being more spacious, as even Oliver’s appetite changed, becoming something that was like his new self, more hungry. Cole continued to stroke, the next few pumps feeling like they were pumping up his ass which inflated. The bulbous cheeks finally tore off his boxers. Hairs grew on both of the cheeks as Oliver let out another groan, deeper and more guttural, as if belonging to a different voice entirely. 

“Yes, keep doing that…keep serving your Commander,” Oliver grimaced as there was still a resistance, an unfamiliarity with what he was doing. Even still the results were undeniable as more pleasure pulsed through his arms. He hadn’t noticed that with Cole’s touch his suit was already morphing. Instead of being torn apart by his developing muscles and stretching body, the suit was merging together. The jacket and shirt formed the thick outer layer of a camo green hoodie, whilst his pants were left to be torn apart by thicker thighs. The more that they ripped, the more Oliver could feel the same happening to his resistance, his old life as The…The…

I…I can’t remember…

What was he even trying to say? His vigilante name or his job? All that came to mind was Reaper and Commander. Neither of those could be right. Could they?

Yet they were the only answers he could find and they felt more right, the more that his thickening thighs tore through the threads of his suit pants and his ass finally ballooned out to rip down the middle. 

“M-My pants-” Oliver surfaced again, getting out of the sea of new thoughts about Blackwatch and unfamiliar faces, people behind the codenames Sombra and Doomfist and reports he read. He quickly looked down, panting just in time to see his visage in the polished reflection of his desk. The pursed lips and smooth nose were shifting. The lips were growing wider, the nose sharper, the tanned cheekbones higher. The very shape of his face was morphing with each stroke. “W-What the?! What is happening to me?!” Cole merely chuckled instead of indulging in panic. 

“Calm down Commander, just let your subordinate here do his job,” Cole said slowly and something in his voice made Oliver throb. A thick glob of pre-cum spilled out the tip of his cock and suddenly wrinkles appeared over Oliver’s brow as his birthday year was suddenly older. In fact he remembered his birthday on a different date.

“N-No s-stop you’re…you can’t…I…”

“Relax Commander…You’re Commander Gabriel Reyes…” Stroke. Leak. Another forgotten memory. 

“N-no I’m…I’m not! I…I…” Oliver panted, trying to argue but his mind was coming up blank. 

“Relax. After all Commander…You know I’m always right.” Something about those words made Oliver moan and throb and leak some more. He knew the man was always right. He was his subordinate. Of course he would hire a good subordinate that was always right. It was just like him. There was no way that he was going to waste time getting someone so incompetent, he thought. And the more that he thought, the more he realised how little there was to think about as his cock continued to be stroked. 

“I…I’m…I’m…” His cock was so close, so ready to let go, if only he wasn’t holding back. But there was absolutely no chance that he could stop himself. All he had to do was let go. All he had to do was let the new memories surface. And like a strained rope that finally snapped, he let go. “I’m Gabriellllllll-” 

The last of Oliver’s face shifted, a goatee quickly sprouting around his lips as a beard formed over his jawline. His hair darkened completely. 

Seed spilled out of Gabriel’s thick musky cock, pearlescent ropes that shot out one after another as euphoria exploded within him like fireworks. His entire body was alight with desire and the orgasmic bliss that came from the expert hands of his subordinates as Oliver Queen let out one last yelp and then quickly faded into the cum that shot out of his cock, completely gone.

As cum continued to shoot out of the throbbing rod again and again and again, all that was left in Gabriel’s mind was space and with each wave of pleasure, he could fill that space with new memories.

He could remember the experiment, Soldier 76, Blackwatch. All of it surfaced together like the smog that he was made of and filled his mind, stretching to all corners of his brain and filling them with nothing more than Gabriel Reyes. Finally, after what felt like the fifth or sixth time he had shot his load all over his desk, Gabriel smirked down at himself and looked at his own gloved hands. He hadn’t even realised he had any other clothes on besides the green hoodie. 

All Gabriel could do was laugh as he tensed the fingers and realised he was now in control of the body. 

“Good job Cole,” Gabriel purred as he felt his arms, checking that he was all there. His smile widened in confirmation. “Looks like our next mission will be easy. Now…what do you want as a reward? More money?” “No sir, you know what I want,” said Cole as he admired the sweaty and hairy muscle. “I want you sir.” Gabriel nodded.

“Lean against the desk and you better get ready. Let’s see if your hole is made for this cock,” replied Gabriel as he didn’t even wait for Cole to finish. He pushed the man against the desk and helped the cowboy pull down his pants and boxers, already satisfied to see his hole clenching. “Looks like you’re practically begging for me. Hold still.” “S-Sir-” Cole spoke with an uneasiness of how fast it was going. And then he forgot about that and everything else when he felt how Gabriel’s thick meaty cock easily slid right into his cheeks, plunged there like a key to a lock. “Sirrrrrrr~” “Fucking look at that. Fits perfect doesn’t it? Yeah and your tight hole feels fucking good,” Gabriel began to thrust. Hard. “Moan for me Cole.” That was a command Cole didn’t need as he was already a groaning and grunting mess with each thrust as Gabriel’s member already met prostate. 

“S-Sir, oh fuck you’re so…so…” “So what Cole?” Gabriel already knew the answer. “Say it.” “So…dominant…Oh fuck…” Cole’s legs were already shaking as it was his turn to get wet, eyes threatening to roll into the back of the cowboy’s head. His hat threatened to fall off his head from how fast and hard Gabriel was thrusting into him, each throb expanding the walls of the cowboy’s anus. 

“Damn right I am. I’m your Commander after all, now take it.” And Cole obeyed because he was no longer meeting with the Mayor. He was enjoying a private rendezvous with his Commander, the one and only Gabriel Reyes and there was nothing either of the men enjoyed more. 

Mystery car trouble incites Claude to figure out his way home. He can think of five options. No matter which option he chooses, the resulting changes are sure dull his mind into a younger man he'd dread to have in his lectures.

Five more short TFs, each following one man's rough ride home! All include some degree of musk, muscle, and a regression back to his own college days with far less brain weighing him down Hope you enjoy! -Occam

Claude was barely able to steer his car off into the shoulder as it started spewing smoke. Idling forward into a nearby parking lot to try and figure out his next steps, the young professor is beyond pissed at his stroke of bad luck.

After taking his time to recover and go over his best options to get home he finds himself of five minds. Six if you count just steering it back into traffic without looking both ways, but he’s not actually humoring that. Leaving him with this peanut galley of ideas:

He’s got a tool kit, he can give it a go. (Latino Twunk)

Get it towed to a shop and drive a rental. (Brainless Influencer)

He’s got the money for it, might as well uber. (OF Jock)

He does get free bus fare. (Football Bro)

Fuck it he can walk. (Horny Slob)

“Boom. Oh yeah love being big”

You flex as you wake up in your bed. Its a morning ritual to remind you just how big you are. The best part. Its not that much work. You cant help it your just too muscular. Your body fat is high enough that you dont have a gut but still big enough to not have abs.

After your ritual you head ti the gym like always. A place for you to gloat and pose for anyone to see. You hope the girls notice you but they dont seem to care. As you walk about the halls of the leisure centre you aim to head to the sauna but something catches your eye. Two big men one made of muscle with abs and a tonne of body hair stands shirtless next to a big bear of a man. Their stood offering protein shakes to customers for free. Now they’ve got your attention.

“Yo this shit free?”

“You bet it is lad. I’m David and this is my hubby Colton. We run the milk master business. One drink to solve all your body needs. Wanna try?”

You double back. Ain’t no way these guys run a shake business. This stuff is for real men and you know it. You forget that most men in the gym are probably gay though but you don’t care. You take the bottle from David’s hand and down the entire thing, puffing your muscles to look more masculine.

“Oh we have a downer Col.”

David chuckles as he watches you stand there downing another shake. Then another. Then another. You got o a point where you couldn’t stop drinking them. Then there was none left.

“Colton this guy drank em all. You think you can make some more papa.”

“Of course i can.”

Colton stands there and pours out a full glass of the milk from his bare chrst and watches as you squirm at the sight. The two men have clearly clocked your arrogance and are messing with you. But your suddenly more worried about the feeling in your gut. A loud gurgle sounds as you stomach bloats.

“Best get to the locker room lad. Your about to have a good time. Let us know if you need alt… Pops

You rush off to the locker room and stumble as David calls you pops. Your name isn’t pops it was… You struggle to remember as your entire body bloats. Feeling an urge from your butt you rush to the toilet but as you try to sit on the loo you find nothing coming out. You struggle as your constipation worsens but you body is still changing. A surge of growth in your but makes you yelp as you drop to the floor, you new belly stopping you as you fall.

Then your dick hardens. A wave of horniness rushes through you growing system as you feel yourself losing your mind. Images of cheerleaders in tight clothes replace with men in leathers. Your own memories of playing on the football team are replaced with nights searching for a submissive at the gay bar or online.

You force yourself to take a dump finally but your body isn’t done changing. Your pecs swell with a sloshing sound as the same milk you just drank drips from your nipples. Th pre-cum foaming from your dick turns to the same milk and drips from your tip until its free flowing like pee.

“What is this i’m turning out like that Colton bloke.”

You moan as you cock throbs and more milk flows from it onto the toilet floor. Unable to control it you find yourself filling up the toilet with the stuff and licking the extra from your pecs. But the more you drink the bigger you get. Muscles bulging and pressing against the toilet walls as you get stuck in place. Your body hair turns white as snow as does the growing beard on your face. Your height practically doubles as more milk leaks from you.

“Pops you in here bud. Sorry about earlier and… oh my.”

“David help me. What’s that milk doing to me s… son.”

“You drank far too much of it and… your calling me son?”

“I don’t know son my minds a mess. Wheres Colton?”

“He’s waiting outside pops let’s get you outta that toilet and hooked up to a pump yeah.”

“Son im milking all over the floor. Get in here and drink it ao it doesn’t go to waste.”

“Ok pops.”

David climbs under your legs and begins drinking the milk spewing from you. It doesn’t look to effective him but you feel less full the more he drinks. Eventually stopping your flow the two of you manage to get out the toilet and David finds you a nice flannel to wear. Your beard settles in comfortably now and you feel an odd connection to David a will to protect so to speak.

“Wheres my son in law Colton then.”

You yell as you exit the locker room with David. Colton stands there, his eyes fixated on your massive new body.

“Hello sir.”

“Oh don’t give me formalities son. I’m glad to have another bear in the family. And a milk maker as well. Careful when you get to my age it can sometimes just spill out. Call me pops won’t ya.”

“Ok pops.”

A bit of a longer one! Hope you enjoy and thanks for the requests! Any feedback is welcomed!

“This isn’t a road you want to go down.”

Looking back, maybe Thomas should’ve listened. At the time, though, he couldn’t even begin to understand what William meant.

“He was my father, just as much as he was yours,” Thomas had shot back. “You’re not cutting me out.”

Their father had been obscenely wealthy... real estate, contracting, the kind of empire that didn’t leave room for doubt. And like many men in his position, he’d had affairs. Thomas was the result of one of them. But instead of denying him, their father had claimed him, raised him, given him every advantage. Now, after his death, that decision was being dragged back into the light.

“Father should’ve never...”

“Well, he did,” Thomas cut in, already tired of the argument. “And he loved me. He wouldn’t’ve approved this. He would’ve wanted me to...”

“I warned you,” William interrupted coldly. “You’re not getting a thing from this estate.”

----------------

“Excellent report, Thomas.”

He smiled at his boss’s praise. “Thank you, sir.”

He hadn’t needed the family business to succeed. His work ethic and easy charm carried him forward at a startup where he was quickly making a name for himself. He was building something on his own terms. Something he could be proud of.

Later, changing for an evening walk, he queued up a philosophy podcast and grabbed an iced green tea.

“Alright, let’s...”

A knock interrupted him and when he answered, he was greet by two men in suits.

“Are you Thomas Lancer?”

"Yeah, that's me.” he said slowly. “Is something wrong?”

“We’re with the Department of Ontic Corrections. You’ve been identified as a potential infringement.”

----------------

They were called "docs". Agents of the DOC. Most people didn't want to run into these guys.

“We ensure predictability,” one agent explained as proceedings began. “And in predictability, we find stability.”

Thomas sat in a stark room, surrounded by agents, judges, lawyers. William sat across from him, smirking. Thomas could only listen as his life was dissected into probabilities, reduced to numbers. And after several hours of discussion, the head judge spoke.

"Thomas Lancer, it is our belief that your existence itself deviates significantly from the expected trajectory based on the most likely statistical outcomes. Moreover, this anomaly has significant ramifications for the Lancer family and therefore confers necessary corrections."

Thomas swallowed hard. William had won. Embarrassed him. Demeaned him in front of everyone.

“Fine,” he said bitterly. “I don’t need his money. You can have it.”

“Ah,” the judge replied, “but removing you from the inheritance does not resolve the underlying deviation.”

Thomas frowned. “What does that mean?”

William smirked. “It means you shouldn't have been raised as my brother.”

The room went silent.

Thomas felt his blood run cold.

“Wh… what?"

------------------

Thomas barely had time to process what William's words meant before he was dragged by the DOC officers to a sterile white room filled with strange pod-like devices.

"Welcome Mr. Lancer." A man in a different suit greeted him outside the pod, "I'm DOC Assessment Officer Davis. I'll be overseeing your correction." He smiled and looked down at his tablet.

"Correction?" Thomas whispered, "I don't... what're you going to do to me?"

Davis didn't look up, "We reconstruct the life you were statistically meant to live, introduced directly through our system. As those layers integrate, the pod makes corresponding physical adjustments so your body aligns with that history. It’s comprehensive, seamless. You won’t experience it as loss, Mr. Lancer… if that’s what you’re worried about."

“But... I built my job myself... my life is mine now.”

Davis gave a small, almost sympathetic smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “But the core deviation is still there. This outcome was never part of your probable trajectory. We’re not taking anything from you, Mr. Lancer, we’re aligning your life with the outcome you were always most likely to reach.”

“That’s not restoration,” Thomas argued, pulse pounding. “You can't do this. I won't just...”

“You don't have a choice.” Davis replied softly, gesturing toward the pod as it hissed and opened, "Now please undress."

Thomas hesitated only briefly before complying, folding his clothes with trembling hands as if the small act of neatness might anchor him to himself. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the polished surface of the pod. Lean, toned, swimmer’s build, smooth skin, the careful maintenance of someone who had always had time to care.

"Please enter."

The interior glowed faintly, sterile and inviting in a way that made his stomach turn. He stepped inside, lying back as the curved surface molded to him, sealing him in.

--------------

At first, it wasn’t pain. It was… intrusion.

A warmth spread along his temples, threading inward, and suddenly there was a memory... Forceful, overwhelming something else that had been there. A cramped living room. The hum of an old TV. The sharp scent of cheap beer.

“Tommy,” a rough voice called, casual and familiar in a way that made Thomas’s chest tighten. “Grab me one while you’re up.”

The name landed wrong... Tommy- and yet, disturbingly, it didn’t stay wrong for long. He could see himself moving through that space, younger, grabbing a bottle from a fridge that rattled when it opened.

A man... Greg, his mom’s boyfriend, sat sprawled on the couch, broad, worn, solid in a way that radiated authority without effort.

“Atta boy,” Greg muttered, taking the beer.

--------------

Inside the pod, Thomas’s body slackened slightly. The tension in his shoulders eased. The sterile hum of the machine blended with the low drone of that TV, the two realities overlapping until the difference blurred. The memory of his real father- tailored suits, polished offices- felt… distant. Thinner. Less lived in. Greg’s presence, by contrast, was heavy, immediate, grounding.

--------------

The next shift came harder.

Thomas... no... Tommy... stood in front of a mirror, but the reflection wasn’t quite right. The frame was thicker, the edges of muscle less refined and more functional, built through repetition rather than design. His hair looked less styled, more… neglected. He lingered there a moment too long, staring, trying to reconcile what he was seeing... trying to understand.

“Don’t just stand there gawkin’ at yourself,” Greg’s voice snapped from behind him, sharp with irritation. “Mirror ain’t gonna do the work for you.”

--------------

Inside the pod, Thomas’s breath hitched sharply as sensation followed the memory. His muscles tightened, then shifted, a dull, spreading ache as fibers seemed to knit differently beneath his skin. It wasn’t dramatic, not all at once, but it was real. His arms felt heavier, denser. His chest expanded, rising with each slow breath.

"Dial it up." Davis said, watching Thomas's progress closely.

--------------

The shift into the next phase did not come gently. It hit like impact. Sudden, jarring, full of motion. Tommy was on a field, the ground uneven beneath his cleats. Someone slammed into him, and instead of fear, there was a surge... hot, immediate, good. Football. Not swimming or golf. A real man's sport.

“Get up!” Greg’s voice cut through from the sidelines, louder than anyone else’s, full of rough-edged approval. “That’s it! Hit ‘em back!”

--------------

Inside the pod, Thomas’s back arched as sensation flooded him. His muscles tightened violently, then began to swell... not grotesquely, not all at once, but undeniably. His shoulders broadened, the clean, streamlined lines of a swimmer thickening into something denser, more impact-ready. There was weight to him now.

"Wait..." Thomas mumbled, voice flat and distant.

--------------

The next wave came rougher. A flick of a lighter in the dark. The sharp inhale of smoke burning down his throat, making him cough hard enough to double over while laughter echoed around him.

“Don’t be a wuss,” Greg muttered, though there was a crooked grin behind it. “You’ll get used to it.”

The burn dulled into something tolerable, then familiar. Again... and again.

--------------

Inside the pod, Thomas’s lungs seized for a moment, a phantom irritation scraping through his chest before settling. And then he felt it. A craving. A need for a cigarette. And the memories didn’t stop.

--------------

A cheap bar, loud and crowded. The sticky floor beneath his boots. Someone bumping into him too hard... and the reaction was immediate. A shove. A shout. Then fists.

“Atta boy,” Greg said later, voice approving even as he handed Tommy something cold to press against his face. “Can’t let people walk all over you.”

--------------

In the pod, Thomas gasped as his face twitched, a deep, aching pressure forming along the bridge of his nose before settling. Not breaking, not fully, but changing. Less refined. Slightly off. His skin, too, seemed different. Less cared for, faint imperfections surfacing, the kind that came from sun, from work, from not paying attention to things that used to matter.

"How's his progress?"

Look for yourself."

Inside the pod, Thomas’s body had begun to tell the story before his mind fully caught up. His frame thicker now, muscle settling in with a denser, work-built weight. Fine hairs had started to gather across his chest and stomach, subtle but new. A faint shadow of stubble edged his jaw, and along his arms, the ghost of ink- half-formed lines of tattoos- lingered just beneath the skin, not yet complete, but no longer absent.

"Perfect."

--------------

This time, the memory didn’t force itself in. It settled. Tommy leaned against the side of a work truck, metal warm from the sun, dust clinging to his skin. He shifted and caught his reflection in the window.

Something felt off. He stepped closer.

His frame had filled out. Thicker through the chest and shoulders, solid rather than sculpted. His hair sat uneven, pushed back without care, and a rough layer of stubble shadowed his jaw. When he tugged at his collar, he noticed darker hair spreading faintly across his chest.

--------------

Inside the pod, Thomas grimaced as it happened. The itch across his chest, sharper now, as hair thickened. His jaw tightened as stubble coarsened.

--------------

“School starts next week.”

“Yeah… don’t think I’m goin’ back.”

No conflict. Just relief. Greg glanced over from where he stood, sizing him up for half a second before giving a small nod.

“Figured,” he said. “You’re already makin’ yourself useful.”

--------------

"St... stop..." He whispered, eyes half lidded. His awareness of the word around him overwhelmed by the memories he was being guided by.

Thomas tried again to hold onto something... an idea, a plan, the importance of what he was losing... but each attempt came up shorter than the last. Thoughts simplified... the need for anything more complex was fading. In their place came something steadier. The memory of a long day’s work settling into his muscles. The satisfaction of finishing something tangible. The ease of sitting back with a drink, not thinking too far ahead. His breathing slowed. Deepened. The panic flickered... and then faltered.

--------------

The pod’s hum shifted again. Lower, denser, like it was pressing inward rather than surrounding him.

“Final correction phase initiated. Cognitive resistance collapse accelerated.”

There was no space for thought anymore. Just overflow. Drowning out anything that was left of "Thomas Lancer."

--------------

Nights stacked into each other without edges. Cheap beer burning down his throat after work, laughter he didn’t need to explain, cigarette smoke curling out into streetlight haze. Ash flicked away with an easy motion. The weight of his body collapsing into whatever chair, curb, or bed was closest. Exhaustion, release, repetition. Each memory slid into the next without pause, stripping away anything that required reflection to hold.

The morning light woke him up. He dragged himself upright in a narrow, unmade bed, sheets twisted and half-hanging off the side. The apartment around him was dim and cluttered. Empty beer cans on a table, clothes tossed wherever they landed, the air thick with a stale, musky smell that clung to everything. He didn’t notice it. Didn’t care.

"Hell..."

He stretched slowly, arms pulling up over his head, back arching as something popped along his spine. His pits were damp, hair thicker there now, holding onto the smell of yesterday’s sweat. He exhaled through his nose, scratching idly at his chest, fingers dragging through the coarse spread of hair. A low grunt left him as he swung his legs over the side of the bed.

He shuffled toward the bathroom, bare feet dragging slightly against the floor, and leaned over the sink, staring into the mirror without really thinking about it. Ran a hand through his hair. Messy, sticking out in places, flattened in others.

Scratched at his beard. Spat into the sink. For a moment, he just stood there. Not analyzing. Not questioning. Life wasn’t complicated. Get up. Go to work. Get paid. Grab a drink after if the day was rough, which it usually was. Maybe catch a game if something was on. Didn’t need much more than that. He snorted softly to himself, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice rough with sleep. “Could be worse.”

--------------

Inside the pod, there was no resistance left to mirror. Only completion. His body settled into itself fully. Weight distributed differently now, thicker through the torso and limbs, every inch of him carrying the quiet density of years of labor. The last traces of softness gave way to something more permanent, more worn-in.

--------------

The site was already loud when he rolled in, gravel crunching under his boots as he hopped out and lit a cigarette.

“Harris!” someone barked.

He jerked his chin up. “Yeah, yeah, I’m here. Damn, can’t even get a smoke in first?”

A couple guys chuckled.

Tom Harris now... had been for years. “Tommy” didn’t stick past being a kid. He grabbed his gear, spitting to the side. “Alright, what’re we hittin’ first?”

--------------

Inside the pod, his eyes fluttered beneath sealed lids, a faint groan slipping out as his head shifted against the surface.

“Aw, damn… my head…”

--------------

Leaning against a truck during a break, cigarette hanging loose from his lips, someone nudged him. “You still lookin’ for steadier work?”

Tom shrugged, flicking ash onto the gravel. “Long as it pays better than this crap.”

“Lancer’s crew is hirin’. Bigger jobs. Better hours.”

He squinted slightly, rolling the name around in his head for all of a second before exhaling smoke. “Lancer, huh? Yeah… sure. I’ll give it a look.”

The name didn’t stir anything... no memory, no connection, not even a passing sense of familiarity. Just another company, same as any other, another crew, another paycheck at the end of the week.

Later, filling out paperwork, he barely glanced at the logo stamped across the top.

Lancer Construction

His pen scratched across the line beneath it:

Tom Harris

Signed clean. No hesitation.

No idea.

--------------

The pod opened with a low hiss, and Tom stepped out slowly, his body heavy in that dull, satisfying way that followed deep sleep. He stretched without thinking, arms rising overhead as his back cracked, chest expanding with a slow breath that carried no urgency. The air felt cooler against his bare skin, but it didn’t bother him. His gaze drifted lazily to the folded clothes nearby, lingering only a moment as if trying to place them before the thought slipped. They didn’t feel like his. He turned instead to the rough denim and worn fabric set aside for him, already reaching for them without question.

“Everything checks out,” one of the DOC agents said, glancing up from the tablet. “Identification, employment, residency are all aligned. Tom Harris, you're good to go”

“Yeah?” Tom tugged on the jeans, rolling his shoulders as the fabric settled naturally against him, then pulled the shirt over his head. “Good. Didn’t feel like stickin’ around here anyway.”

--------------

Out in the hall, he slowed slightly when he spotted a sharply dressed man lingering nearby. Something about him stood out... clean, put-together, out of place.

“Hey,” Tom said, nodding. “You’re Lancer’s kid, right? Seen you on-site.”

William’s smile came easy, thin and satisfied. “I was curious how things turned out,” he said, voice smooth. “Seems you’ve landed exactly where you belong.”

Tom scratched at his chest through the fabric, frowning faintly. “Yeah… guess so,” he muttered, glancing him over. “Kinda weird you bein’ here, though. Don’t you got people for this stuff?”

William’s expression didn’t shift. “I like to stay involved.”

Tom huffed lightly, already losing interest. Still, as he walked past, a faint thought tugged at him... why was he here? But it slipped loose before it could settle.

--------------

The site noise hit him full force as he arrived, boots crunching over gravel, cigarette already between his fingers as he lit it.

“Harris! You draggin’ ass today?” someone called.

He took a drag, exhaling slow. “Yeah, yeah, keep talkin’. I’ll outwork you anyway.”

A couple of the guys laughed and he got to work. It came naturally, his body moving without hesitation, every motion familiar in a way that didn’t need thinking. He adjusted his grip, muscles tightening as he lifted, falling into rhythm with the others.

For a brief second, something felt off... but the weight in his hands grounded him again, steady and certain.

“Quit starin’ into space and move,” someone barked.

Tom smirked faintly, shifting the load. “Yeah, yeah! I got it.”

Alec always loved Halloween night with his frat bros. Always loved their sacred tradition. He remembered his first time as a new pledge. The first Halloween they brought him down to that dingy basement, where one of the older members summoned the ghosts of their predecessors. Sure, Alec had been scared at first, not really knowing what to expect. But very quickly, he felt that cold chill pass through him and found himself in the driver's seat of his own body.

"Oh shit, this feels nice." He had heard his own voice slur, "Thanks for the bod, bro."

Whoever this ghost had been certainly enjoyed the night. Alec found himself watching as his body took up space in a corner of the room, lighting a joint and getting high. And it felt good. Just vibing, smoking weed, and managing the munchies with the greasiest food available. For Alec, a star athlete and golden boy, it felt like a nice quick vacation from his usual life. And the next morning- all was back to normal. Alec woke up half-naked on the couch, joint lazily wedged between his fingers, and went back to his usual day-to-day. He had done it. He was now fully one of the bros.

---------------

Two years had passed since Alec's freshman Halloween party experience. And in those years, Alec worked hard. He hit the gym, practiced on the field daily, tanned in the sun, went to parties, and excelled academically. Confident, popular, and ready to face whatever challenges came his way.

On Halloween night, he stood in the dingy basement watching as another group of new frat bros prepared for the ritual. All was going just as it should. The lights flickered, the cold air settled throughout the room, and the spirits made their appearance. And as Alec laughed alongside his buddies, he felt something. A cold chill pass through him. His laughter stopped.

"Alec, you okay man?"

"Yeah... Yeah..." He frowned, "Did you, uh feel that?" His bros shook their heads, "Must be imagining things." He laughed halfheartedly.

Despite the lingering feeling something was off, Alec went back to welcoming the old frat bros back to the land of the living.

---------------

"Did you have fun at your little occult party?" She ran her fingers across Alec's muscular chest.

"Best party of the year." He smirked, pulling her close, "But I think... what's wrong?"

A look of disgust crossed her face, "That smell..." She frowned, "I didn't know you smoked weed."

Alec raised an eyebrow. Yeah, he'd smoked before. But not recently. And he'd certainly change if his clothes stunk of it. He hated the smell, and clearly his date did too. But as he took a whiff of his shirt, the smell of weed filled his nostrils. And it wasn't subtle. It was strong. Obnoxious. It wouldn't be possible to not notice it.

"Fuck... I don't know how..."

"Let's reschedule." She said quickly, "And next time, maybe don't pick me up smelling like that."

---------------

"Dude, Brit is telling everyone about..."

"I don't get it. So what? I smelled like weed." Alec frowned, shoving a handful of Cheetos in his mouth, "Probably washed my clothes with Derek's or John's by accident."

"Yeah, but like, how didn't you notice?" One of the other guys laughed, "Really blew your chance there. And doubt any chick from that sorority will give you the time of day."

"Whatever." Alec grumbled, chewing on another mouthful of Cheetos.

---------------

Alec woke up groggy, his head pounding from Saturday night's festivities. But he had a routine, hangovers be damned. He stumbled to his closet, reaching for his workout gear. But as he rifled through the hangers, he found nothing but a collection of faded, torn jeans and unwashed, sweat-stained t-shirts. But it was the stench of stale weed that made Alec's stomach churn. It clung to every piece of clothing and spread through his room like wildfire.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me." With a sigh, he grudgingly slipped into the dirty attire, "Which one of those fuckers took my clothes?"

He left the room, initially planning to confront his bros. But with each step and each breath of the stale sweat and weed, Alec's thoughts became less focused. By the time he made it to the living room, the clothes felt like they had always been his.

---------------

"Hey, Alec," one of his frat brothers walked into the common area, "haven't seen you at the gym in weeks. Everything cool?"

Alec shrugged, lighting up a joint he'd scored from a buddy.

"Nah, just been busy." He exhaled a cloud of smoke, feeling the familiar buzz wash over him. Suddenly, a thought struck him, "Hey, you think it's possible for a spirit to possess someone more than once?"

His brother raised an eyebrow. "I dunno, man. Why?"

Alec took another drag, not really caring about the answer anymore, "Just curious." He muttered, already forgetting why he asked in the first place.

As he sat there, Alec couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this relaxed. This content. The weed, the grubby clothes, the lack of responsibilities - it all blended together perfectly. He scratched at the stubble on his chin, realizing he hadn't shaved in days. Maybe weeks. Didn't matter though.

---------------

Alec stared blankly at the failing grade scrawled across the crumpled exam paper. His stomach churned with disappointment, but the sensation was distant, muffled. He should care more, shouldn't he? This was supposed to matter.

Instead, he found himself more interested in the joint burning down to a nub between his fingers. He took a long drag, inhaling deeply as he leaned back in his chair. The thick, pungent smoke filled his lungs, calming his nerves. He nearly jumped at the icy cold sensation that tore through his body.

"What the fuck?" But the feeling dissipated quickly.

Alec sighed, absently scratching at the patchy chest hair sprouting from his softer, less defined pecs. His once sculpted physique had slowly dissipated over the past months. Not that he minded much these days. Comfortable was better than ripped anyway.

---------------

Alec leaned back against his bed, feet propped up on the mattress. Coach's words echoed in his mind, but they felt detached, irrelevant. Kicked off the team. That should hurt, right? He should be devastated.

Yet, all Alec could focus on was the comforting musk emanating from the holes in his socks. He'd discovered this damp, stained pair of socks festering in a heap of his dirty clothes a few days prior and had been wearing them ever since. The earthy scent, the slightly sticky texture – it was strangely soothing. But something moved in the corner of his eye, prompting him to spin in that direction.

"I could've sworn..." He frowned. What was that? It almost looked like a...

He absentmindedly scratched his stomach, recoiling for the briefest moment at the unfamiliar pudge that had settled on his midsection.

Under different circumstances, this would've sent him into a panic. But today, all he could muster was a fleeting thought of, "Should probably go jog or something," before dismissing the idea entirely.

---------------

Alec trudged through campus, ignoring the whispers from the other students. The stares, the snickers, the pitying glances. He should care, right? Because this wasn't him. He wasn't… A sudden, sharp ache shot through his earlobes. They felt…empty. Hollow. Alec's steps quickened, propelled by an urgent need he couldn't quite understand. And suddenly, he was standing inside a shop he never knew existed.

"Afternoon. What can I do for ya?" The body piercer said.

Without hesitation, Alec blurted out, "Ears. Both sides. Something big."

---------------

Weeks blurred together in a haze of smoke and the sound of the tattoo needle. They buzzed against Alec's skin, etching dark designs onto his chest, arms, neck, and face. Piercing guns punctured his ears, lips, nose, eyebrows. With each new addition, a flicker of terror sparking within him, his reflection was almost unrecognizable now. He had fallen so far. Had become someone else entirely.

"Why is this happening?" Alec whispered, staring in the mirror and feeling the gauges in his stretched earlobes, "Why am I doing this?"

He stood outside the tattoo parlor and shuddered at the icy cold sensation that coursed through him. His resistance crumbled as he caught a whiff of the comforting musk of his filthy clothes and heard the buzzing of the tattoo needle.

---------------

Alec sat cross-legged on his bed, eyes dull and half-lidded. The room reeked of stale smoke, body odor, and the faint hint of rotting food. His buddies avoided him, professors gave up on him, and for the first time Alec felt lost. He felt further from himself than ever before.

"I need to turn it around." He ran a hand through his greasy hair.

He sighed and took a long drag from his joint, blinking as he noticed a ghostly figure materializing before him. It solidified into the form of a man he vaguely recognized. The frat bro the night of his first ritual. The one who first possessed him.

"It's you." Alec slurred, "You... No, no, get away from me." The ghost floated closer, its eyes locking onto Alec's. "You ruined my life," Alec murmured, a flicker of clarity piercing through the fog in his brain. "Please… go away. Leave me alone!"

The spirit grinned lazily and surged forward. Right into Alec. The young man grunted as the spirit filled him. And in those moments, Alec realized something. Realized how weakened and disconnected he was with his true self. Realized how there wasn't much of him left in this slovenly, tatted, pierced form. Alec cried out, as the lines between Alec's original consciousness and the spirit blurred, until they disappeared entirely. He was Alec in name only, but his life... his very fate, were forever tied to the spirit's.

"Woah, that was intense." Alec slurred, "What a fuckin' trip."

Any semblance of Alec's former self, any hope for redemption or return to his previous life, vanished without a trace. There would be no questioning, no yearning for something more. The possession was absolute, and Alec was unaware of the extent of his loss. Forever trapped in a life he would've never wanted. Forevermore just another stoner slob.

When an arrogant executive descends upon a failing manufacturing plant with plans to fire the entire workforce, the burly foreman decides to save his crew and forge him into "Brick" - a brawny, simple-minded son who finds pure happiness in hard labor and making his new "father" proud.

New story for Bonus Tier Supporters! Approx 5.5k words

Become a supporter at https://ko-fi.com/masterwolftfs

Commission Story post!! if anyone wants any sort of TF I am opening my slots all up due to my current situation <3 All are welcome!!

Twitch streaming was not for the faint of heart, most people had their own assumptions about the profession, hobby, job whatever you wanted to call it. Everyone had an opinion and most of the time everyone had a different experience that proved one of them right. Twitch was not a dating app, but damn did people use it like one. Twitch was so much easier than doing a normal nine to five retail job, and there's no argument there that it didn’t come with a lot of benefits. But twitch also had a massive parasocial problem, people believing they truly knew about a person and what they went through beyond the stream. Twitch had a massive privacy and protection issue when it came to its site and streamers.

All of these things coagulated together to create an interesting and new problem, parasocial, horny hackers and chatters who had whole concepts and ideas on who people should be. And how their ideas would make that streamer's life so much easier. It really was just a rumor, something spread on reddit forums about certain streamers getting a raid from some streamer and their chats exploding with messages. Those messages change streamers into parodies, caricatures and horny gay versions of themselves. It was frightening especially for the straight male population of twitch streamers.

Really it was just a rumor right? It's absurd that a hacker could actually transform someone into a slutty. Horny gay version of themselves. Magic wasn’t real and the worst thing the hacker could do was find out the streamers info and leak it. That is devastating, horrible and cruel, its led to many tragedies but it never removed someone’s autonomy. So Those pussies could suck a fat one for all our protagonist cared about.

RunBxnny (Known as Alex to his friends) is a pretty tame fps streamer, not like the other “alpha male”, misogynist red pilled homophobes. At least not publicly, he had managed to keep a clean positive image of just being a bro to everyone. Encouraging community and team building with members whether it was his open lobbies, community days or those two times he did a charity stream. People loved him and that was better then almost any real life currency because love and attention brought not just money in but other perks including longevity. It paid very well to be kind in the long run.

He was also classically handsome, attracting both women and gay men as his main audience. Sure, was that the main reason he kept a clean image, well yeah shitting where you eat is a terrible idea, so what if he had to fake being genuine and sweet if it got him what he wanted. The gays and girls and whatever could afford his love and support and all he’d have to do is throw them a bone, why not? Fags loved when he wore tanks, and girls loved his good girls and asking them questions. It was so fuckin easy anyone could do it. He didn’t understand why people went so quick for the scumbag, rage baiter troll routine, it attracted more than just the physically ugly, all those guys were WASHED.

So when RunBxnny opened up obs to stream some sort of shooter he was not all surprised to see his offline notifs had popped off, posting a shirtless selfie on Instagram before going live always got bitches horny. Fresh from a  workout, slightly hard at the thought of the attention he was going to get he got stream booted up. His cock stretching his boxer briefs and making the jeans he was wearing just slightly distended.

The chat slowly filtered in, and slow for RunBxnny was about fifty people at a time, his chatters entering immediately saying hi to each other before spamming emotes. Waves of rainbow flags, heart emojis and thirsty gifs he had his artists shrink filled chat, emboldening his ego. Creating this space was the biggest tool he had at his disposal for feeding it and it wouldn’t go hungry any time soon, he just had to be smart. 

“YOOOOOO chat whats up whats happening its RunBxnny here for the good vibes!” He quickly hit the stream decks transition button switching to his glowing smile. His deeper register picked up perfectly on the mic as he greeted chatter after chatter. Everyone wanted to say hi and who was he to complain, it kept their attention and at the end of the day thats what he really wanted wasn’t it?

It’s why when a bunch of new chatters typed their hellos’ and greetings RunBxnny didn’t even flinch. His normal chatters like SaragamesHard, TaronEatsDown, CallofSnoopy and some gayr names were quickly overwhelmed by a swarm of new people. RunBxnny was a good streamer so he made time for it.

“Hey CallmeDaddy nice to meet you, BottomMakr welcome on in! Hey good to meet you CoachStyle, Hey Dommerpog hyped to meet you guys, damn we have a lot of new people today.” the names were a lot more sexual then he was used to, he could have sworn he saw one about jockstraps in there but a viewer was a viewer and he’d get his ad revenue. As long as they didn't harass anyone or make him uncomfortable the mods would handle the majority of the caroling of the masses. He did a quick little subtle flex, his pecs popping under the fabric of his cotton blend shirt, his biceps bulging, giving the viewers something to stare at as he got ready. He already knew some of these bitches were clip farming him for their fan pages.

“Today guys its good to see all of you, as you know on wednesdays we do community day on cod, so you guys are welcome to que up and we can squad some versus matches!” his voice was even making sure to be confident, everything was perfectly manicured, he had to appeal to everyone not just one group. He already saw ten people que up immediately. Chat was moving faster and as it moved faster he missed a few messages,, hell his mods missed them.

CallMeDaddy: Damn someones looking beefy today, can only imagine what that looks like out and the open.

BottomMakr: God it would be so much better if he got up and showed off that ass of his so I could see what we were working with.

CoachStyle: patience boy seems like we found a good candidate no matter what for the raid

CallMeDaddy: Abso-fucking-lutely can’t wait to transform this twerp.

DommerPog: i’ll use my points, call dibs on the first change bitches.

BottomMakr: I won't complain about that.

The matches were starting, and a few subs had been sent his way, Alex was honestly on a high. A good start to a stream does that. It doesn’t just give you confidence or boost you through the algorithm, it also makes you very very very blind to your problems and arrogant. It lowers the guard many build in order to protect themselves from any upcoming threats, and when something does happen, when there is a problem that occurs it rocks their world. It brings instability and all that really gets left behind is the feeling that something, anything would be better than this. It’s not like Alex was alone, he had his father home, being a famous streamer and living with your family had many benefits and one was having a calm figure in your life you could go to in dire situations where leveled heads would succeed.

“Okay two guys on me, on me yeah, their coming on me, their in, I feel it… Sara thanks for the good Girl FUCK WELCOME IN RAIDERS!!” Notifications start flashing on his screen, between redeems popping up, to the game he’s playing suggestive lingo, its easy to miss who the raiders are at first. Even the mods scramble as a raid of a hundred or so people pile in, the scene transitioning and raid music playing. Mods shouting out the raider as RunBxnny scrolls through the same spammed, odd raid message to see who sent him such a lovely, but soon to be cursed gift..

“🌀🌀🌀TIME FOR CHANGE🌀🌀🌀” Spammed by atleast half of chat as our hero (victim) finally finds the user he was looking for. Eyes taking on a ghostly blue sheen as something raided more then just his chat, but also his soul as the plan began taking root.

“Hey Raiders!! Great to meet you KoKStrapChanges, funny name!! Welcome on in to my corner of the internet great to have you here, make sure to drink some water, eat some food and if you have to raid and run thats completely understandable I’ll take ***Leans into the mic, lowering his voice just a tad* Goood care of your community, for all of you guys staying, make sure to read chat’s rules, be kind and lets have some fun!! What were you guys playing?” He ran through the whole thing so fast, so rehearsed like it was second nature. Sure the name was odd, definitely gay, Alex had definitely seen that name somewhere but not in his own chat, he pulled up discord and told his head mod to look into it while he chatted. His regulars had been drowned out by all the newcomers, almost like they’d been blocked from getting in the way.

KoKStrapChanges: Thanks so much for welcoming us in, we were just playing my favorite game, and now you get to be a part of it.

“What, what do you mean a part of it? That's really weird dude!” His mod sends a message of discord that something is wrong, that they can’t access mod mode, and that KoKStrapChanges is apparently a known hacker. This rings so many alarm bells, a raid that size was normal for him at this point and if it hadn’t been his mod saying it he wouldn’t have taken it seriously but it was the perfect storm of info given.

Worried about what’s getting ready to happen he clicks over to his obs screen getting ready to leave when the raiders start chiming in, and the game begins.

CallMeDaddy: Oh God I love when we get to raid!! This is gonna be so much fun

BottomMakr:  MMM he’s even cuter when he’s nervous, can’t wait to see him beg

CoachStyle: He’s gonna be such a good boy for us.

CallMeDaddy: Not just a good boy, he is going to be the best, begging for all of us to be his daddy by the end of it. Dommer You get first change!

DommerPog: First up, Everytime RunBxnny tries to close stream he’s going to gain five pounds of muscles and experience a wave of euphoria so strong he has to lay back in his chair panting and moaning instead

KoKStrapChanges: Oh that' s such a good Idea! DONE

The screen flashes and as Alex tries to close out and escape a PULSE rushes through his body and it feels like it was set on fire. Each muscle bulging slightly as he gains a slight pump, his voice leaving his throat in pants and moans. His perfectly fitted shirt and pants strain, seams starting to fray as he filled out further

“Fuck, fuck whats.. No no you guys, you guys are those gay raiders!” His voice was breathless, moaning in panic as he couldn’t help but try the same thing again in vain. His hand reaches for the mouse, and as it does, a jolt of pleasure and a PULSE of change rushing through him. He feels it center on his chest, his pecs becoming disproportionate to the rest of himself as he grabs both newly forming muscle tits. Groping and feeling himself up as more pleasure rushes through him, pillowey pecs pushing his shirt to its limits, the hem rising exposing a defined v-line and the beginnings of his abs. Chat went crazy as he squeezed them before regaining his senses, cock pulsing and throbbing underneath his pants, leaking precum.

His ass starts to inflate, muscle and fat growing on his rear as it bubbles out, lifting him slightly higher in his gamer chair, his thighs thickening as he feels them forced apart further to leave room for his junk to breathe. His calves carve themselves freely to that of diamonds. His feet flopping free of socks and elongating, toes thickening. Muffled groans and moans from his lips echo aropund the room as they get louder. Thank god they can’t see my lower half he thinks as he reaches for the mouse again, not learning his lesson.

It PULSES through him again, chest inflating, shoulders broadening, back becoming more defined. His shirt starting to rip and tear at the seams. His pants which were loose sweats look more like leggings as his ass gets fatter and his thighs look like they could crush watermelons and heads. His moans, groans are now followed by pants and pleading for help.

“How… How are you.. How is this possible? What are you doin to me?!” He breathily asks as looks up at the screen, testosterone rushing through his body now, neck and Adam's apple thicker as his voice deepens. He has learned his lesson to avoid the mouse, trying to think his way through this, maybe he could pull the power supply, that was a good idea he would just have to wait this out, wait for a moment to do it.

CallMeDaddy: Don’t worry that pretty, STUPID head of yours slut.

BottomMakr:  Fuck yeah make him a big dumb, slutty himbo. Begging for cock.

CoachStyle: That would make him such a good boy, a good boy begging for praise with his big muscles and fat ass. Maybe make him more of a dumb jock overall.

CallMeDaddy: I can get behind that, make him dumb, slutty, himbo jock begging for cock, thats your change  Coach?

CoachStyle: A wrestling jock but yes, pleasseeeee @KokStrapChanges 

KoKStrapChanges: Fuck yes lets do those changes now.

It was a giant pulse centered on his head, his ears popping rapidly as PULSE AFTER PULSE fired in his head. Fuck his smarts, his brain,, he wasn’t dumb, and he wasn’t gay. What the fuck were they… PULSE!

Fuck CoCk.. All he could think about was cock, words were too hard for anyone, cock was so easy. And it wasn’t like it was gay to want cock, nah he was still totally, absolutely straight. He was a wrestler after all… No.. No he wasn’t a wrestler, he rarely did sports.. Just worked out for… for cock. All he wants is cock. The idea of it fucking his big, fat straight ass was so hot. His clothes starting to get tighter, his shirt was reformed and reforged into a tight nylon tank top exposing ripped arms and pillowey pec side boob. His sweatpants became tight three inch inseam shorts that left little to the imagination and his boxer briefs became a slutty green jockstrap from his YEARS of wrestling.

Years of education, of marketing and research flushed down his brain and all the way to his balls as hebrew dumber and hornier by the second. His balls were sloshing around, his cock growing harder as he man spread more, ass and hips gyrating in his chair. His hole, his straight, tight, pink hole was starting to quiver and wink, begging, pleading to be fucked, an emptiness, a hungry, world ending emptiness started to fill him. Creating an itch he needed to scratch or he would never be satiated, an itch only cock could reach.

“Fuck.. Fuck chat I’m so horny, so fuckin horny and desperate, I need, I need. FUCK I NEED COCK!!” he was full on groping himself now, getting out of his chair to feel up his muscles, his arms flexing, turning his back to the camera and “Stretching” while he was actually arching his back to show off his dump truck of an ass.

“It’s so big and round and it needs someone to spread it… spread it open and… give me co… No… no this isn’t real fuck.. Fuck no I’m not some! Some… over sexed.. Fag.. i like tits.. Pussy fuck HELP ME” his hands had moved down ontop of his shorts, spreading his cheeks through them. His cock was leaking precum as he put on this show, chat was going crazy. Runbxnny’s regulars who at first had been worried were quickly shifting sides. Joining the gay raiding hackers in watching and enjoying the show.

DommerPog: That didn’t take long, who was betting that this dude was actually homophobic. I owe em twenty bucks my bad bros. But he really takes to oversexed Fag slut real well.

BottomMakr:  i told you he was, just send it through paypal, i think this dude needs to become exactly what he says, no more of this conflicting life shit, KOK makie him into his version of a faggot please

CoachStyle: Oh god thats gonna be so hot, and go ahead and put him in a wrestling singlet too

CallMeDaddy: Oh this boy is trouble, Agreed Bottom he needs to go ahead and accept his fate.

CallMeDaddy: Kokstrap how much to make him mentally trapped beneath all of this too so he has to watch himself live like this

DommerPog:  Oh fuck thats hot!

KoKStrapChanges: For you Daddy that’s free, lets really take this all in and enjoy the moment!! God this has been so fun to do.

Alex tries to beg them no but that SAME pulse echoes through his mind and all those memories of women, of his type, his favorite porn and all of the bookmarks of them start to pop away like bubbles. His first kiss, his first time, hell his prom date all disappear and with them leaves a void that he has to have filled. FILLED BY COCK. Memories of himself sucking and servicing cock flashes through his mind, different men, races, body types, all flash through his mind, he wasn’t picky he would suck or get fucked by any of them because it was an honor. His homophobic streak was ripped away from him, replaced with pride, his social media was cleansed of its boring straight boy aesthetic and made more colorful and thirsty. All of it was gone in a second and he was left with a dumb gay boy’s mind. A faggot’s mind. His face changed to match, his cheekbones were more high, his brows became perfectly manicured and his lips became plumper. Becoming perfect dick sucking lips. 

But in all of that commotion something, no, someone heard Alex’s Pleas, his father. Who immediately leapt up and went running towards his son’s stream room. It had been smart for him to stay there with his family in emergencies like this, if only his father could do more for him.

Because when he ran into the room slamming the door open, his son, his pride and joy, looked incredibly different. The straight laced, playboy who kept his body tight and fit had been completely replaced, standing infront of him instead was this porn parody of a wrestler. It was as if his body had been specifically curated by gay men, his lips were ridiculously plump, perfect DSL’s that were permanently pouty, his  chin and jaw were this perfect comic book superhero lantern jaw that screamed masculinity and jock. His pectorals were bigger then some women’s tits, these pillowey, perky muscle tits were straining the spandex, definitely meant for gay sex, singlet he was wearing, his waist and torso had unnaturally been enhanced and snatched becoming this perfect trim v line that led to his average bulge and GIGANTIC cheeks that made the legs of the singlet tear and fray. His arms and legs were built too but everything else had been accentuated and exaggerated to the point that they were of little note to the father.

He had heard something about people being changed, fringed rumors and banned accounts on the platform but he had assumed, much like the figure before him, that it was exaggerated to the point of parody. Something from tumblr or fantasy smut not a reality he and his son had to face. He slowly moved forward carefully, his son just looking confused at his father as he started spreading his cheeks to his audience.

“Please, please someone come fill me, I'm… I’m so horny, my cheeks need it, my hole is empty please.” He sounded so slutty so needy, he was also so fucking dumb. His father was aghast, what could he do, what options did he have.

“Alex what’s going on? Fuck I need to stop this!” He looks around trying to figure out what to do, his eyes immediately see OBS open, the streaming software has a glowing red live button and as he reaches for the mouse to end it, hovering over the end he suddenly feels a PULSE!! Both Alex and his father feel it hit them square in the chest, Alex’s singlet stretching to the brink of its capacity as his muscular chest and gigantic bubble butt add more muscle mass. His arms going up into a double bicep flex as he rides the wave of arousal and starts to show off the rest of his body posing and flexing/

Alex’s Father, Chet feels his body start PULSING and raking with pleasure as his head is thrown back.testosterone rushing in his veins as his body goes through a late second puberty. He feels the top of his hair thicken while more salt and pepper grows in. His neck starts to thicken and widen as his adams apple grows making the guttural groans he is letting out deepen. His shoulders broaden and his tight red polo BURSTS as his pecs inflate into two perfect muscular slabs. 

His biceps bulge out like mountains and his triceps become veinier and thicker with pure mass. His hands which had only ever seen a keyboard in an office become the epitome of gym bro callused. While his torso begins to get this strong bear muscle gut. Abs and mass built from years of labour coming out in force. His ass getting thicker and his thighs becoming humongous. He starts to catch his breath when he does the same thing as his son, and repeats his mistake everything feeling twice as pleasurable as his pants rip following suit leaving him in just a pair of boxers.

“Fuck yes DADDY please keep going!” His son yells looking down at his daddy before back at chat getting on his hands and knees above his dad.

“Fuck son no this isn’t you, you were a total pussy hound, please remember, remember your life before all of this!” He tries in vain to plead with Alex, streamer now dumb slut and Alex just giggles?

“Pussy? Daddy thats so silly, i could never  fuck a pussy with my dicklet, I’m such a faggot! I need someone to fuck my PUSSY!” His hands start roaming his fathers form, tracing along his daddy’s pec before his father swats it away. He’s looking around desperately, trying to find a solution before anything more radical happens. He can feel his cock stirring from his son’s touch, something he finds deeply disturbing but he can’t dwell on it. Therapy for later he thinks.

“Alex, please whatever has gotten ahold of you fight it!” For a second Chet sees Alex’s eyes focus on him, no longer fully glazed over with dumb horniness. A genuine look of horror before he speaks.

“Dad.. Dad it hurts so bad!” Alex says his hand reaching over to his dad, going directly to his chest. The feeling is warm and soft, gentle. His palm right above Chet’s nipples which had grown along with his chest.

“Son, please, kid speak to me tell me what hurts, tell me how to help.” Alex’s other hand  goes to his fathers other pec. At this point Alex was on all fours and moving ontop of his dad before he took that moment to strike, sliding his legs on top of his dads, straddling him.

“DADDY MY HOLE IT HURTS ITS SO EMPTY PLEASE I NEED YOU TO FILL IT!” In that moment Chet realized his son was gone, especially when the boy started gyrating against his bulge. He knew he had only one shot as he looked for a solution.

His eyes finally land on it, a solution he thinks hopefully, right in front of him, on the floor under the desk is the power supply cord. Just sitting there, waiting to be unplugged, just in reach all he had to do was tug it. “No, no this isn’t you, whatever happened here I’m going to stop it, I am going to save my boy.” With that he leapt under the deck, bucking his son off his hips and diving in, fully on his back with only his legs and bulge exposed, and as his hand touched the plug, that same PULSE from before shot into him. Except it was centered on his legs and bulge. His Cock began to fully harden, growing to its solid six inches before it slowly edged past that growing to seven, no eight.. NINE inches as his balls started to fill with cum. His thighs were perfect thunder thighs worthy of worship. An insane wave of testosterone shot through him making him hornier and hornier.

Chat was obviously going wild.

BottomMakr:  FUCK The daddy joined on in oh this is so hot, and the streamer is already ready to fuck him

DommerPog: God what a faggot slut, something for us to play with though. It be hot to make this newly muscled up stud into a pimp

CoachStyle: OMG A pimp for his own son, whoring him out on cam for money and fucking him when he gets needy enough, sign me up

CoachStyle: I mean, just the idea now of him dressing up like his coach and  “running drills” when we know for certain the only thing here getting drilled is that slut.

CallMeDaddy: DADDY AND SON CONTENT, fuck please KOK you have to change them to that, the dad would hate very second of it but think of how hot it would be for us, think of how much hotter shit is gonna get made and posted if you do

CallMeDaddy: Hell I’d wire you my next two paychecks if you did it

DommerPog:  Giving a guy a literal daddy kink sounds fucking perfect, and what a great way to make sure neither of em cause any harm again. Think about it, this guy totally was enabling his son to treat women badly.

BottomMakr: A bit of a stretch Domm, buuuuut I do agree that them both being slutty gay father and sons who slut out the sun for money and chat is the hottest it could be, lets do that. Also lets make the son addicted to Daddy’s cock for more added fun!

KoKStrapChanges: So much agreement today I love it. Okay Father and Son Special coming right up. ADDICTED TO DADDY’S COCK CAM SLUT!!

PULSE PULSE PULSE

That pulse raged through both of them, while it obviously hit Alex less, Chet felt like his mind was on fire. He tried to hold onto the image of his boy. Of the son he spent decades raising to becoming the smart, intelligent, handsome man he was today. Every bike ride till he could do it on his own, every sports game- wait alex didn’t do spo- EVERY SPORTS GAME was SO HOT… No not that. His son’s proms where he brought his girlfriends. Him getting his son into gaming and streaming, helping him build his career in a way that made sense to them. ALL of them started burning in his brain as he felt every memory associated with being a good, kind father start to burn, twist and melt.

The heart felt love in his chest began to twist and reshape as lust filled his eyes, his hard, horny, leaking cock thrusting into the air as the image of his son was corrupted. Making him into the perfect slut had always been his goal. Training him how to take dick properly since he was eighteen. Teaching him to lift weights and grow different muscle groups for the male eye. Hell he even got him into acting classes so he could study how to be a better porn star. His son was as dumb as bricks so there was no need to foster education, just lift, suck, fuck and beg for cum.

His son was an attention whore, only able to really live if eyes were on him. He had an exhibition kink being the main driving force for him to be a cam star. Memories of different scenarios and roleplays they had done on camera for his chats on chaturbate and only fans played through his mine. He loved when people did special orders and begged for Chet to get on camera and fuck his son. The idea of bending him over a chair or his bed was enough to get him leaking. Thats all he really did to show his love for him now, yeah he loved him, loved fucking and using him but at the end of the day profit was king and his son needed to make it.

“DADDY!! DADDY PLEASE… I need your cock, please I need it so bad I have been such a good boy for you. I’ll do anything Daddy, just need to feel your cock in me.” Alex was playing with his tits now. Messaging them through the lycra of his singlet, tempting his father as he tweaked his nipples. Moaning more then speaking as he licked his lips looking at his dad.

Chet stood up, walking around his son, looking down at his kneeling figure, seeing how his chest and ass distended the singlet and let out a whistle. His hand gently moved down and over to cup his sons face. Grabbing each cheek and making him look directly into his eyes.

“You want my cock slut.” His voice sounds harsh, maybe even like it was filled with venom, but Alex knew what it was, it was authority. An authority he couldn’t refuse.

“Yes, please, please I’ll do anything please let me taste your cock.” His words came out in more moans and breaths then syllables and strong annunciation. Chat was going crazy, the platform was no longer Twitch, it had become a white and blue page, to better accommodate the new NSFW streamer.

“Then get to work slut!” Chet drops his underwear, his cock flinging out, slapping this slut right in the face. Alex can’t help but follow after it. As it swings back the other way it hits his left cheek, leaving a trail of precum. Chet keeps playing this game, smacking and slapping him in the face with his cock, watching his big, dumb eyes glaze over with pleasure.

“Fuck, slut, so much hotter when your like this, when you are good and dumb for me and chat!”  His words are breathey as he holds his cock above Alex’s face, letting the boy stare up at his father, his master, with PURE awe. Mouth salivating before it finally drops down and his dad yells at him to suck it.

“Yes, yes daddy thank you….” He interrupts himself, his perfect dick sucking lips gliding over Chet’s cock head, his tongue licking and lapping around before he starts to bob up and down. His hands start to move up and down his dad’s legs, caressing and feeling up the muscles that made him so many years ago. With each inch he manages to take from his dad’s monster cock, he feels any chance of return get fucked out of his mind with it. Like as if every inch from Daddy’s cock was going straight into his brain fucking him stupider.

Chet can barely hold back, he tries to start slow but the agony of letting his boy set the pace is not worth it. He needs to give the viewers what they want, and he knows just how to. Chet’s hands firmly grab onto the sides of his BOYS head. Grabbing hair he starts to sull fuck him, using him more like a fleshlight as he starts to pummel the back of his son’s throat. His balls slap the bottom of his chin as he gives fully into the pleasure, Alex’s eyes rolling into the back of his head as he starts to feel overwhelmed, tears of pain and pleasure leaking down his face. He knew he couldn't do this forever, that there was something everyone was waiting for. Sure he could cum down his whore of a son’s throat but people really wanted to see him clap those cheeks.

Unceremoniously he pulls out of Alex’s mouth with a plop and motions for him to bend over against the chair. Alex has no reason or ability to disobey, his body does, arching his bck as he looks right at the camera to the viewers, asking them if they think hes hot. His hands going for his own nipples as he does. CHet just laughs as he stands behind his perverted, parodied son.

Leaning down so the scruff of his fully grown beard is against Alex’s face Chet smiles “Get ready bitch!” Before ripping a hole in the back of the singlet with his bare hands leaving Alex’s cheeks fully displayed in a jockstrap. Chet couldn't stop himself from giving one of those thick muscled cheeks a big SWAT, each cheek bouncing up and down as they jiggle from impact. Alex letting out a loud moan as his back somehow manages to arch forward, encouraging his daddy to go again.

SWAT SWAT SWAT

Over and over again DADDY CHET spanks his naughty, horny son, his cheeks starting to glow a vibrant red as he leaves a permanent hand print on both cheeks. His mouth was watering as he slowly caressed it, some of his fatherly love showing up as he gently touched his son after his punishment. A short aftercare before he parts those cheeks. Even shorter as he wedges his cok between those two gigantic cheeks, the tip of Chet’s cockjust barely touches the hole before he SLIDES past and underneath to tease him. Constant pressure from his tip and shaft keeping his boy on edge till he can’t stop begging.

With a wolf like grin into the camera, his hands gripping around his son's tight waist he stops teasing. AND PLUNGES RIGHT IN, his cock spearing all nine inches deep into his boy pussy.

“FUCK DADDY… DADDY YOU ARE SO BIG OH MY GOD!!” He moans out, looking at the camera feeling his own tits, his cock leaking so much it stains through the singlet.

“Big just for you boy, fuck you want more? Want daddy to fuck you harder?” Daddy starts to pull out, each inch leaving making his boy whimper before he breaks.

“Please more daddy, fucking harder please, i need it!” And with that beg from DADDY’S BOY, he obliged, thrusting right back in, his pelvis meeting Alex’s cheeks making them ripple again and again as he establishes a see-saw motion, his hands getting tighter around his waist as his mind starts to go black. Each of his muscles flexing as he pounds harder and harder into his son. His money maker, his whore that he pimps out. Each stroke, each thrust met with Alex’s own thrust back as his eyes go white and he starts to cum. Unloading all of his brain into his jockstrap. Becoming a moaning mess for his audience. His tongue lulls out as he begs for daddy’s load.

“Fuck… Fuck… take it, take it boy take all my load, your fucking mine forever you damn whore!” Daddy’s breath starts getting heavier as he loses the ability to speak, he can only grunt and moan as he loses himself to it. His balls start tightening up as he starts breeding his son, firing load after load into him. 

DommerPog: Fuck perfect transition from streamer to new cam duo

CoachStyle: Daddy definitely going to need to put on another show

CallMeDaddy: So glad we raided over into Runbxnny!! Are we going to give him a new username

BottomMakr: I don’t know for certain, all I know is that my dick is hard and that boy is horny,