When one of the hottest guys you had ever met came deep in your ass after 3 hours of the most intense, mind blowing sex of your entire life, you weren’t expecting him to start apologizing.

“Oh fuck. Bro, I am so fucking sorry.” The muscle bull said as he pulled his massive cock out of your juicy bubble butt, leaving a trail of cum behind as he did.

“Sorry? About what?” You asked, an almost delirious smile on your face as you came down from the high of the incredibly intense climax. It had been a long time since you had sex that good, and a long time since you had sex at all to be honest, so you felt amazing. You weren’t usually one for hookups, but the incredibly muscular, hairy, sexy man before you – who you could now remember was named Wade as you finally came down from the high of sex enough to truly think – was just too hot to resist. He was big, manly, very affectionate, and almost animalistic in the bedroom. Perhaps too much, since he seemed to have broken the condom he was using in his sexual frenzy. “Oh. Fuck. You don’t have any STDs or whatever they’re called these days, right?” You asked, slightly nervous.

“Uh, well, something like that.” Wade said, scratching his beefy chest, a guilty look on his face “Fuck, bro I am so sorry, I swear I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“Hey, hey. It’s ok. I mean, this sucks, but it’s not the end of the world. I mean, I can go to a clinic and they can probably help me out. A lot of this stuff can be dealt with if I get it early…” You said, half trying to convince yourself as well as him. You knew that STDs were a lot more treatable than they used to be, and that if you got treatment quickly there was a chance that whatever this is wouldn’t really affect your life at all, but the look of panic on Wade’s face was enough to make you feel somewhat nervous.

“No, dude, you don’t understand.” Wade said, running a hand through his hair, letting out a frustrated groan that almost sounded like a growl. “It’s not a fucking STD man, it’s-”

You felt a sudden wave of dizziness hit as your entire body began to heat up. You fell back onto your bed as the skin across your body started to itch like crazy, a strange heat under your skin making you feel like your entire body was on fire. You let out a deep groan as you began to rub and scratch your skin, trying to get some relief as you writhed on the bed “W-what’s happening!?” You yelled out, feeling your body start to swell with muscle as hair popped up across your entire body.

“Fuck, I am so sorry man. Look, just don’t try to fight it man. It’ll only make the transformation harder.” Wade said, joining you on the bed. As his hands touched your warm, newly hairy skin, you felt a deep, pleasurable relief wherever he touched you “God little me is going to be so fucking pissed. But I swear, I’m not going to leave you behind. I’m going to teach you everything there is to being a Beast. Gonna make you feel so good, gonna be a good mate for you, I promise.” he said, his deep voice comforting as his thick muscular body pressed against your growing one.

You still weren’t sure what was happening. Your body felt strange and foreign and hot, and you felt new instincts well inside you as you seemed to recede into unconsciousness, someone else taking your place. But as you fell deeper into your own mind and felt Wade’s beard scratch your neck as he kissed you roughly, a small part of you was glad that at least you wouldn’t have to face whatever this was alone.

—

The MFSA series starts here - part two here - part three here - part four here - part five here - part six here - part seven here - part eight here - part nine here - part ten here - part eleven here - part twelve here - part thirteen here - part fourteen here - part fifteen here - part sixteen here - part seventeen here

At a prestigious high school quarterback training camp in the hills of Southern California, the morning sun beat down on a pristine practice field lined with eager young talents hoping to one day make it to the NFL. The air hummed with the sounds of snapped balls, shouted cadences, and the heavy impact of bodies in pads. But the real power on the field belonged to the two guest coaches overseeing the drills: Ryan Tannehill and Matt Stafford, both fully converted MFSA alphas whose presence commanded immediate respect from every teenager on the field.

Tannehill, still in peak physical condition even years removed from his prime playing days, looked like a sculpted statue of dominance. Stafford, standing beside him, was no less imposing. Both men moved with the effortless, predatory confidence that now defined the movement, their red shirts radiating that unmistakable supernatural aura that made the young quarterbacks instinctively straighten their posture and listen with rapt attention.

During a water break, the two alphas stood off to the side, watching the kids run drills. Tannehill took a long pull from his bottle, his thick forearm flexing as he lowered it.

“Have you heard the latest rumblings?” he asked, voice low and gravelly, the kind of commanding baritone that came naturally to those who had fully embraced the red. “Brady’s got this whole council of retired legends on his side now. Edelman, Gronk, Moss, the Mannings… even some of the old Colts and Broncos guys. They’re calling it ‘Take Football Back.’ Sounds like he ain’t content to let Josh run the show anymore.”

Stafford let out a low, rumbling chuckle, crossing his massive arms over his chest so the red shirt pulled even tighter across his armor-like pecs. “Yeah, I heard. Brady always did think he was the center of the universe. Seven rings and all that. Now he thinks the shirts have made him the rightful king of the movement. His camp is mostly the old guard, right? Retired guys, a lot of Patriots loyalty, some Colts, Broncos, Giants guys who still simp for the Mannings and the like. It’s… well, I can’t imagine Josh is too happy that all those influential guys are rising up against him.”

Tannehill nodded, his enhanced deltoids rolling as he adjusted his stance. “Josh has mainly got the young blood on his side, for what it’s worth. Heavy on the Bills, the Niners, the Bengals, the Chiefs. The guys who were there when the wave really started rolling. They’re the ones who broke the resistance. Mahomes on his knees in front of the whole country? That was Josh’s masterpiece. Brady is playing catch-up.”

Stafford’s eyes narrowed, a dark smirk playing across his face as he watched one of the high school kids throw a wobbly pass. “It’s going to get ugly. A MFSA civil war, can you believe it?! Josh isn’t going to let Brady’s actions slide. Not after everything he has built. The red wave was supposed to unify us against the betas, not turn us against each other.”

Tannehill flexed one thick arm casually, the bicep peaking sharply under the red sleeve as he considered the bigger picture. “Brady has the legacy, the rings, the name recognition... But Josh has the momentum. He has the current players, the ones who are still on the field every Sunday, wearing the red and living the lifestyle.” He stopped to consider for a moment before continuing: “Brady’s coming out of retirement to take the Patriots back and bench Drake Maye. That’s bold… but is it also desperate?”

Stafford grunted in agreement, his own massive chest rising and falling as he took a slow breath. “The Mannings are in Brady’s camp now. That surprised me. But the Patriots guys were always going to follow their golden boy. Gronk, Edelman, Moss: they’re all in. The question is whether the rest of the league will follow an old guard trying to steal the throne or the man who actually built the wave that broke the resistance. This could tear the league apart if it’s not handled right.”

The two alphas exchanged a knowing look, their enhanced bodies shifting with the same predatory energy. Around them, the high school quarterbacks watched with wide-eyed admiration, unaware of the power struggle brewing at the highest levels of the game they dreamed of playing.

Tannehill rolled his thick shoulders. “Whoever wins, the red wave keeps rolling.” He leaned against the chain-link fence bordering the practice field, his thick arms crossed over his chest so the red MFSA shirt pulled tight across his heavy pectorals. “Honestly though, and I can’t believe I’m saying it, I think Brady would make a better leader for the movement,” he said, voice low but firm. “He has the rings. The legacy. The name that still commands respect from every generation. Josh did the heavy lifting breaking the resistance, sure, but he’s a little too volatile. Brady has the long-term vision. He could take us into the next era without all the hot-headed chaos.”

Stafford nodded slowly, his own enhanced frame shifting as he adjusted his stance, the red shirt straining across his broad shoulders and thick traps. “I agree. Brady’s already proven that he knows how to build a dynasty that lasts. Josh is fire and Brady is ice. The movement needs both, but right now it needs someone who can consolidate power without fracturing it. Brady stepping up to lead the coup might be exactly what we need.”

The two alphas were so deep in their conversation that they did not notice the tall, commanding figure approaching from the sideline until it was too late.

Kirk Cousins, the third guest coach at the high school quarterback event, strode toward them with the effortless dominance that had become his signature since fully embracing the red. His red MFSA shirt clung to a physique that had grown even more imposing in recent months, thick pectorals and wide lats filling out the fabric while his arms swung heavy with vascular power. A pair of red bracelets dangled from his fingers, the word ALPHA stitched in bold white lettering on each one.

“Gentlemen,” Cousins rumbled, his deep baritone carrying easily over the sounds of the high school quarterbacks running drills. “Heard you two talking about leadership. Interesting takes. Anyway, Josh thought you might appreciate these.”

He extended the bracelets toward them. The red fabric bands looked innocent enough, but both Tannehill and Stafford felt the subtle supernatural pull the moment they touched them. Neither man wanted to openly oppose Allen in front of one of his most loyal lieutenants. With forced smiles, they each slipped a bracelet onto their thick wrists. The moment the bands settled against their skin, the stitching changed. The word ALPHA twisted and reformed before their eyes, the letters writhing like living things until they spelled out TRAITOR in stark, accusatory white.

Tannehill’s eyes widened in horror. “What the--”

The transformation hit them both at once, rapid and merciless.

Their massive, alpha physiques began to drain away in violent, humiliating waves. Thick pectorals deflated rapidly, collapsing inward as dense muscle melted into soft, jiggling fat. Broad shoulders narrowed and sloped downward, the powerful deltoids shrinking into weak, rounded padding. Arms that had once been veined weapons withered into flabby, unremarkable limbs, the vascular definition vanishing completely. Their quads and calves lost all striation, shrinking and softening until their legs looked short, thick, and doughy. 

Height compressed noticeably, bones and spines shortening until both men stood several inches shorter, their once-imposing frames now short, overweight, and soft. Between their legs their thick cocks dwindled into tiny, useless nubs, leaving pathetic little pouches in their shorts. Their faces rounded out, cheeks puffing, chins doubling as body odor began to pour off them in thick, pungent waves. Uncontrollable burps and farts erupted from their bodies, the wet, gross sounds echoing across the practice field as they stood there, stinking and humiliated.

The high school quarterbacks who had been watching them with awe only moments before burst into laughter, pointing and jeering at the two former alphas who now looked like the punchline of a cruel joke.

Kirk Cousins stood tall above them, his own red shirt stretched gloriously across his still-dominant physique. He turned to the group of wide-eyed teenagers, voice calm and authoritative.

“This,” he began, gesturing to the two stinking, overweight losers burping and farting uncontrollably behind him, “is what happens when you even think about turning against Josh Allen and the true MFSA cause. Loyalty is everything. Betrayal gets you this. Remember that, boys. Stay loyal to the real leader, and you stay alphas. Cross him, and you end up like these two pathetic traitors.”

Tannehill and Stafford could only stand there, red-faced and humiliated, as the high schoolers they were supposed to be coaching laughed and mocked them. The red wave had claimed two more victims, and the message was crystal clear to every young quarterback watching: loyalty to Josh Allen was the only path forward. Anything else led to this kind of public, disgusting ruin.

On the opposite coast, Brock Purdy, the starting quarterback for the San Francisco 49ers and one of Josh Allen’s most loyal young alphas, walked along the palm-lined path toward a waterfront restaurant where his girlfriend was waiting. The evening air was warm and fragrant with salt and blooming flowers, but Purdy’s mind was elsewhere. He was thinking about the upcoming games and the growing whispers of division within the movement when two familiar figures stepped out from between the resort buildings to block his path.

Julian Edelman and Danny Amendola, two of Brady’s most ardent supporters, stood shoulder to shoulder. Both men were still in their red MFSA shirts, their enhanced bodies looking sharp and ready for conflict. Edelman’s compact frame had been packed with dense, explosive muscle, while Amendola’s leaner build had been upgraded into something wiry and powerful.

“Purdy,” Edelman said, voice low and urgent. “We need to talk. Brady’s vision is the future. Josh has done his part, but it is time for real leadership. Someone with rings. Someone who knows how to build a dynasty that lasts. You’re young. Talented. You could be part of something bigger if you defect now.”

Purdy stopped, his enhanced chest rising and falling as he crossed his thick arms, the red shirt pulling tight across his pectorals. “Brady? Are you serious? He’s trying to tear the movement apart from the inside. Josh broke the resistance. He made Mahomes kneel on live television. The red wave is his. I’m not turning my back on the man who started this.”

Amendola stepped closer, his eyes hard. “Brady has the legacy. The experience. The Patriots guys are with him. The movement needs stability, not a hot-headed kid who got lucky with the shirts. Come with us and maybe you’ll even get to stay a starter. Help us put the real leader in charge before it’s too late.”

The conversation grew terse, voices rising as the three alphas stood toe to toe on the path. Purdy shook his head firmly. “No. Josh is the face of the red wave. I am staying loyal. You two are making a mistake.”

Edelman and Amendola exchanged a quick glance. Without warning, they lunged. The two former Patriots grabbed Purdy and wrestled him to the ground with unsurprising coordination, working as a perfect team just like they had during their days on the field together. In seconds their enhanced strength overwhelmed Purdy despite his own power. 

Purdy struggled, grunting as he tried to throw them off, but Amendola pinned his arms while Edelman forced a small tablet between his lips and clamped a hand over his mouth. “Swallow it,” Edelman hissed. “For the cause.”

Purdy fought, but against his best efforts, the tablet slid down his throat. The effect was almost immediate.

His enhanced alpha physique began to change in violent, grotesque waves. The thick, powerful muscle that had made him a dominant force on the field started to warp and coarsen. His broad shoulders rounded and hunched forward as his frame compacted, losing height and proportion. His chest deflated and grew barrel-like, covered in a sudden explosion of thick, dark body hair that spread rapidly across his torso, arms, and back. 

His arms lengthened slightly but lost definition, becoming heavy and ape-like with coarse hair. His legs shortened and thickened into powerful but primitive pillars, also blanketed in hair. 

His face pushed forward, brow ridge becoming prominent, jaw heavier and more pronounced, teeth shifting as his features took on a distinctly Neanderthal cast. His once-handsome, clean-cut appearance vanished beneath a wild tangle of hair and a brutish, primal look. 

His cock remained, but the overall effect was one of raw, animalistic regression. He remained fully conscious, his mind sharp and screaming in horror, but when he tried to speak, only guttural grunts and unintelligible sounds escaped his throat. He was trapped — intelligent, aware, but unable to communicate with the world to tell them who he was or warn them what Brady was planning.

Edelman and Amendola stood back, brushing themselves off as Purdy - now a hairy, beast-like Neanderthal - struggled to his feet, grunting and gesturing wildly in frustration. The two Patriots alphas looked down at him with cold satisfaction, before Edelman pulled out his cell phone and started up an Instagram live. He angled the camera so his viewers - quickly pouring in by the thousands - could see the hairy beast behind them.

“Consider this a warning,” Edelman said smugly. “Brady’s taking over. Anyone who stands in the way ends up like Purdy here. The choice is yours, boys!”

Purdy could only grunt and slap at his own chest in helpless rage, his intelligent eyes filled with terror as the two men walked away, leaving him alone on the path: a mute, hairy warning to anyone who dared cross the new order.

It started like any story between two men who were never meant to cross paths.

Alex had been speeding down the backroads of rural Oregon—music up, windows down, the cold October air slicing through his jacket. He was used to driving fast. He liked the thrill. But this time, flashing lights appeared in his rearview mirror.

The officer was tall—strikingly so. 6'4", maybe more, with broad shoulders and the kind of frame that filled his uniform in all the right ways. His name tag read Chris. Light brown hair, neatly parted. Beard dusting his square jaw. Hair peeked from the collar of his vest, thick and masculine. His voice was deep, calm, and tinged with something... unfamiliar.

Alex played it cool. He flirted. Gave a smile, a few jokes in his Brazilian accent.

Chris cracked a smile. Then hesitated. Then asked for his number.

The texts began that night. The dates came soon after—coffee, movies, quiet dinners in dim restaurants. They lived only an hour apart but started spending most nights together, curled up on couches or walking cold city blocks shoulder to shoulder. Their differences made them magnetic: Alex, tan and lean, always in motion; Chris, reserved but powerful, with secrets behind his eyes.

And one of those secrets kept him from going further.

Each time Alex leaned in, shirt unbuttoned, breath warm against Chris’s neck, Chris would pull away. "I want to," he’d murmur, "but I can’t."

Alex didn’t push—at first.

But obsession runs both ways.

That night, the fog hung low like a shroud over the trees. Alex drove them far into the forest, headlights slicing through mist. He parked in a gravel clearing, the thick canopy above swallowing any moonlight.

“We're really out here now,” Chris said, a little anxious. His breath fogged in the cold air.

“I want to show you something,” Alex said, stepping out of the car.

The air bit at his skin, but he didn’t care. Slowly, he undressed. The shirt fell first, then the rest—until he stood completely bare before a moss-covered tree. His skin glowed golden even in the moonlight, muscles twitching in the chill.

Chris backed up slightly. “Alex... I told you. This isn’t a good idea.”

“Why?” Alex asked, smirking. “What are you afraid of?”

Chris swallowed hard, his eyes darkening. “There’s something... inside me. I don’t control it. You don’t understand—”

But Alex stepped closer, gently taking Chris’s hand and pressing it to his chest.

Something inside Chris snapped.

His lips found Alex’s neck, softly at first—desperate, restrained. But with every kiss came a shift. His breathing deepened. His hands began to grow, nails stretching into claws, thick fur racing up his arms. He moaned into Alex’s neck as bones cracked, height stretched, muscles bulked. His shirt tore down the back as his shoulders expanded grotesquely.

Chris slammed Alex against the tree—his hands now huge paws, pinning Alex in place, crushing his hands.

Alex whimpered. “C-Chris—what’s happening to you?”

“I’m sorry,” Chris growled, voice distorted, animalistic.

Hair exploded across his chest, his thighs, his jaw. His face stretched forward into a snarling muzzle. His eyes turned amber. He was no longer a man—but something older, primal, cursed.

Then—too suddenly—he entered Alex.

Alex cried out in pain, his voice muffled by the freezing fog.

It was violent. The cold air was filled with moans, snarls, the wet slaps of flesh and the crackle of twigs. Chris—now beast more than man—bit down on Alex’s neck, drawing blood, leaving deep punctures.

And then—

Stillness.

The forest held its breath.

Chris stood in the dark, fur steaming, blood dripping from his maw. Slowly, the transformation reversed. The fur retreated. Bones realigned. Breath by breath, he became a man again.

A man holding the broken, lifeless body of the one he loved.

Alex’s skin was pale now. His lips slightly parted. His eyes—still open—full of shock.

Chris screamed into the night, the trees echoing it back, uncaring.

“What have I done?”

The fog swallowed the sound. And the woods, ancient and cold, remembered another secret.

The Aftermath

The forest was no longer silent.

First came the distant hum of rotors, growing louder until the treetops trembled. Then the wail of sirens, piercing the cold dawn like knives. Blue and red lights flashed between trunks, strobing against fog and moss.

Chris didn’t move. He was still kneeling in the mud, naked, his arms wrapped around Alex’s lifeless body. Blood streaked down his neck and hands. His breath fogged in short, animalistic bursts.

“Put your hands where I can see them!”

Voices. Flashlights. Shadows darting between the trees.

The moment they reached him, he didn’t resist. Just slowly, mechanically, laid Alex’s body down on the moss and raised his trembling hands.

They cuffed him as he stared at nothing, eyes wide, haunted.

A few hours later, the world found out.

A newscast aired live from the forest edge, fog still thick behind the yellow tape.

“I'm reporting from deep within the Willamette National Forest, where this morning, officials discovered yet another body—the fourth in just six months. The area has become known locally as ‘The Devil’s Spine’ due to the mysterious deaths occurring here under similar, brutal circumstances.”

The camera panned to officers moving in and out of the trees, crime scene tape fluttering in the wind.

“The victim has not yet been identified publicly. What we do know is that the lead detective who had been working the previous three cases… was found at the scene.”

A still image appeared on screen: Chris. Handsome. Uniformed. A detective who had looked for a killer—only to be revealed as the monster himself.

“Detective Christopher Maddox has been taken into custody and is currently being questioned. Sources say the scene was disturbing. And eerily similar to the others.”

Back in the cruiser, Chris sat silently, staring out the window.

The woods loomed behind them. Silent again. Holding their breath.

And somewhere, deep beneath the moss, the truth was buried. Not just one life lost—but four.

And the beast... was still inside him.

Waiting.

Part 1 of a collab with the great @alternate-real-ities. Keep a look out for part 2!

---

Alfred groaned as he slowly came back to consciousness and pushed himself off of the cold concrete floor. As he tried to collect his thoughts through the painful throbbing in the back of his head, one fought its way to the front: where the hell was he?

It wasn’t that Alfred wasn’t used to waking up in strange places. He knew he didn’t seem like the type to be out partying all night and getting blackout drunk, but he had... A friend who seemed determined to have them go out together every night, so despite being a gangly, shy 27 year old accountant, Alfred was actually pretty used to waking up in strange places with no idea how he got there. The problem was, even for him, this place was… weird. Usually when he woke up after a night out he’d be in a strangers bed, or in the backroom of a club, or even a gym locker room a few times, but right now he seemed to be in some sort of dimly lit warehouse. Not only that, his head hurt like hell, far worse than could be explained by a hangover, and… wait, was he in some sort of cage?

Alfred felt pain and exhaustion leave him as the sinking realization he was trapped sent adrenaline pumping through him. He was in the middle of a large shiny cage, although considering the size he could probably call it a cell. Acting on instinct, he went to the cage door, grabbing onto one of the bars, and screamed as he felt it burn his skin. He pulled back, clutching his hand to his chest, his face paling as he realized what was going on. Normal cages didn’t burn people. Normal cages wouldn’t burn him. Not unless they were… “Silver.” A commanding voice said from the darkness. Alfred flinched back at the voice, and looked over to see a large figure step close. “Not quite as deadly as it would have been for our ancestors, but if you get enough of it and charge it up with the right magic…” The figure stepped closer, and tapped the bar with a finger, letting out a slight, almost satisfied hiss as it burnt him too “... effective enough.”

Alfred shuddered as he looked over the being before him, a mix of fear and a strange feeling of submission combining inside of him. He didn’t know who this person was, but he could tell what he was easily. Even if he hadn’t been able to see the man's chiseled jawline and sculpted muscles typical of his kind, he could smell it on him. Alfred had been captured by an Alpha.

When Alfred told his coworkers that he was constantly being forced out of his house by a friend who loved to party, that wasn’t entirely true. There was someone who made Alfred go out to a party every night, but it wasn’t exactly a friend. It was… well, him. Or his other self. See, Alfred wasn’t an average human. He was something known as a Beast. A descendent of ancient werewolves that had evolved with modern times, a Beast is a regular man during the day, but undergoes a nightly transformation where he becomes far more… animalistic. Still a human, but far more muscular, hairy and… wild. Alfred, having had a one night stand with a Beast in college, had been infected by the creature's curse. So every night Alfred would go to bed… and Big Al would wake up in his place. Alfred had not been happy when he learned that the first guy he hooked up with at college had knowingly infected him with a supernatural disease, but over the years he had learned to live with Big Al, he’d come to see him less as a curse or a problem and more as a sort of… roommate. Sure he was a pretty rowdy guy, but from the little they had been able to communicate Big Al had actually been very nice, and as long as he made sure not to infect anyone like Alfred had been infected, Alfred was fine letting his ‘roommate’ go out and party at night while he lived his own life during the day. It was because of Big Al that Alfred ended up learning about magic, and more importantly, ended up learning about the other known descendant of werewolves: Alphas.

While Beasts had inherited their ancestors nightly transformations and wild tendencies, Alphas, who had supposedly descended from the most dominant werewolves of old, inherited their natural dominance over others. The stories that Alfred had managed to find about Alphas were terrifying. Muscular, god-like men who could bend both human will and even some of reality itself to their own whims. Between Beasts and Alphas, Alfred had been very glad he had met the former, as meeting the latter often ended with you becoming a plaything for the Alpha, who could alter their ‘betas’ identity with a mere thought. Alfred had done his best to avoid Alphas… but now it seemed one had him trapped, in a cage of silver, and at his mercy.

The unnamed alpha sneered in disgust as he looked down at Alfred “Ugh, quit it with the pathetic whining.” He said, causing Alfred to realize that in his panic his beastly instincts had taken over and he had begun to whine like a wounded pup. “Sometimes I can’t believe you things are actually related to us Alphas.” He said, rolling his eyes at Alfred’s distress.

Alfred tried to steel himself, knowing he’d have to use all his willpower to keep himself from falling into the Alpha’s spell. “... W-what do you want from me?” He asked, unable to stop his voice from cracking nervously as he did. The Alpha simply chuckled at this, a dark, amused chuckle that made Alfred feel tiny.

“I don’t want anything from you cuck. What I need, I need from ‘Big Al’ or whatever he calls himself.” The Alpha said simply “... see, Alphas like me… we can control so much. People, reality. Everything submits to us, molds to our desires like… putty.” He said, his voice hypnotic and terrifying all at once “... but in the history of the world, no Alpha has actually managed to take over the world. Do you know why that is?” The studly predator asked 

“... I-it’s because there's more than one of you…” Alfred answered shakily, a small part of him proud of his research. The Alpha grinned, looking at Alfred with a strange sort of hunger. “Yes! Exactly! See, there aren’t that many Alphas in the world, but the ones that exist are all about as strong as each other. So, if any one Alpha would try to take control, they’d be quickly defeated by the others, who would also want control. Which would eventually lead to us destroying each other.” He said with a scowl “I mean, we could work together, but it’s not in our nature to share. Which is why my kind decided, long ago, to travel the world and take what we want, without ruling it outright.” He said “... Personally, I think it’s fucking pitiful, that we would all be better off if we had just hashed it out and let the last, most dominant Alpha rule it all. But, it is a problem, regardless of how I feel. So, how do I fix it?” He asked, a wicked grin on his handsome face “By making myself more dominant than any of them.”

Suddenly a loud creaking sound echoed through the warehouse, and Alfred watched in a dim light as a number of cloaked figures, most likely the Alpha’s Betas, forced something forward. Something that growled.

“You see, Alphas have been trying to figure out ways to out dominate each other for years. Technically using outside sources to make yourself more dominant is considered ‘dishonorable’ but… we’ll just keep this between us.” The blond Alpha said a grin, as charming as it was threatening. “And one thing that no one has really tried yet… is bringing us back to our roots.”

“Our roots…” Alfred said “... you’re trying to make yourself a werewolf. Like, a real, full werewolf.” He continued, a horrific feeling of understanding coming over him 

“Bingo. You’re smart for a stupid Beast.” The Alpha said with a smirk “The werewolves of old weren’t just Hollywood monsters. They were practically gods, creatures of such dominance and prime animalistic power that they had packs the sizes of empires. And once I’m one of them, well, without any other full werewolves around to stop me… I’ll be able to do anything.” 

“This doesn’t make any sense…” Alfred said, trying to stay calm “I mean, Alphas can’t be turned by Beasts, even if they want to be. Our DNA just doesn’t work together…” Alfred continued “And… what is that thing!?” He asked, pointing as the creature in the dark that was struggling to stay there as the Betas tugged it forward with what looked to be a metal chain wrapped around its neck. 

“That?” The alpha said, clearly amused, “That’s your new boyfriend.”

Alfred watched in shock as the creature was forced closer to his cage, and recoiled at the sight. He had heard rumors, rumors that some strains of the original werewolf virus still remained, albeit weakened, but most people, even in the magical community, seemed to regard it as a myth. But here it was… a living victim of the lycan-virus. The Alpha laughed heartily as he watched Alfred stumble back as the creature was forced closer to his cage. “You’re right little Beast. A Beast could never infect an Alpha. And the lycan-virus? Could maybe turn a particularly weak one. But both, together? Now that's a winning combination.” The Alpha explained, looking over the werewolf like it was a particularly interesting toy. “From what I can find, if this little monster infects you, just as you transform with the moon's rise… then you’ll become something stronger than a werewolf or a beast.” He explained “And if whatever you become infects me? I’ll be able to dominate… anything….” he said, almost drooling at the thought of finally having true, complete control “... but enough with the fucking exposition. As fun as it is to watch you panic as you realize what's going to happen, I’d rather get right to the show.” He said with a snarl. 

Suddenly a phone alarm went off, drawing a satisfied grin from the Alpha “And that's sunset. Now… how about we get this done with.” He said. The blond muscle man walked over to the Lycan, and with an inhuman strength, grabbed him by the neck with one hand, opened the door to the cage with the other, and tossed him in, before trapping them both inside.

Alfred wanted to scream, but found the sounds wouldn’t form in his throat. He was trapped, in a cage made of walls he couldn’t even touch, with a dangerous Lycan that was just as likely to tear him to shreds as it was to turn him. Even worse, he could feel Big Al emerging from his rest, his consciousness pushing against Alfred’s own as his muscles began to firm up and push out.

The Lycan, strangely, didn’t attack Alfred right away. It sniffed around the cage, around Alfred, curiously, before suddenly pulling the Beast to the floor mid transformation. Before Alfred could even scream, he felt the Lycan rip his clothes off and bite down on his neck. A burning sensation flooded his body, but strangely, it didn’t feel… bad. In fact, it felt… incredible. The other man's bite hurt, yes, but it also sent waves of pleasure through his growing body, ones that he could tell the Lycan felt too. And in the middle of the pleasure, as the virus flooded his veins, his average cock started going from soft to rock-hard in seconds… feeling so, but so tight in his cramped shorts.

As the Lycan gently licked the wound, Alfred could feel himself finally recede as Big Al, or whatever he would be now, took place. Big Al didn’t know why he was in this strange place, or why he could smell the stench of an Alpha, or why there was a wolf-like man gyrating on top of him. All he knew was that that man, the Lycan, was the sexiest thing he had ever seen. Soon the Beast was on top of the Lycan, his huge cock deep in the Lycan’s ass as the creature panted and whined for more. Big Al took the strange man, no actually, took his mate into a deep, commanding kiss as he continued to fuck his ass, quickly coming inside him as he felt them both begin to change. The Alpha’s plan was working, just far better than he had imagined.

As Big Al and his new mate fucked, consummated the strange new bond that was quickly forming between then, the two began to grow. First the Lycan, who packed on another 20 pounds of muscle spread evenly across his body, and then Al, who quickly grew much larger, his already massive beastly muscles getting even thicker as his body began to take on more wolf-like characteristics, Lycan characteristics. Big Al, or whatever he was becoming, let out a terrifying, spine shivering howl, and bit down on his mates neck, getting a breathless gasp from him as they both came one final time. It all happened very quickly… but for the two men laying in the cage, everything had changed.

As the former beast laid his Lycan mate on the ground, kissing his neck sweetly and positioning himself over him protectively, he could feel his mind slowly coming back to him. Except it was different. Everything was different. He wasn’t Big Al anymore, but he also wasn’t Alfred. Both identities had swirled together in a way that let him know that there wasn’t going to be any switching back and forth anymore. No more Alfred, no more Big Al… for now he’d just go by Al, until he found something better. He looked down at the Lycan below him and felt his heart flutter as he watched the slightly smaller wolfman drift off to sleep. Whatever he had become, he could tell his new mate had become one as well, and whoever he was, he knew he had to protect him, had to care for him. Which meant getting rid of the disgusting creatures that hoped to cage them.

Al rose to his feet, snarling, and looked at the shocked Alpha that stood on the other side of the bars. The blond beefcake still grinned but now Al could see something else behind those eyes. Could smell it on him. Something that should be completely unheard of for Alphas… Fear. Uncertainty. And it smelled… heavenly.

“Ok. Step one is complete. Now, onto step two. Infecting me.” The Alpha said, looking at the wolf-beast with a sneer “For this I’m going to need a more… obedient pet. Kneel.” 

Al could feel the Alpha trying to force his will on him, could feel his dominance trying to bend reality to what he wanted. But Al… simply decided not to bend. And upon seeing the shock on the Alpha’s face, reached out, grabbed two of the bars… and ripped the cage open.

The Betas, unsure what to do when their Alpha was no longer in control, fled and panicked, while the Alpha, having no reference for a situation where he was not in charge, scrambled back in fear. “T-this isn’t supposed to… why aren’t my powers working? How did you even touch that cage!?”

Al looked down at the Alpha, an apex predator brought to his knees, and chuckled with amusement “... you really have no idea what you’ve just done, do you? You’ve created something far more powerful than yourself. You thought you could create something closer to a true werewolf and then use that to infect yourself, but never imagined your own creation would already be more dominant than you. Someone who could send your most loyal betas running. Someone who could turn silver to lead without a second thought.” Al continued, delighting in the fear on the Alpha’s face “You’ve never even considered that someday, someone might have the same power over you that you lord over others. And now…” Al growled, "You're my goddamned bitch.”

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