#bro tf

Sure, I get all the boring paperwork, all the terrible shifts, and somehow every job nobody else wants. But this time it landed me a pretty unusual opportunity.

For the past few months, there’ve been reports of suspicious activity surrounding a fraternity on campus. A few disappearances. Rumors about a new designer drug making its way through the student population. Nothing concrete, but enough to get my lieutenant interested.

So naturally, someone in the department watched way too many undercover cop movies and decided the best solution was to send me in.

Apparently I still look young enough to pass for a college student.

Lucky me.

I’ve been undercover for almost three weeks now, and honestly? I’m starting to think my lieutenant got it completely wrong.

These guys don’t seem like criminals.

They’re loud. They’re immature. They’re obsessed with parties, the gym, and finding excuses to put their hands on literally anyone willing to tolerate them for more than five seconds.

Meanwhile I’m over here trying to remember I’m a police officer and not lose sight of why I came.

But being reckless, horny, and terminally allergic to responsibility doesn’t automatically make someone a criminal.

So far I’ve found nothing.

No drugs.

No trafficking.

No evidence connecting them to any disappearances.

Nothing.

I’m about ready to file my report and tell my lieutenant this whole thing was a waste of department resources.

Still…

Tomorrow night the fraternity is throwing one of their biggest parties of the semester.

Before I close the book on this investigation, I’m going to take one last look around the house while everyone is distracted.

Just to be thorough.

Just to make sure I didn’t miss anything.

After all, it would be pretty embarrassing to tell my lieutenant he was wrong…

…and then discover he was right.

I remember the day I joined the force. Dad was a cop. My older brothers were cops. But earning that badge mattered more. Academy, field training, endless exams... it took years. So when I finally pinned that shield to my chest, I thought people would finally see me as an officer. Instead I got:

"Damn, kid, just get outta middle school?"

"You ever think about growin' a beard? If you can..."

"You're twenty-seven? No way."

It never stopped. But it did come in handy for my assignment. Lieutenant James had slid a stack of files across his desk.

"Missing persons. Every one of 'em has ties to the same fraternity." Dr. Richard Peters. Christopher Saint. Paul Monroe. Different backgrounds, same house, then they vanished. "We think there's a new designer drug involved," the lieutenant said. "Brothers keep talking about being addicted, needing more, not being able to leave."

"So you want me undercover."

"You still pass for a student. Don't disappoint me."

So Officer Andrew Miller disappeared. Tyler took his place. Tyler was twenty-one, undeclared, and incapable of owning sleeves. I'd spent department time learning beer pong and fantasy football. The lieutenant's advice was simple: act young, act dumb, make friends.

Luke made the last two surprisingly easy. That first night he walked over, threw an arm around my shoulders, handed me a beer, and twenty minutes later had me doing a keg stand while everyone screamed my fake name. And you know what? I had fun. Luke wasn't secretive. Gym, food runs, parties... if I skipped an event to organize notes, he'd text asking where I'd gone. He never asked me to prove myself. He just included me.

"You'll get it," Richie told me while lifting. "Luke figures out what you need."

"What'd he figure out for you?"

"Needed to stop givin' so many fucks."

Everyone said the same. Luke gave them confidence, stopped their worrying, made them happy. Nobody knew how. And somewhere along the way, I stopped pretending every conversation was just work. One late night outside, he stared into the backyard. "Everybody wants something from me."

"That's depressing."

"I'm serious. They come here wantin' a better body, more friends, less stress."

"And you fix it?"

"Sometimes." He grew quite, "What about you? What do you want?"

"Nothin'," I lied. "Just wanted to see what you guys are about."

Luke studied me, smiling. "That's it?"

"That's it."

I didn't know it then, but that answer meant everything to him. For two weeks Luke trusted me more than anyone. By the end of the third week, he had me pledge. But by that time, I'd decided the investigation had gone nowhere. Friday night's party would be my last look before filing my report.

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

Pushing open the front door, I realized I'd actually miss the place. Mostly Luke. But instead of the warm greeting from the guys like I was expecting, I got cold indifference.

"Luke wants you upstairs," Chris said, avoiding my eye.

"Everything okay?"

"Go ask him."

I climbed the stairs and pushed open Luke's door, where I found him sprawled shirtless across the leather couch, backward cap over his dark hair, staring at me with hurt eyes.

"Everything good?"

Luke sat up. "Close the door, bro."

"Luke..."

"Close it all the way." He stopped, "Officer Miller."

My hand was on the doorknob, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Luke laughed bitterly, standing up. "A fucking cop? Bro, I did a keg stand with you! You held my ankles! Two weeks ago I puked behind a Wendy's and you rubbed my back!"

"Luke, listen..."

"I bought you a Baconator!" He buried his head in his hands. "Fuck, bro! What the fuck?!"

"People are missing..."

"No one's fucking missing."

"Where..."

"You can't fuckin' mess with people like this."

I stepped toward him. "I want you to stop screwing around and take me seriously."

"Why the fuck would I?"

The question hit the exact wrong nerve. "Because nobody fucking does!" Years of swallowed frustration spilled out. "I'm sick of having to prove myself! I'm a police officer. Quit talking to me like I'm fifteen and take me seriously!"

Luke went completely still, then flashed a shit-eating grin. "Oh, bro."

"What?"

"You shouldn't have said that."

"Why?"

"You wanted something from me." He shook his head, "All my pledges get what they want."

The itch started beneath my jaw. I scratched, but my fingertips dragged across something coarse.

"Aw, fuck, bro. Here we go."

"Wait... what is...?"

Twenty-seven years old and I'd never grown real stubble. Now my fingertips scraped over coarse hair rapidly peppering my jawline.

"What the fuck did you do?"

Luke came toward me. "Dude, you did this."

My jaw cramped. Pressure spread through the bone until my teeth ached, my chin becoming heavier as the lower half of my face broadened.

"Stop it."

"You wanted people to quit looking at you like you're twelve, right?" He scraped his knuckles through the new growth along my jaw. "Heard you loud and clear, bro."

Then my chest began to hurt. The ache was deep inside both pecs, building like post-lift soreness. I pressed my palms against myself and felt the muscles swell outward, packing with new mass while my shirt tightened. My shoulders burned as they broadened, pulling the fabric taut, and both sleeves cinched around my biceps as the muscles expanded.

Luke whistled. "Damn, Ty."

"That's not my... don't call me that."

"Oh, I'm definitely calling you that." He slammed both hands against my chest, pushing into muscles that hadn't been there a minute ago. "Bro, these are getting fucking huge."

He hooked both hands into the front of my shirt and yanked. The fabric tore with a sharp rip along the shoulders. He peeled the ruined shirt away, staring at the body underneath.

"Those look like they belong to a dude people take seriously."

"Fuck... fuck you..." I groaned and winced as my biceps cramped.

I grabbed my right arm, feeling it swell, steadily thickening until my fingers couldn't reach around it. Luke wrapped his hand around the other, squeezed, and laughed.

"Jesus Christ, bro."

"Stop fucking enjoying this!"

"Why? I'm finally getting something I want too." He looked directly into my eyes. "Everybody comes to me wanting shit, Andrew. Maybe finally it's my turn, bro." He took a step closer, pressing up against me, "I want you. I want Tyler."

An intense itch erupted across my bare chest. Coarse hair pushed through my skin beneath my fingertips, thickening between my pecs before spreading outward and trailing down my stomach.

"Chest hair?"

Luke stared openly. "Damn." His hand dragged slowly across my chest, flattening the new hair before finding the swollen muscle beneath, squeezing one pec appreciatively. "Never had that before either, huh?"

"Nnn... no."

"Looks good on you, bro."

I hated the little rush that went through me. "Shut up."

"Twenty-six."

"What?"

"Twenty-six."

"I'm twenty-seven."

"Twenty-five now."

"Bullshit." I reached for my phone, but I wasn't used to my thicker fingers. The phone dropped and I got a glimpse of the dark hair now spreading over my thickened forearms, "I... Fuck I need... back-up..." the Lieuteniants's extension was... I knew it. Of course I knew it.

"Tyler."

"No... I'm... Andrew."

"Sure you are, dude."

Another wave of pressure rolled through my chest, and I groaned as my pecs swelled heavier beneath Luke's hands.

"You're doing good, Ty," he said, rubbing his thumbs through the hair covering them. "Looking real good too."

"You really think so?" The question escaped before I could stop it. Luke smiled, sending a warm flush through me. "You're messing with my head."

"Gift's doing that."

"Then make it fucking stop, bro." I froze. I heard the word echoing in my own head. "Why'd I call you bro?"

"'Cause that's how Tyler talks."

"I'm not Tyler."

"Twenty-four."

"Fuck you."

"Twenty-three."

I tried to concentrate on the investigation, but Luke kept rubbing my chest, talking to me while my thoughts blurred.

"Same shit happened to Richie," Luke said with a smug grin. "Professor dude wanted to quit stressin'. CJ wanted friends. PJ wanted med school apps to stop kickin' his ass. My gift fixes shit, bro. Gives people what they want. All they gotta do is ask." He shrugged, "Don't ask me why everybody ends up like… this." He chuckled at my confusion, "Like one of my new frat bros, bro. Really works out pretty fuckin' great for me, though."

Richie. Dr. Richard Peters. The realization hit. I'd spent three weeks lifting beside one of the missing men.

"You did this to all of them?"

"They asked for something. So did you."

"I asked you to take me seriously!"

"And I'm gonna."

His hand settled against the center of my chest, and the panic faded. Luke had been my suspect, but underneath those facts were three weeks of workouts, parties, jokes, and nights talking shoulder-to-shoulder. I knew the smell of him. I knew how his hand felt gripping my shoulder.

"Relax, Ty."

"Can't."

"Sure you can." He grinned, "Let me help ya, bro."

His mouth was suddenly against mine. My hands grabbed his dense shoulders to push him away, but instead settled on them as I kissed him back. His hands moved over my swollen arms, squeezing my biceps before sliding across my chest. Every approving touch felt... so fuckin' good. I begrudgingly tore myself away, breathing hard.

"What the fuck did I just do?"

"You kissed me."

"I know what I fucking did!"

"Didn't seem like you hated it."

"I don't..."

Luke kissed me again, and my resistance lasted seconds. My thickened arms wrapped around him while his hands explored my chest, fingers kneading through the hair before sliding up to feel my stubble.

"Twenty-two," he murmured when we separated briefly.

Our mouths locked together in a sloppy, desperate kiss, moaning into each other. Luke's palms slid down over my waist, cupping my hips, dropping beneath the waistband of my pants to grip my growing ass. He squeezed hard, kneading into the thick, muscle-packed curves.

"Bro... fuck..." I was breathing hard. Why was twenty-two bad? Something about twenty-seven. Some guy who... no. Me. Right?

"You're fuckin' gorgeous, Ty."

"You mean it, bro?" I mumbled, voice thick and desperate.

"Course I do."

So I kissed him again. His skin smelled like cedarwood and sweat, and instead of wanting space, I pulled him closer. Everything about him was addictive... the warmth of his body, the scratch of his skin, the sound of his breathing, the way his hands roamed across my hairy chest.

"Twenty-one."

Something clicked into place and Luke laughed when I pulled him against me, burying my face in his neck. I wanted him close, so fuckin' close. To feel him, smell him, worship him.

"Love you, bro," I mumbled against his skin, kissing his jaw.

"Love you too, Ty," Luke whispered, his hands sliding down to grip my heavy ass cheeks again.

The friction of our heavy bulges pressing hard against each other through layers of fabric made a low, strangled whine tear out of my throat. My hips bucked forward instinctively, grinding our groins together, and I felt his thick, rigid cock, swollen and desperate against my own throbbing, leaking length.

"Fuck… Ty, you're driving me insane," Luke gasped, a ragged, breathless moan tearing from his chest.

"Let me take care of it, bro," I murmured, a half-dazed grin spreading across my face.

Luke’s breath hitched sharply in sudden surprise as I shoved his jeans and boxers down in one fierce motion. His heavy, already-leaking cock sprang free, hot and throbbing in the dim light. Without a second thought, I dropped heavily to my knees between his thighs, my gaze locking up onto his flushed, half-delirious face.

"Ty…" he breathed out, voice cracking as my mouth closed over him.

That was when the door opened.

Richie stopped in the doorway. "Damn, Ty..."

Fuckin' Richie... Always getting in the fuckin' way, "Bruh, get the fuck out."

"Dude..." Richie grinned, "That's a rough fuckin' 21."

"Fuck you!" I laughed, scrambling to my feet, "What's that supposed to mean?"

I ran calloused hand through the thick, dark mat of chest hair sweeping across my broad pecs. People always acted so surprised by how much hair I had. Not my fault I hit puberty at like 8. Bunch of dumbasses. Besides, as long as Luke liked it, didn't really matter.

"Can't you see we're fuckin' busy, bro?" My swollen cock ached inside my jeans. I pointed a thick finger at the door, "Get the fuck out, man!"

"Hey, take it easy, big guy. Just came to see if you were ready to head back downstairs. The keg's overflowing, and half the house is asking where their favorite pledge went."

"Get lost, Richie," Luke muttered, his breathless rasp sending a fresh jolt of horniness straight to my groin.

"Alright, alright, I'm going," Richie chuckled, closing the door.

Once it shut, my gaze locked onto Luke as he fell back onto the mattress, his heavy, leaking cock completely exposed and begging for attention.

"Where were we, bro?" I murmured, laying atop him, pressing a hot, greedy kiss to his lips before trailing my mouth eagerly down his throat, sliding lower over his chest and stomach until my lips wrapped firmly around his thick, leaking cock.

Ever since we got to the beach, my son's been acting different…

At first I convinced myself it was just vacation excitement. Tyler had spent the entire six-hour drive curled up in the passenger seat with a dense fantasy novel balanced on his knees, occasionally interrupting his reading to point out historical facts about the towns we passed through. That was my son, or what he used to be like, bookish, quiet, endlessly curious, and so painfully shy that ordering his own food at restaurants still made him nervous. I was grateful for a son who loved to spend time with his mom, in just wished he’d spent more time with kids his age. A week by the ocean seemed like exactly what we needed before school started again.

Our rental overlooked a long stretch of white sand, and Tyler had barely carried his suitcase inside before announcing he was going down to the beach. That alone wasn't strange, but he was gone for nearly three hours. I eventually wandered down to look for him, expecting to find him collecting shells or sitting alone with a book.

Instead, he was in the midst of people.Three college-aged guys were throwing a football back and forth while Tyler laughed with them comfortably. I stood there for a moment, shocked, convinced I'd somehow mistaken another teenager for my son, until he caught the football one-handed and flashed me a grin.

"There you are, Mom!" He jogged over, spinning the football effortlessly on one finger.

"I didn't know you played football," I said.

He looked nervous for a second, but flashed a casual smile. "I don't really play. Just messed around once or twice?"

That answer was wrong. Tyler had never been interested in sports. When he'd been twelve, he'd hidden in the bathroom during gym class to avoid playing flag football. He'd once explained the complete rules of a fictional wizard duel to me over dinner but he didn’t know how many points a touchdown was worth.

 Now he tossed the football back with a perfect spiral before returning to the game without another thought. I watched him for several confused minutes before heading back to the house, telling myself this was a good thing.

The next morning surprised me even more, Tyler wandered into the kitchen shirtless, rubbing sleep from his eyes while asking if we had any eggs. I was so shocked, I nearly dropped the coffee pot.

He'd always been thin, not unhealthy, just lanky and thin in the way teenagers often are before they fill out. Overnight, though, his frame seemed to have changed. His shoulders looked wider, his chest firmer, and faint definition outlined his arms and stomach. It wasn't as though he'd become unrecognizable, but it was still odd, like months of puberty had hit in a day. My son didn’t look like someone who spent every afternoon gaming online, but an active youth who regularly swam and played beach volleyball 

"You've been working out?" I asked.

He glanced down at himself, looking genuinely puzzled. "I mean... not really."

"You look different."

He laughed. "Probably just the lighting."

Then he opened the refrigerator, grabbed half the leftovers from dinner, and started eating directly over the sink. Tyler usually complained if two foods on his plate touched, maybe it was just puberty.

But over the next few days, the little changes kept piling up. His glasses disappeared sometime after our second morning and when I asked where they'd gone, he frowned at me in confusion.

"What glasses?"

"The ones you've worn since second grade."

He blinked a few times before laughing. "Oh. Those. I guess I don't really need them anymore."

"You don't need prescription lenses anymore?"

"I can see fine."

His personality shifted just as quickly. The shy teenager who once rehearsed conversations before speaking to strangers now struck up conversations with anyone who happened to walk by. He greeted surfers like old friends, joined pickup volleyball games without being invited, and somehow knew everyone's name within hours of meeting them, it was like he was a completely different kid.

Even the way he spoke had changed, everything was "awesome.", everything was "sick.”, and everyone was "bro.", even me. Over dinner, he asked to rent paddleboards,  as opposed to visiting the local bookstore. When I suggested spending an afternoon at the aquarium, he gave me an amused look.

"Mom, fish are way cooler when they're actually in the ocean." He sounded so sure of that that I almost laughed. But then I remembered Tyler had once cried during a nature documentary when a shark ate a seal.

The more I noticed these things, the more I felt a crippling sense of unease. Sure it could be puberty, but nothing I’d ever read in preparation for this had mentioned a total 180 in personality and almost instantaneous growth. The more time went on, the more a strange terrifying thought began to emerge, this wasn’t my son.

But I tried to brush that thought away, but something even more horrifying was what was starting to happen to my memories. As if my own mind was trying to convince me he'd always been this way.

 I'd remember him winning the middle school science fair. Then, moments later, I'd hesitate, Hadn't he won the regional surfing competition that same year? That couldn't be right, but could it?

The memories overlapped like photographs left in the sun too long, each version fading into the other until I couldn't tell which one had come first. By the fifth day of our vacation, I found myself staring at my son from across the beach, trying desperately to remember what he'd looked like before we arrived. 

That evening I tried to prove it to myself, prove it before I forgot what I needed to prove. 

After Tyler had gone out to meet friends for a bonfire, I sat at the kitchen table with my phone and began scrolling through old photos. I remembered birthdays spent at museums, afternoons building model castles out of cardboard, Halloween costumes stitched together to match whatever fantasy series he was obsessed with that year. There should have been hundreds of pictures.

Instead, I found beach after beach, Tyler surfing at ten, smiling with a sun-bleached group of friends at twelve. I found a photo of him standing proudly beside a fishing boat at fourteen, his arm slung around my shoulders while we both laughed into the camera.

I frowned. I couldn’t remember the last time we had stepped foot on a dock, much less an actual boat. I opened another picture, but it was the same boat, just a slightly different angle. A cold knot settled in my stomach as I zoomed in on my own face. My hair looked shorter than I remembered wearing it. My skin was deeply tanned, and there were laugh lines around my eyes that hadn't been there a week ago. The timestamp insisted the photo had been taken three years earlier, but I had no recollection of that day. 

That night, I dreamed I stood ankle-deep in moonlit water while the tide rolled gently around my feet. Pale figures drifted just beyond the waves, their faces hidden beneath shimmering reflections. I tried to ask who they were, but seawater filled my mouth instead of words. It tasted warm, and bitter and when I woke, my pillow smelled faintly of salt and the taste was still in my mouth. 

I couldn’t ignore changes after that, I found myself waking earlier every morning, eager to get outside before the crowds reached the beach. Sitting indoors suddenly felt unbearable. Even my body felt different, the walk to the beach no longer left me winded. Carrying coolers and folding chairs seemed effortless. My shoulders ached with the dull soreness that followed long days of swimming, despite the fact that I couldn't remember going into the water for more than a few minutes.

When I looked in the bathroom mirror, I couldn't decide whether my reflection had actually changed or whether I was imagining it. My face looked wider and there was more gray in my hair than I remembered, but somehow it suited me.

But I didn't realize the extent of my own changes until Tyler commented.

"You've gotta stop wearing those shoes," he laughed one afternoon. "Come on, Dad. Bare feet are way better."

One of the words stuck out to me, and I stopped walking.

"What did you call me?"

He looked genuinely confused. "...Dad?"

"I'm your mother." 

"Good one."He laughed, assuming I was joking. Then he jogged ahead toward the volleyball nets before I could say another word.

 I stood frozen in the sand, and it all hit me in a rush. I looked down and saw myself as if for the first time. 

Broad feet buried in the sand, tanned and roughened by years of walking barefoot over hot beaches. The toenails were clipped short and unpolished, the skin across the heels thick with calluses that hadn't come overnight.

My legs were huge. Powerful calves flexed as I shifted my weight, corded with lean muscle. My thighs stretched the faded board shorts I had been wearing all week, massive and athletic from countless mornings paddling through surf and afternoons chasing waves. I had a solid, capable frame that looked like it had been built by years of intense training and testosterone.

"No..." my deep voice coming out warm and easy. I stumbled toward the nearest restroom by the parking lot, nearly tripping as unfamiliar muscles carried me forward with an effortless confidence that felt completely alien. Looking in the mirror I saw a stranger staring back.

He looked to be in his mid-thirties, maybe a little older. Tall and broad enough that he nearly filled the narrow mirror. Thick, dark curls sat in loose disarray, still damp with seawater despite the fact that I couldn't remember swimming today.

His face was handsome in an uncomplicated sort of way. Square jaw hidden beneath a neatly kept mustache and short beard. Sun-darkened skin that spoke of years spent outdoors instead in the fluorescent lights of an office. Laugh lines rested comfortably around bright eyes that had spent a lifetime squinting into reflected sunlight.

His shoulders seemed impossibly wide. Rounded deltoids flowed into thick, muscular arms that looked strong without seeming sculpted. They were the sort of muscles earned by hauling surfboards, carrying coolers, throwing footballs with neighborhood kids, and lifting children onto broad shoulders to watch fireworks over the water.

One arm disappeared beneath an intricate sleeve tattoo that wrapped from shoulder almost to wrist. Dark ink curled around every muscle, waves, geometric patterns, sea life, roman numerals crossed part of my forearm. A weathered sports watch rested comfortably against my wrist, its band permanently faded by years of sun and salt.

My chest rose and fell beneath a scattering of dark hair. Not bodybuilder enormous, but thick with practical strength. Broad pectorals softened just enough to make me look approachable rather than intimidating. A dark dusting of hair started at my chest and went down lower still. Covering a firm stomach that showed the faint outline of abs beneath healthy layers earned from beach cookouts. 

I smiled at my reflection in the mirror, a smile that came far too naturally. I splashed water on my face. When I looked back up, the panic in my expression already seemed ridiculous.

Why was I freaking out, I'd always looked like this. My gaze drifted over my tattoos. I remembered getting the first one after Tyler was born, a sea turtle near my shoulder. The memory was so vivid, the buzzing of the tattoo gun, the smell of antiseptic and little Tyler asleep in his stroller while the artist worked.

Outside, I heard my son shouting. "Dad! You coming or what?"

I stepped outside into the sunlight, catching the volleyball Tylor tossed me with one hand.

Tyler grinned. "Nice one, old man"

I looked at my son, his wind swept curls the same dark color as mine, His shoulders broad over his well maintained body.  He balanced and stood outstretched like a sunbathing golden retriever, gripping a football with his right hand. We always came out in the evenings to throw a ball back and forth. A tradition since I'd taught him how to throw at 5.

I remembered a five-year-old Tyler, laughing while I steadied his tiny board. I remembered his first successful ride, not that day, but a few weeks later. He used to throw a fit every time he had to school, gasp, 10 minutes away from the beach. He'd much rather spend a day in the water than inside with a book.

I looked at my son, who was gesturing impatiently. I must have missed him saying something. "Sorry. Guess I zoned out."

He grinned and shook his head, "Race you to the water?"

"You're on."

I've had a girlfriend for some years but I've realized that something was missing. Recently, I've discovered what was missing. I never was atracted to girls in the first place. Could you help me break up with her or somehow fix our relationship?

You’ve left me with a bit of a conundrum. Do I fix your relationship, or let you move on into one that will make you happier? Do I turn you into a straight stud who can pleasure your girl for hours, or make you a confident, hunky gay man who can get a boyfriend with ease.

Well… why not both?

In a world of magical transformations, cloning a person isn’t that difficult, and making some changes to the copy is even easier. Of course, I won’t tell you who’s the original. Where’s the fun in that? So, from now on there will be two versions of you running around: a cocky straight stud who loves making his girl feel good, and a confident gay hunk whose having a lot of fun exploring his new desires. Hope you both have fun!

---

I've been trying to kick some 'bad habits' lately, but I keep failing because I'm pretty half-hearted about it. Should I get some willpower to quit or just embrace them?

You hadn't really expected the 'purification spell' you found to be able to do anything, but you had been having such a hard time leaving some of your old habits behind that you had become desperate. You were overjoyed when it worked… until you noticed the side effects. See, all those bad habits and toxic traits had to go somewhere, so when they left your body, they ended up forming one of their own.

Meet Chet. He looks kind of like you, if you gained fifty pounds of pure muscle and had been possessed by the ghost of a frat boy. He's every bad habit, thought and impulse you've ever had given form, except without anything else in there, he's a hundred times worse than you ever were. Heck, he does things you never even used to do. He's crude, rude, overly sexual, cocky as can be, misogynistic as hell, and is always either smoking, drinking, or both.

At first you were horrified to see all of your worst, most obnoxious traits come to life, but over time you've actually come around to him. He has gotten a bit better over time, as having some experiences as a human has given him more depth beyond his shitty base instincts. As time has passed you've come to feel a kind of connection to him. Having Chet around is almost like having a brother. A really douchey brother whose a terrible influence on you, but a brother all the same.

Unfortunetly, he really is a bad influence on you. You're not sure if the spell is wearing off, or if spending time with Chet is somehow re-infecting you, but you feel yourself falling back into your old bad habits, and even find yourself going further than you did before. If you're not careful, Chet might end up with a brother just as douchey as him.

---

Hi. Im a 21, skinny and hairless guy with dark short hair. I'm on this beach full of hairy Latinos and muscular bears. I wish I had hairy chests like them too (maybe One day)

Sometime all you need to become the man you really want to be is time. It doesn't happen to everyone, but some people are lucky enough and determined enough to eventually grow into the person they want to be. Of course, time wouldn't allow you to change your race, and it wouldn't give you a hairy latino muscle hunk in time to have any fun on the beach, so we're going to use a… slightly different method, to help things along.

Along with this note, you should have received a bottle of sun tan lotion. All you need to do is put it on all over your body, and lay in the sun for about an hour. The sun will activate the lotions magical powers, and over the course of the next hour, you'll get to enjoy the hot, electric sensation of your transformation. You'll feel every muscle grow, you'll feel the warmth of the sun sink into your skin as you become latino, you'll feel your body be covered by a sexy matting of hair as you age into a sexy, muscular, barrel chested latino daddy~

I hope you have a fun time at the beach! And hey, there should be enough lotion in that bottle for a friend. I think you're going to have a fuck ton of fun

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I'm a gay exchange student, and the university I'm at now is full of asian men. They all look pretty muscular, and judging by… Everyone seems straight it's an all-boys university, so I feel a little awkward being the only American guy—short, gay, and nerdy—but… I think I can get used to it, right?

Trust me, you'll get used to it. Everyone who goes to Taneuma University - no connection to Taneuma Town, none whatsoever - feels out of place when they get there. They wonder what in the world they're doing in a university full of asian hunks who only want to talk about sports and hooking up with girls from the local community college. But after a week or so of specially prepared meals and truly life changing classes, you'll be able to fit right in. It might feel weird at first, you might resist. But You'll get used to it. Everyone does

---

I wish I could be in porn or be one of those nsfw streaming guys, ever since I realized I was pretty well endowed. But my body is only okay, nothing to pay to see for sure. And, most of all, I don't have an ounce of sexual charisma or machismo or aura or whatever you wanna call it. I once tried to send a dirty selfie to my then-boyfriend but it was obvious how awkward I was-- ruined any appeal.

You've got a big dick, but it sounds like you're missing something even more important: Big Dick Energy. Lucky for you, a little shock of masculine energy should be enough to fix you right up. Electricity will flow through your body and mind, transforming your scrawny body into beefy, powerful muscle, and rewiring your brain to make you as cocky and toxic as possible. It'll also make you straight, but I don't think the new you will mind. You'll to busy enjoying life as a cocky, rich porn star to give a fuck about who you used to be

---

Some cocky “alpha male gigachad” is picking on an out of shape retired middle age man. The bully looks unnaturally big and hairy like he’s somehow being more masculine than usual. The middle age man just minding his own business maybe cutting his beer belly and get back in shape. Although I enjoy height and size differences, I feel bad for the older gentleman. The bully didn’t notice he dropped his phone when he push the middle age man to the locker room, probably try to size up the older man and force him to worship the body (or worse as I see him squeeze his own massive bulge). That idiot so arrogant he didn’t even have a password on his phone. I see a strange app call Chronivac so I take a look at it. I see a block of text written in there written by the bully like he’s some kind of god. I roll my eyes and decide to add more at the end. I addded: “I immediately cum from being touched by another man. I also transfer my masculinity to the man that make me cum and I’m addicted to be handled by another man.” Thinking nothing of it I hit enter and turn off the phone.

"Daddy! Please touch me!" You heard a feminine moan coming from the gym. You rolled your eyes. It must have been that tiny twink and the middle aged muscle daddy you had seen earlier. You could tell they were all over each other, but you didn't think that they'd start hooking up in the middle of the locker room. From the moaning, and the growing puddle of cum, you could tell that they very much were.

You should probably walk away, maybe tell a gym employee about the very inappropriate stuff happening in their locker room… but you did have to give the twink his phone back. You know he'll be very grateful~

---

My skinny nerdy roommate somehow become even skinner after a month of gym. So to cheer him up and pull a good prank on the football team, I swap the roommate and the captain underwear. There’s no way my skinny roommate can fit in the oversized jockstrap that the juiced out meathead wearing or vice versa. At least my roommate has his crush memorabilia.

You couldn't believe how quickly your roommate had started to put on mass. You weren't sure how it had happened, but ever since you had pulled that prank on him, he had been packing on muscle like crazy, like he was going through some sort of second puberty. A part of you wondered if, somehow, your prank had caused all of this, but it wasn't like the football captain had suddenly grown smaller. He was just as beefy as usual, though he was acting a little strange. He kept staring at your roommate with this dumb, giddy smile on his face, one you only recognized after you walked in on the two of them making out.

You weren't sure how it happened, but your roommate ended up with the body of his dreams, and his crush as his boyfriend. Your prank probably didn't do anything… but maybe you could steal someones underwear, for yourself just to see…

---

A dude bro claiming to be a fitness influencer complaining he doesn’t get followers while those “oversized water balloon” (his words not mine) get tons of follower. It’s getting tiring hearing him yapping about his look and footlong. So I helped him with his followers problem by making him turn into a giant overly bloated muscular man while he’s streaming himself. Also turning that footlong to inch long since he won’t be needed to show that to his newly amassed follower and gains.

So, it turns out your friend, or this guy who annoys you I guess, was a lot more fame hungry than you thought. He was super upset when you transformed him, but he stopped whining as soon as he saw how many new followers he got. He quickly started showing off his 'wonderful beef' and even set up an OnlyFans in order to show off his small cock to people who love teasing him for it. Turns out he cared way more about being an influencer than he ever did about fitness

God, I hate hangovers. They make the little time I have with my real self feel like a chore.

See, I’ve been living in the show "Haven Island" for a few months now, but I didn’t quite understand how it worked behind the scenes. When I applied for a role, I imagined myself playing a random young adult filling out the cafes when a scene would happen there, like we would see in the actual show. Simple, no line, no anything.

But the reality of it was oh so different. There is no true extras, everybody has fleshed out lives and routines that they actually follow, even if only their commute is ever seen on screen. A whole complexity that gives the whole life and drama that keeps Haven Island as the most watched Reality TV show in the world.

Now, you might think that it would be very long and expensive for the writers to give everybody complex lives and routines. And you would be correct. But the writers had a plan which meant that they could give each role minimal thought.

They transformed us into our roles.

This means that, everyday, when 8AM ticks and the show starts, everyone’s personality suddenly shifts into that of the role they incarnate. For my part, I play the role of a middling manager at the bank. Not especially remarkable, but classy, extroverted, and oh so ambitious and arrogant. I’d hate myself if I ever met him.

This means that everyday I go to the bank, get myself a cup of coffee and terrorize my employees for their low productivity at their fictive job. And when I’m not at work, I go to the gym, eat at a restaurant, and in the evening go to drink with the colleagues. Whence the hangover.

Fuck, it’s almost 8AM, I haven’t had time to do stuff the real me likes, like video games and reading mangas ! I didn’t even have time to talk about how they changed our bodies, making me grow a stubble I never could have grown, and giving me muscles, and‒

…

God, I hate hangovers. But the party yesterday was great, and I like booze too much to stop. I guess I’ll just go harder on the coffee.

Ugh, it’s already 8AM and I haven’t started getting ready ? My pomp needs so much time to be set up right, I can’t be wasting it doing who-knows-what ! Time is of the essence !

I put on some expensive cologne, touch up my elegant beard, and then put on my suit. No tie, today, I’m feeling casual today. I want to improve team cohesion, after all.

Moving to Haven Island has been the best choice in my life. Everything is so orderly over here compared to the outside world ! And the career opportunities are phenomenal !

I take my bag and step into my sports car. Like every other day, I drive towards my job, taking the same path as always, an essential but secondary part of the lively town of Haven Island.

Richard stood in the subway, exhausted. It had been a brutal day, and it was late. He leaned against the door, consumed by one single wish: home, something in the microwave, the couch, bed. Damn, he thought.

Before this job, he had been the picture of athleticism. In college, he had been a celebrated linebacker. But the shift from a Midwestern college to an East Coast ad agency was taking its toll. His muscles were vanishing. A small layer of fat was starting to form around his waist. For now, only he noticed—but it wouldn’t stay hidden for long.

Richard pulled out his phone and searched for a gym, ideally somewhere between his office in Hell’s Kitchen and his apartment up in Manhattan Valley.

Then a pop-up appeared:

“Yo, bro! Looking for the ultimate gym? Trust GymMatch! We find the gym that fits you… and make sure you fit the gym.”

Weird tagline, Richard thought. But it was basically exactly what he was looking for. He clicked the link.

A map appeared, dozens of gyms marked. Then filters started popping up. First, simple things: hours, zip code, number of members… all logical. He filled them in.

“Apply intermediate results?”

Whatever that meant. Sure! Richard hit enter.

The number of gyms on the map shrank. And at the same time, his muscles swelled like balloons. His crisp office shirt morphed into a microfiber T-shirt, the sleeves stretching to near-breaking over his biceps.

Now came the stranger questions: age range, education level of the members. Odd. Richard didn’t come to chat. Some college bros wouldn’t be bad—young rather than old, dumb rather than intellectual.

“Apply intermediate results?”

Richard wondered how many more questions this thing would ask. He wasn’t here to write a thesis. He wanted his muscles on fire. The internship sucked. Damn, he needed his YouTube fitness channel to blow up. He was never cut out for a desk job.

Next came the easy stuff: supplements, training hours per day. Hell yeah, he took anything that pushed his gains. He trained 24/7 if necessary. He was a machine. He lived for the gym. He lived in the gym.

“Apply intermediate results?”

One gym remained. His gym. It had shaped him—but he had left his mark on it, too. He had started as Richard. Then he became “Dick.” And now… D-Stack. He couldn’t even remember how he got the nickname.

A message popped up from Big T, probably on his way to the gym:

Big T: Yo, yo! We takin’ this gym hostage tonight, bro! 💀💪🏾 Who even tryna lift when we in the spot? D-Stack: Haha, nah bruv, they scared as hell. Me n’ you bout ta turn this shit into a fuckin’ warzone, chest first, ya feel me? 🔥💥 Big T: Facts, bro! Heavy bench, flys, pump so sick it gon’ make these weak ass mofos cry. Tee’s ‘boutta snap off our arms. 😂💪🏾 D-Stack: Bro, I been waitin’ for this. Dips n’ skull crushers gon’ make our guns look like fuckin’ cannons, straight up artillery. 💀💣 Big T: Hell yeah! Den we hit shoulders, push presses, make them delts sit like they own the gym. Mad kings, bro. 👑😤 D-Stack: Madman! But listen, we pacing ourselves, can’t go all out or we collapse like bitches. Pull-ups n’ rows tomorrow, bi’s too. 🫡 Big T: Tru dat, bro. Gotta keep ‘em guessing, leave every wannabe beast shook in our wake. 💪🏾💥 D-Stack: Pre-workout popped, tunes maxed, we gon’ make this gym our fuckin’ playground. Every set, pure domination. 🎶🔥 Big T: Bruv, I’m tellin’ ya, apocalypse level pump tonight. 6 o’clock, full-on monster mode. Ain’t no stoppin’ us. 💀💪🏾 D-Stack: Bet, fam! We gon’ leave these mofos on the floor prayin’ they ain’t next. Gym? Conquered. Let’s fuckin’ get ittt! 👊🏾🔥

it was a baseline, a standard: if you were in the frat, or even just rushing—if you were to even cross the house's threshold without being stopped—you had to look the part, and this was the bare minimum. khakis. a tucked-in button-down. a belt. leather shoes. a haircut and a clean shave.

the brothers of sigma nu groaned and complained they looked like dorky, old-fashioned clones, but the frat's president had seen enough t-shirts and basketball shorts. enough sneakers and slides. enough mop tops and mullets and fades. it was time for tradition, a classic style, the masculinity that real brotherhood can foster with proper encouragement, structure, and discipline.

TW: Misogyny, Homophobia

Your twenty-first birthday had been going absolutely perfect. Of course, you’d surrounded yourself with all your closest friends, all girls, obvi.  Drunk off cheap grocery store champagne being sipped out of red solo cups, you all continued laughing and enjoying your annual birthday roast, regardless of how uncomfortable everyone was stuffed onto your small college apartment couch. It was all in the name of light-hearted fun—typical jokes about how you wear the tightest of clothes, how you seem to have retained more Sex and the City quotes than anyone else alive, and of course, your nonexistent love life with guys. The usual, nothing that cut too deep. You laughed along, leaning back in your chair, feeling comfortable and safe being with your gal pals.

But then the door swung open, and Levi, Jessica’s ultra jock boyfriend, walks in. The room goes completely silent for just a second, the atmosphere shifting rapidly. Levi, an absolute douchebro, is the kind of frat guy who dominated a space just by existing. Tall, muscular, and that same cocky grin permanently plastered on his face. He saunters into your living room like it was his own frat house.

"Hey, birthday boy!" Jessica teases, giving you a nudge. "Levi asked me if he could take a turn roasting you. He says it’s good practice for his stand-up career.  Can you please let him go up?  I promise he won’t say anything too horrible."

You blink. ‘What on earth could Levi even say?  He doesn’t even know me?!’ you think to yourself. The other girls exchanged worried glances. The guy’s not exactly known for being subtle or sensitive, but before you can protest, Levi stepped towards the middle of the room, cracking his knuckles as he sized you up.

"So this is our little birthday bitch, huh?" His voice booms, loud and commanding. He stands in front of you, creepily grinning as he looks you up and down your skinny, twinkish frame. "Man, look at you. You’re such a fucking stick. Bet you couldn’t lift up a five pound weight, even if your life depended on it. What, a gust of wind gonna blow you over, fag?"

The girls laugh sporadically, forcing a chuckle just to try and relieve the tension. But as the words leave Levi’s mouth, a hot, uncomfortable sensation ripples through your body, and out of nowhere, you feel a tightness push itself against your pale skin. You glance down and your eyes widen—your biceps are swelling, your pecs thickening themselves into two smooth mounds of man meat. Muscles you’ve never even fathomed having in your life start to form, bulging out of your once-slender frame. Your shirt strains at the seams as your chest broadens to it’s sides, your chest pushing forward until they’re massive, rock-hard slabs, rivaling the tits of your girlfriends.

"Whoa, dude... what the hell are you saying, man?" you mutter, your voice suddenly much, much deeper, almost as deep as Levi’s.

The girls gasp, their eyes widening in shock, but Levi just keeps going, pretending to be unaware of what’s happening to the poor boy.

"But you know what?" Levi grins, his tone dripping with smugness. "I bet you’re the kinda guy who’s so obsessed with looking good that you wouldn’t even know what it means to get truly dirty, huh? Probably shower three times a day, all prim and proper. Nah, man. A real dude doesn’t give a shit about smelling fresh.  Real men smell like bulls.”

As soon as he says it, a wave of heat rolls through you again. This time, it’s not just gonna stay inside yourself, no. It’s... in your gut. A thick, rumbling pressure builds up more and more inside you, and before you can stop it, a loud, wet burp escapes your mouth. 

BRRRRRRRP!!

The girls squeal in disgust, but it doesn’t stop there. A loud, long fart rips through the air, and the smell is rank—sweaty, cheese, and 100% pure man odor.

PFFFFFFFFFFTTTTT!

Your armpits start to sweat profusely, staining your rapidly shrinking tank top shirt, and the once-fresh Polo cologne you had on is completely overpowered by the raw, animal scent of your dick stink. You can feel your skin getting greasy, and when you scratch your balls—without even thinking about it—they itch more, like you haven’t showered in days and you can’t help but touch it more and more.

"Ugh, gross!" one of the girls groans, wrinkling her nose. But as she pulls away, her eyes, they…change. Like she can’t stop glancing at your new Adonis body, completely disregarding, maybe even enjoying the smell. And she’s not the only one. All your former “gal pals” are starting to shake and whisper amongst themselves, their giggles turning into flirtatious murmurs, their shirts opening up as if he thermostat had been turned up to a hundred.

Levi leans in closer, his grin growing wider. "But hey, it’s not just about the looks, right? I bet this little fucker still can’t get laid to save his life. Probably jerks off to Tumblr stories every night instead of actually getting some pussy. Pfft. Bet he couldn’t handle a real girl if he tried."

Something snaps in your formerly gold star brain. You’ve always been gay, but now, that feels... weird. Incorrect.  Immoral.  Suddenly, the thought of even just hugging another guy seems wrong, as if you were worried you could catch gayness. Your eyes flicker over to Jessica and the others, and a new heat ignites inside your groin. Your mouth waters at the sight of your friend’s curves, their massive cleavage, their clean shaven legs. You want to be inside them. You need to be.

Memories shift. Nights spent dreaming about guys and writing fanfictions about male celebrities blur and twist into hazy recollections of fucking girls—lots of girls. So many, you couldn’t even remember one of their names.  You can taste their pussies, hear their moans. Your cock twitches in your pants, straining against the fabric of your newly materialized gym shorts as you stare at the girls who used to be just your friends. Now, they’re more than that. They’re... opportunities.  Sluts, ready for the taking.

"Fuck you asshole, I get laid all the fuckin’ time," you hear yourself shout, your voice deeper, more arrogant, your words rolling out in laughter like they’ve always been true. The girls giggle, blushing and shooting you lingering glances, clearly wanting your dick in their mouths. All of them. And in the pit of your stomach, you know they’ll all be yours by the end of the night.

Levi laughs, clapping you on the back. "Now that’s more like it, stud!" He steps back, crossing his arms, admiring his work "But let’s be real, this guy just thinks far too much, huh? He’s always overanalyzing shit, worrying about dumb stuff. A real bro doesn’t waste his time thinking. Just acts. Bet this guy’s head is still full of that nerdy fag crap."

You feel a sharp, dull shot of pain go through your head like a bullet, as if half of it is being yanked out. Your vision swims around the transforming frat room of breasts, and suddenly, it’s hard to think—like there’s a deep fog settling over your brain, clouding everything, mushing it into a few simple desires. The things you once knew—your studies, your hobbies, your passions—fade away, replaced by simpler, more immediate thoughts. Working out. Fucking. Drinking beer. All the things that matter to a real man.

The last thing to go is the memory of who you used to be. That skinny, smart, gay kid? Gone. Replaced by the image of you as a dumb, horny jock, the kind of guy who lives for the gym and pussy. The kind of guy who doesn’t need to think—because he already knows he’s the shit.

You blink, grinning stupidly at Levi, feeling the last vestiges of your old self disappear. "Yo, bro, I ain’t no faggot. Hey, where the fuck’s the beer at? We gotta get shwasted, man."

The girls are all over you now, practically throwing themselves at you. And why wouldn’t they? You’re hot as fuck, and you need to dump your cum in their needy holes.  You’re gonna make these formally open-minded liberal intellectuals into perfect American mothers.

"That’s my boy," Levi laughs, handing you a beer. "Welcome to the team, bro."