#corruption tf

Rob was, in his heart, a gay man. It was just a stupid drunken night 11 years ago. Then, nine months later, Quinn was dropped onto his arms as his mother quickly disappeared forever. Tough as it was, Rob raised Quinn well for a while. Then, the pandemic hit, and Rob was fired. Losing his job with two mouths to feed pushed him into desperation. The kind that made a man do things he couldn’t take back.

Now the mob was hunting him. They’d already asked around about his whereabouts. That was why they were holed up in another nameless motel a hundred miles from home — and why a kicked-in door and pistol whip to the head had dragged them back towards their old town.

=================

Rob woke up to thick rope biting into his wrists, surrounded by hulking goons in the dim warehouse light. Across from him, Quinn sat small in a metal chair, clutching his old stuffed bear like it could still protect him. The boy’s eyes were wide, trying so hard to be brave.

“Y-you don't have to do this. I can find a way to pay it all back!”

A heavy footstep thudded behind him. A massive hand engulfed his shoulder. The familiar deep voice sent ice down his spine. When the mob sent Marco, they weren’t looking for money.

They were there to punish.

“No. You tried. You failed.”

Authoritative. Dominant. The final word.

“M-marco, please. I-i-i could work. I-i can be a mule! Anything!”

The man behind Rob stopped for a moment. Pondering.

“Anything, huh?” The enforcer’s voice was a low, mocking rumble. “Two choices. I either do this to you, or your boy gets it.”

Rob froze. He looked straight at Quinn. He was gripping his toy; scared, intimidated. It should be an easy answer, but he knew what would happen to him. He heard the stories.

“One”

Rob's heart raced even faster.

Why am I even thinking about this? What kind of a father fucks up and then—

“Two”

No. No. No. No. It shouldn't end like this. They wouldn't do anything bad to Quinn, right?

You could just make another son

“Thre-”

“Quinn.”

The words threw out of Rob’s throat before he could choke it back.

“L-let Quinn take it.”

================

“Daddy, what do you mean?”

Rob was grief stricken already. He was faced with the choice all dads dread about…. and he chose the cowards route. The words were already spoken. He couldn’t force his mouth to take them back…. he couldn’t even look his son in the eye.

Marco chuckled, low and cruel.

“Pathetic.” The enforcer’s grip tightened on Rob’s shoulder. “I’ve known men who died for me.” He let the silence stretch, driving the knife deeper.

“And you wouldn’t even die for your own blood.”

Tears burned down Rob’s face. Quinn looked between them, confused and terrified, yet still trying so hard to be brave.

“I-it’s okay, Daddy,” Quinn said, voice small but steady, still clutching the worn stuffed bear. “I’ll be okay… right?”

Marco stepped forward, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. In his massive palm he held an enormous silver ring — far too big for any normal finger, thick and heavy-looking.

“If there’s anything the old Quinn needs to know,” Marco said, voice thick with mockery, “it’s that his daddy is a coward.”

He roughly grabbed Quinn’s small hand and forced the oversized ring toward his ring finger. For a split second it looked ridiculous — the band dangling loosely. Then, with a sickening warmth, Quinn’s finger began to swell. The flesh pulsed and expanded, bones subtly shifting as the ring slid down and settled perfectly against his skin, as if the finger had grown to fit it.

Quinn’s eyes widened in shock. “W-what…?”

A sickening heat bloomed from the ring. His ring finger throbbed, bones cracking and lengthening as the oversized band tightened perfectly into place. The digit thickened, veins rising like ropes under the skin. Quinn gasped, trying to yank his hand away, but Marco held it firm.

“It’s starting,” Marco growled with dark satisfaction. “Watch closely, coward.”

The heat surged upward.

Quinn’s forearm swelled next. The slender limb ballooned outward, muscles twitching and inflating with grotesque speed. Thin cords of muscle thickened into dense, vascular ropes. His wrist thickened, then the forearm itself — veins pulsing, skin stretching taut over rapidly growing mass. Quinn whimpered as the growth hit his elbow, then exploded into his bicep.

“Oh—oh god—!”

The bicep surged, peaking higher and higher, splitting into a thick, striated mound. The muscle kept swelling, forcing his sleeve to ride up and tear at the seams. What had once been a soft, boyish arm was now a powerful, veined pillar of meat — easily twice its original size and still growing. Quinn’s shoulder followed, deltoid flaring out like a boulder, ripping the fabric further as his traps began to rise toward his neck.

“Dad—Daddy it hurts— it feels—” His voice cracked midway through the sentence.

The growth spread across his chest. Pecs ballooned forward, heavy and thick, stretching his shirt until buttons pinged off one by one. His ribcage widened with audible pops, shoulders broadening dramatically as the transformation claimed more of him. Quinn’s back muscles flared out into thick wings of latissimus dorsi, forcing him to sit straighter, taller in the chair.

A warm, masculine musk began rising from his expanding body — clean at first, then richer, deeper, virile. It filled the air around him like raw power waking up.

He was already noticeably bigger — easily pushing six feet now and climbing.

His legs were next. Thighs thickened explosively, seams splitting along his pants as quad muscles surged outward. Calves ballooned into diamond shapes. His feet lengthened and widened, shoes groaning before the toes burst through the front. Quinn’s height shot up another few inches in a sudden spurt, the metal chair creaking dangerously beneath his increasing weight.

All the while, his mind was under assault.

Flashes slammed into Quinn’s brain — dark warehouses, the crack of guns, men kneeling in fear, stacks of cash, the taste of power. Ruthless orders barked in his own future voice. A deep, commanding presence that wasn’t his… yet felt intoxicatingly right.

No… I don’t want this… Daddy needs me… I’m a good boy—

But the new knowledge kept pouring in: family codes, betrayals, how to break a man, how to own one. A cold, dominant hunger began coiling in his chest. His free hand — now massive — clenched into his chair, crumpling its metal rest.

Quinn’s face was changing too. His jaw squared off, becoming heavier and more angular. Cheekbones sharpened. Stubble darkened across his cheeks and chin, thickening into a short, masculine shadow. His neck thickened into a powerful column, Adam’s apple prominent as his voice dropped mid-groan into a deep, resonant timbre.

“F-fuck… what’s happening to me…?” The words came out gravelly and authoritative, sending a shiver through the watching goons.

His eyes — still the same soft color at their core — now burned with a sharper, more dangerous intelligence. Old memories of bedtime stories and road-trip smiles flickered, fighting against the flood of mob violence and ambition. The two sides warred inside him, not fully merged yet.

By the end, Quinn rose from the broken chair at well over 6’7”, 280+ pounds of dense, hulking muscle. The shredded remains of his clothes hung off his massive frame like rags. The ring now looked perfectly proportionate on his huge finger — a symbol of his new station.

He rolled his enormous shoulders, cracking his neck with a sound like gunfire. His gaze slowly turned toward Rob.

For a moment, pure old-Quinn shone through — scared, betrayed, loving.

“Daddy…?”

Then the new presence surged again. A cruel, possessive smirk tugged at his thicker lips.

Marco laughed. “Welcome to the family, Enzo.”

The new presence surged forward. He stepped toward Rob, each footfall heavy enough to make the warehouse floor tremble. One massive hand grabbed Rob by the throat, effortlessly lifting him — chair and all — until his feet dangled off the ground.

“You sacrificed me,” Enzo growled, voice a deep, commanding baritone. “Your own blood. For what? To save your pathetic skin?”

He slammed Rob back down, the chair cracking under the impact. Enzo’s huge fist drove into Rob’s gut — not full force, but enough to knock the wind out of him and leave a deep, throbbing bruise. Another backhand across the face split Rob’s lip.

Rob gasped, tears streaming. The guilt was unbearable.

“I-i-i…” Rob tried stuttering out, but Enzo finished his sentence for him.

“I think you're a pathetic coward. A faggot that doesn't deserve to live.”

Enzo's huge mitts suddenly envelop Rob's throat. Yet it didn't crush Rob's windpipe like the crumpled metal chair promised. It was like the Quinn inside was waiting for Enzo's reply. A slow countdown where the final second meant death

“I’m sorry—” Rob choked out, voice reedy. Enzo still looked at him sternly.

“I'm… c-coward—” Enzo's grip loosened, yet unsatisfied

“Q-quinn—”

Enzo dropped Rob onto the chair with a thud as Rob gasped for air.

Enzo's massive fist trembled. Old memories flooded back hard: bedtime stories, cheap motel smiles, that stupid stuffed bear.

“D-Daddy…?” The word slipped out in a softer tone, old Quinn bleeding through the deep voice. Tears pricked at the corners of his hardened eyes. The hand dropped away completely. “You… you gave me to them…”

Marco’s eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, voice low and goading. “Look at that. The old weakling is still there. Hesitating.” Marco smirked. “But you feel it, don’t you? That power. That hunger. Your cock’s already hard as steel. Godly needs.” Marco says as his hands palm Enzo's powerful cock. “This coward owes you everything. If you won't finish him, make him yours.”

Enzo’s breathing grew heavier. The massive bulge in his ruined pants throbbed visibly, thick and heavy. The war inside him raged — sweet, protective Quinn versus the ruthless Enzo. Truthfully there was one thing both sides agreed on… Rob needs to be punished — and punishment was Enzo's specialty.

A cruel, possessive grin spread across his thick lips.

“You’re right,” Enzo rumbled. “He’s been a bad boy.”

In one brutal motion, Enzo ripped away the remains of his own pants. His cock sprang free — enormous, veined, thicker than Rob’s wrist and already leaking. He tore Rob’s clothes off with zero effort, exposing him completely. Rob's small, hard cock sprung up already.

“Fucking faggot.”

Rob barely had time to whimper before Enzo spun him around, bending him brutally over the broken chair. The huge man’s weight pinned him down as Enzo lined up and thrust in raw.

“F-fuck!” Rob cried out, stretched wide by the scepter of his atonement.

Enzo didn’t go slow. He fucked like the boss he was becoming — deep, punishing strokes that made Rob’s body jolt. Each slam of those powerful hips sent shockwaves through both of them. Enzo’s huge hands gripped Rob’s waist hard enough to bruise, holding him in place like a toy.

As he fucked, the merge deepened.

He’s still Dad… still mine to protect…

But he betrayed me. He’s mine to own.

Old innocence cracked and burned away with every brutal thrust. Quinn’s gentle memories twisted into something darker, stronger — love fused with total dominance. Enzo’s pace grew even more savage, one hand reaching around to stroke Rob’s cock roughly, forcing pleasure through the pain. The rich, virile musk poured off Enzo’s heaving muscles, thick and intoxicating, marking Rob with every thrust.

“You’re going to take every inch, boy,” Enzo snarled, voice pure authority now. “No more running. No more cowardice. You belong to Enzo.”

Rob came first, sobbing and shaking. Enzo followed with a deep, animalistic roar, flooding him with thick, endless spurts as the final pieces of the old Quinn dissolved.

When Enzo finally pulled out, he turned Rob around and lifted his chin with surprising gentleness — a hint of the protector already woven in. The man staring down at Rob was fully merged now: brutally dominant, deeply possessive, and fiercely protective.

“You’re safe,” Enzo said, voice low and final. “But you’re mine. Understand?”

Rob, broken, used, and strangely relieved, could only nod.

Epilogue – Three Months Later

Enzo had risen fast.

The family whispered about the new underboss — young, ruthless, unnaturally strong. Deals closed without resistance. Rivals folded or disappeared. Marco now answered to him. No one outside the inner circle knew where Enzo had come from. And Rob was never allowed to see that side.

To the outside world, Rob was simply “Enzo’s boy.” Kept in a luxurious penthouse the family provided, never left alone, never allowed to want for anything. But in private, behind soundproofed doors, the lines blurred in ways only the two of them understood.

=================

The big flat-screen glowed with an old cartoon, colorful characters bouncing around with cheerful music and silly sound effects. Enzo lounged like a king on the oversized couch, his massive 6’7”, heavily muscled body sprawled comfortably in nothing but gray sweatpants. The faded stuffed bear sat tucked against his side.

Rob knelt between the thick pillars of Enzo’s thighs, head bobbing slowly as he sucked his son’s heavy cock with devoted, practiced care.

“Dad, look! This is the funny part,” Enzo said in that bright, boyish tone, eyes fixed on the screen even as his huge hand rested gently on the back of Rob’s head.

He let out a soft, genuine giggle — pure Quinn — as the cartoon played on. At the same time, his fingers guided Rob a little deeper. The warm, masculine musk of Enzo’s groin — clean but rich and heady from the day — filled Rob’s senses with every breath.

“Mmm… yeah, just like that,” Enzo murmured, voice warm and affectionate with a low dominant edge. “Keep on it, Dad. You’re doing such a good job.”

Rob moaned around the massive cock filling his mouth, saliva dripping as he worked the length with slow, worshipful strokes. The bright cartoon music mixed with the wet sounds of his sucking.

A boyish chuckle escaped him during a funny scene, but his next words carried heavier dominance. “Deeper, Dad. All the way. Breathe me in while you do it.” His hand pressed Rob down gently but firmly, letting the warm, potent musk surround him as the thick cock slid into his throat.

Rob’s eyes watered but he obeyed, taking Enzo as far as he could while the cartoon characters laughed onscreen.

As Enzo’s breathing grew heavier. He gently pushed Rob down further, holding him there for long moments during a quiet cartoon scene, then let him up for air only to guide him back again. The contrast was constant — innocent nostalgia mixed with raw, godly ownership.

When Enzo finally came, it was with a deep, rumbling groan that vibrated through his massive chest. Thick, heavy loads pulsed down Rob’s throat as the cartoon reached its happy ending. Enzo held him in place gently until every drop was swallowed, then carefully pulled him up into his lap.

He wiped Rob’s chin with his thumb, kissed his forehead sweetly, and tucked the stuffed bear between them.

“You did so good, Daddy,” Enzo whispered, voice soft and loving again. “My favorite toy.” Rob could only mutter out as he swallowed the tasty God-cum. “T-t-thank you Quinn — sir.’

Then the dominant side pressed close, lips brushing Rob’s ear with possessive finality.

“Keep being a good boy for your God every night. Because you're mine… and I use what’s mine.”

Enzo wrapped his enormous arms around Rob, cradling him protectively against his warm musky chest as another episode started. The cartoons played on while the hulking man held his father close — innocent boy and ruthless owner perfectly merged.

"I fought in World War Two for a country that stood for freedom and equality," Steve said, his voice carrying across the room without any need for a microphone. "But lately I have seen too many young people getting pulled into this right-wing nonsense. The MAGA movement, all this talk about going back to some imagined past. It is divisive. It is harmful. We need to promote a more liberal and accepting lifestyle. Tolerance for everyone, no matter their background, their gender, or who they love. That is the America we should aspire to."

The applause was loud, but not everyone was clapping. From the back row a burly man in a red hat stood up suddenly, his face twisted with anger. He was no major threat, just a small-time villain who called himself the Real American. His real name was Earl Jenkins, a disgruntled ex-military guy who had scraped together some experimental tech from a black-market deal. He had been waiting for a moment like this.

"You traitor!" Earl bellowed, pulling a strange-looking device from under his jacket. It looked like a bulky ray gun painted in red, white, and blue, with a small American flag sticker slapped on the side. "Captain America pushing woke garbage? Not on my watch. Time to make you great again!"

Security moved toward him, but Earl was faster. He aimed the device straight at Steve and pulled the trigger. A bright red beam shot out and struck Captain America square in the chest. The crowd gasped. Steve staggered back a step, feeling an immediate wave of heat spread through his body. At first he thought it was some kind of energy weapon, but this was different. It felt deeper, like something was rewriting him from the inside out.

"What did you do?" Steve growled, trying to stay on his feet. His shield felt heavier than usual in his hand.

Earl laughed, lowering the gun. "Just gave you a little dose of real American values, Cap. Or should I say, former Cap. Enjoy the ride, traitor."

Steve tried to step forward, but his legs felt unsteady. The heat inside him intensified, spreading from his chest down into his arms and legs, up into his head. He dropped to one knee on the stage, the shield clattering beside him. The students were shouting now, some calling for help, others staring in confusion. Steve barely noticed them. All he could focus on was the strange sensations crawling over his skin and through his muscles.

His super-soldier physique, the peak of human perfection built by the serum, began to soften. The incredible strength that had let him lift cars and punch through walls started to drain away like water running down a sink. His biceps, once rock-hard and enormous, lost their impossible definition. They stayed muscular, but now they were the kind of arms a dedicated gym-goer might have after a solid workout routine, nothing more. His chest contracted slightly, the broad plates of muscle shrinking until they looked like the chest of a fit everyday man who lifted weights a few times a week but also enjoyed a beer after work.

Steve gasped as the changes continued. His height, which had always been six foot two of pure power, seemed to compress just a little. Not enough to make him short, but enough to bring him down to a more average six foot even. His thighs thickened with practical muscle rather than explosive power, the kind that would let him chase down suspects on foot but not leap over buildings. His abs, once a perfect eight-pack, softened into a solid four-pack with just the faintest hint of softness around the middle from too many late-night shifts and not enough time worrying about looking like a god.

The uniform was changing too. The bright blue fabric with its white star and red stripes began to melt and reform. The colors darkened to navy blue, the star fading completely. Heavy tactical padding dissolved into standard police-issue material. The shield that had fallen beside him vanished entirely, replaced by a utility belt that clicked into place around his waist. A badge materialized on his chest, engraved with the name SHANE RICHARDS and the letters NYPD. His boots reshaped into sturdy black police shoes. The iconic helmet disappeared, leaving his head exposed.

His face was next. Steve felt his jawline shift, becoming a little less perfectly chiseled and more rugged, the kind of square jaw that looked good with a five-o-clock shadow. His clean-shaven skin prickled as stubble pushed through, dark and coarse. His blond hair darkened shade by shade until it was a short, practical brown cut that a cop would keep trimmed for regulations. His blue eyes stayed blue, but the expression in them hardened, losing the idealistic shine and gaining a cynical edge. His lips settled into a permanent smirk, devoid of all kindness and earnestness.

Steve clutched at his head as the mental changes began. No, he thought desperately. This is wrong. I believe in equality. I believe in acceptance. But the thoughts felt slippery now, like they were being pushed aside by something stronger.

A new voice spoke up inside his mind, deep and confident. Why bother with all that liberal crap? Women belong in their place, not pretending to be equal. And the gays? Disgusting. Real men do not act like that. Steve tried to fight it, but the new ideas felt good, natural, like they had always been there underneath.

His memories started to flicker. He remembered fighting in the war, but the details blurred. Instead, new ones pushed forward. He remembered joining the police academy right out of high school, working his way up through the ranks the old-fashioned way. He remembered voting Republican every single time because that was what a real American did. He remembered putting on a Captain America costume one year for Halloween, laughing with his buddies about how lame the real guy would be if he existed today. The memory felt so real, so solid. Of course he had dressed as Captain America for Halloween. It was a funny joke, nothing more.

The last traces of resistance faded. Steve Rogers was gone. In his place stood Shane Richards, breathing heavily but feeling stronger in a different way. Not super-soldier strong, but the kind of strong that came from knowing you had the law on your side and the right politics backing you up. He straightened up, adjusting the police belt around his waist. His body felt good, solid, the kind of build that turned heads at the gym and made perps think twice.

Earl Jenkins was still standing there in the back, grinning. The security guards had been too stunned by Steve's transformation to remove the villain from the premises. "How do you feel, officer?"

Shane looked at him and smirked. "Like I just woke up from a bad dream, partner. Thanks for the assist. Now if you will excuse me, I have some real work to do."

The crowd was still staring, but to Shane it looked like a bunch of confused kids who needed a good dose of traditional values. He stepped off the stage, ignoring the questions being shouted at him. His mind was already filling in the blanks of his new life. He was Detective Shane Richards, NYPD, thirty-two years old, married to a good woman who knew her role, and father to two boys he was raising right. Superheroes? They should answer to the government, especially when the Republicans were in charge. No more of this unchecked power nonsense. If they wanted to play dress-up and fight crime, they could damn well do it under proper supervision.

Shane walked out of the auditorium and straight into the parking lot where his squad car was waiting. It felt familiar, like he had driven it a thousand times. He climbed in, started the engine, and pulled out onto the street. The city looked the same, but now he saw it through clearer eyes. All those protests and marches for equality? Waste of time. People needed to know their place. Men like him, white men who worked hard and carried a badge, had privileges for a reason. It was time to start using them.

His first stop was a routine traffic pull-over on the way back to the precinct. A sleek sports car had been speeding. Shane hit the lights and siren, pulling the vehicle over to the side of the road. The driver was a young woman, probably in her twenties, with colorful hair and some kind of protest sticker on her bumper. Shane felt a surge of satisfaction as he approached the window.

"License and registration," he said, his voice deep and authoritative.

She handed them over, looking nervous. "Officer, I was only going five over the limit."

Shane glanced at the documents, then back at her. "You liberals are all the same. Think the rules do not apply to you. Step out of the car."

She protested, but he was already reaching for the cuffs. As he pulled her out and pressed her against the hood, he let his hands linger just a second longer than necessary. "You know, sweetheart, if you dressed a little more like a lady and spent less time shouting about rights, you might not find yourself in these situations."

The woman glared at him, but Shane just chuckled. He could already picture how this would go at the station. A few extra charges, maybe a night in holding to teach her a lesson. It felt good to flex the power that came with the badge and the right skin color. No guilt, no second thoughts. This was how things were supposed to be.

Back at the precinct later that evening, Shane sat at his desk with a cold beer he had snuck in from the vending machine. The other officers nodded at him respectfully. Everyone knew Detective Richards was old-school. He had the wall of his cubicle covered in American flags and a small framed photo of the current Republican president. When a rookie mentioned something about a pride parade happening downtown, Shane snorted loudly.

"Parade for what? Bunch of fairies parading around like it is normal. In my day we would not have stood for that crap. Keep that stuff away from my kids or there will be hell to pay."

The rookie laughed nervously and changed the subject. Shane leaned back in his chair, feeling completely at home. The old life as Captain America was nothing but a fuzzy Halloween memory now, a silly costume he wore once to a party. He was Shane Richards, through and through. A man who knew exactly where he stood on the issues. Traditional values. Law and order. America first. And if anyone tried to push that liberal nonsense on him again, well, he had the badge, the gun, and the mindset to set them straight.

He took another swig of beer and smiled to himself. Life was good. Real good. And it was only going to get better.

no i totally love it!!! innocent well kempt over achieving daughter of the pastor church girl gets told by her dad over and over again never to associate with those gross sinful rock fans because they will corrupt her morals and turn her away from god decides just once to see how true all of that really is only to have "her" shirt stripped off of "her" and put in a denim sleeveless vest and have reality altering pronouns embroidered into his new battle vest that corrupts him into a loser metalhead who lets loose and doesnt care about school and tries to fuck anyone and anything they see

Author's Note: Now this one is an actual corruption tf. I generally don't do this kind of thing. I prefer my men to be relatively upstanding people but I can't deny there is something so hot about big violent brutes. That's why I always gravitate towards these guys in a villain group. LOL

~~~~~~~~~~

The air in the prison visiting block was thick with disinfectant, but it never really cut through the smell of sweat, rusted steel, and despair.

Carol Burke adjusted her blazer as she waited at the guard’s checkpoint. She was forty-two, meticulous, the kind of woman who never let a hair fall out of place. Her black skirt hugged her hips with severe lines, stockings running tight against legs that ached from long courthouse days. Her heels clicked sharp against the linoleum, a reminder — maybe to herself more than anyone else — that she was in control here.

But under the polish, Carol’s nerves ran hot.

Another day, another criminal. But this one... this one feels different. He’s looking at years, and it’s all on me. I can’t slip. I won’t.

The steel gate rattled open, and the guard waved her through.

Inside the concrete visiting cell sat her client: Reggie Dawson. A small-time drug runner who had crossed into the wrong turf. He wasn’t imposing, not compared to the men she passed in the cellblock on her way in. Thin, wiry arms, hollow cheeks, eyes like a stray dog’s — always darting, never resting.

“Ms. Burke,” he said, voice scratchy. “You’re late.”

Carol set her briefcase down on the steel table with a metallic clang.

“Traffic,” she lied smoothly, taking her seat. Her hands rested on the clasp of the case, knuckles pale. “You should be more worried about the sentencing report than my punctuality, Reggie.”

Reggie gave a nervous laugh, running his tongue over cracked lips.

“You lawyers... always got the last word. But you don’t know what it’s like in here. Every second I’m not watching my back, someone’s watching it for me.”

Carol arched an eyebrow. “Then let’s make sure you don’t spend the rest of your life in here, hm?”

She flipped open the briefcase, stacks of papers clipped, highlighted, arranged in perfect order. The rustle of the pages echoed too loud in the bare room.

Focus. Breathe. This man is a job. Not a person. Just a case file with a pulse. Keep the mask on.

Reggie leaned forward, lowering his voice.

“You ever walk through these halls, Ms. Burke, and wonder... what it’s like to live here? To belong here?”

Carol smirked faintly, shaking her head. “No. I prefer the outside world.”

But the question stuck.

As he spoke, her eyes wandered past him, through the bars behind his chair, where hulking figures moved in the block beyond. Tattooed giants, scarred faces, eyes that gleamed with hunger for violence or flesh. Their laughter carried like thunder.

She pressed her lips together, suppressing a shiver.

Reggie noticed. His grin was small, sly. “Yeah. Thought so. You don’t belong here, Ms. Burke. These walls... they chew up people like you.”

Carol leaned in, voice sharp, lawyerly, controlled. “You’re alive because of me, Reggie. Don’t forget that.”

He leaned back, shrugging, though his eyes never left her.

For a moment, silence hung. Just the hum of the lights, the occasional metallic groan of the prison breathing around them.

Carol clasped her hands together and whispered inside her skull:

Stay the part. You are the voice of reason. You are authority. You are control.

And outside, just beyond that fragile control, the prison rumbled with the weight of men who were none of those things.

Carol drew in a breath to retort — something sharp, something meant to put Reggie back in his place — when the world stuttered.

It was subtle at first. The hum of the fluorescent lights hiccupped, the edge of the table blurred as though it were underwater. Her throat tightened.

What—?

Then it hit.

The Blip.

A flashless, soundless pulse that tore through her, rewriting her at the most obscene level of flesh and memory.

Carol clutched her blouse, gasping.

“Nnnhhh—” The noise was animal, dragged from her chest as her blazer snapped at the seams. Her white silk blouse bunched, buttons straining until — POP! POP! POP! — they launched across the cell.

Reggie sat bolt upright. “Uh— Ms. Burke?”

But the voice was no longer hers. The words wrenched out lower, wetter, vibrating the steel walls:

“Somethin’s—hhhnngghhh—fuckin’ burnin’ me up inside!”

Her shoulders widened with a grotesque crunch, bones elongating, meat swelling in rolling waves. Veins crawled thick and purple across her arms as her dainty wrists split her jacket cuffs.

Carol’s inner thoughts splintered with screams:

What’s happening to me? My skin’s crawling— —No, it feels… good. Too good— —God, it’s ripping me open, it’s—

“HRRRUUGHHHHHH!”

Her skirt shredded as thighs erupted outward, corded with slabs of muscle. Stockings split like wet paper, curling away from calves swelling into obscene trunks.

Between her legs, the most violent change of all surged. A wet bulge pressed forward against the lace of her underwear, tearing it wide. A cock — thick, uncoiling, surging longer, harder — pushed out like a hydraulic piston. Veins stood like cables across its surface. By the time it slapped wet and heavy against her thigh, it was already thicker than Reggie’s arm. A pair of enormous testicles the size of tennis balls appeared below. The sheer mass of testosterone flooding through her system quickly filled it with so much manly cum that it's just about ready to burst.

Reggie scrambled back, pressing against the wall. “Jesus Christ— what the fuck—”

Carol’s voice cracked between high-pitched screams and a deepening bellow:

No no no, this isn’t me, I’m a lawyer, I’m— —Lawyer? That ain’t fucking me. I’m a big strong motherfucker who don't take shit from no one— —Yes, oh god YES it feels—

Her jaw squared with a brutal pop, cheekbones stretching, nose flattening into a pugilist’s mask. A permanent scowl formed on her now intimidating face, as thick beard grew with the color of gunmetal. Her hair sizzled away in wisps as a dark shadow swept over her skull — shaved, scarred, a brutal crown for the violent monster emerging.

The voice that ripped out of her throat was no longer hers at all:

“YYYEAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

It was a roar, chest-thick, rattling the bars, vibrating in Reggie’s bones.

Pecs ballooned, grotesque and magnificent, slabs of beef slamming outward until they collided together like slabs of meat. The beast's nipples jutted, swollen, obscene. His biceps grew gigantic, tearing through the last strips of sleeve, extremely thick and veiny, twitching with hunger. Tattoos circled around both arms, forming a terrifying sleeve of skulls, blades, and flames — a clear announcement to the world that this monster is never to be messed with.

Carol’s final thought choked out like a dying whisper: I don’t… belong here…

And then the beast answered with a snarl that crushed it underfoot: “I BELONG HERE. I OWN THIS FUCKIN’ PLACE!”

His cock erupted again, spurting pre that smeared down his thigh. He stood as he doubled over, not in pain but in violent ecstasy, one massive hand jerking the new flesh, his roar devolving into guttural grunts.

“HUUUHHHHHH—GNNNGGHHHHH—HRRRRRRRAAAAAAAGHHHHH!!”

The orgasm was seismic. Cum blasted against the wall in thick ropes, splattering metal, dripping down like hot tar. His body convulsed, veins bulging, muscles swelling even larger as if every spasm packed on more mass.

By the time the quake ended, Carol Burke was gone.

And in her place, panting, body slick with sweat and cum, sat an absolute monster of a man.

The scowling beast who had once been Carol sat back in his chair, legs spread wide, his cock still half-hard and dripping, a grotesque club veined and throbbing. His chest heaved, slabs of pec-meat rising and falling like tectonic plates.

But he didn’t look confused. He wasn’t shocked. There was no memory of a woman, no trace of a lawyer.

He was exactly who he’d always been.

Reggie blinked, still flattened against the wall, staring at the mountain of scars and tattoos in front of him. His lips trembled, but his words came out reverent, almost automatic.

“Jesus, Crusher… I thought you were gonna break the fuckin’ building again.”

The big man laughed — a low, ugly rumble that shook the floor.

“Heh. If I wanted to, this place would be rubble. You know that.” His voice was pure gravel, the sound of concrete dragged against steel.

He flexed abs like a wall of brick, each one swollen and striated, wet with sweat and glowing under the buzzing lights. The slabs shifted and twitched with casual menace, as if every breath was a threat.

Reggie’s eyes flicked down to the cock that had painted the wall, still twitching against a thigh thick as a tree trunk. He swallowed hard.

“Man… every time, I forget how fuckin’ big you are. You ain’t right.”

Crusher leaned forward, his shadow blotting out the light. His grin was all teeth, crooked and brutal.

“Big’s the point, boy. Big means no piece of shit touches me. Big means I own every poor fuckin' bastard in this block. Including you.”

Reggie nodded quickly, eager, submissive, like he’d done this ritual a thousand times.

“Yeah, yeah… you’re the king here. Always been. Always will.”

Crusher chuckled, and the sound was like a growl rumbling in Reggie’s chest. He reached down, grabbed his slick cock at the base, and slammed it against the steel table. The clang rang out across the cellblock.

“This is the only law here. You get me, pup?”

Reggie’s head bobbed so fast it was pathetic. “Yeah, Crusher. I get you. Everyone gets you.”

From beyond the barred window came laughter, whistles, the pounding of fists on steel. Other inmates, massive and scarred themselves, hooted and cheered. Not a single one was surprised to hear Crusher’s voice boom through the hall.

Because Crusher had always been there. The undisputed beast of the block. The monster every man feared, and every man secretly craved.

He rose to his feet, towering, a grotesque mountain of slabs and veins. His cock swung heavy, obscene, slapping against his thigh as he paced. Every step echoed like a war drum.

Reggie looked up, trembling, but there was no fear of the transformation that had just happened — because to him, to everyone, there had been no transformation. Crusher wasn’t new. Crusher was eternal.

Crusher grabbed the bars, knuckles white, the steel groaning under his grip. He threw his head back and bellowed so loud the sound carried across the block:

“THIS IS MY HOUSE, YOU FUCKERS!”

The men beyond roared back, fists pounding, voices booming in unison.

“CRUSHER! CRUSHER! CRUSHER!”

The chant filled the prison, as though the walls themselves remembered he’d always been king. Carol Burke was dust — erased. In her place, in her past, in her everything, there had only ever been Crusher.

He released the bars, turned, and glared down at Reggie. His voice dropped to a growl.

“Now get on your damn knees, boy. Show me you remember your place.”

Reggie obeyed without hesitation, like he had a hundred times before. Like nothing had ever been different.

starts with just some run of the mill facefucking, my hands tied behind my back with their hands pushing me down on their cock. till one day they put the gun to my temple and tell me to deep throat all of it on my own. and yeah the facefucking has helped with some of the gag reflex but not all of it, so i'm struggling and struggling and making all kinds of pretty noises and pitiful faces. in the end i do good enough to stay, and me deep throating them becomes the new standard

till that becomes too boring, whatever it was about my initial appeal choking on their cock has long stopped working, so now you're going to fuck me. you put me in all sorts of positions, full nelson, doggie, have me ride you, even missionary so you can see me cry and cry. my poor cunt is completely wrecked by the time they pull out their next trick, making me beg them to rape me. not to fuck me, no, that'd imply that i might be their equal, having me beg to be raped will make sure i know exactly where and what i am

they always keep the gun right by my head, pushing it in any time i forget to beg. it isn't long before the second i hear that door open i'm pleading for them, screaming the words as they rape me, and still muttering little please's while they leave. occasionally they toss in something new for me, making me call myself a useless cunt or call them a special name or for them to cum in me, but it's not until they tell me to roll over, spread my cheeks, and ask them to make me their anal slut that i hesitate

All art on this thread is by Rex Equinox but writing is my own

Akfed was sure he was destined to be a hero; he thought that there was no way his father was the King of Nightmares, the guardian of monsters… But when he visited the temple of the giants’, praying for an answer, he felt his presence. A shadow was cast overhead in this place of light. Tingles crept up his spine, and discomfort gripped the back of his neck, fear as darkness was infused in the air he breathed. Yet, somehow the fear itself was comfortable. 

“This isn’t right,” the half-giant muttered. The more this dark presence imposed itself upon him, the clearer the truth became, but it wasn’t right. He learned to be a guiding light, a comforting hand to guide people away from the darkness. It wasn’t right that he was related to it. 

The nightmare king tried to speak to his son. Akfed didn’t know how he knew this, but he could sense his father reaching out, but he couldn’t hear him, and he didn’t want to. He refused to listen. But this is when Akfed’s body began to betray his heart and mind, acting on its own, becoming what it was meant to be, soaking shadowy ichor into his cells.

Only a monster could understand the Nightmare King. His ears, insistent that they listen to the dark, each stretched so the sides curled inward and the tip became pointed, like an animal’s ear. Both his ears burned as the skin became smooth and purple. The monster ears  perked up, trying to catch the message from his father.