#proteus laboratories

"Proteus Laboratories: A new, brighter future for all!"

An upcoming interactive, choose your own adventure tf story! Progress on this has been slow, so I did a poll here on tumblr to see what ending yall would like to see next! Yall picked the soccer player ending, so here you go champs!

"Please select any of the following sports you consider to be an active hobby or interest of yours:". The options are a bland list, but one stands out to you. Soccer.

A wry, almost bitter smile touches your lips. You haven’t played a sport since compulsory PE in secondary school, where you’d been the last picked, the clumsy one who preferred the library to the pitch. But a faint, ghostly sensation flickers in your memory: the fleeting, forgotten thrill of connecting your foot with a ball, the cheer of a non-existent crowd. A fantasy. A lie.

Your hand, holding the pen, hovers. On a whim, a tiny act of imagining a different life, you check the box next to Soccer. You aren't sure what to expect, but it isn't a jolt.

It starts at your fingertips, where your fingers touch the pen. A sharp, electric SNAP of static that races up your arm, not painful but profoundly invasive. The simple form seems to blur, the letters swirling into a vortex of green pitch lines and ghostly, roaring chants. A low hum fills your ears, syncing with the frantic, sudden pounding of your own heart.

The scent hits you first, exploding in the sterile air: freshly cut grass & mud, cold rain, and hormonal musk. It is the smell of the pitch. It is a smell your brain associates with... you? A deep, resonant hum vibrates through your bones. Your spine, used to being hunched over a keyboard, pops and cracks, forcing itself straight, then settling into an athlete’s ready, balanced posture. Your shoulders, narrow and sloping, begin to burn. A fierce, stretching, and tearing sensation as your clavicles broadened, your deltoid muscles swelling from nothing, rounding into powerful, defined caps. Your rib cage expands with a groan of cartilage, pushing outward, creating a vast, cavernous space in your chest. You can suddenly breathe much deeper than before, full lungfuls of the potent, masculine air that now fills the room.

The hum becomes a river of molten, golden energy, surging through you. It is the adrenaline of a last-minute goal, the power of a sprint down the wing, the relentless drive of a training session. It detonates down your spine, thickening the ropes of muscle along your vertebrae, erasing the softness of your back. It floods your shoulders and back - the trapezius muscles thickening into a formidable form, lats flaring outwards into a dramatic V-taper that makes your waist seem narrower, yet harder. Your pectorals, previously undefined, swell into thick, firm slabs, pressing against your slim-fit shirt, the buttons straining.

Your arms, resting on the desk, begin to bulge. Biceps thicken like coiled hawsers, triceps harden into dense, horseshoe-shaped slabs, your forearms have veins that rise to the surface like blue rivers beneath skin that is darkening to a healthy, sun-kissed tan. Your hands ache, fingers thickening, knuckles becoming pronounced and strong - a player’s hands, meant for controlling a ball, for throwing it in, for gentle, celebratory head-tousles that were really displays of power. Your thighs press against your chair, quadriceps harden into powerful tree trunks, the chino fabric groans in protest. A deep cramp seizes your calves as the muscles there expand, shaping themselves into sculpted diamonds of pure power. You groan, a sound that starts as your usual shocked gasp and deepens, mid-note, into a guttural, resonant rumble that vibrates in your newly cavernous chest - the sound of pure, athletic power awakening. "Ungh... yeah..."

The energy surges upwards, as your jaw aches as it squares off, your cheeks losing their softness, becoming defined and harder. A dark, prickling shadow erupts across your jaw and cheeks - thickening instantly into a perfect, sexy scruff, meticulously messy. Your cheekbones sharpen. Your nose seems straighter, stronger? Your lips, once thin, become fuller, settling into a permanent, confident, slightly cocky smirk. Your hair - your carefully styled, longer hair - darkens at the roots to a rich, chestnut brown, then shortens violently, coarsening into a short, textured, effortlessly cool crop that screams of post-shower gels and fingers running through it after a win. Your eyes... your intelligent, thoughtful gaze vanishes, being replaced by a bright, vacant blue. They hold no complex thoughts, only a dawning arrogance, a competitive fire, and a deep, smoldering, hunger.

The faint scent clinging to you is violently annihilated. Erupting from your pores is a new, potent signature, matching that you smelled just seconds ago. It mingles with the phantom smells of the pitch, creating a new cloud: The old you is gone. This new man smells like a football star. You smell expensive and horny.

The golden fire in your mind is blazing away as your old world dissolves. It is erased with a violent, final contempt. Gay? The thought surfaces only to be met with a wave of aggressive, confused disgust. Weak. Soft. That isn't you. It has never been you. Your thoughts are replaced by a flood of sensations and memories that are sharper, more real, more yours than anything that has come before. You recall the burn in your chest during a full-pitch sprint, the thud of a perfectly timed tackle, the roar of the crowd chanting your name. The smell of the locker room after you bring a win, the feel of your teammates' slaps on your back, and you giving them head ruffles, the taste of cheap champagne. The sight of girls on the sidelines, their eyes wide and mouths open, screaming for you. The way their bodies look in tight tops, the only thing that feels... right. The constant thrum in your blood, the ache for competition, for physical release, for women. A pure, hormonal surge, that becomes the centre of your universe. Your fuel.

Your entire personality narrows into a single, laser-focused channel: Football. Fitness. Females. In that order. Intelligence is a currency you no longer trade in. Bliss is this simple, brutal, hormonal clarity.

A slow, arrogant smirk spreads across your new face. It feels natural. Right. Yours. You look down at your body, at the shirt that is now stretching drum-tight over your sculpted, powerful torso. You flex an arm, watching the muscle swell and the fabric strain. Pride, fierce and warm, floods you. 'Look at that. Absolute weapon.'

You are Lucas. Lucas, who plays striker for a Sunday league team you are sure is gonna go pro. You’ve always been Lucas.

The low thrum in your body intensifies, becoming a hot, liquid pull low in your gut. The arousal is immediate, insistent, a demanding pulse that syncs with your heartbeat. Your new, thick cock strains against your ruined chinos, a heavy, unfamiliar weight that feels utterly, perfectly right. It is a tool for pleasure. For women’s pleasure.

With a grunt, you shift stance, adopting a more cocky, manspreading position. You don't need to think; you act. Driven by the primal heat coursing through you, by the dumb, horny certainty of your new self. Your thick, strong fingers tear at the remains of your trousers. Your new, calloused hand wraps around your thick, hard cock. The touch is electric, a circuit of pure, narcissistic lust completing, images of women flashing in your mind.

You begin to stroke, not with shame, but with a confident, possessive rhythm. Your eyes aren't closed; they are locked on your reflection in the dark monitor screen - on the powerful arm working, the bicep bulging and swelling with each stroke, the thick veins, the perfect stubble, the vacant, hungry blue eyes. 'Fuck, look at me.'

“Yeah… score…” you grunt, your voice a deep, stupid rasp, a hint of a laddish accent colours your words. Each pump is practically an affirmation. With each stroke, another fragment of yourself is annihilated, and replaced by the solid, sensory reality of Lucas.

The phantom roar of a crowd echoes in your ears. The smell of the pitch. The feel of a trophy in your hands. The memory of a hundred girls, their numbers in your phone, their eager mouths. It is all yours. It has always been yours.

Your rhythm becomes more urgent, your breath comes in ragged, powerful grunts. The muscles in your stomach clench into a hard, rippled board. Your powerful thighs tremble. The pleasure builds, a terrifying, incredible peak of pure, mindless, straight release. With a final, guttural roar that is pure, unadulterated Lucas, you cum. Thick, hot ropes shoot across your now defined abdomen, the smell of it - musky, potent, and virile - mixes with the scent of your sweat.

You slump back in the chair, breathing heavily, a sheen of sweat glistening on your incredible new physique. You look down at the mess on your stomach, then at your own hand, and let out a low, throaty, arrogant laugh. “Fuckin’ legend.” You are Lucas. You are strong. You are sexy. You are horny. And you are so, so fucking dumb. The survey lies discarded and forgotten on the floor, a meaningless trigger for your true form. You need to hit the gym. You need to find your mates for a kickabout. You need to find a chick. Right fucking now. The king of the pitch is ready to play.

"Proteus Laboratories: A new, brighter future for all!"

An upcoming interactive, choose your own adventure tf story! It is now almost done, planned to release in the next week or so, so here is one final teaser before release!

You don’t even have to think. For years, you’ve idolized Nathan Drake. Not just the swashbuckling charm or the impossible luck, but the competence. The man who can scale a crumbling fortress, solve a 400-year-old riddle, and trade quips with a heavily armed mercenary, all before lunch. It’s the polar opposite of your own life. With a smirk, you scribble the name. Nathan Drake.

Suddenly, the world around you shifts, and you are in a different place, a convention hall, bustling with countless cosplayers and geeks alike. And you hear it.

At least... you think you do? But it’s less a sound and more a physical sensation. A low hum that seems to originate not in your ears, but deep within the marrow of your bones. The convention hall’s noise - the chatter, the music - dulls, as if someone has thrown a thick woolen blanket over the world. Your steps falter. A sudden, intense warmth blooms in the center of your chest, spreading outwards like a spilled liquid. It’s not unpleasant at first, just... strange. Alarming.

You look down at your hands, the ones that were just holding the form. Your fingers, which you’ve always thought were a bit too soft, a bit too slender, seem to be thickening. The knuckles become more prominent, the tendons on the back standing out in sharp relief. A network of fine, white scars you’ve never seen before materializes across your knuckles and the back of your right hand. A faint, tan line on your left wrist, right where a watch strap would sit, darkens into a permanent mark.

What the hell? you think, but the thought feels sluggish, distant. The warmth is turning into a heat, a forge-like intensity that races through your limbs. You can feel your muscles twitching and writhing under your skin. Your biceps tighten against the sleeve of your t-shirt, the fabric growing taut. Your shoulders, once slightly slumped from years at a desk, pull back and broaden with a series of quiet, deep pops. A sharp, grinding sensation in your spine makes you gasp, and you realize you’re standing taller. The crowd, which was at eye level a moment ago, now seems slightly lower.

Panic, cold and sharp, finally slices through the bizarre warmth. You need to get out of here. You stumble towards the men’s bathroom, a sanctuary of white tile and relative quiet. Your walk is different. There’s a loose, rolling gait to your steps, a confident spring you don’t recognize. It feels efficient, you think.

You shove the bathroom door open and stagger towards the row of sinks, gripping the cool porcelain for support. The face that stares back from the mirror is not your own.

It’s your face for now, though it's almost... remixed? Reforged is probably more accurate. Your jaw is squarer, stronger. Your cheekbones are more defined, casting subtle shadows. Your hair, a mousy brown, has darkened to a rich, chestnut hue and seems thicker. A day’s worth of stubble, coarse and dark, now covers your jaw, a stark contrast to your usual baby-faced complexion. But the most shocking change is in the eyes. Your own were a hesitant blue. These are a sharper, more vibrant shade, crinkled at the corners with the ghost of a perpetual smirk and the squint of someone who has stared into a lot of sun-drenched horizons.

You raise a hand - a strong, calloused hand - to touch your cheek. The reflection mimics the movement perfectly. A memory, vivid and unbidden, flashes in your mind: clinging to the side of a rusted train car, suspended over a yawning Himalayan chasm. The wind is biting cold, the metal slick with ice. Your fingers are numb, but your grip is iron.

You jerk your hand away from your face, breathing heavily. The memory isn’t yours. It’s his.

But your transformation isn't finished. It’s drilling deeper now, past the flesh and bone, into the very core of you. A lifetime of your own memories - your first day of school, your college graduation, your quiet apartment with its view of the parking lot - they begin to feel thin. Like a book you read long ago, its details fading. In their place, a new history solidifies, rich with the smell of gunpowder, old stone, and salt air.

You remember a dusty orphanage. The feel of a stolen cross, heavy in your pocket. A man, his mustache, his cigar smoke, his unwavering, grumpy loyalty. A woman with a fierce intelligence and a devastating smile. The aching loss of a brother, found and lost and found again. You remember the weight of a holstered pistol against your hip, the satisfying click of a puzzle piece sliding into place, the gut-wrenching free-fall from a collapsing ancient city.

Your own name... what is your name again? It’s on the tip of your tongue, a ghost of a syllable. But the name that echoes in your skull, solid and undeniable, is Nathan. Nate.

A final, seismic shift occurs in your mind. Your analytical nature, your patience for data streams and complex formulas vanishes. It’s now a tool for assessing the structural integrity of a cliff face, for calculating the trajectory of a grappling hook, for spotting the one inconsistent detail in a forged historical document. Caution is replaced by a giddy, almost reckless confidence. A voice in your head, which used to whisper “Is this safe?” now whispers, “You can make that jump.”

The panic is gone. In its place is a steady, thrumming alertness. You feel good. Incredible, in fact. You feel like you’ve just woken up from a long, dull dream.

You push off from the sink and look at your reflection again. This time, you don’t stare in shock. You assess yourself, with a calm and collected confidence. You run a hand through your hair, and the man in the mirror gives you a roguish, knowing look. It’s him. It’s you.

A guy in a poorly-fitting Spider-Man suit walks in, gives you a nervous glance, and quickly ducks into a stall. You realize you’re standing with a posture of coiled readiness that makes people subtly uncomfortable. You smooth your t-shirt - it’s now stretched tight across a chest and shoulders that are pure, corded muscle. You feel the powerful definition of your quadriceps and calves with every small shift of your weight.

You need to get out of this bathroom. Out of this convention. You need... space. Air.

You walk out, and the convention hall feels different. It’s not a wonderland anymore; it’s a confined space, a potential battlefield. Your eyes, Nate’s eyes, automatically scan for exits, for elevated positions, for potential threats. You note the security guards, their posture, where their attention is focused. You assess the crowd not as fellow fans, but as a moving landscape, identifying the clear paths and the choke points. It’s instinctual, effortless.

You make your way towards the main entrance, and your new instincts kick in again. A cosplayer carrying a large, prop broadsword swings around without looking. Without conscious thought, your body reacts. You pivot on the ball of your foot, the movement fluid and economical, letting the foam-covered blade whistle harmlessly past your chest. The cosplayer apologizes profusely. You just give him a easy, lopsided grin. “No harm done,” you say, and your voice is deeper, huskier, layered with a charm that feels as natural as breathing.

Outside, the city is loud and brash. The honking cars, the jostling crowds, the sheer verticality of it all - it’s overwhelming, but in a new way. It’s not anxiety you feel, but a restless energy. This concrete jungle isn’t so different from the ones you’ve climbed before. Those skills are transferable.

You find yourself in a quieter alley, the sounds of the convention a dull roar in the distance. You lean against a brick wall, the rough texture familiar against your palm. You pull a cheap plastic wallet from your back pocket. Your driver’s license stares back at you. The name, your old name, looks alien. The photo is of a man you no longer are - softer, younger, with eyes that held no stories of lost cities or firefights in forgotten temples.

A strange melancholy washes over you, not for the life you lost, but for its quiet passing. It was a good life, a safe life. But it’s gone. The man in that photo wouldn’t have known what to do with the body and mind you now inhabit.

You shove the wallet back into your pocket. Your fingers brush against a small, hard object. Puzzled, you pull it out. It’s a leather cord necklace, and threaded onto it is a simple, tarnished silver ring. Sully’s ring. The one he gave you for luck, a lifetime ago in a memory that is now yours. It wasn’t in your pocket ten minutes ago. You slip the cord over your head, the ring settling against your sternum, a cool, comforting weight. A totem. Proof.

So, this is it. The form, the box. It was a test. A wish, granted with terrifying, literal precision.

You start walking again, with no destination in mind. The aimless wandering of a data analyst is replaced by the purposeful stride of an explorer. You find yourself at a construction site a few blocks away, fenced off for the weekend. Without a second thought, you grab the chain-link, your calloused fingers finding perfect purchase, and vault over the top with a quiet, powerful grace. You land in a crouch on the other side, the impact absorbed effortlessly by your powerful legs.

Before you stands the skeletal frame of a new building, a labyrinth of steel beams and concrete floors, climbing ten stories into the twilight sky. It’s a challenge. An invitation.

A grin spreads across your face, a genuine, exhilarated expression you haven’t felt since... well, ever. You approach the first vertical beam. You jump, catching a cross-beam eight feet off the ground, pulling yourself up with a grunt of effort that is pure satisfaction.

You climb. Not with the clumsy caution of your old self, but with the innate, simian agility of Nathan Drake. You find handholds and footholds where none seem to exist. You swing from one beam to another, your body a perfect instrument of momentum and balance. You scale ladders of rebar, you shimmy up support cables, you leap across gaps that would have frozen your old self with fear. The city spreads out below you, a sea of twinkling lights. The wind whips through your hair, and it feels like the wind on the deck of a cargo ship sailing towards a forgotten island.

You reach the top, standing on the bare concrete of the tenth floor, the city laid out at your feet. You’re breathing heavily, but it’s the good, clean burn of exertion. You’re sweating, and it feels like a baptism.

You are no longer the man who filled out the form. That man is a ghost, a faded photograph. You are the fantasy. You are the competence, the charm, the reckless, glorious confidence. The memories of dusty ruins and desperate escapes are as real to you as anything that came before.

You pull Sully’s ring from under your shirt, holding it tight in your fist. You have no money, no plan, no identity that this world will recognize. But you have the skills. You have the instincts. You have a lifetime of impossible luck.

You look out at the sprawling, illuminated city, and it’s no longer just a place you live. It’s a new frontier, full of secrets waiting to be uncovered. A fresh start, hidden in plain sight.

A final, perfect thought forms in your mind, in a voice that is now unquestionably, completely your own.

Okay. Let’s see what trouble we can get into.

"Proteus Laboratories: A new, brighter future for all!"

An upcoming interactive, choose your own adventure tf story! Hoping to have this released in the next month, it will be available to buy, with a free preview version being released publicly with limited choices. Currently, I have nearly 75 endings planned, and have decided to share one of them here as a teaser! Let me know what you think!

You tick the box labelled “Actor”.

At least… you think you do? But the paper in your hands isn’t some survey, it has lines and stage directions. No, this is clearly a script. At the top of the page, in all capitals, reads “COLE RYDER: LEAD ROLE”. You instinctively start reading it, intrigued.

“INT. MOTEL ROOM - NIGHT”

“[COLE RYDER, 34, all sun leathered skin and predatory grace, buttons his jeans with teeth-gritted frustration. The mirror shows the aftermath of his night - lipstick smeared across his collarbone, fingernail scratches trail down his back. The woman in the crumpled sheets behind him watches him dress with hungry eyes. He doesn’t look at her.]”

A bolt of energy courses through you as you read, finding yourself subconsciously acting out the scene without realising. You mime buttoning your pants, your teeth gritting like Cole’s in the script, you feel the scratches on your back as if they are there for real.

Your body slowly expands as you continue to act out the scene, slowly miming getting dressed like Cole, still tranced and unaware of your actions. Your jaw darkens with stubble and itches as if being kissed by a devoted lover. Your hair thickens, forming a gorgeous mane of sun-bleached brown that perpetually seems tousled by someone’s fingers. You run your tongue over your teeth, feeling one chipped canine - some long-ago brawl you can’t remember, but the phantom pain of which causes your cock to twitch.

The script falls from your broadening fingers, adorned now with a silver skull ring you remember winning in a poker game. Your new body radiates heat like a furnace, as the scent of you - salty sweat, whiskey, cigarette smoke - undulates through the room, filling the space with your commanding presence. Your pupil’s dilate as you observe the room, feeling your vision blur as the room around you shifts into a dressing room, warm and reeking of you. You reach a hand into your pants to tug at your cock, your every movement dripping casual arrogance. You clearly had never been told no twice.

“Fuckkkk” you growled, the vibration of your new baritone voice travelling straight to your groin. The weight between your thighs was different now, heavier, straining against your denim jeans that smelled faintly of someone else’s perfume beneath the unmistakable scent of you.

The script lay at your feet, its pages telling of endless erotic scenes: Cole pinning a lover against a pool table and breeding, Yole driving shirtless while a hitchhiker gave him head in his truck, you emerging from the ocean like some pagan god of misbehaviour. Each imagined scenario causes your body to hum with phantom memories, cementing themself as you rub and stroke your pulsing, attention grabbing cock. You instinctively thrust into your hand as you jerk and remember, biting your lip.

A door slams open. “Mr. Ryder!” a breathless PA calls, not even double taking at the show of horny bliss coming from you, a common sight at this point. “They need you on set - the sex scene is behind schedule.”

Your new smile cuts like a knife as you cum into your jeans and adjust yourself with a rough palm. “Tell ‘em I’m method actin’” you purr, stepping into the blinding lights, the spotlights, right where you belong. The last fragments of your old self dissolve in that light like cigarette ash in the wind.

After all, the camera loves you now. And you intend to give it one hell of a show, Cole.