#tf ring

You returned home after work, like every evening. The street was the same, the streetlights just flickering on, the asphalt still warm. And yet, that alley—you had never noticed it before. Narrow, dark, with a single crackling neon sign: Esoterica – Rare Objects.

Driven by a curiosity that didn’t entirely feel like yours, you stepped inside.

It smelled of old incense and dust from distant worlds. The owner, a man with slow gestures and eyes as clear as glass, watched you without hurry.

— Looking for something you don’t yet know you want? — he asked.

You didn’t answer. But your gaze fell on a velvet-lined case, deep red, and inside it lay a ring. It looked like ancient gold, thick and heavy. The old man handed it to you without asking.

— It’s the Ring of Substances. It takes what you are and trades it for what you see. Every exchange is irreversible. Be careful who you look at.

You put it on. It fit perfectly, warm like living flesh.

That evening, at home, you scrolled aimlessly on your phone. An old classmate had posted a group photo. And there, in the middle, was him: your high school bully. You hadn’t seen him in years. Time had been kind to him.

In the picture, he was at a pool party, standing near the edge. He wore only a pair of red boxer briefs, tight and low on his hips. His body had changed: broad shoulders, a right arm covered entirely in tattoos of dragons and flames, sculpted abs, full chest. His dark mullet fell to the nape of his neck, his expression confident, almost arrogant. He smiled like the world owed him something.

You stopped to look at him. Not out of envy. Out of anger. Old humiliation. That secret desire to have his body, his presence, his boldness.

The ring tightened slightly.

A warm shock started from your ring finger, climbed your wrist, spread like mercury beneath your skin. Not pain. Just a deep pressure, fibers shifting, tendons realigning. You felt your shoulders broaden on their own. Your arms grow heavier. Your hands larger. Your jaw changing shape.

You ran to the bathroom.

You looked at yourself in the mirror and held your breath.

You weren’t you anymore.

You were him. The dark mullet brushed your neck. Your left arm was covered in the same dragon-and-flame tattoos. Your chest was hard, defined, your nipples small and dark. Your abs stood out, one by one. And the red boxer briefs—something you had never owned—now clung to you like a second skin.

Ti sei girata di lato. Hai visto la curva dei tuoi glutei, sodi e rotondi, stretti dal tessuto rosso aderente. Hai flesso un braccio: il bicipite si è gonfiato, i tatuaggi si sono estesi sulla pelle.

You touched your new face. The square chin. The high cheekbone. The smooth forehead.

— This is the body of the one who made me suffer — you whispered.

But the voice was different. Deeper. Fuller.

You ran a hand through the longer hair at the back of your neck. The sensation was strange: silky, heavy. Then you looked at that hand—tattooed, veined, strong.

And you smiled. For the first time in years.

You left the house that night. You walked differently. Every step pulsed through your calves. The red boxers under your jeans were a promise. People glanced at you sideways. You pretended not to notice.

But inside, a small voice whispered: You took his body. Now who’s the bully?

L'anello brillava.

---

Il giorno dopo, un parco che non avevi mai visitato. Una panchina di legno sotto un platano. E lì, seduto con un braccio appoggiato allo, un uomo sulla trentina. Non aveva la stazza del tuo bullo, ma era scolpito: addominali perfetti, petto pieno e, su tutto, una folta chioma di capelli scuri e morbidi, quasi selvaggi. Sembrava riposare, ma ogni respiro faceva ondeggiare i capelli come erba al vento.

You sat on another bench, at a distance. The ring didn’t need proximity. Just looking at him with desire was enough.

The second shock was less violent, but deeper.

You felt the muscles in your chest merge and reshape, your nipples darken, grow larger. Then an itch everywhere: abdomen, sternum, shoulders, even your lower back. A layer of hair was growing beneath your shirt, smooth and warm.

Ti sei alzato, hai camminato fino a una fontana e ti sei chinato per guardare il tuo riflesso nell'acqua immobile. Il taglio di capelli a triglia era ancora lì. Anche i tatuaggi. Ma ora il tuo torso era una fitta macchia di seta scura. Hai infilato una mano sotto la camicia e l'hai tirata fuori: le tue dita portavano l'odore di muschio, di un corpo maschile vivo.

You stroked your stomach. The hair bent under your fingers, rough but yielding. Beneath it, your abs were stone hard. Your left pectoral twitched on its own.

Sulla panchina, lo sconosciuto si grattò distrattamente il petto. E tu ti rendesti conto che quella sensazione – i peli contro il palmo della mano, il calore che si accumulava sotto nell'aria fresca – ora era tua.

---

But it still wasn’t complete.

You decided you wanted more. Not a young man’s body, not a thirty-year-old’s. You wanted presence. You wanted dominance. You wanted something that would stop people in their tracks without needing tattoos or poses.

So you went to a gym.

Not the usual one, filled with kids in crossfit gloves. You chose an old one, on the outskirts, where the air smelled of rubber and sweat and steel. Where real men trained.

You sat on a bench press, pretending interest in a barbell. And then you saw him.

He was in the cable corner, alone. A very muscular man, older. Around fifty, but the kind shaped by a lifetime in his body. Shoulders like a wardrobe, arms thick as thighs, forearms lined with bulging veins. Hair everywhere: chest, shoulders, back, even his hands. A full beard, gray at the chin, still dark at the sides. But his head—barely any hair, shaved close, what remained gray and coarse like wire.

He was pulling low cables with animal focus. Every movement slow, controlled, unintentionally threatening.

He didn’t speak to anyone. But the air around him was different: heavier, slower. The others—even the big ones—gave him space.

You stared at him. The ring vibrated like a running engine.

And then came the third shock. The strongest.

You felt your bones creak, widen. Your shoulders compress upward. Your ribcage expand. Your neck thicken, shorten, your jaw harden. Something in your scalp: the mullet hair fell away in seconds. Not baldness. A natural shave. What remained was short, gray, dense stubble, like an old soldier’s or a woodsman’s.

The body hair exploded: from your chest it spread over your shoulders, down your back, curling along your forearms. You felt it sprout between your toes, across your ribcage, even around your nipples, now large as coins.

The bully’s tattoos? Faded, warped, almost gone. Your thicker, darker skin had swallowed them.

Hai visto il tuo riflesso nella porta di vetro scuro della palestra. Niente taglio di capelli a coda di rondine. Niente tatuaggi vistosi. Niente boxer rossi.

There was a man. Hairy. Massive. With short gray hair and a gaze that would make anyone look away.

You moved an arm. Heavy. Solid. A controlled tremor in the muscles, like steel cables under flesh and fur. Then you inhaled: your chest rose, and the hair rubbed softly against itself.

The man in the corner had finished his set. He wiped his nearly bald head with a towel and walked out without looking at you. He didn’t need to anymore.

You were the original now.

You went home without hurry. The stairs felt narrower. The door smaller. You entered, sat on the bed. The mattress felt like a feather. You weighed twice as much.

You stood, went to the bathroom, and stared at yourself for a long time.

The bully was gone. The hairy man from the park was inside you, fused into this final body. Now you were yourself: broad shoulders, short gray hair, full beard, hair everywhere, a gaze heavy as lead.

You ran a hand over your shaved head. The sensation was rough, warm, masculine. Then over your chest: your fingers sank into the thick fur and you shivered.

You were alone. But your solitude now weighed like a throne.

The ring was still on your finger. Warm. Quiet. There was no need to seek other bodies anymore.

You sat in the chair by the window, crossed your hairy arms over your chest, and looked down at the street. People passed by. Someone below glanced up and met your eyes—then quickly looked away.

You smiled. Slowly.