#twunk tf

The humid air of the study clung to Walter like a shroud. Beyond the window, the last vestiges of a relentless summer day bled into a bruised twilight. Walter, CEO of Vanguard Defense Technologies, didn’t notice. His gaze, usually fixed on spreadsheets detailing ballistic trajectories or profit margins, now traced the glossy pages of a magazine. *The Rise of the Twunks: A New Male Aesthetic?* The headline, a bright crimson against a sculpted torso, pulsed with an unsettling energy. He ran a thumb over the image of a young man, lean, defined, hairless.

His R&D had poured millions into a bioweapon, a virus designed to forge super-soldiers. The animal trials, however, had yielded an unexpected, almost comical result. One junior scientist, a fresh-faced intern, had quipped that the serum would produce "twunks, not tanks." Walter had laughed, a booming sound that filled the sterile conference room, though he had no idea what a *twunk* was. He’d merely nodded, unwilling to expose his ignorance to his younger staff. He was Walter Thorne, for God's sake, not some relic clinging to the past. But the word, alien and intriguing, had burrowed into his mind. On his walk home that evening, a splash of vibrant color in a newsstand caught his eye. “Men’s Lifestyle: Twunks, the New Aesthetic.” He’d bought the magazine, slipped it into his briefcase, and now, hours later, the glossy pages lay open on his desk. The article detailed the characteristics: young, slim, but muscular gay man.

His gaze drifted from the page, through the study's bay window, and landed on the porch. Anna, his daughter, a vibrant splash of laughter, was pressed against Laurin, her boyfriend. Laurin, ginger-haired, with eyes the color of a winter sky, returned her feverish kiss.

Walter’s jaw tightened. The boy was too slim, too… *everything* Walter wasn't. Laurin. The preppy, college boy who had wormed his way into Anna’s affections, and worse, into his home. The boy was an irritant, a constant, low-frequency hum of annoyance. With his preppy clothes and a perpetually confident smirk, he grated on Walter’s nerves like sand in a turbine. The boy’s “know-it-all” pronouncements, delivered with an air of unassailable logic, felt less like conversation and more like a challenge to Walter’s very authority. Walter had built an empire from nothing, forged from steel and ambition, and this—this pale, intellectual boy—dared to lecture him on global ethics during dinner. And Doreen, his wife, had only encouraged it, even letting the boy move in. Laurin wasn't good enough for Anna. Walter felt it in his gut, a primal shift in allegiance, Anna’s attention drifting from him, her father, to this… *boy*. Walter hated him. The thought of Laurin, slim and self-satisfied, sharing Anna's bed, twisted Walter’s insides. He often pictured a quick, clean snip to neuter him. That would end the lineage, the entire inferior line, before it even began. His anger boiled and he wished, with a resigned sigh, for the impossible. If only Laurin *were* such a twunk. A gay boy wouldn’t touch Anna. The fleeting thought twisted his lips into an amused bitter smirk.

Days later, the sterile scent of antiseptic filled the corporate lab. Walter, in his pristine white coat over a crisp shirt and tie, watched the stream of employees and their families arrive for the annual flu vaccination. His company offered it free, a gesture of corporate benevolence. Walter, impeccably dressed in a white lab coat over his crisp shirt and tie, supervised.

Anna entered, Laurin by her side, his arm loosely around her waist. Walter’s jaw tightened. “Dad, you’re giving me the shot?” Anna’s voice, a bright chime, cut through his thoughts. “Of course, sweetheart, little prick and you’re done,” Walter said, his voice a smooth rumble. He offered Anna a genuine, paternal smile as he administered her flu shot. Anna winced, a brief flutter of her eyelids. “That barely stung, Dad.” Walter nodded, his gaze already shifting to Laurin. The younger man offered a casual, almost dismissive wave of his hand. "Honestly, Walter," he began, his voice a smooth, confident hum, "young people like me, we rarely need these flu shots. Our immune systems are robust." He paused, a theatrical beat. "But, living in a household with certain… vulnerable groups, it becomes a question of responsibility, doesn't it?" The words hung in the air, a barb dipped in sugar. *Vulnerable groups.* Walter’s hands, usually so steady, twitched. The boy dared to mock him, to insinuate his age, his frailty. His gaze flickered across the gleaming lab benches. There, amidst the rows of labeled vials, sat the discarded samples of Project Chimera, the failed super-soldier virus. An impulsive surge of vengeance took root in his mind. His hand, steady as a surgeon's, reached not for the flu vaccine, but for a vial of the clear blue liquid labeled "Chimera-07." He drew it into a fresh syringe, his movements fluid, practiced. He turned back to Laurin, a predatory glint in his eyes. A thin, artificial smile stretched across his lips. Laurin, still smiling, oblivious, offered his arm. “Indeed, Laurin,” Walter said, his voice a low, even purr. “Responsibility is paramount.” He plunged the needle into Laurin’s bicep. The syringe emptied. “All done.” The fake smile felt natural now.

The blue-tinged liquid had barely pricked Laurin’s arm. Walter had watched the needle retract, a thin crimson bead welling on pale skin. Then, nothing. Walter’s days bled into one another, marked by quarterly reports and strategic acquisitions. And also Laurin’s morning routine remained fixed: a quick shower, then dressing for his university lectures. Yet, a subtle shift rippled through his reflection. Walter had almost forgotten the impulsive jab, the subtle shift of vials, until he saw Laurin across the breakfast table, sunlight catching the curve of his bicep. The young man still occupied his familiar chair, still held his coffee mug with an affected casualness, but something was different. Laurin pushed a hand through his ginger hair, a ghost of a stretch, his long limbs unwinding. But the movement now revealed a new definition. His preppy polo shirt, once a loose drape, now hinted at new contours beneath. A subtle hardening. A definition where only smooth youth had been.

Walter watched him, his eyes narrowing slightly. He felt a flicker of clinical curiosity. *Could it be?* he wondered, recalling the discarded vial and the quick swap of syringes. It seemed premature, perhaps even improbable, but the subtle shift in the boy's vitality was hard to ignore. He didn't smirk; instead, he studied Laurin with the focused intensity of a scientist observing a specimen, wondering if his little act of revanche had actually taken root. “You’ve been hitting the gym, haven’t you, sweetie?” Anna’s voice, bright and unburdened, cut through Walter’s thoughts. She reached across the table, her fingers tracing the contour of Laurin’s arm. Laurin shrugged, a faint blush rising on his cheeks. “Just trying to burn off some of that college stress. And, you know, stay in shape.” He glanced at Walter, a challenging glint in his blue eyes. Walter merely raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of his coffee. Anna’s eyes lingered on Laurin’s back as he turned. His shoulders seemed to have squared, the fabric pulling taut across them. A pleasing transformation. She liked the way his shirt clung to him, defining the emerging planes.

Laurin spent hours among the clanking weights and grunting men, pushing his body, watching the subtle ripple of muscle under his skin. He measured himself against the other men, a silent competition to match their brawn. He craved their sculpted forms, the hard lines of their physiques. He wanted to achieve that. His narrow frame expanded, shoulders broadening, abs hardening into a washboard topography. His wardrobe mutated to match. The loose-fitting polos and tailored shorts gave way to shirts that stretched across his chest, trousers that clung to his thighs. Over the next weeks, Anna’s observations continued. Laurin’s jawline, already defined, sharpened further, an almost chiseled precision. The fine down on his cheeks, once barely visible, seemed to recede, leaving his skin with an unnatural, porcelain-like smoothness. Later, in their bedroom, Anna traced a line down Laurin’s spine. His skin felt different, smoother, like polished stone. She expected the familiar brush of fine hair, but found none. Not on his back, not on his chest. Even his legs, usually a light ginger fuzz, were now sleek. “Did you… shave?” she murmured, her fingers drifting lower, over his hip. Laurin mumbled something about wanting to reduce friction for swimming, though he hadn’t been in a pool for months. Anna just smirked, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You’re like, a dolphin.” He laughed, a sound that felt a little hollow. Anna didn’t press. She liked the new feel. Clean. His cock, usually nestled in a ginger cloud, now stood stark against his pale skin, appearing longer, more prominent, without the surrounding hair. She traced the line of his hip, her fingers lingering where a soft down once grew. “Your cock looks… bigger, too. It’s like it’s framed better now.” Laurin, lying beside her, offered a distracted hum. His attention, lately, seemed to wander. Their once-feverish passion had cooled, replaced by a polite, almost academic affection. But as her hand tightened and began a slow, rhythmic slide, a bolt of electricity shot from his groin straight to the base of his skull. The sensation was unlike anything he had ever felt; it wasn't just pleasure, it was an overwhelming, systemic overload. Every nerve ending in his skin seemed to have been amplified, turned up to a deafening volume. “Mmm... *ah*...” A low, guttural moan escaped his throat. He didn't comment on her observations or explain his grooming habits. He simply gripped the sheets, his knuckles turning white, as his head fell back into the pillow. His breath came in ragged hitches, and as Anna increased the pace, his blue eyes rolled back into his head, leaving only the whites visible. He was adrift in a sea of pure, chemical euphoria, his mind momentarily blanking out everything but the searing intensity of her touch.

Laurin spent hours in the gym now, returning with a flushed face and a faraway look. He pushed himself, driven by an unarticulated need to sculpt his body, to define the lines that were already beginning to emerge. His broad shoulders, once merely implied beneath his sweaters, now stretched the seams of his t-shirts. His midsection, once flat, began to ripple with the definition of abs. He moved with a new grace, his lean physique now imbued with a coiled strength. One morning, Laurin descended for breakfast wearing a slim-fit shirt Walter had never seen before. The fabric, a dark, lustrous satin, clung to his torso, highlighting the newfound breadth of his shoulders and the narrowing of his waist. His old cable-knit sweaters lay forgotten in his closet. His shorts, once loose and comfortable, were replaced by tailored trousers that hugged his thighs. “Looks like someone’s developing a new sense of style,” Doreen remarked, ever the diplomat. Anna beamed. “He’s been buying all these amazing new clothes. He looks incredible, doesn’t he, Dad?” Walter met Laurin’s gaze across the table. Laurin’s eyes, bright and alert, held a different kind of challenge now. Less intellectual defiance, more an unspoken confidence in his own physical presence.

Walter nodded slowly, a faint, almost imperceptible curve to his lips. “Indeed,” Walter said, his voice a low purr. “Quite remarkable.” Laurin’s libido for Anna, however, had dwindled to a polite affection. She attributed it to the crushing weight of college papers and midterms, convinced he was simply too stressed.

One evening, Walter found Laurin staring at his phone, a screen filled with images of men. Muscular. Defined. “Research for your new fitness routine, Laurin?” Walter asked, his voice smooth, devoid of inflection. He leaned against the doorframe of the living room, a half-empty glass of Scotch in his hand. Laurin jumped, startled. He fumbled with the phone, nearly dropping it. “Just… inspiration. You know. Setting goals.” “Indeed,” Walter said, taking a slow sip. His eyes, dark and knowing, held Laurin’s for a beat too long. “Always good to have a target.” Laurin shifted, an unfamiliar discomfort in his stance. “Right. Well. I’m heading out. Gym.” Walter watched him go, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips.

Laurin’s visits to the gym became even more frequent, his focus sharper. The initial drive to *compare* himself to the other men faded. Now, he simply *observed*. His eyes tracked the lean torsos, the powerful thighs, the flexing biceps. The scrutiny was no longer about competition. It was about interest. A deep, burgeoning curiosity that pulsed beneath his skin, a silent hum of recognition. He no longer wanted to *be* like them. He wanted to *see* them. To watch them. To understand the primal language of their bodies. The hunger was new, unsettling, and undeniably exhilarating.

One afternoon, sweat slicking his skin after a particularly brutal set, Laurin headed for the communal showers. Steam billowed, obscuring the far end of the tiled room. He stepped under the spray, letting the hot water sluice over his body, washing away the exertion.

A figure materialized through the mist. Tall, broad, a cascade of dark, wet hair clinging to a powerful neck. The man moved with an unhurried confidence, his skin bronze, muscles coiling and flexing under the water. He reached for a bottle of shower gel, squeezing a generous dollop into a cupped palm.

Laurin watched him. His breath caught. He felt a sudden, violent jolt in his gut. His breath hitched, and before he could even process the thought, his penis surged upward, straining against the air. *What is happening to me?* Laurin wondered, his heart hammering against his ribs. *I don't... I'm not...* He tried to summon his usual intellectual detachment. He tried to categorize this feeling as a hormonal fluke or a psychological reaction to the gym environment. But the "know-it-all" voice in his head was drowning in a sea of raw, biological noise. He turned away, pressing his forehead against the cool, wet tile, trying to hide the blatant evidence of his arousal. "Need a hand there, ginger?" The voice was a low, vibrating rumble that seemed to echo in Laurin's very marrow. He froze. He could hear the *squelch* of a soap bottle being squeezed. Suddenly, a hand—large, warm, and slick with gel—settled on his shoulder. Laurin shivered. It wasn't a gesture of aggression; it felt like a claim.

The hand began to move, sliding down his back with a slow, agonizing deliberation. *This is wrong,* Laurin thought, but the thought felt distant, like a radio station losing its signal. *I should say something. I should tell him to back off. I’m the one who controls the conversation. I’m the one who...* The hand glided over the curve of his pectoral muscle, the soapy friction creating a searing heat. Then it descended, tracing the hard, defined ridges of his abs. Laurin let out a shaky breath. "Hnnn..." The sensation was an override. The virus had stripped away his mental armor, leaving only a raw, receptive nerve. He wasn't analyzing the social dynamic anymore; he was simply feeling the weight of the man behind him, the scent of musk and sweat, and the overwhelming power of the touch. The hand drifted lower, sliding over the smooth, hairless expanse of his thigh. When the fingers brushed his inner thigh, Laurin’s knees buckled.

“Ah... please...” Laurin whimpered, though he wasn't sure if he was asking the man to stop or to hurry. The hunk didn't answer with words. His hand moved higher, cupping Laurin's groin. The soap lathered around his balls and shaft, the sliding motions turning into a firm, rhythmic jerk. Laurin’s head snapped back, his eyes rolling into his head. The intellectual Laurin—the preppy student, the debater, the boyfriend—was gone. In his place was something primal, a biological asset designed for this exact moment. Then came the pressure. A blunt, heavy heat pressing against his entrance. Laurin instinctively flinched, a flicker of his old ego trying to regain control. He tried to step away, but a hand clamped firmly around his throat. It wasn't enough to choke him, but it was enough to anchor him, to tell him exactly who was in charge. "Stay," the man grunted. With a slow, powerful thrust, the hunk entered him. "AAH!" Laurin screamed, the sound echoing off the tiles. The pain was a sharp, white flash, but it vanished almost instantly, replaced by a staggering sense of fullness. He felt stretched, occupied, and utterly dominated. He began to moan, the sounds rhythmic and desperate. "Oh god... yes... mmmph!" The pacing increased. The *slap-slap-slap* of skin hitting skin joined the roar of the water. Laurin was lost in it. He felt the man's chest pressing into his back, the sheer mass of him pinning Laurin against the wall. He felt small. He felt used. And for the first time in his life, he felt completely at peace. As the climax built, Laurin felt a strange, violent contraction deep in his pelvis. It wasn't just an orgasm; it felt like a structural shift. He felt his scrotum tighten with an intensity that bordered on painful, his testicles drawing up high and tight against the base of his shaft. "NNGH!" He shot his cum in a powerful, pulsing burst, his entire body racking with spasms. He collapsed against the wall, sobbing breaths escaping him in jagged gasps. As the man withdrew and stepped back, Laurin stayed pinned to the tiles, gasping for air, the water rinsing the soap and seed from his skin.

As he leaned there, drifting in the afterglow, Laurin didn't notice that the tension in his groin didn't fade. Usually, the muscles would relax, the testicles descending back to their resting state. But not this time. He reached down, his fingers brushing against his groin. He noticed the difference immediately. His balls hadn't dropped back down. They remained tight, small, and drawn high against the base of his shaft. They felt compact, a streamlined part of his new anatomy. They had been reshaped, biologically repurposed into a compact, manageable toy, forever stripped of their patriarchal weight and perfectly fitting their new purpose: A man’s sex toy. He didn't know why it had happened, and for the first time in his life, he didn't care to analyze it. He just felt right. He felt finished. He was no longer the boy who knew everything; he was the man who belonged to whoever was strong enough to take him. He didn't know it yet, but the transformation was complete.

Walter, from a distance, with a knowing smirk playing on his lips, had observed Laurin’s transformation with a detached, almost scientific pleasure. He watched Laurin shed his preppy skin, watched him embrace the gym, watched the subtle shifts in his gait, the newfound confidence in his gaze. He enjoyed it all. Laurin was a twunk now. For good. Just as Walter had imagined.

Anna, bless her pragmatic heart, had taken Laurin’s coming out with an almost alarming ease. “It’s okay. Really. I mean, it explains a lot. He’s just so much happier now, Dad,” she’d chirped over Sunday brunch, stirring her mimosa. “And honestly, it’s like having a really, really attractive gay best friend. We're still close. Just… different close.” *Different*, Walter reveled, was an understatement, hiding his satisfaction behind a sip of coffee. The boy hadn't been neutered in the traditional sense, but the effect was precisely the same. So, Walter had allowed Laurin to remain in the house, a silent, living trophy of his private victory. And indeed *Attractive*, Walter mused. Laurin was a walking advertisement for the R&D department’s accidental triumph. Laurin’s "know-it-all" attitude, once an irritant, now served a purpose. Graduating with honors, he’d slid into the role of Walter’s personal assistant with unsettling naturalness, his sharp intellect redirected.

Today, Laurin led two men through the lab’s secure corridor. The men wore uniforms the color of storm clouds, their faces grim, their shoulders heavy with insignia. Generals, from a 'democratic' republic, a regime whose name Walter never dared to recall. Walter’s gaze lingered on Laurin, a slow, knowing smirk pulling at his lips. The young man, sleek in a black satin shirt that shimmered under the recessed lights, guided the two generals through the hushed corridors of the R&D wing.

He moved with an effortless grace, every muscle toned, his skin smooth as polished stone. The preppy boy was gone, replaced by this refined specimen. “And here, gentlemen,” Laurin’s voice, smooth and modulated, resonated in the sterile space, “we have Project Chimera. Officially, for our Western counterparts, the ethical concerns were deemed... insurmountable. Even though the results were remarkable.” He gestured to a series of holographic displays showing a lean, athletic figure, not unlike his own. The generals grunted, their eyes fixed on the projections. One, his face a roadmap of old scars, turned to Walter. “Ethical concerns?” the general rasped, his voice thick. “We find ethics… flexible.” Walter’s smirk widened, almost imperceptible. “Indeed, General. Laurin here often reminds me that not all cultures share the same values. Who are we to judge?” Laurin turned, his blue eyes meeting Walter’s, a flicker of shared understanding passing between them. He offered a small, deferential nod, then continued. “Our preliminary trials suggested these individuals exhibit remarkable endurance and resilience. Perfect for… high-attrition scenarios. And without the usual complications. No sentimental attachments, no dependents to support, no… inconvenient legacies.” Walter watched Laurin, a profound satisfaction settling in his chest. Laurin, unknowingly, was the finest exhibit of all, a living testament to the project’s success, albeit an unintended one. “Cash payment, of course, is preferred,” Walter interjected, his voice calm, authoritative. Hard, untraceable cash. A welcome opportunity to recoup some of those pesky R&D costs. The scarred general nodded. “Always.” Walter’s gaze drifted back to Laurin, leading the generals deeper into the lab. If only Laurin knew he was, in essence, the project these men were inspecting. The virus hadn't created super soldiers in the traditional sense, but it had produced fit, endurant, and, crucially, gay men. *Cannon fodder, perhaps. But efficient cannon fodder,* Walter reflected. No widows to mourn, no orphans to support. Just a clean, efficient, and utterly disposable fighting force. He watched Laurin, a man so sculpted, so articulate, so… perfectly engineered. A flicker of something, almost paternal, crossed Walter’s face. *Lucky boy,* he mused, *not to be sent to battle.* Laurin’s philosophical rationalizations were now a lucrative asset, his very being a demonstration of a profitable, if ethically dubious, product.

No one ever questioned how dominant Cole was. He wore it on his chest—broad, hairy, proudly exposed beneath the summer sun. His body was thick with muscle, his thighs like trunks, his beard fierce and commanding. At the gym, he didn’t just lift; he owned the space. A gold chain glinted at his collarbone, catching the light and the attention of everyone passing by.

But lately, something had shifted.

It started subtly. He’d catch himself lingering in front of the mirror longer than usual. Not admiring the bulk—but wondering what he’d look like… softer. Lighter. What if his thighs weren’t so massive, his beard not so thick, his stare not so intense?

And then came that morning.

Cole stood at the edge of his garage gym, but this time, instead of tight black shorts and bare muscle, he wore tan joggers that clung gently to his now-slim legs, a navy v-neck shirt hugging a lean, clean-shaven chest. The gold chain was gone, replaced by a black beaded bracelet and a silver anklet winking from above his foot in a simple flip-flop. His ankles—smooth and pale—peeked out confidently.

His body was no longer the tank it once was. The hair that once covered him had thinned. His frame had narrowed, but he didn’t shrink—he glowed.

There was still power in his stride, but it was quieter now. A different kind of confidence. He wasn’t towering over anyone anymore. He didn’t need to.

Cole had become someone new. Someone leaner, prettier, softer… and finally, free.

While we waited at the entrance of the restaurant ‒ as I instructed my friends who aren’t part French ‒ I could see the bartenders whispering in our general direction with waiters who were definitively free enough to sit us. Even Tommy, who had never made the trip out to the other side of the Atlantic before, was starting to ask Sage and I whether this was normal. I told him that they might be a little busy, before adding in French, loud enough to be heard even by the bartenders :

"Je me demande pourquoi ils prennent tant de temps à servir leurs clients. (I wonder why they’re taking so much time to serve their clients.)"

I always stood up against unequal treatment back in San Francisco, I don’t know why I shouldn’t do that in France too.

And, lo and behold, a waitress decided to approach us. She started motioning towards a table far enough from any window for us not to give this restaurant any "bad press" ‒ or so I assumed ‒ making me even angrier. So, before she could tell us to follow her, I gave her instruction in the fakest cheery voice I could muster :

"Bonjour ! Excusez-moi, mes amis et moi préfèrerions une place à l’extérieur, pour voir la Tour Eiffel. (Hello ! Excuse me, my friends and I would prefer a seat outside, so that we can see the Eiffel Tower.)"

I looked to my friends, who duly nodded, only having understood "Bonjour" and "Tour Eiffel" from my intervention. The waiter could barely contain her sigh, and motioned us to a nice seat outside, next to flower pots. She handed us the menu, and we took a seat, me satisfied.

"Girl, what was that all about ?" Tommy asked me, his tone flamboyant as always. "I think I missed a beat, because all of a sudden you were speaking French for no reason ? ‒ They don’t want us here. I guess they think queers are outside of their clientele, and I couldn’t exactly stay quiet, you know me… ‒ Be careful, one day it’ll bite you in the back." Sage pinched in, their voice high and a bit nasally. "If the waiters don’t like us, they’ll make sure we have a miserable experience ! ‒ Yeah, they’re right. Girl, you said it yourself that employees in France can be very rude if you’re rude to them ! ‒ I wasn’t rude, I was sarcastic, girl. Big difference." I let my wrist go limp, showcasing my nail job. "Besides I’m right, they can’t refuse us service for being queer ! ‒ You don’t understand, you don’t get away from consequences by being right !"

I continued arguing with Tommy for a little while until Sage finally broke us up and forced us to choose something from the menu before the waitress comes back for our meal ‒ having the one outcome of making us all growl at how expensive this restaurant actually was. I should have chosen a more affordable restaurant to be angry at... Sage had always been the level-headed one of us three, even though they had the most complicated experience of us three. Being a chubby enby in today’s America, especially one who’s broadly transfem, is hard, especially when you not only find no support from family, but they send you to actual torture. But they persevered, and they’re now in a good place with us, with their iconic undercut, beard and makeup combo.

Tommy on the other hand is a lot more similar to me. A very effeminate man, his only major difference from me is the fact that he is quite the muscular guy, which he always shows off with his tank top, and he has a beautiful mop of curly hair he dyes in fantastical colors ‒ pink, as of late. On the other hand, I’m a twinky motherfucker with a short brown ivy league quiff… which I guess is quite similar to other twinks, I’m not that original... I think this is why we always end up arguing. We’re both sarcastic and engaged, we’ve both watched every season of RuPaul’s Drag Race, we both spend our week-ends in bars… People who are too much like one another will end up stepping on each other’s toes !

"Avez-vous fini de choisir ? (Have you finished choosing ?)" Suddenly interrupted the waitress, from behind me. I took a glance at the others, who had already closed their menu. ‒ Oui, c’est bon. (Yes, we did.) ‒ Prendrez-vous un apéritif ? (Will you take an appetizer ?)"

I quickly asked the others if they want one, and both say no. Tommy has been complaining for an hour straight that he needs some protein in his system or he’ll die.

"Non merci. (No, thanks.) ‒ Très bien. Je suis prête à recevoir votre commande. (Very well. I’m ready to write down your order.) ‒ Alors… pour ma part, je vous prendrai des tomates avec du pistou et de la burrata crémeuse, s’il vous plaît. (So… for my part, I’ll take tomatoes with pistou and creamy burrata, please.)" I gave a look to Sage. ‒ Er… Je veux… Dos de Cabillaud Poêlé… s’il vous plaît. (I want… cod fish filet… please.)" They said with a heavy English accent, pointing to the item on the menu ‒ which did seem to appease the waitress somewhat. ‒ I want the… Filet de bœuf, sauce béarnaise & belles frites… er… merci ? (Beef filet, bearnese sauce and fries… er… thanks ?)" Tommy tried, not disproving the stereotype of Americans not being able to speak any other language than English. ‒ Vous voulez une boisson avec ? (You want a drink with that ?) ‒ Excusez-moi, je vais leur demander. (Excuse me, I’ll ask them.) Do you want any drinks ?" I translated. ‒ Oh, I’d want some cocktail if they have one !" Tommy lit up. ‒ Yeah, but they don’t have that." Sage pointed to the drinks part of the menu. "They do have tons of wine, though. ‒ Girl, they’re so expensive…" I complained. ‒ Yeah, but we did say that we wanted to treat ourselves to real French cuisine, right ? Avoiding wine seems like a misstep, and the last time I came here I was too young to try it. ‒ I guess Rosé, then ? I don’t know much about wines, but I’ve already drunk some in my parent’s stash. ‒ Girl, you got to tell me that story." I couldn’t help but get curious. "But which one do we take ? ‒ ‘Rosé du moment’ ?" Tried Sage. "I guess it’s the safest ? ‒ Yeah, I agree. ‒ Okay, I’ll order that. Euh, nous vous prendrons un verre de rosé du moment chacun, s’il vous plaît. (Er, we will take one cup of today’s rosé each, please.) ‒ Très bien, je vous apporte ça ! (Very well, I’ll bring that to you !)" The waitress announced, weirdly chipper all of a sudden.

But I paid no mind to that, as we listened Tommy’s wild stories of sneaking behind the back of his hyper-religious parents. He tasted all the different alcohols inside their secret alcohol stash while still underage, but at the end of the tasting session, though, he was so drunk that he slept in the whole morning afterwards. Thankfully, it was a Saturday and both his parents were too busy to pay attention to him. At that point, the waitress came back with three wine glasses, and immediately started serving us. I was so engrossed by Tommy’s story that I did not pay attention at how that bottle did not open with its distinctive pop sound, nor that it was label-less.

"Bonne dégustation, messieurs. (Enjoy your drinks, gentlemen.)" She said before leaving, insisting on the male referent.

How disgusting is the homophobia on display, here ‒ and I guess transphobia, too, considering Sage. I had almost forgotten how much we were not desired here, with how much fun we were having at that table, until then. I sighed, but decided against translating that. Sage and Tommy are right, I should avoid stirring unnecessary problems, else I’ll put my friends and I in danger. I noticed Sage’s cunning look, and decided to raise my glass.

"What do you say we toast ? For our vacations in Paris ? ‒ Yeah, girl !" Tommy almost shouted, raising his glass so fast a few drops almost fell. ‒ Be careful, Tommy, it’s expensive…" Sage also raised their glass.

And so we all toasted, and took a sip.

"Oh, it’s strong !" I couldn’t help but exclaim, feeling a weird tingle over my body. ‒ Yup, I agree…" Said Tommy with a weird face. "Not bad but… unexepected. ‒ Yeah-"

Suddenly, Sage found themselves taken by a coughing fit. I was about to ask whether they were okay, but when it stopped, they said it was okay with a small but strangely deep voice.

We did not pick up on that detail, though, and Tommy and I just continued talking, sipping our wine. It was weirdly addictive, I must admit, and clearly Sage agreed as they were concentrating on sipping theirs while listening to us. As a result, the discussion naturally shifted to types of alcohol, and I found myself being weirdly passionate on this topic, even though I barely drink any. But I was much more intrigued by Tommy’s hair, as something felt… off about it. Was it the color ? I couldn’t quite place my words on it, so I didn’t raise it to his attention ‒ though I still kept an eye on it.

By the time our meals started arriving, we had drunk quite a few sips of our wines ‒ Sage naturally more than any of us, as they didn’t say a word over the whole discussion.

"Bon appétit, messieurs. (Enjoy your meal, gentlemen.)" The waitress said, once again insisting on ‘sirs’, her voice sounding even more delighted than before. ‒ Merci beaucoup ! (Thank you very much !)" Answered… Tommy ??

Sage and I both looked at Tommy, who had not only suddenly spouted French, but also had a decent accent ?

"Wait, what ? Tomm- … Tom," Why did saying ‘Tommy’ suddenly feel weird ? "when did you learn French ?! ‒ Er…" He ran his hand into his hair, which seemed to be flowing rather fluidly through his fingers. "I… don’t actually know ? Like, it… made sense ?" ‒ What do you mean it made sense ! Girl it doesn’t make any sense ! ‒ Exactly !" He took a sip of his wine, almost automatically. "I don’t understand ! ‒ Tom." Suddenly asserted an unknown deep, booming voice. "I remember you telling me that French couldn’t penetrate that thick head of yours, and suddenly you can speak it ? Something must have happened between those two points."

Tom and I looked at the origin of this voice, finding... Sage ? It wasn’t right, it didn’t fit them, they usually have a rather androgynous voice ! And… their beard also seemed kinda spotty…

"Sage !" Tom interrupted as they were going to continue. "Enough about me, have you stopped voice practice ?!"

Tom had known Sage for a lot longer than me, they actually met before they started transitioning. I… guess it didn’t occur to me that their usual high voice was the result of training…

"No, I haven’t !" They continued, their voice still deep. "… I guess I’m just tired, I don’t know. And it’s not that bad, isn’t it ? It’s such a hassle, sometimes…"

In shock, I took my hand up to my necklace, but instead got a hold of my collar. It felt weirdly prominent, for a t-shirt… but I decided against focusing on it too much for the moment.

"Dude !" Why did I say ‘dude’ instead of ‘girl’ ? "What do you mean a hassle, we’re talking about your gender identity ! ‒ Yeah, well I’m kinda getting annoyed at how everybody’s walking on eggs around me ! The moment I’m anything but cis, everybody’s acting as if I’m a performative they, like I’ll die if even one person misgenders me ! Gender’s so fuckin’ complicated, and it’d be easier if you just used he/him !"

Tom and I were both stunned. I remember them… well I guess him being so happy when th- he overheard me talking about him with they/them pronouns. And he suddenly wanted to throw that all away ?

"I’msorry, Sa- Sedge." I apologized to him. "I didn’t think that you were so upset by this, dude. If that’s what you feel fits best to your gender identity, then I’ll use he/him, bro. ‒ It’s not‒" Sedge sighed, and took a sip of his wine, interrupting his flow for some reason. "It’s just that… I’m assigned male at birth, right ? I’m not really hurt when others think of me as a man, so why forgo the privilege ?" Another sigh, another sip. "And why are we even talking about that when you’ve been spouting ‘bro’ and ‘dude’ like you’re a frat bro !"

I choked on the wine I was mindlessly sipping, making me cough on my… white t-shirt with long sleeves ? I was wearing short sleeves coming in, under that heat ! I put my glass of wine down, but before I could investigate, Sedge pressed on.

"Have you suddenly decided to switch girls with men or what ? I remember you using ‘girl’ all the time ! ‒ That’s not true, bro, I’m not doing that !"

Sedge made me a face, wordlessly telling me that I did the exact thing I was telling I wasn’t. I remember him doing that to me many a time, though I remembered his face having a beard rather than the mere stubble he was wearing.

"Are you sure ? I… don’t even notice it… I guess it’s so natural that it just doesn’t register, man… ‒ How the fuck does it not register ! You just started using it a minute ago ! You don’t just do that ! ‒ Well, dude, you don’t just decide that you’ve always wanted to be called he/him after years of telling me that you wished people would just ask for pronouns, bro ! ‒ How is that even comparable ! Well, if you’re just going to go for ad hominem, then when did you plan to tell us that you were growing your hair ! ‒ Hah ? Well when did you plan to tell us you were shaving your stubble ! And taking a regime, ‘cause you’re looking quite slim, bro ! ‒ Stop inventing stuff ! You‒ ‒ Stop ! Arrêtez ! (Stop !)" Suddenly moderates Tom. "It’s going too far ! We are friends, not enemies ! So calm down ! Besides, we have a meal to eat !"

We both sighed and took a sip of our wine to decompress, before we fully realized what just happened.

Tom had a French accent.

"Tom… what happened… why do you sound French ? ‒ I agree with him, why do you suddenly have a French accent, bro ? En plus j’suis à moitié Français, donc j’ai plus d’autorité sur ça que lui. (Plus I’m half French, so I have more authority on that than him.) ‒ Hey, I heard that !" Complained Sedge… ???? ‒ J’sais pas, ça vient juste naturellement ! (I dunno, it’s just coming naturally !) It’s like when you say ‘bro’, ‘dude’ or ‘man’, your mind just decides to do it and you don’t know why ! ‒ Yeah, bro. I can feel that…" I let a bit of silence, before I had to add a bit of a bad taste joke. "Mais ton accent en anglais est franchement hilarant, tu devrais t’entendre.. (But your accent in English is honestly hilarious, you should listen to yourself...) ‒ Arrête, on n’est pas tous comme toi à être à moitié Américain… (Stop, we’re not all half American like you…)"

Silence then befell our table, and we all took a sip of our wine ‒ not really daring touching our food, and maybe a bit too addicted to our tasty beverage.

I passed my hand through my blonde locks behind my head. Had it been that long since I last went to the barber’s ? And where did my nail polish go ? Fuck, Sedge was right…

"Guys… I think that, somehow, we’re all changing. ‒ J’l’avais pas vu venir, Sherlock. (No shit, Sherlock.) ‒ Welcome to the club, dumb-ass."

I rolled my eyes at their reactions.

"Okay, it wouldn’t have cost you extra to be a bit nicer, bro. ‒ Meh, didn’t feel like it. ‒ You asshole. ‒ OK les gars, vous pouvez parler comme des humains normaux ? (Okay, guys, can you talk like normal human beings ?) ‒ Dit celui qui ne parle qu’en français à une table d’américains… (Says the one that only speaks French at a table full of Americans." I couldn’t help but snark. But looking at their serious faces, I understood that this wasn’t the right move. "Sorry, dude… … Well, what are we doing about all that ? ‒ On pourrait chercher qu’est-ce qui cause les changements ? (We could search for what causes all the changes ?) ‒ Or we could start by listing what has changed." Decided Sedge, still the most astute of us three. "To agree on what everybody has gone through to see when a new thing changes.

We all agreed on that, and started looking at one another for details on others that we might have missed. On Tom, I noticed that his hair had fully become straight, and was coiffed into a simple blonde middle part. He also had lost some muscle mass, getting a leaner build. I noticed that, similarly, Sedge’s hair had morphed into a style slicked to the side, with mass on the side and back making his hair no longer an undercut. I also noticed that his facial features were a lot more masculine, while Tom made us realize that he now had a smooth face, as if it never had any hair.

As for me, Sedge took a picture of my face, and I saw how my hair had become a long blonde middle-part ‒ a far cry from the short ivy league quiff I used to have. Tom on the other hand made me notice that I was bigger, and I was wearing a dress shirt... which seemed obvious yet I didn’t think of it ? In fact, everything about that had that feeling. Like there were some obvious changes that had happened, yet we only noticed them when pointed to us. Like every shift had always been there, as if an alternative reality was superposing on ours.

Makes you wonder if we would even notice a change that happens to us three at the same time. What a scary thought.

"Donc, maintenant on cherche ce qui nous transforme ? J’veux pas dire mais moi, tout ça, ça m’effraie. (So, now we go look for what’s transforming us ? I must admit, all that is scaring me.)" Tom took another sip of his wine, tilting the glass quite a bit. "Merde, il fait trop chaud, aujourd’hui… (Shit, it’s too hot, today…)" He commented, pulling on… his collar ?

Tank tops don’t usually have collars, right ? And he was still wearing a tank top just then, right ?

"C’est le vin. (It’s the wine.)" I declared, before taking a sip myself. ‒ Ouais, je suis d’accord. (Yeah, I agree.)" Added Sedge in an unaccented French, himself sipping his wine. ‒ Alors pourquoi vous continuez à en prendre ? (So why do you continue taking it ?)" Asked Tom, also taking a sip. ‒ Je… ne peux pas m’en empêcher. (I… can’t stop myself.)" Sedge opened up the center of his hoodie, showing off an athletic build. Looking at his smug face, I could tell that it was intentional. "C’est tellement bon, le laisser là serait criminel. (It’s so good, not touching it would be criminal.) ‒ Même si ça nous transforme ? (Even if it transforms us ?)" I asked, rhetorically, as if I wasn’t myself addicted to its taste. ‒ C’est pas une si mauvaise chose, en somme. (It’s not such a bad thing, actually.)"

I noticed how Tom… No, Thomas’s glass was almost empty. He was now fully decked out in a striped dress shirt covering his athletic build, but not as ripped as before. He looked like a completely different man, with his neat straight blonde hair and conservative yet classy clothes, instead of the curly pink mop and pink gym clothes he came with. Someone who clearly fits this establishment’s… tastes a lot better.

Yet, this didn’t bother me. Before, I would have thrown a fuss about how homophobic the direction was, but now that I was wearing this classical style, with my white dress shirt, slacks and neat blonde middle part, I was actually happy to… look normal.

"Les gars, vous voulez qu’on prenne la dernière gorgée tous ensemble ? (Guys, do you want to take the last sip together ?)" Suddenly asked Sedge. "Je ne sais pas ce que ça fera, mais bon, c’est pas comme si on arriverait à s’empêcher de le terminer, de toute façon. (I don’t know what it will do, but honestly, it’s not as if we would even manage to stop ourselves from finishing it.) ‒ Ouais, faisons ça, Sed-… Je veux dire Serge. (Yeah, let’s do that, Sed-… I mean, Serge.) ‒ Ouais mec ! Mais avant ça, dis-moi… (Yeah dude ! But before that, tell me…)" I couldn’t help myself from asking, curious as to how much Serge changed. "Pourquoi t’as ouvert ta chemise ? Gros, j’croyais que t’étais dysphorique avec ton torse ! (Why did you open your shirt ? Bro, I thought you were dysphoric about your torso !)"

Serge smirked, and adjusted the collar of his shirt out, letting more skin show, as well as a checkered pattern inside his collar.

"Pour montrer mes atouts masculins, évidemment. (To show off my masculine assets, of course…)" Serge’s voice was ever so slightly deeper and sultrier, embracing his masculinity even more. ‒ Daaamn bro, you’re looking hot as fuck !" I couldn’t help but catcall. ‒ Well, if you want anything, I’m your man !" Serge’s accent had morphed to a definitely French one. ‒ Dude, you’re gonna be my suave Parisian sweetheart or what ?" I laugh. I’m having too much fun. ‒ Eh les gars, on est en France, ici ! Tout le monde n’est pas à moitié américain comme toi, (Hey, guys, we’re in France, here ! Not everybody’s half American like you,)" Thomas looked at me, interrupting our fake-flirting, before turning to Serge. "ou super doué en anglais comme toi ! Je veux aussi jouer à la drague ! (or is great in English like you ! I also want to play flirting !)" He pouts. ‒ Pardon, j’suis désolé ! (Sorry, I’m sorry !)" Serge punched Thomas’s shoulder, definitely patronizing him. "Bon, c’est pas tout, mais il nous reste qu’une gorgée de rosé ! (Well, then, we all have only one sip of rosé remaining !)"

We all smiled, and made a toast, before gulping the rest of the wine down, ready and happy to accept any and all consequences.

The rest of the lunch went smoothly. We all rediscovered our meals ‒ which had gone cold, we had to ask the restaurant to reheat it, which they were all so happy to do ‒ and then bitched for fifteen minutes about which wine would go best with our respective meals. We ended up ordering a full bottle of white wine ‒ Serge was so ecstatic when he saw that they had his favorite vintage of Champagne ‒ much to the frustration of Thomas who complained that it wouldn’t fit well with meat. However, considering the restaurant didn’t have any red that satisfied his needy tastes, that was a sacrifice worth making.

By the time we ended eating desert, I looked at my Rolex ‒ it’s getting old, I should probably buy myself a new one ‒ and saw that it was already 1:30 PM.

"Les gars, on a encore une demi-heure devant nous avant de repartir au taf. Vous voulez y aller ou pas ? (Guys, we still have 30 minutes until we go back to work. You want to leave or not ?) ‒ Tu parles, moi, même si j’arrive en retard d’une heure rien se passera. Ma mère me donne carte blanche tant que j’me mets pas à la drogue ! (What a joke, on my side if I arrive one hour late nothing will happen. My mom lets me do anything as long as I don’t do drugs !)" Serge laughed. ‒ Tu crois que les poppers ça compte comme de la drogue ? (You think that poppers can be classified as drugs ?)" Asked Thomas, sticking his tongue out. ‒ J’espère pas, mec, sinon j’suis foutu… (I hope not, dude, else I’m cooked…) ‒ Heh, problème de passifs ! (Heh, bottom problems !)" Snarked Serge. "En plus, si je dois vraiment pas en approcher, y’a toujours plein de filles au boulot à ma mère qui voudraient bien de mes couilles ! (Plus, if I have to avoid it, there’s still tons of girls at my mom’s workplace who’d like to experience my dick ! ‒ T’es dégeu, gros… pas comme ça au resto ! Tu vas donner une mauvais impression ! (You’re disgusting, bro… don’t do that at the restaurant ! You’ll give a bad impression !)"

As if I had called it, the waitress came back to us to take away our desert plates. Thankfully she wasn’t there when we let our mask slip !

"Votre déjeuné s’est bien passé ? Voudriez-vous un café ? (Your lunch went well ? Do you want some coffee ?) ‒ Oui, volontiers. (Yes, gladly.)" I answer, somehow still in charge for our table. "Je pense qu’on en veut tous un ici, hein ? (I think we all want one here, huh ?)"

Everybody agreed, so she took our order, and quickly went back with three cups of coffee. By then, our discussion had morphed into talking about economics ‒ after all, as future CEOs and investors, we have to pay attention to that. A much more acceptable subject of discussion at a table of an expensive restaurant with bigoted owners !

Because no matter how much they changed us with their spiked wine, they only applied a coat of paint over our real selves. Made us appear more normal, but did not make us become more normal. Even Serge, who is definitively gloating in his newfound appreciation of masculinity, has later confessed to me still being uncomfortable with being labeled as a man ‒ whence why he now hates his beard.

After our by all means pleasant lunch, we all said goodbye ‘till the evening and went out in our own direction, putting on the classy sunshades we bought when we last went to America to protect against the strong summer sun. Serge went to smoke near his motorbike, Thomas called up a taxi, while I walked towards the Champ de Mars ‒ the company I work being very close by.

As I walked, I decided to call up my best friend, Maria, a childhood friend from when I lived in America who has since taken a strong interest in witchcraft. What happened here would likely be very interesting to her. But as I was explaining how I had been transformed, and how it happened, I made an off-hand comment about us getting some Champagne afterwards, making her immediately react :

"Wait, Champagne ? When did you get filthy rich !"

“Welcome to the normal barbershop ! I… see you’re accompanied.”

Indeed, when you enter, the severe face of your mother is revealed behind your shoulder. She seems dead set on having a say in whatever you’re going to do, no matter how uncomfortable you look. You know that, as you’re a few years into university, you should really, like all your friends find yourself flat or flatmates, yet the only ones who would qualify are all related by blood. However, with the sky-high price for property, inflation eating into everyone’s pockets, and uni being just an hour away from home… the choice is obvious.

Even if it feels a bit constraining to have your quite controlling parents breathing down your neck.

“I…” You start, before being cut by your mother. - My son here needs an appropriate haircut. This… clump he caries around has to go.”

It is clear for everyone in the room that she wants you to have a haircut, not you… and that she seems dead set on you cozying up to the upper echelons of society. Not an objectionable dream, but not one she should force onto her kid. This malaise that grows out of it is broken by the arrival of a tall but thin guy, dressed in all white polos and chinos, wearing an expensive golden watch, luxurious black sunglasses and a single stylish golden earring. His jet black hair is parted in the middle in a tasteful style stinking of money – and hairspray – accompanying slightly folded amber eyes that frame a very handsome face.

“Greetings, miss.” He announced rather dramatically, smiling in a manner that would swoon anybody. “Don’t worry, I, Jonathan Nasukawa, heir to the famous Shimotsuke family, from the Uesugi clan, and to the de Clissons family, who studied under the famous master barber Dr. Davod, will take care of your son. I’ll make sure he’s… up to my standards.”

You are not impressed. In fact, you’re more weary of whatever bullying he may decide to make about your lack of self-care, or your lower social class… but your mother is comfortably taken by the smile of that certified ikemen. Her severe expression morphs into one of the most benevolent smiles that a human can make, and pushes you to him by your shoulders.

“My son will be more than honored to be able to be helped by all your expertise. I’m sure that, once he knows how to properly act, he will thank you for the immense service you are giving him.”

The ikemen’s smile becomes sinister, somehow… though your mother stays just as smitten by his through the roof charisma.

“Rest assured, he will.” His smiles becomes normal once again, as he places a hand on your shoulder. “Now, if you may, I have some work to do. - Well, I wouldn’t want to prevent you from doing your job… I just so happen to have a few things to buy, so I’ll get to this now !”

As the exchange devolves into civilities, you start advancing to the barber chairs, where you guess your mane that you actually really like is going to get chopped off. What a waste, you love the feeling of long hair, how it floats, how freely you can shape it. But before you can take a step closer, you are stopped by a soft hand on your shoulder. Expecting it to be your mother, you put your hand on it and turn around… only to notice it was Jonathan. The barber.

“I was going to say that we are not going there, but… are you trying something ?”

You vehemently deny, red appearing on all your face, making him laugh very elegantly.

“Hahaha ! Your expressions are so precious ! No, we’re going inside that special room, with the elite setup, for maximum comfort !” You stare at him, unsure of why he’s trying to do by playing into your mom’s delusions. “What, it’s comfortable for me too ! And it’s topical !”

You smile from that defense that paints an image quite different from the one he casts, that more of a laid-back and less… arrogant than the uptight and quick to point out ancestry he seemed to your mother. He makes you sit on the chair inside the private room, that feels incredibly comfortable, as he takes out multiple products, clippers and scissors.

“I’m sorry your mother made such a scene… I mean, we’re supposed to be the one uncomfortable, but you must have been so ashamed hearing her spouting nonsense like that.” Of that you agree. « Now, before you start making up ideas, I’m not a noble or anything. I just said that to impress her, because I know it works – I’m sure she would faint if she knew I lived in a small flat with three roommates to save money ! Though the lineage is correct, it doesn’t come with fortune, unfortunately.”

He speaks so much that you have a hard time saying anything. And in the time he took to explain every part of his trick, he washed your hair and put in some weird lotion. How industrious he is, expertly manipulating your hair while not stopping one second from talking… Although his claims to famous families were bogus, his claims to skill were visibly warranted.

“Now, let me talk about what I’m going to do. See, I’d like to keep your hair. It’s nice and long, and I’d likely trim it a little and find some ways to dress it so that you can have a good cut that will sway even the straightest of guys and the gayest of girls. « However… due to the whole situation, I have to give you a shorter cut. See, I know her type. She wouldn’t find anything but that a proper men’s cut. But don’t worry, I have here everything necessary to make you own that short cut.”

And as he said all of that, he used scissors to cut down most of the length, the locks falling one after another, in a shower of hair. Although you feel very hurt by this development, you can’t stay mad too long with him overwhelming your brain with words… Actually, is that a strategy he’s using ? As if he was-

“So the recipe for a short cut in the current trends is the curly undercut. Thankfully your hair is already curly, so I won’t have to change much, but there are some details that I’ll still have to fix. « But right now, I’m concentrating on the most important : the shape. Now that most of the mass has been dealt with, I’m shaping it so we can find the modern shape we’re trying to achieve. Now, you may think that looking like a mushroom is cringe… and to be honest, you’re right, but it’s only cringe if you of think it as much.”

God, he was so fast ! He drew the clippers, put a short guard, and tore through the sides of your hair, leaving only short fur ! And he even had the time to make the short part two-tone, with it being a smidge longer when connecting with the top of the hair ! He really is gifted ! But as he did that, what he told you about cringe kept on making rounds in your head. Although it feels almost wrong, like an incorrect leap of logic… you couldn’t find how. You could only find more ways in which it was correct.

If you’re the one to wear such a cringy haircut… should you be revising your stance on it ? It’s not as if you could get rid of it that easily… And looking at how much expertise Jonathan puts in cutting your hair… should you even ? Should you not accept that it’s your hair, and be… proud of it ? Of having your hair cut by such a gifted barber, who chose such a hot and trendy cut ? That thought feels weird… kind of… intoxicating. Like it’s opening a door that should not have been open, making you feel hotter than ever.

Because you decide that you are hot.

“And then, I just have to cut down the top to an acceptable volume ! See, it’s all about volume, about looking big and fluffy. It’s a pain to style – believe me – but it’s worth it, because it’s such a show off. « You know, you have a great nature of hair, you should absolutely not spit on that. Many people use chemicals to get a result resembling your hair, yet you have it naturally ! What better thing to show off !”

On that time, he switched to scissors and has cut the top of your air so it only kinda looks like a mushroom. Now, everything fits together… and it makes you feel so much hotter. It’s not cringe, you’re just hot, and you love it. But your brains latches on how high-effort this whole style is, and how great your hair is… Sure, you know that you check out a lot of guys who have great muscles, handsome faces, and generous crotches, but you never thought of that concept applied to you.

You never felt like you had anything much to be proud of, in your body, but seeing how he praises your hair, how many guys want to have hair just like yours… it makes something click for you. You do have something to be proud of. And it’s something others should get to enjoy. So why not use these high-effort techniques ? Why not put in work ? And what then would be wrong to get feedback for this work ?

It all feels so intoxicating… It feels so wrong… But it’s so good, so attractive, and it makes you so, so, sooo happy. So why stop ? Somehow the thought of annoying others by showing off just… doesn’t compute anymore. You’re happy showing others, they should be happy seeing what you’re good at.

“Now, please lie down in this machine. I know I said that your hair had a great nature and didn’t need to have any chemicals to get it like that… it doesn’t mean that it is well-taken care of.

« Thankfully, thanks to the product I put in your hair and the machine here, it should be looking good as new ! Don’t worry if it feels a bit weird at first, everyone gets surprised by it !”

As soon as you lie down in the machine, he activates it and goes out of the small room. You are left under the big… thing ? rectangle ? You can’t actually describe it much, it’s just weird. But it hums, and it feels quite warm… almost as if it was frying something. You don’t know, your head is just empty at the moment.

Suddenly, you feel your arms twitch. Then your torso. Then your core, and your legs, and the rest of you body. Thousands of small pricks invade your body as what was just a weird occurrence becomes something very uncomfortable. Your muscles are all twitching, all aching as if they were suffering from over-exertion. You don’t quite know why, and you would like to know why, but your head refuses to think of any answer, as it feels like it is absolutely frying inside the warmth of the machine.

You hear through all the noises of the machine the sound of tears, but don’t make much of it, as the rest of the sensations were invading you. Everything feels uncomfortable. You want to be out of this machine as fast as possible. But simply leaving the underside of the rectangle never occurres as a possibility in your embattled brain.

No, only bips from the machine, signaling it was turned off, broke your frying brain from utter nothingness.

You look around, seeing the tatters of your clothes on you. You think a little, when you realize that you should probably take them off. But then, the subsequent problem arose : how to cover your muscular body. Thankfully, when standing up, you see a collection of luxury boxers, fine jogging pants, a puka shells necklace and a black iPhone. You put them on, finding them to meet your standards, when suddenly, you see a mirror. Not the one in front of the barber chair, another.

Were you always blonde ? You can’t really remember, but… it’s the perfect position to take a selfie, isn’t it ? So you open the phone, enter your code, and move it up and down until you get the lighting perfect. Then, you take it.

Perfection.

Its very definition.

You look so hot, everyone’s gonna fall to their knees.

And when you leave the private room, opting for a heavy gait to show off your ripped muscles better, you notice your mom, who looks half-proud, half-horrified at you. But you don’t really care for her, what you really care about is all the people staring at you, checking you out. Even Jonathan Nasukawa, that ikemen, hyper-hot guy who cut your hair, looks at you proudly.

And as you rock your few remaining braincells to find somewhere you can show off better, you can only find one appropriate place to go.

You find yourself in front of your local Spanish-language association. You thought that taking a few classes in Spanish would help you recover some of the long forgotten classes you took in high school… though in all honesty, it won’t likely do much. You’re quite old, now, so it means that your brain cannot learn new languages as easily as it used to...

As you enter, you see the Mexican flag front and center, along with flags of many other Latin American countries, as well as that of Spain. You walk up to the receptionist, and she tells you, directly in Spanish :

“¡Bienvenidos! ¿Cuál es el motivo de usted venida? (Welcome ! What is the reason you came here ?) - Er…” You try to conjure some of the very old memories, and only manage a “Hola !” Before going back to English. “I’m sorry, I don’t really know Spanish… I’m here to take classes, in fact.”

The receptionist nods, and thinks a bit before taking out a timetable.

“Okay, well, you see, I have a... beginner’s course of Spanish in a few hours… It’s not perfect because they already started in January, but I think you can still catch up if you work hard enough.” She says, with a perfect American accent. She is visibly bilingual. - Oh, in a few hours ?”

You are quite interested, considering that you did want some beginner-level courses, but in a few hours… That’s too short to just go back home and come back later, but that’s also too long to just stay here and wait without getting bored !

The receptionist notices your embarrassment.

“You know, we are also a place where Spanish learners and native speakers can hang out. If you want, you can go to the hangout room while waiting ?” She offers sympathetically. - Well yeah, I could do that.” You nod. It may be geared towards more hard-core learners, but you can always try to immerse yourself…

You go to the room she waves you to. It isn’t loud, but there’s quite a lot of people in it, all speaking Spanish. You go and find somewhere to sit, when, on your way, someone hails you.

“¡Hola! ¿Cómo te llamas? (Hello ! (...) ?)”

Your long-buried memories start churning, as you recognize the second sentence as meaning something like “What’s your name ?”. You think a while, and then, flash of brilliance.

“Me llamo Charlie.” You answer, giving out your name in the most American of accents.

Your conversation partner smiles, and speaks quite slowly to let you understand what he means.

“¿Cuántos años tiene?” You understand the sentence to mean ‘How old are you ?’ - Er… Soy… cuarenta y dos… años ?” You try, but he shakes his head. - No, ¡es ‘Tengo ventidós’ o ‘Tengo ventidós años’!”

You blush of embarrassment as he corrects you. Yes, you now remember that to mean “I am x years old” you say “Tengo x (años)”… you even remember the worksheets from way back when… Huh, it seems like it was less far of a memory than you thought.

“Lo siento…” You excuse yourself with sentence that came back strangely fast. - ¡Jajaja!” He laughs. “¡No te preocupes! ¡Hablar español es difícil! (Don’t worry ! Speaking Spanish is difficult !)”

You are surprised how easy it is to understand him. Visibly, you had more memories than you expected ! Then, that guy continues.

“¿De dónde es? (Where are you from ?) - Soy de… Mexico… Nuevo Mexico. (I’m from… Mexico… New Mexico.)”

You almost stumbled on yourself. There seems to be something wrong with that statement. You know you’re American, but something seems wrong…

“Ah, de... ¿Nuevo México? Pero tu acento no suena asi… (Ah, from… New Mexico ? But your accent doesn’t seem like it comes from there...) - Si, es verdad… (Yes, it’s true...)” You’re about to tell him that it’s because you’re American, but then you say : “La gente dice que tengo un acento de la Ciudad de Mexico. Sabes, Mexihco Hueyaltepetl. (People say that I have an accent from Mexico City. You know, Mexihco Hueyaltepetl (?).)”

Wait, why do people say that ? You never went to Mexico City ! Okay, yes, you did go there for the holidays, after all, your father lives there… Wait, your parents aren’t separated !

You get more and more confused as multiple versions of your history start competing with each other.

“¡Ah, tenía razón! Puedo verlo en tu cara que eres… eh… ¿mexiqueño? (Ah, I was right ! I can see by your face that you are… er… from Mexico City ?) - ¡Jajaja!” You laugh. “¡No se dice ‘mexiqueño’! ¡Se dice capitalino, o chilango si estás familiarizado! (You don’t say “Mexiqueño” ! You say “Capitalino”, or “Chilango” if you’re familiar !)” You don’t quite know where this knowledge comes from. It seems like something only locals would know… - Perdón, soy chileno, no lo sabía… (Sorry, I’m Chilean, I didn’t know...)”

You smile at him. Of course, he couldn’t know that, you’re familiar with these terms because you’re a Chilango through and through ! Born in the city, lived in the city ! Yet you furrow your brows, as something still feels off.

Somehow, you’re convinced that you’re American, even though it seems to be a more and more distant fact. Well, when you look down and see those tan arms, you know that you aren’t, like, a total gringo, you’re at least part Latino…

“¿Cómo es la vida allá? (How is life there ?)” The Chilean guy asks you, a torrent of memories coming back (?) to you. - ¡Es complicado de describir! Pero México es muy dinámico, ¡entonces siempre es interesante! (It’s difficult to describe ! But Mexico is very dynamic, so it’s always interesting !)” You think back to how frantic life is over there… and how much you love that. “Especialmente comparado con aquí, parece que esta citudad está muerta… ¡En México siempre hay un xochitzin con el que te puedes topar! (Especially when compared to here, this city seems dead… In Mexico, there’s always an xochitzin (?) you can run into !)”

As the Chilean nods, you keep getting quite confused. You know you’re from Mexico City, you know you’re American, yet somehow there is like… a piece of the puzzle missing. You keep on thinking strange words like “Mexihco Hueyaltepetl” or “ihni”, and you know it’s not Spanish, nor English – not that you would know too much of that language.

You continue thinking as your body starts feeling strange, as you feel it shifting. You put your hand on your forehead and sense your wrinkles relaxing. You feel quite queasy…

“¿Estás bien? (Are you alright ?) - Me siento un poco mareada… (I feel a bit dizzy…) - Sólo tienes que ir al baño. ¿Quieres que te ayude? (Just go to the toilets. You want me to help ?) - No, estará bien. Tlazohcamati. (No, it’s gonna be alright. (???)) - Okay… eh... ¿Eres indígenas? (Okay… er… Are you a Native American ?)”

You don’t answer the Chilean, only giving him a small wave to thank him. You find your way to the toilets, still queasy, and look at yourself.

You’ve got your usual short black hair, your nascent beard that doesn’t want to come along, your brownish tint, as well as your light muscles. Nothing looks out of place, yet something seems wrong.

Is it the fact that you are so youthful ? You know you’re quite twinky. Is it the fact that your skin looks weird ? You know that it’s clearer than the other’s because your mother is gringo.

You feel even more queasy, as you feel your entire body tensing. Memories come back of your time in the gym, but also of the time with all your xochitzmeh (bros)… Yes, you now remember how you’re the son of an American linguist and a Nahua man. How you grew up speaking Nahuatl along with the other kids from around Mexico City. How you started going to the gym to prove that gays aren’t cuiltemeh (sissies/fags). How you now cringe to that line of thought, yet continue doing it to attract guys.

As the pieces of your life go back together, your queasiness dissipates, and you feel better. You drink a bit of water, and then you go back to the hangout room. As you go in there, the Chilean hails you once again.

“¡Charlie! ¿Esta mejor? (Charlie ! Doing better ?)”

Laughable, “Charlie” is only the nickname your grandparents use when you’re at their house… Why does that guy even know it ?

“¡Mi nombre no es Charlie, es Carlos! ¡Carlos Zopiyactle! (My name isn’t Charlie, it’s Carlos ! Carlos Zopiyactle !)” You say in a very matter-of-fact fashion. - Lo siento, pensé que te llamabas Charlie… (Sorry, I thought that you were named Charlie...) - No es nada. (It’s nothing.)” You answer with a very Mexican accent, aspirating your ‘s’. “Pero, tengo que irme ahora. ¡Adiós! (However, I need to go now. Goodbye !) - ¡Adiós, Carlos! (Goodbye, Carlos !)”

You leave the room, go past the receptionist who smiles at you a bit weirdly, and make your way back to your grandparent’s home. You don’t really like going there, because you’re not very good in English, but eh. Pleasing your mom is a good enough reason.

Suddenly, you hear a very familiar-sounding sound from your phone. You open it, seeing a notification, smile, and answer it before calling your mother.

“¡Cualli teotlaltzintli! ¡Amo niyaz tlacualpan! (Good evening ! I’m not going to be there for dinner !) - Pff… ¡Aic timotlamahzehua nanmonahuac! (Pff… You never come eat with us !) - Nomati, pero tengo cosas que hacer. (I know, but I have things to do.)” You say, switching back a bit to Spanish. - ¿Zannima tihual mocuepaz? (You will come back soon ?) - Quema. Nantli, nimitz nequi. (Yes. Mom, I love you.) - Ohuihqui nimitz nequi. (I love you too.)”

You finish the call and smile. She doesn’t have to know that you’re missing the family dinners to be pounded. Those jocks on Grindr don’t know what your pseudonym “Moiztactlaca” means, but it sounds foreign, and they love it.

Soon, you’re going back home to Mexico City, but it doesn’t mean that you can’t take advantage of all the hot guys here in the meantime !

Thank you very much for organizing it !

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

To @fafnir19

You sat at your desk, readying yourself for yet another soul-sucking day of office work.

You may be writing loads of stories on the internet, of people growing in and out of wealth, of demons and creatures, and most of all of transformation, but back in the real world, everything feels so much more static. Yesterday’s problems are today’s problems, and today’s problems are tomorrow’s problems. A never-ending series of crisis after crisis, which somehow always swap roots yet never swap effects. You can at least consider yourself fortunate that your pay is comfortable enough so that you can weather these, even if it means having to look in the eyes of someone who has little, and answer their request for starting something greater in the negative.

But today, there seems to be some agitation in the office. A change in the routine. Something to bring you out of the intensive mundane and the boring busyness.

So you ask the colleague with which you share desk a part in today’s gossip, and what he answers may surprise you :

“Nathaniel Nostitz has come here ! I don’t know why he’s here, but I’m sure everyone wants to bag him !”

Now, as a banker, you do keep an eye on the important fortunes in your area, and the Nostitz family is one of them – if not the most important. You know that their family comes from Silesia, but that there was recently some family drama with his son, or at least that’s what the few articles of showbiz about him that some colleague forced you to read said. You don’t actually care, but you do know that such an important family coming to see a standard local bank is quite… unusual.

But you know to keep your head down and not cause unnecessary problems. You won’t be able to convince him to do anything with you, and he may be tempted to destroy your career if you’re too annoying. Therefore, you go back on working on your computer, some case of investment account or something. Boring, but safe.

That’s why you were surprised when, suddenly, you hear a deep sultry voice speaking right next to you.

“Greetings. I think I have a proposal that may interest you.”

You look up to suddenly see a middle-aged looking blonde man, impeccably dressed and styled, sporting a bit bushy beard.

Is he… actually Mr. Nostitz ? He looks quite a bit younger than you expected… and more attractive… but it may be due to him having access to all the best treatments money can pay, after all. However, as he looks right in your eyes, you suddenly understand that the proposal – a business proposal, you guess – was aimed at you.

“Oh, er…” You stumble, not having expected this turn of events. “Greetings to you too, sir… what is that proposal about ?”

He smiles when you call him ‘sir’. Somehow, this smile seems almost… predatory ? Of some kind ?

“I’d be willing to place some of my fortune in your care… therefore in the care of this bank, if you were willing to grant me a few... favors.” He smiles, trying his hardest to look innocent while he is, in effect, holding you hostage to your company’s expectations. - I… I’ll think about it, sir…” You answer evasively, taken by surprise. - Of course, of course !” He smiles, looking even more predatory and threatening than before. He gives you a black piece of cardboard paper. “Here’s my business card, for when you’ve taken your decision.”

On that not-so-subtle order to accept, he takes his leave, leaving you confused in-between the jealous and judgy eyes of your colleagues. And as expected, you’re immediately summoned by your boss. He urges you to accept without delay, promising you a share of the high profits that a share of the Nostitz fortune will bring the bank.

And the door if you dare refuse.

That’s why you’re now here, in front of this huge manor, as ready as you can manage to be to throw yourself in the lion’s den.

The manor is very big, and very beautiful. Its fine architecture betrays its age, which shows how entrenched the Nostitz familly is, around here. A butler welcomes you inside, and leads you up to Mr. Nostitz’s office, though not without ridding you of your coat. And as you stand in front of the old wooden ebony door, you gather your courage before knocking.

“Enter.” The low and sultry voice orders.

You follow suit, opening the door, and finding Mr. Nostitz reading some files on a well-organized desk, with only a suspicious brown mallet throwing the neatness off.

“Hello, Mr. Nostitz.” You start, but as you’re about to continue, he cuts you with his authoritative voice. - Greetings. So you’re here to discuss my… proposition, are you not ? - Y-yes, sir, I am.”

He puts his files down, and stands up, towards one of the racks on the wall, looking through binder after binder.

“You see… ever since my son decided that our wealth was… problematic, I had a little project in mind. And when I saw you, I knew you were the perfect candidate for it.”

Son leaving ? Wealth problematic ? You the perfect candidate ? … it seems like the family drama you desperately wanted to know as little as you could about comes back to bite you in the ass…

“I’m sorry sir, I-” You start backing off, but he cuts you once again, his mere presence silencing you. - I want to do a little experiment on you.” He says, having found the documents he was searching for, reaching for the mallet and opening it in front of your eyes. “These… potions, you may call them, have some effects that I want to study. And you’re the perfect man for it. - Sir, I’m sorry to say that, but I don’t know if I want to risk my health with an untested substance !” You start refusing, tampering it as much as you can. - Of course, your refusal is to be expected when presented with so few information.” Somehow, this felt like a jab at you. “However, I guarantee that it is safe, it has been tested on numerous animals, and it’s been proven to be safe for humans. Besides, the papers I brought out here make me liable for any disease related to this… treatment.”

At least he was thoughtful, and didn’t ask you to jump in with full faith. However, he does ask you to jump in blind, which is more problematic.

“And, this treatment…” You interject, finding an opening in the conversation. “What does it do ? - Ah, yes, a most important query.” He comments, yet again preventing you from going further in your thought. “Let’s just say that it may trigger a few… changes in your body. Most importantly, it will make you look younger.”

Changes ? Younger ? These are two keywords that draw your attention, as they usually belong to that other part of your life… You are quite a bit more excited than you should be, but the chance to experiment with at least part of one of your oldest dreams, one that felt like it could only ever belong to fiction, clouds your judgment.

Such was Mr. Nostitz’s plan.

“I… I’m interested.” You finally manage, feeling it’s safe and enviable enough to throw the remainder of your caution to the wind. - That’s perfect. Then, I’d ask you to sign those papers, please.”

You skimp over them quickly before signing, hopefully catching anything big that would be lying in the text, but you find none. Assuming that no surprises remained, you sign. On that, Mr. Nostitz smiles maliciously, yet again looking like a predator, before reaching in the mallet and drawing a small glass flask, half-filled by an opaque cyan liquid.

“Then we should start now, don’t you say ? Please drink this.” He orders with his deep, authoritative voice. - O-okay…”

You were not expecting to start this so soon, but you’re quite weak to the strength of his voice… So you drink it. It doesn’t taste good, a bit too salty to your taste, but it’s not that bad. You know foods that tasted a lot worse. As you feel it coursing down your esophagus, you start expecting some effects, standing in silence, looking discreetly at your skin. But this just makes Mr. Nostitz elegantly laugh.

“Are you expecting instantaneous results ? You should wait until tomorrow, at the very least !”

You blush of shame from this, before deciding to cut this meeting there, since the treatment has already been administered. But before you can properly address your salutations, he stops you :

“I’m sorry, but now isn’t the time to go. See, it’s already late, so you won’t be able to go back to work.” He is correct, it is 7PM already, but you don’t understand why he’s stopping you like that. - I’m sorry, sir, but I… should really go home.” You say with the utmost care, not wanting to appear rude. - My, don’t you know you that, during the duration of the experiment, you agreed to lodging here ?”

You freeze.

You didn’t know that. Was it written in the document you signed ? Did you not notice it ? You did skimp through it, but surely such a motion would have jumped to you… However, taken in surprise, you improvise, lying to try and save face.

“Y-yes, of course, but I… need to get some things from home ! I can’t stay here with only what I have on me !” Hopefully he will buy your excuse. - Don’t worry, we have everything necessary on hand here. It might not be what you’re used to, but… everyone needs a bit of luxury in their life, if you catch what I’m saying.” He snidely smiles to you. - I’ll… see what I can do with…” You admit defeat, though surrendering to luxury isn’t the hardest thing to do. - That’s great ! The butler will lead you to your room.”

On that, the butler opens the door, and urges you to follow him. He leads you through beautiful corridor after beautiful corridor, all stinking money, until you reach another door. Inside is a spacious bedroom suite, likely bigger than your first flat, even without including the bathroom. It looks quite a bit more modern than the rest of the house, but with no less old money woody tones.

The butler leaves you alone inside, where, immediately after putting down the few things you were still carrying, you rush to the bathroom. However, you’re disappointed when you look inside the mirror and… it’s still you on the other side. Well, you expect it to still be you, but still, not seeing any change does bum you down.

This taken care of, you look around the room to get a bit more familiar with it. If it’s where you’re going to stay in the near future, you’d want to know where to find things of interest.

You start by the bathroom, finding a lot of hygiene stuff, including products for the skin and for the hair, as well as multiple bottles of expensive cologne and, weirdly enough, condoms… that are too big for your dick. Great. You move to the closet, in which you find a wealth of clothes, all fitted to your size – though they’re a bit loose on you, not by much, but noticeable enough – as if Mr. Nostitz knew you’d come. However, you’re surprised by their diversity. While there of course are the dress shirts and suits you’d expect, as well as polos, sweaters and other preppy clothes, there’s also some more young – for lack of a better word – clothes like a collection of jackets, t-shirts and even tank tops.

You close the closet back up, thinking to yourself that you’d never need this much clothes, but that you appreciate the thought. Having barely closed that piece of furniture, the butler invites you for dinner. He leads you to a grand dinner room, outfitted with a long wooden table, on which only two places were set.

You take place in front of one, while Mr. Nostitz takes place on the other side. On that follows a floury of expensive dishes, served as if you were at a high-grade restaurant. While you ate each of the courses, you entertained a lively discussion with Mr. Nostitz about investment, and about how his money would be taken care of, now that it is in your care.

That is, after all, the primary reason of your stay. Even if it got eclipsed by another.

Once the meal was finished, Mr. Nostitz waved you goodbye, and the butler accompanied you to your room. You did as usual, preparing yourself for bed, changing into your nightwear, brushing your teeth and all that. But as you were doing that, you noticed that your hair looked a bit… brighter than usual ?

It must have been the lighting, you think to yourself as you fall to sleep in the giant and extremely comfortable bed.

You are woken up by the butler at an early hour, as he tells you that breakfast will be served before you go to work. Ah… yes, right, you forgot, with how comfy the bed was, that you weren’t in holidays. So you stretch a bit, but as you enter the bathroom, something doesn’t look right…

It takes you a moment before you manage to figure it out.

Your hair was now blonde ! And curly !

You look out to your bedroom, but the butler isn’t here, so you look back in the mirror. God, that hair looks so healthy… You pinch yourself a few times, before you decide that you’re actually in the real world, and that this is now your hair.

A bit confused, you look in the myriad of products, and see that all the products for the hair are made for wavy or curly hair… how fortunate… So, you put some in your hair, hoping that they will make the mess that you woke up with more dignified, before continuing your morning routine as you usually do.

However, now the fact that there actually was a transformation makes you all excited for whatever comes next. You’re actually living your fantasy ! The one you thought wasn’t impossible in the real world !

Jovial, you eat, and enter the limousine, before being dropped off in front of your bank. You’re so happy about all that that you don’t even register the fact that you’re coming to work in a limousine, and sporting a healthier, curlier and blonder hairstyle than you ever had in your life. Though your colleague don’t ignore that, as you do manage to overhear people gossiping about those very things, you… really couldn’t care less. It just felt quite unimportant, really, when compared to everything else.

The day of work was over pretty quickly, and before you could even worry about going back to the manor, you see the limousine that drove you to your bank stationed in front, disturbing traffic in the meantime. You’d usually feel a bit guilty of being the reason of other’s frustrations, but somehow, you’re so happy that you just don’t care. Yet again.

As you enter, greeted by the chauffeur, it even starts feeling a bit normal, how you’re greeted with the utmost deference, how you are given privileges, how people are waiting for you…

You shake your head. This state of affairs is temporary, do not get used to the luxury. In a week, you’ll be back to your usual grind.

Arrived at destination, you enter the manor, expecting to see Mr. Nostitz, but he is nowhere to be found. That’s weird, you haven’t seen him in the whole day… you were eager to show him the golden curls you acquired… You furrow your brow at your sudden thought, finding them a bit out of character until you remember that you’re in an experiment. Of course the one responsible for holding the experiment should keep a close look on their patient.

But here you are, on your bed, not having seen him anywhere. You had the time to explore the mansion further, to write part of your next story, and relax, yet when the butler called you to go eat, you still hadn’t seen him. Taking place at the table, you also noticed that there was only one place setting. None for the elusive master of this mansion.

Adding insult to injury, before the first course, the butler comes back with a small flask, of the same kind that you took yesterday, filled in half with yesterday’s opaque cyan liquid. You sigh of frustration and take it from the butler’s hand, a bit more aggressively than you wanted to, and drink it, before unleashing your growing anger at the poor employee :

“Why isn’t Mr. Nostitz here ? He should be eating with me ! - Sir, Mr. Nostitz’s schedule is very busy, you were fortunate to have been able to share a dinner with him yesterday.” Explains calmly the butler, as if he’s seen this kind of tantrums many times. - That’s… understandable…” You answer, starting to calm down.

You eat each subsequent course in silence, trying to understand the reason of your anger. It’s not as if you really cared about Mr. Nostitz… he hosts you and runs this experiment, but you have only known each others for two days, and it’s not like it was love at first sight… After finishing your meal, you come back to your room, hoping to have a quiet evening after that feat of anger.

And as such started to create a bit of a routine for yourself.

On the morning, you checked the mirror for any change, noticing that you got taller, younger, more muscular and handsomer – for lack of a better word. You then take breakfast, ride up the limousine to your bank, slog through a workday becoming progressively boring as the days go on, and get relieved to find the limousine waiting for you in front of the building. Coming back to the mansion, you drink the flask, and then come out of your shell more and more, watching TV on the huge one in the living room, playing the latest Fifa if the urge takes you, going for a walk in the big gardens or even working out in the private gym, that seemed suspiciously new. And before sleeping, you use a progressively bigger amount of beauty products, noticing the odd few additional changes like your dick enlarging or your eyes taking on a blue color.

This life is becoming progressively comfier – not that it was painful by any means – and you feel more and more at home in the giant, faceless manor that you inhabit. Having a butler take care of you, being driven by a limousine, eating the finest foods, wearing the finest silk… all that luxury is starting to become second nature. The week flew by, and it was already time for the weekend. The last days of your experiment, the last days of a luxury that you will surely miss. And all that, without even having caught a glimpse of Mr. Nostitz.

You are now basically unrecognizable from the tired banker that came in this mansion. Now a handsome young man with blonde curls, all the fancy clothes that were bought for you fit like a glove thanks to the new muscles. As you take a last photo in front of the estate’s forest, you wonder if you should try opening an Instagram account. After all, your good looks aren’t going away, and work is just getting so boring...

But suddenly, your butler asks you to come urgently. Nonchalantly, you follow him to the mansion, where there seem to be a lot more people than usual. Is there a party of some kind happening ? You stroll in, finding Mr. Nostitz at the center of a small crowd. Finally ! He is here ! He will finally be able to see what you became !

So you hurry in his direction, drawing the ire of some of the guests. But you don’t actually care, they shouldn’t have been in your way in the first place. You are now in hearing distance from the architect of your experiment, but as you’re about to make yourself known to him, his voice overpowers you. However, it isn’t addressed to you, but rather at a guest.

“Cassandra, why must you raise this issue in a day of rejoicing !” As he told that, he looked briefly at you, noticing your presence. - Nathaniel, you cannot continue this charade ! Leandra has long passed, and even your own son agrees that you can’t continue claiming the fortune ! You are not part of our family anymore !” A well-dressed woman – Cassandra, you assume – with long curly dirty blonde hair insisted, angrily. - This son of mine isn’t able to manage our fortune, you can at least agree with me on that. Besides, I was married to Leandra, my beloved, so you know the implications. - Quit trying to act as if you’re part of our kin. We will need to see you in court, if you do not heed this last warning !” She said ominously, although it only drew Mr. Nostitz’s smile. An evil and predatory smile, as always. - If you’re talking like that… then I assume you are not acquainted with her second son.”

Second son ? You thought he only had one ! … and clearly, so did the rest of the room, who fell silent, looking at Mr. Nostitz with incredulity.

“Stop inventing excuses. If Leandra had another son, I would have been aware ! - Well, in this case, we may make introductions !”

He suddenly strides towards you, grabbing you by the arm, and as you stand there incredulous, he announces :

“I present to you my son. Leandra’s second son, and my second son. The true heir of the Nostitz family.”

A gasp of shock sleeps through the entire room, which would have included you if Mr. Nostitz hadn’t squeezed your arm at the right moment. Just what is he playing at ! Last you checked, you remember your parents, and none of them seem to belong to the Nostitz family that stands here, and you’re quite sure that Mr. Nostitz is in no way your father.

Yet, after the initial shock and denials, you hear people in attendance starting to notice similarities between you and your supposed parents. Some point out the curls like Leandra, or the blonde like Mr. Nostitz, some say your face looks like one member of the family or another, and other say you stature reminds them of Mr. Nostitz.

Out of them all, Cassandra, although she was just as shocked as the others, if not more, was the first to speak out against this assertions.

“This… is ridiculous ! You can’t just invent a new son to keep a hold of the money ! - I’m not inventing anyone. He was just… raised in another family to prevent him from being corrupted like his older brother. - This is pure and utter nonsense ! I require proof ! Irrefutable proof that he is your son, and Leandra’s son ! - All in due time, I knew you would react like that, so I prepared all the necessary prerequisites to make a paternity test. I wanted to present him to you all to continue this process.” Suddenly, he looks at you in the eyes. “Of course, my son will be enchanted to cooperate in your quest for proof, isn’t he ?”

His look was a dare. A dare to start living a life in a lie. A dare to continue living in the mansion you inhabit. Although he neglected you during your whole stay, although you have a life outside this mansion, although you have actual parents and family, you… can’t seem to be able to refuse his request.

Is it the luxury that drew you in ? Or the transformation, making you become a whole new person altogether ? Or is it Mr. Nostitz’s authority that you don’t want to defy ? Whatever the actual reason, you smirk, and cannot help but say, in the most proud and obnoxious voice that you have :

“Yes, of course, father.”

You pose, as your butler takes a picture in front of your vineyards.

You are dressed in an expensive shirt, with a luxury watch and obnoxious Gucci sunglasses. And you wouldn’t expect any less than this display of wealth. Because even though you don’t actually run those yards, your father being the one to generate all the wealth that you benefit from, you still own them. You also own a lot of other things, noteworthy between all these possessions being the Nostitz mansion.

However, now, you don’t work a day in your life. You quit you banker job as soon as the DNA test results came in, showing that you were indeed the son of Nathaniel Nostitz and Leandra Nostitz, as this life wasn’t yours anymore. Rather, you now spend your time on Instagram, modeling and throwing party after party with your new famous or otherwise wealthy friends. These activities let you earn a surprising amount of money, although it is just a drop in the ocean of all your wealth.

But you know that you are only a puppet, living a life of hedonism while your father cultivates power on your back, created with the only aim of holding on to a fortune. And you couldn’t care less. Hedonism is fun, once you give in, and it makes you happier than you have ever been. If the price for that is any sense of life achievement… then you are more than willing to pay it all.