TF-Vigilante

"How much longer is this gonna take?" Ethan shifted, pretending to look interested. He had an exam coming up and a hundred places he’d rather be, but the man across from him only grew more animated by the second.

"So we came up with our slogan, 'Be PrEPared.'" The man practically beamed. "The boys in marketing really outdid themselves, don't you think?"

"Yeah..." Ethan caught his mind wandering and forced a smile. "I'm happy to be involved. I think population health is undervalued."

"Preach, babe." The man snapped his fingers.

Ethan grinned internally. The guy was eating out of his hand, and Ethan knew it wasn't just his answers. From the tone to blatantly checking him out, this guy fit every gay stereotype Ethan knew. What could he say? The gays loved him.

"But enough about me," the man laughed, leaning forward. "Tell me about you, hun. Why join our campaign?"

Ethan’s smile widened. He could tell the truth: he didn't give a shit about population health. He wanted a cushy specialty, and residency directors liked well-rounded resumes.

"Well, I think this is a great opportunity to support..." Ethan trailed off as the man raised a skeptical eyebrow. "...support marginalized groups. Happy to help de-stigmatize this stuff."

The man stared, then broke into a grin. "Oh my God, you're adorable."

Ethan let out an awkward chuckle. "That's a first." When the silence stretched into uncomfortable territory, he leaned in. "Look, I'd be good at this. Promise you won't regret bringing me on board."

The man tapped a finger against his chin. "Hmmm..." Really? Had this guy even looked at his résumé? This wasn't exactly a difficult decision, "Who would you prescribe PrEP to?" He finally asked.

"Uh…" Ethan wasn't expecting that. "Guys who sleep around, I guess." He paused, catching himself. "You know what I mean. Gay guys. Men who have sex with men."

"And would you use PrEP?"

"Uh, no." The answer shot out too quickly. The man’s eyebrow climbed, "I mean, I'm not the target demographic," Ethan corrected with a nervous laugh. "Nothing against it, but I'm not looking for sex with other men."

The man studied him for a beat, a grin spreading across his face. "Well, Ethan, I think we're gonna get along just fine."

"So that's a yes?"

"Oh, babe. That's absolutely a yes."

The tension left Ethan's shoulders. Perfect. One more line for the application. "Awesome. I appreciate the opportunity."

"We're excited to have you." The man reached beneath his desk and pulled out a small BePRePared tote bag. "Take this, hun."

"What's in it?"

"Everything you'll need for tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

The man's grin somehow widened. "Don't you worry. We'll be in touch."

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

"That took longer than I thought." Ethan returned to his apartment, tossed the BePRePared tote bag onto the couch, and sat at his desk to study, "Fuck, I'm behind."

He stared at his digital flashcards, trying to prepare his best for his upcoming exam. But the text blurred. He blinked and stared at the card.

"What the hell?" He knew the answer to this, or at least he did yesterday. A suffocating brain fog rolled over him, as a dull ache started behind his eyes. His mind went completely blank, "Am I getting sick?"

Shoving himself away from the desk, he ran his hands through his hair. His neat trim felt dense, curling thickly between his fingers. He paused and ran his hand through his hair again, slower this time.

"How...?" Suddenly, the room tilted and sweat broke out across Ethan’s forehead, his joints throbbed, "Shit..." He couldn't afford to get sick, not when he had his first gig with BePrEPared tomorrow. The thought made him stop, "What am I thinking? Must be the fever... fucking with my head... Need water..."

He stumbled toward the kitchen and reached for a glass, barely noticing the fabric of his sleeve straining against his growing bicep. He quickly chugged his water, and froze when he wiped his chin. There was thick, rough stubble there. As if he hadn't shaved in a week.

"Fevers can... cause... hallucinations." He reasoned, although his thoughts were coming slower now, "Need... sleep..."

The room spun and his temperature spiked as he stumbled over towards the couch. He weakly pulled his scrub top off and threw it aside, his palms brushing through the thick, dark mat of body hair sprouting across his chest. But he barely recognized any of this, as his vision blurred and body grew weaker. He grabbed the tote bag on the couch and dropped it to the ground, the contents spilling out.

"What the fuck is this?" Ethan muttered, his voice dropping an octave, settling deeper. He felt a surge of irritation. This was a joke. They couldn't be serious. He was a medical student, for God's sake, not a...

Yet, as he stared at the blue speedo, his mind drifted to thinking about the happy, muscular campaign ambassadors he remembered seeing on the website. No exams. No residency stress. Just having fun and being noticed.

"Must be nice..." He fell onto the couch, and wiped sweat away from his forehead, "Fuck..." He smiled weakly, "I bet I’d look good in that Speedo." he thought.

He blinked, horrified by his own thought. Where had that come from? He shook his head, trying to clear the fog, but the movement only triggered a vicious wave of nausea.

"This isn't… a normal virus," he muttered. The words felt clumsy on his tongue, "Something's... wrong... with me..."

Ethan's hands drifted across his torso, tangling in the growing, dense dark body hair that was spreading now across his stomach. Beneath the coarse mat, his pectorals had swollen into heavy, solid shelves of muscle, hard and burning to the touch. He squeezed his own chest, a delirious, breathless laugh escaping him as his thumb traced over a newly sensitive, hyper-reactive nipple. He pinched it, and a sharp, slutty jolt of pure pleasure shot straight to his groin.

"Fuck," Ethan groaned, "Fuck... fuck... fuck..."

The room was spinning now and he was starting to see things that he knew shouldn't be there. He saw Joshua, sitting and smirking in the corner of the room.

"You're... not here." He slurred, "Leave me... alone..."

He closed his eyes tightly, and the hallucination of Joshua blurred and shifted. He was suddenly surrounded by nameless men crowding over the couch. He could feel them. Their heavy, rugged palms gripping his broadened shoulders, rough fingers digging greedily into his newly full, heavy ass, squeezing his thickening muscles. With a grunt, he flipped onto his stomach, and arched his ass.

"Ah... fuck..." Ethan groaned, drool leaking from his mouth. He whimpered as he felt something press against his exposed hole, "Pl...Please..."

His hand slithered past the tight elastic of his boxers, wrapping around a cock that was longer, thicker, and harder than it had ever been. He began to pump it in a frantic, heavy rhythm, his muscular thighs flexing with every stroke. He didn't care about the exam. He didn't care about residency. He just wanted to be a dumb, hot object. He wanted to be used.

“Would you use PrEP, babe?” Joshua’s voice echoed in his head.

"Wh-why... would... I?" Ethan moaned, "I'm... not... Oh... fuck..." He gagged suddenly as he felt the heavy pressure of a thick cock pushing deep into his throat, stretching his jaw and cutting off his breath, while another massive, rigid shaft slammed brutally up his ass, "Th... this isn't... real..." He thought, even as his jaw ached.

Every thrust of the thick, veiny shaft plugging his throat made his eyes water as he gagged. Simultaneously, he felt his ass being stretched wider as the skin-on-skin pounding drove his lower body forward, burying his face deeper into the cushions with each wet, heavy slap.

“What’s the doctor word for... not breathing?” he tried to ask himself, “Can't... think of it. Mind... fuzzy. So heavy.”

The ambient hum of his laptop fan and the quiet of the night vanished, completely replaced by a deep, thumping electronic base that vibrated directly through the cushions beneath his chest. His brain couldn't quite process the switch. Even the clinical definitions of auditory hallucinations felt too distant, too complicated to grasp.

“Music?” Ethan thought, his cognitive processing slowing to a crawl. “Music... nice... feels good...”

Even the scent of the room was suddenly different. A thick, heavy cloud of cologne, raw male sweat, and latex filled his lungs with every desperate, choking gasp.

“Smells... good,” the simple thought drifted lazily through his mind, “Warm. Thick. Smells like... men. Sex."

He let out a choked gasp as the cock went deeper down his throat. Panicking with what little logical faculty he had left, Ethan whipped his hands upward, fully intending to push away whatever hallucination was blocking his airway and clamping his jaw open.

“Get it out... need to study... am a doctor...”

But instead of empty air, his palms connected firmly with hot, sweaty flesh. The solid, moving hips of a man rhythmically thrusting down his throat.

“No... Wha...? Not a dream? Real. Big. So big. In my mouth. Up my ass.”

He reached out desperately, trying to find leverage, but instead his thicker palms and fingers clamped directly around two pulsing, rigid cocks. His broadened shoulders flexed automatically as his palms wrapped tight, his fingers squeezing the thick shafts as he began to stroke them in a frantic, heavy rhythm. His body knew exactly what to do, even if his brain could no longer define it.

“Stroke them... make them feel good,” his dumbed-down thoughts hummed, completely content to abandon his studies. “Good boy. Do what they want. Just a hot object.”

The thumping music grew louder, accompanied by the rapid, rhythmic click-whir of a professional camera shutter and deep, masculine groans of approval close to his ears.

"Look at him take it," a deep, gravelly voice chuckled right above him. "The new guy's an absolute natural."

Flash. Flash.

An intense, blinding glare of white-hot light penetrated right through his closed eyelids. The searing heat radiating against his skin wasn't a fever spike anymore; it was the burning warmth of professional studio lighting hanging directly overhead.

Ethan’s eyes snapped open.

He wasn't in his apartment. No, he was pinned face-down on a leather sofa in the center of a roaring photography studio. He could see his reflection in a mirror. Bulkier, hairier... sexier... sporting a toy stethoscope over his hair-covered chest and a tiny blue Speedo that was completely soaked through.

"Oh my gawd..." He thought, eyes watering.

A tall, rugged model stood over him, holding Ethan's face up by a tight fist in his thick, curly hair as he slid deep into Ethan’s throat. Behind him, a massive, tatted model was burying himself ruthlessly into Ethan’s expanded, aching glutes, slamming his hips forward with a heavy, wet slap. To his left and right, two more models leaned over the couch, grinning down at him as Ethan’s large, rough hands rapidly pumped them.

"Fuck... where'd you find this guy?"

Ethan's eyes were wide now, but the panic he expected to feel never came. His mind was too beautifully empty, too saturated with testosterone and pleasure. Board scores, residency applications, the endless stress of his old life...

“I’m the PrEP boy,” his thoughts drifted, “Dumb... hot... please... use me.”

"Keep going, hun, you're doing amazing," Joshua called out over the music, gesturing to the lens. "So, let's hear it for the campaign! Would you use PrEP?"

The thick cock down his throat pulled out with a wet pop, a line of drool running down his heavy, stubbled chin. He looked straight into the camera lens, his mind completely wiped of medical terminology. None of that mattered anymore. He was a BePRePared model. He was beautiful, he was being used, and he loved it.

"Y-Yes..." Ethan gasped out, his voice a deep, thoroughly broken baritone. His hips gave a desperate, simple twitch against the man behind him. "Yes... God, yes..."

The photographer grinned, clicking the shutter rapidly. "Perfect! That's the money shot!"

With a final, shattering surge of friction, the man behind him buried himself to the hilt, releasing deep inside him. Simultaneously, the model in front of him painted Ethan's face and thick, hairy chest, while the two men in his hands blew their loads over his fingers. And Ethan's own massive, leaking cock throbbed and fired a heavy stream into his tight, blue speedo.

"So good..." He moaned, falling back onto the couch and looking up at the other models with a dumb, happy grin, "More…?" he slurred, a thick bead of drool tracking down his chin and mixing with the man's seed. "More… please… use me more…"

"Don't you worry." Joshua patted him on the shoulder, while the other models chuckled, "You're our star now, Ethan. We've got plenty of work lined up for you." He nodded over at the photographer.

"Next shoot is in twenty minutes, boys," the photographer called out, adjusting his lens with a grin. "Clean him up just enough to do it all over again."

│ NAME: "Antisocial vending machine"

│ CODE: STR-372

│ STATUS: [Active] — the location is moving within London

│ DANGER CLASS: Keter

│ TYPE OF EXPOSURE: Psi-luring + chemical-biological transformation

DESCRIPTION OF THE OBJECT

The object is a cigarette vending machine, externally identical to outdated models [DATA DELETED] that were massively installed in the UK between 1995 and 2010. The case is a faded red, with numerous scratches, marker inscriptions, and impact marks on the bottom. The glass of the showcase is cracked, the backlight inside either does not work, or randomly flashes yellow-white light. There is no information about the manufacturer or service organization on the top panel, and all serial numbers have been deleted.

The facility is not connected to the electrical network — a technical check showed that there is no power cable, but the internal mechanism continues to function independently, and the backlight and coin acceptance systems operate without an external power source. The machine accepts only coins (denominations of 50 pence, 1 and 2 pounds, depending on the brand of cigarettes). Paper bills and bank cards are not accepted, although the corresponding slots are available.

A special characteristic of the object is a powerful psi effect that begins to affect potential victims from a distance of 10 to 50 meters. The effect is expressed as follows:

The victim begins to experience a sudden, inexplicable desire to smoke (even if they have never smoked before).

The victim feels that she has coins in her pocket

The victim loses the ability to critically assess the situation.

The psi effect increases at night (from 22:00 to 05:00) and in the complete absence of witnesses nearby.

The object appears exclusively in sparsely populated places: backyards of shopping malls, underpasses, parking lots at closed pubs, dead ends of residential areas (estates), deserted alleys in industrial areas. The frequency of appearance varies: an object can stay in one place from 1 to 7 days, after which it spontaneously moves to another location within a radius of 5-15 miles.

PROPERTIES / ABNORMAL CHARACTERISTICS

After the victim succumbs to the psi effect, goes to the vending machine and makes a purchase, the transformation process starts. The machine emits a characteristic mechanical click, after which a standard pack of cigarettes appears in the dispensing tray (the brand is usually low-cost). The transformation itself begins 30-120 seconds after the victim picks up the pack.

Stages of transformation:

Stage 1: Physiological restructuring

The facial features become rougher

The skin on the face and hands becomes covered with small blackheads, peeling, and pores expand. The complexion becomes sallow.

Nails turn yellow, stable dirt appears under them (analysis showed a mixture of earth and nicotine resin)

Body odor abruptly changes to heavy, sour, with distinct notes of cheap deodorant and unwashed synthetic clothing.

Hair becomes greasy, unkempt

stage 2: Dressing room intervention

The victim's clothes are completely replaced by a typical chava outfit.:

Tracksuit (usually dark blue, grey or black, with white stripes on the sides) from cheap brands.

A massive "gold" chain around the neck (8-12 mm thick, traces of gilding on the skin).

Baseball cap or beanie hat

Shoes are replaced with dirty white sneakers (a model imitating the "Reebok Classic" or "Nike Air Max" with obvious signs of forgery).

The victim's wallet/purse is completely emptied, turning into a purse; instead of money, there are checks from bookmakers.

Stage 3: Behavioral and Speech Rewriting

The gait becomes swaggering, the shoulders lean forward, the head is slightly tilted, the gaze is aggressive from under the brows.

Facial expressions become rougher: there is a constant expression of discontent or contempt for others.

The victim acquires an obsessive need to smoke.

Speech is completely changing: complex grammatical constructions disappear, Cockney-rhyming slang appears, an abundance of obscenities and threatening constructions. The victim cannot speak his original language without a characteristic chav accent - even if he tries, the words become distorted, pronunciation becomes stringy, guttural, with swallowing endings.

Cognitive abilities do not decrease physically (IQ remains the same), but the victim is unable to use logic and intelligence in everyday life.

Reversibility: possible in the first 6 hours after transformation by forcible administration of a powerful tranquilizer, isolation from tobacco and alcohol for 72 hours, and intensive psychotherapy. The efficiency is 34% (according to 12 documented attempts). After 6 hours, the changes become permanent.

VICTIM MONITORING PROTOCOLS

3.1 OBSERVATION PROTOCOL No. 1

SUBJECT: Jackson Harris (originally 24 years old, professional athlete, middle—distance runner, height 185 cm, weight 78 kg, muscle mass, clear skin, short haircut)

CIRCUMSTANCES OF THE INCIDENT:

The subject was doing an evening jog along the route he had been using for the last 3 years. The highway passed through an industrial area in the Croydon area. At about 22:35, the subject lost his way, and later testified that he "did not remember turning into the alley." When asked why he went there, he replied:

«Dunno, bruv. Just felt like I needed a fag, yeah? I don’t smoke. Never did. But I felt it in me chest, like a proper craving. Thought I’d go mad if I didn’t get one. So I went. Saw the machine. Red one, old school. Had the cash in me pocket, innit? Two quid. Never carry cash, but it was there. Must've been a sign."

DATE OF TRANSFORMATION: 03/15/20[DATA DELETED]

PURCHASE TIME: 22:47

START TIME OF TRANSFORMATION: 22:48

COMPLETION TIME: 22:53

INITIAL OBSERVATION (4 hours after transformation):

The subject was in the parking lot of a diner with two other chavs. When he saw the agents, he showed no alarm and continued smoking. He said,

"Wot, are you too good for me fags? Bet you smoke them posh ones, with the fancy filter. You’re a mug, you are. I'll bang you out if you don't watch your tone."

PSYCHOLOGICAL ASSESSMENT (after 48 hours):

The subject demonstrates a complete split of subpersonality. He is disoriented in space, refuses to help, and clumsily apologizes for his rudeness.

additionally: When trying to run (a provocative test), the subject showed significant loss of coordination and shortness of breath after 100 meters, while responding aggressively to the remarks.

STATUS: The subject has been placed under surveillance. Long-term monitoring with periodic documentation of changes is recommended.

3.2 MONITORING PROTOCOL No. 2

SUBJECT: Harry Thompson (originally 19 years old, sports college student, workout athlete, height 183 cm, weight 75 kg, clear skin, toned physique)

CIRCUMSTANCES OF THE INCIDENT:

The subject was exercising at an outdoor sports ground in the Brixton area around 23:00. According to witnesses (other visitors to the site), Harry suddenly interrupted training, threw a bottle of water and walked away towards an abandoned warehouse. The witnesses did not attach any importance to this. Harry returned 15 minutes later, but the witnesses did not recognize him — he was wearing a black tracksuit, smoking and drinking an energy drink. The witnesses contacted the police, who sent a signal to us.

DATE OF TRANSFORMATION: 03/22/20[DATA DELETED]

PURCHASE TIME: 23:08

START TIME OF TRANSFORMATION: 23:09

COMPLETION TIME: 23:14

PHYSICAL ASSESSMENT:

The subject lost approximately 4 cm of height (from 183 to 175-176 cm). Muscle mass has decreased by 15-20%, and there is swelling of the face and limbs. Lungs are signs of initial tobacco intoxication (taking into account the fact that the subject smokes for no more than 48 hours — accelerated tissue degradation). Cardiovascular system — the indicators correspond to a person who leads a sedentary lifestyle with excessive alcohol and nicotine consumption.

BEHAVIORAL OBSERVATIONS:

Within 6 hours after the transformation, the subject smoked 2 packs of cigarettes, drank 4 cans of energy drink, came into conflict with two passers-by (verbal aggression), and tried to "borrow" money from a random passerby to buy another pack.

STATUS: The subject has been placed under surveillance. On the 3rd day after the transformation, he refused to eat, demanding "only cigarettes and energy." Forced feeding has been introduced. The forecast is negative.

DIRECTION [DATA DELETED]

3.3 MONITORING PROTOCOL No. 3

THE SUBJECT: Vincent Fraser (originally 25 years old, student of the School of Art, specializing in sculpture and ceramics, height 180 cm, weight 72 kg. Toned physique)

CIRCUMSTANCES OF THE INCIDENT:

The subject was returning from the workshop at about 11:30 p.m. He usually used the route through the park, but this time, as the analysis of his phone showed, the route changed: he turned into an industrial area, which he had never done before. The surveillance footage showed that the subject was walking with an "absent look", stopped at a red vending machine, took out coins, made a purchase and remained standing in place for 3 minutes. Then he walked away from the vending machine, sat on the curb and lit a cigarette. The camera recorded his transformation.

The initial interrogation (was conducted 12 hours after the transformation.

DATE OF TRANSFORMATION: 03/28/2025

PURCHASE TIME: 23:41

START TIME OF TRANSFORMATION: 23:42

COMPLETION TIME: 23:47

CHARACTERISTIC LINES:

"Art? What a waste of time, bruv. All those hours in the studio, chisellin’ away at rocks. For what? Now I’ve got somethin’ real. I’ve got fags. I’ve got mates. I’ve got a proper life.»

STATUS: [DATA DELETED]

CONCLUSION OF THE TECHNICAL DEPARTMENT

The STR-372 object is an anomalous vending machine with a powerful psi effect that causes victims to have an uncontrollable craving for tobacco and the subsequent total personality transformation according to the type of chav subculture. The danger level is classified as Keter due to the growing number of victims and the inability to predict the location of the object.

RECOMMENDED CONTAINMENT PROTOCOL:

Monitoring: Establish a network of observers in industrial areas and on the outskirts of London, especially in the areas of Croydon, Brixton, Lewisham and the East End. Record all messages about the appearance of "red vending machines" from 22:00 to 05:00.

Localization and physical destruction: Upon detection of an object, immediate disposal with a sledgehammer. It is recorded that the object is being restored in another location within 48-72 hours, however, this gives a temporary delay and reduces the number of victims. The use of heavy machinery (excavators, bulldozers) has shown great efficiency.

Working with victims: All identified victims are subject to compulsory hospitalization with round-the-clock supervision, isolation from tobacco and alcohol, and a course of cognitive behavioral therapy for up to 6 hours from the moment of transformation.

Tim wanted a new look. He decided to dye his hair blond. He bought the first and cheapest bleach bottle he could find.

When he finished the result was not amazing. And the smell was making him dizzy. He decided to go to sleep and find a solution the Next day..

Tim went to the barber. He wore sweatpants which he usually only wore at home. But his brain was still foggy and it seemed like the best option.

Tim's brain went on autopilot and asked for a fresh cut. At the end Tim went out with a new cut and his badly bleached hair.

Paul was waiting beside the old leather chair, white sleeves rolled to his forearms, silver hair combed back, mustache curled at the ends. He looked less like a barber than the portrait of one hanging in some atelier.

Jake had always been better at imagining rooms than entering them. That was what architecture school had taught him, or maybe what it had exposed about him.

He could spend hours thinking about how a hallway narrowed before opening into light, how a ceiling height changed the feeling of a room, how brick looked different at dusk than it did at noon.

For fun he liked to paint. He could paint until three in the morning with a podcast playing and a half-finished video game paused beside him. He could present a model and explain, carefully, why a wall bent the way it did.

Continued from Pt1 here.

Jake lasted in his old body for one whole day.

On Tuesday night, after pretending not to think about it through two seminars, one studio work session, and an entire miserable dinner of cold leftover lo mein, he opened the box again. The blue vial waited.

BRO

“It’s just a test,” Jake said and he drank it while removing his shirt and walking into his bathroom - eager to see how BRO would change him - hoping he wouldn't regret giving up being a cowboy.

This one hit faster. His body did not age upward. It snapped younger and larger at the same time, like a rubber band released. His skin brightened even as his chest expanded. His shoulders widened, but differently from Cowboy Jake’s. Less weathered, more gym-built. His arms thickened with an easy athletic fullness. His stomach firmed. His waist stayed trim. His thighs pressed into his athletic shorts, filling them until the fabric was taut, exposing the bulge of his changing dick.

With summer break on horizon I have decided to create trilogy about college sports. We are starting with everybody's favourite, the wrestling. If you have other sport you want to have story about, type it to the comments. Also, as you may know, I created an account on Ko-Fi. If you like this or any of my other stores. You can tip me there.

The office smelled of stale coffee, wintergreen liniment, and the heavy, intoxicating musk of raw testosterone.

Johny stood just inside the door, nervously clutching the straps of his oversized backpack. Short, with a thin, angular frame and a perpetually shy demeanor, he looked like the academic nerd who spent his life buried in library basements rather than athletic halls. He was decidedly not an athlete.

Behind the heavy oak desk sat Coach Marcus. The man was a mountain. He was mature, ruggedly handsome, and built like a literal bear – tall, dense muscle, broad shoulders that stretched his polo shirt to its absolute limit, and a huge chest that surged forward with every breath. He projected an aura of absolute dominance.

Coach looked up from a file, his deep voice vibrating through the room. "Have a seat, Johny."

Johny swallowed hard, remaining standing. "Is something wrong with my academic standing, Coach?"

"Not your academics," Coach rumbled, a slow, knowing smile spread across his handsome face. "But you're short on your physical education credits. It's mandatory for graduation. A lot of you high-IQ guys forget about the body while feeding the brain. But I have a way you can fix it. Right now." Coach reached into a sports bag on his desk and pulled out a spandex wrestling singlet. It was vibrant red with deep blue stripes running down the sides. He held it out. Johny looked at the skimpy piece of fabric, his face flushing a bright, nervous crimson.

It’s far from perfect. There are continuity issues, a few mistakes here and there, and plenty of AI shenanigans. But I had a blast making it and I think it’s worth sharing anyway.

All the credit in the world goes to the amazing @misctf for writing the original story and for letting me share this. 👊🏽

As part of a trade for @occamstf. Also, some of my stories are old, and if you wanted to rewrite them, use similar concepts, do a "remake" etc please reach out! Happy to collab and get your spin on one of my old stories!

Tristan tried to weave in between the sweaty bodies of several shirtless frat bros, doing his best to avoid spilling the beer in his red solo cup. The smell of beer and cheap cologne clung to them, which only made Tristan feel dizzy. Worst yet, the music was loud, so loud that he could barely hear himself think.

"This was a mistake." He thought as he escaped the crowd of people and leaned up against the wall in the corner of the frat house, "At least I gave it a try."

Tristan was never someone who imagined he'd enjoy the party scene, but given that it was nearing the end of his freshman year, he figured he should at least give it a try. At least he knew now that parties were not his thing, and neither was the beer in his still nearly full red solo cup.

"Where'd they go?" He preened his neck to see if he could locate his friends from the dorm, "I shouldn't leave without them."

But after a few minutes of searching, he decided to give up. He'd text them and check in on them in the morning. And with that, he made his way towards the door. But before Tristan could reach the front door, somebody bumped into him, splashing the beer across his hoodie.

"I'm sorry!" Tristans squeaked out, looking down at his beer soaked shirt, "I didn't mean..."

The apology died in his throat. The guy he'd bumped into was huge. Not just tall. Huge. Broad shoulders stretched the sleeves of a gray fraternity shirt. Thick forearms crossed over a chest that looked like it had been carved out of granite. A backwards baseball cap sat low on his head, and even in the dim party lighting Tristan could see the confident grin spreading across his face.

"Dude."

"S-sorry."

"Damn dude." The guy barked out a laugh, "There you go again."

"Wh-what?"

"Apologizing."

"S-sorry?"

The guy burst out laughing, as did the group of jocks behind him. Tristan felt his face turn red and he looked down. But he felt a muscular arm thrown around his shoulders and he was pulled in close to the guy's sweaty, muscular torso. Up close, Tristan could smell sweat, deodorant, and stale beer clinging to the guy's shirt. It wasn't exactly pleasant, but somehow the guy seemed completely unaware of it. Or maybe he simply didn't care.

"Name's Ryan." He said, "You?"

"Tristan."

"Freshman?"

"Y-yeah."

"Figured." Ryan smirked, and Tristan could see something predatory flash through the frat bro's eyes, "You gonna take that off." He nodded towards the beer-soaked hoodie.

"I-I'll change when I get home." Tristan replied quickly.

"No you fuckin' won't." Ryan pulled Tristan towards the stairs, "I ain't letting a freshman walk home soaked in shitty beer. I've got something for you in my room."

"I really don't need..."

"Yeah, you do."

Ryan didn't even slow down. He kept a hand planted firmly on Tristan's shoulder as he guided him up the stairs. Tristan was struck by how easily the larger man moved through the crowded house. People stepped aside without even seeming to realize they were doing it. A few called Ryan's name. Others nodded in greeting. Ryan answered every one of them with the effortless confidence of someone completely at home.

"Seriously," Tristan said as they reached the second floor landing, "you don't have to do this."

"Yeah. I do."

Ryan pushed open a door near the end of the hallway and stepped inside. The room looked exactly how Tristan imagined a fraternity president's room would look.

"You like?"

Sports memorabilia covered the walls. Framed photographs showed Ryan posing with teammates, fraternity brothers, and various championship trophies. A collection of baseball caps hung above a dresser. The room smelled faintly of detergent, deodorant, and the lingering musk of somebody who spent most of his time either at practice or in the gym.

"It's... nice." Tristan replied.

"Good, glad you like it."

"You play football?" Tristan asked, nodding toward one of the trophies.

Ryan laughed, "Played. Graduating in three weeks."

Tristan watched as Ryan yanked his shirt off, revealing his physique. The guy was built. Not in the exaggerated way movie superheroes were built. Ryan looked real. Years of football, lifting, and hard training had left thick muscle packed across his shoulders, chest, and arms. Ryan caught him staring.

"What?"

Tristan immediately looked away, "Nothing."

"Bullshit." Ryan laughed and tossed the fraternity shirt onto the bed, "You were checking out the gains."

"N... No... I..."

"It's okay." Ryan walked up to him, "You like it, don't you?"

"It's not..."

"C'mon bro, stop fuckin' playing." Ryan grinned, "Everyone wants this." His hands suddenly pulled at the hem of Tristan's shirt, "Let's see what we're working with here."

Before Tristan could object, Ryan grabbed the hem of his beer-soaked hoodie and peeled it over his head. The cool air of the room immediately hit Tristan's skin. He instinctively folded his arms across his chest, suddenly aware of how much smaller he looked standing in front of the jock. Ryan slowly nodded. A smile spread across his face.

"You'll do."

"What are you...?"

But Ryan was suddenly on his knees, looking up at Tristan with a smirk. And before Tristan could react, Ryan was fumbling with his belt.

"I need this, bro." Ryan said.

"Wait... I..." Was this really happening? Tristan could never imagine that a guy as hot as this would ever...

"You want this, don't you?"

"Y-yeah..." Tristan bit his lip.

"There we go, bro."

As Ryan pulled Tristan’s pants down, letting them pool around his ankles, he leaned forward and looked up. His eyes locked onto Tristan’s with an unyielding, dominant confidence. The heat of Ryan's breath hit Tristan's cock just a second before his lips made contact. The moment Ryan took Tristan into his mouth, a strange, electric jolt shot through both of them.

"Oh god..." Tristan moaned. This was his first BJ and god it felt better than he could've possibly imagined. Ryan's tongue worked the head of his hard cock, and he could feel the jock's firm hands grasp his skinny ass.

And as Ryan rhythmically bobbed his head, his hands gripped Tristan’s thighs tightly. And as he gripped harder, Tristan’s thighs, typically lean and soft, felt a sudden, internal surge. The muscle fibers beneath the skin began to swell and density doubled. At the same time, Ryan grunted as his heavy, square jawline that had defined his face for years began to soften, the sharp angles rounding out. His grip on Tristan's thighs wavered as his own fingers lost a fraction of their calloused thickness, shortening and becoming smoother.

"Wait..." Tristan choked out, his hands trembling as he gripped his own newly expanding legs. "Ryan, what... what are you doing to me? What is this?"

Ryan didn't answer. He couldn't. His lips were wrapped firmly around Tristan’s cock, his head bobbing with an intense, deliberate rhythm. But looking down, Tristan saw a frightening yet mesmerizing change overtaking the older man. Ryan’s massive, boulder-like shoulders were visibly losing their breadth. The thick, rigid muscles of the jock's back were softening, compressing inward, collapsing into a much smaller, slighter frame.

A sudden, sharp pressure bloomed in Tristan’s own chest. He arched his back, crying out as his ribcage expanded with a loud, deep pop.

"Ah! Oh god, my chest!"

Tristan watched in absolute awe as his narrow torso erupted outward. Layers of dense, heavy pectoral muscle sheeted across his skin, stretching his pale flesh until it turned a healthy, sun-kissed golden-tan. His collarbones broadened, pushing his shoulders out so wide that he had to brace his feet against the floor just to keep his balance. He felt massive. He felt heavy. And he reached up to give his new pecs a squeeze with his increasingly thicker hands. He grunted at the feeling of the firm flesh beneath his palm and let out another moan as Ryan's pace quickened.

"Ryan... fuck..."

Down below, the hands gripping his thighs had completely changed. They were no longer the rough, calloused hands of a football captain; they were smaller, the fingers shorter and smoother. They were Tristan's hands.

Ryan let out a muffled, desperate grunt against Tristan's length, his eyes squeezed shut. The backward baseball cap sitting on Ryan's head suddenly slipped, sliding down a face that was rapidly losing its sharp, hyper-masculine definition. Ryan's jawline was shrinking, the bone structure shifting and rounding into a softer, much more delicate shape.

"Ryan, stop! Look at me!" Tristan pleaded, but the voice that left his throat completely shocked him. The high-pitched, nervous squeak of a freshman was gone. Instead, a deep, resonant rumble vibrated through his expanded chest... a rich, commanding baritone that belonged entirely to the man on his knees. "My voice... I sound like... you?"

Ryan squeezed Tristan's thicker ass, as if to reassure him. And then, without hesitating, continued to suck him off. Tristan moaned as he felt his cock start to lengthen in Ryan's mouth. Becoming girthier, thicker. All the while, the bulge in Ryan's pants became less impressive.

"S..Stop... wh-what is this?"

He looked down at his arms. His thin, spindly forearms were ballooning, thick veins pulsing beneath the skin as rock-hard muscle packed itself around his bones. Right before his eyes, a faint, dark ink began to bleed upward through his skin, settling into the exact shape of the fraternity tattoo Ryan was sporting earlier.

Ryan finally pulled back, gasping for air, and looked up at Tristan.

Tristan stared down, his breath catching in his throat. He was looking at himself. Ryan’s face had completely transformed into Tristan’s own fresh-faced, wide-eyed freshman features. His messy, soft brown hair fell into his eyes, and his expression was entirely devoid of his previous swagger, replaced by a vulnerable, submissive awe.

"I'm... I'm you," Tristan whispered, his large, heavy hand instinctively reaching up to touch his own face. His fingers brushed against a rugged, broken nose bridge and thick jaw, "And you're... you're me."

The boy on his knees smiled, a soft, tired, yet incredibly satisfied expression crossing his newly acquired, youthful face.

"I'm graduating, bro," Ryan whispered, his voice now carrying Tristan's exact light, breathless tone. He looked up at his own former body with a mixture of relief and envy. "I don't want to leave. I'm not ready for the real world. But now, I don't have to leave." He looked at his now lankier frame, "Might take some work, but I'll rebuild everything I had here."

"No... no, please. I didn't agree to this." Tristan begged, his voice a heavy, vibrating rumble that practically shook his own newly expanded ribs.

But even as the desperate plea left his lips, his new body was completely overwhelming his senses. The physical reality of being Ryan was staggering. Tristan gasped as a sudden wave of heat rolled over him, bringing with it a whole new sensory world. He didn't smell like himself anymore; he could smell the heavy, masculine scent of expensive sport deodorant, deep musk, and the faint, bitter tang of dried sweat from a long workout.

"This is how it is now, bro," Ryan whispered from below. He used Tristan’s small, smooth hands to brush a strand of soft, messy brown hair out of his eyes, looking up with a serene, relaxed smile. "Look around. You liked my muscles, right? You were checking out the gains. You liked my room, the trophies. It’s all yours now. I get to restart as you, and you get to be the big man on campus. It’s a fair trade."

"No, it's not!" Tristan protested, tears of pure panic forming. "I don't want to be the big man on campus! I want to be a student! I want to live my life, go to my own classes, hang out with my roommates... I can't just occupy your life! I'm not you!"

Ryan let out a soft, youthful chuckle, shaking his head. Tristan's old face looked so innocent, so small from up here. "Too late for that, man. Look at yourself. You are me now. In three weeks, you're walking across that stage with a degree. You need to start acting like me so my brothers and teammates don't get suspicious. Walk tall. Stop stuttering. You've got practice tomorrow morning."

"I can't," Tristan whispered, his massive chest heaving as a cold sweat broke out over his broad, tanned shoulders. He felt completely disconnected from the timid freshman he was supposed to be, trapped inside a prison of pure, unyielding muscle. "I don't know how to be you. I don't know how to act like this. I can't do it, Ryan..."

"Let me help you adjust," Ryan whispered softly, his eyes darkening with a quiet, deliberate intent.

Before Tristan could even think to push him away, Ryan leaned back in. The motion was slow, incredibly sensual, and deeply intimate. Tristan’s massive, throbbing cock slid past Ryan’s new, soft lips, and the moment the wet, intense warmth enclosed him, a gasp tore from Tristan's throat.

Ryan didn't rush. He bobbed his head with a slow, agonizingly perfect rhythm, swirling his tongue around the hyper-sensitive, engorged head. Tristan’s knees buckled slightly, his massive thighs trembling under the sheer sensory overload. As the warmth of Ryan's mouth worked over his length, Tristan felt his mind begin to fracture. His core memories... the long nights studying in the library, his quiet dorm room, his nervous anxiety around crowds... began to haze over, melting away.

In their place, a torrent of foreign thoughts, impulses, and memories rushed in to fill the void. Tristan choked out a moan, his thick fingers tangling in his own soft brown hair on Ryan's head, but he wasn't trying to pull him away anymore. He was remembering the roar of the stadium crowd. He was remembering the exact weight of a football in his palm. He was remembering the absolute, unshakeable certainty that he owned every single room he walked into.

"Oh god... fuck..." Tristan groaned, but the panic in his voice was rapidly dissolving, replaced by a dark, heavy, confident heat.

His internal monologue was shifting. The anxious, overthinking voice of the freshman was being utterly crushed, flattened beneath a rising tide of raw, unadulterated jock confidence. The world was reorganizing itself in his mind. He looked down at the boy giving him pleasure, and he didn't see his old self anymore. He just saw a freshman. A cute, soft little freshman who belonged on his knees, doing exactly what he was told.

Ryan... the original Ryan- finally pulled back with a wet, heavy sigh, wiping his mouth with the back of his small hand. He looked up at his old body with a submissive, wide-eyed awe, completely content to be small, young, and entirely free of the real world.

The man standing above him didn't look confused or scared anymore. He adjusted his stance, his broad, shoulders squaring perfectly as a cocky, predatory smirk spread across his rugged face. He looked around at his sports memorabilia, his trophies, and then down at his freshman, feeling completely, utterly at home.

"Damn, bro," Ryan rumbled, his deep, dominant baritone dripping with an effortless authority as he reached down, his heavy hand firmly gripping the freshman's hair. "You're pretty fucking good at this. Who told you to stop, bro?"

│ NAME: "Student Bus"

│ CODE: STR-793

│ STATUS: [Active] — in containment, location [DATA EXPUNGED]

│ HAZARD CLASS: Safe

│ EFFECT TYPE: Object and personality transformation.

1. DESCRIPTION

The object is a 2008 Blue Bird school bus, school yellow, with 72 passenger seats. Externally, it is indistinguishable from a regular bus. License plate: [DATA EXPUNGED]. The windows, including the windshield, are tinted. The interior is visible only from the inside. The presence of a driver is unknown; the bus moves independently using [DATA EXPUNGED] and [DATA EXPUNGED].

Trigger: entry through the front door. It does not matter whether the engine is running. The victim can enter voluntarily or be carried in by an unauthorized person. The effect does not trigger if the victim is carried in unconscious. It was discovered and described in 20■■ in the city of [DATA EXPUNGED]. The object traveled along regular routes, picking up unsuspecting students and passersby.

1. PROPERTIES / ANOMALOUS CHARACTERISTICS

Upon activation, the victim experiences a sharp tingling sensation throughout the body. The transformation takes up to 7 minutes. Observers see a flickering yellow light through tinted windows.

Stages:

1. Musculoskeletal restructuring (1-3 minutes) – height change to a range of 180-195 cm.

2. Adipose and muscular correction (3-5 minutes), as well as changes to the skin and personal markings – tattoos, piercings, and scars disappear. Teeth straighten. Minor visual defects disappear.

3. Identity formation (5-7 minutes) – high PSI influence. Further research is required in the PSI Threat Department.

4. All stages are accompanied by physical changes to clothing, footwear, and personal belongings.

Final form: a physically perfect member of a college football team, aged 18-22. The victim's gender changes to male with a 98% probability (regardless of their original gender). In 2% of cases, the victim becomes a female cheerleader. Victims are fully aware of who they were before the transformation, remembering their name, family, and profession. However, the skills [DATA EXPUNGED] are "added" to their brain.

Reversibility: Not recorded.

By the end of his junior year of college, Miles had grown tired of being mistaken for someone’s lost younger brother. It happened in the dining hall when the cashier asked whether he was visiting campus for orientation. It happened at parties when seniors patted him on the shoulder and called him “little buddy.” It even happened in his 300-level seminar, where the professor once paused mid-discussion and said, with polite surprise, “Oh, you’re enrolled in this class?”

Miles laughed when everyone else laughed, but the laugh hard on his shoulders. He was twenty-one. He had a stack of books on political theory, a campus job, a coffee habit, and a permanent knot of anxiety between his shoulders. He wanted, very badly, for his face to show some of that.

The bottle of Hair Tonic came from a cramped little barbershop off campus, the kind of place with yellowing photos taped to the mirror and a barber who seemed to know everyone’s father. Miles had gone in for a trim and come out with his curls neater, his sideburns squared, and a small brown bottle in his jacket pocket. The barber had not promised anything dramatic. “Only where you want it,” he said, tapping one finger beneath his own thick black mustache. “Be patient. Don’t overdo it.” Miles nodded like he was receiving instructions for a chemistry lab.

That night, after his roommates had drifted into the hall and the bathroom had filled with the usual dorm sounds - showers running, someone laughing too loudly, someone else brushing his teeth while scrolling his phone - Miles stood at the sink and studied his reflection. Without stubble, his face looked almost too open. His upper lip was smooth except for the faintest shadow, more suggestion than hair. He uncapped the bottle. The tonic smelled sharp and herbal, like cedar, sandalwood, and something metallic underneath. He touched the applicator to his skin and traced a careful line from one corner of his mouth to the other.

At first there was only coolness as the liquid began to evaporate. Then warmth. Then a faint prickling, as if his skin had woken up all at once. Miles leaned closer to the mirror. Nothing happened, of course. Not right away. He felt ridiculous for expecting it to. Behind him, a guy from the lacrosse team, totally naked, shoved open a stall door and asked someone if they’d seen his towel. Miles screwed the cap back on, trying not to smile too obviously at himself.

The first change came the next morning. It was subtle enough that he almost missed it: a fine dusting of dark hair along his upper lip, soft and short, like someone had shaded the area with a fine pencil. Miles rubbed a fingertip over it and froze. There was texture. Not much, but enough. The hairs caught against the pad of his finger with a faint rasp, delicate but real. He tilted his head, then tilted it again, letting the bathroom light hit his face from different angles. The little bristles looked darker at the center and thinner near the edges, uneven in a way that made him grin.

For the rest of the day, he kept noticing it. In class, his finger drifted to his upper lip, as if the skin there had become more sensitive. When he drank coffee, the cup rasped against the emerging stubble. When he smiled, he could feel the soft line shift with his mouth. It was not a mustache yet. Not really. Not yet anyway. But it was the beginning of one, and that was enough to make him sit a little straighter.

By the third day, the softness had turned into something more visible. The hairs had lengthened and darkened, spreading outward in a narrow band. They no longer looked like accidental shadow. They looked intentional. Miles stood in the dorm bathroom after his morning shower, towel around his shoulders, watching steam gather at the edges of the mirror. As the glass cleared, his face appeared slowly: damp curls, glasses slightly fogged, and beneath his nose, the beginnings of a real mustache.

It felt strange. Not unpleasant. More like wearing a new unfamiliar expression. The hairs tickled when he moved his lip. They brushed faintly against each other when he pressed his mouth closed. If he ran his finger downward, they lay smooth; if he rubbed upward, they fluffed and resisted. He liked that part best - the resistance. The tiny proof that his face was no longer completely bare - that he his aspirations not fully unachievable.

By the end of the week, people started noticing. “Are you growing a mustache?” his roommate Jordan asked, leaning into the bathroom mirror beside him.

Miles tried to sound casual. “Thinking about it.”

Jordan squinted. “It’s actually coming in.”

Actually. Miles pretended not to hear the surprise in the word, though he carried it with him all day like a compliment. At lunch, one of the girls from his history seminar told him it made him look older. Not old, she clarified quickly, but older. More serious. Miles nodded as if this had been the plan all along, even though his pulse jumped hard enough that he nearly spilled soup onto his sleeve.

The second week was when the mustache stopped being a cute experiment and started becoming something he had to manage.

The hairs were thicker now, no longer just a line but a dense little field growing across his upper lip. Some pointed straight down. Some curled slightly at the ends. The middle grew fastest, forming a dark weight beneath his nose, that he felt constantly aware of, while the sides began to stretch toward the corners of his mouth. If he slept on his stomach, he could feel the hairs bristle when he rolled over. When he woke up, it looked flattened from sleep; after he washed his face, it puffed back into shape, darker and fuller while damp.

Miles bought a tiny comb from the pharmacy and felt embarrassed carrying it back to the dorm in a small plastic bag. But that night, standing under the fluorescent bathroom lights, he dragged it carefully through the mustache for the first time. The sensation startled him. The comb teeth tugged lightly through the hair, arranging it, separating the strands. His upper lip tingled afterward, as if the skin underneath had been massaged awake. He combed it down, then outward, then down again. The difference was small but satisfying. It looked less like something happening to him and more like something he was choosing.

The tonic made the growth feel almost alive. After each application, there was that same spreading warmth, followed by a deep, restless itch under the skin. Not the irritation of a rash, but a building pressure, like the follicles were pushing forward with impatient energy.

Miles would sit on the edge of his bed afterward, textbooks open and ignored, aware of every tiny movement above his lip. He enjoyed pursing his lips to feel the way the hairs moved and the shape changed. Sometimes the hairs seemed to brush the air before his skin did. Sometimes he could feel individual strands when he breathed out through his nose, the mustache catching the warmth and holding it there.

He learned its moods. In the morning, it was soft and unruly. After a shower, it looked darker, the hairs clumping into little points before drying into thickness. In the cold, it seemed sharper against his skin. When he drank beer from a plastic cup at a party, foam gathered in it, and one of his friends laughed, not cruelly, but with the easy approval of someone acknowledging a change that had become impossible to ignore.

“Dude,” Jordan said, “you look like a grad student now.”

Miles looked at his reflection in the dark window behind them. The party lights blurred his face, but the mustache remained clear: a strong dark shape that changed the balance and contouring of his entire face. His jaw looked less narrow. His mouth looked more settled. His eyes, behind his glasses, seemed less boyish somehow, not because they had changed, but because the face around them had caught up.

By the third week, the mustache was thick enough that Miles had to trim the lower edge. The hairs had begun to reach his top lip, brushing it whenever he spoke. He liked the feeling more than he expected: the soft drag when he smiled, the faint tickle when he pressed his lips together, the way his fingers found it automatically when he was thinking. But he wanted it neat. Mature, not messy. Intentional, not desperate.

He stood in the bathroom late on a Thursday night, when the sinks were finally empty and the hallway had gone quiet. He combed his mustache down, then with small scissors borrowed from Jordan, he leaned close to the mirror and snipped carefully along the lip line. Each tiny cut felt important. The mustache settled into a cleaner shape: full through the center, heavy but controlled, with the ends slightly broader. He combed it once more, then stepped back.

For a moment, he barely recognized himself. The bare-faced version of him had always seemed unfinished, like a draft waiting for revision from someone with more life-experience. This new face had weight. It had intention. The mustache drew a firm line across his expression, separating boy Miles from Miles the man - giving his smile warmth and his silence a kind of seriousness he had always wanted but never known how to ask for.

A few mornings later Miles walked into the dining hall and ordered coffee. The cashier glanced up, then down at the register, then back at him.

“Large?”

“Yeah,” Miles said.

No buddy. No orientation joke. No surprised look. He took the cup, felt the lid brush lightly against the thick hair of his upper lip, and smiled into the steam. His mustache shifted with the expression, dense, real and entirely his.

Theo's POV

I never thought my twelfth birthday would end with doctors asking if my twin brother could move into my head, but that’s exactly how it went down.

Carson and I were identical twins—same messy brown hair, same green eyes, same smirk when we were up to no good. But I was the one tearing around the neighborhood on my bike, getting picked first for pickup games, and cracking jokes that had teachers shaking their heads with a grin. Carson was the quiet one. Smarter in that bookish way. He’d rather build massive Lego cities than chase a soccer ball, but we still did everything together. Until we didn’t.

I heard most of it secondhand. Mom pulled me into the hallway outside Carson’s hospital room, eyes red and puffy. Dad stood beside her, arms crossed so tight his knuckles were white, looking more exhausted than I’d ever seen him.

“The doctors say the disease is tearing up his nervous system,” Mom said, voice cracking. “They want to put him in a medically induced coma so his body can rest and try to heal. But Carson… he lost it when they told him. But he doesn't really have a choice.”

I shifted my weight. “So now what?”

Dad rubbed the back of his neck. “There’s this experimental procedure they’re testing. They can transfer his consciousness into another living person—share the body.”

I stared at them. “Share… with who?”

Mom glanced at Dad before answering. “They offered your father or you. Carson picked you, Theo.”

My stomach did a weird flip. “Me?”

Mom squeezed my shoulder. “It’s temporary, sweetheart. A few months at most. He’s been through hell already—the tests, the pain, missing everything. He just wants to feel normal again. Run around, play outside, be a kid. You two can switch who's in control whenever. The doctors swear it’s safe.”

I looked down at my sneakers. Part of me wanted to say no. This was my body. My life. I was the one who had soccer practice, who got invited to sleepovers, who everyone at school knew as the fun twin. But Carson was lying in that room looking small and scared, and the guilt they were laying on me was heavy.

“He really chose me?” I asked.

Dad nodded. “Without hesitation.”

I swallowed hard. “Okay. If it helps him get better… yeah. He can share with me.”

Mom pulled me into a hug so tight it hurt. “Thank you, Theo. You’re a good brother.”

---

They didn’t waste time. The next afternoon, after a bunch of tests and forms that our parents signed, they brought Carson and I to a procedure room. He looked pale and nervous, but when he looked at me he gave a weak smile.

“You sure about this?” he asked, voice small.

I tried to sound like my usual confident self. “Dude, it’s gonna be weird, but we’ll figure it out.”

The doctors placed the sensor bands on both our heads, explained the controls one more time—basically a mental “push” to switch who was driving—and started the process.

I felt a strange buzzing behind my eyes, like static in my skull. Then everything went fuzzy for a second.

When it cleared, I was still in my body… but I wasn’t alone.

I could feel him there. Not like a voice exactly, more like another presence in the back of my mind. Quiet. Waiting.

Hey, I thought, testing it. You there?

Carson’s reply came through hesitant but clear. Yeah. This is so strange.

Out loud I said, “Okay, this is officially the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to us.”

The doctors asked if we could switch. Carson mentally nudged me over, the way they’d described, and suddenly I was… watching. My own hands moved without me telling them to. Carson sat up straighter, looked around the room with my eyes, and smiled—my smile, but softer, the way only Carson smiled.

“Cool,” he said with my voice. “I can feel everything.”

He flexed my fingers, then reached up and touched my face like he was making sure it was real.

After a minute he receded, and I was in control again.

---

The first couple of months were weird, but not as bad as I thought they’d be.

Carson stayed mostly quiet in the back of my head. He almost never asked to take over. I’d feel him there, watching everything—soccer practice, riding bikes with the neighborhood kids, laughing at lunch with my friends—but he was happy just riding along. Like a normal kid again.

This is awesome, he’d think sometimes when I was kicking a ball around or eating pizza after a game. That was about it. No big conversations, no fighting over control. I’d offer to switch sometimes, but he’d always say he was good. I kept living my life, and he got to tag along without anyone knowing. It actually felt kind of nice having him there. Like old times, but quieter.

Then things started to go sideways when we found out his body wasn't getting better.

At first it was just small updates from the doctors. “Some setbacks.” “Slower progress than we hoped.” Mom would come home from the hospital looking drained, and Dad would sit at the kitchen table staring at nothing. I could feel Carson getting more tense in the back of my mind, but he still didn’t say much.

By month four, the hope was gone. The disease had done too much damage. Carson’s body wasn’t going to wake up the way they wanted. Not ever.

We had the conversation as a family one night after dinner. Mom and Dad looked wrecked. I sat there with my arms crossed, trying to act like the strong one.

“We can’t put him back in there just to die,” Dad said quietly.

Mom nodded, eyes wet. “The doctors say… it could be any day now. Or it could drag on for weeks. But there’s no recovery.”

I felt Carson shift inside my head. Not words, just a heavy kind of sadness.

“So what?” I asked. “He just stays with me forever?”

Dad looked at me. “For now, yeah. Until we figure something else out. You’ve already been doing it for months, Theo. You’re handling it like a champ.”

I wanted to argue. I wanted to say this wasn’t supposed to be permanent. But every time I thought about shoving Carson back into a dying body, I felt sick. He was my brother. My twin.

“Yeah,” I said finally, keeping my voice steady. “We’ll keep sharing. It’s fine.”

Carson didn’t say anything, but I felt a small wave of gratitude from him.

A week later, Carson’s body died in the coma.

The funeral was on a gray Tuesday. I was wearing the itchy black suit Mom made me put on. My friends from school had come, and a bunch of relatives I barely knew kept patting my shoulder and saying how sorry they were.

Suddenly, I felt Carson surge forward without warning. My body stood there completely still while the casket went down. No tears, no shaking, just staring straight at the grave with my face set hard.

Carson? I thought. Hey, talk to me.

Nothing. He didn’t answer. I tried for the first time to force my way back into control of my body, but he didn't let me. Didn’t even seem to notice I was there. He just kept control. It was almost as if his presence was stronger in my head than mine was.

For the next three days he stayed in charge. He went to school as me, sat through my classes, answered when teachers called on him. He even played soccer at recess, but quieter than I usually did. My friends noticed something was off and asked if I was okay. Carson just shrugged and said, “Yeah, I’m good.”

I tried to take over every night when we were alone. He blocked me every time. No explanation. No conversation. Just silence.

By the fourth day, he finally let me push through while he was brushing my teeth before bed.

I spat out the toothpaste and looked at myself in the mirror. “Carson… you good, man?”

He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his thoughts felt exhausted. Yeah, I'm fine.

I wanted to say more. To ask why he shut me out, why he wouldn’t even talk to me. It felt strange having him lock me out like that in my own body. Uncomfortable. Kind of violating, if I was honest. But I bit it back.

He’d just watched his own body get buried. He’d lost everything except this—except me. If he needed a few days to just… be a normal kid, I could deal with it.

“Alright,” I said out loud, keeping my tone casual. “Whenever you’re ready. I’m here.”

I didn’t push it after that. But deep down, I was already wondering how long we could actually keep doing this.

---

A few years went by and somehow this became our normal.

By the time we hit sixteen, I had it down to a system. School days? Carson took the wheel. He’d sit through classes, grind through homework, ace the tests, and even show up for the volunteer shifts at the animal shelter that looked good on college apps. I’d check out in the back of my own head, thinking about who I was texting later or which party I could sneak into that weekend. It worked. He got straight A’s, I got to stay popular. Win-win.

To deal with the high stress of our unusual arrangement, Carson took up weight lifting. He’d wake up super early, take over control, and spend two hours in the basement with Dad’s old bench press while I was still half-asleep. By junior year our body looked fucking incredible—broad shoulders, arms that filled out t-shirts the right way. Girls noticed. I made sure to enjoy that part.

In fact, he let me have all the fun—spring break road trips down the coast, summer parties at the lake, Friday nights where I’d sneak out after Mom and Dad went to bed. I’d hook up with whoever was into it and Carson would stay quiet in the back, never complaining.

But as much as he did all the hard work for me, I still started to resent having to share my body with him. I never said it out loud, but some nights, lying in bed, I’d feel him there and think about how nice it would be to have my head to myself again. Just for a day. An hour.

It didn't help that Carson also became our parents' unequivocal favorite after all this. To them, Carson was the golden boy. Good grades, polite, always offering to help around the house. Then when I was in control, I was always getting up to trouble in their eyes.

One night I came home past curfew, still smelling like bonfire smoke and some girl’s perfume. Mom was waiting in the kitchen, arms crossed.

“Theo, this is the third time this month. You’re out all hours, not answering your phone—”

“It was just a party,” I said, keeping my voice easy, flashing the same smile that usually worked on everyone else.

Dad walked in, looking disappointed. “We wish you could be more like… well, like your brother.”

Mom sighed. “Carson never pulls this. He’s focused. He actually cares about his future.”

I smirked, but it didn’t reach my eyes. “Oh yeah? If you like him so much, here.”

I shoved control forward hard. Carson took over mid-step, blinking as he adjusted.

“Mom, Dad, it’s me,” he said quietly with my voice. “Theo was just out with friends. I’ll make sure we’re both on top of things tomorrow.”

They softened immediately. Dad clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks, son. We know this isn’t easy on either of you, but you’re handling it so well.”

I stayed in the back, arms crossed in my mind, letting him soak up the praise while I stewed.

It happened a couple more times that year during bigger blow-ups. They’d start in on me for being lazy or staying out too late, comparing me to Carson, and I’d force the switch right there. He never complained to me about it afterward. He’d just think, You good?

Yeah, I’d reply. I’m good. But fuck I was annoyed that my parents couldn't see how unfair they were being to me after I'd given up everything to help Carson.

---

We got the Oxford letter in the spring of senior year. Astrophysics. I didn’t give a damn about what Carson decided to study as it got us out of the house. I’d been pushing for somewhere big and loud back home — ASU, Clemson, Auburn — parties every weekend, football games, girls everywhere. But Oxford? I had to admit it sounded good coming out of my mouth.

“Yeah, heading to Oxford in the fall,” I’d say at parties or when people asked. Their eyes would light up. The muscular jock who was also smart enough for Oxford. I loved that shit. Loved the way girls started texting me more once the news spread.

So we moved to England. New city, new appartment, new life. At first it felt like freedom.

Then the coursework hit.

Carson insisted on being in control all the time to keep up with it. He would grind through the material late into the night most weekdays and during the day on the weekends. I’d then only get to be in control on weekend nights where I would waste no time hitting the pubs and chatting up girls.

Still, Carson would always be pushing to go back home those nights. Theo, we need to catch up on orbital mechanics before the next tutorial, he’d push. I’d wave it off. Chill, man. We’ve got this.

I'd be lying if I said tension wasn't already building between us, but things came to a head when he met Davie.

It was in a physics study group. This guy — slim, dark curly hair, sharp smile — kept hanging around with us after all our other classmates left, asking questions that he seemed like he already knew the answers to just to make Carson feel smart.

One night night, back in the flat, Carson spoke up in our mind while I was in control scrolling on Instagram.

Theo… I need to tell you something.

What’s up?

I’m gay. I’ve been sure for a while. Didn’t want to say anything before. But… I like Davie. From the study group. I want to ask him out. Just a coffee date or something.

I froze. Oh, ok. I thought back. Dude, that’s fine by me.

Relief washed through him. Thanks.

But asking him out? I pushed. I don't think you should do that. People will think I’m gay. That shit will spread around campus. And that shit will kill my cred with the girls.

Carson went quiet for a second. Then: It’s not fair, Theo. You get to party every weekend. You get to hook up, have fun, live your life in this body. I’ve been carrying the schoolwork, the volunteering, everything hard for years. I deserve to be happy too.

I felt a flash of guilt, quickly buried under irritation. Yeah, well, this is still my body. You're lucky I'm letting you live in it at all.

He didn’t argue after that. But I could feel him thinking.

The next study group was a few days later. I figured we’d review the material, then I’d take over and head to a party I’d heard about. But when the session wrapped up, Carson stayed in control. I tried to push forward. He held firm and kept me out.

Davie was packing up his notes. Carson walked over and cleared his throat.

“Hey, Davie,” he said, voice calm but a little nervous. “I was wondering if you wanted to grab coffee or a drink sometime. Just us. Like… a date.”

Davie’s face lit up with a surprised, genuine smile. “Yeah. I’d really like that. Tonight work?”

Carson smiled back with my face. “Tonight’s perfect.”

I sat in the back of my own head, stunned, watching the whole thing happen. Davie gave us his number, and they set a time. As we walked out of the library, I tried again to take control. Carson wouldn’t let me.

Carson. What the hell?

He didn’t answer. Just a quiet, determined feeling from him as we headed back to the flat to get ready.

Carson stayed in control the whole evening. I was stuck in the passenger seat, watching everything unfold like a bad movie I couldn’t pause.

He met Davie at a small café near campus just after seven. They grabbed drinks and ended up talking for hours. Davie told stories about growing up in Manchester, his terrible attempts at cooking, and how he wanted to work on satellite design after graduation. Carson laughed easily with my voice and opened up about the pressure of Oxford and how much he loved weight lifting to clear his head.

“You’re not at all what I expected when I first saw you in study group,” Davie said at one point, grinning. “You’ve got this whole confident jock thing going on, but you actually care about the material. It’s refreshing.”

Carson smiled. “Yeah, well… there’s more to me than people think.”

They closed the café down. When it was time to leave, Davie hesitated, then asked, “Want to come back to my flat? It’s not far. We could watch a movie or something. No pressure.”

Carson didn’t even glance back at me for permission. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Back at Davie’s small, messy flat, they put on some sci-fi movie I’d never heard of. They started on opposite ends of the couch. By the middle of the film, Davie had shifted closer. He reached over and laced their fingers together. Carson’s heart — my heart — started hammering. I could feel the flush in our cheeks.

Davie’s other hand moved slowly, resting first on my thigh, then sliding up to squeeze the muscle there. “You’re really strong,” he murmured, almost shy. His fingers traced up to my bicep, giving it a gentle squeeze. “This is… impressive.”

Carson stayed quiet, but I felt how fast his breathing had gotten. When Davie leaned in and kissed him, soft at first, then deeper, Carson froze for half a second before kissing back.

Our heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might explode.

Davie pulled back a little, smiling. “You okay?”

Carson swallowed. “Yeah. I’ve… never done this before.”

Davie raised an eyebrow, looking genuinely surprised. “Wait, really? I just assumed—”

Carson cut him off quickly, voice a little embarrassed. “No, I mean… never done this before with a guy.”

Davie’s expression softened. He brushed a thumb over our knuckles. “How is it? Do you like it?”

Carson nodded, still catching his breath. “I like it a lot.”

They kissed again, slower this time. After a minute, Davie pulled back just enough to look at him curiously.

“So why now?” he asked. “Why with a guy? Why me?”

Carson gave a small, easy smile. “Because you’re really hot… and you haven't stopped making eyes at me in study group. Kinda made it impossible not to go for it.”

Davie laughed softly, clearly pleased, and pulled him in for another kiss.

I sat in the back, jaw clenched, saying nothing. But the resentment burned hotter than ever.

After the kissing got heavier, clothes started coming off. Davie’s hands were all over my chest and arms, squeezing the muscle Carson had built. Carson was breathing hard, letting it happen, following the heat.

They moved to Davie’s bed. Carson was on top, and things escalated quickly. He lined up and tried to push in all at once, the way I’d done with plenty of girls. Davie’s eyes widened and he let out a sharp scream, grabbing onto my shoulders.

“Fuck— wait!” Davie gasped.

Carson froze immediately. “Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

Davie laughed breathlessly, even though his face was still tight. “No, you’re good. You’re just… way too big to shove in like that without warming me up first. Go slower, yeah?”

Carson nodded, embarrassed but eager. He pulled back, took his time this round, using his fingers and more lube until Davie was relaxed and pushing back against him. When he finally slid in all the way, Davie moaned loud, his hole tight and hot around us.

“God, that feels good,” Davie breathed.

Carson started moving, finding a rhythm. He had watched me hook up enough times that his form was solid—deep, steady strokes that had Davie gripping the sheets. But this was different. Davie’s hole stayed so tight, clenching around us with every thrust. Carson groaned with my voice, hands roaming over Davie’s chest and sides.

They started feeling each other up more. Davie ran his hands over my biceps and abs, squeezing hard. “Flex for me,” he said, voice rough.

Carson paused mid-thrust, looking a little awkward, then clumsily flexed my right bicep. The muscle popped up tight. Davie grinned and kissed it. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

Carson got bolder. He grabbed Davie’s hips, lifted him up while still inside, and fucked him in the air for a few strokes like he weighed nothing. Davie’s eyes rolled back. “Holy shit, Theo—”

Then Carson set him down gently and flipped him over into doggy style. He pressed in close from behind, wrapping one arm around Davie’s chest in a hug while still thrusting. He kissed the back of his neck, surprisingly tender. Davie pushed back against every stroke, moaning.

Carson reached around and wrapped his hand around Davie’s uncut cock, stroking him in time with his hips. Davie was throbbing hard, leaking all over my fingers.

They switched again. Davie climbed on top, riding cowboy. He bounced faster, taking us deep, his own cock slapping against my abs. Carson kept one hand on his hip and the other stroking him.

“I’m close,” Davie gasped.

He came first, shooting across my stomach in thick streaks. Carson didn’t hesitate—he scooped some up with his fingers and licked it off, tasting it. Davie watched with wide, turned-on eyes.

That pushed Carson over the edge. He gripped Davie’s hips tight and came deep inside him, groaning loud with my voice as our body tensed and released.

They collapsed together, sweaty and breathing hard. Davie curled up against my chest, and Carson wrapped an arm around him. They fell asleep like that, cuddling close under the blanket.

Carson finally drifted off, content. I didn’t say a word to him that night.

Carson stayed in control for the rest of that week. He spent most nights at Davie’s flat. I felt everything — the laughing, the making out, the sex. He was getting more confident each time, learning what Davie liked. I tried to push for control constantly, but he kept me locked in the back.

By the following Saturday evening he finally let me back in. I didn’t waste a second.

I took over and headed straight to the pub. I was pissed. I drank hard, shot after shot, trying to shake off the week of being trapped in the passenger seat while he lived out whatever this new life was. I flirted with a couple girls, but I was too sloppy. They gave me weird looks and moved away. Everything after that is a blur. I have no idea how I got back to the flat.

I woke up the next morning with a brutal hangover. Sunlight stabbed through the curtains. And Carson was back in control.

Carson? I thought immediately. Give me the body back, man. I feel like shit.

He didn’t respond. He just got up, walked to the kitchen, and picked up the phone like I wasn’t even there.

“Mom? Dad?” His voice — my voice — shook as he spoke. “It’s Carson. Something’s wrong. Theo went out partying last night and… when I woke up I couldn’t hear him anymore. His voice is just gone. I feel completely alone in here. I don’t know what to do.”

I started screaming inside. Carson, what the fuck are you doing? I’m right here!

Our parents’ voices came through the speaker, calm. Worried for him, but not panicked. “Sweetheart, don’t freak out,” Mom said gently. “Just breathe. It’ll be okay. You’ll figure it out. We’re here for you.”

Dad added, “Stay safe. We love you. Call us if anything changes.”

I felt sick. They didn’t even sound that upset. Like losing me was just another complication for their golden boy to deal with.

Carson hung up, walked back to the bed, and lay down. He pushed our shorts down and started slowly stroking our cock, eyes half-closed, thinking about Davie. About how good it felt to fuck him.

Carson! I screamed. Stop this. Talk to me!

He finally answered, voice cold in my head. “Shut up, you dick. I can hear you. You know what? I am so sick of this. I think I’ve been able to do this since the beginning, but I never wanted to try because it would be awful. But I’m done with your shit, Theo.”

What are you talking about? I thought, panic rising. Stop messing around.

He kept jerking off, steady strokes, while he flexed our right arm, admiring the bicep in the mirror across the room. I felt him start pushing. My presence got squeezed, shoved into a smaller and smaller corner of our brain.

I screamed louder. Carson! Don’t! Please!

He ignored me, breathing heavier, stroking faster. His thoughts were full of Davie — tight heat, moans, the way he’d looked up at us. Our body tensed, muscles hard. I felt weaker, smaller, like I was fading.

Carson, I’m your brother! Stop!

One final hard stroke and he came, groaning as he spilled over our hand. In that moment the pressure became unbearable. He shoved hard, and I was ejected. Everything went white.

---

Carson's POV

I lay there in the quiet of the flat, chest still heaving a little, staring up at the ceiling through eyes that were finally, completely mine. Theo’s body—my body now—glistened with streaks of my own cum across my abs and chest. It felt warm, messy, real. I dipped two fingers into the biggest pool of it, scooped some up, and slowly rubbed it across my pecs, spreading it in lazy circles over the muscle I’d built for years. The smell hit me—thick, masculine—and a low groan slipped out of my throat. Theo’s throat. Mine.

Part of me waited for the guilt to crash in. I’d just erased my own brother. My twin. But the longer I rubbed that slick warmth into my skin, the more that little voice faded. Nah. Fuck that. Theo had been treating me like a parasite for years. Using me for grades, for the heavy lifting, for keeping our parents off his back while he partied and fucked whoever he wanted in my downtime. This? This was justice. Long overdue.

I reached over for my phone and opened the camera. The screen lit up on my face: flushed, hair messy. I angled it down, capturing the shine across my chest and stomach, my spent cock still half-hard against my thigh. Click. Perfect.

I typed out the text to Davie, smirking the whole time.

Me: Partied a little too hard last night. Woke up like this and all I could think about was how much better it would’ve been if you were here to wake up next to me. Wanna come over and spend the rest of the afternoon cuddled up in bed?

I hit send, then admired the selfie again before putting the phone down. Yeah… I’m definitely making this guy my boyfriend. For real. Mom and Dad are gonna be so happy I finally have a steady relationship after all these years of “me” being the responsible one. They’ll eat it up—proud of their golden boy settling down with a nice British guy.

I ran my hand down my stomach again, smearing more of the cum lower, fingers brushing over my cock. It twitched hard, thickening back up fast. Fuck. This body was all mine now. Every inch. The broad shoulders, the arms that could lift Davie like he weighed nothing, the dick that made him moan like that. No more sharing. No more passenger seat. No more Theo.

All mine. All mine. All mine.

My cock throbbed fully hard again in my grip, and I laughed low and satisfied, giving it a slow stroke as I waited for Davie’s reply. This was just the beginning.

1

File name: PR-CR-Jeep Wrangler 

Manufacturing details: Produced by Jeep then customized by Graystone detailing.

Key transformation components: 

Original upholstered interior replaced with seats padded using youth-cycle foam, calibrated to compress any adult spine into “perfect submission posture.”

Steering wheel wrapped in leather sourced from retired prep-school belts.

Exhaust mixed with aerosolized Old Money pheromones, triggering cell-level regression and selective brain pruning.

Roll bars coated in melted down Rolexes, reconfigured to induce touch triggered stepfordization

Radio queue loaded with 2000s acoustic covers, sung in soft liting tones.

Testing:

 He had just traded in his car and he was starting to think it was a mistake. Now he had always wanted a jeep, dream car and all that. So when the the dealer offered a the car in a trade with only 2000 dollars in difference, he leaped at the chance. Sure he had test driven the thing, but he was so excited he couldn’t pay much attention to the car itself.

Now, weeks later, he was driving it home for the first time. The interior smelled like fine cologne and expensive leather.  It drove perfectly fine, yet something felt off inside the car, like it was a place he didn’t belong. He flicked on the radio to distract himself, finding some ridiculous Taylor Swift acoustic cover song playing, he switched the channel but found nothing but drowning acoustic music. So he turned it down to bearly a whisper.

As he drove the feeling of discomfort started to wear off. He didn’t notice his t-shirt and pants began to warp, fabric rippling and shifting. His band t-shirt became a white botton down and his jeans into ill fitting dress pants. Matching fabric began to grow over his shoulders and around his chest, leaving him with a matching jacket. He adjusted a newly formed tie, “Did I have this on before, bro?” He mumbled to himself.

He looked at himself in the rear view mirror and his face changed before his now gray eyes. His hair grew out in thick brown curls and pushed back into flowing waves. His jaw sharpened and a faint bit of stubble grew in. He laughed, voice deeper thanks to more prominent Adam’s Apple. 

“Bro, I look so perfect, Sir will love it,” he remarked, his brain screaming at him helplessly, you aren’t supposed to look like this, he thought, who was Sir?

His body continued to grow as the changes leached downwards. His muscles inflated, becoming toned and defined. His ass grew until completely stretched out his dress pants. His skin darkened to a nice tan and his member shrank down as a hard cage began to form over it. 

Now fully a preppy bottom bitch, he turns up the radio and immediately starts lip syncing to the soft pop hits. His thoughts wandered to his rich hunky master, Can’t wait to get home to Sir and thank him properly for this new car…

2

File name:PS-CR-Mercedes-Benz SLS AMG

Manufacturing details: Producer in partnership with Mercedes-Benz and Graystone Automotive 

Key transformation components:

Exterior coated in a chrome polymer used exclusively in adult entertainment stage poles.

Leather interior made with thong material used in stripper garb.

Air conditioning ventilation lined with scent-release microcapsules containing “Vanity Club Floor #3,” the universal chemical signature of pole rooms.

Shock system tuned to vibrate at frequencies known to elicit involuntary hip-roll responses.

Testing:

“Hello, John”

He startled, nearly dropping his coffee all over the inside of the car. 

“What the fuck! Who are you!” He said, realizing how stupid he looked, talking to a disembodied voice. 

“I’m SLS/23992707 Beta Model, this car's experimental AI navigation system. You can just call me Sal for short.” The synthetic voice responded

“Ok, but how did you get in-” He tailed off, remembering getting the car serviced and upgraded the previous week, although he didn’t remember giving them permission to implant a robot. The more he thought about it however the cooler it seemed.

“Ok, take me to work, Sal.”

“Beginning route, ETA is 9:06 am”

Maybe it was time for a little test, John thought, “Get me there by 9:00 am exactly, please.”

“Recalibration in progress… route updated. New ETA is 9:00 am. Please relax in the meantime.”

John stretched out, feeling drunk on the power of having a personal driver at his fingertips. As he adjusted his legs in his seat, they started to grow, gaining muscle and ditching body fat. They also stretched out, giving him an extra inch or two in height. These changes spread up his body, as the slight office worker chub wore off, leaving him with rippled abs and strong pectoral muscles. His arms began to inflate with muscles, like a time lapse video of a melon growing, becoming smooth round muscle. 

Although he didn’t consciously recognize the changes, he was hit, however, with a feeling of intense pleasure. The paleness of his skin was quickly becoming a deep tan color, as if he had spent his whole life outside in the sun. His face began to change, becoming sharper and handsome. His thin hair grew into thick brown locks, stiff with loads of product. The same thick brown hair grew in thick clumps in his arms pits and around his pubes. 

He looked outside though half lidded eyes, and realized he didn’t recognize the streets Sal was taking him though.

“Yo, Sal you sure this is the right way, where are we going?”

“We are approximately two minutes out from Duboi night club, arrival time is still 9:00 am.”

“WHAT!!!I don’t work at a night club, Sal stop this!” He banged his hands at the controls, trying to turn the steering wheel, he found it impossible to move, locked solidly in place. 

“Please remain calm, we will be stopping shortly.” The calm artificial voice of Sal told him.

“I’m not some dam stripper!!!” John yelled desperately.

“Yes you are, Jaqe. I mean look at you, you’ve dressed perfectly for it.” Sal told him.

John looked down at himself, confused. “What, my suit isn’t,” yet looking down he saw all he was wearing was a pair of white underwear. He took in his new body for the first time, in shock and then cocky pleasure. 

“I’m fucking hot, look at me! Everyone should get a piece of me!” He said flexing his new muscles, his earlier concern forgotten in the testosterone pumped haze of self admiration.

“Arrived” The AI chirped.

“Thank, baby!” The newly minted confident, sexy, stripper stepped out of his car, ready for another day on the job.

3

File name: FB-CR-Subaru Outback

Manufacturing details: Produced by Subaru and Graystone Automotive and acquired by Graystone RentNEThing

Key transformation components:

Cup holders preset to maintain beer at optimal crush-temp.

Cloth seats soaked in “pledge week stimulant,” promoting bro-forward behavior, USA chanting instincts, and mild hazing impulses.

Floor mats reconfigured from frat door mats, thoroughly stopped by dozens of sweaty frat boy feet and sandals.

Roof rack wood sourced from decommissioned frat-house porches, complete with embedded pheromones of collective idiocy and patriotism.

Freshly washed by horny frat boys raising money for the local 4th of July celebration.

Testing:

The Tyson family was excited to get started on their annual road trip, now that the two kids were in their late teens it was getting harder and harder to spend time together. The father had gone to pick up the rental car and when he got home the family packed their stuff and went on their way.

Of course it took less than 10 Minutes for everyone (excluding the driver) to be silent and on devices. After an hour of this the father, who was also the driver, turned off his 80s rock and proceeded to lecture his family on the importance of being present.

“This road trip is a time to get to know each other, get off your devices for a while guys”

With a groan the teens turned off their phones, yet his wife ignored him, glued to her phone. 

“Babe, come on, please!” He begged.

“Uh,” was the only response he got.

Exsparented, he turned back up the music, “never mind guys.” Focusing on the road he failed to notice the changes his family started to go through. 

First to his right, his wife began to regress, years of her life gone in seconds. Her body soon lost anything marking her as female, her small frame replaced with young muscle, her breasts shrinking into her chest, and, most importantly, what was under her pants shifted from distinctly female to distinctly male. His hair shrank back into his skull, the bit that was left fluffing naturally to frame his now youthful face. Lastly, the traveling sweats were rippling on his body, eventually becoming a set of Americana overalls. The now boy failed to recognize any of these changes, too locked in on his feed, now interspersed with way more work out routines and dumb frat jokes then before. 

Behind herhim, the teen boys in the back seat began to experience their own transformation. Already near the target age demographic, they only had to age up a few years to become frat age. Both of their bodies shot up and out, gaining height and muscle. Decent sized glutes, biceps, and thighs, and rock solid abs and pecs, all the result of years worth of training adding itself to their bodies. Their hair fluffed out in identical styles, light brown body hair filling in to match. They both glanced at each other once a whiff of their new manly smell came to fruition. 

“Yo, you smell nasty, bro!” One remarked happily.

“Na, I think that’s you!” The other responded with a dumb chuckle 

“Ya right bro, it’s hot AF.” He said, turning his head to get a more clear sniff of his underarms 

As they reveled in their new musk, pairs of sunglasses materialized on their heads. Their clothing replaced my matching overall in red, white, and blue, stained with sweat, food, and god knows what else.

“Hey what’s going on back there?” The dad questioned on hearing suspicious noises form the back seat, upon glancing back, he was horrified to find his son replaced by sweaty frat boys, huffing each others scent like horny lunatics.

“What the fu-“ he started, only to be hit with his own change. His voice cracked as it dropped slightly, becoming more youthful in tone. His beard vanished, replaced by a smooth jawline under empty eyes. His hair grew back to its natural blonde, shedding the gay and growing out into long waves. His body also transformed, muscle being pumped in, more than any of his fellow bros. He grew to nearly 6”3 and every part of his body got an upgrade, even his penis gained an extra four inches. 

He laughed, pure delight—no deeper thoughts at all, and scratched at his tightly stretched t-shirt just as it melted away it a set of overalls that matched the rest of the boys. 

“Like, bros, I told you not to fuck in my car!” He finished.

His best bro in the passenger looked at him, annoyed, “let ‘em have their fun, bro, ya just jealous you're not in on it.”

“Whatever,” their leader replied, “just save some for me!”

4

File name:SF-CR-Ford Pickup Truck

Manufacturing details: Produced in partnership with the Ford Brotherhood

Key transformation components:

Air vents blow out trace amounts of evaporated Pacific seawater collected from abandoned surf shacks.

Truck bed naturally fitted for surf boards 

Dashboard coated in sun-baked wax resin, pushing neurological functions into “perma-dazed chill.”

Floor mats embedded with beach sand that replenishes itself through unknown means.

Testing:

Sam had just gotten his license and not a minute after his uncle had given him an old blue truck as a gift.

“I’m not use’n it, ya might as well get some use outa her.” He had said, upon giving Sam the keys. 

Sam’s mom had thought it was too much, yet she couldn’t hide her smile at her son’s excitement. She asked him to go pick up some stuff for them from the grocery store, knowing he wanted an excuse to take the car out.

And so Sam was on his way, managing the old truck like a pro. Yet suddenly, on its own..

HONK

The sound of the horn started Sam, he want even hit the horn. He chewed on it for while , eventually chalking it up to being an older car. 

HONK

Louder this time, yet looking around it seemed no other driver had noticed. What— the sound was distracting him from getting to the beach. Wait…the beach, was that right?

HONK

Clonk, his head hit the metal roof as his height shot up, his clothing had changed from simple sweat pants and T-shirt to a black sleeveless and striped board shorts. His place feet now clad in really disgusting flip flops.

HONK

Suddenly muscle was just…there. His arms now lean and well developed, with solid biceps and triceps. His formerly pale skin now looked dark and tanned. His once hairless body was now covered in a thick layer of blonde hair, congregating especially in his underarms, legs, and feet. With the hair came a heavy musk, smelling sex, sweat, and something else…

HONK

As he drove his mental capacity plummeted, knowledge and skills vanishing into the void of stupidity that was his mind now. His thoughts fading to dull sludge, to match his eyes now had no light behind them. Giving him a lost puppy look, amplified by his thick golden curls and mouth hanging open. 

HONK

The rest of his body is filled with muscle. Legs thickening, feet expanding, chest muscles pushing out. His ass soon filled with strong muscles giving him excellent balance. His mind soon filled with images of busty beach babes, surfing, and loads of hot sex. The desire in accordance with the amplified size of his member. He went to turn into a parking lot… 

HONK

“Dude, not sure what I was doin’ bro. Need to get ta the beach!” The newly minted surfer dude exclaimed, glancing behind him at the boards loaded into his truck.

John was the one who spotted the brass-lettered sign: Mercer & Quill — Fine Costumes for Gentlemen. “Fancy British clothes,” he said, pointing to the door with a grin. “We buy the outfits, take some ridiculous photos, and look like we belong here.” The others laughed, but a minute later they were stepping inside, into the smell of cedar, wool, polished wood, and old pipe smoke.

The proprietor of Mercer & Quill was not at all what the four friends expected. He was a tall, silver-haired gentleman in a dark waistcoat with round spectacles and an expression of quiet amusement, as though young Americans wandering into his shop in search of bespoke photographs was something he had seen many times before.

He listened patiently as John explained their plan, nodding politely while Matt joked about looking like members of Parliament and Mason wondered aloud whether anyone still wore pocket watches. The old man simply smiled. “Gentlemen,” he said warmly, “if one is to dress the part, one ought to do it properly.” Without asking their measurements, he disappeared among the shelves and racks, returning with four carefully chosen ensembles. To each suit he added little details - a pipe here, a waistcoat there, a particular tie or collar - handling every item with the care of a museum curator presenting treasures.

Before any of them could compare outfits, the proprietor gently ushered them toward separate changing rooms lining the paneled corridor. “Best to try them on individually,” he advised. “These things have a tendency to fit more comfortably when a gentleman has a moment alone with his reflection.” He handed each young man his garments and closed the doors behind them one by one. Matt laughed and called through the wall that they should all meet outside for photographs. John shouted back that he wanted to see who looked the most ridiculous. Don promised he would emerge looking like an English duke, and Mason declared that he intended to keep the pipe as a souvenir. Standing alone in the quiet hallway, the proprietor adjusted his spectacles and smiled to himself. He had selected each costume with great care. By the time the four young men emerged, they would be precisely the gentlemen the clothes had always been waiting for.

For Matt, the proprietor had selected a dark London gentleman’s suit: black coat, crisp collar, waistcoat, tie, polished shoes, and a curved pipe that felt absurd in his hand until he saw himself in the changing-room mirror.

At first, Matt only smiled at the costume. Then the mirror seemed to pull his reflection deeper. A shadow formed above his lip, the first uncertain line of a mustache, while faint creases gathered around his eyes. His hairline drew backward into a widow’s peak, thinning at the temples as if years were being combed through it.

By the time the mustache had grown thick and distinguished, his dark hair had turned salt-and-pepper and receded, leaving him looking like a composed London gentleman of nearly 60. Matt tried to remember the joke he had been about to make, but the thought dissolved. The pipe found its way to his mouth, and the man in the mirror no longer looked frightened. He looked assured.

John’s outfit was heavier, earthier: tweed jacket, waistcoat, checked shirt, dark tie, the sort of thing that made him look as if he should be standing beside a stone wall somewhere in the countryside minding sheep. He laughed when he first put it on, flexing his shoulders in the mirror, amused by how serious the clothes made him seem.

Then his reflection aged before he could step back. His close-cropped hair thinned at the crown, the hairline retreating. Stubble pushed out along his jaw, dark at first, then threaded with gray, thickening into a salt-and-pepper beard.

The sharp college-boy confidence in his face settled into something calmer and more reserved. By the end, John looked to be in his mid-50s, bald at the crown, bearded, steady-eyed, and utterly at home in the tweed. He no longer thought of it as a costume. It was simply what a man like him wore.

Don had expected to enjoy himself the most. His outfit was sleek and theatrical: a dark London coat, waistcoat, formal collar, and pocket square, all sharp lines and old-city elegance. In the mirror, his existing mustache looked almost too perfect for the clothes, and he smirked as he adjusted his lapels.

Then his mustache began to change. Its ends curled outward, becoming broader, heavier, more commanding. White hairs appeared first at his temples, then spread in bright strands through his dark hair and across the mustache itself. His face lengthened into maturity, lines forming beside his mouth and across his brow.

Don’s expression became cooler, more appraising. At sixty, he looked like a man who had spent decades in private clubs, theaters, and drawing rooms, with a grand white-streaked handlebar mustache and the posture of someone who had never once rushed for anyone. Don tried to say his own name and found it sounded strangely informal.

Mason’s clothes had the warmth of the country: brown tweed, green tie, waistcoat, pocket square, and a pipe that made him laugh when he first lifted it. He looked cheerful in the mirror, still young, still himself.

Then his smile faltered as his hairline pulled back and the first weight of age settled into his features. A beard spread over his jaw and down to his collar, mostly brown but already streaked white at the sides and around the chin. He touched it, stunned by how real it felt.

His new beard kept growing, thickening past his collar until it reached the middle of his chest, full and heavy, brown with pale threads shining through it. By the time Mason looked fifty, pipe resting naturally between his fingers, the face in the mirror seemed less like a transformation than a correction. The younger version of him felt flimsy, half-remembered, like a photograph left in another coat pocket.

When the four men emerged from their changing rooms, they paused in the narrow hallway and looked at one another. No one laughed. The loud young American voices that had filled the shop only minutes earlier were gone, replaced by quieter tones, slower gestures, and the easy recognition of old friends. Their memories of spring break, college, flights, and camera rolls faded into something distant and unimportant. The clerk opened the door for them, and London waited outside in the gold of early evening. Matt suggested a pint. John agreed that it would be sensible. Don remarked that the light on the patio was rather fine. Mason tucked his pipe between his teeth and led them next door.