changinghumans

[changinghumans]

Second Hand

Scott and Hector didn't want to go to this stupid school dance at all. But their parents both insisted. They said it would be an unforgettable event and that they would draw on it for the rest of their lives. They had even both been given money to buy new tuxedos. A crazy 500 dollars each. What weed they could have bought with that! But still, the two of them now needed a tuxedo. “Cheap tuxedo Chicago” Scott googled. The first result was an address with carnival costumes. That didn't seem appropriate. He scrolled a bit. And then came the entry of a second-hand store. He knew the area. There was a guy around the corner who occasionally supplied him with weed to smoke. This had to be a twist of fate. They would spend the $1000 today. And come home with more than two tuxedos. The two congratulated each other on this excellent plan and their luck. Hector donated the last weed he had and the two smoked in joyful anticipation of plenty of supplies.

It was almost a 30-minute bus ride. The area looked bad. Most of the shops were boarded up, rubbish was lying on the streets, and there were wrecked cars at the side of the road. Only the second-hand shop made a well-kept impression. The mannequins looked extremely old-fashioned. But the clothes they were wearing were decorated in such a way that any hipster would have jumped for joy at the retro fashion. Unfortunately, Scott and Hector were not hipsters. They were fashion grouches. They just wanted a cheap tuxedo. Nothing else.

When they entered the shop, an old-fashioned doorbell rang. The shop was empty. Oldies were playing on a radio. Music they knew from their parents. They looked around uncertainly. And then the voice came from offstage. “Bros, what can I do for you?” A young man had appeared out of nowhere. He had a cool mullet, which was back in fashion. Although somehow it looked different on him. Somehow… vintage? Yes, that suited him, like his clothes. Hector's mother had a thing for an actor named Something Fox. Or something like that. He used to have to watch old movies with his mother with this small-framed actor. And the salesman here in the store looked like he had been an extra in one of the movies. “I hope you can help us, dude,” Scott said with a slightly dry voice. ‘We have to go to some stupid ball and we need a tuxedo or whatever that stuff is called. Something cheap!’ The young man asked what ‘cheap’ meant to them. Scott had no idea what to say. He wasn't really into poker or haggling. “We have $100…” ‘Guys, don't worry, we'll find two tuxedos for you!’ the salesman interrupted them. Hector nudged his buddy in the ribs. It was really their lucky day. They had said that they each wanted to spend a maximum of $100. They would never have dared to dream that they would get two tuxedos for that price.

“My name is Michael, by the way,” said the young man. Hector had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing out loud. Michael J. Fox! Exactly! That was the name of his mother's favorite actor. Michael took the two of them to the back of the store. Here suits were hanging on the racks. ‘Guys, I don't have much of a selection when it comes to tuxedos right now.’ He took two suits off the rack. Here, this is the best I can offer you at the moment.” In one hand he held a tuxedo made of cheap polyester, in the other something made of leather or faux leather. Even though the two of them knew little about fashion, it was clear to them that the two tuxedos were mercilessly out of fashion. They must have had rather horrified faces, because Michael replied immediately, ‘And because of the Black Friday stuff, both are available for 80 dollars together’. And with a wink, he added that there was also a bit of weed as a bonus. Scott couldn't help grinning. That sounded like a deal. He grabbed the leather tuxedo and said, “Mine, dude.” Hector acted offended and took the other one. He was quite happy. He thought a leather tuxedo was kind of gay.

Laughter came from Scott's dressing room. “You okay, buddy?” Michael asked. Scott stepped out of the dressing room, wearing only the tuxedo pants. The pants were way too long and flopped around on his skinny pothead legs. Michael grinned and said that maybe they needed to be shortened a bit. He turned up the waistband and asked Scott to turn around. “But your muscular ass looks great in these pants.” ‘My what?’ Scott thought to himself. He turned to the mirror. What he saw was out of this world! The shiny black material stretched around two perfectly shaped ass cheeks. Without warning, Michael reached into his crotch. Scott winced. ‘Dude,’ Michael said. ”Never get dressed without a jockstrap. Otherwise you can see every detail of your beast through the material!” Scott tried to correct the fit of his cock. Yes, you could see everything. His cock wasn't even hard. Not yet. But he would have the same problem with any pair of pants. But hardly any would fit so perfectly. He turned in front of the mirror. The pants fit his narrow waist just as well as his muscular thighs. He hadn't thought he'd find something that fit so well in a thrift store. Michael came back and threw him a jockstrap. Scott reacted a little too late and the jockstrap landed in his face. Shit, where had he left it again? It was still warm and damp from the last workout. Hell yes, he would recognize the smell of his jockstraps anywhere. “Then I'll try the tuxedo top,“ he said

“Hey, Michael, can you help me?” Michael followed right into Hector's dressing room. He couldn't help grinning. Hector looked like a ten-year-old had put on his father's tuxedo. He literally sank into the fabric. “You really don't have anything else? Shit, it doesn't fit at all!” Hector said. Michael walked around Hector, pulled on the fabric a bit and said that it would look different if he wore a real shirt and not his pothead T-shirt underneath. And in terms of length, Hector would need it. He's quite a giant, after all. How tall is he? 6'2"? “It's 6'3", to be honest,“ Hector replied, shooting up at that moment. “Speaking of shirts, will you bring me one?” Scott's bass boomed through the shop. “XXL or XXXL?” Michael asked, kneeling in front of Hector, trying to pin the waistband. “Better bring XXXL,” Scott replied with a laugh. But Michael was distracted. On his knees, Hector's crotch in his face, the smell of sweat and musk from his trousers. He got a hard-on. And so did Hector, obviously. Instead of continuing to fix the trousers, he opened Hector's fly, whose cock popped out like a jack-in-the-box. Michael had Hector's glans in his mouth faster than Hector could see.

On the radio, Night Ranger's “The Secret Of My Success” was playing, from the soundtrack to the new Michael J Fox movie. Michael had trouble swallowing Hector's cock. He often had true stallions as customers, but that was a premium cock. He looked up and saw far above Hector's muscular torso, his face contorted with lust. Michael grasped Hector's firm ass cheeks and shoved his cock all the way into his face. Hector let out a loud moan as he shot his load. A second load hit Michael in the neck. Scott had been looking for his shirts and had watched the two of them jerking off.

Michael was in seventh heaven. He rarely had such horny customers to serve. And both bought brand-new tuxedos with all the trimmings. He had lusted after a hot cock and made almost $1,000 in sales. He could be more than satisfied. Scott and Hector, however, were more than satisfied themselves. They looked at themselves in the mirror. The tuxedos looked hot and fit like a glove. Their hair was perfectly styled, and they were about to make a first-class appearance at the premiere of the new Sylvester Stallone movie, Over the Top. Both had had a small part in one scene and had competed against each other in the background of Sly in an arm-wrestling contest. Of course, they hoped that this would be their breakthrough. If Arnie and Sly made it from the gym to the silver screen, why not them?

They made a few local papers. And there was actually a photo in Variety. Okay, they misspelled Hector's last name and gave Scott's age as 32 instead of 28. But hey! Better wrong publicity than no publicity!

[changinghumans]

Filtered

Patrick’s Monday had been the same as his Friday. Spreadsheet. Coffee. Slack ping. Microwave lunch. Conference call. Slack ping. Spreadsheet.

At 34, he was past the point of hoping his office job would ever lead somewhere. He was grateful for the stability — a cubicle with a window, decent health care, and a good standing desk — but the truth gnawed at him like dry rot under wallpaper. No one at the office knew he was gay. No one would have cared, but he wasn’t sure anymore if he had the energy to explain. It had been… what, eight months since his last date? That guy from Hinge who said he liked hiking but mostly liked ketamine?

Patrick had forgotten how it felt to be touched with desire.

So when the text came in — an unknown number, just a link with the caption: “you gotta see how this filter hits you bro 😂🔥” — he should’ve just ignored it. But he was bored. At his desk. Alone.

He tapped the link.

His front-facing camera blinked open automatically. A deep warble sounded in his AirPods. The screen turned blue, and his reflection… shimmered. He barely had time to blink before it snapped a picture, made a glitchy noise, and crashed.

Patrick flinched.

The app was gone. The link didn’t work anymore.

He furrowed his brow and rubbed his temple. Weird. The camera had made his skin look darker, more golden, almost oiled. His cheekbones looked sharp. Was that a fade? He hadn’t gotten a haircut in weeks. He must’ve looked at that reflection for less than a second — and yet something about it still hummed behind his eyes, like static in his skull.

Shrugging, he put his phone away and got back to work. Slack ping. Spreadsheet. Nothing out of the ordinary…

Until around 4:00pm, when he realized he hadn’t stopped bouncing his leg. He always hated that — jittery movement drove him nuts. And yet now, the rhythm of his leg bouncing up and down felt… comforting. Like his body wanted to move. No, like it needed to. His work shirt felt suddenly stiff. Tight around the chest and arms.

He lifted his hand to scratch his shoulder.

Pause.

That… wasn’t right.

The fabric under his fingers was cheap, synthetic. Stretchy. Not his usual crisp button-down. He looked down.

The cuff on his wrist had changed. It wasn’t the striped shirt he’d worn this morning. This was… a compression tee. A tacky one. Tight. His forearm looked thicker. He blinked. The fabric stretched as he shifted in his seat. The logo at the bottom hem read: BeastMode Athletics.

“What the fuck,” Patrick whispered.

His voice had a slight rasp to it. He cleared his throat. The sound came out deeper. Bassier.

He opened his phone again to check his reflection.

And stared.

The face looking back wasn’t completely different — but it was sharper. Straighter nose. Fuller lips. Skin bronzed and gleaming like he’d spent a week in Tulum. The stubble across his jaw was thicker than usual, and his neck… was wider.

A chill ran down his spine.

He hurried to the bathroom, trying not to be obvious. As soon as he locked the door behind him, he peeled off the tight shirt — now clinging to his frame like it had always belonged there.

His chest was no longer flat and soft. It sloped outward, two pecs forming a meaty cleft down the middle. Below that: ridges. Tight, blocky abs. Like someone had pressed a six-pack into his stomach, and his skin had simply molded around it. His underarms stank. Bad. Like a locker room on a hot day. He reached for his deodorant in his pocket—only to find he was carrying a small black vape instead.

He dropped it. Backed away. Looked into the mirror again.

His eyes weren’t afraid anymore.

They looked… cocky. Droopy-lidded. He reached up and ruffled his hair.

He wasn’t scared. He should have been. But instead, a dull, dumb warmth spread through his chest, like a sunlamp turned on behind his ribcage. For a moment, his lips curled into a smile.

Then his expression shifted — confusion flickering across his brow. “Wait—wait, what the fuck am I smiling for?”

He fumbled his shirt back on and left work early. Said he was feeling sick. By the time he got home, he was sweating through the back of the shirt. His phone buzzed.

New app installed.

FILTERD+ “Upgrade in progress, bro.”

He swiped at it, but the screen just showed a selfie — him, shirtless. Except he wasn’t shirtless now. But the reflection on screen? That Patrick had already changed. Completely. Same bronze skin. But now, bigger pecs. Hair shorter, gelled. A fake Louis Vuitton crossbody slung across one shoulder. Teeth gleaming white. Tongue stuck out between a pair of glossy lips. “AYO 🔥🔥🔥” scrawled in neon font above him.

Patrick dropped the phone. His ears were ringing. He staggered to the bathroom again — and barely recognized the man in the mirror.

The chest was broader. The biceps thicker. Veins visible down his arms. A flash of ink — a tribal tat? — snaked out from under his sleeve. He tore the shirt off and gasped.

The man in the mirror winked at him.

He tried to say something. Anything.

But what came out was a chuckle. Low. Cringey. Arrogant.

“Bro,” he muttered. “I’m lookin’ so fuckin’ tight right now.”

His heart dropped. His own voice sounded like a 24-year-old douchebag about to go live on TikTok. Worse, he felt kind of proud. And horny. His phone lit up with new notifications:

💦 Roxy: “U up 😘?” 🥵 Chantel: “Still thinking about last night 😩🔥” 👀 CamGirl_Crystal: “You’re a total dom fr.”

He didn’t know these women. But his body reacted anyway. His cock twitched in his shorts, which were now gym shorts, not slacks. His boxers were gone. He was going commando.

He moaned. Loud. Guttural.

His hands gripped the edge of the sink, arms bulging with pump he hadn’t earned, pecs glistening with sweat. A puff of vape-scented mist wafted out from his mouth without him meaning to exhale. It smelled like sour apple and arrogance.

“Yooo,” he grunted, smirking at himself. “I could fuckin’ wreck some pussy right now.”

His stomach gurgled. His feet spread apart. His spine popped, posture straightening like he owned every room he walked into. A gold chain formed around his neck. He grinned. He flexed. Took a mirror selfie. Opened Instagram. Captioned it:

“Feelin’ like a king 😤💦 who tryna slide?”

Somewhere, a faint voice deep inside screamed. Begged for someone to help.

But it was hard to hear.

Too many notifications.

Too much dopamine.

Too many girls DMing him moaning voice notes.

Patrick was slipping.

And Ryker was rising.

The clock read 3:06 AM.

Patrick lay spread across his mattress in nothing but a pair of soaked gym shorts. Sweat beaded down his chest in thick droplets. The sheets were kicked halfway off the bed. His thighs stuck to the fabric. His muscles ached—not from exercise, but from becoming.

His phone was pulsing with soft neon light on the nightstand. Buzz. Buzz. Every vibration made his half-hard cock twitch in his shorts. He hadn’t touched it in hours, but it was still chubbing up with every beat of synthetic dopamine. He could still hear the chime from earlier:

“Upgrade in Progress, bro. Keep grindin’ 💪🔥😈”

He stared at the ceiling fan, which had started to creak. It spun lazily above his slowly mutating body. His feet had pushed over the edge of the mattress—size 11 now? No, maybe size 12. His toes curled reflexively. His calves looked like they were carved from some impossibly vain god.

He opened his mouth to speak. To whisper his own name.

“Pa…trick.”

It came out clumsy. Like his mouth wasn’t made for that word anymore. The “trick” curled in the back of his throat like something foreign. Wrong.

He turned onto his side. His arm, now lined with a thick vein and coiled muscle, thudded heavily against the mattress.

He stared at the glowing phone screen again.

It showed a still image of his face. Or… the face that was now calling itself Ryker. Slick with sweat. Pouting. Jawline rigid and obscene. One eyebrow cocked upward like a smirking parody of confidence. Golden skin, gleaming like it had been oiled for a photo shoot. A faint V-cut emerging just above his waistband. The caption blinked below in looping font:

“you fuckin ready to be famous, bro?”

He blinked. Tried to close the app.

But his thumb moved on its own. Double tap. Swipe. Zoom.

His feed was filled with clips now — not of nature documentaries or queer indie shorts like it used to be — but of HIM.

Ryker.

Ryker flexing in locker room mirrors. Ryker laughing with his tongue out at half-naked girls. Ryker doing the "dumb bro face" for TikTok filters and moaning, "Sheeeshhh!" Ryker licking his own nipple. Ryker face-fucking someone in night vision. Ryker saying, "If she got a fat ass, I ain’t askin’ for her pronouns, fam." And laughing.

Patrick’s throat closed.

His brain screamed. He dug into himself, searching for his memories — anything. His first kiss with Aaron in college. That trip to Montreal with Eli. The little bonsai tree on his desk. His Spotify playlists. His Sunday reading hours.

But they were all muddy. Sliding. Melting into a haze of bro-core beats and titty-jiggle sound effects and autotuned moans.

His cock twitched again. Harder. Leaking now.

He sat up, panting.

His pecs bounced. Full. Bulging. He hadn't worked for them. They had grown while he slept. A dull soreness echoed deep inside his bones, like the transformation had gone marrow-deep.

“F-fuck… something’s wrong,” he whispered.

But the voice was wrong too. Deeper. Lazier. Hornier.

It wasn’t his voice. Not really.

He shuffled to the bathroom. The floor creaked beneath his heavier steps. The air was thick with the smell of BO, weed, and Axe body spray. His smell now.

The light flicked on.

The mirror stared back.

And it wasn’t Patrick anymore.

Not even close.

The man in the mirror was bigger. Bulked out. He had thick traps that arched like mountains. Arms that pulsed. A line of sweat trickled down a deep canyon between his pecs. His jawline was movie-star sharp. And he was smirking — full, cocky, smug. The kind of smirk that said he hadn’t read a book since high school, and he was still proud of it.

He watched his reflection flex his chest.

One pec. Bounce. Then the other.

His nipples were now pierced. Gold hoops with little diamond studs. When did that happen?

He opened his mouth to say “I need help.”

But what came out was a TikTok audio snippet.

“Yooo, she bad as fuuuuck,” he groaned, eyes fluttering shut.

He stumbled back, breathing hard.

His hands went to his face. It was his face, wasn’t it? But different. The bones were wrong. The skin had that obnoxious influencer glow. His eyebrows were too perfect. His lips were pouty, like a model trying to go viral.

And he could feel something behind his eyes.

Something in his thoughts.

A new voice.

Louder.

Hornier.

Stupider.

More Ryker.

“Bro. Stop trippin’. You’re HOT. You’re LIT. You’re that DUDE.”

Patrick whimpered. “Please… I want to go back.”

“Go back to what, bro? Some boring gay cubicle bitch? Nah. You got THOUSANDS of girls begging for your nut, man. Wake the fuck up.”

His phone vibrated again.

New notification:

✅ Finalization: 100% 🧠 Patrick: Archived 💦 Ryker: Activated 📸 TikTok Live in 3…2…1…

Without meaning to, Ryker tapped the screen.

His smile spread. Lips shiny. Eyes dull with horny haze.

LIVE

“Yooooo what’s good, bitches! It’s your boy Ryker. I just woke up, and my balls are so fucking full. Who’s tryna help a king out?” 🥵🔥👅💦💪🍆

He flexed. Turned sideways. Slapped his own ass. Donations flooded in. Comments exploded. Girls spammed thirst emojis. Gay boys begged to serve him.

Somewhere, something very small and faint tried to resist. A whisper of Patrick, like a candle flickering under a hurricane.

But Ryker just blinked.

Grinned.

Vaped.

And burped.

“Damn, bro. I’m hungry. Might nut, then hit Chick-fil-A.”

He slapped his cock. Laughed.

Patrick was gone.

Not repressed.

Not sleeping.

Deleted.

Ryker flexed into the mirror again. Then grabbed his phone and DM’d three girls he barely remembered fucking last week.

“Send vids, I’m tryin’ to bust while my protein shake blends 😈😈😈”

They obeyed. They always did.

He didn’t know why.

But he knew it felt good.

And that was all that mattered.

[changinghumans]

The Tumblr Transformation

Simon had spent countless hours scrolling through Tumblr, obsessively following scally and chav transformation blogs. What started as a casual kink - a fascination with lads in trackies and gear - had spiralled into a real obsession. It consumed him. Every spare moment, whether at work or out with friends, he was glued to his phone, refreshing feeds, looking at every photo and story that involved chavs.

The obsession soon began to shape his real life. He had started replacing his wardrobe piece by piece, binning old clothes in favour of branded sportswear and trainers. The chavvy look felt more and more natural, like he was finally becoming one of the lads he loved. He had come across countless transformation stories online. At first, the idea of being fully turned into someone else felt bizarre, but it quickly became his biggest turn-on. The thought of his life being completely rewritten gave him a massive thrill. Still, Simon felt something was missing. None of the stories he found quite scratched his particular itch, so he decided to write his own. At first, it was just for fun, but to his surprise, people liked them. Likes and reblogs started piling up. He got messages from strangers praising his work, even asking for custom stories. It felt validating.

One day, during a break at work, Simon stood outside the office, phone in hand as usual, checking the stats on his latest post. A private message popped up. The conversation started like many others, with a compliment on his writing, but the it quickly turned more intense. The guy on the other end seemed genuinely into the same niche stuff, and they went deep into fantasy talk.

That evening, the chat took an unexpected turn. “Would you actually want this to happen for real?” the guy asked.

Simon paused and typed back: “Yeah! Of course I would. It’s all I think about lately.”

The response came quickly: “I might be able to make it happen. I’ve got something… A Serum. The real deal. It’s permanent.”

Simon blinked at his screen, laughing quietly. This had to be a joke. Either this guy was completely mad or just caught up in the same fantasies. Still, curious and slightly amused, Simon played along. “Sure. Send it over,” he typed.

“Alright, but I want proof. Pics. Full results.”

Two days later, a small package arrived. Inside was a tiny dropper bottle and a handwritten note: “Hope you enjoy your wish, MATE! You’ll be saying that a lot soon. Use the whole bottle, mix it with whatever you want to drink. That’s more than enough to make the change permanent. And don’t forget that I want those photos!”

Simon unscrewed the cap and sniffed. The liquid was clear, thick like syrup, with a faint citrus tang. Cautious, he dabbed a single drop on his finger and touched it to his tongue. There was no immediate effect, but after a moment something shifted. A weird, electric sensation buzzed under his skin. Maybe it was just in his head, but it didn’t feel bad.

Still, he hesitated a moment longer., but he eventually gave in and poured the entire contents into a glass and topped it with water, watching the fluid swirl as it mixed. He lifted the glass, took a deep breath, and downed it in one go. Instantly, dread crept in. What had he just done? He had drunk some unknown substance sent by a complete stranger. Panic flickered in his chest. It could have been anything: poison, drugs, or just a stupid prank.

He sat down, heart thudding, unsure what to expect. To calm himself, Simon reached for his phone. Well, he thought, if this is it, I may as well go out doing what I love. He opened Tumblr, thumbing through familiar posts, eyes drawn to every scally boy and chav transformation story.  

About fifteen minutes had passed since Simon had downed the Serum. At first, it was subtle, but a warmth quickly grew under his skin, setting every nerve alight with energy. It wasn’t painful, just… charged. His body was transforming. He watched in stunned silence as his frame began to slim down, slowly at first, then more rapidly. His stomach flattened, soft weight receding as though time itself was being reversed. The man he had seen in the mirror for years was vanishing. His arms, his chest, his neck were tightening, reshaping. He felt lighter and younger. Even the texture of his skin was different. It felt smoother and fresher. His hands looked unfamiliar. His jawline was more defined.

It was actually working. He looked... good. Really good. And more than that, he felt different - not just physically, but mentally. A strange calm had settled in, a kind of quiet confidence. The anxious overthinking that had always hovered in the background seemed to have faded. For the first time in forever, he just felt comfortable in his own skin.

Getting up from the bed, Simon stood there for a moment, completely naked, taking it all in. He was someone else now. But the first practical problem came to his mind: none of his old clothes were going to fit this new body.

But then he remembered he already had just what he needed. With a sudden spark of excitement, he rushed over to his wardrobe and yanked the doors open. Pulling down a plastic storage box he had almost forgotten about, he lifted the lid to reveal exactly what he needed: two full football tracksuits, a snug-fitting t-shirt, boxer briefs, and a pair of Air Max 95s. He had bought the lot months ago off a chavvy lad he had met online who looked exactly like the kind of guy Simon had just turned into.

He slipped on the boxers, then pulled on a grey tracksuit. It fit perfectly like it had been made for him. The fabric clung just right. He stood tall, checking himself out in the wardrobe mirror. He walked to the living room and sat down on the sofa. Then he grabbed his phone and snapped a quick selfie to send it to the guy, just as he had promised.

“Thanks, mate! Can’t believe it actually worked. I’m actually a chav lad!”

The reply came back almost instantly. “Good to hear, mate! You’ll notice a few more personality traits kicking in over the next few days. Enjoy your new life, yeah?”

Over the next few days, Simon spent his time walking the streets, hanging around the city centre, loitering in places he used to avoid. He also found himself drifting toward spots where he knew he might run into people from his old life. And when they walked right past him without a flicker of recognition, completely unaware of who he really was, he got a massive kick out of it. He looked like someone else. But more than that he was someone else now.

Everything had changed. The way he moved, the way he carried himself. Even his voice had shifted. His accent was now way rougher. He wasn’t playing dress-up anymore. This was who he was.

But he soon came to the realisation he was going to have to move on. As people were going to start asking questions. Someone would notice his absence sooner or later and they would come looking. He couldn’t stick around any longer.

So, with little ceremony, he packed what he could into a backpack and left his old life behind once and for all. Standing at the threshold of his flat, he hesitated for a second, then let the keys drop onto the floor inside. He then pulled the door shut behind him. There was no going back now.

He boarded a train heading north, settling into a seat as the countryside began to blur past the window. With every passing mile, his old life fell further away. He pulled out his phone, staring at his reflection in the darkened screen. This new chapter needed a new identity. “New life, new name…” he muttered under his breath. A dozen names flicked through his mind. He jotted down a shortlist of first names and surnames - ones he had heard around estates or seen online. After some back-and-forth, he decided on one. Reece Hardy.

Later, as the train slowed near Sunderland, Reece ducked into the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror again and raised his phone to take a photo. That was the one. His new profile picture. Reece Hardy was here now.

When Reece arrived in Sunderland, his first priority was finding a place to crash. A youth hostel wasn’t exactly luxury, but it was cheap, anonymous, and most importantly it didn’t ask too many questions. At the check-in desk, he gave his new name without hesitation. “Reece Hardy,” he said, confidently. But then came the inevitable: “Got any ID?” His heart jumped, but he didn’t flinch.

Thinking quickly, he spun a story. “Nah, man’s got nothin’. Mum and dad were proper dossers - always on the move, never patterned no papers. No birth cert, no passport, nuttin’. They both dropped out last year, so now man’s just tryna pattern life solo, innit.”

It was a stretch, and he knew it. But he leaned into the rough edges of the tale, channelling just enough vulnerability to sell it. The receptionist paused, clearly unsure, then nodded slowly. “Alright. Can’t promise anything long-term, but we’ll get you a bed for now.”

“Appreciate it,” Reece replied, keeping his voice casual.

They asked his date of birth, and for a second, he blanked. How old was he now? He didn’t exactly feel forty-something anymore. He blurted out the first thing that came to mind: “27th March 2006.” That made him just over nineteen.

The next few weeks went on slow but steady. The hostel staff helped him navigate the paperwork to get officially registered. He expected tough questions or red tape, but to his surprise, no one seemed too bothered. Maybe they just saw another kid with a rough past trying to get by. Once he had the basics sorted - temporary ID, a National Insurance number, a bank account - he could finally start looking for work. The idea of doing manual labour would’ve horrified him in his old life. Back when he was Simon, working in an office, tapping away at spreadsheets, dreading every Monday. But Reece wanted to get stuck in. The thought of sitting at a desk all day now made his skin crawl.

Through a local support programme, he was lined him up with an apprenticeship in bricklaying. It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid, and he could earn while he trained. He worked on muddy sites, hauling materials, laying bricks, learning on the job. It was a far cry from his old life as an accountant, but Reece had never felt more alive. There was something raw and real about working with his hands, being outdoors, grafting alongside lads who spoke like he did now.

Nearly a year had passed since Reece had started his new life. Now living in a cramped but manageable bedsit, he had built a routine consisting of work, college, and nights out with the lads. He was part of something now. He had made mates on site and at his apprenticeship course - proper lads who didn’t ask too many questions. Nights out were loud and messy, full of cheap pints, fast food, and football chants. In a strange way, it felt like freedom.

But there was one part of the change that he hadn’t expected at all: He wasn’t into guys anymore. Back when he was Simon, that side of him had been a core part of who he was. It fuelled his fantasies, even the spark that had led him down the rabbit hole of transformation stories in the first place. But now? There wasn’t even a flicker of interest in guys anymore. Meanwhile, any half-decent-looking girl could turn his head without trying. At first, Reece had been unsettled by this. Disappointed, even. That part of his old self had mattered. But over time, he just stopped thinking about it. This was who he was now. And whatever life the Serum had planned for him; this was clearly part of the deal.

It wasn’t long before things moved fast. His most recent girlfriend had barely been with him a few months before she got pregnant. They moved into a council house together, and before he knew it, they had two more kids. By the time Reece turned 25, his life looked nothing like the one he had left behind. Each morning started before sunrise. He would pull on his boots, grab a brew, kiss his now wife goodbye, and head out to work.

His council house was far from fancy, but it was full of life. Three young boys, all under five, tearing through the place like a hurricane. Reece would come home, muscles aching, clothes dusty, and still find the energy to be there for them. He would catch himself sometimes, sitting on the edge of the sofa with a cold can in hand, the telly murmuring in the background, his family around him and think: This is it. This is the life I was meant for.

The old version of himself – Simon - felt like a dream from someone else's head. It wasn’t a bad life back then, but he now realized he was way happier like this. So, when people asked if he ever thought about the past - if he would change anything – he would just shake his head with a grin. “Nah, mate,” he would say. “Wouldn’t trade this for the world.”

______________________________________________________________

This story is based on a story originally posted by @scallylad89 on Tumblr. I have changed quite a lot about the original story though.

[changinghumans]

Can I have a case of red? Im tall but skinny. Wonder what efect the drink will have on me?

Thomas was on his way to work, cutting through the city stadium.He had just received his order of “RED.”

He’d seen a somewhat narcissistic YouTuber talk about it, praising the energy boost the drink was supposed to give.

Thomas was very tall and skinny.His body burned through energy fast, and he often experienced crashes during the day.So he figured it was a good idea to give it a try.

While sipping on his can of “RED”, he thought back to that YouTuber, boasting about all the positive effects the drink could provide, and wondered if he’d feel any of them himself.

More than anything, he just wanted to get through a workday without that usual, crushing fatigue.

He drank the can to the very last drop.

He enjoyed the sparkling red berry flavor.

As soon as the can was empty, Thomas started coughing up a cloud of red smoke. Completely shocked by what was happening, he saw his memories swirl around in chaos.

It started with his rough teenage years.

His height and thin frame had always been a source of insecurity.Like most teens, he hadn’t escaped ridicule. They used to call him “the pole” or even “the skeleton.”

He’d always struggled to gain weight. His body demanded way too many calories, and because of that, he constantly looked a little sickly.

After finishing high school, he had no real ambition for the future.He didn’t know what kind of work he wanted to do. It’s now been eight years since he started working at the small convenience store in his hometown. At first, it was just supposed to be temporary — a stopgap until he figured things out.But in the end, he never left. He hated the job. Seeing the same village faces every day, running into former classmates who had clearly succeeded in life… it made him feel a bit more pathetic every day. He lived alone.

He knew his life sucked. But unfortunately, his metabolism held him back in everyday life. Any motivation to change would quickly fade.

Then he felt a powerful surge of energy course through his body — like a wave of intense heat. He had never felt anything like it before. That energy… the one he had always dreamed of.

New memories began reshaping his reality. He saw himself as a teenager again, still mocked by others… but this time, he fought back. He started working out to change his body. After years of dedication, he managed to build a muscular frame. Still slim, sure, but no longer sickly-looking. He had gained confidence.

He still worked at the village convenience store… but no longer as just an employee. This time, he was the owner. Two years earlier, his boss had offered to sell him the place. It wasn’t his dream, but owning his own business was a solid opportunity.

He was in a relationship with a woman he had met at the shop. They had recently moved in together.

He wasn’t sure if all of this was real… but he liked these memories. This life felt good.

And as the memories settled into reality, his body continued to transform. He became more muscular, more confident.

He didn’t understand what was happening. But just as he was starting to grasp that his body had changed, that energy returned — stronger than before. It was like an adrenaline explosion. The sensation was incredible. He felt powerful. And while that rush flowed through him, the memories kept shifting.

He saw himself again in those teenage years, mocked for his appearance… but this time, he didn’t back down. He remembered the massive surge of anger, that moment he charged at the group of teens and beat the crap out of them. Adrenaline had taken over. He lost control. And he’d managed to scare them. In fact, everyone was scared now…

For Thomas, that was the turning point. He would never let anyone walk over him again.

He changed everything: his diet, his routine. He ate massive amounts of food to bulk up and threw himself into weight training. And now those rewritten memories were taking physical form. His body morphed into a mountain of muscle. He lost his hair from a flood of testosterone, but a thick red beard grew in, giving him an impressive look.

He owed that physique in part to the city’s rugby club, where he had enrolled. He quickly became a key player — a cornerstone of the team. They called him “The Mountain.” Few teams ever managed to beat them.

Thomas was fully dedicated to his club. He even coached the younger players.

He had bought the convenience store where he used to work, but had turned it into a bar. He wanted to transform the place he once hated. And he did. It became the team’s headquarters — always buzzing with people, full of life.

He lived with the woman he’d met at the old shop. But sadly for her, she had become the most cheated-on woman in the village.

Thomas had an endless sex drive. Probably another side effect of all that testosterone. He didn’t care if it was with women or men.

He’d already slept with a few of his gay teammates — they’d even given him a nickname: “ The Ass Breaker.”

The transformation came to an end. His clothes turned into a rugby kit. Old memories faded. New ones took their place.

And the new reality came to life.

The smoke stopped pouring from his mouth. The skinny Thomas was gone. Now, only the rugby-playing Thomas remained.

He grabbed his can of “RED” before heading to training, and with a smirk, wondered whose ass he’d be taking after practice.

[changinghumans]

[changinghumans]

@brachiorex

[changinghumans]

[changinghumans]

The wedding 3/3

[changinghumans]

The wedding 2/3

[changinghumans]

The wedding 1/3

[changinghumans]

Dude, why the heck do I have this BroMaker 3000 app on my phone? What even is that? And what’s up with all these pics of some nerd? Total bummer, man. Whoa, the next thing on my calendar is “chess club”? Definitely gotta be a mistake. Did I accidentally swap phones with a geek? Man, I’m feeling kinda riled up again and really wanna get off before football practice.

Before hitting “transform now”, Desmond was this brainiac physics kid with straight A's, while new Brody was now more of a chill C average kind of bro. But he’s still pure alpha, no doubt!

Yo, check out more rad BroMaker 3000 results @21st-century-boys

[changinghumans]

Wedding day final part 4

[changinghumans]

Wedding day part 3

Inspired by @tfalpha88

[changinghumans]

Wedding day part 2

Inspired by @tfalpha88

[changinghumans]

Wedding day part 1

Inspired by @tfalpha88

[changinghumans]

"Cum to the Bathroom"

“Cum to the bathroom, bro.”

You read the text over and over, and stared at the pic below. It was totally out of character for your intellectual, anxious boyfriend to send you a text like that out of nowhere, even at the gym. And the picture he had sent with it…

You couldn’t quite put your finger on what was different, but he looked incredibly sexy. The coloured hair, the tattoos, even the way his shirt clung to his body, it was somehow different than what you expected but you still knew it was him. His eyes were just the same as always. Fuck, did he really want to get dirty right now?

Another text popped up. “Bro, my pits are fuckin rank, cum 2 the last stall”

This must be some kind of surprise roleplay. You were both into those dumb, musky jocks and fantasised about public sex, even though you'd never tried it. And you could feel yourself starting to chub up in your gym shorts, too.

Fuck it. “On my way, baby.”

“Call me dude, bro.”

A moment later, you pushed open the door to the bathroom. It felt so dirty to walk casually past the urinals, watching yourself in the mirror as if your body was moving on autopilot. Were you walking differently than normal? Could people tell? The air itself felt different, pregnant with horny anticipation.

You knocked gently on the last stall, and the latch slid open.

“Hey bro,” said your boyfriend, pulling you into the close space. Was his voice deeper, more smokey? He looked even bigger than he had in the picture, his eyes full of desperate lust.

“What’s up dude?” you replied, using the nickname like he’d told you. “How’s the lift going?”

“Oh, you know me,” he crowded you against the wall, raising one arm so all you could see was the tangled, wet hair of his armpit, “I got too fuckin’ horny and had to call my bro in to help.”

This was really happening. You had your boyfriend’s fresh, musky pits right in front of you. Five minutes ago he’d been on the elliptical, and you could still feel the heat of his exertion radiating onto you. You angled your head forward, straight into the dense, sweaty forest, and took a deep whiff.

Your boyfriend stifled your moan with his pit as he crushed you against the flimsy stall wall. “Let it in, bro,” he ordered you, his free hand reaching down to fondle your cock straight through your shorts.

As you started licking, you felt something like a finger reach down the back of your shorts and tease your ass. You gasped at the intrusion.

“Shhh,” your boyfriend told you. “Keep quiet, bro. Let it in.” One hand was behind his head, the other beginning to undo the drawstring of your shorts.

You pulled back, looked up at his face. You trusted the expression in his eyes. It felt so good to lean back in as your boyfriend started to stroke your cock and the something behind you ran a cold finger around your rim.

The sensation quickly slipped into your ass, and you barely held back a keen as it massaged your prostate. You felt so full all of the sudden, but all you could focus on was the pleasure and the sharp, musky stench overpowering all your senses.

“C’mon bro, keep going, you’re almost there,” came your boyfriend’s voice as your rock-hard cock started to fill your shorts with precum. “Fill up so good.”

Your belly felt swollen now, and so, so cold, even enveloped in the warmth of your boyfriend’s body. Suddenly, the cold clawed upwards into your chest, and you looked down in shock.

Your belly was overfilled, and your pecs were bouncing of their own volition. They were bouncing and growing, thick dark hair covering them as the areolae expanded. “What’s-“ you gasped, but then your boyfriend’s hand shot to your new muscle tits. His callused, wide, masculine hand. The pleasure of his touch shot through your brain and your voice cut off in a choked gasp.

Suddenly, you could see what had happened to your boyfriend. The tattoos, the hair, the muscles, the voice. They weren’t him, they were something else inside him. Something dumb, musky, and perverted.

“C’mon bro, you’re so close, let my bro and me play a bit,” the thing in your boyfriend rasped in your ear. Meanwhile, you felt your lats jerk wider, hair growing wild in your armpits as the intense scent of your musk began to fight with your boyfriend’s.

You looked into his eyes and realised they hadn’t changed. Your boyfriend was looking out, watching your biceps thicken and your neck widen, and he was loving it. Every motion, every touch, every hushed gasp in the public bathroom, was exactly what he had always wanted but never been able to actually do. And you wanted it too.

Your arms, out of your control, pushed your shorts down your thickening thighs, letting your massive cock flop out. One massive, thick-fingered hand pulled out your boyfriend’s hard cock and put them both end to end, stretching your foreskin over his cockhead and starting to stroke. Now it was your boyfriend’s turn to stifle his yell as you lost control of your face to the thing inside you.

“Fuck yeah, dude,” your mouth said, the voice deep and slow. “Found such a good body for your bro. He’s so fuckin’ happy in here, lettin’ me flex and bate him and givin' into the musk.”

Your boyfriend grunted and grabbed your lips in a bruising kiss. “So’s this guy, bro,” he purred. “Fuck, I can’t wait to make you smell these feet, bro.”

A moment later, your boyfriend hissed and you felt his hot cum flood your foreskin, tipping you over the edge. Foreheads pressed together, you rode out the orgasm with ragged breaths and shifting feet, flexing muscle on muscle to prolong the pleasure. When you finally released your foreskin, your boyfriend cupped his hands to get both your loads as they spilled out, and met your eyes as he tipped it into his mouth. You felt a shuddering aftershock as your boyfriend looked out past the thing possessing him, delirious with pleasure.

“Let’s crush the rest of the workout, bro,” he whispered, giving you one last cummy kiss.

“You’ll smell me from across the gym, dude,” you said, lifting one arm and sticking your tongue out.

You didn’t know how long you and your boyfriend would be passengers in your own bodies, but you were ready to settle down and enjoy it.

@idesofrevolution sent a pic of him and his boyfriend at the gym and this is my response. Your move, Frost ;) Good boys will go check out his Ko-fi.

[changinghumans]

Not all straight guys are assholes. Where are the golden retrievers jocks? The dudebros who are just too stupid to even be mean? The ones whose "Boys Will Be Boys" just mean doing a stupid and dangerous prank? Where are the himbos?

You were just joking.

God, you thought you were joking.

It was after brunch, lying on your stomach in your stupidly aesthetic apartment, still wearing your tiny lemon-yellow shorts and a wrinkled crop top. You were scrolling through your older brother Blake’s latest Instagram story — shirtless at the lake again, shotgunning a beer with the boys, smacking one of them on the ass. “Dude’s like if a Labrador retriever joined a frat,” you said aloud to yourself, half-laughing. “What does he even think about all day? I wish I could, like… peek inside that head for five seconds.”

You didn’t know something was listening.

You definitely didn’t expect it to answer.

It hits you in your sleep. A warm, oily heaviness in your chest and groin, as if your body was melting into the bed. Your dreams are loud, full of laughter and burping and the sound of tits jiggling in slow motion. You’re sprinting barefoot through a gym, slamming into someone in a scrimmage, barking out a laugh like it’s the only language you know.

When you wake up, you’re drenched. Literally soaked in sweat. Your sheets reek. Your pits reek. You bolt upright, blinking hard, heart racing. “Jesus, it’s—” your voice catches. It’s deeper. Just a little. Rough, like your throat’s sore from yelling at a football game.

You raise your arms. And freeze.

Hair. Dark, curly armpit hair—thick, soaked with sweat.

“What the heck,” you say. You almost curse, almost say fuck, but you stop yourself. Not out of politeness. Out of instinct. Like your mouth just doesn’t want to say it. That’s weird. That’s really weird.

You swing your legs off the bed, confused, still sticky with sleep. But… the room isn’t right.

No. It’s wrong.

Your sleek, curated bedroom — gone.

The plush rug, the perfume shelf, the color-coded books? Replaced with scuffed hardwood, a crooked poster of some blonde chick licking a popsicle, and piles of gym shorts and sweat-stained tank tops. There’s a beanbag chair where your reading nook used to be, and an Xbox controller sticking out from under a laundry basket full of whey protein tubs.

This is not your room.

You stagger to your feet, and that’s when you smell it. The room smells like gym socks and Axe and nut. Like—dude smell. And it’s… turning you on?

No, no, no, no. This is a nightmare. You stumble toward the full-length mirror. That can’t be your reflection. Your hair’s darker now, messier, hanging low and greasy across your forehead like you haven’t shampooed in days. Your face is rounder, jaw more blunt. You flex your hand—and the fingers are thick. Wide-knuckled. Like someone who lifts but doesn’t moisturize.

You tug your waistband forward. You’re not wearing your skimpy jockstrap. You’re in these loose, bargain-bin boxers that smell like they’ve been through a keg stand.

And beneath them, you’re hard. Really, really hard.

“Shittt,” something says in your head. It’s your voice. But it’s… not. It’s slower. Dumb. Like it just woke up and decided thinking was optional. “Damn, imagine her sittin’ on your face, bro…”

You clutch your head. “No! I don’t— I’m gay, I’m not into— I don’t care about some chick’s—”

But your cock does.

You moan—low and guttural—and your free hand slides down your stomach without even asking permission. Your chest shudders. You feel heat rising beneath your skin, a dull ache in your balls, like they’re swelling with something heavy and impatient.

“Just wanna bust in a tight lil’ pussy, man. Get a good girl all bred up,” the voice says, amused, dreamy. You don’t want to think that. You don’t believe that. But another part of you, a deeper, dumber part, just goes: Yeah bro. Hell yeah.

You try to fight it. You grip the dresser. You pant. You chant in your head: “I’m not like that, I’m not Blake, I’m not Blake, I’m not—”

But your reflection’s shoulders are broader now. Your arms are pumping bigger with every heartbeat. Your nipples are hard against your soft, sweaty tee. Your hair’s still darkening, oiling, curling against your forehead like a guy who barely owns a comb.

You accidentally grunt. You drool.

And suddenly the thought of being just like Blake doesn’t sound that scary. You’d get to hang out with the guys, right? Lift shit, chug beers, toss around a football? You wouldn’t have to overthink anymore. No more spiraling. No more needing to figure yourself out. You’d be simple. Like a sweet dog with muscles. Dumb as bricks. Happy as hell.

You blink slowly.

You scratch your balls.

You smile — dopey and lazy.

The voice in your head hums: “Yo… you ever done that prank where you put a banana in a tailpipe? That shit’s hilarious.”

And for some reason… you giggle.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, slack-jawed and dripping sweat, your chest heaving like you just ran sprints.

Your brain keeps trying to come up with words — protests, arguments, anything — but it’s like trying to tune into a radio station that’s been replaced with fart jokes and Top 40 bro country.

Your jaw cracks again, wider, heavier, more defined. Your lips curl into a crooked grin as you instinctively flex your arms and puff out your chest, not even caring that the thin tee you're wearing is now soaked through and clinging to your swelling pecs. Your nipples poke through the fabric. They're big. You rub one absentmindedly. It makes your dick twitch.

“Yo… I look jacked,” you mutter. And just like that, your voice drops, sinking another octave into that low, grinning Blake-register. A warm fog creeps into your skull. You feel so… light. So… not smart.

And it feels awesome.

Somewhere, deep in your shrinking mind, the old you kicks at the walls — remembering brunch, remembering your curated skincare routine, remembering how you'd never objectify women. That you liked men. Loved men.

But all you can picture now is a hot dumb bitch with lip gloss choking on your cock while your bros cheer you on from the other room. You want to tell her she's got pretty eyes — but your head just laughs and goes: “She don’t need brains. She got titties.”

You’re drooling again.

And you don’t even care.

Your thighs bulge outward, pushing against the stretched leg holes of your shorts. You feel hair prickling across your chest and your happy trail darkening like spilled ink. Your abs firm up — not from dieting or core workouts, but just from existing as this bro version of yourself. A dumb, sweaty, protein-chugging puppy of a man.

“Yo,” you grunt to yourself, laughing. “I gotta fart so bad.”

You do. Loud. Deep. Proud.

You sniff. Loudly.

“Duuuuude,” you chuckle. “Fuckin’ smells like power.”

You don’t even notice the name on the sports banner now hanging over your bed: “BRETT’S ROOM – NO GIRLS ALLOWED (UNLESS THEY WANNA SUCK IT)”

You read it out loud and giggle. “Haha… suck it.”

You scratch your nuts. They’re heavy. You’re leaking precum and don’t even notice.

The voice in your head is gone. Or maybe it’s not — maybe it is you now. And it’s not saying much anymore. Just vibes. Just thoughts like:

“I wanna prank Kyle by shaving his eyebrows.” “Bet I could drink six eggs raw.” “Tits are freakin’ awesome.”

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand — no more Instagram notifications from queer authors or indie fashion brands. It’s a group chat: The Boyz 💦🏈.

Blake: yo lil bro u up? wanna hit the gym n prank jake later? thinking like… saran wrap on the toilet seat? lol

You stare at the message. You feel that dumb golden retriever joy kick in. You wanna bounce. You wanna bark. You wanna be one of the boyz.

You type back: hell yea bro lmao i’ll bring the protein farts 😂🍑🔥

And you mean it.

Your face is fully Blake-tier now — square jaw, goofy grin, eyes slightly too wide to look clever. Your soul’s not gone. It’s just… wagging its tail. You love your bro. You love your gym. You love being big and dumb and full of cum. You love laughing with your pack of idiot besties and doing dumbass pranks that get posted on Snapchat.

You love being Brett.

You flex in the mirror, watch your muscle gut tighten up, hair dusting your chest like a man’s man.

And the only thing on your mind is:

“Yo, wonder if I can bust a nut on the bench press before Blake gets here. Would be so funny.”

You laugh.

And then you do it.