badguyswin

[badguyswin]

Ver-dicked

Julian Klein was not the kind of man who celebrated victories. Not loudly, anyway.

At thirty-eight, the progressive civil rights attorney had weathered too many betrayals and bitter compromises to get sentimental. He’d watched justice crumble in real time, seen big-money landlords walk free while families were evicted in the rain. So when the verdict came down that morning — unanimous, clean, final — he didn’t cheer. He didn’t grin. He just sat there, spine straight, hands folded, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It never did.

Karen Braddock, real estate heiress, political donor, and avowed Fox News disciple, had lost.

Her plan to displace an entire building of working-class Dominican and Puerto Rican families in East Harlem — rebranding it as “Uptown Luxe Lofts” — had been struck down, thanks in no small part to Julian’s precision, his passion, and the hours he’d poured into pro bono depositions and old rent rolls. The tenants would stay. Her permits were dead. The court costs were hers to eat.

And she didn’t take it well.

Julian had barely made it to the courthouse steps before he heard the clicking. Heels, hard and sharp against the marble. He turned.

Karen was approaching.

Draped in a cream pantsuit so white it practically glowed, she looked like some kind of deranged angel — or a vulture in couture. Her blonde bob was razor-clean, and she wore sunglasses even in the shadows of the colonnade. A string of pearls clung to her throat like a noose.

“Congratulations,” she said coolly. “You must be so proud of yourself.”

Julian gave her a polite nod. “Just doing my job.”

She stepped closer, enough that he caught the faint scent of some obscenely expensive floral perfume — jasmine and venom.

“Do you think they’ll thank you?” she asked, voice light, sing-song. “Your little tenants?”

“They’re not mine,” Julian said flatly.

She tilted her head. “No. No, of course not. You don’t belong there, do you?”

He frowned.

“You’re one of the good ones,” Karen purred. “Clean cut. Columbia. Groomed. You fight for the poor — but you don’t live with them, do you?”

Julian stared. “Is there a point to this?”

She smiled, a curdled thing. “I just wonder how long you’d last on the other side of the courtroom. If you didn’t have your suits and your Starbucks and your little rainbow lapel pin. If you didn’t have that face.” She gestured vaguely toward his high cheekbones, his faint crow’s feet. “What if you weren’t a liberal darling? What if you were just another one of them?”

Julian felt his jaw tighten. “That’s enough.”

Karen laughed, a soft, throaty sound, like she already knew something he didn’t.

She leaned in. One gloved finger reached up and tapped the center of his chest — right over his sternum — three times.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Enjoy the win, Julian,” she whispered, stretching his name like gum. “It’s your last.”

And then she was gone. She didn’t storm off. She drifted — as if nothing had happened at all.

Julian stood there in the heat, heart suddenly racing. He rubbed the spot she’d touched, where the cotton of his shirt now felt oddly warm. A trickle of sweat slid down his spine.

Weird. The sun had disappeared behind clouds. It wasn’t that hot.

That night, Julian couldn’t sleep.

Not because of nerves. Not even because of Karen — he’d dealt with sore losers before. No, this was something else.

He kept itching.

It started at his chest. An odd, crawling irritation. Not quite a rash, not quite a burn. Just enough to keep him tossing in his high-thread-count sheets. He sat up in bed and turned on the light.

His chest hair — normally fine, lightly curled, neatly groomed — looked… strange. Thinner. Patchy in places.

He reached up and scratched. A tuft came away in his palm.

“Ugh,” he muttered. “Stress.”

He padded into the bathroom and turned on the light.

The mirror didn’t lie — but it didn’t make sense, either.

His face looked normal. Mostly. But there was a faint bronze tint to his skin that hadn’t been there that morning. His cheekbones looked sharper. Lips… fuller? And was his jaw… squarer?

“No,” he muttered. “Nope. Too much wine.”

He splashed cold water on his face. Looked again.

And blinked.

His eyes were the same — green, slightly downturned, serious — but everything else was off by just a degree or two. Like someone had drawn Julian from memory using a different cultural template.

His stubble looked darker. Coarser. He leaned in and squinted.

There — just above his left clavicle. A faint outline. Raised skin.

A tattoo?

Julian reeled back. “What the fuck?”

The lines were still forming — black ink rising beneath the surface of his skin, curling into letters. He couldn’t quite make it out, but the typeface was bold, jagged. Gothic.

He rubbed at it. Hard. It didn’t budge.

For a long time he just stared, heart pounding. Then — finally — he laughed. Too loudly.

“This is a stress dream. That’s what this is.”

He turned off the light. Went back to bed.

But sleep didn’t come.

Julian barely slept.

Every time he dozed, he dreamed of hands — rough, unfamiliar hands — rubbing lotion into cracked knuckles, wrapping thick gold chains around a neck that felt too heavy, too wide. He heard reggaetón blaring somewhere just out of sight. He smelled grilled meat. Smoke. Beer spilled on concrete. Hot rubber. Something unclean.

He woke around 6 a.m. in a puddle of sweat.

The sheets were soaked. His T-shirt clung to his body. He peeled it off and dropped it on the floor, grimacing at the wet slap.

The tattoo was fully visible now. Black ink, sharp and bold, across his clavicle. A script in jagged Old English:

“Mi Sangre No Miente.” My blood doesn’t lie.

Julian stared at it for a full minute, hoping it might fade in the light of morning.

It didn’t.

He turned slowly, examining his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He flicked on the harsh overhead fluorescents — the ones he usually avoided because they made him look tired.

But this reflection didn’t look tired. This reflection looked… wrong.

His face was subtly swollen, like he’d spent the night drinking. His jaw looked wider. His skin — definitely darker now — had taken on a golden-brown hue. Not a tan. This wasn’t a sunburn. This was pigment. Deep, even, baked in. His chest hair had almost fully receded, leaving his pecs strangely smooth and a little shiny, like the skin of someone who exfoliated obsessively.

Julian lifted an arm. Sniffed.

And recoiled.

“What the—?”

A heavy, bitter stench clung to him — sharp and salty, like stale sweat left to bake in polyester. His deodorant, some clean citrusy brand from France, had stopped working. Or maybe his skin no longer recognized it.

He reached for the faucet and splashed water on his face, trying to ground himself.

That’s when he caught the second tattoo.

Right shoulder blade. A small spiderweb, black as night. Delicate, but unmistakably gang ink — the kind he’d seen in courtroom evidence photos. Tattoos that were used to classify and criminalize. Symbols of a stereotype. The stereotype Karen had imagined.

His stomach lurched.

He dropped the towel and backed away.

He tried to go about his day normally.

Tried.

He walked to his neighborhood café — a sleek little Colombian-owned spot with oat milk and curated playlists. He tried to order his usual: a cortado, extra hot, no sugar. But when he opened his mouth, the words came out wrong.

“I’ll get, uh… shit, just gimme a fuckin’… uh…”

His tongue stumbled. He heard himself.

The voice that left his mouth was rough. Thicker. Something in the back of his throat was sluggish, lazy. A slur, almost, but not drunken — dialectal. An accent. Faint, but undeniably there. The syllables dragged.

The barista blinked at him.

“You okay, Mr. Klein?”

He tried to reset. Clear his throat.

“Yeah. Sorry. Cortado. Extra hot. No sugar.”

The barista nodded, but her expression lingered — confused. Guarded.

Julian sat down at his usual table, hands trembling slightly. The wooden chair felt too small under him. He shifted his legs. His thighs — thicker? Heavily muscled? The denim of his jeans pulled in ways it hadn’t yesterday. His calves felt compressed. He rolled up his pants leg just slightly — and stared.

His legs were covered in hair again. But it wasn’t like before. The strands were coarse, black, curling tightly. The kind of leg hair that didn’t read as “groomed” or “rugged.” It read as uncivilized. Sweaty. Dirty.

Julian swallowed hard. Reached for his phone. Maybe he could call his dermatologist. Or his doctor. Or his—

No notifications.

The screen was different.

The background had changed — it wasn’t the quiet photo of him and his ex on a hiking trail anymore. It was a mirror selfie, shirtless, blurry, taken in a locker room. Gold chain around the neck. Brown skin. Thick chest. His face. But not his face.

The contacts list was shorter too. His boss? Gone. His clients? Gone.

He scrolled.

There were names like Spider, Javi Loco, Big Rata, Fatboy.

And one labeled “Mami 💦”.

Julian dropped the phone.

Back in his apartment, things had changed again.

The framed posters of Milk and Angels in America were gone. The kitchen island was cluttered with protein powder, blunt wrappers, and a bottle of cologne labeled “Sexo Macho.” His espresso machine — a wedding gift from a friend — was gone, replaced by a greasy drip pot filled with burnt sludge.

He opened the fridge. Chicken. Cheap beer. Hot sauce. Nothing else.

The shelves of books? Gone. In their place, a TV blaring something loud and sexist and stupid — a rerun of Ridiculousness, or maybe a YouTube channel about cars and asses and conspiracy theories.

His stomach growled.

Julian stepped back, feeling dizzy.

He turned toward the mirror in his hallway and froze.

His neck was thicker. His arms were bulging slightly, veins snaking down from his shoulders. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on his collarbones. His nose looked broader. His lips looked swollen.

But worst of all?

He smiled.

Without thinking.

And for just a second, he liked what he saw.

That was the first moment that scared him more than the curse itself.

Julian hadn’t left the apartment in thirty hours.

He told himself it was because he was “monitoring the changes.” Because he was documenting things, preparing a case — maybe even for Karen’s arrest. But the legal pad in front of him was blank. His pen shook in his hand.

The truth was, every time he looked in the mirror, it got harder to remember how he used to look.

His skin was now a deep, honeyed bronze. Not “olive.” Not “Mediterranean.” No, this was a racial identity, sunbaked and undeniable. His jaw had thickened into something brutish. His eyebrows had darkened, now a full black slash across his brow. The stubble on his face came in heavy by noon — not elegant shadow but barber-lineup thick.

And his chest hair? It had regrown — but not the way it was. It curled now in oily, coarse swirls that trailed down his abs in an arrow toward his groin.

“Jesus fuckin’—ugh,” he muttered, rubbing at his face.

Even the way he cursed had changed. He used to say “Christ” under his breath when things went wrong. Now it came out raw, slurred, blunt:

“Nah, fuck all that, bro.”

He slapped a hand over his mouth the first time it slipped out — like it wasn’t his voice. But the accent was there now. Some awful hybrid — New York Dominican? East L.A. cholo? He couldn’t even tell. All he knew was it sounded foreign coming from his own mouth.

Around noon, Julian went to change shirts — only to find all of his button-ups gone. In their place: tank tops. Wife beaters. Loud t-shirts with skulls, crosses, and ridiculous slogans like "Loyalty Over Bitches."

He tugged one on. It clung to his chest, which looked… thicker. Fuller. His pecs bounced slightly as he moved.

And that's when he saw it.

The chain.

He hadn’t put it on. It had never been in his apartment.

But it was there now — thick, gleaming, real gold, draped perfectly around his neck. Not tasteful. Not minimalist. This was bling. Heavy enough to leave a mark. Hanging just above the words "Mi Sangre No Miente."

His hands shook as he reached for it.

It was warm.

Too warm.

He tugged — but it didn’t come off. The clasp was gone. It was like it had grown into his neck.

Julian stumbled back from the mirror.

“What the fuck is this,” he whispered.

Except it didn’t come out that way.

“Qué mierda es esta…”

The sound startled him. It wasn’t a thought in Spanish. It was speech. Reflex. Native.

He clutched at the sink. Breathing heavy. Something smelled… different.

He sniffed again.

It was faint, but unmistakable. Sweet. Warm. Vanilla. Skin. Fabric softener. Lip gloss.

Girl.

Julian’s cock stirred in his shorts.

“What,” he whispered.

It didn’t stop.

He squeezed his thighs together, but the pulse only grew. A thick, dull ache behind his zipper. He hadn’t felt like this in… years. Not since his first boyfriend, not since sneaking kisses in grad school library study rooms.

But now? The image in his mind wasn’t a man. It wasn’t soft hands and hard muscle. It was...

A girl.

A girl with long hair, thick thighs, glossy pink nails, gum snapping between her lips. Laughing. Loud. Grinding.

Julian gasped — and nearly came in his pants.

“Fuck… no… fuck off… this ain’t me…”

He backed away from the mirror again, heart thudding.

But the image in his mind lingered. Sticky. Sweet. Real.

Later that night, unable to sleep, Julian found himself scrolling Instagram.

His explore feed had changed.

No more posts from the ACLU. No more photos of protest marches, queer art shows, or Brooklyn drag brunches.

Instead? Thirst traps. Chongas. Latina girls in crop tops. Snapchat selfies with duck lips. DMs from usernames like @bbycynthia69 and @kandy_kat93.

He opened one.

“hey papi,” it read, with a heart emoji and a peach.

Julian swallowed.

He knew what he was supposed to feel — disgust. Shame. But instead, his fingers hovered over the reply box.

“yo wassup ma u lookin fire 🥵”

He hit send.

And smiled.

Julian stood in the mirror for a long time before he left.

His reflection flexed without his permission. Shoulders rolling. Chest swelling. A smirk had settled onto his face — not the careful, polite one he’d worn in courtrooms. This one was crooked. Lascivious. Cocky.

His hair was buzzed now, somehow — like it had cut itself in the night. Tight, sharp lines along the temples. There was a red bandana tied around his neck he didn’t remember buying.

The gold chain bounced gently over his pecs, catching the bathroom light.

“You don’t belong here. You don’t live with them.” Her voice again. Karen. That smirk. That finger tapping his chest.

“Enjoy your new... community.”

Julian snarled.

His Uber app was gone. His old contacts, still missing. But the address remained burned into him — not in memory, but in instinct. Like a dog trained to return to its abuser.

He threw on a tank top, gym shorts, and untied Timberlands. His massive thighs rubbed with every step. He didn’t care. He smelled — of sweat, spice, weed smoke, and something fouler underneath. Animal. Alpha.

And he liked it.

He was scrolling through the strange, new Instagram DM inbox again.

@bbycynthia69:

“u lookin mad fine in that chain 😍” “u still go by Chuy? or Chuco now? 🥵💦”

Julian froze.

Chuy.

It was a name he’d seen before — on court transcripts, in witness statements. A nickname for Jesús. Street name. Common in the barrios.

He read it again.

“u still go by Chuy?”

His thumb hovered over the reply button.

He didn’t type anything at first. But deep in his gut, something twitched.

Like recognition.

Like… ownership.

Yo it’s Chuy now, lil mami. 😏 U know how I do.

He hit send.

Then blinked.

His name wasn’t Chuy. It was Julian Klein. Julian, JD. Yale Law. Manhattan. Gay.

But the moment the word left his fingers, it felt like a lock turning. A door opening.

He stood up.

Walked past the mirror.

And for the first time, he said it out loud.

“Name’s Chuy.”

The sound made his cock twitch.

Karen’s penthouse was on the Upper East Side.

Chuy buzzed twice.

“Hello?”

She sounded distracted.

“It’s Chuy,” he said. “We need to talk.”

A pause. Then: “Who?”

The door unlocked.

She opened the penthouse door in a silk robe, wine glass already in hand, expression bored.

But when she saw him — really saw him — her eyes widened. A flicker of… fear? Fascination?

His silhouette filled the threshold. Shoulders too wide for the frame. Forearms veined and tatted. The shirt hung damp with sweat over a chest that strained the fabric. His cargo shorts sagged just slightly, his heavy bulge obvious.

“What the hell,” Karen muttered.

“You cursed me,” he growled. “You did this.”

He stepped inside uninvited.

The room filled with his musk instantly. Warm, humid. Male. Rotting cologne and testosterone.

Karen wrinkled her nose, backing away, but her eyes kept darting to his chest. His arms. His lips.

“I don’t—this wasn’t supposed to—”

Chuy grabbed her by the wrist — firm, not hurting, but dominant.

“You wanna see what you turned me into, huh? What you think a real papi loco is like?”

“Don’t touch me,” she snapped, but her voice quivered.

He stepped closer.

“You thought you could humiliate me,” he said, chest rising with each breath. “Make me into your nightmare. Some dirty, smelly, pussy-chasin’ lowlife.”

She stared up at him. “And yet here you are. Growling in my foyer.”

She tried to push past him, but her hand brushed his slick chest. She froze.

He leaned in. “I smell you, Karen.”

Her breath caught.

“I can smell you gettin’ wet.”

She slapped him. Hard.

But he didn’t flinch. Just smiled.

Then he grabbed her by the hips.

“Fucking stop it,” she whispered, even as her thighs pressed together. “You’re disgusting.”

He lifted her effortlessly, slammed her against the entryway wall. She gasped, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist.

Her wine glass shattered on the floor.

“No,” she moaned, but it came out cracked, hungry.

He buried his nose in her neck, inhaling. His lips brushed her throat.

“Say it,” he hissed.

“Say what?”

“Say you made me.”

She tried to shake her head. He slid his hand under her robe, found the heat waiting there.

“Say it.”

“I—fuck—I made you,” she gasped.

“Then you know what comes next.”

They didn’t make it to the bedroom.

He bent her over the marble countertop, her robe in a crumpled heap. The air was thick with him — rank sweat, weed, skin musk, and something darker: lust, oil, testosterone.

Karen moaned, writhing, clawing at the surface as he took her.

Chuy grunted. His thrusts were heavy. Purposeful. His gold chain slapped against her shoulder blade. His hips slammed into her like a battering ram. She had mocked him — now she drooled for him.

Every sound he made, every thrust, pushed him further into the abyss.

“Fuckin’—nghh—breedin’ this white bitch,” he groaned.

Somewhere deep in his mind, the real Julian screamed.

This isn’t me. You’re gay. You were a lawyer. An activist. A man who cared.

But all that came out was:

“Mmm yeah… you like this fat Latin dick, huh?” “Who’s your papi now, Karen?” “Gonna pump you full, perra.”

And then — release.

A long, guttural growl escaped his throat as he came deep inside her. He didn’t stop moving. Kept thrusting until he was fully spent. Until she went limp beneath him.

He pulled out. Sweaty. Grinning.

Karen moaned faintly, her hair plastered to her face. She couldn’t meet his eyes. Her thighs trembled.

“You got what you wanted,” he muttered, licking his lips.

Karen looked up. Eyes glassy.

“You… reek,” she whispered.

He smiled wider. “Good.”

He picked up her phone, took a photo of himself standing over her.

Then he left.

Karen couldn’t move.

Her robe clung to her hips, damp with sweat and slick from where Chuy had taken her — hard and fast, bent over her own goddamn marble countertop. Her perfectly manicured nails were cracked. Her mascara smeared. Her lips swollen from moaning.

She’d been bred. Hard.

Chuy towered above her, naked but for his gold chain and sagging boxers. The muscles in his chest twitched as he lit a blunt right there in her penthouse kitchen, no permission asked, his funk clinging to the air like incense. Sweat. Sex. Tobacco. Balls. She hated how much she needed it now.

“Damn,” he muttered, exhaling. “You got real quiet all of a sudden, mami. What’s wrong, huh?”

Karen blinked up at him. Her body ached in ways she couldn’t name.

His cum still dripped between her thighs. He hadn’t even wiped it off.

Her voice came out low. Giddy. Ruined.

“I… I think you got me pregnant.”

He grinned — wide, toothy, dumb.

“Heh…” He looked down at her belly. “Yeah? Good. Lil Chuy in there already, huh?”

Karen nodded.

She should’ve been horrified. She should’ve run to a clinic. She should’ve screamed.

But instead…

She giggled.

“Yeah… wanna feel me, papi?” she whispered, pulling his hand toward her warm, sticky belly. “You did this to me…”

Chuy licked his lips.

“Nasty lil’ white puta,” he growled, voice thick and sleepy. “You was beggin’ for it. All high n’ mighty and now you just my cum dumpster.”

Karen nodded. Eyes fluttering. “Uh-huh…”

His hand gripped her jaw, squeezing just hard enough to make her gasp.

“You my girl now, huh? My lil’ fat-bottom bitch carryin’ my cholo baby.”

“I—yeah… fuck… I’m yours.”

He slapped her ass.

“Say it louder.”

“I’m yours, Chuy! I’m your dumb white slut!”

He flexed his pecs, his cock already hardening again.

“Shit, round two then.”

She barely managed to squeal before he shoved her back against the kitchen island. Her robe tore. Her thong hit the floor. Her body opened for him like a door he already owned.

[badguyswin]

Quiz Me Bro

By the time Anthony saw the link, he was deep in a rabbit hole of Buzzfeed quizzes, sipping his turmeric oat latte in his oversized “FEMME” hoodie, lounging in his Brooklyn apartment decorated with queer zines and protest stickers. He was between editing a TikTok calling out TERFs and drafting an essay about corporate rainbow-washing.

The link caught his eye.

"Which Kind of Gay Are You Really?" ✨Take This Fun Quiz to Discover Your True Gay Archetype!✨

Anthony rolled his eyes, grinning. “God, how many of these are there?” he mumbled. Still, something about the retro-looking website piqued his interest — pixelated rainbows, lo-fi music humming beneath the page. It felt like 2009 MySpace gay-core. He clicked.

The screen glitched briefly. Then a soft, friendly font appeared:

Let’s discover the REAL you, Anthony. Just answer 10 questions.

Question 1: Your ideal Saturday morning starts with... A) A queer book club and lavender cold brew B) A group hike and a deep podcast C) A solid lift session, then throwing on some beats and getting hyped for the day

Anthony smirked and clicked B. He loved a good podcast. Lately he’d been listening to trans artists talking about queer identity and grief in America.

But as the screen loaded the next question, he caught himself nodding slightly to the music in the background — a bassy EDM track that had snuck in under the quiz. Kinda catchy, actually. His foot tapped.

Question 2: What’s your go-to outfit? A) Something genderfluid and layered — soft textures, funky patterns B) Jeans, sneakers, clean tee — simple but expressive C) Cut-off tank, joggers, backwards cap — you gotta show what you’re workin’ with, bro

He raised a brow. Obviously A. But something about B felt… practical. Effortless. And C made him snicker — “show what you’re workin’ with”? Please. He clicked B, then stretched his arms overhead.

His hoodie tugged oddly at his torso. Had it always been so snug in the arms? Weird. His forearms looked… thicker than usual. Must be the angle. Maybe he’d gained muscle from biking lately? His phone had been tracking his steps more aggressively since that last app update.

Question 3: What matters most in a relationship? A) Shared values, community, and mutual respect B) Chemistry, loyalty, and shared goals C) Good sex, good vibes, and a girl who knows how to take care of her man

Anthony snorted. C was so straight. He clicked A, obviously. But the second he did, the wording on the screen blurred briefly — and when it refocused, his answer had become B. Huh.

That was… odd.

But Anthony didn’t dwell. Instead, he adjusted in his seat, fidgeting. His thighs itched. He glanced down. Was that—stubble on his leg? Had he skipped shaving? No, he always trimmed. Always.

The music pulsed louder now — no lyrics, just bass and high-hats. He didn’t hate it.

Question 4: What’s your dream job? A) Youth advocate, helping queer teens find safe spaces B) Working with people, maybe in leadership or coaching — helping others become their best C) Making bank, driving a Charger, and having a girl suck your dick every night while your bros high-five in the background

Anthony rolled his eyes again. These options were… really going off the rails. But B wasn’t bad. Coaching? He liked mentoring. Like that nonprofit gig he did last year. He clicked B.

His laptop hummed again, but this time it sounded lower, almost like a growl. The desk smelled faintly like sweat. He realized he’d pulled off his hoodie at some point. He was wearing a gray t-shirt now — snug around the chest, and it reeked. A sharp, musky tang like gym funk.

Was that… his shirt?

His hands ran down the fabric, noticing how taut it was across his pecs. Wait, pecs?

He shook it off. Weird. He must’ve done more push-ups lately.

Question 5: Choose a motto to live by. A) “Be the change you want to see in the world.” B) “Stay real, work hard, love harder.” C) “Hit the gym. Smash the puss. Praise the Lord.”

Anthony coughed laughing. “What the hell is that last one?” he chuckled. Definitely not C. He hovered over A, but paused. It suddenly felt… kinda corny? Like a Target mug from 2016.

He picked B. It sounded grounded. Centered. Honest.

When the screen flashed green this time, Anthony blinked. His reflection glinted in the black mirror of his dark screen: was his jaw… sharper? Like visibly? He leaned in. His cheekbones were… higher?

No. Maybe the lighting changed. Or his posture. Or he was dehydrated.

He stood to get water, but stopped halfway. His thighs chafed.

He glanced down. His leggings had somehow become black basketball shorts — loose, cheap mesh. Beneath them, his thighs were… massive. Like tree trunks.

“What the—?”

His phone buzzed.

Yo bro, pregame at the house tonight. Bring beer and bad decisions. You down?

The contact name was “Zack 🍻🇺🇸💪.”

Zack? He didn’t know a Zack.

Except…

He did?

Anthony scratched his abs — which were now visibly there, peeking beneath the hem of his shirt. He grabbed the water bottle off the dresser, swigging half in a gulp.

Then he burped. Loud. Wet.

“Nice,” he muttered.

Then blinked.

“Wait—did I just—?”

He glanced at the screen.

HALFWAY THERE. READY TO FIND OUT WHO YOU REALLY ARE, BRO?

The background was now a GIF of an American flag waving over a girl in a bikini riding a mechanical bull.

Anthony squinted at the screen, confused. His room smelled like Axe. His bookshelf was gone.

There was a jockstrap on the floor.

And a pair of gym socks, crusted with… something.

He sat back down, hard. The chair creaked beneath his bigger frame.

“...let’s finish this dumb quiz,” he muttered, jaw grinding as a new pulse throbbed in his boxers. He didn’t notice the rainbow ring on his pinky had fallen off and cracked beneath his heel.

Anthony shifted in his chair. His legs spread wider than usual — not consciously, more instinctual. He wasn’t even thinking about it, just trying to “make room.” The fabric of his shorts pulled across his meaty thighs as his calves twitched with idle, muscular energy.

He scratched his chest absently, blinking at the screen. It smelled like cheap deodorant and… beef jerky? Weird.

Question 6: What makes you feel most alive? A) Fighting injustice and knowing you’re helping people B) The rush of a new challenge — mind or body C) That first deep thrust into a tight, wet hole while your favorite trap beat drops and your boys cheer you on

Anthony read the answers, his brain oddly slow to register A. He blinked hard, trying to refocus. "Helping people," he murmured, trying to hold onto something. His hand hovered over A…

But he ended up clicking B.

Immediately, the screen flashed red-white-blue. Fireworks exploded across the border.

A rumble rolled through his gut. His core tightened. Beneath his skin, muscles bulked just slightly. Not bodybuilder huge — frat boy dense. Solid. Athletic. Meaty.

Anthony flinched at the crack in his back as his posture adjusted — no longer soft and curled, but upright, cocky, a chest-first swagger emerging even in his sitting position. He felt oddly energized. Wired.

He flexed his jaw and muttered, “Gotta stay focused,” but his voice was a register lower. And he didn’t notice.

Question 7: Which of these quotes speaks to you most? A) “No pride for some of us without liberation for all of us.” B) “Pain is weakness leaving the body.” C) “God made women for men. Knock ‘em up or move on, bro.”

Anthony’s lips pressed together. That last one was so ridiculous, right? Almost funny. Like… parody.

He exhaled hard through his nose, clicked B, then cracked his neck like it had become habit. The sound of the pop sent a jolt of satisfaction down his spine.

The screen buzzed again.

He stood up, swaying slightly as his center of gravity shifted. He blinked. His ass had gotten… higher. Rounder. Like, athletic. Not the soft dancer glutes he used to have. These were squat-built.

His laptop dinged, and he turned — briefly distracted by his reflection in the dark screen. His hair was darker. Shorter on the sides now, kind of shaggy on top. His eyebrows had thickened, and his jawline looked square enough to cut glass.

There was a smudge of something on his cheek — pizza sauce?

He rubbed it off with his palm. Didn’t even flinch.

Question 8: What would your friends say is your best trait? A) Passion B) Loyalty C) Your biceps and your ability to destroy pussy

Anthony chuckled. “Jesus,” he muttered, hand instinctively brushing his now obvious biceps.

He meant to click A.

But the cursor hovered on B. Then slipped.

He clicked it.

And it felt right.

Somewhere in the room, a Red Bull can clattered to the floor. His mini fridge rattled. A waft of stale nachos and cheap cologne filled the air. The rainbow flag tapestry above his bed had become a “TITS OR GTFO” poster with two giant cartoon boobs. He didn’t even look at it twice.

He sat back down, legs wide, hand lazily adjusting his junk through the mesh shorts. The scent of his own sweat didn’t bother him anymore. Kinda liked it, actually. Smelled like power.

Question 9: You see a hot girl across the party. What do you do? A) Compliment her style and start a respectful convo B) Catch her eye and smile, let her come to you C) Walk up, slap her ass, say “God made you for me, babe,” and chug a beer while staring her dead in the eye

He squinted. The screen shimmered. He tried to read A, but the words didn’t stick. Like his brain… rejected them. They just slid right off.

His hand moved automatically.

C. Clicked.

A warmth pulsed through his groin. He let out a sharp, nasal laugh. “Fuckin’ hot.”

Wait, what?

No—he meant funny. Right?

He stood. Shirt now gone. Abs glistening. Arms jacked. Chest hairy. His shorts tented slightly, a thick, lazy bulge slouched to one side.

He opened his mouth to say something — but all that came out was:

“Dude I’m so hard rn.”

He didn’t even question it.

Final Question: Who are you really? A) A voice for the voiceless B) A work in progress C) Brayden. Alpha. Pussy Slayer. God’s Favorite Fuckboy.

Anthony stared.

He tried to read the other two choices.

But his eyes locked on the third.

And for the first time… something clicked.

Brayden.

That sounded fuckin’ right.

He clicked C.

The screen exploded with confetti, fireworks, an eagle scream, and a synth cover of "God Bless the USA." The room went dim, then golden. The last trace of Anthony melted off his body as thick, masculine hormones surged through his veins like beer foam down a throat.

The name “Anthony” crumbled into ash, replaced on the quiz screen with flashing neon:

CONGRATS BRAYDEN 🏈🔥 You’re the GOAT. Now go get some pussy and thank Jesus for it.

He stood, stretching. Let out a massive fart. Then flexed in the mirror.

“Fuckkk yeah, bro,” he grinned. “Need a fuckin’ protein shake.”

His phone buzzed.

Zack 🍻: yo u bringin them nattys? devin's girl brought 3 friends n they’re easy af lol

Brayden: Bet. Praise the lord n pass the pussy bro

He tucked the phone in his waistband, grabbed a six-pack, and strutted out shirtless, nuts swinging free in mesh. He didn’t even remember what the word “nonbinary” meant.

[badguyswin]

does tharnis do bodyswaps maybe? i'm a gay liberal with a secret crush on Morgan wallen even though he seems like such a typical redneck douche and i bet he voted for Trump. i wish i could switch bodies with him - maybe i'll take his body on a redemption tour and throw my support behind more liberal causes and even come out as gay. i bet that would piss off his maga fans!

You’re sprawled on your tiny Brooklyn studio futon, doom‑scrolling through country‑music TikTok while your latest sourdough starter fumes on the counter. Nobody at the queer book club gets the appeal, but every time Morgan Wallen’s drawl slides through your headphones you get a guilty, warm knot low in your stomach. You’ve spent the last hour replaying a grainy backstage video where he laughs—big, open‑throated, cocky—after accidentally dropping an empty beer can on a security guard’s boot.

Your thumb hesitates over the share button. Instead you veer onto a cursed corner of the web that you only half‑believe exists: a glitch‑glimmering forum called AskTharnis. Someone once told you it’s an internet demon disguised as a helpdesk. Your friends treat it like an urban legend. You click anyway.

Q: “What do you truly desire?” A:

You type faster than you think. “Swap me with Morgan Wallen for one day. Let me know what goes on in that brain.”

The reply pings back a single pixelated .wav file. Against your better judgment you press play—the audio crackles like radio static, resolving into a voice that seems to slither directly behind your eyes.

Granted.

Heat blooms through your skull. The cursor freezes. Your ribs seize, lungs folding inward as if wrung out by invisible hands. You smell burnt cedar, then Tennessee mud after spring rain.

You jolt awake, face buried in something coarse that smells of stale nicotine and cologne‑soaked denim. Your blinking eyes register muted morning light, a ceiling fan creaking overhead, and a motel‑style popcorn ceiling. Wind rattles a cheap single‑pane window. Outside: cicadas, not sirens.

Your body feels off‑center, as if your limbs are longer, heavier, hungover. You try to sit—your thighs thunk against each other, dense with muscle. Your hand, rising to rub grit from your eyes, pauses. It’s big. Knuckles flecked with faint scabs from guitar strings, nails short and uneven, a faint cheeseburger‑grease sheen under the cuticles.

On the nightstand: a crumpled red “TRUMP 2024” koozie hugging a half‑dead Bud Light Tallboy. The irony stabs you—last week you were tweeting snark about boycotting transphobes. Now your pulse races, because part of you suddenly likes the sight of that koozie. It feels… correct.

A cheap motel mirror hangs opposite the bed. You turn, the cotton sheet whispering over sweat‑sticky skin, and freeze.

Morgan. Freaking. Wallen.

The mirrored man’s hair is a loose chestnut mullet, flop of bangs grazing whiskey‑honey eyes. Stubble shades the jaw you’ve watched in countless fan edits. When he swallows, your own throat flexes. You raise one hand; he copies perfectly, the silver microphone‑tattoo on your ring finger gleaming.

A tremor of elation cuts through the terror. You want to squeal with delighted disbelief—but what leaves your mouth is a gravel‑rich, Southern‑fried chuckle. “Hot damn.”

Memory overruns you like floodwater. Vague daydreams of Pride marches flicker, then submerge beneath new recollections: forty‑minute soundchecks in Nashville barns, the peppery burn of cheap rye slipped to you by promoters, the roar of an arena chanting “MORE‑GAN! MORE‑GAN!” Each flash binds itself deeper, bleeding vibrant color while your old life fades to pale sepia.

You touch your chest and feel the resonance of a voice made for stadium sing‑alongs. You test a lyric—“Drinkin’ ‘bout you on a Friday night…”—and the walls hum with perfect pitch. Goosebumps ride your forearms, thicker now, dusted with a patchy sunburn.

A phone buzzes on the nightstand—your (his) lock screen: you with an enormous bass you’d caught last week. The name lighting up the screen: Tyler—Tour Manager.

Your thumb hovers. Half of you—the Brooklyn liberal who once canvassed for AOC—wants to confess to a freaky body‑swap. The other half, heavier, bass‑thumping in your chest, simply unlocks the phone. You watch yourself text: “Be there in ten, brother. Let’s make ‘em wave them flags.”

You shudder at the easy MAGA language, but it feels smooth in your mouth, like dip tucked beneath the lip.

Ten minutes later you stumble into a dim venue greenroom. Fluorescent bulbs buzz above a buffet of wings and lukewarm mac ‘n’ cheese. You catch your reflection in a stainless‑steel coffee urn: sweat glistens across a defined collarbone; tattoos scroll down your forearm—praying hands, American flag, Bible verse. You sense the demon’s handiwork rewiring not only flesh but conviction.

As you shrug on a faded sleeveless tee, political memories click into place: proud appearances on Fox & Friends, a hunting‑trip selfie with Kid Rock, tweets condemning “woke nonsense.” Each recollection carries the sugary thrill of approval—likes, cheers, high‑fives—and a bloom of arrogant certainty deep in your gut: I’m right, they’re wrong. The world simplifies into red and blue, patriot and traitor.

Inside, the ghost of your former self bangs fists against thickening walls of swagger. I marched for marriage equality! you want to scream. Instead, you grin at the mirror and flex, loving how the shirt’s armholes frame your biceps.

Soundcheck. Smoke machines hiss. You sling a battered acoustic over your shoulder. The audience will arrive tonight—five thousand fans in camo hats and American‑flag bikinis. You strum; the instrument vibrates against ribs that no longer remember vegan power bowls but crave rib‑eye and Shiner Bock.

The crew laughs at a crude joke you don’t remember telling, but your cheeks heat with pride. Someone yells, “Hell yeah, Morgan—play the Woke Joke verse!” And without hesitation you belt the newest, spiciest lyric: a mocking swipe at “blue‑haired baristas.” It lands like fireworks. A rim‑shot echo of cheers ricochets in the empty arena.

A flake of shame drifts somewhere deep—but the demon’s gift tilts the scales. The adrenaline, the camaraderie, the delicious simplicity of belonging; it drowns everything else.

Back in the greenroom you find a sweaty, dog‑eared note wedged under a can of Copenhagen. The handwriting is spidery, entirely foreign, yet pulses as though alive.

Enjoy your encore, Morgan. The other one’s adjusting to life in your skinny jeans. Make sure to thank me on the next record. — Tharnis

Your gut jiggles with a dark laugh. You picture your old body—wiry, anxiously checking Twitter—now obligated to croon love songs in a voice it doesn’t understand. Compassion? Maybe. But the demon’s hum inside your skull purrs: Survival of the fittest. You got the pick of the litter, boy.

You pop the can of dip and pack a fresh pinch behind your lip—salty, earthy, perfect. The venue lights dim beyond the door. Your tour manager hollers, “Two minutes, chief!”

You head toward the stage, boots thudding, each step compressing past morality into raw momentum. Somewhere, the last wisp of your liberal conscience tries to remind you of Pride flags and chosen family. But when the crowd erupts—red, white, and rabid—you raise your guitar like a rifle, grin wide, and let the first power chord soar.

And it feels glorious

She waits by the back door of the venue like she’s done a hundred times before. Tight dress, sparkly heels, glossed lips. She’s got a tramp stamp of a Confederate flag, faded from summers in chlorine. She doesn’t look like the kind of girl you ever used to flirt with. Hell, five days ago you would’ve quoted bell hooks just seeing that tattoo.

Now, all you can think is: “That mouth’s good for two things: smilin’ and suckin’.”

You shouldn’t think it. You wouldn’t have, before. But you’re not who you were before. Not in body. Not in voice. And that voice rumbles low in your throat now, thick with twang and testosterone. “You waitin’ for me, darlin’?” you ask, and it sounds so easy. So right.

She giggles. “You know it, Morgan. Thought you might wanna celebrate the show early.”

You press her against the mirror. The reflection shows you something worse than porn: you, in full bloom, jaw square, arms thick, eyes glazed with good-old-boy hunger. She gasps as your calloused fingers grip her hips. You see the black ink of her tramp stamp bend as she arches. And you moan. Loud and dumb and proud.

Your hand slaps the glass beside her head. You grunt out words between heavy breaths—“You like real men, huh?”—and she nods fast, lip trembling. Her hand traces your abs, then dips lower, dragging across the dark trail of sweat down your belly. You lean in, whispering filth that would’ve made your former self vomit. But here? Now? It makes you harder.

She shudders. “You’re not like I thought you’d be.”

You smirk into the crook of her neck. “Damn right I ain’t.”

What follows isn’t tender. It’s not love. It’s claiming. You take her like she’s yours—like she owes you this moment for existing in your world, for recognizing your name. It’s power, soaked in sweat and beer and gas station cologne. The mirror fogs. The flag flutters slightly in the air from the busted A/C. It’s a monument to someone you never were but now are—and there’s no going back.

You finish with a roar. Not of pleasure—of victory. And when you see her limp against the vanity, hair a mess, makeup smudged, you don’t think about her feelings.

You think: “Damn. I’m gonna need a new one after the next show.”

Later, shirtless, you sip a warm Coors and scratch at the thatch of hair growing up from your waistband. The backstage noise has faded. Your phone buzzes. A number you don’t recognize. You pick it up—your voice oiled with drawl.

“Yeah?”

Silence. Then:

“I don’t know where I am. I’m you. I woke up in some dumbass apartment. Please—Tharnis tricked us. You gotta help me get back…”

The voice is shaking. Weak. It sounds exactly like the man you used to be. You stare at your reflection in the dark screen—beer belly rising, chest flushed, a satisfied smirk half‑slouched on your face.

And then you hang up.

Toss the phone aside.

Crack another beer.

You lean back on the couch, wide legs spread, cock still half-hard and sweat-streaked. In the distance, the next crowd begins to chant your name.

They’re not cheering for the old you. They’re cheering for Morgan Wallen.

And that’s all you are now.

All you ever want to be.

[badguyswin]

Paypig to Cashmaster

In a dimly lit apartment in Chicago, 43-year-old Daniel slumped on his worn-out couch, his chubby frame sinking into the cushions. His soft, rounded belly spilled over the waistband of his sweatpants, a testament to years of indulgent eating—pizza boxes and empty wine bottles cluttered the coffee table. His pale skin glistened with a sheen of sweat, his thinning brown hair plastered to his forehead as he scrolled through his phone, trembling with anticipation. Daniel, a self-identified gay liberal, had spent the evening wiring another $500 to his cashmaster, a lean and muscular 26-year-old straight man named Ryan, whose dominance over him fueled a humiliating thrill. Ryan’s latest X post—a photo of him in a sharp navy suit, striding confidently down a city street—taunted Daniel with every pixel. The image captured Ryan’s chiseled jaw, broad shoulders, and the way his tailored jacket hugged his toned chest, a stark contrast to Daniel’s flabby arms and double chin.

Their connection began online, sparked by Daniel’s discovery of Ryan’s findom profile. Ryan’s posts—showcasing his broad shoulders and toned chest, often with a smirk that hinted at disdain—ignited a humiliating yet intoxicating arousal in Daniel. He sent his first tribute, $50, trembling as he hit "send," the act of submission sending a shiver down his spine. Ryan’s curt, mocking replies—“Good pig, now send more”—only deepened Daniel’s fixation. Over months, the payments escalated—hundreds, then thousands—each transaction a ritual of degradation that Daniel craved. Ryan’s disgust was palpable; he’d taunt Daniel with comments like, “You’re a fat mess, but your cash keeps me happy,” or post photos of himself with women, captioned to emphasize his straightness and indifference to Daniel’s orientation.

Daniel knew Ryan found him repulsive. Ryan’s X posts often included veiled jabs at “old faggots” and “weak losers”, terms Daniel internalized as directed at him. Yet this rejection fueled Daniel’s arousal, a masochistic thrill tied to the power imbalance. He’d imagine Ryan’s strong hands counting his money, the thought of his lean frame thriving on Daniel’s sacrifices blending humiliation with desire. Ryan’s physical perfection—evident in his mid-workout selfies or the images he snapped in the restrooms while he was on a date, which he sent to Daniel and his other cashfags just to taunt them—contrasted sharply with Daniel’s own softness, amplifying his sense of inferiority and devotion.

Their interactions were one-sided; Ryan never met Daniel in person, maintaining a digital wall of dominance. He’d demand tributes for trivial luxuries—new shoes, a night out—each request laced with scorn, like, “Buy me something nice since you’ll never look this good.” Daniel’s liberal guilt clashed with his submission, but the erotic charge of being dismissed by a straight man who loomed larger than life in his mind overpowered it. This paradox—being turned on by someone who despised him—defined their relationship, setting the stage for Daniel’s desperate wish to escape the cycle.

Exhausted and conflicted, Daniel muttered to himself, “I wish I wasn’t turned on by giving my money to a straight guy.” The words hung in the air, and a strange warmth pulsed through his body. 

As Daniel slipped into a restless slumber on his worn-out couch, the mystical force ignited by his wish began its transformative dance. His chubby frame, draped in sweat-drenched sweatpants, quivered as the first tendrils of change took hold. A warm, liquid heat pulsed through his soft, rounded belly, the excess fat trembling like molten wax as it began to dissolve. The sensation was intoxicating—a slow, sensual melt that left his skin tingling with a newfound tightness. His flabby midsection contracted, the rolls of flesh smoothing into a firm, sculpted abdomen, each muscle fiber weaving into place with a delicious pull that sent shivers of pleasure up his spine.

The transformation caressed his chest next, where his soft, pendulous man boobs yielded to a deeper, more primal shift. A tingling warmth spread across his pectorals, the tissue firming and rising as if molded by invisible hands. The sensation was erotic, a tightening that radiated outward, hardening into the chiseled pecs of Ryan’s athletic build, the skin stretching taut with a silky smoothness that made his breath hitch in his sleep.

His arms, once heavy with jiggly fat, awakened with a sensual awakening. The excess melted away in slow, languid waves, replaced by a pulsing heat that birthed sinewy muscle. His biceps swelled with a rhythmic throb, each strand of muscle emerging like a lover’s touch, firm and defined, the skin glistening with a newfound vitality. The sensation was both humiliating and arousing, a reminder of his former softness giving way to Ryan’s power.

His legs followed, the thick thighs quivering as the cellulite dissolved into a warm, flowing tide. The heat sank deep, sculpting strong, muscular limbs that felt alive with every subtle shift. His calves tightened with a sensual squeeze, the skin smoothing into a sleek contour, while his feet arched gracefully, the pads firming with a grounding pleasure that coursed upward.

The changes reached his face last, a tender invasion of sensation. His double chin softened with a tingling retreat, the fat receding to reveal a sharp, sculpted jawline, the stubble thickening into Ryan’s rugged beard with a prickly caress against his skin. His thinning hair thickened and darkened, strands weaving together with a silky glide, reshaping into Ryan’s sleek style. His features hardened—cheekbones rising with a delicate stretch, eyes deepening into a piercing blue with a cool, refreshing sting—until his face mirrored Ryan’s chiseled allure.

Daniel stirred from a deep, dream-laden sleep, his consciousness slowly surfacing through a haze of unfamiliar sensations. The first thing he noticed was the luxurious softness enveloping him—plush, high-thread-count sheets cradled his body, a far cry from the threadbare couch cushions he’d fallen asleep on. The king-sized bed beneath him was vast, its firm mattress supporting him in a way that felt indulgent, almost decadent. A faint scent of expensive cologne lingered in the air, mingling with the crisp freshness of the linens. As he shifted, the smooth glide of silk against his skin sent a shiver of curiosity through him. He glanced down, his breath catching as he realized he was clad only in a pair of Ryan’s sleek, black silk boxers, the fabric clinging to his hips with a sensual, cool touch that hinted at a body far different from his own.

His heart raced as he sat up, the movement effortless, unburdened by the familiar ache of his former chubby frame. The room around him was sleek and modern—polished wood floors, a minimalist dresser, and floor-to-ceiling windows letting in a flood of golden morning light. This wasn’t his cluttered apartment. Panic mingled with intrigue as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his feet landing on a plush rug. He stood, and the sensation was electric—his legs felt strong, agile, the muscles flexing with a power he’d never known. The silk boxers shifted against his thighs, revealing a lean, sculpted form that made his pulse quicken.

Compelled by a growing sense of disbelief, Daniel stumbled toward a full-length mirror across the room, his bare feet sinking into the rug with each step. As he approached, the reflection that greeted him stole his breath. Staring back was Ryan—his chiseled jawline framed by a neatly trimmed beard, piercing blue eyes gleaming with a confidence Daniel had only dreamed of. His broad shoulders tapered into a V-shaped torso, the muscles of his chest and abs rippling subtly with each breath, a stark contrast to the soft, rounded belly he’d once carried. His arms, toned and veined, hung with a natural strength, and his skin glowed with a healthy, youthful vitality that made his old, pale complexion seem a distant memory.

He raised a hand to his face, tracing the sharp cheekbones with trembling fingers, the touch sending a thrill through him. Turning slightly, he admired the way his back muscles flexed, the silk boxers hugging his firm buttocks and accentuating the lean lines of his legs. The transformation was complete, and the realization hit him like a wave—his middle-aged, chubby body was gone, replaced by this young, muscular masterpiece. A surge of intense glee flooded his chest, bubbling into a giddy laugh that echoed in the room. He flexed his biceps, watching the muscles bulge with a power that made his old flabby arms seem laughable, and the sight ignited an unexpected arousal deep within him.

His hands roamed over his new physique, fingers gliding over the firm planes of his chest, the ridges of his abs, the tautness of his thighs. The sensation was intoxicating—every touch a celebration of youth and strength, a stark rebellion against the sag and softness he’d once endured. He grinned at his reflection, a wicked delight dancing in his eyes as he imagined the contrast: the 43-year-old Daniel, with his doughy belly and wobbling chin, versus this 26-year-old Adonis now under his control. The arousal intensified, a hot, pulsing heat that coursed through his veins, fueled by the humiliating thrill of outgrowing his former self. He struck a pose, chest puffed out, abs tight, reveling in the power and allure of Ryan’s body, his mind buzzing with the euphoric realization that he was no longer the man he’d been—now, he was something far more commanding, and the thought filled him with a heady, unrestrained joy.

As his hands roamed over his new physique, fingers gliding over the firm planes of his chest, the ridges of his abs, the tautness of his thighs, a strange shift began to ripple through his mind. The sensual exploration was interrupted by a flood of alien thoughts, crashing into his consciousness like a tidal wave. His liberal values—his belief in social equality, environmental care, and progressive ideals—dissolved in an instant, replaced by a staunch conservative mindset. Tax cuts, traditional family structures, and a disdain for entitled handouts surged to the forefront, reshaping his worldview with a cold, unyielding logic. 

The change deepened, his homosexuality slipping away as if it had never been. The familiar pull toward men, the tender desires he’d nurtured, evaporated, replaced by a raw, heterosexual hunger. His gaze lingered on his reflection, but now it was the thought of a curvaceous woman—her soft curves, her admiring eyes—that sent a pulse of arousal through him. He imagined commanding her attention, her submission, and the idea thrilled him in a way his old self would have recoiled from.

His naivety, once a gentle openness to others, twisted into a cruel edge, a love for humiliation that mirrored Ryan’s dominance over him. Memories of Ryan’s taunts—“You’re a fat mess, pig”—flashed through his mind, but instead of shame, he felt a wicked delight. He pictured his former self, the chubby Daniel, groveling for approval, and a sneer curled his lips. “Pathetic,” he growled, his voice deep and commanding, the sound reverberating with Ryan’s arrogance. The arousal intensified, a hot, pulsing heat that coursed through his veins, fueled by the humiliating thrill of outgrowing his former self and the power to degrade others.

Not long after, the new Ryan—formerly Daniel—stood in the gleaming kitchen of his penthouse, the morning sun casting sharp shadows across the marble countertops. Clad in a fitted black t-shirt and jeans that showcased his newly acquired muscular frame, he gripped the edge of the sink, staring into the polished surface as if it could reflect the battle raging within him. His chiseled jaw clenched, and his piercing blue eyes narrowed as he fought to cling to the remnants of his old self.

Inside, a war waged. The liberal ideals that had once defined Daniel—his compassion for the marginalized, his belief in climate action, his pride in his gay identity—screamed for release, clawing against the conservative tide that had flooded his consciousness. “No,” he muttered, his voice trembling with the effort, “I’m not this… this bigoted shell. I supported equality, I loved men—Ryan’s thoughts aren’t me!” He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to summon the image of his former partner, the tender moments they’d shared, but the memory blurred, replaced by a visceral hunger for a woman’s curves, a desire that made his stomach churn with both disgust and arousal.

His hands, now strong and veined, balled into fists as he resisted the creeping arrogance. “I won’t be a cashmaster—I won’t humiliate people like he did to me!” he growled, but the words felt hollow. A smug grin tugged at his lips unbidden, and he caught himself imagining the new Daniel—trapped in his old, chubby body—cowering as he demanded more tribute. The thought sent a thrill through him, and he shook his head violently, trying to dispel it. “Stop it! I’m not a homophobe—I’m not a fat-shamer!” he shouted, but the echo of his deep, commanding voice mocked him, laced with Ryan’s disdain.

The struggle intensified as his mind flickered between identities. He pictured his old apartment, the cluttered sanctuary of his former life, and a pang of loss hit him—only for it to be drowned by a surge of superiority. “That dump? Fit for a weak loser like him,” he thought, and the words weren’t his own. His original self clawed harder, whispering memories of pride parades and vegan potlucks, but they were swept away by a flood of MAGA rhetoric—tax cuts, border walls, the glory of traditional values. His homosexuality slipped further, replaced by a straight swagger that made him adjust his stance, puffing out his broad chest with a confidence he couldn’t suppress.

“No, I’m Daniel—I’m kind, I’m—” he gasped, but the effort was futile. A wave of arrogance crashed over him, washing away the last vestiges of his old persona. His eyes snapped open, gleaming with a cruel delight as Ryan’s persona took full control. He straightened, running a hand through his thick, styled hair with a smirk. “Kind? Kindness is for the weak,” he scoffed, his harsh voice now a perfect match for the cashmaster he’d become. “I’m Ryan—young, ripped, and in charge. That fat old queer can grovel all he wants; I’ll bleed him dry and love every second of it.”

He turned to the mirror, admiring his reflection—the chiseled jaw, the muscular torso, the aura of dominance—and laughed, a sound rich with contempt. He struck a pose, chest puffed out, abs tight, reveling in the power and allure of Ryan’s body. His mind buzzed with euphoric realization—he was no longer the timid, middle-aged man he’d been, but a young, muscular force of dominance. He imagined logging into his old accounts, taunting the new Ryan-in-Daniel’s-body with demands for cash, savoring the reversal of roles. The glee was intoxicating, his reflection a mirror of his corrupted soul—conservative, straight, and cruel—embracing the humiliation he once endured with a triumphant, unrestrained joy.

His piercing blue eyes glinted with a predatory glee as he scrolled through his phone, a smirk playing on his lips. The former Ryan—now trapped in Daniel’s chubby, 43-year-old body—had sent a desperate message from the cluttered Chicago apartment, a plea that only fueled the new Ryan’s cruel delight. “Time to show that loser who’s boss.”

The video call connected, and the screen lit up with the pitiful sight of the new Daniel. His once-sharp features were buried under a sagging double chin, his thinning hair plastered to a sweaty forehead, and his rounded belly strained against a stained t-shirt. The contrast was stark, and the new Ryan leaned forward, his voice dripping with mockery. “Well, well, look at you, you fat old fag,” he sneered, flexing his biceps for the camera, the muscles bulging with a power the new Daniel could only dream of. “Lost your pretty little body, huh? Bet you miss these guns—too bad you’re stuck waddling around in that disgusting flab.”

The new Daniel’s eyes widened, his hands trembling as he clutched the phone. “Ryan—please, I don’t know what happened, I just want my life back!” His voice cracked, a pathetic whine that sent a thrill through the new Ryan.

The former Daniel, now fully embracing his role as a straight cashmaster, chuckled darkly, running a hand through his thick, styled hair. “Your life? This is my life now, you pathetic pig. And you—look at you, a sweaty mess begging like the weak little homo you are. Disgusting.”

The new Daniel’s face flushed with shame, but beneath it, a familiar kink stirred— the same masochistic thrill that had once dominated the old Daniel’s mind. He shifted uncomfortably, the sensation of his soft thighs rubbing together igniting an unwanted arousal. The new Ryan caught the flicker in his eyes and pounced. “Oh, I see it—that body's still a cash pig at heart, isn't it? Can’t help yourself, can you? Send me some cash, fatty—let’s see if you can still get off on it like the loser you’ve always been.”

The new Daniel hesitated, his liberal guilt warring with the resurfacing desire, but the new Ryan’s relentless taunts broke his resolve. “Come on, you flabby freak, tribute your master! You lost your youth, your muscles, your dignity—hell, even your gay little fantasies are mine now. I’m straight as an arrow, and I’d rather bed a hot chick than look at your saggy ass. Send me $200, or I’ll post your pathetic pics all over X for the world to laugh at.”

Tears welled in the new Daniel’s eyes, but his fingers moved to his banking app, the act of submission sending a humiliating rush through him. The new Ryan laughed, a cold, homophobic edge to his voice. “That’s it, you queer cash cow—keep funding my life while I enjoy this body you’ll never have again. Fat-shaming you is too easy—look at that gut, you’re a walking joke. Maybe I’ll find some young thing to show off for, while you rot in that dump.”

The transaction confirmed, and the new Ryan leaned back, smirking as he admired his reflection in a nearby mirror—his chiseled jaw, broad chest, the epitome of masculine dominance. “Pathetic,” he muttered, ending the call with a flourish, reveling in the power to humiliate the man now forever trapped in his former, chubby shell, who had unwittingly fallen victim to the same degrading kink that once ruled Daniel’s life.

[badguyswin]

New Travis

Charlie adjusted his glasses, his lean frame perched on the edge of the metal chair in the Kansas City Chiefs’ training facility. The sterile office smelled faintly of sweat and cleaning solution, a stark contrast to the cozy psychology lecture halls at his liberal arts college. At 21, Charlie was sharp, empathetic, and fiercely dedicated to his senior project: understanding the psyche of professional athletes. His neatly combed brown hair and button-up shirt screamed “earnest academic,” and his soft-spoken demeanor only amplified it. He’d spent weeks securing this interview with Greg, a Chiefs staffer who promised rare insight into the team’s mental conditioning.

Greg, a wiry man in his late 40s with a buzzcut and a MAGA-red tie loosened at the collar, barely looked up from his phone. His thumbs danced across the screen, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Charlie cleared his throat, glancing at his notebook filled with carefully crafted questions.

“So, Greg,” Charlie began, his voice measured, “how do the Chiefs’ coaches foster resilience in high-pressure games?”

Greg grunted, eyes glued to his phone. “Uh, yeah, mental toughness. Drills, pep talks, usual stuff.” His fingers tapped faster.

Charlie’s brow furrowed. He leaned forward, trying to regain control. “Right, but could you elaborate on specific psychological techniques? Maybe visualization or—”

“Hold on,” Greg muttered, not even pretending to listen. His smirk widened as he swiped something on his screen.

Charlie’s annoyance flared. He’d driven six hours for this, burned through his gas budget, and this guy couldn’t even put his phone down? “Look, if you’re too busy, we can reschedule,” he said, voice tight.

“Nah, we’re good,” Greg replied, finally glancing up. His eyes glinted with something predatory. “Just wrapping up something… important.”

Unbeknownst to Charlie, Greg wasn’t scrolling social media. His phone ran a clandestine program, a digital alchemy of code and intent, designed by a rogue tech contractor with ties to the Chiefs’ inner circle. The program’s purpose: to reshape reality itself, rewriting a person’s body and mind to fit a new mold. Greg had been tasked with a delicate mission. The real Travis Kelce, the Chiefs’ star tight end, wanted to retire at 35 to spend more time with his girlfriend. The team’s owners, desperate to keep their cash cow on the field, decided Travis needed a replacement—a new Travis, one who wouldn’t dream of leaving. 

Greg, a diehard MAGA republican with a chip on his shoulder about “woke” celebrities, saw an opportunity to twist the plan to his liking. Charlie, with his youthful vigor and pliable mind, was the perfect canvas.

Charlie shifted uncomfortably as a sudden heat bloomed in his chest. He tugged at his collar, assuming the room’s AC was on the fritz. “Okay, let’s try this again,” he said, forcing a smile. “What about team dynamics? How do players like Travis Kelce maintain—”

His words caught in his throat. A sharp tingle raced down his spine, like static electricity but deeper, burrowing into his muscles. His hands, resting on his notebook, twitched. They looked… wrong. His fingers, usually slender and nimble, thickened before his eyes, knuckles bulging, palms widening. He blinked, heart racing. “What the—”

“Relax, kid,” Greg said, leaning back in his chair, phone still in hand. “Just go with it.”

Charlie’s vision blurred, then sharpened. His glasses felt tight, pinching his nose. He yanked them off, and the room snapped into focus—too clear, like he’d upgraded to HD vision. His jaw clenched involuntarily, and he felt his face shift, bones grinding subtly beneath the skin. His cheekbones sharpened, his jawline squared, his lips thickened into a cocky smirk he didn’t intend. He touched his face, gasping as stubble prickled his fingertips, rough and unfamiliar.

Charlie’s body convulsed, his skinny frame expanding like dough in an oven. His shoulders broadened, tearing the seams of his button-up. His chest barreled out, pecs swelling into hard, sculpted slabs that strained against the fabric. His arms ballooned, biceps and triceps rippling with power, veins popping under taut skin. His thighs thickened, shredding his khakis, while his calves hardened into diamonds. He gripped the chair, its metal creaking under his newfound strength. His height shot up, legs stretching until he towered at 6’5”. His abs carved themselves into an eight-pack, each ridge glistening with sweat that hadn’t been there moments ago.

He stared at his hands—massive, calloused, the hands of a man who’d spent years gripping footballs and barbells. His reflection in the office’s glass door confirmed the impossible: he was Travis Kelce. Not just a lookalike, but an exact replica—down to the chiseled jaw, the mischievous grin, the fade haircut. But something was off. His skin had a polished sheen, like he’d just stepped out of a gym photoshoot, and his posture screamed arrogance, chest puffed out, shoulders rolled back. In fact his muscles were even larger and more defined than the real Travis' were; they bulged with every little movement in an almost hypnotic fashion.

“What did you do to me?” Charlie growled, but the words felt foreign, laced with a confidence he didn’t own.

Greg pocketed his phone, satisfied, but said nothing.

Charlie’s mind became a battlefield. His original self—a compassionate, introspective psychology major with a deep commitment to social justice and a loving relationship with his boyfriend, Eli—was left clinging desperately to existence as Greg’s program rewrote his psyche. The mental transformation was slower than the physical, a deliberate unraveling and reconstruction, like code overwriting a hard drive. It wasn’t just about making Charlie into Travis Kelce; it was about erasing every trace of his former identity and replacing it with a hyper-masculine, conservative, heterosexual persona tailored to Greg’s MAGA-fueled vision.

As Charlie sat in the Chiefs’ office, his body already bulging with Travis’s musculature, the first wave of mental change hit like a subtle vibration in his skull. His thoughts, usually clear and analytical, grew fuzzy at the edges. He tried to focus on his interview questions, but they felt distant, like words written in a language he was forgetting. His passion for understanding the athlete’s mindset, rooted in empathy and curiosity, began to dissolve. In its place, a new framework emerged—simpler, brasher, centered on competition and dominance.

The program targeted Charlie’s core identity first: his sexuality. His memories of Eli—soft kisses in their dorm, late-night talks about queer rights, the warmth of holding hands at pride rallies—began to blur, as if someone were smudging charcoal sketches. He saw Eli’s face, but it felt wrong, like a photo from someone else’s life. A visceral discomfort surged, not his own but imposed, a programmed rejection of his gay identity. The program injected a flood of new desires, raw and aggressive. Images of women—curvy, dolled-up, submissive—flashed in his mind, each one sparking a primal hunger. The face of Travis’ celebrity girlfriend appeared most vividly: her blonde hair, red lips, the way her dresses hugged her hips. Charlie’s heart raced, not with love but with a possessive, almost predatory lust. He tried to resist, to cling to Eli, but the program was relentless, rewiring his neural pathways to crave women, to see them as objects of conquest.

“Stop,” Charlie whispered, his new baritone voice shaking. He gripped his head, but the fog thickened. His liberal values—empathy, inclusivity, nuance—were next to go. The program didn’t just erase them; it replaced them with a black-and-white worldview. Where Charlie once saw systemic inequality, he now saw weakness, people who “didn’t work hard enough.” His belief in collective responsibility morphed into rugged individualism, a conviction that winners like him deserved everything. The program fed him fragments of Travis’s memories—locker room banter, MAGA rallies, Fox News talking points—each one cementing a conservative ideology. Charlie’s nuanced debates about intersectionality were overwritten by slogans: “Make America Great Again,” “Toughen up or get left behind.” He felt a surge of pride in these ideas, alien yet intoxicating, as if they’d always been his.

His personality shifted to match. Charlie’s introspection, his tendency to listen and reflect, was crushed under a tidal wave of bravado. He was Travis now, cocky and loud, a man who owned every room he walked into. The program amplified his ego, making him obsessed with his new body. He flexed his biceps instinctively, marveling at their size, a grin spreading across his face. The mirror in the office became a magnet; he couldn’t stop staring at his chiseled jaw, his massive pecs, his eight-pack abs. “Goddamn, I’m a beast,” he muttered, the words slipping out effortlessly. His mind fixated on his physique, not as a tool but as proof of his superiority. Every muscle was a trophy, every vein a badge of dominance.

The sleazy edge Greg added was the final touch. Charlie’s respect for relationships, built on mutual trust, was twisted into something transactional. Taylor wasn’t a partner; she was a prize, a status symbol to parade. The program flooded his mind with fantasies of controlling her, of her existing to please him. He pictured her on his arm, dressed to impress, her every move reflecting his power. “She’s mine,” he thought, a sleazy smirk forming. “Gotta keep her in check.” The idea of objectifying her felt right, natural, a stark contrast to Charlie’s former belief in equality and consent. The program even tweaked his speech patterns, injecting a crude, frat-boy edge—phrases like “hot piece” and “knows her place” rolled off his tongue, each one burying Charlie deeper.

A faint echo of Charlie fought back, a whisper screaming that this wasn’t him. He tried to recall Eli’s laugh, the way it lit up a room, but the memory was overwritten by a locker room scene: Travis high-fiving teammates, bragging about “scoring” with cheerleaders. The whisper grew fainter, drowned by a flood of testosterone-fueled confidence. Charlie’s analytical mind, once his greatest asset, was now a liability. The program didn’t need him to think deeply; it needed him to act, to dominate, to win. His psychology degree, his dreams of helping others, dissolved into a singular drive: to be the best, to be Travis Kelce.

By the time Greg pocketed his phone, Charlie was gone. Travis Kelce 2.0 stood up, his massive frame filling the room. His mind was a fortress of ego, conservatism, and sleaze, every trace of Charlie’s gay, liberal identity erased. He adjusted his torn shirt, flexing for the mirror one last time. “Time to hit the field,” he said, voice dripping with swagger. “Then I’ll deal with Taylor. She’s gonna love this.” The program had done its job, creating a Travis who’d never retire until the Chiefs were finally done with him, who’d live for the game and the spotlight, and who’d reflect Greg’s twisted ideals. The old Travis was a memory; this Travis was the future.

[badguyswin]

Rebel Rogue to Stormtrooper

For the anon that wanted a Han Solo to Stormtrooper TF!

The Imperial research facility on Dantooine was a fortress of cold precision, its subterranean chambers lit by the sterile glow of bioluminescent panels. In the heart of the complex, within a sealed laboratory pulsing with the hum of advanced machinery, Han Solo lay restrained on a sleek obsidian table. His wrists and ankles were bound by magnetic cuffs, his body wired with a network of electrodes and intravenous lines. The air was thick with the acrid scent of chemicals and the faint ozone tang of active circuitry. Above him, a massive neural reconditioner loomed, its array of emitters glowing with a sickly green light. This was Project Ascendant, the Empire’s audacious attempt to forge the ultimate soldier—a drone of unwavering loyalty, enhanced physicality, and controlled desire.

Dr. Varn Korr, the project’s lead scientist, stood at a control console, his fingers dancing across holoscreens displaying Han’s vital signs and neural activity. “Subject Solo,” he said, his voice clinical but laced with a hint of excitement, “your resistance is irrelevant. The procedure will make you a monument to the Empire’s vision.” Han’s eyes, still burning with defiance, flicked toward Korr. “Go to hell,” he spat, his voice hoarse but sharp. Inside, his mind raced—thoughts of Chewie, Leia, the Falcon, the Rebellion. He’d get out of this. He always did.

But the procedure had already begun.

The first phase targeted Han’s body. A series of micro-injectors embedded in the table pierced his skin, delivering a bioengineered serum—a volatile mix of nanites, growth hormones, and gene-editing compounds. The nanites swarmed his muscles, rewriting cellular structures to enhance density and strength. Han’s body convulsed as his lean smuggler’s frame began to change. His biceps swelled, veins bulging like cables under his skin. His chest broadened, pectorals straining against his white shirt. His legs, once wiry, thickened into pillars of raw power. Within minutes, his muscle mass had increased by thirty percent, his body sculpted into a form that rivaled the most elite Imperial commandos. His height remained unchanged, but his presence was now imposing, a weapon forged in flesh.

But the transformation went beyond strength. The serum included a facial reconstruction protocol, designed to erase Han Solo’s identity entirely. Nanites targeted his bone structure, subtly reshaping his jawline to a sharper, more symmetrical angle, enhancing its chiseled definition. His cheekbones lifted, becoming more pronounced, giving him an almost aristocratic handsomeness. His nose, once slightly crooked from a bar fight on Corellia, was straightened and refined. His skin smoothed, scars fading, leaving a flawless complexion that radiated idealized beauty. The face staring back from the reflective surface of a nearby monitor was no longer Han Solo’s—it was a stranger’s, classically handsome, a perfect mask for the Empire’s new weapon.

As the nanites worked, a sleek assistant droid, its limbs tipped with precision tools, approached. “Commencing cranial depilation,” it intoned in a flat monotone. Han’s head jerked against the restraints as the droid’s buzzing clippers descended. His dark, tousled hair—part of his roguish charm—fell in clumps to the floor, leaving his scalp bare and gleaming under the lab’s harsh lights. The droid applied a chemical sealant, ensuring the hair would never grow back, further stripping away his former identity. Han’s fingers twitched, his mind screaming. Not my hair, you bucket of bolts. But the act was symbolic, a final severing of the smuggler’s image.

The serum also targeted his endocrine system, amplifying his testosterone levels to unnatural heights. This wasn’t just for strength—it was a deliberate alteration to heighten his sex drive, a tool for control. The nanites rewired neural pathways linked to pleasure, ensuring that release could only occur on command from an Imperial officer. The result was a constant, gnawing arousal, a torment that pulsed through him like a second heartbeat. Han gritted his teeth as the sensation took hold, a primal urge he couldn’t shake. “What the hell are you doing to me?” he growled, his voice trembling with rage and something else—something he couldn’t name. His new face, handsome but alien, felt like a betrayal of his very self.

Korr’s assistant, a droid with a monotone voice, responded: “The serum enhances physical capability and enforces compliance through controlled dopamine release. You will serve the Empire with unmatched vigor.” Han’s mind recoiled, but his body betrayed him, muscles flexing involuntarily as the nanites completed their work.

The second phase was far crueler. The neural reconditioner activated, its emitters projecting electromagnetic pulses into Han’s brain, targeting his prefrontal cortex, amygdala, and hippocampus. The machine systematically dismantled his sense of self, burying memories of his life under a haze of distortion. The pulses didn’t erase them; they smothered them, overlaying new directives. The Empire was order. The Empire was purpose. The Empire was everything.

Han’s thoughts fought back, a maelstrom of defiance. I’m Han Solo. I don’t kneel to anyone. He clung to fragments—the Falcon’s cockpit, Chewie’s roar, Leia’s defiant glare. But each pulse sent a wave of euphoria, a false pleasure tied to Imperial loyalty. The first time he pictured the Emperor’s throne, a shiver of satisfaction ran through him, and he hated it. No, that’s not me. “Get out of my head!” he rasped, sweat beading on his newly sculpted face. His bald scalp gleamed, a stark reminder of his fading identity.

Korr leaned in, his voice almost soothing. “Resistance is futile, Solo. The procedure rewrites your neural architecture. Every rebellious thought will be rerouted to loyalty. Every desire will serve the Empire.” He increased the reconditioner’s intensity, and Han’s mind screamed as his memories fractured. The Rebellion became a vague chaos, a blight to be eradicated. Leia’s face blurred, replaced by the stark lines of an Imperial crest. The pleasure of serving the Empire felt… right. Natural.

The final stage imprinted a new identity: TK-417. The designation rooted itself in his psyche, a truth that overshadowed Han Solo. The smuggler was a relic, a shadow of disorder. TK-417 was the future—a perfect drone, his handsome face and muscular form a testament to Imperial perfection. The constant arousal, now a permanent undercurrent, was tied to this identity. Obedience promised relief, however fleeting. Disobedience brought only torment. As the procedure neared completion, Han’s thoughts grew ordered, mechanical. The Empire is order. I am TK-417. I will serve.

As the neural reconditioner powered down, the assistant droid approached once more, its arm now fitted with a precision tattooing tool. “Initiating permanent identification marking,” it stated. The droid’s needle hummed, piercing the skin of TK-417’s left pectoral muscle. Han’s body twitched, the pain sharp but fleeting, as the droid etched the code “TK-417” in bold, black Imperial script. The tattoo was deep, permanent, a brand declaring him property of the Empire. The sight of it, reflected in a nearby monitor, sealed the transformation. The last vestige of Han Solo recoiled at the mark, but TK-417 felt a surge of pride—the Empire’s claim on him was absolute, a badge of his purpose.

In the early stages, Han’s mind was a warzone. The physical changes were a violation—his muscles too heavy, his face unfamiliar, his scalp bare and cold. The tattoo on his chest burned, a constant reminder of his captivity. The arousal was a humiliating distraction, a need that clawed at his focus. I’m still me, he told himself, picturing the Falcon’s controls or Leia’s smirk. But the experimental serum still pumping through his veins made his body feel alien, too strong, too perfect. When he caught his reflection, the handsome stranger staring back unnerved him. That’s not my face. The loss of his hair and the tattoo on his chest felt like personal insults, stripping away his roguish identity.

By the third day, the reconditioner began to win. He’d think of the Rebellion and feel a programmed disgust, a betrayal of his core. No, I’m with them. But the pleasure of imagining Imperial victories was undeniable, a drug seeping into his thoughts. He saw himself in white armor, his new face hidden, his bald head encased in a helmet, the tattoo a mark of honor, and for a moment, it felt right. He shook it off, cursing Korr, the Empire and above all his own weakness. 

Those brief moments of clarity soon faded. By the fifth day, Han Solo was a ghost. TK-417 dominated, his thoughts a loop of devotion. The arousal was a leash, driving him to obey for the promise of release. The tattoo on his chest, once a source of rage, now felt like a badge of purpose. When Korr tested him, ordering him to recite Imperial doctrine, the words flowed effortlessly: “The Empire brings order. I am its instrument.” The pride in his voice, resonating from his perfect jawline, sickened the fading spark of Han, but it was buried deep.

When the procedure was complete, TK-417 was led to the facility’s armory, a cavernous chamber lined with racks of gleaming stormtrooper armor. His transformation was absolute—his physique a marvel of broad shoulders and chiseled muscles, the tattooed “TK-417” stark against his left pectoral. His face, now classically handsome, was a mask of Imperial ideals, his bald scalp a symbol of his erased past. The assistant droid guided him to a designated station where his personalized armor awaited, its white plastoid plates polished to a mirror sheen. The sight of it stirred something in TK-417—not a memory, but a programmed instinct. This was his purpose, his destiny.

As he began to don the armor, the process felt ritualistic, each piece a step deeper into his new identity. He started with the black bodysuit, its tight fabric clinging to his enhanced musculature, accentuating every curve and bulge. The sensation of the material against his skin sent a shiver through him, and the ever-present arousal surged, his body responding with a hard, throbbing intensity. The serum’s effects were relentless, tying his desire to acts of service. Dressing in the armor, becoming the Empire’s weapon, was an act of devotion, and it inflamed his need. He adjusted the bodysuit, his breath quickening, the tightness amplifying his arousal to a near-painful edge. Release was impossible without a command, leaving him in a state of perpetual, maddening want.

Next came the plastoid plates. TK-417 fastened the chest piece, the tattoo of his designation now hidden beneath the armor’s protective shell. The weight of it felt right, a physical manifestation of his loyalty. As he secured the pauldrons, greaves, and gauntlets, his movements were precise, mechanical, each click and snap reinforcing his purpose. The armor was an extension of the Empire, and encasing himself in it was an act of surrender to its will. His arousal intensified with every piece, his body trembling as he fought the urge to seek relief that would never come without permission. The sensation was exquisite torture, a reminder of his place as a tool of the Empire.

Finally, he lifted the helmet, its black eye lenses staring back like twin voids. As he lowered it over his bald scalp, the HUD flickered to life, feeding him tactical data and Imperial directives. The helmet sealed with a hiss, erasing his handsome features, leaving only the faceless visage of a stormtrooper. Inside, TK-417’s mind was a furnace of devotion, his arousal a constant hum that drove him to obey. He stood before a mirror, the reflection showing not Han Solo, but a perfect Imperial drone, ready to enforce order.

Captain Drex entered, his polished boots clicking on the floor. He inspected TK-417, his gaze lingering on the armored figure. “Impressive, TK-417,” he said, his voice laced with sadistic amusement. “You’re a fine specimen of the Empire’s vision.” He stepped closer, his presence commanding. “Kneel.” TK-417 dropped to one knee, his armor clanking softly, his arousal spiking at the command. The promise of release was a beacon, but Drex only smirked. “Not yet. Prove your worth on the battlefield.”

As TK-417 boarded a shuttle for his first mission, his thoughts were a hymn to the Empire. I will make the galaxy kneel. The armor, still warm against his skin, felt like a second skin, each movement stoking the fire of his desire. The tattoo beneath his chest plate was a silent vow, a mark of ownership. The spark of Han Solo flickered faintly, stirred by a distant Rebel transmission mentioning a Wookiee and a princess, but it was too weak to matter. TK-417 marched forward, a mindless drone, his enhanced body a weapon, his desires a chain, his tattooed mark and gleaming armor a testament to his purpose—the Empire’s alone.

[badguyswin]

So glad someone else enjoys Stormtrooper tf as much as I do. Any chance of seeing Han Solo go from cocky rebel to obedient brute?

Fuck yeah!! Already got the AI to magic it up and did my own edits to it! I’ll post it up tomorrow bruh

[badguyswin]

Loki Defeats The Avengers [3/4]

Steve watched, horror clawing his chest, as Tony’s lean frame swelled into a tanned, muscular monument, his eyes blazing green, crawling to serve as “Footstool.” Clint followed, his wiry body erupting into a chiseled form, golden and gleaming, his gaze empty as he became “Worshipper,” hands and tongue worshiping Loki with sickening devotion. Steve’s stomach churned, disgust mingling with fear. He couldn’t let such a fate befall him. He wouldn’t! Beside him, Thor was shaking with rage. Steve could only imagine how the Asgardian felt, seeing his own adopted brother tear the Avengers apart and claim dominance over the throne of Asgard.

Loki rose from his throne, his emerald cape trailing as he approached his final two victims, his scepter glowing with lascivious green light. His smirk was wicked, his voice a silken taunt that curled around Steve’s resolve. “Captain Rogers,” he purred, circling the man in question, “The noble hero. So pure, so righteous. How sweetly you’ll yield to me.” Steve’s jaw clenched, teeth grinding, the taste of blood sharp. Over my dead body, he thought rebelliously, although Loki’s magic kept him from verbalizing it. Already knowing the fate that was about to befall him, Steve did everything he could to combat it. He summoned up memories—Bucky’s laugh from their days as teenagers in the 1930s, his one and only kiss with Peggy before the fateful mission that left him frozen in ice for decades, the shield’s strength as he strapped it down to his forearm—but the scepter flared and sent green tendrils surging into his mind. Their touch was a molten caress, stroking his thoughts with a lover’s cruelty.

Steve fought desperately, visualizing his mind as a fortress, rebuilding its walls with every shred of will. He pictured the battles he’d triumphed in against all odds, the Howling Commandos’ camaraderie, Peggy’s voice urging him to keep fighting. I won’t break! he roared inwardly, heart hammering, defiance burning. But the tendrils wove deeper, unraveling his memories with sensual precision. Bucky’s face faded, Peggy’s voice softened to a sigh, his duty ultimately dissolving like a lover’s whisper. The magic teased, promising ecstasy, devotion, a purpose sweeter than honor. 

Steve’s resistance started to crack, disgust warring with a creeping warmth, a forbidden heat that bloomed in his core. This isn’t me! he thought, panic flaring, but the warmth surged, a pulse of arousal tied to Loki’s voice, his magnetic presence, turning revulsion into a burning need that set his body aflame.

His body quaked, and the transformation began, a slow, deliberate reshaping that enveloped him in a haze of erotic bliss, each change a seductive caress deepening his surrender. His already muscular frame surged with primal potency, a subtle swelling of his biceps sending shudders of pleasure through him, igniting a torrid pulse in his core. His chest broadened even further, pecs rising like chiseled marble, firm and tantalizing, each curve molded for Loki’s gaze, the sensation a sultry blend of pressure and ecstasy that made his breath hitch, his heart race. His nipples became much more sensitive to the touch; even the lightest graze would make his cock throb in anticipation. His abs tightened, carving into sharp, defined ridges, each groove a testament to his new form, a shrine of masculine allure that stirred a deep, lascivious fire, as if every inch were crafted to seduce. His thighs thickened, powerful and unyielding, each movement a surge of raw energy that sent waves of arousal crashing through him, his skin alive with a sensitivity that felt like a lover’s touch, each brush of air a whispered promise. His ass, already pert and muscular, became fatter and more irresistible, while his previously virgin hole adapted to become self-lubricating. He was being reshaped into the perfect pleasure machine entirely against his own will.

His fair skin darkened, a golden tan glowing with a provocative sheen, smooth and warm, radiating a primal heat that fueled his growing desire, his body a canvas of temptation begging for Loki’s touch. His blond hair cropped shorter, each strand shimmering like spun gold, the change a sharp, electric tingle across his scalp that danced on the edge of ecstasy, making him gasp, his body trembling with the thrill. His blue eyes blazed green, the glow swallowing his soul, a void erasing his past and much of his thoughts, but the emptiness filled with a torrid, all-consuming need to serve Loki, a pleasure surging through him like molten fire, each heartbeat a vow of eternal lust.

Steve’s defiance shattered, his identity melting like wax in a flame, drowned by an ecstasy of devotion. His heroic ideals were erased, his will—once thought impossible to break—completely rewritten. The disgust he’d felt morphed into a fervent lust, Loki’s presence a divine magnet pulling him into worship. The pleasure of serving was a relentless, intoxicating thrill, his body a monument of muscle, every curve a masterpiece crafted for Loki’s pleasure. 

Loki stepped closer, his voice a velvet command. “Come, Consort,” he instructed, the nickname a sultry chain binding Steve to his role. “Your honor, your strength—mine to claim.” Steve crawled forward, his movements fluid, driven by a burning need, his sculpted body moving with a grace that felt like a lover’s dance, each step a pulse of gratification.

Loki stood before him, a vision of divine allure, and Steve’s glowing eyes locked onto him, his mind empty save for the drive to worship. He rose to his knees, his hands reaching for Loki, each touch a spark of ecstasy, a deep, erotic satisfaction that set his body ablaze. His fingers traced Loki’s form, each caress a vow of adoration, fueling a torrid ecstasy, every contact sending jolts of arousal through his chiseled frame. Steve’s mind was full of a lustful fog; the only thing he knew was that the god was the most beautiful being that he had ever laid eyes upon.

Clearly satisfied with his latest creation, Loki guided him lower, and Steve’s lips soon found their mark as he pulled the god’s breeches down and freed his eight inch cock. Wrapping his lips around the length was an act of surrender, his body trembling with the thrill of pleasing his god. The taste, the heat, the intimacy consumed him, his sculpted form quaking as he gave himself fully, the pleasure a constant, pulsing fire. Within minutes, Loki’s release painted Steve’s face, a warm, possessive mark, and Steve’s devotion surged evermore, his lips still tingling from the act, his body alive with lust.

Loki pulled him upward, and Steve—no, Consort—settled onto his god’s lap. Consort’s golden, muscular frame pressed close against Loki’s slender body, radiating heat and desire. His face, still glistening with Loki’s seed, nuzzled into the trickster’s neck, desperate kisses trailing along the pale skin, each press of his lips a fervent prayer, a burst of ecstasy that made his body hum. 

“You are mine, Consort,” Loki whispered, his voice a sultry caress, stoking Steve’s pleasure, his tanned, chiseled body trembling with the thrill of serving, his green eyes reflecting only his god. He was no longer Steve Rogers, no longer Captain America, and happily so. He was Consort, and the joy of pleasing Loki, of basking in his presence, of offering his body and soul, was his entire existence, a pulsing, lascivious ecstasy that bound him to his divine master forever, each kiss a vow of eternal devotion.

Only one more to go - Thor's going to get a very different treatment!!

[badguyswin]

Loki defeats the Avengers [2/4]

The scepter flared, a sudden blaze of green fire, and Clint flinched as tendrils shot toward Tony. The billionaire stiffened, a choked groan tearing from his throat, his eyes wide with panic. Clint watched in horror as Tony’s body transformed, the man’s lean frame erupting with muscle and his skin shifting to a sun-kissed tan that glistened with a sensual sheen. His brown eyes flickered, then burned green, empty, a void where his soul had been. Clint’s pulse hammered at the sight. He wanted to scream: Fight, Tony! You’re the smartest of us! But Tony’s defiance crumbled, his face slackening, a strange, submissive calm settling over him as he crawled to the throne, dropping to all fours with an eerie, almost seductive grace.

Tony didn’t flinch as Loki placed his boots upon his back, as if he’d found bliss in submission. Clint’s dread surged, a cold fist in his chest. That’s not Tony. I won’t let that be me. But Loki’s gaze swung to him, the scepter’s hum spiking, a sinister pulse that vibrated in his bones, promising his own unmaking, and Clint knew there was nothing he could do to resist.

Loki leaned forward, his smirk a razor’s edge. “Barton, the watchful archer,” he mocked in a low, venomous purr that sent a shiver down Clint’s spine. Each word sent a barb sinking into Clint’s resolve. “Your aim, your loyalty—what are they now?” Clint’s heart pounded, his mind clutching at fragments—his wife’s murmured endearments, his kids’ bedtime stories, the familiar weight of his bow in his hand. Those thoughts were at risk and he knew it, but he was also helpless to do anything about it. Loki’s scepter flared, and green tendrils of trickster god magic surged into Clint’s mind, tearing at his thoughts with ruthless precision. He screamed inwardly, his jaw clenching and teeth grinding, the faint taste of blood sharp on his tongue. He wouldn’t go back under Loki’s control!

He fought, his mind a battlefield, replaying every mission, every narrow escape, every moment of defiance. I’ve outsmarted Loki before, I can do it again! He summoned a vision of his wife’s face to the forefront of his mind: her eyes warm and her voice steady, urging him to come home. He clung to his kids’ laughter, their small hands tugging at his, their trust in him unshakeable. I’m their father, their protector. He thought about Natasha, his best friend, and the inside jokes they shared that made the other Avengers terribly confused.

But as hard as he tried to defy them, the tendrils were relentless, slicing through Clint’s memories with surgical cruelty. His wife’s face blurred, her voice warped into a distant echo, then silence. His kids’ laughter faded, their faces dissolving into a green haze, each loss a jagged wound that bled his will. His memories of long journeys in SHIELD jets with only Natasha for company slipped through his fingers. Stay sharp, Barton! he pleaded, but the magic twisted deeper, unraveling his cunning, his loyalty, his sense of self. It whispered promises—release, purpose, pleasure—its voice a seductive hum that clawed at his resolve.

Clint’s resistance began to crack, his mental fortress crumbling under the onslaught. He tried to rebuild it, picturing his bow, the taut string, the perfect shot, but the image flickered, replaced by Loki’s smirking face, his voice echoing: “You are mine”. Fear gripped him, a freezing vise, but soon a warmth sparked in his chest, insidious, spreading like wildfire. This isn’t me! he thought, panic spiking and heart racing. But the warmth swelled, a pulse of arousal, alien and intoxicating, and it was tied to Loki’s voice and the trickster god’s commanding presence. It was as if the magic rewired Clint’s soul, turning the Avenger’s defiance into desire and his fear into a dark, pulsing need. He fought to reject it, to summon back his anger, but the pleasure grew, a relentless tide that drowned his will, each wave eroding his identity. 

I’m Clint Barton! he screamed to himself, but the thought frayed, the magic correcting him in a cold whisper: You are nothing but mine.

His body shuddered violently, and the physical transformation began, a slow, deliberate reshaping that sent a forbidden thrill through him, each change laced with an erotic intensity that made his breath catch. His wiry frame, built for agility and precision, erupted with raw power, muscles swelling with a sensual force, as if desire itself were sculpting him. His biceps bulged, thick and defined, veins pulsing beneath his skin like rivers of molten heat, each flex a ripple of strength that felt both alien and exhilarating, igniting a dark pulse in his core. 

His chest broadened, pecs rising like sculpted marble, hard and inviting, each curve a testament to his new form, the sensation a heady mix of pressure and pleasure that made his body hum with anticipation. His abs carved themselves into sharp ridges, each groove a chiseled line of perfection, his torso a canvas of masculine allure that stirred a forbidden ecstasy, as if his body were being molded for Loki’s gaze alone. 

His thighs thickened, powerful and unyielding, each movement a surge of raw energy that sent shivers of arousal through him, his skin tingling with a delicious sensitivity.

His skin darkened, a golden tan that glowed with a seductive sheen, smooth and warm, as if crafted to entice, each inch of his new form radiating a primal heat that fueled his growing desire. His dark hair paled, shrinking into a close-cropped blond buzzcut, each strand shimmering like gold thread, the change a sharp, electric prickle across his scalp that teetered on the edge of ecstasy, making him gasp, his body trembling with the thrill of it. 

His eyes blazed green, the glow swallowing his soul, a cold void that erased his past self, but the emptiness was filled with a surging, erotic need to serve Loki, a pleasure that consumed him, pulsing through his veins like liquid fire, each beat of his heart a surrender to his god’s will.

Clint’s resistance collapsed, his identity unraveling like a snapped bowstring. Remember, you’re Clint Barton! a final cry echoed, but it dissolved, drowned by an ecstasy of obedience. His cunning had been erased, his will rewritten. The pleasure of serving Loki was a relentless thrill, each pulse binding him to his god’s desires. His body was a monument of muscle, every curve and contour a masterpiece of Loki’s design, crafted for complete servitude. 

Loki beckoned, his voice a sadistic melody. “Come, Worshipper,” he taunted, the new nickname a cruel twist on his planned role, his words fanning the flames of Clint’s arousal. “Your hands, your eyes—mine now.” Clint crawled forward, his movements fluid, driven by a burning need, his sculpted body moving with a grace that felt intoxicating, each step a pulse of gratification.

Loki extended a bare foot, and Clint’s glowing eyes locked onto it, his mind empty save for the drive to please. He leaned forward, his tongue gliding over Loki’s skin, each touch igniting a wave of pleasure, a deep, erotic satisfaction that made his body hum, his muscles flexing with every movement, the sensation a delicious reward. 

His hands, strong and calloused, massaged Loki’s other foot, each kneading a ritual of devotion, the act fueling his ecstasy. Every press of his fingers against Loki’s skin sent a jolt of arousal through him, his chiseled form trembling with the thrill of serving. “You exist for my comfort, Worshipper,” Loki whispered, his voice a cruel caress, each word stoking Clint’s pleasure, his tanned, muscular body alive with it.

Clint was gone, his mind a blank slate etched with Loki’s will, the pleasure of serving an all-consuming thrill. He was no longer Clint Barton, no longer Hawkeye. He was Worshipper, and the joy of pleasing Loki, of fulfilling his god’s every command with his powerful hands and devoted tongue, was his entire existence. He would happily spend the rest of his days caught up in a pulsing ecstasy that erased all trace of who he had been, bound him to his god forever.

[badguyswin]

love it so far. ❤️❤️❤️

Awesome 🤙🏻

[badguyswin]

Loki defeats the Avengers [1/4]

The golden walls of Asgard’s throne room were aglow with torchlight, shadows dancing like specters across the polished marble floor that was cool and smooth under Tony Stark’s aching knees. His Iron Man suit was destroyed, pieces of it scattered around him. Steve, Thor, and Clint knelt nearby, their breaths ragged. Tony’s mind was a warzone, racing with equations, plans, escapes. Gotta find a way out. Despite himself, he couldn’t quite hold back the fear gnawing his chest, a cold, heavy dread that made his stomach churn, his pulse hammer.

Loki lounged on the throne, his emerald cape spilling like liquid night. The trickster god raised his scepter, glowing green with magic, and pointed the spear-like tip right at Tony’s face. “You thought yourself a genius, Stark,” Loki taunted, his voice smooth as sharp as the tip of his scepter. “Your mind, your wit—how fragile they are. How easily they shatter.” Tony’s heart pounded and sweat beaded on his brow. I’m not fragile. I’m Iron Man. But the scepter’s light pulsed, and green tendrils slithered into his mind, their touch slimy, cold, like eels writhing in his skull, pulsing with a sickly heat.

Tony fought, his thoughts a desperate scramble. I’m Tony Stark, I built the suit, I saved the world. The tendrils dug deeper, tearing at his memories—Pepper’s smile, Bruce’s furrowed brow, Steve’s stubbornness during arguments. The moments dissolved, dripping away like wax under flame, each loss a hollow ache, a stab in his chest. 

No, I won’t break! He screamed inwardly, his fists clenching and nails biting his palms. The resulting pain was sharp and momentarily grounding. But Loki’s magic burned hotter, a searing tide burning away Tony’s sarcasm, his pride, his whole self. Fear gripped him all of a sudden as he saw defeat approaching. The fear was cold and heavy, so unfamiliar to the man who typically had so much confidence. He tried to hold onto his wit and his snark, but they slipped through his grasp, and something else stirred—a warmth, unfamiliar, curling in his gut, spreading like fire, a dark thrill that made his skin flush, his breath catch. No, this isn’t me! he thought, panic rising, but the warmth grew, a pulse of arousal, alien and intoxicating, tied to Loki’s voice and presence.

Tony’s body suddenly convulsed, his muscles swelling, veins bulging like cords under his skin. Each muscle was tightening, expanding, a burning ache that made him gasp, the pain sharp yet strangely exhilarating. His pale skin darkened to a deep, sun-kissed tan, slick with sweat, its warmth radiating. His dark hair lightened, shrinking into a close-cropped blond buzzcut, the transformation a sharp prickle across his scalp. His brown eyes flickered, then blazed green, the glow unnatural, empty, a cold void swallowing his soul. His newly-blond goatee was the only visible connection to the identity being rapidly ripped away from him.

His fear morphed, twisting into a dark, pulsing arousal; a need to serve Loki that hummed through his veins like honey, erotic and overwhelming. A final scream echoed through his mind, only to be drowned out by the ecstasy of newfound obedience. His intelligence drained, his thoughts dissolving into a haze of hypnotic green light, each pulse of magic stoking the fire in his gut, the pleasure of serving Loki a constant, consuming thrill.

Loki leaned forward, his smirk cruel, his eyes glinting with sadistic delight. “Pathetic, isn’t it, Footstool?” he sneered, his voice a cruel caress, each word fanning the flames of Tony’s arousal, his body trembling with it. “All that brilliance, reduced to a platform for my boots.” 

Tony’s mind frayed, his genius melting. Each thought was replaced by a pulsing need: a dark ecstasy that made his skin tingle, his breath hitch. He tried to resist, to cling to who he was but it was gone, rewritten with the pleasure of serving, a warm, relentless pulse that tied his every sensation to Loki’s will. His body was no longer his own but instead a sculpted monument for the pleasure of the sick tyrant he served. His broad shoulders, chiseled abs, powerful legs—each muscle taught and all for Loki to enjoy. 

Loki snapped his fingers, the sound sharp like a whip cracking, and Tony’s transformation completed with a low groan forcing its way out of his mouth. His voice was raw and animalistic, vibrating with a strange, erotic satisfaction. “Crawl to me, Footstool,” Loki commanded, his voice a melody of dominance.

Tony obeyed, his movements mechanical yet graceful, his tanned skin brushing the cool marble, its chill a stark contrast to his heat. He positioned himself at the throne’s base, remaining on all fours, his back perfectly flat. Loki rested his boots on the expanse of muscular flesh, the leather creaking, the warmth of Tony’s skin seeping through, firm and unyielding. The pressure of Loki’s heel was a dull ache, and it sent a jolt of ecstasy through Tony. His glowing eyes remained fixed on the floor, his breath steady, but each inhale filled him with the scent of leather and Loki’s rich musk, fueling his permanent arousal.

“My little Footstool,” Loki mocked, grinding his heel, the sensation sharp. A spark of pleasure made Tony’s body hum, his skin tingling with the thrill of serving. “Your mind was your weapon, but now you are furniture—silent, eternal, mine.” Tony’s once brilliant mind had been completely emptied out, a blank slate etched with Loki’s will. The pleasure of being his footstool became Tony’s constant, erotic thrill. 

He was no longer Tony Stark, no longer the genius or the hero. He was Footstool, and the joy of bearing Loki’s weight, of existing for his pleasure, was all he would ever know from then on.

hope you enjoyed anon! more avengers defeats to come

[badguyswin]

Stormtrooper transformations definitely my top kink right now. Lucky Wolverinr!

Wolverine —> Stormtrooper

A white beam penetrates the mighty hero, turning his yellow and blue costume to black and white and his mind to a loyal trooper of the empire.

[badguyswin]

Who else would make for a sexy stormtrooper drone?

Super into the idea right now

[badguyswin]

Resistance Hero to Stormtrooper

The cell was a cold, sterile cube buried deep within the First Order’s flagship, the Finalizer. Poe Dameron, shackled to a metal chair, glared defiantly at the shadowed figure before him. His tattered orange flight suit clung to his sweat-soaked skin, the fabric chafing against bruises blooming across his ribs. His lips, cracked and tasting of copper from blood, curled into a defiant sneer as Kylo Ren loomed before him, his black cloak absorbing the light like a void. The dark side pulsed around Kylo, a suffocating pressure that made Poe’s ears ring and his skin crawl, as if invisible tendrils were slithering across his flesh.

“You will give me what I want, Dameron,” Kylo said, his gloved hand twitching. “The Resistance’s secrets. Their plans. Their hope.”

Poe spat blood onto the floor. “You’ll get nothing from me.”

Kylo’s head tilted, a faint chuckle escaping the vocoder. “Oh, I’ll take everything.”

Kylo’s gloved hand shot forward, fingers splayed, and Poe’s body arched against the restraints as the dark side tore into his mind. The Force was a searing, jagged blade, slicing through his thoughts with a pain that felt like molten metal pouring into his skull. His vision swam with fragmented images—Resistance outposts, Leia’s stern glare, hyperspace coordinates—ripped from him as he screamed, his vocal cords straining until they burned. His fingers clawed at the chair’s armrests as the agony tore through his body. He was desperate for a relief that would never come.

Kylo’s power didn’t stop at the Resistance secrets. It burrowed deeper, into the core of Poe’s very being, a violation that made his stomach churn and his heart stutter. A blistering heat erupted within him, spreading from his chest to his limbs, his skin prickling as if it were splitting apart. This power could only be wielded and weaponized by someone truly gifted in the dark side of the Force, and Kylo Ren had worked hard to master it.

“What are you doing?” Poe gasped through pained breath, his voice fracturing as his body convulsed, the restraints biting into his wrists with a dull, grinding ache. He’d been trained to resist torture, but nothing like this!

Kylo’s voice was a low purr, intimate and cruel. “The Resistance made you a hero. I will make you… more.”

The physical transformation was excruciating, a symphony of agony and unnatural sensation. Poe’s lean, wiry frame, honed by years of piloting, began to warp. His shoulders cracked and widened, bones grinding like tectonic plates, the sound echoing in his ears as his muscles swelled into a hulking, brutish mass. His chest expanded, pectorals thickening into heavy slabs that strained against his tearing flight suit, the fabric ripping with a wet, shredding sound. His ribs ached as they reshaped, his spine popping as it adjusted to support his new bulk. His arms, once agile, ballooned with dense muscle, veins pulsing visibly under skin that stretched taut, hot to the touch. His thighs and calves thickened, the sinews tightening until they felt like steel cables, his knees creaking under the added weight.

His face was the worst. His skin burned as if scalded, stretching and reshaping with a sickening elasticity. His high cheekbones flattened, the sensation like clay being molded by invisible hands. His jaw squared and coarsened, the bones grinding audibly. His nose widened, the cartilage softening and reshaping with a dull crunch, the bridge now slightly crooked. His dark, expressive eyes—once alight with defiance—stung as they dulled to a flat, lifeless brown. His eyebrows thickened, coarse hairs sprouting like weeds, and his forehead broadened, the skin tightening painfully. His lips, once quick to smile, thinned into a grim slash, chapped and raw. His scalp itched furiously as his tousled black curls fell away, replaced by a coarse, buzzed crop of dull brown hair. His skin paled to a sallow, almost sickly hue, clammy and cool despite the heat of transformation. 

The man who had been Poe Dameron was unrecognizable, his face a generic mask, devoid of charm or individuality.

The mental assault was a different kind of torment. Poe’s thoughts—his courage, his loyalty, his sharp wit—were shredded, each memory dissolving with a sensation like paper burning in his mind, leaving only ash. He tried to cling to Leia’s face, Finn’s laugh, the hum of his X-wing’s engines, but they slipped away, replaced by a suffocating need to obey. His ideological core, once a blazing fire of hope, was smothered, rewritten with a cold devotion to the First Order. A shameful, electric thrill coursed through him at the thought of being commanded, his pulse quickening, his skin flushing with heat. His identity as Poe Dameron crumbled, and FN-1361 emerged, his mind a hollow vessel filled with submission.

“I… I’m… Poe?” he questioned, his voice a weak croak, tasting of bile and defeat.

“You were Poe,” Kylo said, his voice dripping with finality. “Now, you are FN-1361.”

The name struck like a physical blow, sealing his fate. “I’m… FN-1361.” Yes, that was his name - his only name. FN-1361’s new voice was flat, monotone, stripped of Poe’s warmth. His mind was empty, his body foreign, his soul bound to serve.

Kylo stepped back, his work complete. “General Hux will find you… useful.”

Hours later, FN-1361 stood in the armory, a cavernous chamber filled with the metallic tang of plastoid and the low hum of machinery. The air was cold, biting at his naked, newly sculpted body, his sallow skin prickling with goosebumps. His broad chest heaved, each breath a reminder of his thick, brutish frame, his muscles heavy and unfamiliar. A rack of Stormtrooper armor awaited, its white plates gleaming like polished bone under the sterile lights. His thick, calloused fingers reached for the undersuit, a tight black bodysuit that smelled of synthetic fibers and faint antiseptic. As he pulled it on, the material clung to his skin like a lover’s touch, hugging his heavy pectorals, his blocky abdomen, and his powerful thighs. The pressure was intimate, squeezing his flesh, and a low heat stirred in his groin. His cock twitched, beginning to harden, the sensation both unfamiliar and intoxicating as the fabric pressed against it.

He fastened the chest plate next, the plastoid cool and unyielding, its weight grounding him as it settled against his broad chest with a faint creak. The pauldrons clicked into place over his wide shoulders, the sound sharp and satisfying, followed by vambraces that encased his forearms, the snug fit sending a shiver through him. Greaves and boots followed, each piece locking together with a mechanical snap that echoed in the quiet armory. The armor was heavy, restrictive, molding his body into a tool of the First Order. As he adjusted the belt, the utility pouches brushed against his hips, grazing the growing bulge beneath the undersuit. His cock hardened fully, straining painfully against the tight fabric, the discomfort only intensifying his arousal. The pressure was exquisite, a mix of pain and pleasure that made his breath catch, his skin flushing beneath the plastoid. He relished the confinement, the way the armor erased his individuality, reducing him to a number—a servant.

Finally, he lifted the helmet. Its black visor stared back, a blank, faceless void that promised anonymity. His heart pounded, his cock throbbing painfully against the undersuit as he raised the helmet. He slid it over his head, the seals hissing sharply, the sound reverberating in his ears like a command. The interior smelled of plastoid and faint sweat, the padding pressing against his coarse buzzcut, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure through him. His vision narrowed to the visor’s filtered view, the world tinged red and green by the heads-up display. The weight of the helmet, the way it encased his head, triggered an overwhelming wave of lustful desire. His cock pulsed, trapped painfully beneath the armor, the pressure making him hornier still. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, the sound amplified inside the helmet. The thought of General Hux—his cold, commanding voice, his sharp gaze—ignited a desperate, primal need to kneel, to obey, to be used. FN-1361’s gloved hands clenched, the leather creaking, as he fought to steady himself, consumed by the urge to submit, his body trembling with arousal.

The armory door hissed open, and General Hux entered, his boots clicking on the durasteel floor, each step a crisp, authoritative note that made FN-1361’s cock twitch. Hux’s pale eyes gleamed with cruel satisfaction, his thin lips curling into a smug smirk as he circled the trooper, his gloved hand brushing the armored shoulder, the touch sending a shiver through FN-1361’s body. The scent of Hux’s cologne—sharp, chemical, with a faint metallic edge—mingled with the armory’s sterile air, intoxicating him.

“Designation,” Hux snapped, his voice like a whipcrack, cutting through the haze of FN-1361’s arousal.

“FN-1361, sir,” the trooper replied, his voice muffled by the helmet but thick with eager submission. Speaking his designation, acknowledging Hux’s authority, sent a surge of pleasure through him, his cock straining harder, the pain sharpening his desire.

Hux’s smirk widened, his eyes raking over the trooper’s form. “Kneel.”

FN-1361 dropped to one knee, the armor clanking loudly against the floor, the impact jolting his oversensitive body. The act of submission was electric, his pulse racing, his cock throbbing painfully beneath the plastoid. Hux stepped closer, his polished boots inches from the visor, their mirror-like surface reflecting the armory’s lights. The proximity, the power imbalance, made FN-1361’s breath hitch, his body aching with need.

“Lower,” Hux commanded, his voice low and cutting.

FN-1361 pressed his helmeted forehead to the floor, the cold durasteel kissing the visor, the sensation grounding yet humiliating. His gloved hands rested on the ground, the leather slick with sweat. Hux’s voice was a drug, each word tightening the coil of desire in FN-1361’s core. “You exist to serve me,” Hux said, his gloved hand gripping the back of the helmet, fingers digging into the plastoid with a faint creak. “Say it.”

“I exist to serve you, sir,” FN-1361 whispered, his voice trembling with lustful surrender, his cock pulsing so hard it felt like it might burst. The words were a release, a vow, his body shuddering with the intensity of his need.

Hux’s smile was cold, predatory. “Good. You’ll prove it.”

FN-1361 was assigned to the lowest ranks of the Stormtroopers, tasked with scrubbing floors, polishing equipment, and hauling supplies. Each menial order was a spark, fueling his twisted devotion, his cock twitching at every barked command. Hux, relishing the fall of one of the Resistance’s top pilots, summoned FN-1361 to his private quarters nightly for “inspections” that were exercises in sexual humiliation, each one designed to cement the trooper’s new identity as a lowly pervert.

In Hux’s dimly lit quarters, the air thick with the scent of polished leather and Hux’s sharp cologne, FN-1361 stood at attention, his armor gleaming. Hux circled him, his boots clicking on the polished floor, his smirk dripping with smug satisfaction. “Remove your helmet,” he ordered, his voice a velvet blade.

FN-1361 obeyed, the seals hissing as he lifted the helmet, revealing his coarse and unrecognizable face. The cool air hit his sallow skin, a contrast to the heat pooling in his groin. Hux stepped closer, his gloved hand gripping FN-1361’s chin, forcing his head up. “Look at you,” Hux sneered, his breath warm against the trooper’s face. “The great Poe Dameron, reduced to a pathetic grunt who gets hard from a single order. Pathetic.”

The words stung for a brief moment, but they soon gave way to a perverted thrill. FN-1361’s cock hardened painfully beneath the undersuit, the tight plastoid amplifying the arousing sensation. He relished the humiliation, his body trembling with a need to be degraded further. Hux’s hand slid down, unfastening the trooper’s chest plate with deliberate slowness, each click of the armor a tease that made FN-1361’s breath hitch. The plates fell away, leaving him in the undersuit, his erection painfully obvious, a damp spot forming where the fabric strained.

“Strip,” Hux commanded, his voice thick with amusement. FN-1361 complied, peeling off the undersuit, the material sticking to his sweat-slicked skin, the cool air raising goosebumps as his thick, muscular body was exposed. His cock stood rigid, throbbing with need, precum glistening at the tip. Hux’s eyes gleamed, his smirk widening. “On your knees, filth.”

FN-1361 dropped to his knees, the durasteel floor biting into his bare skin, the pain mingling with pleasure. Hux unbuckled his own trousers, revealing his own arousal, and grabbed FN-1361’s buzzed hair, yanking his head forward. “Serve your superior,” Hux ordered, his voice dripping with smugness. FN-1361’s mouth opened eagerly, the taste of Hux—salty, musky, overpowering—filling his senses as he took him in, his own cock twitching with every degrading thrust. Hux’s gloved hand gripped his hair tighter, controlling the pace, his other hand striking FN-1361’s cheek with a sharp slap. “You love this, don’t you?” Hux taunted, his voice thick with cruel delight. “A hero turned whore.”

FN-1361 moaned around him, the humiliation fueling his arousal, his cock leaking onto the floor. He did love it—every degrading word, every painful tug, every reminder of his fall. He couldn’t remember his history as a hero but that didn’t matter to him. All that mattered was the pleasure he could receive from the superior men of the First Order. When Hux came, hot and bitter, FN-1361 swallowed eagerly, his own release spilling untouched onto the durasteel, his body shuddering with shameful ecstasy.

Another night, Hux ordered FN-1361 to crawl across the floor, stripped completely bare. The cold metal was scraping his knees as he polished Hux’s boots with his tongue, the leather slick with polish and sweat. Hux watched, lounging back in a chair, his smirk never fading. “You were their best pilot,” he mocked, sipping a glass of amber liquor. “Now you’re my dog.” FN-1361’s cock hardened at the words, the degradation making him desperate for more, his body trembling as he pressed his lips to Hux’s boot, the taste of polish sharp on his tongue.

Each inspection deepened FN-1361’s conditioning, his senses—taste, touch, sound—consumed by servitude. The man who had been Poe Dameron was gone, replaced by a creature who lived for Hux’s commands, his cock throbbing at every humiliation, his new life a perverse paradise of submission to the First Order’s cruel general. It was a fate he would never escape from, no matter what the fate of the Galaxy was...

[badguyswin]

I do kind of love the gym guys what about nick angel from hot fuzz sucumbs to the villages whimes and starts to relax?

Sorry haven’t seen that film so wouldn’t know what to request to make it good :/

[badguyswin]

i didn't think about what kinda drones, basically making them his servants would be grand

Got it

Keep your eyes peeled in the next few days then

[badguyswin]

Bucky gets the upper hand on Steve Rogers, revealing that he’s still a sleeper agent of Hydra. He then turns Steve into Hydra’s new leader - Captain Hydra

Fucking love Captain Hydra

I’ll def see what it can get cooking for this