badguyswin

[badguyswin]

[badguyswin]

I have just informed HR of your job reclassification. You're now assistant to the CEO, not junior VP. I've also informed payroll to transfer your check to my account for this pay period. From now on you will only be receiving one check per month.

Having a f*gg*t in leadership was not going to fit the culture of this company with me as the new CEO. You're lucky to still work here, I was the one who saved you. Now get down there and polish my shoes, show me how thankful you are to have this job.

[badguyswin]

[badguyswin]

John Cena's Bad Day

For an anonymous requester. If you have any WWE wrestlers you wanna see get the "bad guys win" treatment just lmk.

Previous: Randy Orton - Roman Reigns - Cody Rhodes - Drew McIntyre

The Miami night was a sweltering cauldron of neon and humidity, the air thick with the scent of ocean salt, diesel fumes, and the faint tang of coconut sunscreen lingering from the day’s heat. John Cena, the 6’1”, 250-pound WWE icon, strode toward the Kaseya Center for a special Raw taping, his chiseled physique a testament to decades of dominance. His broad shoulders strained the seams of his signature “Hustle, Loyalty & Respect” t-shirt, the cotton clinging to his massive pecs, each slab of muscle rippling with every step. His six-pack was carved like granite, visible through the tight fabric, veins snaking across his bulging biceps and forearms, pulsing with raw power. His muscular thighs filled out his denim jorts, the denim creaking, and his calves were thick knots built for explosive strength. His short, dark hair was buzzed tight, his square jaw set with a confident grin, and his piercing blue eyes radiated the charisma that had crowned him a 17-time world champion. 

Even at 48, Cena was still a titan in the WWE’s toxic, alpha-male backstage culture, his promos blending earnest heroism with subtle sexist bravado, his heterosexuality flaunted with crowd-pleasing winks, though he kept his personal life guarded. His gym bag, slung over one shoulder, thudded against his back as he approached the talent entrance, the leather strap creaking under the weight.

Lurking near a metal barricade, bathed in the flickering glow of a streetlight, stood Ethan Dingle, a 19-year-old, 5’8”, 140-pound incel, his scrawny frame drowned in a faded black hoodie and baggy jeans, the fabric reeking of cheap body spray and unwashed cotton. His greasy black hair hung limp over his acne-scarred cheeks, his dark brown eyes burning with resentment, his thin lips twisted in a perpetual scowl. 

Ethan was a devout follower of the redpilled manosphere, spending hours on X and Reddit, seething about “Chads” like Cena who “hoarded” women, success, and power. His incel ideology—a toxic brew of misogyny, entitlement, and self-loathing—convinced him he deserved Cena’s life more than the “overrated has-been” who’d “lucked” into fame. Women had always rejected him, brandishing him a “loser creep” in response to his awkward advances. Their laughter only fuelled his rage. Determined to claim the alpha life he “knew” he deserved, Ethan had scoured dark-web forums, purchasing a cursed silver medallion from an occultist who promised it would allow him to “take what’s rightfully yours.” The medallion, etched with jagged, crimson-glowing runes, bit into his palm as he clutched it, his heart pounding with anticipation.

Ethan stepped forward, his sneakers scuffing the asphalt, his voice trembling with fury. “Cena, you don’t deserve that body or that fame!” he shouted, his high-pitched voice cracking, barely carrying over the distant hum of Miami traffic. 

Cena paused, his blue eyes narrowing, a bemused smirk curling his lips as he sized up the scrawny kid. “Kid, go lift some weights and work on bettering yourself rather than bothering me,” he said, his deep voice booming with casual dismissal, his massive frame towering over Ethan, his chiseled pecs flexing instinctively. The taunt was a match to Ethan’s powder keg of resentment, his redpilled ideology screaming that he was owed Cena’s strength, his women, his glory. He lunged forward, his skinny arm trembling as he pressed the medallion against Cena’s chest, the runes flaring with a crimson light as he muttered a chaotic incantation he’d memorized from a subreddit. A blinding flash erupted, the air crackling with static, the scent of burnt metal sharp and acrid. The talent entrance was deserted—no wrestlers, no crew, no fans to witness the swap, the night silent save for the hum of cicadas.

Ethan’s body ignited, a molten heat surging through his core, as if his very bones were being forged in a crucible. His 5’8”, 140-pound frame stretched upward to 6’1”, his scrawny chest expanding, ribs cracking as his lungs filled with new capacity, muscle swelling to form massive pecs that pushed outward, dense and heavy, like armor plates. His soft, undefined midsection tightened, fat dissolving to reveal a six-pack carved like granite, each ridge glistening with sweat, veins snaking across his abdomen, the skin darkening slightly to Cena’s tanned hue. His wiry, trembling arms bulged, biceps inflating into thick, veined peaks, forearms thickening with corded muscle, his hands growing larger, fingers calloused and strong. His skinny legs swelled, thighs hardening into muscular pillars, quads rippling with explosive power, calves knotting into diamond-shaped masses built for the ring. His posture straightened, his spine aligning with a sharp crack, shoulders broadening into massive deltoids, his chest expanding to fill the space with raw presence. 

His acne-scarred face burned, the skin smoothing and cheekbones rising, his thin jaw squaring into Cena’s chiseled, heroic line, stubble sprouting to frame it. His greasy black hair shortened, thickening into Cena’s buzzed, dark cut, neat and precise, gleaming under the streetlights. His dark brown eyes shifted to Cena’s piercing blue, gleaming with a predatory confidence he’d never known. His hoodie and jeans morphed into Cena’s jorts and “Never Give Up” t-shirt, the cotton stretching taut over his massive pecs, the denim clinging to his muscular thighs, the fabric outlining a newly formed bulge—his cock, thick and throbbing with virile potency, a stark contrast to his former unimpressive anatomy. The physical transformation complete, Ethan stood as John Cena, his 250-pound body a sculpted titan, the air around him thick with the scent of Cena’s cologne and fresh sweat, every flex radiating power.

Mentally, Ethan’s redpilled incel mindset—a volatile mix of misogyny, entitlement, and self-loathing—was amplified, merging with Cena’s alpha charisma into a hyper-aggressive, toxic juggernaut. His awareness remained—he knew he was Ethan—but the medallion’s curse flooded his psyche with Cena’s WWE-honed confidence, his subtle sexist bravado, and a relentless drive to dominate. His incel resentment, once a bitter whine, transformed into a roaring certainty: he deserved this body, this life, because he was smarter, more “redpilled” than Cena, who’d “wasted” his alpha status on “beta” heroism. Women, who’d called Ethan a “loser creep” in his scrawny body, were now nothing but objects to conquer and there was no way would they laugh him off now. His blue eyes glinted with sadistic glee as he flexed his massive biceps, veins popping, his six-pack rippling as he ran his hands over his chiseled pecs, the muscle dense and unyielding. “This is what I’ve always deserved,” he growled in Cena’s deep, commanding voice, the sound rumbling through his massive chest, vibrating the air. His cock throbbed in the jorts, the bulge obscene, a symbol of the alpha life he’d craved on incel forums—strength, dominance, and women at his feet.

The transformation wasn’t seamless at first. A flicker of Ethan’s old self—his awkward shyness, his fear of rejection—clung to him, a faint voice whispering that this power wasn’t his, that he was still the “loser” women mocked. He saw flashes of his old life: nights alone in his basement apartment, scrolling X, raging at “Chads” and “Stacys,” his skinny hands trembling with impotent fury. But the medallion’s magic was relentless, drowning those doubts in a flood of Cena’s alpha psyche. Ethan’s misogyny hardened, his belief that women owed him sex now backed by a 250-pound frame that commanded attention. His self-loathing morphed into arrogance, his blue eyes narrowing as he envisioned the valets who’d ignored him now begging for his touch. His incel fantasies—of dominating women, degrading them for every taunt—merged with Cena’s stage presence, his mind buzzing with plans to fuck and humiliate as many women as possible, to prove his alpha status. “They’ll see,” he muttered, his voice booming, his buzzed hair gleaming as he adjusted his bulge, the thrill of power overwhelming. “I’m the fucking king now.”

Across the sidewalk, John Cena staggered in Ethan’s 5’8”, 140-pound body, his scrawny chest heaving, his skinny arms trembling in the faded hoodie, the fabric reeking of body spray and defeat. His six-pack was gone, replaced by a soft, flat midsection, his muscular thighs now skinny legs, his square jaw softened into acne-scarred cheeks, his blue eyes dulled to Ethan’s dark brown, wide with horror. His buzzed hair was now greasy and unkempt, his hands small and weak, his cock less imposing, a blow to his alpha identity. His mind reeled—he knew he was John Cena—but Ethan’s incel mindset seeped in, a toxic whisper of inadequacy and resentment, clashing with his heroic confidence.

Cena lunged, his scrawny frame shaking, his dark eyes blazing with desperation. “Give me my body back, you little punk!” he shouted, his high-pitched voice cracking, the hoodie flapping as he stumbled forward on the asphalt. The medallion’s curse ensured only Ethan could understand his claim—others would hear a kid’s incoherent rant. 

Ethan laughed, his deep voice booming in Cena’s authoritative timbre, his massive frame towering over Cena’s frail form, the scent of Cena’s cologne and fresh sweat overwhelming. “Look at you, Ethan,” he sneered, emphasizing the name with venomous glee, his blue eyes raking Cena’s scrawny body. “A pathetic incel, no muscles, no game, no respect. Women called you a creepy loser and they were right.” He flexed his massive biceps, veins popping, his six-pack rippling as he lifted his t-shirt, mocking Cena’s lost physique. “This body’s built for champs, not nobodies like you.”

Cena’s acne-scarred face flushed, his dark eyes brimming with rage and shame, his skinny arms trembling as he swung a weak punch, his fist barely grazing Ethan’s chiseled pecs. Ethan smirked, his massive forearm blocking the blow with ease, the muscle unyielding. “Pathetic,” he growled, grabbing Cena’s skinny arm, his grip bruising the frail flesh, and slamming him against the metal barricade, the clang echoing in the deserted entrance. Cena gasped, his scrawny chest heaving, but Ethan didn’t stop. He drove a brutal fist into Cena’s soft midsection, the thud sickening, Cena doubling over, his dark eyes watering. Ethan followed with a vicious uppercut, his knuckles cracking against Cena’s acne-scarred jaw, blood trickling from his lip as he crumpled to the asphalt, his skinny knees scraping, his hoodie tearing at the shoulder. 

“Stay down, you weak fuck,” Ethan snarled, his voice Cena’s commanding boom, his blue eyes glinting with sadistic joy. He delivered a final kick to Cena’s ribs, the impact forcing a pained wheeze, Cena’s frail body curling into a ball, his dark eyes dazed, his greasy hair matted with sweat and dirt.

Ethan loomed over him, his massive thighs flexing, his bulge throbbing in the jorts, a sadistic grin curling his lips. “This is my body now,” he said, his deep voice dripping with triumph. “I’m John Cena, and you’re just Ethan, a nobody who’ll never be shit.” He stomped on the medallion, the silver shattering, the crimson runes crumbling to dust, sealing the swap forever. With a final sneer, he spat on Cena’s crumpled form, the saliva hitting his acne-scarred cheek, and strutted into the arena, his chiseled physique radiating power, leaving Cena sprawled on the sidewalk, his frail body trembling, his dark eyes fixed on his stolen life.

Inside the Kaseya Center, the backstage area buzzed with the chaotic energy of a Raw taping, the air thick with the scent of sweat, hairspray, and leather gear. Ethan, in Cena’s 250-pound body, sauntered through the talent lounge, his massive pecs flexing, his buzzed hair gleaming under the fluorescent lights, his blue eyes scanning for his next conquest. Wrestlers slapped his back, unaware of the swap, their respect for “Cena” fueling his ego. Then he spotted Nikki Bella, Cena’s ex-fiancée, near a catering table, her 5’6” frame poured into a tight black dress, the fabric hugging her full breasts and rounded hips, her long brunette hair cascading in waves, her brown eyes sparkling as she laughed with a makeup artist. At 41, Nikki was a WWE legend, her beauty undimmed, but her 2018 breakup with Cena—a bitter split over his reluctance to commit—was still a raw wound.

Ethan’s blue eyes glinted, his cock hardening in the jorts, the bulge obscene as he saw Nikki as the ultimate trophy—a woman who’d never glanced at “loser” Ethan, now his to claim in Cena’s body. He sauntered over, his massive frame commanding the room, his deep voice booming with Cena’s charm but laced with his misogynistic intent. “Nikki, looking hot as ever,” he purred, leaning close, his cologne enveloping her, his massive hand grazing her lower back, fingers lingering on the curve of her hip. 

Nikki turned, her brown eyes widening with confusion, a flicker of hurt crossing her face. “John? I… didn’t think you’d be so friendly,” she said, her voice cautious, the bad terms of their breakup—public arguments, his cold dismissal—hanging between them. “Thought you’d moved on.”

Ethan smirked, his blue eyes locking onto hers, mimicking Cena’s charisma but twisting it with his redpilled agenda. “Babe, I’m a new man,” he said, his voice smooth, his hand sliding to her waist, pulling her closer, her breasts brushing his chiseled pecs. “Let’s forget the past. You know you miss this.” He flexed his biceps subtly, veins popping, his bulge pressing against her thigh through the dress, a deliberate provocation. 

Nikki’s breath hitched, her brown eyes flickering with confusion—John had never been this aggressive, this overtly sexual—but the familiarity of his piercing blue eyes, his chiseled jaw, and his massive physique stirred old feelings, her body responding despite her doubts. “You’re… different,” she murmured, her lips parting, but Ethan leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. “Better, you mean,” he whispered, his hand squeezing her ass, the flesh soft under his grip, her gasp a thrill. “Come with me, Nikki. Let’s make up for lost time.”

She hesitated, her brown eyes searching his, but his overwhelming presence—his 250-pound frame, his confident smirk, his throbbing bulge—overpowered her reservations. He led her to his private dressing room, the door locking with a click, the air thick with the scent of his cologne and her perfume. Ethan wasted no time, his massive hands tearing at her dress, the fabric ripping to expose her full breasts, her curves trembling under his touch. “You’re mine now,” he growled, his voice Cena’s boom but Ethan’s venom, pushing her against the wall, his lips crashing into hers, his tongue invasive. Nikki moaned, her resistance melting, her hands clutching his chiseled pecs, unable to deny the raw power of “Cena.” 

Ethan pulled out his phone, discreetly setting it on a shelf, the camera recording as he lifted her, her legs wrapping around his muscular waist, his cock—hard and thick—thrusting into her, the dressing room filled with her gasps and his grunts. “You love this, don’t you, slut?” he sneered, his redpilled mindset reveling in degrading her, each thrust a vengeance for every woman who’d rejected him. Nikki’s moans grew louder, her brown eyes dazed, unaware of the recording, lost in the intensity of his stolen body.

As Ethan climaxed, his deep groan echoing, he smirked at the phone, knowing the video would be his ultimate weapon. He sent it to his old cell phone—now in Cena’s possession—via a private message, the file labeled “What You’ll Never Have Again.” 

Outside, Cena lay crumpled on the asphalt, trapped in his new 5’8”, 140-pound scrawny frame, and he looked an absolute mess: his faded black hoodie torn at the shoulder, his baggy jeans scraped and bloodied at the knees. The beating had left his scrawny body bruised, his ribs aching, blood trickling from his split lip, his dark eyes brimming with rage and despair. 

As Cena tried to crawl to his feet, his skinny arms shaking, the crunch of boots on gravel echoed in the alley beside the arena. Logan Paul, the 6’2”, 205-pound social media star turned WWE heel, emerged from the shadows, his lean, muscular frame clad in a tight black tank top and designer jeans, his blonde hair slicked back, his green eyes glinting with opportunistic malice. Logan thrived in the WWE’s toxic backstage culture, his promos dripping with sexist bravado and performative alpha dominance, his YouTube fame fueling his arrogance. He carried a half-empty Prime Energy drink, the bottle glinting under the streetlights, his smirk widening as he spotted Cena’s scrawny form, mistaking him for a random fanboy due to the swap. “Yo, what’s this?” Logan said, his voice a mocking drawl, stepping closer, his boots thudding. “Some virgin loser got his ass kicked?”

Cena’s dark eyes flared, his voice hoarse but desperate. “Logan, it’s me, John Cena! That punk stole my body!” he croaked, his high-pitched voice Ethan’s weak whine, the curse ensuring only Ethan could understand his claim. To Logan, it was the rant of a delusional kid, his green eyes narrowing with cruel amusement. 

“Cena? You? Look at you, dude—scrawny, pathetic, bleeding like a bitch,” he laughed, tossing his energy drink bottle at Cena’s head, the plastic clanging off his greasy hair, sticky liquid splashing his acne-scarred face. Cena flinched, his frail body trembling, his incel mindset whispering he was “lesser,” unworthy, while his heroic core screamed to fight back. “Help me,” he gasped, his voice breaking, but Logan’s smirk only grew, his lean frame looming, his tank top clinging to his defined pecs.

“Help you?” Logan sneered, circling Cena like a predator, his green eyes glinting. “Nah, kid, you’re just a cum dump waiting to happen.” The toxic culture of the WWE backstage, where dominance was currency, fueled Logan’s cruelty, his redpilled instincts aligning with Ethan’s swapped mindset. He grabbed Cena’s greasy hair, yanking his head back, the pain sharp, Cena’s dark eyes watering. “Let’s have some fun with the loser,” Logan said, unzipping his jeans, his eight inch cock springing free, hard and ready, his green eyes locked on Cena’s frail form.

Cena’s homophobic instincts—amplified by Ethan’s incel mindset—recoiled, his scrawny body thrashing, but his weak arms couldn’t break Logan’s grip. “No, you fuck!” Cena shouted, his voice a pathetic whine, but Logan laughed, shoving him to his knees, the asphalt biting his scraped knees through the jeans.

Logan forced his cock into Cena’s mouth, the salty taste overwhelming, Cena’s acne-scarred cheeks trembling as he gagged, his dark eyes streaming tears of rage and humiliation. “That’s right, creep,” Logan growled, his hips thrusting, his blonde hair bouncing, his lean muscles flexing. “This is what nobodies like you get.” Cena’s mind screamed, his heroic identity fighting to resist, but Ethan’s incel despair dragged him down, whispering he deserved this for being “weak.” Logan’s thrusts were brutal, his green eyes glinting with sadistic joy, the act a power play in the toxic alpha hierarchy. As he climaxed, his groan echoing, he pulled out, spraying Cena’s face, the hot liquid mixing with blood and sweat, a final degradation. Cena collapsed, his scrawny body shaking, his dark eyes dazed, his hoodie soaked, the stench of cum and body spray choking him.

Logan wasn’t done. He grabbed Cena’s skinny arm, his grip bruising, and dragged him toward a rusted garbage container in the alley, the metal dented and reeking of rotting food and stale beer. “Time to take out the trash,” Logan said, his voice dripping with mockery, his green eyes cold. Cena struggled, his frail limbs flailing, his high-pitched voice croaking, “I’m John Cena, you bastard!” but Logan heard only a kid’s delusion, laughing as he hoisted Cena’s 140-pound body with ease, his lean muscles flexing. He tossed Cena into the container, the impact jarring, Cena’s scrawny frame landing on a pile of garbage bags, the stench of decay overwhelming, a banana peel sticking to his greasy hair. “Stay where you belong, loser,” Logan sneered, slamming the lid shut, the clang echoing, and locking it with a rusty padlock, the click final. He kicked the container, the metal rattling, and walked away, his boots fading into the night, leaving Cena trapped in darkness.

Trapped in the garbage container, the stench of rotting fruit and stale beer suffocating, Cena’s mind unraveled, Ethan’s incel mindset consuming his heroic spirit like a virus. The video—Ethan in his 250-pound body, his chiseled pecs flexing, his massive cock thrusting into Nikki, her moans a betrayal—looped relentlessly, each frame fueling his despair. His dark eyes burned, his acne-scarred face wet with tears, his scrawny hands clutching at the slimy garbage, the cold metal walls closing in. His heroic confidence—his “Never Give Up” mantra, his belief in overcoming odds—crumbled under Ethan’s toxic psyche, a relentless whisper: You’re nothing. A loser creep. Women want Chads, not you. The memory of Logan’s assault, the degrading taste, the brutal thrusts, merged with the video, amplifying his humiliation, his frail body a cage for his fading spirit.

Cena tried to cling to his identity, muttering, “I’m John Cena,” his high-pitched voice weak, echoing in the container. But Ethan’s incel mindset surged, drowning his optimism. He saw flashes of Ethan’s life—hours in a basement apartment, scrolling X, raging at “Chads” like his old self, women sneering “loser creep” at his advances. His heroic view of women as equals twisted, Ethan’s misogyny taking root: They only want strength, power. You’re weak now. Nikki’s moans in the video, her pleasure with Ethan in his body, fueled a bitter resentment, his dark eyes narrowing as he internalized Ethan’s belief that women were “sluts” who’d rejected him for “betas” like his new self. His already homophobic instincts amplified, a toxic echo of Ethan’s worldview, Logan’s assault a proof of his “weakness.” His belief in hard work and redemption faded, replaced by a redpilled conviction that only alphas win, that he’d been “cheated” by a world rigged for men like Ethan now was.

Cena’s scrawny frame curled tighter, his greasy hair matted with garbage, his dark eyes glassy. The video’s images—Ethan’s chiseled pecs, his piercing blue eyes, his cock dominating Nikki—became a manifesto of what he’d lost. “I was the champ,” he whispered, his voice breaking, but the incel mindset roared louder: You’re Ethan now. A nobody. A creep. His heroic spirit shattered, his mind embracing Ethan’s self-loathing, his resentment of women, his obsession with “Chad” superiority. He pounded the container’s walls, his weak fists useless, his screams muffled, the stench choking him. 

Inside the arena, Ethan, firmly settled in Cena’s body, strutted to the Raw main event. His massive physique glistened and his blue eyes gleamed as he powerbombed his opponent, the crowd roaring in approval. He fucked another valet backstage, degrading her with sneers, his redpilled agenda thriving, while Cena, locked in the garbage container, descended fully into Ethan’s incel hell, his legacy buried, his dark eyes staring into the void, a “loser creep” forever.

[badguyswin]

Could you do a swap for John cena? Maybe a redpilled incel steals his body

Definitely bro

Fourth in the series Q after Karrion Kross, Bron Breakker and Carmelo Hayes

If anyone has other wwe suggestions lmk

[badguyswin]

Drew McIntyre's Bad Day

This one is a male/female bodyswap, if you don't like that kinda thing then don't read. Or give it a try lol.

Previous: Randy Orton - Roman Reigns - Cody Rhodes

The WWE Performance Center in Orlando vibrated with the clatter of weights and the thump of bodies hitting the mat, but for Kaylee, a 23-year-old trainee and former college cheerleader, it was a crucible of misogyny. At 5’5” and 130 pounds, Kaylee’s athletic frame—toned legs sculpted from years of cheerleading, a tight core with subtle abs, and a perky, All-American smile framed by long, sun-kissed blonde hair—made her a standout in the ring. Her hazel eyes sparkled with determination, but her youthful beauty drew leering stares and crude comments from male wrestlers: “Nice cheerleader ass, rookie,” or “Show us a cartwheel, babe.” 

The sexism was relentless—coaches dismissed her skills, booking her as eye candy rather than a competitor, and locker room veterans treated her like a conquest, leering at her in a manner that made her skin crawl. Kaylee’s progressive ideals, forged in college advocating for gender equality, burned against the toxic, male-dominated culture of the WWE. She was done being objectified, her dreams suffocated by misogyny.

After a grueling late-night training session, Drew McIntyre, the 6’5”, 275-pound Scottish Warrior, cornered her in the practice ring. His chiseled physique—broad shoulders, massive biceps with veins like rivers, pecs like granite slabs, and a neatly defined six-pack of abs—radiated raw power under his tight tank top. His dark hair was tied back, his beard framing a smug grin, his blue eyes gleaming with predatory confidence. “Hey, sweetheart,” he drawled in his thick Scottish accent, his hand grazing her hip, fingers lingering with entitled hunger. “You’re wasted on these tryout matches. Let me show you how a real star has fun.” His touch was invasive, his gaze stripping her bare, and Kaylee’s blood boiled. 

She slipped away, feigning a giggle, and retreated to the equipment room, clutching a sleek, obsidian orb etched with glowing runes. She’d bought it from a shadowy vendor who’d promised, “This will give you power over those who wrong you.” The orb pulsed in her hand, a beacon of her rage.

Alone, Kaylee pressed the orb’s glowing center, aiming its pulse at Drew, who was still flexing for a mirror, oblivious to what she had planned for him. A blinding light erupted, engulfing them both, and reality shattered like glass. Kaylee’s body ignited, a molten heat exploding from her core, coursing through every fiber like liquid fire. Her petite 5’5” frame stretched, bones grinding with a visceral and painful CRACK as she surged upward, her spine elongating, vertebrae popping like gunfire until she towered a full foot taller than before at 6’5”. 

Her shoulders widened violently, muscles swelling into massive, sculpted boulders, the skin stretching taut over rounded deltoids, veins snaking across them like pulsing rivers, thick and prominent. Her arms thickened, biceps ballooning into powerful, bulging masses, each one a hard, throbbing peak of strength under tanned, glistening skin. Her forearms swelled, corded with muscle, capable of crushing steel while bristles of dark hair spread down them.

Her chest expanded, her modest breasts adopting a new flatter shape as her pectorals hardened into chiseled, granite-like slabs, dense and heavy, ripping her sports bra apart, the fabric shredding with a sharp tear. Her core tightened, her subtle abs morphing into a six-pack of deep, chiseled ridges, each one carved like stone, glistening with sweat that traced the grooves, accentuating their brutal definition. Just like her forearms in the moments before, her pecs and abs became the landscape upon which a sea of dark hair began to grow.

Next, her hips narrowed, her waist sculpting into a V-taper that screamed power, while her thighs exploded into massive, tree-trunk pillars, quads rippling with every flex, hamstrings taut and thick. Her calves bulged into diamond-shaped knots of muscle, built for explosive force. She’d had defined legs as a cheerleader with a dancing background, but never anything like this!

The changes to her face were every bit as dramatic as those to the rest of her body. It burned as it reshaped—her delicate, feminine features hardened, her cheekbones sharpening, her jaw squaring into a rugged, chiseled line that exuded dominance. A thick, coarse beard sprouted, framing her new face, while her long blonde hair darkened to a deep brown, lengthening and slicking back into Drew’s tied-back warrior style, sleek and authoritative. 

The distinctive hazel of her eyes shifted, morphing into icy blue orbs that gleamed with predatory intensity, sharp and unyielding. Meanwhile her skin toughened, taking on a sun-kissed, battle-hardened texture, adorned with Drew’s intricate tattoos that snaked over her massive arms, a badge of her new identity. 

When the heat subsided, Kaylee staggered, her new body a 275-pound monument of raw, masculine power, every muscle pulsing with primal energy, her tank top and leggings hanging in tatters, unable to contain her transformed physique.

The transformation went deeper, searing into her mind, rewiring her very soul. Kaylee’s progressive ideals—her fierce fight against sexism, her passion for equality, her empathy for the marginalized—dissolved like ash in a storm, incinerated by a tidal wave of toxic alpha masculinity that flooded her consciousness. Her bubbly, compassionate persona, once a beacon of kindness, was obliterated, replaced by a ruthless, arrogant need to dominate, to claim her place as WWE’s top star at any cost. Her gentle, inclusive mindset warped into a staunch, conservative bravado that scoffed at “woke nonsense,” embracing privilege with a vicious, entitled hunger. 

Even her sexuality shifted, her former attraction to men being based upon mutual respect and equality replaced by an aggressive, primal heterosexuality that burned with desire for women as conquests, objects to flaunt her new power. It was a far cry from her previous feminist standpoint, suddenly seeing her former gender as nothing more than a prop to use and discard at will. The WWE women’s division? What a joke! Her thoughts, once collaborative and uplifting, now pulsed with self-interest, her ego swelling to match her massive frame. She felt invincible and untouchable, her new mentality wired to protect her main event spot with brutal ferocity. 

Kaylee—no, Drew—flexed her massive biceps, watching them swell, veins throbbing like live wires, and grinned, a cruel, self-assured smirk that curled her rugged lips. “This is mine now,” she growled in Drew’s deep, Scottish-accented voice, the sound reverberating through her chiseled pecs, low and commanding, dripping with dominance. Her new body responded with a surge of arousal, not just from the power, but from the thought of wielding it—crushing opponents, commanding respect, and taking what she wanted, whether in the ring or the bedroom. She ran her hands over her abs, savoring the hard, sweat-slicked ridges, each touch sending a jolt of primal pleasure through her, her new masculinity reveling in its own potency.

Across the training ring, Drew McIntyre staggered, his towering 6’5”, 275-pound frame rapidly collapsing inward, shrinking into Kaylee’s 5’5”, 130-pound body. His massive shoulders narrowed, bones creaking with a sickly crunch as they slimmed into a petite, athletic frame, the muscle melting away like wax. 

His thick biceps deflated, shrinking into slender, toned arms, the veins fading as his strength ebbed, leaving only a delicate, cheerleader’s grace. His chiseled pecs softened, flattening into a tight, feminine chest with modest breasts, her sports bra now fitting snugly, hugging his new form. His dissolved, morphing into a smooth, toned midriff, still fit but lacking the brutal density of his former core. 

Drew’s powerful thighs, once as thick as tree trunks, thinned into lean, agile legs, built for flips rather than force, his calves losing their diamond-hard bulk. His frame contracted, his spine compressing as he lost a foot of height, his posture shifting from commanding to uncertain. 

His face burned as it softened—his rugged jaw rounded into Kaylee’s delicate, heart-shaped features, his thick beard vanishing to reveal smooth, porcelain skin, his dark hair lightening into long, sun-kissed blonde waves that fell in a loose ponytail. His icy blue eyes widened, taking on a softer, hazel glow that flickered with vulnerability. 

The transformation stripped more than his physique—it shattered his alpha confidence, replacing it with a disorienting compulsion to act like an airheaded bimbo, his every gesture and word now bubbly, flirtatious, and vacuous, except when speaking to Kaylee. His aggressive heterosexuality twisted into what he had previously considered the ideal behaviour for a woman, forcing him to flirt with men. Despite his inner horror, his body would be responding with unwanted heat to their mere presence. Drew was quickly becoming a prisoner to his own previous misogynistic expectations of the female gender, although he wouldn’t realize it just yet.

He clutched at his new body, his slender hands trembling, his voice now a high, melodic lilt. “Like, what the heck?!” he gasped, the bubbly “Cali girl” tone that emerged jarring when compared to the Scottish accent he was used to. His long blonde hair fell in his face as he stumbled, while his leggings and sports bra felt alien on his delicate frame.

Drew’s true self surfaced only when facing Kaylee, his hazel eyes blazing with panic and rage. “You stole my fucking body, you little bitch!” he snapped, his melodic voice trembling as he glared at her, his slender arms flailing. “Give it back, now!” But his confidence, once the bedrock of his alpha persona, was gone, replaced by a gnawing vulnerability that made his delicate features crumple.

Kaylee laughed, her massive 6’5” frame looming over Drew, her toxic masculinity relishing his humiliation. “Give it back? Nah, mate, this is my kingdom now,” she growled, her Scottish drawl thick with disdain. She flexed her arms, her biceps bulging obscenely, veins popping like live wires, her ten-pack abs tightening into a glistening wall of muscle. “Look at me. I’m the Scottish Warrior. Built like a fucking god. You? You’re just a ditzy little cheerleader, good for giggling and shaking your ass.” She grabbed Drew’s slender wrist, yanking him close, her massive hand dwarfing his arm, the contact sending a thrill of dominance through her, her new sexuality surging at the thought of crushing him. “You thought you could treat me like a piece of ass? I’m gonna turn the tables, Drew.”

Drew struggled against the grip, his petite frame flailing, but his new body was no match for Kaylee’s stolen strength. “You can’t do this,” he hissed, tears pricking his hazel eyes. He’d never been the type to get emotional but right now he was struggling with a maelstrom of feelings that he was ill-equipped to deal with. “I’m Drew McIntyre! I’m a man, for Christ’s sake!” But his words felt hollow when he spoke in such an effeminate voice and his slender frame was left trembling, his swagger replaced by a timid vulnerability that echoed Kaylee’s old struggles as a rookie.

Kaylee smirked, shoving Drew back. It had been a light push at most, but she delighted in watching him stumble against a gym mat, his blonde ponytail bouncing. “Not anymore, sweetheart.” She ran her hands over her new pecs, feeling the dense, hard muscle, the sweat tracing the contours of her tattoos, a pulse of arousal shooting through her at her own power. “This body’s made for dominating—the ring, the locker room, the bedroom. And you bet I’m gonna make sure everyone knows it.” 

She grabbed the orb, holding it up with a sneer. “This little thing? This is what made me you.” With a cruel grin, she slammed it to the floor, stomping it under her massive boot, shattering it into sparking fragments, the runes fizzling out. “No going back, princess. You’re stuck as a brainless bimbo, batting your eyes for the boys.”

Drew’s delicate face crumpled, tears streaming down his cheeks as his true self surfaced. “You fucking bitch,” he whispered to Kaylee, his voice shaking with rage. “You’ll pay for this.” 

But before he could say more, Bron Breakker and Ridge Holland entered the equipment room, their muscular frames filling the space. Bron, 6’0” and 230 pounds, his chiseled abs visible through his tight shirt, and Ridge, 6’1” and 250 pounds, his thick arms flexing, both exuded the toxic masculinity that was rampant in the WWE men’s locker room. In an instant, Drew’s newly enforced mindset kicked in, his compulsion forcing him to adopt a flirtatious persona. He brought a slender hand up to start twirling his blonde hair, a giggle escaping his lips. 

“Oh, Bron, Ridge, you guys are, like, so totally ripped,” he cooed, batting his eyes, his voice sickly sweet as he leaned toward Bron, brushing his arm flirtatiously. Inside, Drew screamed, absolutely mortified by being forced to act and speak like a bimbo. His confidence was obliterated, but he couldn’t stop, his body responding to the two men with unwanted heat. Kaylee had already started to walk off, swaggering away to do whatever she liked with Drew’s rightful body and life. Drew desperately wanted to call out after her but he couldn’t seem to pull his attention away from the two men in front of him. 

Bron and Ridge exchanged a glance, their grins immediately predatory. Their toxic masculinity thrived on dominating anyone they saw as weak and “Kaylee” was an easy mark; they had no idea that it was actually a former WWE Champion in her body. Bron stepped closer, his bulk towering over Drew’s petite frame. “Flirty little thing, aren’t you?” he said, his voice low and mocking. Ridge circled behind, his hands grazing Drew’s hips. “Yeah, love, you’re practically begging for it,” he added, his British accent dripping with condescension.

Drew’s heart pounded, his true self screaming to fight back, but his compulsion forced a giggle. “Oh, you guys are, like, so sweet!” he chirped, even twirling his hair and swaying his body flirtatiously despite his horror. “Please, don’t,” he tried to whisper, but it came out as a breathy, “Like, don’t be shy, boys!” His face burned with shame, his slender frame trembling as Bron grabbed his waist, fingers digging into his toned flesh.

Bron pushed Drew against a stack of mats, his hands roaming, squeezing Drew’s hips, his toned ass, with aggressive entitlement. “Don’t play coy, Kaylee. You’re just a needy little bimbo,” he growled, unzipping his pants, his cock hardening. Ridge tugged Drew’s sports bra up, exposing his smooth midriff, his hands groping Drew’s perky tits. “Let’s see what this cheerleader’s got,” Ridge sneered, his touch invasive and degrading. Drew gagged as Bron pushed his thick cock into his mouth, not at all prepared to deliver his first ever blowjob. “Look at her, loving it,” Bron mocked, gripping Drew’s hair and thrusting forward roughly.

Ridge yanked Drew’s leggings down, bending him over the mats. “Time to give the boys what you’re begging for,” he said, lining himself up and pushing slowly inside Drew’s new vagina. The speed quickly picked up; he began fucking Drew with brutal intensity, each thrust a display of dominance. “Just a ditzy slut, aren’t you, Kaylee?” he taunted, slapping Drew’s ass, the sound echoing. 

Internally, Drew sobbed, but on the outside his petite frame was convulsing with coerced pleasure, his bimbo act amplifying his humiliation with every moan. “Oh, like, yes, Ridge!” he gasped, his voice breathy and submissive, his inner self screaming in despair. They continued like this for several minutes before Bron pulled out with a heavy grunt and finished across Drew’s face. Ridge followed shortly after, busting his load all over Drew’s back, leaving him a shellshocked, sticky mess. 

“Not bad, cheerleader,” Ridge said, wiping himself off. “Stick to getting your kit off for OnlyFans though, yeah? You’re no wrestler.” They shoved Drew aside, laughing as they left, his slender frame collapsing, his sports bra torn, his confidence shattered. Drew lay crumpled on the equipment room floor for some time, his sports bra torn, his leggings yanked down, his face streaked with both tears and Bron’s cum. His confidence was obliterated, his legacy stolen, and his new body betrayed him with every coerced giggle.

Kaylee, having lingered to watch Bron and Ridge degrade Drew, stepped back into the equipment room, her massive frame filling the doorway. Her lips curled into a cruel smirk as she locked the door behind her, her icy blue eyes glinting with sadistic glee. “Look at you, Kaylee,” she growled in Drew’s deep Scottish drawl, her voice reverberating through her chiseled pecs. “Just a pathetic little bimbo, used and tossed aside. How’s it feel to be on the receiving end of what you dished out?” She towered over Drew, her 6’5” frame casting a shadow over his trembling, petite body, her toxic masculinity feeding on his humiliation.

Drew’s hazel eyes flashed with rage, his true self surfacing only with her. “You fucking bitch,” he hissed, his melodic voice trembling as he scrambled to pull up his leggings, his blonde hair sticking to his tear-streaked face. “You stole my body, my life! You’ll pay for this!” But his words were undercut by a sob, his slender frame shaking, his confidence shattered by his new vulnerability. His mind spun desperately; how could he make Kaylee pay? He felt so weak, so powerless in this body, stripped of all the privileges he had enjoyed as a white muscular man.

Kaylee laughed, the sound rich and vicious, vibrating through her massive chest. “Pay? Oh, sweetheart, the only one paying is you.” She flexed her biceps, the muscles swelling obscenely, veins popping like cords under tanned skin, a pulse of arousal shooting through her at her own power. “This body—my body now—is a fucking masterpiece. And you’re gonna worship it, just like you expected women to worship you.” She grabbed Drew by his slender wrist, yanking him to his knees, her massive hand engulfing his arm. “Get to work, princess. Show me how much you love what you lost.”

Drew’s heart pounded, his true self screaming in protest, but his compulsion kicked in, forcing a giggle as his delicate hands reached out, trembling. “Oh, like, you’re so strong,” he cooed, his voice sickly sweet, his fingers tracing Kaylee’s six-pack abs, the hard ridges sending an unwanted jolt of arousal through his new body. Inside, he was mortified, his former alpha persona recoiling, but his bimbo act made him press closer, his smooth cheek brushing her abs, his lips parting in a coerced pout. “You’re, like, totally a god,” he giggled, tears streaming down his face as he desperately fought the compulsion. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop his hands sliding up to her chiseled pecs, feeling the dense muscle under her tank top.

Kaylee grinned, her toxic masculinity soaring as she reveled in his degradation. “That’s it, Kaylee. Worship the body you thought made you king.” She flexed her pecs, making them bounce under his touch, her own arousal spiking at the power dynamic—her stolen masculinity dominating the very man who’d once objectified her. She grabbed his blonde hair, yanking his head back, forcing him to look up at her rugged jaw. “You used to leer at me, make me feel like a piece of meat. How’s it feel now, slut? Being the one on your knees, drooling over a real man?” She slapped his face, the sting sharp, and laughed as he flinched, his delicate features twisting in humiliation, tears pooling in his hazel eyes.

Drew’s true self surfaced briefly, his voice shaking as he spat, “You’re a monster. You’re not me. You’re nothing.” But his compulsion, his need for cock, betrayed him. He pushed his body forward, his slender hands sliding down to Kaylee’s massive thighs, tracing the thick, corded muscle with a breathy giggle. “Oh, like, these legs are so yummy,” he cooed, his face burning with shame, his inner self screaming as his lips brushed her thigh, the coarse hair and hard muscle a cruel reminder of what he’d lost.

Kaylee’s grin widened, her new sexuality surging, her body responding with a primal heat to his forced worship. She pulled her tank top off, revealing her sculpted torso, tattoos snaking over her massive arms, her six-pack abs glistening with sweat. “Lick them, bimbo. Get your tongue right in there,” she ordered, shoving his face against her abs, the ridges hard and unyielding under his lips. “Taste the power you’ll never have again.” Drew gagged, his tongue coerced into tracing the grooves of her abs, his tears mixing with the sweat on her skin. His bimbo act forced a moan, “Mmm, so, like, perfect,” his voice high and flirty, but his eyes screamed with despair, his confidence utterly shattered.

She pushed him lower, forcing his face against her crotch, the bulge in her gym shorts straining with her arousal. “You wanted women to worship you like this, didn’t you?” she taunted, grinding against his face, her massive hand gripping his hair tightly without remorse. “Now you’re the needy little slut, begging for a real man’s attention. Pathetic.” 

Drew despaired, his delicate frame trembling as his compulsion made him nuzzle closer, his lips parting in a coerced pout, his giggles masking his horror. “Oh, like, you’re so big,” he whimpered, his hands clutching her thighs, his inner self fracturing under the humiliation.

Kaylee stepped back, shoving Drew to the floor, his petite frame sprawling across the mats, his blonde hair splayed, his sports bra still askew from Bron and Ridge’s assault. “You’re nothing now, Kaylee,” she sneered, flexing her entire body, her biceps, pecs, and abs rippling in a display of stolen power. “Just a brainless bimbo, good for giggling and taking it. I’m the Scottish Warrior, and I’m gonna run this place—main events, titles, ring rats, all mine. You’ll be lucky to carry my bags, you ditzy little whore.” She spat on him, the glob landing on his tear-streaked face, and laughed as he flinched, his smooth cheeks burning red.

“Get outta my gym,” Kaylee barked, grabbing Drew by the arm and dragging him toward the door. “You don’t belong here, cheerleader.” She shoved him hard, sending him stumbling into the hallway, his slender frame tripping over his own feet, his torn sports bra and leggings barely covering his humiliated body. 

Desperate to escape, Drew fled to a quieter wing of the Performance Center, hoping to find a locker room to clean up. His slender frame trembled, his blonde hair matted to his tear-streaked cheeks. As he rounded a corner, he collided with a towering figure—Randy Orton, or so he thought. At 6’5” and 250 pounds, the man’s physique was a masterpiece of lean, predatory power: broad shoulders, chiseled pecs, and a six-pack of abs that flexed with every movement. His short, dark hair framed a rugged face, his piercing eyes glinting with a cruel edge, his viper-like smirk exuding dominance. Unbeknownst to Drew, this was Felix, previously an overweight fan who, just days earlier, had used a similar obsidian orb to steal Randy Orton’s body, just as Kaylee had done to him.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” Felix drawled in Randy’s low, gravelly voice, his eyes raking over Drew’s petite frame, lingering on his exposed midriff and torn sports bra. “A little cheerleader lost in the big leagues?” He stepped closer, his muscular frame looming, his presence dripping with the same misogyny Drew had once wielded.

Drew’s heart pounded, his true self screaming to assert himself, but his compulsion took over. “Oh, like, hi there Randy!” he giggled, back to twirling his blonde hair, his slender body swaying flirtatiously. “You’re, like, totally huge!” His hazel eyes widened, his voice sickly sweet, but inside, he was horrified, his former alpha persona recoiling at the bimbo act. “I’m not Kaylee,” he wanted to scream, “I’m Drew McIntyre!” But his compulsion locked the words away, forcing him to bat his eyes at Felix.

Felix’s smirk widened, his toxic masculinity feeding on Drew’s vulnerability. “You’re a flirty little thing, aren’t you, darling?” he said, stepping closer, his hand brushing Drew’s arm, the touch invasive. “Bet you’re dying to please a real man like me.” He didn’t know Drew was the real Scottish Warrior, just as Drew didn’t know Felix was a body-stealing impostor. To Felix, this was just another trainee to dominate, another conquest to fuel his stolen ego.

Drew’s mind reeled, his true self fighting to break free, but his compulsion forced him to giggle, leaning into Felix’s touch. “Oh, Randy, you’re, like, so dreamy,” he cooed, his slender hand trailing down Felix’s chiseled abs, the hard ridges sending an unwanted jolt through his new body. To his horror, a spark of arousal flickered within him, his new physiology responding to Felix’s dominance, his petite frame tingling with coerced pleasure. No, this isn’t me! his mind screamed, but his body betrayed him, his hips swaying, his lips parting in a pout.

Felix grabbed Drew’s waist, his hands rough on the slender frame, and pushed him against a stack of gym mats. “Let’s see what this cheerleader’s got,” he growled, yanking Drew’s torn sports bra off entirely, exposing his smooth, toned chest. Drew gasped, his hazel eyes brimming with tears, but his compulsion forced a moan, “Oh, like, yes, Randy!” Distraught as he was, there was some small part of Drew that actually seemed to be enjoying what was happening to him, and that was a hard 

Felix laughed, his hands groping Drew’s body, squeezing his toned ass through the ripped leggings. “You’re just a needy little slut, aren’t you?” he taunted, his voice dripping with condescension. He spun Drew around, bending him over the mats, and yanked his leggings down, leaving him in nothing but a thong. “Time to teach you your place, Kaylee.” Felix’s hand came down hard, spanking Drew’s exposed ass with a sharp crack, the sting radiating through his petite frame. Drew sobbed, his tears soaking the mats, but his compulsion forced a giggle, “Oh, like, that’s so naughty!” Another spank followed, then another, each one harder, Felix’s massive hand leaving red welts on Drew’s smooth skin. 

“Cry all you want, bimbo,” Felix sneered, spanking him again, the sound echoing in the empty room. “This is all you’re good for—taking it and begging for more.” 

Drew’s body trembled, the pain mixing with a horrifying realization: his new physiology was responding, a twisted pleasure blooming in his core, his thighs clenching as his compulsion made him moan, “Mmm, like, harder, Randy!” Inside, Drew was fracturing, his former alpha self recoiling as he realized he was starting to enjoy the degradation, his body craving the dominance despite his mind’s screams.

Felix unzipped his pants, his cock hardening, and forced Drew to his knees. “Show me what that pretty mouth’s for,” he ordered, shoving himself forward. Drew’s lips opened to take Randy’s thick cock, but once again he gagged as he struggled to adapt to the feeling of something so large and hard in his mouth. His compulsion forced him to bob his head, his lips working with coerced enthusiasm, a breathy, “Oh, like, so big!” escaping his lips when he pulled back to take a breath. The humiliation crushed him, but the unwanted pleasure grew, his new body tingling with every thrust, his mind horrified by the betrayal. Felix laughed, gripping Drew’s hair, fucking his mouth with brutal intensity. “Just a dumb slut, loving every second,” he mocked, his voice thick with Randy’s cruel edge.

Felix pulled Drew up, bending him over the mats again, and fucked him with ruthless force, each thrust a display of dominance. “You’re nothing but a desperate whore,” he growled, spanking Drew’s ass again, the red welts glowing under the gym lights. 

Drew whimpered, his petite frame shaking, but his compulsion forced moans, “Oh, like, yes, Randy!” His body responded, a sickening wave of pleasure washing over him, his thighs trembling, his core tightening as he realized, to his horror, that he was nearing climax. No, I’m Drew McIntyre, not this! his mind screamed, but his body betrayed him, his coerced moans growing louder, his hazel eyes glazed with unwanted ecstasy.

Felix finished, pulling out and coming across Drew’s tear-streaked face, the degradation complete. “Not bad, Kaylee,” he sneered, wiping himself off. He grabbed Drew’s torn sports bra and leggings, tossing them into a gym bag. “These are mine now, bimbo. Walk back naked—give the boys a show.” He spanked Drew one last time, the crack echoing, and strode out, laughing, leaving Drew sprawled on the mats, his slender frame trembling, his blonde hair matted with sweat and cum, his thong barely covering his welted ass.

Drew curled into a ball, sobbing, his true self breaking through as he clutched at his delicate body. The humiliation was unbearable, but worse was the realization that his new physiology had enjoyed it, his body craving the degradation even as his mind recoiled. He was once Drew McIntyre, the Scottish Warrior, but now he was trapped as Kaylee, a giggling, objectified trainee, his legacy stolen, his confidence shattered. The thought of facing Kaylee again, of her taunting him in his own body, filled him with dread—she’d revel in this, turning his own misogyny against him, ensuring his humiliation was complete.

Three weeks had passed since the body swap that reshaped Kaylee’s and Drew’s lives. Kaylee, now fully embracing her identity as Drew McIntyre, had cemented her place as the Scottish Warrior, a towering 6’5”, 275-pound titan who commanded the WWE with ruthless authority. Kaylee strode into arenas like a king, her massive frame parting crowds of wrestlers and crew, their eyes filled with awe or fear. She’d claimed Drew’s spot as a top star, headlining the latest pay-per-view, cutting blistering promos that silenced doubters, and capturing the WWE Championship with brutal efficiency. In the ring, she wielded her stolen body like a weapon, her Claymore Kick sending opponents crashing, her massive arms hoisting them for powerbombs with ease. 

Backstage, she demanded the best—private dressing rooms, top-shelf whiskey, and the undivided attention of management. At a recent show, she lounged in a luxury suite, a ring rat on each arm, their giggles fueling her ego as she flexed her biceps, veins popping, her deep Scottish drawl barking orders to staff. “Move faster, kid—this is the Scottish Warrior’s time,” she growled, her toxic masculinity thriving on the power. She’d fucked her way through a string of conquests, each one a trophy to her new identity, her arousal spiking at the thought of dominating not just the ring but every aspect of her life. She relished the fear she inspired in the locker room, bullying mid-carders with a smirk, shoving them aside with her massive frame. “Know your place,” she’d sneer, flexing her pecs, her tank top straining, as younger wrestlers scurried away. 

Kaylee had no remorse for the real Drew, trapped in her old body—she’d ensured his humiliation by spreading rumors about “Kaylee’s” desperation, planting videos of his bimbo antics on X, where fans mocked the “ditzy cheerleader” who couldn’t hack it. Every main event, every roar of the crowd, every conquest in her hotel suite, was a nail in his coffin, and Kaylee’s stolen heart pounded with sadistic glee, her new life a testament to her brutal dominance.

Meanwhile, Drew, trapped in Kaylee’s 5’5”, 130-pound body, had spiraled into a nightmare of humiliation. After everything he’d done in his first few days as Kaylee, Drew’s spirit was broken. The final blow came when he realized his new body enjoyed the degradation, his coerced pleasure a betrayal that haunted him.

Unable to control his bimbo compulsion around male wrestlers, Drew found training unbearable. Every session, his body betrayed him—giggling, twirling his hair, batting his eyes at men like Bron Breakker or Dominik Mysterio, his slender frame leaning into their touches despite his inner screams. “Oh, like, you’re so strong,” he’d coo, his voice sickly sweet, as his mind recoiled, his confidence shattered. The other trainees mocked him, calling him “Cheerleader Kaylee,” and coaches dismissed his wrestling attempts. The humiliation was too much—he couldn’t focus, couldn’t fight, his body’s responses sabotaging his every move. After a particularly degrading session where he flirted uncontrollably with a referee, earning jeers from the roster, “Kaylee” was kicked out of the Performance Center, totally crushed.

With no money and no prospects, Drew was forced to take a job as a waitress at a nearby Orlando café, a kitschy diner frequented by wrestlers and fans. The uniform—a tight, low-cut top and short skirt—hugged his petite frame, accentuating his toned legs and smooth midriff, making him a target for leering customers. His compulsion made every shift a nightmare: he’d giggle and flirt with male patrons, his hazel eyes sparkling as he cooed, “What can I, like, get for you, handsome?” 

Regulars like the Creed Brothers would smirk, tossing crude comments—“Nice ass, Kaylee, bend over a bit more”—and Drew’s compulsion forced a giggle, “Oh, you’re, like, so bad!” even as he internally recoiled. The café manager, a sleazy type, took advantage, scheduling him for late shifts, knowing he’d draw tips with his flirty act (not that he was ever allowed to keep the tips for himself). Drew’s confidence was gone, his legacy erased, replaced by a humiliating existence as a “ditzy waitress” who couldn’t control her body’s betrayal.

One night, Kaylee, as Drew, strutted into the café after a main event win, her massive frame draped in a tailored suit, her championship belt slung over her shoulder. The diner fell silent, patrons whispering in awe as she took a booth, her biceps flexing as she leaned back. Drew, serving tables, froze, his slender hands trembling as he carried a tray, his compulsion kicking in. “Oh, like, hi, big guy!” he giggled, sashaying over, his skirt swishing, his voice breathy. “Can I, like, get you something super special?” Inside, he was dying, recognizing his own body, his own voice, now wielded by Kaylee to mock him.

Kaylee’s icy blue eyes glinted with sadistic glee. “Just a beer, sweetheart,” she drawled in Drew’s Scottish accent, her smirk cruel. “And maybe shake that ass a bit more—puts on a good show.” Drew’s face burned, his compulsion forcing a giggle, “Oh, you’re, like, so funny!” as he twirled his hair, his heart breaking. 

Kaylee leaned closer, her massive hand brushing his arm, her voice low so only he could hear. “Look at you, Drew. A pathetic little waitress, flirting with every guy in here. I’m the Scottish Warrior, about to headline WrestleMania, fucking whoever I want, while you’re stuck serving coffee and taking it like a good little slut. How’s it feel to be nothing?” She slapped his ass, the sting sharp, and Drew flinched, his tears hidden by a coerced smile, his voice chirping, “Oh, like, stop it!” as the whole diner laughed at him.

Not long later, after just enough time to really rub in how different their lives now were, Kaylee stood, tossing a tip on the table, her massive frame towering over Drew. “Keep practicing that giggle, princess,” she sneered, flexing her pecs, her suit straining. “It’s all you’re good for.” She strode out, leaving Drew trembling, his tray shaking, his blonde hair falling in his face. He seethed quietly, his compulsion forcing a smile as another customer whistled for his attention, his new life a humiliating prison. 

Kaylee, meanwhile, basked in her stolen glory, her reign as the Scottish Warrior untouchable, every main event a testament to her dominance, every humiliation of Drew a delicious reminder of the power she’d claimed and the alpha male she now was. Maybe she’d stop into the diner every now and then just to remind Drew of everything she’d taken from him…

[badguyswin]

Appreciating it

(Original story posted September 28th 2023) Minor edits and corrections

It’d been a week now and Liam still couldn’t come to terms with what had happened. He always had a feeling that his younger brother Jack was jealous of him but he never could’ve imagined it would go as far as this.

Throughout their entire lives growing up, Jack had indeed been jealous. At first it was just because Liam was always bigger than him. But that was only natural with Liam being the older of the two. But as they grew into adults that jealousy only continued to grow and fester as it became clear that Liam simply got a better mix of their parents genetics. Always being able to grow a better beard and more body hair than his younger brother. Always being seen as the more handsome brother. So much so that Liam was always getting attention from women left, right and centre while Jack got little more than pity. But the thing that really pushed Jack over the edge was when Liam came out as gay! He had all that manliness to attract the kinds of chicks Jack could only dream of pulling and Liam wasn’t even interested in them!

Somehow Jack had managed to get his hands on this strange amulet and one morning, as Liam got up to make breakfast, Jack used the amulet to switch their bodies! In an instant Liam found himself in his younger brother's small skinny body while Jack grinned seeing that he now owned his older brother's bigger, stronger and hairier body instead. Immediately Liam began to freak out at the situation but Jack couldn’t even hide how happy he was that his plan had been a success.

“Sorry bro but this body and its potential was being wasted on a homo like you.” He claimed before flexing his biceps a little and admiring his chest hair. “You had all those hot chicks nipping at your heels and all you wanted to do was fuck other dudes when you coulda been fucking soooo much pussy.” Jack berated, clearly irritated by how he believed Liam wasn’t living up to his full potential. “I know you’re my brother but… faggots like you don’t eserve strong manly bodies like this. They should be used by real men like me. Straight men who appreciate what it was meant for. Plowing pussy!” He smirked victoriously while crossing his arms over his new hairy chest.

Naturally Liam argued against this, calling his brother insane for what he’d done and what he was saying. Screaming at him that it was wrong. He even tried to reactivate the amulet that Jack had used to swap them but it was one time use and was all out of juice. Despite this Liam continued to shout and berate his younger brother about what he’d done and why he’d done it, saying they had to find a way to switch back. But Jack was having none of it.

In one swift movement Jack pinned Liam against the wall with his new strength and sneered. “Look. This isn’t your body anymore bitch. It’s mine. And in a minute I’m gonna get your friend Veronica to come down. I know she’s had a crush on you for a while. Huge fucking tits that you never appreciated. But don’t worry I’ll be using your hands to grab those tits and that fat ass of hers too by the end of the night.” A sinister grin spread across his face as he imagined it. “And if you even think of telling her about the swap, I’ll go right back to the place I got that amulet from and get something that’ll guarantee you won’t be a problem again.” He threatened ominously.

Later that day Veronica indeed showed up after a quick phone call and Liam had to bite his tongue as he watched Jack with her. Using his stolen body to slide closer to her. Eventually telling her that he didn’t think he was gay after all and wanted to explore a little. Liam had been praying Veronica wouldn’t go for it but to his horror he soon watched as his own stolen body began making out with her. Even cringing as he watched his former cock start to get hard as the kiss deepened. Liam didn’t want to believe it but his former body was now acting like horny straight guy now that his brother was in the driver's seat. He didn’t see what happened after that as the two retreated to what was now Jack’s room to continue. But of course Jack made sure to tell Liam all about it afterwards.

“Fuck you should’ve seen her bro. Practically shoving her tits in my face at one point while she massaged my cock with her ass. She kept saying how happy she was that I wasn’t gay because of how wet I always made her before giving me the greatest tit job of my life! And you’d better believe I ate out her pussy afterwards while she moaned about how good my beard felt.” He would taunt relentlessly. “Had to stop myself from breeding her pussy afterwards. I don’t think I’m ready to knock someone up just yet. I don’t think she would’ve stopped me if I tried, though with how horny she looked for me.”

And that’s how it’d been for the past week. Almost every night Jack had brought someone home. It was usually Veronica but he’d had a few other girls over as well. And every time he’d taunt Liam about it. Telling him that his manly body was finally being used for its real purpose. Not that Liam needed to be told when the fucking was so loud he could hear it from anywhere in the house. Listening as Jack slammed his stolen cock deep into some wet pussy, living the dream of every straight man with the stolen body of his gay brother. And as his balls slapped against her with every thrust, Jack would think to himself that this was how things were supposed to be and this was how they were going to stay.

All the while Liam suffered in silence while watching his brother turn his former body into a typical straight bro who never shuts up about tits and pussy. His reputation as a gay guy was already ruined as news spread about him ‘going straight’. Liam could only pray he somehow figures out where Jack got that amulet from before he ends up using that body to get someone pregnant. If he can find it at all…

[badguyswin]

Cody Rhodes' Bad Day

Previous parts: Randy Orton - Roman Reigns

The arena buzzed with electric anticipation, the crowd’s roars echoing through the rafters. Cody Rhodes, the American Nightmare, stood in the ring, his muscular physique a beacon of power under the spotlights. His broad shoulders, chiseled from years of training, flexed beneath his tailored jacket, his pecs and abs defined even through the fabric, veins snaking across his thick biceps. His blond hair was swept back, his blue eyes blazing with intensity, and his signature smirk radiated an aggressive, all-American confidence. Cody was the embodiment of straight, MAGA Republican bravado—proudly conservative, unapologetically masculine, and a vocal supporter of traditional values. His promos often dripped with patriotic fervor, railing against “woke nonsense” to the delight of his fanbase.

In the front row, Ezra Quinn, a 22-year-old, overly effeminate twink, clutched a glittery sign reading “Cody’s Secret Admirer.” His slim, lithe frame was draped in a bright pink crop top and skinny jeans, his platinum-blond hair styled in a flamboyant swoop. His makeup—sparkly eyeliner and glossy lips—accentuated his delicate features, and his mannerisms were exaggeratedly expressive, every gesture dripping with flair. Ezra was a proud, outspoken leftist, his social media filled with rants about social justice, queer liberation, and dismantling “toxic masculinity.” His obsession with Cody was paradoxical—he loathed Cody’s politics but was captivated by his rugged masculinity, fantasizing about the wrestler in ways that made his heart race. Tonight, Ezra had snuck backstage, determined to get closer to his idol, unaware of the chaos about to unfold.

Cody, post-match, was in his private dressing room, rummaging through a package sent by an anonymous fan. Inside was a strange, metallic orb etched with cryptic symbols, accompanied by a note: “Unlock your true potential.” Cody, always on the lookout for an edge, scoffed at the vagueness but was intrigued. He’d heard rumors of experimental tech in the wrestling world—performance enhancers, recovery aids—and figured it was worth a shot. Without reading the fine print, he pressed the orb’s glowing center, expecting a surge of energy or focus. Instead, a blinding pulse of light erupted, and Ezra, who’d snuck into the hallway outside, was caught in its radius.

The world dissolved into a searing void. Cody felt his body burn, his muscular frame melting away, his broad shoulders narrowing, his dense pecs softening. His arms slimmed, losing their bulk, his abs fading into a smooth, flat stomach. His legs, once thick with power, became lithe and delicate, his skin softening to an almost porcelain smoothness. His face reshaped—jawline softening, cheekbones rising, lips plumping. His vision blurred, then cleared, his blond hair now longer, styled in a flamboyant swoop. 

The heat faded, and Cody looked down, horrified: he was in Ezra’s body, clad in a pink crop top and skinny jeans, his new frame slight and effeminate. Worse, his mind shifted—his aggressive heterosexuality dissolved, replaced by a vivid, unfamiliar attraction to men. His staunch MAGA convictions wavered, replaced by a flood of progressive ideals, a sudden empathy for social justice and queer rights that felt alien yet undeniable.

Just outside the room, Ezra staggered, his consciousness now housed in Cody’s muscular body. His new shoulders were broad, his biceps bulging with veins, his pecs dense and powerful under the tight jacket. His abs, a chiseled six-pack, rippled with every breath, and his thighs felt like steel pillars. His face was sharper, more rugged and angular, with a strong jaw and eyes such a piercing blue that they could make any woman weak. 

The swap rewired his desires—his flamboyant, gay identity vanished, replaced by a burning attraction to women, a primal, almost aggressive heterosexuality. Ezra recognized it happening and there was a brief moment of horror at the realization before it was scrubbed away, leaving him straight and proud. His overtly leftist politics similarly melted away, supplanted by a fierce, MAGA-inspired conservatism, a pride in “traditional values” that felt like it had always been his. He no longer scoffed at WWE's dealings with the Trump presidency or Saudi Arabia, instead seeing them for what they were: fantastic business deals that he was happy to be the face of.

Ezra—now Cody—flexed his new biceps, a smirk spreading across his face as he looked down at his body. “Holy shit,” he said in Cody’s deep, commanding voice. “This is mine now.” Seeing the door in front of him bearing a nameplate with his new name on it, Ezra entered and saw what had become of the man he’d switched with.

Cody, in Ezra’s slight body, clutched at his new frame, panic twisting his delicate features. “What the hell is this?!” he squeaked, his voice high and melodic, a stark contrast to his usual growl. He stumbled, his skinny jeans restricting his movements, his crop top exposing his smooth midriff. “You—whatever you did, fix it, you freak!”

Ezra laughed, the sound rich and arrogant, vibrating through Cody’s powerful chest. He stepped closer, towering over Cody, his muscular frame dominating the small dressing room. “Fix it? Nah, man, this is perfect. Besides, I’m pretty sure you did this!” He flexed again, his biceps swelling, veins popping like cords. “Look at me. I’m the American Nightmare now. Built like a fucking tank, ready to take what’s mine.” He ran his hands over his abs, savoring the hard ridges, his new heterosexuality surging as he pictured women—specifically Brandi, Cody’s wife—under his control. “Goddamn, this body’s made for winning… and I just won big time!”

Cody’s flimsy arms flailed as he lunged forward, but his new body was weak, his movements awkward. “You don’t get it, you idiot! I’m Cody Rhodes! That’s my body, my life!” His voice cracked, his new effeminate mannerisms betraying him as he gestured wildly, his hips swaying instinctively. Worse, his rewired brain sparked with unwanted desires—images of men, their muscles, their dominance, flooded his mind, sending a shameful heat through his slight frame. Mortifyingly, he was particularly attracted to his old body. He desperately tried to cling to his old heterosexuality and his conservative pride, but they slipped away, replaced by a vivid attraction to men and a fervent belief in progressive causes that would have previously horrified him.

Ezra grabbed the orb from the floor where it had fallen, holding it up with a smirk. “Is this little thing responsible? Is it what made me a god?” Without pause, he slammed it against the wall, shattering it into pieces that crumbled like dust, trapping them in their new bodies. “No going back, twink. You’re stuck in that pathetic little body, probably dreaming of dudes now, huh? What a fucking downgrade.” He laughed, stepping closer, his muscular frame looming. “I can already see it, you're going to be prancing around like some fairy. You’re nothing now. Just a weak, woke loser who’ll never touch my life again.”

Cody’s new face flushed with humiliation, his delicate hands trembling. “You can’t do this,” he whispered, his voice breaking, tears welling in his eyes. “I’m Cody Rhodes. I’m the American Nightmare.”

Ezra crouched, his chiseled jaw inches from Cody’s face, his voice a venomous growl. “Not anymore, princess. I’m Cody now. I’m gonna fuck your wife—Brandi’s gonna scream my name, beg for me in bed. I’ll be a better husband than you ever were. A real man. Your kid? I’ll raise ‘em right, teach ‘em to love this country, not your new lefty bullshit. And in the ring? I’ll make your legacy unstoppable. Every title, every cheer, every fucking ‘Cody’ chant—it’s mine.”

He stood, flexing his pecs, his abs tightening, his smirk dripping with toxic confidence. “And you? You’re just a glittery little twink, probably creaming yourself over some guy’s abs right now. Maybe even mine. Pathetic.”

Cody’s new body shook with rage and shame, his rewired brain betraying him with a pulse of arousal at the thought of men, their strength, their dominance. He hated it, hated the way his slight frame responded, his hips swaying as he stood, his voice lilting despite his efforts to sound commanding. “You won’t get away with this,” he said, but the words felt hollow, his new progressive ideals clashing with his fading identity, urging him to empathize, to fight for justice, even as he burned with humiliation.

Ezra laughed, waving to a security guard with Cody’s authoritative ease as they walked past. “Yo, this kid’s been sneaking around, harassing me. Get this twink outta here.” The guard grabbed Cody, who thrashed weakly, his slim arms flailing, his crop top riding up as he screamed, “I’m Cody Rhodes! That’s my body!” The guard didn’t flinch, dragging him toward the exit as backstage crew laughed, some whispering about the “crazy fanboy.” Cody’s new voice cracked, his pleas drowned by jeers, his slight body a humiliating prison as he was tossed into the parking lot.

Ezra watched, his heart pounding with triumph. He bounced Cody’s pecs, feeling the raw power of his new muscles and relished in the toxic masculinity coursing through him. His new heterosexuality burned, his mind flashing to Brandi, to the ring, to the MAGA rallies he’d now champion with pride. He adjusted Cody’s jacket over his broad shoulders, his abs tightening as he smirked. He was Cody Rhodes now, the American Nightmare, and he’d make the world bow to his stolen legacy, while the real Cody faded into a glittery, progressive shadow, trapped in a body and mind that betrayed him at every turn.

Cody’s new voice, high and melodic, trembled as he muttered to himself, “I’m Cody Rhodes, damn it. I’ll fix this.” But his words felt hollow, his slim arms flailing awkwardly, his hips swaying instinctively with Ezra’s effeminate mannerisms. His heart pounded with rage and desperation, but Ezra’s body betrayed him, his rewired brain sparking with shameful desires that made his cheeks flush under the glittery makeup.

As he turned a corner near the locker rooms, he nearly collided with the Creed Brothers—Brutus and Julius Creed, the hulking tag team known for their raw power and frat-boy arrogance. Brutus, a mountain of muscle with a redneck-like mullet and a cocky grin, stood at 6’1”, his thick biceps and barrel chest straining his tank top. Julius, leaner but taller and equally imposing, had a chiseled jaw and piercing eyes, his abs visible through his tight shirt.

Both were straight, their public personas dripping with toxic masculinity, but Cody had heard the backstage rumors that hinted at their darker proclivities: they loved using gay men as playthings, reveling in dominating and degrading them for sport. Cody had always respected their in-ring talent but kept his distance, sensing their predatory edge. Now, in Ezra’s twink body, he was vulnerable, and their eyes locked onto him like wolves spotting prey.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” Brutus drawled, his deep voice laced with mockery as he stepped closer, his massive frame dwarfing Cody. “Look at this little twink, prancing around backstage like he owns the place.” He reached out, grabbing Cody’s slim wrist, his grip like iron. “You lost, princess?”

Cody’s heart raced, his new body trembling. “I’m not… I’m Cody Rhodes,” he squeaked, his voice high and lilting, betraying him. “This isn’t my body. There was a swap—”

Julius laughed, a harsh bark, circling Cody like a shark. “Cody Rhodes? Oh, that’s rich, sweetheart. How stupid do you think we are, huh?” He flicked Cody’s platinum hair, smirking as it bounced. “You’re just some glittery fag who snuck in to drool over the real men. Bet you’ve been jerking off to us, haven’t you?” His eyes raked over Cody’s slight frame, lingering on the exposed midriff, the tight jeans hugging his slim hips. “Fuck, you’re practically begging for it.”

Cody’s face burned, Ezra’s delicate cheeks flushing under the makeup. “I’m not… I’m not like that,” he stammered, but his new body betrayed him, a pulse of arousal shooting through him at the brothers’ dominance. His rewired brain, now controlled by Ezra’s gay desires, responded to their muscular presence and their aggressive masculinity with an intense arousal despite his horror. He tried to pull away, but Brutus’s grip tightened, yanking him closer.

“Don’t play coy, doll,” Brutus sneered, his hand sliding to Cody’s waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh above his jeans. “You’re built for one thing—being a little toy for guys like us.” He pushed Cody against a stack of crates, the cold metal biting into his back. Julius joined in, grabbing Cody’s chin, forcing him to look up at their towering forms.

“Look at her,” Julius mocked, feminizing Cody with a cruel grin. “All dolled up with that makeup and those tight little pants. You’re not fooling anyone, sissy. You’re just a walking invitation.” He tugged at Cody’s crop top, exposing more of his smooth midriff, and laughed as Cody squirmed, his slim body powerless against their strength.

Cody’s mind screamed in protest—he was Cody Rhodes, the American Nightmare, not this weak, effeminate shell. Being referred to with feminine pronouns made his stomach twist in disgust, but Ezra’s body was relentless, his new desires flooding him with heat as the brothers’ hands roamed his frame. Brutus’s thick fingers slid under the crop top, groping his flat chest, while Julius tugged at his jeans, popping the button open. “Please,” Cody whispered, his voice breaking, tears pricking his eyes. “I’m not… I’m not this.”

“Oh, you’re exactly this,” Brutus growled, his hand cupping Cody’s ass, squeezing hard enough to make him gasp. “A needy little fag who’s gonna take what we give you.” He shoved Cody to his knees, his massive frame looming as he unzipped his pants, revealing his thick, hardening cock. “Worship it, princess. Show us what that pretty mouth’s good for.”

Cody’s mind fractured—rage, shame, and an unbearable arousal warring within him. He was straight, damn it, a proud MAGA warrior, not this. But Ezra’s brain drowned him in desire, his new body craving the brothers’ dominance, their muscles, their cruelty. His delicate hands trembled as he reached out, touching Brutus’s cock, the warmth and weight sending a shameful jolt through him. Julius grabbed Cody’s hair, pulling his head toward Brutus, forcing him to take it in his mouth. “That’s it, sissy,” Julius taunted, his voice dripping with homophobic venom. “Suck it like the little bitch you are. Bet you’ve been dreaming of this your whole pathetic life.”

Cody gagged, his lips stretching around Brutus’s girth, tears streaming down his glittery cheeks. The humiliation was crushing—his identity as a wrestling legend reduced to this degrading act. Yet his body responded, Ezra’s desires amplifying every sensation, his slim hips twitching as arousal pooled low. Brutus laughed, thrusting deeper, his hand gripping Cody’s hair. “Look at her, Julius. She loves it. Fucking fairy can’t get enough.”

Julius stripped off his shirt, revealing his chiseled abs and defined pecs, and grabbed Cody’s free hand, forcing it to trace his muscles. “Feel that, twink? That’s what a real man’s built like. Not like your soft little ass.” He slapped Cody’s face lightly, the sting amplifying his shame, then pushed him toward the crates, bending him over. “Time to show you what you’re really good for, princess.”

Julius yanked Cody’s jeans down, exposing his smooth, slim ass, and didn’t hesitate. He fucked Cody with brutal intensity, each thrust a display of dominance, his hands gripping Cody’s hips hard enough to bruise. “Take it, you little fag,” Julius snarled, his voice thick with contempt. “This is all you’re worth—a hole for real men to use.” 

Brutus stood in front, forcing Cody’s mouth back onto his cock, the brothers working in tandem to degrade him. “Look at her, choking on it,” Brutus mocked, feminizing him further. “Bet she cums just from this, the pathetic slut.”

Cody’s mind was a warzone—his old identity screamed in horror, but Ezra’s body betrayed him, the pleasure overwhelming. Each thrust, each cruel taunt, sent waves of unwanted ecstasy through him, his new gay desires consuming his resistance. The brothers’ muscles, their aggressive dominance, their casual feminization of him—it was too much, and his slight body convulsed, an orgasm ripping through him without either brother touching him below the waist. Cum stained his skinny jeans, his face burning with shame as Brutus laughed, pulling out to finish across Cody’s glittery face. “Holy shit, I was right! He came just from being used,” Brutus jeered. “What a fucking loser.”

Julius pulled out, wiping himself off, his abs glistening with sweat. “Told you, just a sissy toy,” he said, kicking Cody’s jeans away, leaving him in his pink crop top and stained underwear. “Get out, fairy. We’re done with you.” They shoved him toward the door, Cody stumbling into the hallway, his slim frame trembling, makeup smeared with tears and Brutus’s cum. “Go cry about your ‘rights’ somewhere else,” Julius called, slamming the door as their laughter echoed.

Cody collapsed against the wall, his new body shaking, Ezra’s desires still buzzing with shameful pleasure. He was Cody Rhodes, the American Nightmare, not this humiliated twink—but the world saw only a glittery, effeminate shell, used and discarded. The Creed Brothers’ degradation, their homophobic taunts, and his own body’s betrayal left him broken, his hope of reclaiming his life fading as he stood, half-naked and humiliated, in the cold backstage shadows.

Ezra, now fully inhabiting Cody Rhodes’ chiseled, muscular physique, strode through the backstage halls of the WWE arena with the swagger of a man who owned the world. His broad shoulders, sculpted to perfection, rolled with each step, veins snaking across biceps that bulged like steel cables under tanned, glistening skin. His pecs, dense and defined, strained against a fitted black dress shirt, unbuttoned enough to reveal the top of his chiseled six-pack abs, each ridge glistening with a faint sheen of sweat. His thick thighs powered his confident gait, and his blond hair, swept back with meticulous precision, framed piercing blue eyes that gleamed with a cocky, predatory smirk. Ezra wasn’t just living Cody’s life—he was mastering it, embracing a toxic alpha masculinity that saw the world as his to conquer.

The arena’s crew parted around him, their deference fueling his ego. Wrestlers nodded warily, fans clamored for selfies, and staff scrambled to meet his demands. Ezra soaked it in, his stolen heart pounding with triumph. He was Cody Rhodes now—wrestling god, sex symbol, conservative icon. Every flex of his muscles, every awestruck glance, cemented his belief that he deserved this power, this privilege. Gone was the glittery twink who’d preached social justice; Ezra now cared only for his own desires—fame, women, dominance. 

The hotel staff scrambled to accommodate him, their deference feeding his ego. “Mr. Rhodes, your suite’s ready,” a concierge stammered, handing him a keycard with a nervous smile. 

Ezra barely acknowledged him, tossing a dismissive nod as he adjusted his blazer, feeling the taut muscle beneath. “Good. Make sure my steak’s waiting—medium-rare, none of that overcooked bullshit,” he barked, Cody’s deep, commanding voice rolling out effortlessly. The concierge scurried off, and Ezra smirked, relishing the power of his new privilege. He didn’t care about the staff’s feelings, their workloads, or anything beyond his own desires. Why should he? He was Cody Rhodes now, a wrestling god, a straight, conservative icon who answered to no one.

In the elevator, Ezra caught his reflection in the mirrored walls and paused, flexing his biceps, watching them swell, veins popping like cords. “Fuck yeah,” he muttered, running his hands over his abs, the ridges hard and unyielding. His new heterosexuality surged, a primal heat coursing through him as he pictured women—specifically Brandi, Cody’s wife—waiting for him at home, her curves his to claim. The thought of her body and making her submit to him sent a jolt of arousal through him, his new desires as aggressive as his new politics. He sneered at the memory of his old self, that glittery twink obsessed with social justice and men’s abs. “What a pathetic loser,” he scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. “This is what real power feels like.”

In his penthouse suite, Ezra tossed his blazer onto a leather couch, the room a lavish display of his new status—marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, a bar stocked with top-shelf whiskey. A room service cart held a perfectly cooked steak, and he dug in without a thought for the staff who’d rushed to prepare it. His only concern was satisfying his hunger, his pleasure, his dominance. 

As he ate, he scrolled through Cody’s phone, now his, posting a shirtless gym selfie to X with the caption: “Hard work, no excuses. #MAGA #AmericanNightmare.” The likes and comments flooded in, fans worshipping his physique, his attitude, his unapologetic conservatism. Ezra grinned, his ego swelling. This was his world now, and he’d milk every ounce of privilege it offered.

His phone buzzed with a text from Brandi: “Miss you, babe. Home soon?” Ezra’s smirk widened, his new straight desires flaring as he typed back: “Soon, baby. Get ready for me.” He pictured her—long legs, full lips, eager to please—and felt his body respond, his abs tightening, his cock hardening. He didn’t care about her feelings, her needs; she was his wife now, a trophy to satisfy his urges. The thought of the real Cody, trapped in Ezra’s twink body, watching his life be claimed, only fueled Ezra’s sadistic satisfaction. Let Cody stew in his glittery, woke prison—Ezra was living the dream. Now, he craved another conquest, something to further assert his new identity and rub salt in Cody’s wounds.

In the executive suite area of WWE's headquarters, Ezra spotted his target: Lauren Baxter, a high-ranking WWE executive known for her staunch feminist principles. In her late 30s, Lauren was sharp and commanding, her tailored blazer and pencil skirt accentuating a fit, curvy figure. Her dark hair was pulled into a sleek bun, and her piercing green eyes radiated authority. To Ezra, she was the perfect mark—a challenge to his new alpha persona, a chance to dominate a woman who’d never bow to the real Cody. His rewired heterosexuality surged, his body responding with a primal heat as he pictured breaking her resolve, turning her into a needy plaything for his pleasure.

“Hey, Lauren,” Ezra drawled, leaning against the doorframe of her office, his voice carrying Cody’s deep, commanding tone. He flexed subtly, his biceps straining the sleeves of his shirt, his abs tightening as he crossed his arms. “Got a minute for the American Nightmare?” His smirk was pure arrogance, his eyes raking over her body, lingering on her curves with unapologetic hunger.

Lauren looked up from her laptop, her expression cool but wary. “Cody,” she said, her tone clipped. “I’m busy. What do you want?” Her feminist principles bristled at his presence—she’d always found his conservative bravado repulsive, a walking stereotype of everything she fought against.

Ezra stepped inside, closing the door with a deliberate click, his muscular frame filling the space. “Just thought we could talk,” he said, his voice low and suggestive. He moved closer, towering over her desk, his pecs flexing as he leaned forward. “You’re always so… uptight. Maybe you need a real man to loosen you up.” His words dripped with condescension, his new toxic masculinity reveling in the challenge of breaking her.

Lauren’s eyes narrowed, but a flush crept up her neck, betraying her. “Watch yourself, Rhodes,” she snapped, standing to meet his gaze. “I don’t play your games. You’re just another entitled jock who thinks he runs the world.”

Ezra laughed, a rich, cruel sound that vibrated through his chiseled chest. “Entitled? Nah, babe, I just take what I want.” He stepped around the desk, closing the distance, his hand brushing her arm with a possessive edge. “And right now, I want you.” He flexed again, his biceps bulging, his shirt straining as he loomed over her. His new heterosexuality burned, his body aching to dominate, to claim her as his latest conquest.

Lauren froze, her breath hitching, her feminist resolve wavering under the weight of his presence. Ezra’s confidence—Cody’s confidence—was magnetic, his muscular body overwhelming. She tried to hold her ground, but her eyes flickered to his abs, his broad shoulders, a primal attraction stirring despite her principles. “This isn’t… I’m not…” she stammered, her voice faltering.

Ezra smirked, sensing her weakness. He grabbed her wrist, pulling her against his hard frame, his hand sliding to her waist, gripping tightly. “Come on, Lauren,” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear. “You talk a big game about equality, but deep down, you’re just a needy little whore for a real man like me.” He pushed her against the desk, his hands roaming her body, squeezing her hips, her breasts, with aggressive entitlement. “Admit it—you want this.”

Lauren gasped, her body trembling, her feminist ideals crumbling as her arousal took over. “Cody…” she whispered, her voice breaking, her hands clutching his biceps, feeling the raw power beneath. Her resolve melted, regressing into a desperate need to please him, to submit to his dominance. Ezra grinned, his toxic masculinity surging as he saw her transform from a proud executive to a pliant, needy mess.

He pulled out his phone—Cody’s phone—and propped it on a shelf, hitting record to capture every moment for the video he’d send to the real Cody later, another knife in his stolen heart. “Let’s give the world a show, sweetheart,” he growled, yanking her blazer open, buttons popping, and tugging her skirt up. He kissed her roughly, his lips dominating, his tongue claiming her mouth as his hands groped her with unapologetic greed. “You’re nothing but a slut for me,” he sneered, slapping her thigh, the sound sharp in the office. “All that feminist bullshit? Just a front. You’re made for this—taking my cock like a good little whore.”

Lauren moaned, her body yielding completely, her hands clawing at his abs, his pecs, desperate for more. Ezra fucked her with ruthless intensity, bending her over the desk, his muscular body dominating hers. Each thrust was a display of his stolen power, his biceps flexing, his abs tightening as he drove into her. “Scream my name,” he demanded, his voice thick with contempt. “Tell the world who owns you, you needy bitch.” 

He slapped her ass, hard, grinning as she cried out, “Cody!”, her voice a mix of pleasure and shame. The phone recorded it all—the slap of skin, her desperate moans, his degrading taunts, the raw dominance of his physique.

“You’re just a toy,” Ezra growled, gripping her hair, pulling her head back as he thrust harder. “Built to please real men like me. Your little ‘girl power’ act? Fucking pathetic. You’re mine now.”

His new misogyny felt natural, an extension of Cody’s alpha persona, and he leaned into it with sadistic relish, picturing the real Cody watching this, trapped in Ezra’s twink body, seeing his legacy defiled. His orgasm built, his muscles tensing, veins popping as he pushed himself to the edge, cumming with a guttural groan, his chiseled frame shuddering with dominance. Lauren shuddered beneath him, her own climax a mix of coerced pleasure and humiliation, her face flushed with tears she tried to hide.

Ezra pulled out, smirking as he adjusted his pants, his abs glistening with sweat. “Not bad, whore,” he said, patting her cheek with condescending force. “Clean yourself up and get back to your desk. You got what you wanted—a taste of the Nightmare.” He grabbed his phone, stopping the recording, and reviewed the footage with a vicious grin. Perfect—every thrust, every degrading word, every flex of his stolen muscles, captured to torment Cody. “Get out,” he barked, waving her off like trash. Lauren scrambled to fix her clothes, her face burning with shame, and fled the office, her feminist principles shattered.

Later, in Cody’s lavish penthouse suite, Ezra lounged on a leather couch, his muscular body sprawled across it, a glass of whiskey in hand. He uploaded the video to a private server, typing a message to Cody’s old number: ��Look at your life now, twink. I’m fucking whoever the fuck I want while you prance around in that pathetic body. Enjoy the show, loser.” He attached the video, imagining Cody’s horror as he watched his own physique cheat on his wife and degrade Lauren, a cruel testament to Ezra’s dominance. 

Groping his bulging crotch, Ezra smirked, his new privilege intoxicating. He was Cody Rhodes now, a straight, conservative king who lived for himself—women, fame, power, all his to take. Brandi was waiting at home, the ring beckoned, and the world would bow to his stolen glory, while the real Cody faded into a glittery, humiliated shadow as nothing more than a faggot fanboy.

[badguyswin]

BadGuysWin Story Series Index

Most of my stories can be found in the #my stories tag but as I've been putting out some sequels and multi-part series I thought I'd make an index so you can keep track of them easier.

Fair warning that most of my stories contain gay to straight transformations and elements of lib to con, toxic masculinity and findom are common. Expect the bad guys to win. I use AI to assist in the creation of most of these stories and do my own edits on top.

Country Singers: Morgan Wallen - Riley Green

Loki Defeats The Avengers: Iron Man - Hawkeye - Captain America - Thor

MAGA NFL: Travis Kelce - Jalen Hurts

Stormtrooper TFs: Obi-Wan Kenobi - Poe Dameron - Han Solo

Superfan to Superman: 1 - 2

WWE Bad Days: Randy Orton - Roman Reigns - Cody Rhodes - Drew McIntyre - John Cena - Bron Breakker - Karrion Kross - Carmelo Hayes

[badguyswin]

Another idea for a wwe story is wwe creative so guys like triple h having a vision for the type of men they want in their company and using transformative methods to get it done. Like maybe that’s how Dominic Mysterio became the womanizer he is now and now they’re moving onto Cody Rhodes making hik even more alpha and making him more of a redneck to appeal to the audience they want.

i've got swaps for cody rhodes and drew macintyre ready to go

dominic mysterio is a possibility

[badguyswin]

Oh that wwe story was so hot. For another sequel maybe instead of a fan it’s an under card wrestler like Johnny Gargano who’s known as a nice guy and he gets swapped with an alpha dude at the top of the card like Roman reigns and he becomes another toxic alpha

Fuck yeah bro I love that idea! lets go!

Roman Reigns' Bad Day

The WWE arena pulsed with post-show chaos, but Johnny Gargano, the scrappy underdog once known as the “Heart of NXT,” felt like a shadow in the spotlight. At 5’10” and 200 pounds, Johnny’s lean, athletic build—wiry muscles, quick reflexes, and a boyish face framed by dark hair and a scruffy beard—was built for high-flying heroics, not main event glory. 

Despite his cult following, he was frustrated, relegated to mid-card matches or, worse, left off TV entirely some weeks. His kind-hearted, liberal persona—always quick with a smile, a vocal supporter of inclusivity and underdog stories—felt like a liability in a company that rewarded larger-than-life egos and was notoriously aligned with Trump’s MAGA movement. 

Desperate for a breakthrough, Johnny had taken a risk, buying a strange device from a mysterious seller at a shady gym. The seller, a wiry figure cloaked in shadow, had promised, “This will make you a main eventer.” The device, a sleek, obsidian orb etched with glowing runes, pulsed faintly in Johnny’s gym bag as he sat in the empty locker room, his heart heavy with doubt.

Alone, Johnny pressed the orb’s glowing center, his fingers trembling with hope. A blinding pulse of light erupted, swallowing the room, and reality shattered like glass. A searing heat ignited in his core, spreading outward like wildfire. His lean frame convulsed, muscles swelling with violent intensity. 

His shoulders stretched, bones grinding as they broadened into massive, sculpted boulders, veins snaking across them like rivers carving stone. His biceps surged, ballooning into thick, powerful masses, stretching his skin taut until it gleamed, each flex rippling with raw strength. 

His chest expanded, pecs thickening into dense, chiseled slabs that tore his T-shirt at the seams, the fabric shredding as his ribcage widened to support the newfound bulk. His abs tightened, transforming from a modest four-pack into an eight-pack of granite ridges, each one deep and pronounced, glistening with sweat that caught the locker room’s dim light. 

His thighs swelled, growing massive like tree trunks, his calves bulging into sculpted diamonds of power. His frame stretched upward, vertebrae popping as he gained inches, reaching a towering 6’3”. 

His face burned as it reshaped—his boyish features hardened, his jaw squaring into a chiseled, commanding line, his scruffy beard thickening into a fuller, more dominant style. His short hair lengthened, darkening and slicking back into a tight, authoritative bun. His eyes, once warm and open, narrowed into a predatory glare, burning with intensity. 

The heat faded, and Johnny staggered, looking down at his new body: 265 pounds of raw, muscular power, tribal tattoos snaking over his massive arms, the physique of Roman Reigns, the Tribal Chief, WWE’s undisputed top star.

But the transformation went deeper, rewiring his very soul. Johnny’s kind-hearted, liberal ideals—his empathy for the marginalized, his belief in lifting others up—dissolved like ash in a storm. In their place surged a toxic alpha masculinity, a primal arrogance that cared only for dominance and self-interest. His progressive mindset was obliterated, replaced by a staunch, conservative bravado that embraced privilege and scoffed at “woke nonsense.” It was the kind of attitude that higher ups in the WWE management embraced. Roman’s previous political statements echoed the MAGA rhetoric and Triple H had eaten it up, giving the Tribal Chief even more reason to act like a king backstage.

The mental changes continued: Johnny’s gentle heterosexuality, once tempered by respect and a deep profound love for his wife, morphed into an aggressive, entitled hunger, a desire to conquer women as trophies of his power. They were nothing but objects to him now. Even as he thought of his wife, he could only see all the ways she could improve herself to better please him.

Johnny—no, Roman—flexed his massive biceps, watching them swell, veins popping like cords under tanned skin, and grinned, a cruel, self-assured smirk. “This is mine now,” he growled in Roman’s deep, commanding voice, the sound reverberating through his chiseled pecs. He felt invincible, untouchable, his new mentality wired to protect his main event spot at any cost, even if it meant crushing others beneath his boot.

Across the room, Roman Reigns, the true Tribal Chief, staggered, his once-imposing 6’3”, 265-pound frame collapsing inward as the orb’s energy reshaped him. His massive shoulders shrank, bones creaking as they narrowed into a leaner, wiry frame, losing their sculpted bulk. His thick biceps deflated, slimming into toned but unremarkable arms, the veins fading as his strength ebbed. His chiseled pecs softened, flattening into a lean chest with modest definition, his eight-pack abs dissolving into a modest four-pack, still fit but lacking the godlike density. His thighs, once pillars of power, thinned into agile runner's legs, his calves losing their diamond-hard cut. 

His frame contracted, shrinking to 5’10” and 200 pounds, his posture shifting from commanding to uncertain. His face burned as it softened—his strong, square jaw rounded into a boyish curve, his full beard thinning into a scruffy patch, his long, slick bun unraveling into short, tousled dark hair. His piercing eyes dulled, flickering with panic and vulnerability, losing their predatory edge. When the light faded, Roman clutched at his new body, horrified: he was Johnny Gargano, a mid-card underdog, his once-dominant physique reduced to a lean, unassuming shell.

The mental shift was even more devastating. Roman’s once unshakeable confidence, the bedrock of his Tribal Chief persona, drained away like water through a sieve, replaced by a crippling self-doubt that mirrored Johnny’s old insecurities. His aggressive heterosexuality wavered, tinged with an unsettling uncertainty, his body no longer responding with the primal assurance he’d known. His staunch MAGA convictions crumbled, supplanted by a flicker of liberal guilt and empathy—thoughts of fairness, inclusivity, and underdog struggles that horrified him, clashing with his fading identity. He felt small, insignificant, his swagger replaced by a nervous hesitation that made his wiry frame tremble. 

“No… this isn’t me,” he whispered, his voice higher, less authoritative, cracking with fear. His eyes finally glanced over to where Gargano had been sat, only to discover a perfect copy of Roman Reigns sat right there. “What the hell did you do, Gargano?!” Roman shouted, his voice thin and unsteady, more of a shriek than a boom; it lacked the commanding growl he’d once wielded. He lunged forward but stopped short, suddenly aware that his wiry frame looked pitiful next to the towering figure he’d previously been. “That’s my body! Give it back!”

Johnny laughed, the sound rich and vicious, vibrating through his chiseled pecs. He stepped closer, his massive 6’3” frame looming over Roman, his toxic alpha masculinity relishing the power to intimidate. “Give it back? Nah, kid, this is my spot now.” He flexed his arms, his biceps bulging obscenely, veins popping like live wires, his abs tightening into a glistening eight-pack. “Look at me. I’m the Head of the Table. Built like a fucking god. You? You’re just a scrawny little nobody now, begging for crumbs on the mid-card.” He grabbed Roman by the collar of Johnny’s worn T-shirt, yanking him close, his massive hand dwarfing Roman’s lean shoulder. “You thought you could hog the main event forever? This is my legacy now, Johnny.”

Roman struggled, his wiry arms flailing, but his new body was no match for Johnny’s stolen strength. His confidence, once the cornerstone of his identity, was gone, replaced by a gnawing self-doubt that made his boyish features crumple. “You can’t do this,” he gasped, his voice breaking, eyes darting nervously. “I’m Roman Reigns! The Tribal Chief!” But the words felt hollow, his smaller frame trembling, his swagger replaced by a timid uncertainty that mirrored Johnny’s old underdog persona.

Johnny smirked, shoving Roman back, letting him stumble against a locker, the metal clanging as Roman’s lean frame hit it. “Not anymore, loser.” He ran his hands over his new abs, savoring the hard, sweat-slicked ridges, the raw power coursing through him. “This body’s made for dominating, and I’m gonna make sure everyone knows it. Starting with you.” He grabbed the orb from the floor, holding it up with a sneer. “This little thing? Made me the top dog.” With a cruel grin, he hurled it against the wall with all his enhanced might, causing it to shatter into a thousand sparking fragments, the runes fizzling out. “No going back, kid. You’re stuck in that pathetic body, probably whining about ‘fairness’ like the old you.”

Roman’s face twisted with humiliation, his boyish features crumpling as he clutched at his lean arms, his confidence utterly shattered. “You… you bastard,” he whispered, tears pricking his eyes, his high-pitched voice lacking the authority he’d once wielded. His mind, tinged with Johnny’s liberal empathy, urged him to reason, to plead, but it only deepened his shame, making him feel weaker, less like the Tribal Chief he’d been.

Johnny seized the moment as other wrestlers—Drew McIntyre, Dominik Mysterio, and Chad Gable—entered the locker room. “Yo, check this out,” he called, his voice dripping with disdain. “Little Johnny Gargano thinks he’s me. Can you believe this loser?” He grabbed Roman again, hoisting him up by the arm, his massive hand engulfing Roman’s slim limb. “Look at this weak-ass wannabe. Thinks he’s main event material. Fucking pathetic.”

The wrestlers laughed, Drew’s deep chuckle cutting through the air. “Johnny, you’re out of your mind, mate,” he said, shaking his head. 

Roman’s face burned, his new body trembling with humiliation as he tried to protest. “I’m Roman! He stole my body!” 

But his higher voice, his smaller frame, only made the others laugh harder, Dominik snickering, “Bro, you’re tripping. Go back to NXT.”

Johnny grinned, his toxic masculinity in full bloom as he humiliated Roman further. He shoved him onto a bench, forcing him to sit. “Stay there, kid. Let the big dogs talk.” He turned to the others, flexing his pecs, his torn shirt straining as he postured. He grabbed a water bottle, squirting it over Roman’s head, the cold liquid soaking his hair and shirt, dripping down his boyish face. “Cool off, loser. Maybe you’ll learn your place.”

Roman sputtered, wiping the water from his eyes, his wiry frame shaking with rage and shame, his confidence completely drained. The other wrestlers jeered, egging Johnny on, who reveled in their approval. He leaned down, his chiseled jaw inches from Roman’s face, his voice a low, venomous growl. “You’re nothing now, Johnny. I’m gonna walk out there every night, take my main event spot, and make the world acknowledge me. I’ll run the Bloodline, take your titles, fuck your cousins into line, and make sure nobody ever believes a word you say about this. And you? You’ll be lucky to get a dark match, you pathetic little bitch.” He slapped Roman’s face, hard enough to leave a red mark, and laughed as Roman flinched, his boyish features twisting in pain and humiliation, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Get outta my locker room,” Johnny barked, grabbing Roman by the arm and shoving him toward the door. “You don’t belong here, mid-carder.” He pushed Roman hard, sending him stumbling into the hallway, the other wrestlers jeering louder. 

“Run along, Johnny!” Dominik called, tossing an empty water bottle that bounced off Roman’s back. “Go cry somewhere else!” Drew added, his laugh booming as Roman tripped, his wiry frame scrambling to stay upright. Roman fled, his lean legs carrying him down the corridor, tears blurring his vision as he sobbed openly, his new body trembling with the weight of his shattered confidence and stolen identity.

Roman, in Johnny’s wiry body, stumbled to the hotel where Candice LeRae, Johnny’s wife, was staying. His soaked T-shirt clung to his lean frame, his boyish face streaked with tears and water, his confidence shattered. He pounded on her door, his higher voice trembling. “Candice, I know this sounds crazy but I’m not Johnny, I’m Roman! Johnny stole my body!” Candice opened the door, her eyes narrowing at the sight of “Johnny,” disheveled and hysterical.

“Johnny, what’s wrong with you?” she asked, concern mixed with confusion. “Babe, you're acting crazy.”

“I’m not Johnny!” Roman pleaded, his voice cracking, his slim arms gesturing wildly. “I’m Roman Reigns! There was this device, and it swapped us! You have to believe me!” But his boyish features, his high-pitched desperation, only made him look unhinged. Candice’s face softened with pity, but not belief.

“Sweetie, you’re exhausted,” she said, touching his arm gently. “You’ve been under so much stress. Let’s get you cleaned up.” Her dismissal crushed Roman further, his insecurities spiraling. He was the Tribal Chief, damn it, not this pathetic underdog, but Candice saw only her husband, lost in a delusion.

Desperate, Roman fled. With nowhere else to go, he retreated down to the hotel bar, where he found Tommaso Ciampa, Johnny’s longtime tag team partner and friend, nursing a beer. “Tommaso, it’s me, Roman!” he blurted, his wiry frame trembling. “Johnny used some orb to steal my body! I’m not him!” Ciampa raised an eyebrow, setting his drink down.

“Johnny, man, you’re freaking me out,” Ciampa said, his tone wary. “Roman Reigns? Come on, man, what kinda joke is this? You aren’t the Tribal Chief. You need to chill.” He laughed, but it was uneasy, and Roman’s tears welled again, his confidence completely drained. “Go sleep it off, bro,” Ciampa added, turning back to his drink, dismissing him.

Roman fled the bar, his lean legs unsteady, his boyish face crumpling as he sobbed. No one believed him—his aura, his power, his very identity had been stripped away, leaving him a fragile, insignificant shell.

As Roman wandered the hotel corridors, his heart heavy with rejection, he ran into Grayson Waller, the brash Australian wrestler known for his loudmouth antics and cruel streak. Waller, lean and muscular at 6’1”, with slicked-back hair and a smug grin, had long tormented Johnny Gargano, mocking his mid-card status and “goody-two-shoes” persona. Seeing “Johnny” soaked, crying, and vulnerable, Waller’s eyes lit up with predatory glee. Unbeknownst to Roman, Waller had a reputation backstage for dominating weaker opponents, especially those he could humiliate, his straight bravado masking a sadistic thrill in breaking others.

“Well, well, Johnny Wrestling,” Waller sneered, blocking Roman’s path. “Look at you, crying like a little bitch. What’s the matter, mate? Didn’t make the card again?” He stepped closer, his muscular frame looming over Roman’s wiry one, his grin cruel.

“I’m not Johnny,” Roman rasped, his voice high and shaky. “I’m Roman Reigns. He stole my body—” But his words were cut off as Waller laughed, a harsh, mocking sound.

“Roman Reigns? Oh, that’s gold, mate,” Waller said, shoving Roman against the wall, his lean chest pressing against Roman’s smaller frame. “You’re just a sad little mid-carder who can’t handle the heat. But damn, you look pathetic enough to be fun.” His hand gripped Roman’s arm, his fingers digging into the wiry muscle, and Roman flinched, his new insecurities making him freeze.

Waller dragged Roman into a nearby empty conference room, locking the door. “Let’s see how Johnny Wrestling takes it,” he taunted, his voice dripping with venom. He stripped off his shirt, revealing a lean, chiseled physique, his abs tight and defined. “On your knees, mate. Time to show you your place.” Roman’s mind screamed in protest—he was the Tribal Chief, not this—but his new body was weak, his confidence gone, and Waller’s dominance overwhelmed him.

Waller forced Roman to his knees, unzipping his pants, his cock already hardening. “Look at you, crying already,” he mocked, grabbing Roman’s hair, yanking his head forward. “You’re nothing but a pathetic little jobber, good for one thing.” He shoved himself into Roman’s mouth, thrusting roughly, his hands gripping Roman’s head. “Take it, you weak fuck. This is all you’re worth.” Roman gagged, tears streaming down his boyish face, his new body trembling with humiliation. His mind reeled, torn between rage and a crushing sense of defeat, his old confidence shattered as Waller’s taunts cut deeper.

Waller pulled Roman up, bending him over a table, yanking down his soaked jeans. “Time to finish you off, mate,” he growled, fucking Roman with brutal intensity, each thrust a display of dominance. “Cry all you want, Johnny. You’re just a mid-card bitch, taking it like the loser you are.” Roman sobbed openly, his wiry frame shaking, the pain and humiliation overwhelming. His new body, wired with Johnny’s insecurities, offered no resistance, and the degradation crushed what little pride he had left. Waller laughed, slapping Roman’s ass, the sound echoing in the room. “That’s it, jobber. You’re mine now.”

Roman’s tears soaked the table as Waller finished, pulling out and wiping himself off with a smirk. “Get up, loser,” he said, kicking Roman’s jeans away, leaving him in his soaked underwear. “Go cry to your wife about how you’ll never be a main eventer.” He shoved Roman toward the door, laughing as Roman stumbled into the hallway, his boyish face streaked with tears, his body trembling with shame.

The next day, Johnny, now Roman, strutted into the WWE Performance Center, his massive frame drawing every eye. The trainees parted like the Red Sea, their whispers of awe feeding his ego. He wore a tight black tank top that showcased his sculpted pecs and abs, his tribal tattoos snaking over his bulging arms.

“Move,” he barked at a young wrestler blocking his path, his deep voice carrying Roman’s commanding authority. The kid scrambled away, and Johnny smirked, flexing his biceps, veins popping as he savored the power. He didn’t care about their dreams or struggles—his only concern was cementing his status as the top dog.

In the main event meeting, Johnny lounged at the head of the table, his muscular frame dominating the room. Triple H and other executives outlined the next pay-per-view, confirming “Roman” as the centerpiece, defending the Undisputed WWE Universal Championship. Johnny leaned back, his abs tightening, and interrupted with a cocky grin. “Make it quick, Hunter. I’m carrying this company, so let’s focus on my story.”

The room nodded, no one daring to challenge the Tribal Chief. Johnny’s toxic alpha mindset reveled in the control, his thoughts centered on his own glory—titles, promos, the roar of the crowd. He pictured his entrance, the pyro, the fans chanting his name, and his arousal flared as he imagined a ring rat or two waiting in his hotel room later, ready to serve the Head of the Table.

After the meeting, Johnny hit the private gym reserved for top stars, loading a barbell with plates that would’ve crushed his old body. He powered through deadlifts, his thighs and back flexing with raw strength, sweat dripping down his chiseled abs. Other wrestlers watched, some with envy, others with fear. “This is what a main eventer looks like,” he taunted, catching a rookie staring. “Keep dreaming, kid.”

He didn’t bother with camaraderie—his new mindset saw others as threats to his spot, and he’d bully them into submission if needed. Later, at a high-end steakhouse, he demanded the best table, snapping at the waiter for a slow pour of whiskey. The staff complied, recognizing his status, and Johnny leaned back, his massive frame filling the booth, relishing the privilege that came with being Roman Reigns. He didn’t care about anyone else’s needs—only his own desires mattered.

Later that day, backstage at the taping for the next episode of Monday Night Raw, Johnny prepared for a main event promo, his massive frame draped in a custom black suit that hugged his sculpted muscles. The crowd roared as he stepped into the ring, pyro exploding, his entrance music blaring. He soaked in the adulation, his toxic alpha mindset thriving on the worship. “Acknowledge me!” he bellowed, his deep voice shaking the arena, his biceps flexing as he raised the championship belt. The fans chanted “Roman! Roman!” and Johnny grinned, his ego swollen. He didn’t care about the fans’ struggles, their lives—only their adoration mattered, a fuel for his dominance.

Backstage, he dismissed a production assistant with a wave, demanding a private dressing room and a bottle of top-shelf bourbon. “Move faster, kid,” he snapped, his voice dripping with Roman’s authority. “I’m the Head of the Table, not some mid-card loser.” The assistant scurried off, and Johnny laughed, flexing his pecs in a mirror, admiring his stolen physique. Later, he texted a ring rat he’d met earlier, arranging a quick fuck in his hotel suite, his raw dominant sexuality burning with entitlement. He didn’t care about her name or feelings—she was just another conquest, a perk of his privilege as the Tribal Chief.

Johnny pictured the real Roman, crying in Johnny’s weak body, rejected by everyone. The thought fueled his sadistic glee. He’d keep Roman buried, ensuring the world forgot the old Tribal Chief. Every main event, every title defense, every act of dominance—whether in the ring or the bedroom—was a nail in Roman’s coffin. Johnny was the Head of the Table now, and he’d protect his spot with ruthless, toxic ferocity, his legacy now forever untouchable.

Any other WWE wrestlers you wanna see in a toxic body swap story?

[badguyswin]

Randy Orton's Bad Day

Gay to straight body swap with fat-shaming, misogyny and toxic masculinity. Don't like don't read.

The arena thrummed with primal energy, the crowd’s roars a deafening pulse. Randy Orton, the Viper, stood in the ring’s center, a living sculpture of raw power. His physique was a masterpiece: broad shoulders rolled with effortless strength, his biceps bulging with veins that snaked like rivers under taut, tanned skin. His pecs, slabs of granite, strained against his black tank top, each flex showcasing their sculpted density. His abs, an eight-pack carved from marble, gleamed with sweat, every ridge catching the spotlights’ glare. Thick, muscular thighs powered his swagger, and his piercing blue eyes, framed by a smug smirk, oozed arrogance. He was the WWE’s apex predator, untouchable and reveling in it.

In the front row, Felix Heavybottom, a 35-year-old obsessive fan, clutched his crumpled “Randy’s #1 Fan” sign, his 300-pound frame sagging in his seat. Sweat soaked his oversized shirt, clinging to rolls of fat, his double chin quivering as he fixated on Randy. Felix’s obsession was a fire that consumed him—every RKO, every promo, every ripple of Randy’s godlike muscles fueled his deepest fantasies. He didn’t just worship Randy; he yearned to be him, to live inside that perfect body, to feel those muscles under his command. His desires were explicit, his fantasies vivid with images of himself in Randy’s form, exploring the superstar’s muscular physique with the help of other men, basking in the homoerotic thrill of power and beauty. 

In his pocket, a metallic orb—a black-market relic from a shady online forum—promised “total transformation.” Felix didn’t care how it worked; he only cared that it would let him live his fantasy as Randy, free to indulge his desires.

Backstage, after the show, Felix lingered near the talent exit, his heart hammering. Randy emerged, signing autographs with his usual disdain, his muscular frame towering over the crowd. Felix’s sweaty fingers trembled as he activated the orb, its surface cold and humming. The street lights flickered, momentarily sending the small crowd into complete darkness.

Under this cover of blackness, reality unraveled—Felix felt his body dissolve, a searing heat erupting in his core. His flabby gut churned, as if melting from within, his flesh tightening, hardening. His spine straightened, shoulders broadening as muscles swelled, knitting together with a strength that made him gasp. His arms, once soft and heavy, grew taut, biceps ballooning, veins popping like live wires. His chest expanded, pecs forming into chiseled slabs, while his abs contracted, carving an eight-pack that felt like steel under his touch. His legs thickened, thighs becoming pillars of power, calves sculpted and firm. His face reshaped—double chin melting, jawline sharpening, cheekbones rising. His vision cleared, glasses obsolete, and he felt stubble prick his fingertips as he touched his new face. The heat faded, replaced by a surge of raw energy, every muscle thrumming with potential. He looked down: tribal tattoos snaked over his arms—Randy’s arms. He flexed, biceps swelling obscenely, and grinned. He was Randy Orton.

Across from him, Randy staggered back in Felix’s body, his once-muscular frame replaced by a sagging, heavy mass. His broad shoulders were now rounded and flabby, his arms soft and jiggling. His chiseled pecs had vanished, buried under a sweaty, doughy chest, his gut protruding, straining Felix’s fan shirt. His powerful thighs were thick with fat, his movements sluggish, joints aching under the unfamiliar weight. His face, once sharp and commanding, was puffy, a double chin wobbling beneath panicked blue eyes. Randy’s consciousness fought the new body, but it was like wading through quicksand—every step a struggle, his breathing labored, his pride crumbling.

Felix’s mind reeled as the swap rewrote more than his body. He’d planned to revel in Randy’s physique as a gay man, to explore his new form with the same desires that had driven his obsession. But as the orb’s energy settled, his thoughts twisted, reshaped by Randy’s biology. His longing for men, the fantasies of intimate encounters in this perfect body, dissolved like smoke. In their place surged a primal, unfamiliar hunger—for women. Kim, Randy’s wife, flashed in his mind: her curves, her full lips, her body pressed against his new frame. A hard jolt of arousal hit him, pooling low, raw and undeniable. He was straight now, his desires rewired by Randy’s hormonal makeup, and the shift was jarring. Felix tried to cling to his old fantasies, picturing a man’s touch, but his new body recoiled, his mind flooding with disgust at the thought. Instead, images of women—Kim, especially—ignited a fire in his veins, his new muscles tensing with a proud, almost aggressive heterosexuality.

The realization hit Felix like a punch: he wasn’t just straight; he was proud of it, a swaggering confidence that felt intrinsic to Randy’s persona. His old self, the gay fan who’d worshipped Randy’s body, felt like a distant, pathetic memory. Worse, a sneer curled his lips as he thought of his former desires, a flicker of homophobia sparking in his rewired mind. It wasn’t just that he no longer wanted men; he found the idea repulsive, weak, beneath the alpha male he’d become. He flexed his biceps, watching them bulge, veins pulsing, and felt a rush of superiority. “This body,” he growled in Randy’s deep, cocky drawl, “is built for real pleasure. Not that pathetic shit I used to want.”

Randy, in Felix’s flabby body, clutched at his new form, horror twisting his face. “You sick fuck!” he screamed, his voice now nasal and weak, breaking with panic. “What did you do to me?!” He tried to flex, but his arms only jiggled, his gut bouncing painfully. Sweat poured down his puffy cheeks, soaking the fan shirt. “Switch us back!”

Felix laughed, the sound rich and cruel, vibrating through his powerful chest. He stepped closer, towering over Randy, his muscular silhouette dominating the dim backstage light. “Look at me,” he said, flexing both biceps, feeling the raw power as they swelled, veins popping like live wires. He ran his hands over his abs, the ridges rippling under his fingers, each touch sending a thrill through his rewired nerves. “This is mine now. Every muscle, every inch of power. You were wasting this body, Randy. Wasting it on being a beta. I’m gonna use it right.”

He pulled the orb from his pocket—Randy’s pocket—and held it up, its faint glow mocking Randy’s desperation. “This gave me your life, and I’m never giving it back.” With a smirk, he hurled it to the concrete, stomping it under Randy’s custom boots. SMASH! The device shattered into thousands of pieces, sparks flying, its pieces scattering like ash. “No going back, fat boy.”

Randy lunged, but his new body betrayed him, legs buckling as he crashed to his knees, his large gut bouncing painfully. Sweat dripped into his eyes, his flabby cheeks trembling with rage and shame. “You can’t do this!” he wheezed, his voice shrill, his weak fists pounding the ground. “I’m Randy Orton!”

Felix crouched, his muscular frame looming, his eyes gleaming with sadistic glee. “Not anymore, you’re not.” He grabbed Randy by the collar of the sweat-soaked tee, yanking him up until their faces were inches apart. Several of the fans nearby gasped and scattered away, suddenly terrified of who they believed to be the WWE wrestler.  “Look at you. A sweaty, pathetic blob. You think you’re the Viper? You’re nothing. A disgusting, weak nobody who’ll never touch my life again.” He leaned closer, his breath hot, his voice a venomous whisper. “I’m gonna fuck your wife, Randy. Kim’s gonna scream my name, beg for me in bed. I can already feel how much better I’ll be than you—stronger, hungrier, a real man. Your kids? They’ll call me Dad. I’ll raise ‘em to be proud of me, not some flabby loser. And in the ring? Every RKO, every title, every cheer will be mine.”

He paused, a cruel smirk twisting his lips as he leaned even closer, his voice dropping to a hiss. “And you know what? I’m glad I’m not like you used to think I was. All that weak, faggy shit I wanted before? Disgusting. I’m better than that now. I’m straight, and I’m proud of it. You’re stuck in that body, probably still dreaming of men, huh? Pathetic.”

Randy sobbed, his flabby cheeks wet with tears, his new body shaking with humiliation. “Please,” he whispered, his voice breaking, “don’t do this. Don’t take my life.”

Felix stood, his broad shoulders rolling back, his pecs flexing instinctively. “Too late.” He waved to a security guard, slipping into Randy’s arrogant persona with chilling ease. “Yo, this stalker’s been harassing me all night. Fat creep won’t leave me alone. Get him outta here.”

The guard grabbed Randy, who thrashed weakly, his flabby arms flailing, his gut bouncing as he screamed, “I’m Randy Orton! That’s my body, you moron!” The crowd nearby laughed, phones flashing as they recorded the “crazed fan” being dragged away. Randy’s nasal voice cracked, his pleas drowned by jeers, his new body a humiliating prison as he was hauled into the night, some fans even spitting at him, calling him a “freak” and “loser.”

Felix watched, his stolen heart pounding with triumph. He flexed again, feeling the power in Randy’s muscles, the raw, electric energy of his new life. His mind buzzed with pride—not just in his body, but in his new desires, his new identity. He was straight, dominant, untouchable, and the thought of his old gay fantasies made him sneer with disgust. Kim was waiting at home—her body, her love, now his. The ring beckoned, the cheers, the glory. He adjusted Randy’s leather jacket over his broad shoulders, his abs tightening as he smirked. He was Randy Orton now, and he’d make the world bow to him, while the real Randy faded into a pathetic, forgotten shadow, trapped in a body and a life that Felix had gladly left behind.

Not long after, Randy stumbled through the arena’s parking lot, his sweat-soaked fan shirt clinging to his rolls of fat, his double chin trembling with each labored step. His joints ached, his breathing a wheezing struggle, and his pride—once as unyielding as his chiseled physique—was shattered. The security guard’s rough ejection and the crowd’s mocking laughter still burned in his ears, their jeers and photos branding him a “delusional fanboy.” Felix, now strutting away in Randy’s muscular body, had stolen everything—his physique, his wife, his legacy. The memory of Felix’s cruel taunts about Kim, his kids, and the ring festered like an open wound, fueling Randy’s desperation to reverse this nightmare.

A figure emerged from the shadows: Austin Theory, the young, ambitious WWE star Randy had always despised. Theory’s lean, muscular frame gleamed under the streetlights, his blond hair slicked back, his tank top hugging his shredded biceps and defined pecs. His green eyes glinted with a mix of amusement and something darker as they raked over Randy’s sagging form. Randy had always seen Theory as a threat, a cocky upstart gunning for his spot in the locker room. Unknown to Randy, Theory hid a secret: he was closeted, his frat-boy bravado masking a fetish for humiliating heavier men, a twisted kink that fueled his private thrills.

“Hey, big guy, you okay?” Theory called, his voice dripping with fake pity as he sauntered closer. “Security really fucked you up, huh? Looks like you’re about to pass out.” His smirk betrayed his arousal, his eyes lingering on Randy’s protruding gut and flabby arms.

Randy’s flabby cheeks flushed with shame. “Austin, it’s me, Randy,” he rasped, his nasal voice cracking in Felix’s body. “That freak Felix stole my body. I’m not this… this thing.”

Theory chuckled, his abs flexing under his tight shirt. “Randy Orton? Come on, man, that’s pathetic. You’re just some obsessed fanboy who got too close.” He stepped closer, his tone shifting to a teasing purr. “But, damn, there’s something about you. All that… extra you’re carrying. Kinda cute, in a sad, desperate way.” His hand grazed Randy’s gut, fingers pressing into the soft flesh, lingering with a deliberate, mocking touch.

Randy recoiled, his new body sluggish, his mind a storm of humiliation and desperation. “I’m telling you, it’s me! Felix had some device, and—”

“Device? Oh, you’re wild,” Theory cut in, laughing. “You’re really leaning into this, huh, big boy? I like it. Tell you what—I feel bad for you, getting tossed out like trash. Come with me, I’ll get you cleaned up.” His eyes roamed Randy’s doughy frame, arousal flickering behind the cruelty. “Can’t leave a fan like you out here, looking all… needy.”

Randy’s instincts screamed to run, but Felix’s body was slow, his options gone. Swallowing his pride, he followed Theory to his SUV, each step a reminder of his new, humiliating form. The drive to Theory’s hotel was a gauntlet of taunts. “Bet you’ve been jerking off to me and Randy for years, huh, big guy?” Theory said, smirking. “Dreaming of getting close to a real star. Gotta say, you’re bold, showing up like this. Kinda… pathetic, but hot.” Each word sliced into Randy, his borrowed heart pounding with rage and shame.

In the hotel room, Theory’s demeanor turned predatory. He locked the door, his muscular frame filling the space, his smirk cruel and unyielding. “Strip,” he ordered, tossing Randy a towel. “You’re a fucking mess, fanboy. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.” Randy hesitated, his flabby hands trembling, but Theory’s stare was a command. Humiliated, Randy peeled off the sweat-soaked shirt, revealing Felix’s doughy chest, sagging gut, and soft, jiggling arms. Theory circled him, chuckling. “Goddamn, look at you. So much… you. All that soft, sweaty flesh. It’s almost too much.” He poked Randy’s gut, watching it ripple, his voice dripping with disdain. “Bet you love being this pathetic, don’t you? Just a big, sloppy fanboy, desperate for a taste of a real man.”

Randy’s face burned, his mind screaming in protest—he was Randy Orton, the Viper, not this weak, pathetic shell. But Felix’s body was betraying him, his rewired brain sparking with unfamiliar desires. Theory stepped closer, stripping off his tank top to reveal his sculpted physique—biceps peaking, veins popping, abs a tight six-pack. “Ever worship a body like this, big boy?” he taunted, flexing, his muscles rippling under the hotel’s dim light. “Not some fantasy—someone like me. Go on, touch ‘em. Feel what a real wrestler’s built like.”

Randy’s mind recoiled, but Felix’s body responded with a shameful heat. His flabby hands reached out, grazing Theory’s chiseled pecs, the muscle hard and warm. A jolt of arousal shot through him, his new brain flooding with pleasure that horrified him. He was Randy Orton, straight, dominant, a legend—not this. But Felix’s biology was relentless, twisting his thoughts, amplifying the sensation. Theory’s muscles, his cocky grin, his sheer dominance—it was overwhelming, and Randy’s resistance crumbled. “No,” he whispered, his voice trembling, but his hands kept moving, tracing Theory’s abs, his biceps, each touch igniting a fire he couldn’t control.

Theory grabbed Randy’s wrists, guiding his hands over every inch of his physique. “That’s it, fat boy. Worship me. You love this, don’t you? Look at you, practically drooling.” His tone was vicious, each word a blade. He pushed Randy to his knees, forcing his face against his abs. “Kiss ‘em. Lick ‘em. Show me how much you want this, you pathetic fuck.” Randy’s lips pressed against Theory’s tight skin, the taste of sweat and muscle overwhelming his senses. His mind screamed in shame, but his body obeyed, Felix’s brain drowning him in unwanted desire. The humiliation was crushing, yet each taunt, each flex of Theory’s muscles, sent a pulse of pleasure through him, his new gay desires clashing with his old identity.

Theory’s teasing grew harsher as he shoved Randy onto the bed, his hands rough, his voice a cruel sneer. “You’re such a fucking mess, aren’t you? Bet you’ve been dreaming of this, fanboy—getting fucked by a real man.” He tugged down Randy’s pants, leaving him exposed in Felix’s sagging, sweaty body. Theory didn’t bother undressing him fully, only yanking the underwear aside. “Look at you, all soft and desperate. You’re nothing next to me.” He fucked Randy with brutal intensity, each thrust a mix of dominance and derision, his hands gripping Randy’s flabby hips. “Take it, you sloppy fuck. You love this, don’t you? Just a fat, pathetic loser who can’t get enough.”

Randy’s mind fractured under the assault. Humiliation burned through him—Theory’s taunts, the degradation, the sheer power of the younger wrestler’s body dominating his weak, flabby form. Yet Felix’s brain betrayed him, flooding with pleasure that drowned his protests. Each thrust, each cruel word, intensified the heat pooling in his borrowed body. He hated it, hated himself, but the sensations were undeniable—his new desires, wired into Felix’s biology, craved this. He was Randy Orton, damn it, not some submissive fanboy, but his body responded like it was made for this, his mind torn between disgust and an uncontrollable need. Theory’s muscles, his scent, his relentless dominance—it was too much, and Randy’s resistance shattered.

Without warning, Randy’s body convulsed, a powerful orgasm ripping through him. He gasped, his flabby frame shaking, cum staining the sheets as he came without Theory even touching him below the waist. Theory laughed, a vicious, barking sound, pulling back to watch Randy’s humiliation. “Holy shit, you came just from that? Didn’t even need a hand, you sad, desperate fuck. You love this, don’t you? Pathetic.” He leaned down, grabbing Randy’s puffy face, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Look at you, cumming like a bitch just from being fucked. You’re not Randy Orton—you’re just a fat slut who can’t control himself.”

Randy’s tears mixed with sweat, his voice a broken whisper. “I’m Randy… I’m Randy Orton…” But the words felt hollow, his new body still buzzing with shameful pleasure, his mind reeling from the clash of his old identity and Felix’s overpowering desires.

Theory laughed harder, wiping himself off, his sculpted body gleaming with sweat. “Still going on about that Randy Orton shit? Fuck, you’re delusional. You’re just some fat fanboy who got lucky enough to get fucked by a star like me. Be grateful I even touched you.” He grabbed Randy by the arm, hauling him off the bed and shoving him toward the door in nothing but Felix’s stained, oversized underwear. “Get out, loser. I’m done with you. Go jerk off to your little fantasies somewhere else.”

Randy stumbled into the hallway, the door slamming behind him. The cold air hit his flabby, half-naked body, his gut bouncing as he caught himself against the wall. Theory’s laughter echoed through the door, mingling with the memory of his cruel taunts and the unbearable pleasure still lingering in Felix’s body. Randy’s mind was a warzone—rage, shame, and a sickening need battling within him. He was the Viper, a legend, not this humiliated wreck craving degradation. But as he stood there, shivering, his new body pulsing with Felix’s gay desires, he feared Felix had not only stolen his body but left him in a prison that reveled in its own destruction. The world saw him as a pathetic fanboy, and with Theory’s cum and his own shame staining him, Randy’s hope of reclaiming his life felt further away than ever.

Felix, now inhabiting Randy Orton’s chiseled, godlike body, prowled the backstage corridors of the arena, his stolen physique a living monument to power. His broad shoulders, slabs of muscle sculpted to perfection, rolled with each step, veins snaking across biceps that bulged like steel cables under tanned, glistening skin. His pecs, dense and chiseled, strained against his black tank top, each flex a deliberate display of dominance. His abs, an eight-pack carved from granite, rippled with every breath, sweat catching the dim light and accentuating their razor-sharp definition. His thighs, thick as tree trunks, powered his swagger, and his piercing blue eyes, paired with Randy’s signature smirk, radiated a cocky, untouchable arrogance. The body swap had rewired his very essence—Felix’s obsessive, gay desires had been obliterated, replaced by a primal, aggressive heterosexuality that burned for women, particularly Kim, Randy’s wife. But more intoxicating was the toxic alpha masculinity that now coursed through him, a vicious, misogynistic streak that felt like it was always meant to be part of Randy’s persona. Felix embraced it with a sadistic glee, reveling in the Viper’s dominance as if he’d been born to it.

The backstage chaos parted around him—crew members nodded deferentially, wrestlers cast wary glances, all unaware that the man before them was an imposter. Felix soaked it in, his stolen heart pounding with triumph. He was Randy Orton now—wrestling legend, sex symbol, the alpha of alphas. Every flex of his muscles, every awestruck stare, fueled his ego, inflating it to monstrous proportions. Gone was the pathetic, overweight Felix, a nobody who’d worshipped from the shadows. Now, he was a god, and he intended to wield that power with ruthless abandon. His mind flicked to Randy, now trapped in Felix’s flabby, 300-pound body, humiliated and cast out into the night. A wicked plan formed: Felix would cement his victory by defiling Randy’s legacy in the most visceral way possible, recording it to torment the real Randy later, a cruel trophy to prove who owned this life now.

Near the catering area, Felix’s eyes locked onto Mia, a trainee female wrestler in her early 20s. Her toned body, clad in a tight workout top and leggings that hugged her curves, moved with the nervous energy of a rookie. Her dark hair was pulled into a high ponytail, her face flushed with the effort of hauling equipment. She was perfect—young, eager, and vulnerable to his dominance. Felix’s new toxic masculinity surged, a sneer curling his lips as he sized her up like prey. She was nothing but an object to him now, a means to flex his power and degrade Randy’s legacy further. He’d seduce her, fuck her, and capture every moment to send to Randy, a brutal reminder of who controlled the Viper’s body now.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Felix drawled, channeling Randy’s cocky charisma with a venomous edge. He leaned against a crate, flexing deliberately, his biceps swelling obscenely, veins popping like live wires. His pecs tightened, the fabric of his tank top straining, and he caught Mia’s wide-eyed stare. “You’re that new girl, right? Mia? Seen you scurrying around, trying to keep up. Cute… for a rookie.” His voice dripped with condescension, his eyes raking over her body, lingering on her breasts and hips with unapologetic hunger.

Mia froze, her cheeks flushing as she stammered, “Uh, yeah, Mr. Orton—Randy, I mean. It’s… it’s an honor.” Her hands fidgeted, her awe palpable, but there was a flicker of unease in her eyes as Felix’s gaze bored into her.

He stepped closer, his muscular frame towering, his smirk widening as he loomed over her. “Relax, babe. You’re in the big leagues now, but let’s be real—you’re out of your depth.” He reached out, his calloused fingers brushing her cheek, then gripping her chin with a possessive edge. “Lucky for you, I’m feeling generous. Stick with me, and I’ll show you how to survive in my world.” His tone was laced with a patronizing cruelty, his new toxic masculinity reveling in her nervousness.

Mia nodded, her breath hitching, caught in the magnetic pull of his confidence—Randy’s confidence. Felix led her to a secluded storage room, his hand on her lower back, guiding her with an assertive grip that bordered on a shove. His pulse pounded, not just with desire but with the thrill of domination, of reducing her to a plaything for his ego. He pulled out his phone—Randy’s phone—and propped it against a stack of crates, hitting record. The red light blinked, capturing every detail for the video he’d send to Randy later, a vicious monument to his conquest.

Inside the room, Felix’s demeanor turned predatory. He slammed the door shut, his muscular silhouette filling the cramped space, his smirk cruel and unyielding. “Strip,” he ordered, his voice a low growl. “Show me what you’re working with, rookie. Or are you too weak to handle a real man?” He peeled off his tank top, revealing Randy’s sculpted torso—pecs like slabs of marble, abs rippling with sweat-slicked definition, tattoos snaking over his arms. He flexed, his biceps bulging, his chest expanding, a deliberate display of power. “This is what a king looks like, sweetheart. You’re nothing next to me.”

Mia hesitated, her eyes darting to the door, but Felix’s presence was overwhelming. She peeled off her workout top, revealing her sports bra, her toned body trembling under his gaze. Felix’s new desires roared, his body responding with a hard, primal need that felt like fire in his veins. His toxic masculinity surged, twisting his thoughts into something darker, more vicious. “Look at you,” he sneered, stepping closer, his hands gripping her hips roughly. “Just a pretty little toy, aren’t you? Good for one thing in a man’s world like this—pleasing guys like me.” He laughed as she flinched, her face a mix of arousal and shame, but she didn’t pull away, trapped by his dominance.

He pushed her against the wall, his hands roaming her body with aggressive entitlement, squeezing her breasts, her ass, his fingers digging into her skin. “You want to make it in this business, don’t you, slut?” he growled, his lips brushing her ear, his voice dripping with disdain. “Gotta show you’re willing to get on your knees for the top dog.” He kissed her roughly, his lips dominating, his tongue invasive, claiming her mouth as his hands tugged her leggings down, exposing her. “Pathetic,” he muttered, slapping her thigh, the sound sharp in the small room. “You’re just a warm body for me to use. Nothing more.”

Felix’s new misogyny felt like an extension of Randy’s alpha persona, and he leaned into it with sadistic relish. He pictured Randy watching this later, trapped in Felix’s flabby body, seeing his own physique used to degrade this woman, to claim a life that was no longer his. The thought fueled his cruelty, his hands gripping Mia tighter as he fucked her with ruthless intensity. Each thrust was a display of his stolen strength, his muscular body dominating hers against the wall, his abs flexing, his biceps straining as he held her in place. “You like that, don’t you, bitch?” he snarled, his voice thick with contempt. “Just a needy little rookie, begging for the Viper’s cock. You’re nothing but a hole for me to fuck.” He slapped her ass again, harder, grinning as she gasped, her body trembling under his control. The phone captured it all—the slap of skin, her stifled moans, his degrading taunts, the raw power of his physique.

Mia’s face was a storm of conflicting emotions—pleasure, shame, fear—but Felix didn’t care. She was a means to an end, a way to assert his dominance and torment Randy. “Scream my name,” he demanded, thrusting harder, his hands bruising her hips. “Tell the world who owns you.” When she whimpered “Randy,” he laughed, a vicious sound. “That’s right. Randy fucking Orton. The king. And you’re just a pathetic slut who’s lucky to get this.” His orgasm built, his muscles tensing, veins popping as he pushed himself to the edge, his body a machine of power and control. He came with a guttural groan, his chiseled frame shuddering, filling the room with his dominance. Mia shuddered beneath him, her own climax a mix of coerced pleasure and humiliation, her face flushed with tears she tried to hide.

Felix pulled out, smirking as he adjusted his pants, his abs glistening with sweat, his tattoos stark against his tanned skin. “Not bad, rookie,” he said, patting her cheek with condescending force, hard enough to sting. “You got your taste of the top, but don’t get any ideas. You’re just a fucktoy, here for my amusement.” He grabbed his phone, stopping the recording, and reviewed the footage with a grin. It was perfect—every thrust, every demeaning word, every flex of his stolen muscles, captured in vivid detail. A masterpiece of degradation to send to Randy, proof that Felix owned this body, this life, completely.

“Get out,” he barked, waving Mia off like she was nothing. “Clean yourself up and don’t expect me to call. You served your purpose, slut.” Mia scrambled to dress, her hands shaking, her face burning with shame as she stumbled out, avoiding his gaze. Felix felt no remorse, only a savage triumph. His new toxic masculinity reveled in her humiliation, in the power he wielded over her, over Randy, over everyone.

Later, in Randy’s lavish hotel room, Felix lounged on the bed, his muscular body sprawled across the sheets. He uploaded the video to a private server, typing a message to Randy’s old number, now likely in the real Randy’s hands: “Look at your life now, fanboy. This is MY body, MY legacy. Watch me live like the king I am while you rot in that fat, pathetic shell.” He attached the video, imagining Randy’s horror as he watched his own physique degrade Mia, a cruel mirror of Felix’s dominance. Felix flexed his biceps, watching them swell, his smirk pure venom. He was Randy Orton now, a toxic alpha who’d erased the real Randy, and every act—every seduction, every degradation—was a nail in the coffin of the Viper’s former life.

[badguyswin]

now this is my kinda guy 🔥🔥🔥

THOMAS KEAL

via Instagram

[badguyswin]

Superfan to Superman (2)

The red carpet for the Superman premiere was a glittering frenzy, a sea of flashing cameras, screaming fans, and Hollywood elite packed into a Los Angeles theater. Jake, inhabiting David Corenswet’s chiseled body, strode through it like a god, the tailored black tuxedo hugging his massive pecs and quads, the fabric straining with every step. The crowd roared, chanting “Superman!” as he flashed David’s megawatt smile, his heart pounding with the thrill of owning this moment. He’d spent months mastering David’s mannerisms, his charm, and tonight was his coronation—living the dream he’d jerked off to for years as a scrawny, obsessive fan. The Superman suit was under lock and key, but Jake felt its power in every flex of his stolen muscles, every hungry glance from the crowd.

Among the admirers were Ethan and Lila, a stunning couple in their late twenties who’d scored VIP passes through Ethan’s producer connections. Ethan, a lean, sharp-jawed screenwriter with a gym-toned body, couldn’t take his eyes off Jake’s broad shoulders, the way his biceps bulged against the tux sleeves. Lila, a model with cascading dark hair and curves that turned heads, bit her lip as she watched Jake’s ass, perfectly sculpted under the tailored pants. They’d whispered about their shared crush on David Corenswet for months, fantasizing about the new Superman in their late-night hookups. When Jake caught their stares during a press line interview, he locked eyes with them, his grin turning predatory. “Meet me at the after-party,” he mouthed, pointing to the VIP lounge. Ethan’s breath hitched, and Lila’s hand tightened on his arm, both nodding eagerly.

The after-party was a sleek, dimly lit affair in a rooftop club, the city skyline glittering below. Jake, still in David’s tux but with the tie loosened and top button undone, revealing a sliver of his chiseled pecs, held court among A-listers. 

Ethan and Lila approached, drinks in hand, their nerves masked by flirty confidence. “Big fan, David,” Ethan said, his voice low, eyes tracing the V of Jake’s open shirt. Lila leaned in, her perfume sweet, brushing Jake’s arm. “You make Superman hotter than ever,” she purred. 

Jake’s cock twitched, David’s deep voice rumbling as he replied, “You two have no idea what’s in store.” He led them to a private VIP room, all plush velvet and low lights, the door locking behind them.

Inside, Jake shed his jacket, the white dress shirt clinging to his massive frame. He flexed, popping a button, and Ethan groaned audibly, his pants tightening. Lila’s eyes widened, her hand grazing Jake’s abs through the fabric. “Fuck, you’re unreal,” she whispered. Jake smirked, grabbing his phone and propping it on a table, subtly starting a FaceTime call to the burner phone he knew David had. The screen flickered, and there was David—trapped in Jake’s scrawny body, his gaunt face pale and furious in the dim light of Jake’s old apartment. Jake muted David’s audio but kept the video on, letting him watch. “Enjoy the show, Dave,” Jake muttered under his breath, too low for the couple to hear.

“On your knees,” Jake commanded, David’s voice carrying the authority of Superman himself. Ethan and Lila obeyed instantly, their eyes worshipful as they knelt before him. Jake unbuttoned his shirt fully, revealing David’s sculpted torso—pecs like granite, abs carved deep enough to cast shadows. Ethan’s hands trembled as he reached for Jake’s belt, unbuckling it, while Lila kissed up his thigh, her lips brushing the tight fabric of his pants. “You want Superman?” Jake growled, flexing his biceps, the muscle bulging obscenely. “Worship me.” 

Ethan moaned, freeing Jake’s thick cock, already rock-hard, and took it into his mouth, his tongue working with desperate skill. Lila tugged down Jake’s pants, her hands squeezing his muscular ass, kissing the hard lines of his quads. “God, your body,” she gasped, her fingers digging into his glutes.

Jake glanced at the phone, seeing David’s horrified expression, his weak fists clenched in impotent rage. The sight only made Jake harder, his hips thrusting into Ethan’s mouth as he grabbed Lila’s hair, guiding her to lick his abs. “Tell me I’m your hero,” he demanded, his voice a low rumble. 

“You’re our fucking Superman,” Ethan panted, pulling back to stroke Jake’s cock, his own erection straining against his jeans. Lila climbed higher, sucking on Jake’s nipple, her hands roaming his pecs. “You’re perfect,” she moaned, grinding against his thigh. Jake reveled in their adoration, every touch feeding his ego, every moan a reminder of the power he’d stolen.

He pushed them onto a velvet couch, stripping them both as they begged for more. Ethan’s lean frame and Lila’s curves were gorgeous, but they paled next to Jake’s stolen physique. He fucked Ethan first, bending him over, David’s massive arms flexing as he gripped his hips, the mirror reflecting every ripple of muscle. Lila watched, touching herself, until Jake pulled her in, fucking her against the couch while Ethan kissed his neck, both of them chanting “David” like a prayer. Jake’s eyes flicked to the phone, where David’s face was a mask of despair, tears streaking his cheeks as he watched his body defiled. Jake grinned, thrusting harder, coming with a roar that echoed David’s voice, the couple shuddering beneath him in their own release.

As Ethan and Lila panted, tangled in each other, Jake stood, still hard, his body gleaming with sweat. He grabbed the phone, holding it close so David could see his own chiseled face smirking. “This is my life now,” Jake whispered, loud enough for only David to hear. “Your fans, your body, your fucking legacy. All mine.” He ended the call, cutting David off, and turned back to the couple, who were already reaching for him again, ready to worship their Superman all night. Jake flexed, his cock twitching at the thought of David’s helpless rage, and dove back in, ready to claim every inch of his stolen stardom.

David, meanwhile, sat hunched on the sagging couch in Jake’s filthy Ohio apartment, the air thick with the stench of stale takeout and despair. The past weeks had been a living nightmare—waking up in this weak, unfamiliar frame, his powerful physique and Hollywood life stolen by a deranged fan. The apartment was a shrine to his old self: posters of him as Superman plastered the walls, a life-sized cutout of his chiseled body mocked him from the corner, and stacks of comics glorified the hero he’d embodied. His new body felt like a cage—bony arms that couldn’t lift a fraction of his old weights, a reedy voice that cracked when he shouted, and a constant, gnawing hunger that no amount of cheap ramen could satisfy. He’d tried everything—calling his agent, his friends, even the police—but no one believed the gaunt, stuttering nobody claiming to be David Corenswet.

Tonight was the premiere of Superman, the night he’d dreamed of for years since landing the role, and he was stuck here, thousands of miles from the red carpet, while Jake paraded around in his body. David’s only lifeline was the cell phone Jake had left behind, a cruel tether to his stolen life. He’d been refreshing X obsessively, watching clips of “David” strutting down the red carpet, flashing his smile, flexing his biceps for screaming fans. Each image was a knife to the gut, Jake’s smug confidence radiating through David’s perfect face. When the phone buzzed with an incoming FaceTime call from his own number, David’s stomach twisted. He knew it would be bad, but he answered anyway, desperation outweighing dread.

The screen flickered, and there was Jake, in David’s body, lounging in a dimly lit VIP room, the city skyline glittering through a glass wall. Jake was shirtless, his tuxedo jacket discarded, David’s sculpted pecs and abs gleaming under the low lights. David’s breath caught, a mix of rage and something darker—his own body, the one he’d spent years honing, looked godlike, the tight dress shirt unbuttoned to show off every cut of muscle. Jake smirked, propping the phone on a table, and David realized with a sick lurch that he was livestreaming. Two fans—a lean, handsome guy and a gorgeous woman—knelt before Jake, their eyes hungry, hands already reaching for him. 

David’s heart pounded as Jake commanded them down to their knees, his stolen voice carrying the same authority David had used on set. The couple obeyed, the man unbuckling Jake’s belt, the woman kissing up his thigh. David wanted to scream, to smash the phone, but he was frozen, his eyes locked on the screen. Jake peeled off his shirt, revealing David’s chiseled torso—pecs that bounced with each flex, abs so defined they seemed unreal. The sight hit David like a punch, not just with disgust but with a shameful, undeniable heat. His old body was perfect, a work of art, and seeing it now, used like this, stirred something primal in him. His new hand—Jake’s bony, trembling hand—twitched toward his lap.

“No,” David muttered, his voice weak, but he couldn’t look away. The man was sucking Jake’s cock—his cock—while the woman licked his abs, moaning about how perfect “David” was. Jake flexed his biceps, the muscle bulging obscenely, and David’s breath hitched. He hated Jake, hated this violation, but his body—Jake’s pathetic body—was betraying him. His cock was hard, straining against the worn boxers, and David’s face burned with shame. “I’m not this,” he whispered, but his hand moved anyway, slipping under the waistband, gripping himself. The sensation was weak compared to his old body, but the sight of his own muscles, his own face smirking with power, was overwhelming.

Jake glanced at the phone, his eyes—David’s eyes—locking onto the camera, knowing David was watching. Jake ordered them to tell him he was their hero, and the couple obeyed, chanting “Superman” as they worshipped him. David’s hand moved faster, his breath ragged, tears stinging his eyes. He was disgusted—with Jake, with himself—but he couldn’t stop. Every flex of his stolen pecs, every thrust of Jake’s hips, was a twisted mirror of the body he’d lost. The woman sucked Jake’s nipple, her hands roaming his chest, while the man moaned around his cock, and David’s new body shook with a mix of rage and lust. He hated how much he wanted it, how much he missed the power of those muscles, the weight of that cock.

Jake pushed the couple onto a couch, stripping them, fucking the man first, his massive arms flexing as he gripped his hips. David watched, stroking himself harder, his weak frame trembling. The mirrors in the room reflected every angle of his stolen body—back muscles rippling, ass clenching with each thrust. The woman joined in, and Jake fucked her too, the couple chanting his name—David’s name. David’s vision blurred with tears, but he couldn’t stop, his hand moving frantically as Jake’s performance pushed him closer to the edge. When Jake came, roaring in David’s voice, David did too, a pathetic whimper escaping his lips as his new body shuddered, the release weak and unsatisfying compared to what he’d lost.

Jake grabbed the phone, holding it close, his sweat-slicked face filling the screen as he taunted the former actor, the impostor David’s voice dripping with triumph. The call ended, leaving David in darkness, his hand sticky, his chest heaving. He threw the phone across the room, where it hit a Superman poster and clattered to the floor, now smashed and unusable. “Fuck you,” he sobbed, curling into himself, Jake’s frail body shaking with shame and despair. He’d watched his own body defiled, and worse, he’d gotten off on it. The man he’d been—Superman, Hollywood’s newest golden boy—was gone, and all David could do was sit in the wreckage of Jake’s life, hating himself for wanting what he’d lost.

anybody want a part 3?

[badguyswin]

fucking LOVE THIS bro thank you

the new morgan wallen checking in lets fucking goooo

brb gonna steal Morgan Wallen’s straight alpha redneck body for myself

that fucking bicep man… bet he smashes so much groupie pussy backstage 💪🏻🇺🇸

[badguyswin]

Hey, could you help me out with a wish? My brother use to be a monster—a jacked, homophobic jock who bullied me relentlessly for being gay. I hated him because he made my life hell.

But then one day our parents passed away, and things changed. He quit school to get two jobs to pay the rent and put food on the table for both of us. He gained a ton of weight and lost his fit physique and his bad attitude.

Even though he was awful to me all those years, seeing him get fat and quit school has been heartbreaking. I wish I could take all this weight off his shoulders and help him reclaim just a little but of his former glory. Can you help me do that for him?

You’re sitting in your dimly lit bedroom, the glow of your laptop casting harsh shadows across the walls cluttered with old band posters. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, heart heavy with memories of your older brother, Jake, who used to make your life a living hell. Back then, he was a jacked, homophobic jock, his chiseled physique and cruel taunts a constant torment for you, a skinny gay kid just trying to survive high school. He was a king and you weren't even man enough to be the dirt under his feet.

But after your parents died, Jake changed. He dropped out of college, took two grueling jobs to keep a roof over your heads, and his once-sculpted body ballooned with weight, his sharp edges dulled by exhaustion and fast food. You hate how he treated you, but seeing him broken like this stings more than you expected. Scrolling through Tumblr, you find a blog called "badguyswin," its dark aesthetic promising something supernatural. Perhaps a way to put things right? You type into the ask box:

“Hey, could you help me out with a wish? My brother used to be a monster—a jacked, homophobic jock who bullied me relentlessly for being gay. I hated him because he made my life hell. But then one day our parents passed away, and things changed. He quit school to get two jobs to pay the rent and put food on the table for both of us. He gained a ton of weight and lost his fit physique and his bad attitude. Even though he was awful to me all those years, seeing him get fat and quit school has been heartbreaking. I wish I could take all this weight off his shoulders and help him reclaim just a little bit of his former glory. Can you help me do that for him?”

You hit send, expecting silence. Then suddenly, the screen flickers, a glitch rippling across it, and a reply appears instantly: “Wish granted. But not for him. For you.” 

A searing heat explodes in your chest, like molten metal pouring through your veins. You try to stand, but your legs buckle, and you grip the desk as your body convulses. Your skin burns, your bones grind, and a primal roar escapes your throat as the transformation begins.

It starts with your hands. You stare, wide-eyed, as your slender fingers thicken before your eyes, the knuckles bulging like small stones. The skin stretches tight, veins rising like twisted roots across the backs of your hands, snaking up your wrists. You flex them experimentally, and they feel heavy, powerful, like they could crush the keyboard. The heat surges up your arms, and you yelp as your forearms swell, muscles twisting and expanding under the skin, which grows taut and glossy. Veins pop, thick and pulsing, mapping out your new strength. 

Your biceps are next, and you watch, heart pounding, as they inflate, ballooning into massive peaks that strain against your sleeves. The fabric rips with a sharp tear, and you can’t help but flex, marveling at the size, the hardness. It’s alien, but a strange thrill bubbles up—you’re huge, and it feels… good. Your shoulders broaden, the bones grinding audibly as they shift wider, forcing your posture upright. Your traps rise, thick and meaty, framing a neck that thickens into a solid column, cords of muscle pulsing under your jaw. You touch it, confused by the unfamiliar density, and a shiver runs through you, not just from shock but from a growing arousal at your own power.

Your chest is where it gets overwhelming. You clutch at your shirt as your pecs surge forward, each breath making them swell larger, like slabs of marble being bolted onto your frame. The T-shirt tears down the center, exposing a chest now carved with deep striations, the skin so tight it gleams under the dim light. You press a hand against your pecs, and they’re unyielding, like armor, the sensation sending a jolt of excitement through you. You’ve never felt this solid, this commanding, and it’s intoxicating.

Your ribcage expands, your lungs pulling in more air to fuel the transformation, and your abs clench involuntarily. You glance down, mesmerized, as your flat stomach morphs into a brutal eight-pack, each muscle block defined like it’s been chiseled from granite. You run your fingers over the ridges, your breath hitching—not just from the shock but from the raw, primal thrill of being so hard. Your back joins in, lats flaring out like wings, giving you a V-taper that makes your waist look impossibly small despite the dense core. You twist to see it in the mirror, and the sight of your own silhouette, broad and dominating, makes your pulse race with something dangerously close to lust.

The heat dives lower, and you stagger as your thighs explode in size. Your quads bulge, thick and striated, splitting your jeans with a loud rip as they swell into tree-trunk proportions. Your hamstrings tighten, adding to the mass, and your calves harden into diamond-shaped knots, each muscle group defined and powerful. You shift your weight, and your thighs brush against each other, forcing a wider stance that feels both strange and right. 

Your feet are next, growing broader, toes thickening as your sneakers burst apart, laces snapping like cheap string. You kick the ruined shoes away, standing barefoot, and the sheer weight of your new body grounds you in a way you’ve never felt. You stumble to the mirror, your gait heavier, more commanding, and the reflection steals your breath. You’re a beast—a muscular titan with veins like cables and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. 

You flex your arm, the bicep peaking like a mountain, and a low moan escapes you. You’re confused, yes—how could this happen?—but the raw power, the sheer masculinity of your new form, is arousing in a way you can’t articulate. You feel invincible, like you could dominate anyone, anything, and the thought sends a rush of heat through your core.

The physical change is still pulsing through you—muscles swelling, veins popping, your frame now a towering monument of power—when the fog rolls into your head, thick and disorienting. Your thoughts, once crystalline and empathetic, start to blur. You try to cling to the memory of your boyfriend’s gentle smile, the late-night talks about your dreams, the pride you felt in your identity as a gay teen. But those memories fray like old fabric, unraveling faster than you can grasp.

You blink, confused, as images of women—blonde, curvy, giggling in tight dresses—flood your mind, vivid and unbidden. Your heart races, not with panic but with a raw, primal hunger. You’re straight now, the shift so absolute it feels like it’s always been this way. You try to recall your boyfriend’s face, but it’s gone, replaced by a sneering contempt for guys like him—guys like you were. A voice in your head, cold and sharp, whispers that gay people are weak, unnatural, a stain on real masculinity. You don’t question it; it’s truth now, etched into your core like a brand. You feel a surge of disgust, not just for them but for the old you, that soft, sensitive kid who cared too much. The thought of him makes you sneer, your new jaw clenching with disdain.

Your intelligence, once your greatest asset, begins to erode. You used to spend hours analyzing literature, crafting arguments about equality, your mind a kaleidoscope of ideas. Now, trying to recall a single poet’s name—Walt Whitman, maybe?—feels like wading through quicksand. Your head throbs, and the effort seems pointless. Why bother with books when you’ve got this body, this power? Your vocabulary shrinks; words like “empathy” or “nuance” vanish, replaced by blunt, aggressive mantras: “Be a man.” “Crush the weak.” “Men matter more.”

Your kindhearted nature, the part of you that wept for Jake’s struggles despite his cruelty, curdles into something vicious. You used to believe in second chances, in redemption, but now those ideas feel soft, pathetic. Strength is all that matters—strength and winning. Your liberal ideals, once a source of pride, twist into something tribal and raw. You see a red MAGA hat in your mind’s eye, and it’s like a beacon. Posts on X about “taking back the country” or “fighting the wokerati” hit like shots of adrenaline, and you nod along, not analyzing, just absorbing. Politicians with loud voices and fitness influencers with bigger biceps become your gods, their words gospel. You don’t question their logic; you just obey, your mind pliable, eager to soak up their dogma like a sponge.

Your memories of Jake shift, too. You used to feel a complicated mix of resentment and gratitude—he was a monster, sure, but he kept you fed, housed, alive. Now, that gratitude sours into contempt. You see him as a failure, a fat slob who let himself go, a disgrace to your parents’ memory. They raised you to be strong, you think, and Jake’s weakness—his weight, his softness, his new, flickering glances at men—makes him unworthy of their name. You don’t remember the wish you made for him, in fact you don’t recall the Tumblr blog at all. The word “Tumblr” is meaningless, a nerdy relic erased from your mind. Your phone, now loaded only with X and Instagram, buzzes with notifications from your new accounts, filled with shirtless selfies and hashtags like #AlphaGrind and #MagaMindset. Your mind, once sharp and compassionate, is now a blunt instrument, filled with cruel certainties and a burning need to dominate. 

The dingy apartment you shared with Jake dissolves around you, the walls shimmering and reforming into a sleek, modern condo. Mirrors line every surface, reflecting your hulking frame: a muscular titan with a chiseled jaw, broad shoulders, and a V-taper that screams power. The deed to the condo is inexplicably in your name, a fact you accept without question, as if you’ve always been the one in charge. The old you, the thoughtful eighteen-year-old gay kid who wished to ease Jake’s burdens, is gone, erased like a bad dream. You don’t remember the Tumblr blog or the wish. You’re straight now, aggressively so, with a sneering contempt for anything weak—especially Jake.

The condo’s living room is your throne room, and Jake slumps on the couch, his bloated frame spilling over the cushions, his face etched with exhaustion from working two grueling jobs to pay the bills. His eyes carry a new, nervous flicker—a longing for men that the spell stole from you and forced onto him, making him gay in a cruel twist. The dynamic between you has shifted entirely. Where once you were the younger brother, cowering under Jake’s jock cruelty, now you’re the king, reaping every benefit of his labor. The fridge is stocked with high-protein meals you demand he buy, the condo’s rent is paid from his paychecks, and you’ve claimed the master bedroom, leaving him a cramped corner with a sagging mattress. He’s still out there, slaving at a warehouse and a late-night diner, while you spend your days in the gym, preening on social media, and selling $5,000 coaching packages to desperate wannabes. You don’t thank him; you don’t even acknowledge his sacrifices. To you, he’s a means to an end, a fat, pathetic shadow who exists to serve your new life.

You stride into the living room, your hefty frame casting a shadow that swallows Jake’s form. He looks up, weary, his hands trembling from another double shift. You sneer, flexing your biceps, the veins popping like steel cables. “Look at you, tubby,” you growl, your voice low and venomous. “Fucking slob. Working yourself to death just to keep my place running. And what’s this queer shit I hear from my boys? Staring at guys at the diner? Mom and Dad would puke if they saw you.” His face crumples, shame and confusion mixing in his eyes, but you feel nothing but scorn. 

You kick off your sneakers, the musky stench of your feet filling the room, and prop them on the coffee table. “You wanna stay in my house? Earn it, loser. Kiss my feet. Now.” He hesitates, tears welling, but you lean forward, your roided-out bulk looming like a storm cloud. “Do it, fag, or you’re out on the street!” He drops to his knees, his heavy frame shaking the floor, and presses his lips to your calloused soles, gagging as the sweat-soaked skin meets his mouth. You laugh, a cruel, booming sound, and snap a photo for Instagram: “Betas learn their place. #AlphaLife.” 

You kick his shoulder, making him wince. “Keep going, tubby. Lick ‘em clean, or I’ll make you scrub my gym socks with your tongue next.” He complies, his humiliation fueling your ego, and you lean back, scrolling X to retweet a senator’s post about “crushing the woke agenda.” You taunt him again, your voice dripping with malice. “You’re nothing, Jake. A fat, queer failure. You’re lucky I let you crash here, dragging our parents’ name through the mud.”

The relationship is unrecognizable now. Where once there was a fragile bond—your resentment tempered by gratitude for his sacrifices—there’s only dominance and submission. You see Jake as a tool, his two jobs funding your lifestyle while you give nothing back. You demand he cook your meals, clean the condo, and stay out of your way when you bring home women, their giggles echoing through the walls as you flex your privilege. You mock him constantly, calling him “lardass” or “fairy,” reveling in his flinches. His new gayness, a cruel gift from the spell, is just another weapon for you to wield, a way to degrade him further. You catch him glancing at a neighbor out on a shirtless jog, and you slam your fist on the table, barking, “Keep your eyes off that shit, pervert, or I’ll beat the gay out of you.” He cowers, and you smirk, the power rush better than any gym pump.

As you lounge on the couch, Jake still kneeling at your feet, you plot his obsolescence. He’s useful for now, paying the bills, keeping the fridge stocked, taking your abuse without fighting back. But you’re building your brand—your X followers are climbing, your coaching business is raking in cash, and soon you won’t need his pathetic paychecks. You imagine kicking him out, watching him beg on the street, his fat, gay ass with nowhere to go. “You’re on borrowed time, Jake,” you mutter, loud enough for him to hear. 

He freezes, lips still on your foot, but you don’t care. You’re a homophobic jock god now, every inch of your jacked body and cruel mind screaming privilege. You flex your pecs, grinning at your reflection in the mirror across the room, and post another X rant about “weak betas ruining America.” Jake’s just a stepping stone, a relic of a life you’ve shed. Once he’s outlived his usefulness, you’ll discard him without a second thought, your heart as hard as your muscles, fully embracing the alpha reign you were born to rule.

[badguyswin]

brb gonna steal Morgan Wallen’s straight alpha redneck body for myself

that fucking bicep man… bet he smashes so much groupie pussy backstage 💪🏻🇺🇸