jerisch

[jerisch]

Community Service

Barreling into town with a trunk full of documents he's supposed to destroy, Dawson's blackmailed into cleaning up the mess he makes. Though with every breath of fresh air this rural homestead starts to feel more like home.

Figured it's been a while since I had some gay cowboys, so here's a longer, romantic cowboy TF! Quite like this to hairy, muscular and musky men and hope you do too! -Occam

It didn’t matter why Dawson was traveling so quickly through the Texas countryside. It was of no business to the people he sped past what substances he may or may not have been under the influence of. Indeed, had he just stayed in his lane nothing none would have been the wiser his this midnight drive through nowheresville. Unfortunately for the man who sees consequence as beneath him, there was a sharp turn in the road he simply missed. Most people would’ve seen the sign, but who can blame him, it’s not like he usually drives himself anyway.

Unfortunately, the man’s speeding car plows straight through a pristine fence and leaves the earth sundered beneath the company car as he soars a few dozen yards into a field. Air bags deploy and before he even realizes what happens he’s out and concussed. 

Really, Dawson’s lucky to have just lost his car and consciousness. Come morning the suit awakes to find himself surrounded by locals of this shithole paging through some confidential papers that have escaped his wrecked car. He plasters on a smile in the chance that this isn’t a dream and snatches any documents he can reach telling himself this is all fine. Who hasn’t had a wild night. His bosses will understand, these yokels probably can’t even read!

When one of their ilk stands firm in the face of the smarmy businessman, he hedges his bets assuming he’s collected or destroyed anything actually important and prepares to beat a hasty retreat and make a few phone calls. His bosses will be too sympathetic about his accident to even care about the surely destroyed paperwork anyway.

Unfortunately for him, the young man who continues standing in his way pulls out a cellphone and turns it to the joyrider so he may see that it is too late to flee. Dawson sees evidence, an image of himself sitting next to more than a few open containers, some decidedly suspicious substance powdered in the passenger seat, and a half smoked cigarette that is clearly not tobacco. 

Even still this could be easily wiped away. Even the detailed video evidence of the destruction left in the wake of his company car. Money in the right hands would make it as if Dawson never stumbled through. But then the mystery cowboy flips over to scans of the illicit deals and corporate espionage that Dawson was explicitly told to hide from prying eyes and summarily destroy. Looking around at the crew of men around him, Dawson feels the world begin to close in on himself. He proceeds to throw up.

Coming to once more, the corporate shill finds himself in a bed he knows not to be his own, far too cramped. He blearily looks around the shabby suite. There he finds the ringleader of what must be his captors once more, nosily paging through some of his company’s dirty dealings. The mystery man looks up with disinterest as Dawson groans at his misfortune, “Uggghh- Kay, sure. Just let me know how much you want and I’ll be on my way.”

The man adjusts his hat and sets the documents down, “Sure do a lotta shady business dontcha Mr. Davis?” Dawson rolls his eyes, not too pleased at how much this nobody seems to know about himself and his company. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he ignores the man’s comment and continues to try and buy his way out of here, “Yeah yeah sure, business is business. A number. Go crazy, no one even has to know- check cash card, I’ll give you money enough to this shith-”

Before Dawson has a chance to understand the hole he has continued to talk himself into, he’s interrupted as his captor slams his hand against the side of his chair. The massive man stands and stares down at Dawson with an intensity he only thought one of his superiors could produce, it’s enough to stun the glib asshole into silence. Then the cowboy speaks, “I’m Wayne. Since yew didn't have the wherewithal t’ ask yerself. Course, I already know yer Dawson Davis and yew have cash to make all my dreams come true.”

After rolling his eyes a few times waiting out the man’s slow drawl, Dawson prepares some surely asinine retort but is silenced by a single raised finger from Wayne as he continues. “Don’t want that. I want yew put in yer place. Damage yew did, coulda killed someone Dawson. I ain’t gonna let you pay yer way outta this mess.”

Wayne stands and turns to head out of the room, revealing Dawson’s work laptop sitting at a desk opposite him. Mind glimmering with the escape he’ll make as soon as this dullard leaves the room, his fingers almost twitching with the anticipation of ordering a car to his location. He imagines the open air, the weight of this rural hellhole not even a memory. But , he can’t.

He can’t go back without ensuring Wayne deletes those docs. His ego more bruised than his face from the accident, Wayne’s reminded that he’s truly trapped. “We’re gonna have yew repair the damages done and then some. Unless of course, you want those images leaked.”

His heart sinks as he imagines being blackballed for something so stupid- no, by having his life ruined by someone so provincial. His expression twitches into a frown. Judging by the silence, Wayne knows his words have sunk in and he departs, “Yew just send whatever messages to let yer bosses know yer still kickin’ and all. I’ll have a plate set fer yew at dinner. Havin’ pulled pork so hope yew don’t mind gettin’ a little messy.”

The local has to hold back laughter as he turns to wink at the destitute man. He did genuinely want to help Dawson be a better man, it’s not his fault that forcing a rich asshole to get his hands dirty. Left to his thoughts and devices Dawson struggles to find any path forward that doesn’t lead to him listening to these simple-minded yokels. 

Soon enough, with a heavy sigh, he gives in. His slightly shaky hands type out an email that he’ll be out of work sick for a few days. That’s all it will all be. Just a few days in hell. A minor setback and he’ll be back in the city, his vehicular-fuckup not even a blip on the horizon.

Smelling what must be dinner wafting through the air, Dawson shuts his laptop before he can see his reflection in the dark screen. The email was some of the best work he’s done in some time, alluding that while he’s away he’ll still be hard at work. Getting the job done.

Following his nose downstairs through this mystery house, he’s surprised at how roomy it is. Passing some old framed photos of Wayne, he wonders why there’s no ring on that finger. Gaydar going off he then starts to see a new angle presenting itself, perhaps if money won’t do the trick, he’ll simply need to pull out some of that old Davis charm.

Plan hatched to get out on ‘good behavior’ rather than bribery, the man still clad in the suit he wrecked his car in offers to help with dinner. Wayne waves him off as he finishes up stirring something in a slow cooker, though suggests Dawson go and set the table. The corpo pats himself on the back for avoiding a snide remark at doing the menial task and sets to it, grabbing plates and silverware and leaving them haphazardly at a small table just before Wayne makes his way over with a sandwich-laden tray.

  He hadn’t 100% known what the sandwich was when Wayne mentioned it, but seeing this strangely red pork sloppily spill out onto his plate he can’t help but grimace. Already eating his own messy sandwich and knowing he too may as well try and bridge the gap between them, Wayne starts to chat in between bites, “So Mr. Bigshot what is ‘bout my neck of the woods that gets yew all riled up? Ain’t that bad is it?”

Off the grid for the first time in years, looking at what is to his eyes a knock-off sloppy joe, knowing it is Wayne’s way or the highway, Dawson relents. With a sigh, he levels with the brutish man blackmailing him, “Sure- Wayne, is it? Does looking at me not suffice? It’s simply a matter of phenotype, of class.”

Across the table Wayne grabs for a second sandwich and waits for him to go on, “Ah- Let me restate. I am, quite literally, not made for this world. This is probably the longest I’ve gone in years without being on my phone, and it’s only been about five minutes. But again look at me! I mean really, I’m not sure I can even do what you’ve asked of me or why you demand I do so. Your arms may as well be the size of my waist and mine likely have as much strength as your index finger.” 

 Dawson crosses his thin arms and looks away, uncomfortable at how overtly he praised the man even if it was simply stating the obvious. Doing so he misses the blush that prickles behind the cowboy’s bearded face as he clears his throat, “‘S fair,’s fair. Still I do think yew could learn to like it out here. Think all yew city folk could stand to be more at one with nature y’know? Spend some time with a community less obsessed with status and getting ahead. Do somethin’ that ain’t movin’ number ‘round on spreadsheets.”

The pair let Wayne’s words sit for a few moments, Dawson goes for his first bite and is less than pleased with the presumably pork detritus that falls abc to the plate as he does so. Sauce staining his face he pleadingly looks to Wayne for a napkin. The man laughs and wonders why he’s suddenly so charmed by a man that was so negligent as to drive not only recklessly but blackout drunk. He pushes that down as he helps the man anyway, “Was yer job to grab those y’know,” he offers with a wink before returning with his dirty plate to the kitchen proper.

“Want a beer boss?” Dawson would prefer stronger spirits but figures any hair of the dog he can get would help his still panging head. He doesn’t realize the mistake he’s soon to make as he lifts the cold bottle to his lips, as soon as the hoppy swill touches his tongue he realizes just how unprepared he was for a drink that cost less than he’d pay for water.

Foamy beer shoots out his nose as he tries to get the stuff away from his taste buds with expediency. Wayne almost does so himself as he laughs at the man’s hysterics. When he sees the man sputtering though he can’t help but feel a strange pang of an emotion that he again refuses to interrogate as he makes his way over with a towel once more. 

Soaked in spit-up beer, Dawson stumbles to his feet and apologizes for the mess. Now standing he sees the world in front of him begin to go topsy-turvy, almost falling before Wayne rushes to grab him. “Woah! Okay there partner, guess yer still recovering from the accident. Here, lemmme- Hup!” Wayne hoists the still dripping man up onto his back, for a moment he’s surprised. He carried him with ease earlier, and still does of course, but he does seem slightly heavier. 

This falls by the wayside anyway as the man’s sticky breath on the back of his neck begins to produce another problem. Feeling Dawson’s dainty hands gripping his pecs for dear life, hearing the quiet groans of a man he despised moments ago. The man’s pathetic, absolutely a dick, but Dawson can scarcely ignore the strange sensations rising within him more with each heavy step.

When he feels his cock begin to stir he hastens and less than carefully dumps Dawson on his guest bed before racing back out of the room. “Well yew sleep well now y’hear?” Dawson shoots a lazy thumbs up and Wayne pats the door frame a few times, possessed with a desire to stay and stare at the man, “tomorrow we’ll uhh work on sodding the land yew scuffed up so, uhh- get some rest.”

Wayne beats a hasty retreat to his own bedroom, readjusting his pants as he does so. He tries to force himself to remember his disdain, how spiteful Dawson was at their first encounter. Something weird is going on. Though when he too quickly drifts to sleep his subconscious is more than happy to follow his strange, unbecoming desires for the obnoxious man.

In fact both men dream of the other. It’s no wonder Dawson does so, after acknowledging the man’s physique and putting forth effort to find any upside towards his blackmail induced community service that his dreamself finds itself fixating on the hairy hands and burly arms of his blackmailer. To not acknowledge the man as hot would be a lie. In the waking world Dawson’s sticky hands paw at his crotch, struggling under his waistband to play with the throbbing cock. There they struggle against a burgeoning bush of pubes. He grumbles aimlessly, some part of him wondering when the last time he shaved, but it’s of no matter. 

Down the hall, Wayne’s dreams are decidedly stranger. It’s like the last twenty four hours are being rewritten. He finds Dawson in the field, asleep at the wheel. He hears him offer to pay for the damages just as he did, but then he offers a helping hand. The man who’d scarcely lift a finger to do any labor besides pushing paper offers to take part in cleaning up the mess he wrought. Dream Wayne starts to inspect the car wondering if the man was even being black mailed anymore, but then he sees the man’s hands and steps back in shock.

Gone are the thin pale fingers, the porcelain hand that has never lifted an object heavier than a stapler. At the end of Dawson’s arms are hands with palms rough enough to not need a glove, hairy wrists that he knows the suit would Nair away in an instant. Realizing this is a dream Wayne begins to turn away to hopefully awaken, just before doing so however, he sneaks a peak of the man’s face. Wayne blinks and in less than a moment the man’s visage changes absolutely. His jawline sharpens and bulges before it’s hidden by a thick, musky beard. 

Wayne tries to close his eyes to not see the man transforming through nothing but the power of his own imagination. This only makes the cracking of bones and stretching sounds of muscle growing all the more vivid. The sound of his posh voice deepening with every grunt drives Wayne wild as he humps his bed from the dream of ecstatic transformation. Separated by a few doors both men lose control at the same time. And then the rooster crows. 

Awakening face down and feeling his crotch damp, Wayne pushes down everything and prepares for the day ahead. No need to think about the strange nightmare, wet dream, whatever- if he doesn’t give himself time to think at all. Grabbing some old, sure to be too large, clothes for Dawson to wear, he tosses them into the guest room without looking and runs to prepare the equipment for their work today.

With his hand down his pants, Dawson is grateful that his host seems disinterested in checking up on him. He hears the man shout, “get rinsed up and ready for some hard work D- Coffee’s goin’ in the pot.” Dawson does just that, not wondering how he knows his way to the bathroom upstairs. 

Left to his own devices for just this moment however, Dawson takes a look in the mirror and his eyes blur. He knows what he looks like, knows what he should look like. And yet, the man now reflected back at him is not that. Though, with each moment lost to the confusion that begins to change. His life up to this point begins to unravel and stitch back together.

Memories of eating barely enough to sustain a human body are washed away and replaced by the life of a man who takes care of himself, for vanity if nothing else. He feels his shoulders strain from holding arms far heavier than the twigs he should have had, before they too widen and burst larger with new strength. Ribs that have always been exposed through his pale skin are suddenly obscured by muscle he never imagined he’d grow or care enough to maintain.

Were he still wearing a shirt, its buttons would surely pop off as his thin chest is suddenly decorated with two delectable pecs that must have taken countless hours in the gym to produce. At the same time, across his form his pale skin begins to glow with a tan. The life spent more under phosphorescents and LEDs than the sun begins to feel unfamiliar as his upper body burns a healthy bronze. As his changes begin to wane, his hair shifting darker and messier as a treasure trail begins to make its way up his waist. 

He recalls his conversation last night with Wayne, over a beer he thinks? He remembers eyeing the man’s form with jealousy? No something else. Dawson flexes in the mirror and tries to imagine himself being more like Wayne, being more of a man. His chest quivers as his face burns red from the effort of flexing and before he can even take a shower he’s summoned by Wayne from outside, “Eyup! Ready to get to ‘er D!?” 

Briefly smelling his pits to see how much he actually needs a shower he almost laughs as he can barely make out any b.o. underneath the hefty deodorant and cologne he had put on previously. Throwing on Wayne’s hand me downs, Dawson finally departs and takes in the homestead with sober eyes for the first time. Sighing wistfully he can’t help but appreciate the sunrise through the thick tree cover. Then he smells the outdoors and grimaces, he much prefers city stink to whatever that odor is. 

Hopping in Wayne’s pickup, already loaded with sod and some tools, Dawson realizes he has no idea what became of his company car. Pit opening in his stomach he promptly discards his growing appreciation of the country to inquire about the car, “Good morning Wayne~ You wouldn’t happen to know if my truck was still in working condition, or uh, what you guys did with it?”

Wayne eyes him wryly as he starts driving the few blocks towards his crash site, “Yer truck?” It takes a few moments of Dawson looking him up and down before he realizes why that’s even strange, when he does he stammers embarrassed. Obviously he meant car, obviously. He can’t even imagine himself behind the wheel of something so large, so obnoxious. 

Distracted, he pouts to himself and quietly opts to watch the driver rather than the countryside. He looks at the man’s hairy arms with envy, tracing his veiny biceps and wondering how long he’d need to spend in the company gym to get as shredded as him. Biting his lip, his wandering mind can’t help but flicker back to his dream last night as his gaze trails down to the man’s crotch for the first time.

His mouth almost begins watering as he sees the package barely obscured by the rough and tumble man’s stained jeans. He can’t help but let his mind wander out of his control. Soon enough one of his hands begins to reach to the driver’s meaty thighs. 

“Woah there!?” Before it can even get close the hand is snatched by Wayne whose mouth squirms into an uncomfortable grimace. Dawson looks to the man’s face, leaving him unaware as even this contact is enough to force Wayne’s cock to twitch.

He clears his throat to cover his embarrassment and the sound of his pants straining before quickly hard braking the truck. “Well, here we are, lemme uhh, go get set up then. Yew ever gardened before there Dawson?” The clerk lets his silence speak for him as he too hops out of the raised truck. When his feet hit the hard packed earth he flexes his toes and realizes how the pair of Wayne’s work shoes he was swimming in suddenly seem to fit better. Much better.

Sneaking up behind his driver, Dawson watches as Wayne stretches to prepare for some heavy lifting. He almost feels possessed as he stares at the man’s bulging form being stretched to its extremes. Hungrily staring at every bulging muscle on the man, Dawson feels himself start to get riled up in more ways than one.

Every inch of his own body begins to burn, itch and grow. Seeing Wayne bend down, Dawson feels his ass and thighs twitch larger as with every movement of the country boy leaves his outfit fitting better on Dawson. Torn between mimicking the man and pawing at his cock pumping larger, Dawson figures after being caught staring once at the country boy today he might as well try to not let his cock completely control him. 

Doing his best to shadow tha man, Dawson grunts and groans from the effort expended by stretching his new form. His arms lengthen, giving biceps new room to grow as they fill the suddenly tight tee Wayne lent him. Now struggling to cross his arms in front of him as pecs continue to bulk and bulge larger, Dawson smirks and closes his eyes as he imagines his meaty arms starting to rival those of Wayne. 

Seeing the man pull his calves and extend his thighs Dawson struggles to not take the opportunity to stare at the bulge made all the more obvious. Instead he simply continues stretching as if he’s done it every day of his own life. Biting his lip, Dawson feels his borrowed jeans begin to fill with thighs thicker than he can even imagine. Feeling the prickle of hairs rubbing against the rough garment as from cock to toes he begins to feel the itch of new dense growth.

In no time at all, and before they’ve even truly begun to work, Dawson’s clothes are completely soaked through with sweat. His thicker neck glistens under the morning sun as disparate dark patches on his hairy thighs begin to show on the denim. The man once wholly concerned with the rat race grunts from the exertion of growing muscle he would’ve sworn his thin frame couldn’t support. Overheating, he grunts as he tries to remove Wayne’s shirt, now stuck to him from the intense sweat.

Doing so, Dawson doesn’t notice as his voice sounds deeper and rougher than the smooth corporate tone he usually maintains. The same cannot be said for Wayne, who falls to the floor from shock as he hears the man’s deepening voice. Flashing back to the moment just before he woke up, he scrambles away as he sees what has become of the businessman that should be standing before him. 

Dawson tilts his head in surprise as Wayne looks at him with what can only be described as fear. “What’s up Wayne? Gotta cramp or something?” He smirks, still unaware of his changing timbre or the simplification of his performatively haughty syntax, “Or are you just jealous of how big I’m getting hah!” Now escaped from his shirt, Dawson makes his way over to help the man up. Gulping as Dawson approaches him, Wayne tries to reconcile and understand what’s happening. His mind racing as he holds two realities in his head at once.

His eyes flicker across Dawson’s clearly changed form, seeing his toes poking at the front of his own tennis shoes that should be sizes too large and a wide Adam's apple bugling out of his neck. He sees thick pecs being held back by overall suspenders that he would’ve sworn hung halfway down the man’s waist minutes ago. When Dawson reaches down to help him up, there is no recourse but to take it. And then he feels the rough hand he knows he dreamt about.

Hoisted up, face to face with a man that absolutely should be shorter than himself, he feels his mind wiped. Something has changed, this is not the man who barrelled into his life with a trunk full of corporate fraud and secrets. Lost in a haze he shakes it off to focus on what they’re here for, pushing down on his rising erection to get to work. And work they do. 

Though it takes much of the day, together the pair make light work of the mess Dawson made. With each bit of grass laid, the motions and rigors of manual labor feel more and more familiar to Dawson’s hands. Soon enough the idea that he’d be sending emails and disparaging underlings right about now begins to feel anathema to the still growing man. 

In between every labored breath and peaceful exhalation, the pair steal looks of each other. Looks of hunger, of need, of familiarity. It’s strange how malleable they seem in each other’s mind. Dawson clearly remembers he didn’t want to do this, he knows Wayne had to convince him somehow. But for the life of him he can’t remember why he’d need to be harangued to clean up his own mess. At the same time Wayne struggles to remember his muscular helper as anything but, starting to see him more as a new transplant to the community than anything untoward.

This instinct is not helped as in nearing up their hard work for the day, Dawson wipes his sweaty brow with the discarded shirt and whines, “Yo- did you bring any of those beers out here Wayne?” Nodding, he goes to his cabin and grabs one from an ice chest. Tossing it over he watches as Dawson takes a contented swig before sighing in ecstasy, “oooh yeah~ No better way to follow up a job well done eh?” Stubble prickles on the man’s once clean shaven face as droplets sneak past his wanting lips. 

Wayne’s eye twitches as he can clearly recall Dawson doing such a poor job stomaching the stuff that he almost passed out from coughing it up. Staring at the man happily drinking the stuff as his tanned skin glistens in the sun, his desires begin to cloud his memory once more. Lust decidedly distracting him from the way the world should be. He’s not about to act on it however, instead getting in his car and calling for Dawson to do the same. “Finish that up, before hoppin’ in now-”

Tossing the can into the bed, Dawson rolls his eyes, “Ah come now, talkin’ about me like I’m irresponsible.” Wayne’s brow furrows as he turns the key and starts driving before his passenger’s even buckled up. Locked in the cabin with him, the driver is relentlessly distracted by the smell of his sweat. His mouth waters as he imagines the man’s sweaty pits and musky pubes. He doesn’t know how he makes it home without his cock bursting through his pants.

Just about doing so, he leaves the key in the ignition and sprints into his home. Dawson cries after Wayne, shocked at the bizarre haste of his flight. Barely making it into the bathroom before the friction of his needy cock rubbing against his jeans causes him to lose control, he ruts against the tight pants and falls to the floor as his mind is filled with innumerable images of Dawson as he is now. Each one adamantly suggesting that the idea of him being any different is ludicrous.

Still at the truck Dawson’s mind begins to change likewise. Walking over he takes the keys to the truck, to the house before turning to the equipment left in the bed. And then he begins to unload. Scratching his chest, a few curls begin to prickle out of his sweaty skin as he single handedly begins to load tools and machinery back into a workshop he has never been in before. 

The few new curls in his pits expand with haste, dripping with sweat as the bush extends halfway down his biceps. His treasure trail expands to encompass the whole of his stomach as every trip back and forth from truck to shed leaves him more of a man than before. Thick dark hairs launch over his clavicle as a peak of heady curls race to coat the center of his chest, creating singular coverage from his pubes to his burgeoning beard.

By the time he’s finished getting everything in its proper place Dawson can scarcely imagine a different life. Forcing his nose into his own hairy pits he smirks as he delights in how musky he’s left after an honest day's work. He scratches at his sweaty pubes and wonders what Wayne’s up to inside. All the while the few strands of stubble left on his jaw begin to expand and thicken. Sideburns shoot down his rougher cheeks as a mustache begins to decorate his upper lip.

His stomach rumbles as he crosses the threshold into their- er, into Wayne’s home. Scratching his hairy, muscular gut with equally furry thick fingers he figures he might as well start dinner for the both of them. Going for the fridge he finds a few containers of leftover pulled pork and his mouth begins to water. That’ll do nicely. Grabbing a cast iron and starting the gas stove, Dawson cries out, “Honey I’m home~”

Unaware that he lost consciousness during his release, Wayne hears the man’s voice carry through the air, rugged and melodic. He can’t stop his response as he meekly responds, “Duke-” His pupils dilate as the life he knows, begins to change into something new, unfamiliar but true. 

Stumbling out of the bathroom with a towel tied around his waist, Wayne sees Duke in a similar state of undress, overalls hanging down, exposing his jungle of pubes as he stirs at the pan. Dawson Duke turns to smile at his uh, his? Neither man is quite sure what exactly their relationship is. Wayne watches as the final changes begin to occur to Duke’s body. Muscles hardening with age as the few inches of exposed skin not decorated with his pelt are swiftly decorated with new dark curls.

Veins criss-cross down the man’s arms as he puts on a little show for his partner, calling out to him in his rough new baritone, “Hey there Wayney- Know we just finished up out there but I’m feelin’ like I’m good fer another round ‘f yew know what I mean.” Not exactly one for subtlety, or at least not anymore. Wayne feels butterflies he hasn’t felt in years as he stands in the presence of his partner

Watching Duke scratch his pubes and beard with the same hand while cooking, he kicks himself for always falling for such fixer-uppers. Nevertheless his cock begins to stir once more. Walking over to the man who eyes him like a puppy dog, Wayne purses his lips just to see what the newly-burly man will do. Duke stops his little arms show and just watches, trying to make heads or tails of what his partner is doing. 

Wayne leans in close before pulling the sweaty man into an embrace. Feeling Duke vibrate with excitement as his cock instantly grows rockhard, he sees the pan on the stove behind him and instead whispers into the brute’s ear, “Left dinner runnin’ there Duke.” Having forgotten everything in the world as soon as his eyes fall on Wayne, as he often does. Duke curses before returning to his task, lest he ruin their dinner and be playfully mocked by Wayne, “Shit!” 

Looking around their shared homestead, Wayne feels a weight he didn’t even know he was carrying lifted. Some unknown peace comforting him more than he can know. This is right, how it should be. Preparing the table before wandering back behind Duke with a damp towel to wipe his hairy shoulders clean, Wayne continues teasing, “‘Sides yew know we ain’t gonna fuck ‘til we clean up your mess in Ant n’ Jonah’s field.”

Duke groans as his cock pushes against the overalls. Not like he was joyriding or anything. He had to swerve or he’d hit that deer, uhh he thinks. Never been the sharpest tool in the shed but he’s pretty sure that’s what happened. Whatever, he’s not worried. Sides, he can’t wait to use their new post digger! Almost gets him as excited as getting off with Wayne, heh! 

And so the pair go on, neither quite remembering the finer details of their lives before now, though without a doubt knowing there is no better world out there for either. Ratrace behind him the kinder but duller Duke does real good in the world. Helping out their community and finding real bliss in doing what he can, as well as of course in the arms of his lover, his husband, Wayne.

For his part, Wayne didn’t even realize how lonely he was. Forcing himself to be the masc civil leader of their little hamlet left him little time for anything but the sweat of his brow. Now with a friendly face to return home to rather than a large empty house, Wayne finally allows himself time to relax. All in all, with the new southern lovebirds, their community has never flourished more.

[jerisch]

He hired a personal trainer, and at first, it was going well. They'd meet 2 times a week. Do a few trenches before getting into simple workout routines. But after a few weeks of doing this, things started to change. Evan noticed his trainer pushing for them to meet three times a week, rhen four, before it became five.

Evan wanted to say no, of course. However, he found himself going along with it. After all, he was paying the guy to help him build muscle. So the trainer knows what is best, right? It was then they started doing more vigorous workouts rhar left Evan feeling exhausted shortly in.

He endured it, though, when his trainer praised him for doing good work. Using it as motivation to push through the soreness. Telling himself the guy knows best, and he was already seeing good results of his muscle gains. It evolves from their with his trainer putting him on a diet and urging him to do meal preps. Something Evan was adamant at the start of this to not want to do.

But now it made sense for him to, right? He wanted to be huge, and his trainer was helping him gain his goal. All this, within the first month of hiring his personal trainer and looking at Evan now with how huge he is, one would think he spent years maintaining his physique.

When the next week starts he finds he no longer needs his trainer. Evan knows all he needs to now. His mind even went as far as to shift, making him more knowledgeable, so he was now a personal trainer to help make buys into muscle brutes like him.

[jerisch]

Evan stumbled into the bathroom, yawning, scratching the back of his neck. Another sleepy morning, another forgettable day. He barely even opened his eyes as he flicked the light on, letting the harsh fluorescent hum fill the small, dingy room. The mirror, streaked with old water stains, reflected back his pale, slight frame — but something made him blink.

Hard.

The man in the mirror wasn’t him.

At least, not exactly.

The figure standing where he should have been was a giant of a man — thick with muscle, dense with a heavy forest of chest hair, his beard sprawling past his collarbones. His arms bulged with cords of strength, veins thick and prominent. His hair was cropped short on the sides, a little longer on top, styled into a sharp, effortless look of rugged dominance. His face was weathered, mid-30s maybe — mature, confident — a few faint creases at the eyes that spoke of experience, but no weakness.

Evan’s breath hitched. He reached toward the glass. The man in the mirror mimicked him perfectly, hand rising.

Then the mirror spoke.

"You’ve always been this way, not Evan..." the voice rumbled, rich and commanding. "Your name is Eric."

The name hit him like a strike to the chest — wrong and right at the same time. Evan opened his mouth to object, but the sound dissolved on his tongue. Eric. Of course. It sounded natural. Strong. Familiar.

The voice continued, sliding through him like a slow, irresistible current. "Eric Steele. Born to be bigger. Born to be more."

A shiver ran through him as his body responded first. His shoulders pulled wider with a low, grinding stretch. His arms grew thick and heavy with muscle, veins webbing across them like rivers of molten iron. His chest swelled forward, two massive plates of strength, dusted with thick, dark hair that spread greedily over his pecs, arms, down into a heavy trail across his abs.

His beard surged outward, black and coarse, blanketing his jawline, framing a face that hardened into something fierce and commanding. His hair tightened into a neatly rugged cut — short, faded sides, a dense, heavy top that made him look even more powerful.

"You're not some nobody stuck in an office," the voice whispered, "You're a self-made man. Owner of Steele Ironworks. A real empire."

Images flooded his mind: rows of weightlifters clanging plates, men cheering as he benched impossible weight, his name on the wall in bold steel letters. The life of a small, invisible man disintegrated, forgotten.

The mirror shimmered, and his surroundings changed with it. The bathroom stretched larger, walls of black slate and chrome fixtures gleaming under industrial lights. The sink morphed into a thick slab of stone, sturdy enough for a man like him. The old, peeling door frame widened, as if recognizing it needed to accommodate his size.

"You're thirty-five years old now. In your prime. Built by work, sweat, and respect."

He watched his reflection age up, subtly but surely — fine lines creasing at the corners of his intense, dark eyes, a faint peppering of gray starting at the temples and threading into his thick beard. It didn't make him look older; it made him look formidable.

He flexed an arm absentmindedly, marveling at the tight coil of muscle swelling under his skin, at the thick mat of body hair running across his chest and thick thighs. His calves, once narrow and weak, were now broad and heavy, like stone pillars.

"Your hobbies, your life — it's all built around power," the mirror coaxed. "Iron. Brotherhood. Competition. Triumph."

And it was true. He remembered the heavy smell of the gym, the roaring engines of his motorcycle, the brothers he'd fought and laughed with. The empty hobbies of Evan — gaming, Netflix binges, scrolling social media — vanished, slipping from his brain like a bad dream.

He grinned, flashing perfect, strong teeth. Eric Steele. The name felt natural, like a second skin — no, like the only skin he'd ever worn.

The mirror stilled.

The man inside it no longer whispered, no longer coaxed. He simply stood, a reflection now, matching him perfectly. Matching Eric Steele.

There was no Evan. There had never been.

Eric ran a thick hand through his beard, feeling its heavy texture, admiring the way it framed his sharp jawline. His hand traced the curve of his powerful chest, the trail of hair down his torso, the sheer dense mass of himself. He was pride made flesh.

Without another thought, Eric turned from the mirror, his wide shoulders brushing the frame as he passed through the doorway into the rest of his reality — a world he didn't know had ever been different.

Behind him, the mirror stayed still.

Silent.

Waiting.

[jerisch]

Building a Team, Part I

Damn appointment in the middle of nowhere! Stupid rural area with no cell service, fucking GPS that had dragged him out into this godforsaken nothingness! This couldn’t be real. He was going to miss the meeting, and then Miller would tear him a new one. Great—there went the promotion...

He leaned his head out the window. Left or right? Well, probably right. Or maybe left. Oh, fuck it all...

This just kept getting better and better. Now the goddamn piece of junk had broken down completely. He waved his hand, which he had burned trying to pry open the hood. "As if that was going to help anything," he muttered, staring at the thick white smoke billowing out at him.

He had absolutely no idea how to fix a car—or what the hell was even broken. Frustrated, he kicked the front tire. Then he looked at his watch. Fantastic. The meeting was in twenty minutes and he had no clue where the hell he even was.

He hadn’t seen another car in at least half an hour, and all around him were nothing but fields, trees, and bushes.

“Well then,” he muttered, “guess we’ll have to find a goddamn garage...”

It was scorching hot, he was thirsty, and he’d been trudging through the middle of nowhere for what felt like an eternity. Why the hell had the old man sent him of all people on this ridiculous assignment? The client could’ve just come to their office in Cologne like any normal person to sign the damn purchase agreement. But no — the fancy gentleman insisted on being visited at home. Fuck him!

The small, run-down gas station looked like a bad movie set from some forgotten American road film — and felt completely out of place in the Eifel. "Gas" and "Garage/Service" were scrawled across the grimy, half-collapsing buildings, but to him they might as well have said "Luxury Spa" or "Five-Star Resort." His tongue was stuck dry to the roof of his mouth, his designer shoes had rubbed bloody blisters into his feet, and he was certain he smelled like a dead skunk. The squat little buildings were a revelation — a desert oasis. And there was someone here: a light was on in the garage bay, and a faint trail of music drifted from a radio inside. "Hello? Anyone there? I've got a bit of a problem..." No answer. Fine. Then he’d just go in.

The front room of the garage was some kind of office — filthy, grimy, chaotic, and with a stench so potent it hit him like a slap: motor oil, cold cigar smoke, and sweat. For a moment, nausea rolled through him, and he seriously reconsidered whether coming in here had been a mistake when—

A massive guy entered, wiping his oily fingers on a rag so filthy it seemed more ceremonial than functional. The man looked like he’d been dipped in grease, his mullet more animal nest than haircut, a heavy mustache squatting beneath his nose. His gut stretched the fabric of a once-white tank top, and a cheap cigar clenched between his lips filled the air with a toxic cloud. Despite everything, Mortimer forced a smile.

“Well, what have we got here?” the man grunted.

“Excuse me,” Mortimer began, “my car broke down, and—”

“No problem, I’ll take a look. Name’s Harald.” The man extended a grease-slicked paw. Mortimer hesitated, then gave it a limp shake.

“Mortimer Hohenlohe. It’s a BMW—a rental. I’m not sure what happened, but it started making weird sputtering sounds and then smoke came pouring out of the engine. I—”

“These new cars are all crap. Rolling computers. You’re lucky it’s not an EV—those bastards catch fire, and you’re done for. Where’d you break down?”

“About an hour on foot down the road, that way.”

“Damn, you’ve hoofed it, Morty. Let me finish up something here, then I’ll check it out. But you look like you could use a drink.”

“Water would be great.”

“I got cola, Morty.”

“I’ll take it.” God, how he hated being called Morty, but he bit his tongue. Best to stay polite—after all, this guy might just be his only lifeline out of this mess.

“Oops! I can be such a klutz sometimes!”

Mortimer stared down at himself in disbelief. The idiot had managed to spill the entire contents of the mug he'd been handing him all over his chest.

“That’s… fine. I’ll just take the suit to the cleaners.”

“Nah, I’ll wash it for you! Stuff like that’ll leave a stain.”

“No, really, that’s not necessary. It’s an Italian designer suit—you can’t just throw it in a washing machine!” Even the idea of his tailored suit tumbling around with this man’s grease-stained work clothes was offensive.

“But at least rinse it with water, mate. Come on, I’ll show you the bathroom.”

“I…”

“Don’t worry, I got something clean for you to wear while it dries.”

Mortimer let out a quiet sigh. “Fine…”

At least the coveralls and undershirt were clean. They smelled faintly of mothballs and an old wardrobe, but it was tolerable. Clean was clean. Which was more than he could say for the disgusting bathroom. Absolutely revolting. He glanced at himself in the grimy mirror and rolled his eyes. What a goddamn day…

"When will you be able to take a look at my car? I don't mean to rush you, but…" "Told ya, gotta finish this up first. Then I’ll grab a quick sandwich and we’ll head out. Go ahead and take a cigar if you want, Morty — helps pass the time." "No, thank you. I don’t smoke." "Suit yourself, Morty!" Did he just wink at him? Good God almighty…

The air in the tiny break room was thick enough to slice. Harald was puffing cigar after cigar, and the stench was already clinging to Mortimer’s hair and clothes. The mechanic grinned and casually blew a stream of smoke straight in his direction. Mortimer coughed and squinted his eyes.

"You'll get used to it, trust me, Morty. After a while, you can't live without it. Anyway, gotta take a leak. There’s a sandwich left in the fridge — it’s yours if you want it."

"No, thank you, I—"

"Morty, just eat! You’ve been hoofin' it all day and you look like you’re about to keel over." Harald stood, slapped him hard on the shoulder — hard enough to make him flinch — and strolled out, whistling.

Mortimer didn’t want to eat that sandwich. But... he really was starving. Well, maybe just a look couldn’t hurt.

He had to admit, the sandwich tasted good. Damn good. He rarely ate bread — and never white bread with cheese, mayo, and ham. But this? This hit the spot. For the first time since getting lost in the middle of nowhere, he actually started to relax a little. Screw the client. Screw the boss. The thought made him smirk.

And then he saw it — the smoldering cigar Harald had apparently left burning on the edge of the table. Its smoke curled up into the stale air, sharp and spicy, almost... inviting. Inviting? He must’ve really lost it.

He wanted to get rid of the cigar, but there was no ashtray in sight. He could just toss it in the sink, but that felt rude… and wasteful. He licked his dry lips, feeling a strange, almost magnetic pull. No. That was disgusting. He hadn’t spent years eating clean, hitting the gym four times a week, and swallowing a small pharmacy of supplements just to end up here, sitting in a grimy garage, about to smoke a cheap cigar.

Ridiculous.

He had never smoked a single thing in his entire damn life. Addiction was for losers. He clenched his jaw. And yet—his fingers trembled. "One puff won’t hurt," something whispered, sly and foreign, deep in the back of his mind.

No. Absolutely not. Never.

And then, almost without thinking, he brought the cigar to his lips.

The nicotine surged through his body like a tidal wave, loosening every tense muscle. Peace. Just… peace. He took another drag, feeling the unfamiliar weight of the cigar between his lips—foreign, yet oddly comforting. Another pull, deeper this time. No coughing. Strange.

The smoke was hot, sharp, scratchy, soothing, revolting, glorious, dreadful—exactly what he hadn’t known he needed. Yes. Now that he thought about that client, that Mr… shit, what was his name again? Whatever. The guy who wanted to sign that thing. That… thing. God, why couldn’t he remember the word?

Didn’t matter.

Another drag, deeper still, the tingling above his upper lip growing more distinct with each puff. Just a few more moments… to relax.

The old man, Mr. Mi… Mr. Mi… shit, what was his name again? Who cares. He could kiss his ass for all he cared. Stupid job. Same crap every damn day. And for what? Just to afford a membership at some pussy-ass gym? To live in a soulless designer apartment that looked exactly like every other overpriced catalogue clone?

No. Screw that.

He should be living like Harald—free, not giving a damn what anyone thought. He took a long drag, the smoke curling deep into his lungs, the tension in his chest melting away. Yeah, this… this felt good.

Wait—what the hell was he thinking? He didn’t want to be like Harald. That was ridiculous… wasn’t it?

But one thing was for damn sure—Harald wasn’t a pussy. His muscles weren’t sculpted in some boutique gym, they were earned the hard way—through real, dirty, backbreaking work. The kind of strength you didn’t flex for Instagram, but used to lift engines and fix shit that actually mattered. And Harald didn’t care if he reeked of sweat, cigar smoke, and grease. That was who he was.

He took a deep drag, let the smoke curl slowly from his nostrils, eyes still closed, a grin spreading across his lips. It was a stupid fantasy, wanting to be like Harald. No one really wanted that. No one in their right mind, anyway.

Or… did they?

And then it hit him like a thunderclap. His eyes snapped open. Holy fuck—what the… Shit!

He looked down at himself, horrified. A thick gut now pushed out against the once-loose coveralls, stretching the fabric of the grimy undershirt taut. Heavy arms and a broad chest rippled with strength, yes—but buried beneath a solid layer of fat. He could feel the weight of it with every breath, feel the warm breeze brushing against his scalp—his bald scalp.

He wanted to scream, to wake up from this nightmare. But instead, his hand moved on its own, the cigar found his lips, and he took a long, steady drag.

“Well, looks like you're settling in just fine, Morty.” “What the hell is this fucked up shit? And stop calling me Morty, you lunatic! I’m not—” “Not what, little guy?” “I’m not… like you!” “Oh yeah? And what are you? Some fancy-ass suit poser from the city?” “I’m a real es… esta....”

It was like someone had yanked a plug out of Mortimer’s brain. He could feel it—knowledge leaking out of his skull, slipping away like water down a drain. Panic surged as he clutched his temples, feeling the slow, sickening drain of thoughts, ideas, vocabulary. He was getting… dumber?

He screamed.

“Don’t fight it, kid,” Harald said, voice calm like a lullaby wrapped in oil and smoke. “You can’t stop it anyway. You wanted freedom, didn’t you? Well, you’re finding it. Right here. And boy, you really needed it.” He grinned, exhaling a cloud of cigar smoke. “Who needs a 130 IQ to wrench on cars and enjoy life with Harald? Hell, ninety’ll do just fine. And look on the bright side—what you lose in brains, you gain in skills. You’ll be real good with engines soon. Real honest work. And always a Harald by your side.”

And Mortimer? He could only whimper, trembling, as he slipped deeper and deeper into becoming Morty.

Harald stepped closer, his heavy boots thudding against the grimy floor. Without a word, he grabbed Morty by the collar of the grimy undershirt and yanked him in, pressing their bodies together. His lips crushed against Morty’s—rough, forceful, tasting of smoke and grease.

For a second, the last flicker of Mortimer—the man in the designer suit, the one with the perfect haircut and polished shoes—twitched in protest. But when Harald’s tongue forced its way past his lips, exploring, dominating, claiming, that resistance shattered.

Mortimer vanished.

There was only Morty now.

[jerisch]

Downgrade or Upgrade Part II

The small apartment was sweltering, the windows fogged, the air thick with the reek of sweat, smoke, and something more primal — defeat.

Marcus sat hunched on the edge of the couch, the grime of the day caked into his pores. His vest clung to him, damp and stained. A cigarette trembled between his lips. He hadn't even noticed lighting it.

His hand kept drifting up to his freshly shaved scalp — alien, raw, vulnerable. Each time his fingertips grazed the smooth skin, something in him recoiled. His jaw clenched. He tried to summon the old voice, the clipped accent, the perfect diction. This is not you, Marcus. You don’t belong here.

But the mirror across the room — cracked, stained — offered no comfort. It reflected a stranger: a filthy, bald street cleaner, chain-smoking like he needed it to breathe.

The voice inside him whispered, weaker now, You were an analyst. You had a corner office. A routine. Respect.

His eyes welled up. He couldn't stop it. He didn’t even try.

Jordan’s boots thudded softly in the hallway, approaching. Marcus inhaled sharply, wiped his face with a dirty forearm, and sat up straighter — the last tattered thread of who he used to be trying, absurdly, to make itself presentable.

But it was already unraveling.

Jordan didn’t say a word when he found Marcus sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes rimmed red, a cigarette trembling in his fingers, the sheen of sweat and grief glistening on his freshly shaved scalp. He simply walked over and knelt in front of him, resting a calloused hand on Marcus’s knee.

Marcus didn’t look up. But when Jordan gently touched his chest — right over the faded place where a tailored shirt used to sit — something gave way.

No words. No speeches. Just breath and silence.

Marcus looked at him then — not as an analyst or a man undone, but as someone utterly stripped, raw, and finally real. His lips parted, hesitated, but Jordan was already leaning in. The kiss wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t even passionate.

It was tender. Solid. Anchored.

Two bald heads touched in quiet affirmation. Two calloused hands pressed against stained vests. The pain didn’t disappear — but for a long moment, it stopped mattering.

There was still dirt under Marcus’s nails. Smoke in his lungs. Tears drying on his cheeks.

But Jordan kissed him anyway.

And for the first time, Marcus kissed him back.

Scene: Encounter on the sidewalk — several weeks later

The midday sun beat down on the city pavement, and Marco, now fully integrated into the rhythm of his new life, worked the broom with quiet precision. Sweat slicked his shaved scalp, and a cigarette hung limply from his lips as he swept discarded wrappers into neat piles.

From behind him came a familiar voice — sharp, nasal, and far too clean for this neighborhood. “Marco?”

He didn’t look up immediately, but he didn’t need to. He knew that voice. Hilma.

Turning slowly, Marco was met with the sight of his former colleague — perfectly groomed, tailored suit, briefcase in hand — recoiling in disgust as a full soda can hurled by one of the other workers exploded against his chest. Marco didn’t flinch. He simply stared.

The second image captured what came moments later: Hilma laughing — nervously now — trying to defuse the tension, surrounded by two bald street sweepers who loomed beside him like some orange-clad tribunal of karma. Marco remained quiet, sweeping. One of the guys clapped Hilma on the shoulder with a grin that wasn’t quite friendly.

Hilma stopped laughing first.

Hilma stood frozen outside the glass façade of the firm, his once-pristine suit now stained with grime and humiliation. The garbage that had exploded across his chest still clung to the fabric like a badge of disgrace. His jaw trembled, not from fear, but from a swelling sense of betrayal he couldn't yet articulate. This wasn’t just a prank — this was a message.

Hilma faced his superior — the very man who had once called him "the golden boy." Now, the man couldn’t even hide his disdain. “This firm doesn’t tolerate disgrace,” he said, voice clipped and icy. “You made your choice, Hilma. Don’t expect sympathy for the consequences.”

Hilma opened his mouth to protest, but nothing came. He had mocked Marco’s fall, laughed at the absurdity of his transformation. And yet now, standing there dirtied, ridiculed, and seconds from being fired, Hilma realized he was no longer the clean-cut professional he clung to being — at least not in anyone else's eyes.

Within moments, security descended. “Sir, you're going to have to come with us,” one of the guards said, firm hands locking around Hilma’s arms. Behind them, a woman from HR — someone he used to patronize in elevator small talk — tried to mediate. “There must be some mistake,” she said, though her tone betrayed hesitation. She was no longer quite on his side.

The sun beat down mercilessly as Hilma stumbled out of the rusted van, his once-tailored suit now a stiff, grimy husk clinging to his body. The stench of sweat, cigarette smoke and diesel hit him like a wall. Behind him, the two bald workers — grinning like they’d been waiting for this moment all week — lit fresh smokes and stepped in close, their orange vests crusted with layers of dried labor.

“Smile for the camera, fancy boy,” one of them chuckled, throwing a beefy arm around Hilma’s trembling shoulders. The other held up an old phone, snapping a picture while Hilma let out a guttural, panicked yell — somewhere between rage and disbelief.

This couldn’t be real.

But it was. The dirt under his fingernails. The heat. The itchy fabric of the neon vest someone had tossed his way earlier, like a dare. The laughter of the men who now saw him as nothing more than a fresh recruit — a spoiled brat ready to be broken in.

And through it all, a single, unbearable thought echoed in Hilma’s mind:

This is exactly what happened to Marco.

And now it was happening to him.

Hilma’s arms ached from sweeping, though the broom had barely touched the ground. His perfectly gelled hair — now stiff with dust and sweat — clung to his forehead. The hi-vis vest hung awkwardly over his frame, too new, too clean, too wrong. He wasn’t like them.

Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

The two bald workers flanking him moved rhythmically, cigs clenched between their lips, eyes fixed on the task. They hadn’t spoken much, but they didn’t need to. Their presence was pressure enough. Every time Hilma slowed down or stood too upright, he felt it — a pause in their motion, a flick of a glance, a subtle shift of dominance.

And yet, something in his chest tightened as he realized he was mimicking them — the squat, the grip, even the way the broom scraped the pavement. When a car passed by and its driver gave them a dismissive glance, Hilma felt… anger. Not shame. Not disgust. Anger.

He straightened up, eyes wide, heart thudding. What was happening?

One of the bald workers glanced at him, cigarette bobbing between his lips. A grunt. A nod. Then back to work.

Hilma swallowed hard. His hands tightened on the broomstick.

Maybe… this was only the beginning.

He sat there, elbows on his knees, the plastic cup of lukewarm whisky clutched in his calloused hand. The orange work pants stretched tight over his thighs—dusty, sweaty, stained. He looked like them now. And smelled like them too.

Hilma stared into the cup as if the answer might be floating in it. The suit they had tossed over the fence was crumpled in the corner. A symbol. A joke. A last reminder that he had once been something—someone—in a world of air conditioning, hardwood floors, and frothed coffee.

Now he was sweating on someone else's couch. In Jordan’s apartment.

Marco—no, Marcus, he still insisted on that—was asleep in the next room. Or pretending to be. Hilma barely recognized him these past few days. Not just because of the shaved head. There was something else. A calm. A grounding. A… surrender. He’d given in. And the worst part: it suited him.

Hilma wiped his face with the back of his hand. Smears of grime and sweat. Tears, too. He hadn’t realized he’d been crying.

He thought he could just get through it. Watch from the outside. Play along. A few days. Maybe weeks. And then go back.

But he felt it. Under the skin. Something shifting. Cracking. And maybe—just maybe—a part of him didn’t want to go back.

He downed the rest of the whisky in one go. The bitterness burned less than the thought.

Hilma dragged the broom behind him like a burden. His boots, heavy with yesterday’s grime, scuffed the pavement. Muscles sore in places he didn’t know existed. Shoulders tight. Back aching. And his palms—raw from the coarse wooden handle—throbbed in protest.

No one spoke much today. They’d handed him a broom, nodded toward a block, and left him to it. The novelty was gone. The laughter from yesterday had faded into the dull rhythm of labor.

He glanced down at his vest—still stiff with sweat, clinging to his chest like punishment. The orange was no longer bright. It had dulled with dust and fatigue, just like him.

Cars rushed past. Suits inside them. Polished lives. Climate control. Clean collars.

And here he was.

A piece of trash tumbled along the curb, and Hilma moved to catch it. Bent. Missed. Cursed. Tried again. Got it.

It wasn’t the work. It was the weight. The silence. The knowing.

That this was real now.

The broom slipped from Hilma’s fingers, clattering to the ground. He barely had time to reach for it when a rough hand grabbed his head.

"Do you think you're in a shampoo commercial, son?" barked the foreman, spit flying. His voice boomed across the street, louder than the passing traffic.

Hilma froze. His scalp burned under the grip.

"You come here with that pretty-boy gel hair, like you're too good to sweat like the rest of us? You wanna look nice, go model in some perfume ad. Out here, that mop is a liability."

"I—"

"Don’t speak. Just listen. You’re not special. You’re not clean. You’re not in charge. You’re a street sweeper now. Act like it."

The foreman's hand released, shoving Hilma’s head slightly to the side. His jaw tensed. Sweat trickled from his temple. His fists clenched.

He wanted to shout. To walk. But he just stood there.

Dirty. Humiliated. One of them.

Hilma sat slumped on the edge of the bench, fists clenched on his knees, tears cutting pale tracks through the grime on his face. His chest heaved. He didn’t look up.

Jordan stood behind him, calm, cigarette in the corner of his mouth, the buzzing clippers in his hand. He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

Hilma wiped his eyes with a filthy palm, then gave a shaky nod. A silent surrender.

Jordan placed a firm, steadying hand on Hilma’s shoulder.

Buzz.

The clippers moved in. The first thick clump of blond hair dropped to the floor. Hilma’s lip trembled.

He wasn’t crying anymore.

Just… empty.

Jordan kept working, quiet and deliberate. Like it was a ritual. Like he had done this a hundred times before. Because he had.

And every time, it meant the same thing: You’re one of us now.

Hilma sat motionless, the last tufts of his pride strewn on the floor like wilted petals. His hand covered his face, trying to stop the wave—but it was already breaking.

Tears rolled freely now.

Not just for the hair.

But for everything.

Jordan stayed behind him, one steady hand resting on Hilma’s freshly shaved crown. No words. Just presence. Just weight.

A silent, grounding ritual.

The room was warm with sweat, dust, and cigarette smoke. But the transformation had brought a kind of quiet. A finality.

Hilma didn’t look up.

Not yet.

He wasn’t ready to face the mirror.

But Jordan was still there.

Still holding him.

And that meant something.

Something real.

The others had gone back to work. Or at least pretended to.

Hilma stayed behind.

The buzzing had stopped. The cigarette smoke had cleared. The hand on his head was gone.

Now, only his own hand remained.

Trembling. Searching.

The smoothness of his scalp felt foreign—like a mask someone else had glued on. He traced the curve of his skull again and again, as if trying to find the seams of his old self beneath it.

His breath hitched.

A choked sound escaped.

And then it all came undone.

His shoulders buckled. His chest heaved. The tears came hard and hot, carving tracks down cheeks streaked with grime.

He hadn’t cried like this in years.

Maybe ever.

It wasn’t just the hair.

It was what the hair meant. What he thought it protected. His status. His self-image. His illusion of control.

Gone.

And what was left?

A bald man in orange. Same as the rest.

He didn’t look different from them anymore.

But inside, he wasn’t like them.

Was he?

The question echoed louder than the clippers had. And he wasn’t ready to answer it.

Not yet.

The world felt different without hair.

Louder. Harsher. Realer.

Hilma didn’t speak as they walked. He just pointed to the kiosk and muttered, "You’ll need these."

Marcus—no, not Marcus anymore—hesitated.

The red and white pack was held out like a rite. A test. Or maybe a gift. Marlboro. The kind they all smoked.

His hand moved slowly. The fingers trembled slightly as they made contact with the cardboard. For a second, he simply held the pack, unsure whether to open it, throw it away, or weep again.

But he didn’t.

He nodded. A silent agreement.

The first step into something he couldn’t name.

He didn’t cough.

Jordan had expected him to cough—everyone did their first time. But no, he took the cigarette, lit it with stiff fingers, and drew in deep like he’d been doing it his whole life.

The burn in his throat was sharp. The taste—bitter and heavy—settled like tar on his tongue. But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t grimace.

Instead, he exhaled slowly, the smoke curling around his shaved head, rising in lazy spirals toward the cloudy sky. His fingers tightened around the broom.

Jordan gave a nod.

“Looks better on you than that posh pout ever did.”

The others didn’t say anything, but the silence had shifted.

He’d passed something.

The laughter wasn’t forced anymore.

He didn’t know what the joke was—some stupid thing about sweeping up after the parade—but he laughed anyway, cigarette clenched between his teeth, arms loose with exhaustion, spirit strangely light.

For the first time in weeks, maybe longer, he wasn’t thinking about reports or shoes or haircuts. Just the rhythm of the broom in his hands. The sweat on his skin. The shared grins of the others.

No one asked if he was okay.

They didn’t need to.

He belonged now. But ... maybe there was room for one more mate?

[jerisch]

Downgrade or Upgrade Part I

Marco stood tall, polished and proud in his tailored navy suit, the crimson tie knotted with mathematical precision — a Wall Street shark stranded on a grimy street corner. His brow furrowed as he eyed Jordan, the muscular street cleaner whose glistening scalp and smudged neon vest radiated a kind of rugged defiance. Jordan, cigarette tucked behind his ear, met Marco’s gaze with unreadable calm, completely unbothered by the tension in the air. For Marco, it was just a moment — an unpleasant visual contrast on his way to power. For Jordan, it was the first encounter with a man who would soon be unrecognizable.

Marco leaned back in his leather office chair, the polished skyline of the city mirrored in the windows behind him. His suit was flawless, the crimson tie a perfect slash of controlled power. He laughed into the phone — probably at someone’s expense — entirely at ease in this world of numbers, deals, and hierarchy. The faint smirk on his face suggested he was winning, as always. Any memory of the bald street worker from earlier was already fading, irrelevant in the gleaming logic of Marco’s world. For now.

The sharp sting of hot coffee had barely faded from Marco’s chest when Jordan stepped in — sleeves dirtied, hands calloused, but eyes surprisingly kind. The contrast between them couldn’t have been more jarring: Marco, impeccably tailored but now soiled and fuming; Jordan, steady and calm, holding out a clean, folded undershirt like it was the most natural gesture in the world. Marco took it without a word, more irritated than thankful, but something about the effortless confidence of the street worker lingered — unsettlingly so.

Marco walked stiffly, his jaw tight, clutching the coffee cup like it might somehow undo the stain blooming across his expensive shirt. Jordan’s hand was steady on his arm — firm, grounded, almost protective. The banker should’ve shrugged it off, barked a cutting remark and walked away. But he didn’t. Instead, he allowed it. Just for a moment. And that moment lingered with the weight of something Marco couldn’t yet name — something both uncomfortable and curiously warm.

Standing next to Jordan in a borrowed ribbed tank top, Marco looked more confused than grateful. The fabric clung uncomfortably to his sculpted chest, its plainness an affront to his designer standards. Jordan, meanwhile, stood casually with his broom in hand, sweat glistening on his tanned, bald head, oblivious to Marco’s disdain. For Marco, it wasn’t just the clothes—it was the proximity to a world he’d spent his life avoiding. But there was no escaping the uncomfortable truth: he was no longer in control.

Back in his apartment, Marco stood motionless, dressed in stark black, staring down at the crumpled white tank top draped over the arm of his couch. The events of the day clung to him heavier than the fabric ever could. His brows furrowed, not just in distaste, but in confusion—why couldn’t he stop thinking about the man who gave him that shirt? He had always believed himself above such people. And yet now, he wasn’t so sure.

Marco stood in front of the store, his sharp features furrowed with hesitation. The sign above read “Arbeitsbekleidung” — workwear. He had passed places like this his whole life without a second glance. But now, something tugged at him. The rough uniforms behind the glass, the association with that strangely magnetic man from yesterday… He wasn’t sure why, but he felt compelled to go inside.

Inside the store, Marco held the bright orange vest gingerly, as though it might rub off on his soul. The fabric felt rugged, coarse — so unlike the sleek, tailored suits he was used to. Still, there was something about it, the color, the cut, the weight of it in his hand… He frowned, confused by the flicker of intrigue that stirred in him.

Marco stood in front of the fitting room mirror, now fully dressed in the orange work gear. The fabric clung to his frame differently than his tailored suits—more honest, less refined. He scratched his head, unsettled by the strange comfort the clothes offered. Something inside him stirred, but he couldn't yet name it.

Marco stepped out of the workwear store, the branded shopping bag clenched in his hand. There was a quiet confidence in his expression—one that surprised even him. Behind him, Jordan leaned casually on his broom, cigarette dangling from his lips, watching with a faint smirk. Marco didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. Something had shifted.

Marco sat quietly at the café, the steam from his coffee rising into the warm morning air. The crisp red of his shirt matched the growing flush of something unfamiliar: uncertainty. The bag of workwear rested at his feet, a silent, embarrassing testament to a choice he didn’t fully understand. Behind him, Jordan approached with his usual cigarette and casual swagger—watching, amused, as the banker’s polished world began to fray at the edges.

Marco stared in disbelief as the firefighter explained the extent of the damage. His apartment—his sanctuary of modern design and luxury—was gone, blackened and gutted by flames. The shopping bag in his hand felt suddenly absurd, a symbol of a life that no longer existed. Behind him, Jordan stood quietly, cigarette hanging from his lips, watching the polished banker’s world crack open.

Marco’s hand pressed to his temple, the reality of his losses crashing down with sudden, brutal clarity. His tailored world had gone up in smoke—literally. Jordan stood beside him, his expression unreadable, a cigarette hanging from his lips. With quiet confidence, he placed a steadying hand on Marco’s arm. It wasn’t pity—just presence. A silent promise: You’re not alone in this.

Marco's world is unraveling. The once-proud analyst, always pristine in his tailored suits, now sits slumped on Jordan's old sofa, his red shirt stained, his composure shattered. He sobs openly, clinging to the last scraps of his old identity, while Jordan, steady and calm, silently offers a tissue and his presence. There's no smugness in Jordan’s eyes—only patience, and a kind of quiet strength that unsettles Marco more than any boardroom failure ever could. Something in Marco is breaking open, and though he can't yet name it, he knows this man beside him might just be the only anchor he has left.

Marco’s tears won’t stop. His hands tremble as he presses his palm against his face, trying to hold in the sobs that now seem to erupt from somewhere deep inside. His pride, his polish, his perfectly managed image—stained as badly as the deep splash on his once-pristine shirt. He’s not crying because of the coffee, of course, but the spill was just the last crack in a façade that’s been crumbling for days. Jordan says nothing, just watches him closely, his rough fingers still holding the tissue he’s offering. There’s no pity in his expression, only a calm, unwavering presence. In that silence, something unspoken passes between them. Marco, vulnerable and unraveling, isn’t alone. Not anymore.

Marco had never laughed like this in his old life—not this freely, not this easily. Standing next to Jordan in matching orange workwear, smudged with grime and sweat, he feels something that had always eluded him in boardrooms and conference calls: ease. His shy smile grows as Jordan lets out a hearty laugh, the kind that fills a room without asking for permission. There’s no irony here, no pretense. Just two men sharing a moment, a joke, maybe even a life. The stiffness in Marco’s shoulders has melted away. He’s not calculating or judging. He’s just… happy. For the first time, the clothes feel right. And so does everything else.

The crack of two cold cans meeting in a quiet toast echoed softly through the small apartment. Marco smiled—genuinely this time—as Jordan raised his beer with the kind of relaxed grin that made everything feel simple. They sat side by side, their bright orange uniforms streaked with the day’s labor, sweat still drying on their skin. Marco no longer cared about the grime. The suit, the spotless office, the carefully curated image—they all felt like costumes now. This, the laughter, the dirt under his fingernails, the man beside him—this felt real. They drank in silence for a moment, and for the first time, Marco didn’t look back.

The TV hums quietly in the background, the light is low, and only the streetlamp outside throws a pale glow into the room. Marco lies on the couch, still in his orange work clothes, hands resting loosely on his stomach, eyelashes calm over closed eyes. His brow is smooth, lips just slightly curved—as if he’s dreaming of something good.

He breathes deep and steady, a man who, for the first time, is no longer fighting himself. No suit, no meetings, no expectations—just the scent of dust, the soft creak of floorboards, and the quiet certainty that he’s finally arrived. In a different life. A different self. And maybe this was all he ever needed.

It’s a cruel twist of irony: Marco, once the sharply dressed analyst who ruled this very office floor, now sits in bright orange workwear, his expression a mix of disbelief and quiet defeat. Next to him, his former colleague—still suited, still smug—lets out a loud laugh, oblivious or perhaps delighted by the role reversal.

Marco doesn’t respond. He just stares ahead, jaw clenched, hands folded tightly in his lap. The fluorescent lights above seem harsher than he remembers. Maybe it’s not the lights. Maybe it’s just that everything looks different now from this seat.

Kessler’s office is a temple of order: sharp angles, no clutter, not even a pen out of line. MARCO stands awkwardly before the desk — still in the orange street-cleaner uniform, sweat-damp, visibly out of place. Kessler stares at him, unblinking, for an agonizing moment.

KESSLER (quietly, coldly) Do you think this is a joke?

MARCO I didn’t have a choice. My apartment—

KESSLER —burned down, yes, I’ve heard. (still calm, but his tone sharpens) But you had a choice in this. (gesturing at the uniform) The outfit. The attitude. The... stench.

Marco shifts uncomfortably. Kessler stands, walks slowly around his desk.

KESSLER You don’t understand what this place is. (suddenly intense) Do you know where I started? Do you?

Marco doesn’t answer. Kessler steps closer, lowering his voice like venom.

KESSLER I’ve worn those boots. That vest. I've shoveled garbage in the rain at 4 a.m. and come home to a mattress on the floor. I worked for years to leave that all behind — to earn this suit, this office, this name on the fucking door.

He breathes hard. Marco opens his mouth, then closes it again.

KESSLER And then you... you walk in here dressed like the past I buried. Like it means nothing.

Silence. Kessler smooths his tie, forces a smile.

KESSLER You’re done here, Mr. Moretti. Pack your things — if you still have any.

Marco didn’t say a word. His footsteps thudded dully against the linoleum floor as the security guard followed close behind. The fluorescent safety vest clung to his chest like something that no longer belonged to him. Everything suddenly felt too tight—his clothes, the corridor, the stares from reception staff trying not to look at him.

The cardboard box in his hands held the meager remnants of his office life. A pen he never used. A water bottle. Two printouts with scribbled notes he never revised. Nothing personal. Nothing that really said Marco.

He paused in the lobby. Behind him, the security door clicked shut—soft, final. He didn’t look back. Kessler was probably still upstairs, arms crossed, watching through tinted glass. Watching the system do what it always did—spit out what no longer fit.

A breeze caught the glass doors and swept over him. Marco lifted his chin. He was no longer an analyst. No longer an employee. No longer a man in a suit behind glass walls. And yet—he didn’t feel empty. Just strangely clear. Like something had been shed from him. Something that had never really belonged.

The guard gave him a short nod. “That’s it.”

Marco stepped out onto the street. No direction. No plan. Just the shimmer of heat on pavement and a sensation that tasted like loss—and like freedom.

The box felt heavier than it should have. Marco’s arms trembled, not from the weight, but from everything it symbolized—what he’d lost, what he’d become. His polished life in glass offices had shattered, replaced now by orange fabric stiff with dust and sweat.

He stood motionless, eyes squeezed shut, his face contorted with a grief he couldn’t hide. On either side, two men in identical vests stood close—too close, he thought at first. But their silence wasn’t mocking. One of them, younger, rested a firm hand on the box, steadying Marco. The other, older, broader, simply watched him. Not judging. Waiting.

No words were spoken. None were needed.

The message was clear in their calm presence: You’re one of us now.

The sweat soaked through Marco’s shirt, clinging to his skin like guilt. His arms moved mechanically, pushing the broom over sun-baked concrete, the rhythm unfamiliar, the motion humbling. Each stroke scraped away another layer of his former self—the consultant, the strategist, the man who once scoffed at manual laborers from behind mirrored glass.

Behind him, the laughter of one of his new coworkers rang out, light and unburdened. Marco didn’t turn. He wasn’t ready to meet that ease with a smile of his own. Not yet.

But he had noticed it—how the others didn’t treat him with contempt. They didn’t ask what he used to be. They didn’t care. They only cared if he did the work. And here, under the sun and the dust, that might be enough.

For now, he swept.

The room was silent except for the faint fizz of beer cans and the occasional exhale of smoke. Marco leaned back into the worn couch, the cold drink pressing against his lips, the aluminum can almost soothing against his calloused fingers. The taste was bitter, cheap, and strangely comforting.

Beside him, Lukas sat motionless, cigarette wedged in the corner of his mouth, eyes fixed on a spot in the distance that only he could see. His expression gave nothing away—just the slow, unbothered drag of someone used to letting the world burn a little before reacting.

Neither of them spoke.

They didn’t have to.

Marco didn’t yet understand the weight of this quiet, but he could feel it. This was no longer the silence of shame or loss. It was the silence of men who’d done their work, who were too tired to pretend, and who had slowly begun to accept each other’s presence.

And maybe, just maybe, Marco wasn’t pretending anymore either.

The room smelled of sweat, smoke, and something fried from a neighboring apartment. But it was warm. Lived-in. Honest.

Marco couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed like this—really laughed, from somewhere deep in his gut, with no audience to impress and no filter to maintain. His arm was slung lazily around Lukas’ shoulder, a cigarette dangling between his teeth. They were both filthy, tired, and absolutely content.

Lukas grinned, his own smoke curling from his lips as he chuckled at something dumb Marco had said. The kind of dumb that didn’t need to be clever—just shared. The kind of dumb that felt like friendship.

For the first time, Marco wasn’t watching himself from the outside. He wasn’t curating, wasn’t calculating. He was just there, on a battered couch, laughing like a fool next to a man he would’ve never even acknowledged just weeks ago.

And he liked it. Hell, he needed it.

The old Marco had been polished, pristine, and painfully lonely.

This Marco—grimy, grinning, and with dirt under his nails—wasn’t lonely at all.

The morning fog clung to the narrow street like a ghost that wouldn’t move on. It was quiet, save for the occasional clatter of a bin lid or the low scrape of a broom against the pavement. Marco’s tank top clung to him, soaked with sweat and grime. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth—lit, barely touched.

He didn’t notice the smell anymore.

He tipped the perforated bin, letting damp scraps and coffee sludge tumble into the green container. Beside him, Lukas was whistling something off-key, leaning on his broom like it was a dance partner. He caught Marco’s eye and grinned wide, the cigarette between his teeth bobbing as he laughed.

Marco didn’t smile, but his jaw softened.

This wasn’t penance anymore.

This was work. Honest work. Dirty, tiring, simple—and real. His hands had calluses now. His back ached. But the ache was earned. And every drag of smoke, every smear of filth on his vest, was another step away from the version of himself who had once stared down at people like Lukas from his office window.

Now he stood beside him.

And somehow, it felt better.

The midday sun hammered down like punishment, relentless and personal. The break area—if you could call two fold-up chairs and a plastic ashtray a break area—offered little relief. Marco leaned forward, the cigarette clinging to his lip, one hand raking through his sweaty, unruly hair.

“Your damn hair’s always in your face,” Lukas muttered, flicking ash onto the concrete. “Why don’t you just shave it off already?”

Marco gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Because it’s mine,” he said, though it sounded more like a question. His hand stayed buried in his hair a second too long.

He hadn’t expected to miss mirrors. Or styling product. Or the casual weight of being admired. Now it just felt like heat and grease. A burden.

Lukas took a long drag and studied him. “You’d look good bald, you know,” he said simply. “Cleaner. Meaner.”

Marco didn’t answer. But something in his jaw shifted.

The idea had been planted.

And in the blistering silence between them, it started to take root.

The decision had been brewing in Marco’s mind for days — every drop of sweat that traced the line of his temple, every annoyed swipe of his hand through his damp hair. He hated how it clung, how it got in his eyes. And now, seated on the creaky chair in the breakroom, he gave a nod. No going back.

His coworker, grinning with the easy confidence of someone who’d done this a hundred times, stepped forward with clippers in hand. Marco barely flinched at the first buzz slicing through his thick black hair. Cigarette between his lips, he stared into the distance, jaw tense, the first clumps falling around his boots.

The next shot came from the razor — cold foam smeared across his scalp. The other guy worked with steady hands, but Marco’s eyes revealed his turmoil. He wasn’t sure if this was liberation or surrender. The towel draped over his shoulders caught the bits of his old self, vanishing with each pass.

Later, hand on his newly smooth head, Marco sat in silence, processing. He felt raw. Exposed. And yet — lighter.

It wasn’t just about the heat anymore. It was something deeper. Shedding who he had been. Embracing who he was becoming.

[jerisch]

I always wished I had a neighbor more like me. Living here felt like I was trapped behind glass — close enough to see everyone, but never quite part of it. Most people kept their distance. And the one person who didn’t? My neighbor across the street — a massive, musclebound military guy who stomped around in full gear like he was still on active duty. Always shouting into his phone, working out in the driveway. We had nothing in common. I barely even waved hello.

One night, feeling lonelier than usual, I muttered under my breath, "I just wish I had a neighbor more like me." I didn’t think anything of it. Just a passing thought. But the world must’ve been listening.

When I woke up, everything was wrong.

First thing I noticed was the weight of the dog tags clinking against my chest. I sat up, disoriented, and the bed creaked under my heavier frame. I looked down — I was wearing only a pair of tight black boxer briefs. And my body... Thick, heavy muscles bulged under my skin, veins tracing over biceps the size of softballs. My stomach was a carved six-pack, my legs like stone columns. Tattoos wrapped around my shoulders and arms — sharp black ink I didn’t remember getting.

I opened my mouth to shout, to ask what was happening — but instead, out came a calm, deep voice: "Situation normal. Good to go." I clamped my hand over my mouth, heart hammering against my ribs. This wasn’t right.

I stumbled out of bed — bare feet slapping the floor — and nearly tripped over a neatly stacked pile of folded camo fatigues. I rushed to the bathroom, gripping the doorframe like it might disappear.

The man staring back at me in the mirror was a stranger. Square-jawed, military haircut, a body like it was carved from granite. Hardened, disciplined. Unshakable. My hands — thick, calloused — shook slightly, but my face stayed stoic, calm, trained. I had to get help.

I yanked on a tight olive-green T-shirt, fatigues, and boots waiting by the door. Everything fit perfectly, like it had been tailored for this new, monstrous body. I bolted outside, desperate to find some scrap of normalcy.

That’s when I saw him. My neighbor. Standing by his truck, grinning wide, like we’d been friends for years.

"Mornin', brother!" he barked, striding over and clapping a heavy hand on my back. I tried to say something casual, anything — but my body snapped to attention, and I barked back, "Mornin', Sergeant! Outstanding day for PT!"

No. No no no. Inside, I was screaming. But on the surface, I was steady, confident, every word crisp like I’d practiced it my whole life.

We talked — about gear, training regimens, upcoming drills — and I just kept playing along, answering perfectly, even laughing when he cracked a joke about "those soft new recruits." At one point, I heard myself say, "Woke up at 0500 hours, got my warm-up set in before chow," — like it was the most natural thing in the world. 5 a.m., I corrected silently. Normal people say 5 a.m. But my mouth would never betray the facade.

"Come on, brother, we’re late for base," he barked, tossing a duffel into the truck. Without hesitation, I grabbed my own — somehow packed and ready — and climbed in.

The base was real. The ID around my neck scanned at the checkpoint. Guards waved me through. Nobody questioned it. We spent the day side-by-side, yelling commands, demonstrating lifts, pushing trembling recruits through brutal obstacle courses. And somehow, everything I needed to know was just there — drilled into me like muscle memory I never actually earned. Every command, every drill, every reprimand rolled off my tongue with perfect authority. And somewhere deep inside, the real me — the scared, confused version — shrank further and further down, screaming silently into the void.

That night, back in my strange, hyper-organized house, I tried to process it all. Photos covered the walls — snapshots of me and my neighbor on deployments, at competitions, at ceremonies. Awards lined the shelves. My inbox was full of congratulatory messages on recent promotions. My memories — my real ones — felt like faint shadows compared to the heavy, real weight of this new life.

The world believed this was who I'd always been. The world demanded I believe it too.

And no matter how much I panicked inside, no matter how much I begged for the old life back, my mouth only said, "Yes, sir." "Roger that." "Mission accomplished."

I guess my wish had come true. I wasn’t alone anymore. I had my best friend. My squad. My calling.

And deep down, under all the tattoos, the muscle, the discipline, the pride, the old me still existed. Still thrashing, still trying to surface.

But each day, that voice grew a little fainter. Each day, it got a little easier to lace up my boots, square my shoulders, and drive out to base. Adapt and overcome. That’s the mission now.

[jerisch]

Change Your Tune: Rick

The companion story to Occamstfs post! Had fun working on it with them!

“Damn it...” Eric grunted as he pushed through the crowd, “Calvin...”

Stick together. It wasn’t complicated. All Calvin had to do was stick with him and things would’ve worked out fine. But now? Eric was pushing through the crowd as best he could- trying desperately to find his friend amongst a sea of giggling and cheering men.

“Sorry... sorry...” Eric mumbled, as he squeezed between a bunch of scantly dressed men, “Ugh... sorry...”

The attendees were too enthralled in the trashy pop music of whoever was up on stage to really pay him much mind. Their bodies moving to the beat, clapping their hands. Eric couldn't help but overhear a conversation between two guys in the audience as he brushed past them.

“Oh Em Gee I like, totes love this song!”

“But like...I was totally not into this kind of music before.”

"Same sis! But like... live a little!"

Eric pushed past them as they made out. And as he did, he felt overwhelmed. The cheering... dancing... kissing... the music... Eric paused and took a few deep breaths. It was so hot. The summer heat, the sweaty bodies...

“I... I don’t feel good.” His vision was getting cloudy, “Someone... I don’t...” Eric swayed, his head spinning...

"Like are you okay, cutie?"

"No... I..." Eric looked up at the twink and then down at his own hands, "What?"

They were smaller, daintier. His arms smooth and hairless- the muscle he did have now more diminished. He shook his head and pulled away, lurching towards the edge of the crowd. The music beckoning to him, worming into his brain.

“Wait... no...” He could've sworn his voice was an octave higher, “Calvin... I...”

Eric stumbled and fell to the ground at the edge of the crowd. The music growing less intense. The vertigo now improved. Yet part of Eric felt a sense of longing. To go back into the crowd. To get lost in the music. He shook his head

"I need to find Calvin..." He reconfirmed to himself. He looked down at his arm- it was his arm. His voice- it was his voice, "Must've been imagining things..."

“Oh looky here! You ain’t lookin’ too hot!”

Eric looked up, his gaze met by a group of strangers. They were all smiling, all similarly dressed. One of them stepped forward and extended an arm.

“You look like you could use a hand. Musta overheated out there."

Before Eric could reply, he was hoisted up by the man, while another shoved a beer into Eric's chest.

"It ain't water but it'll help."

"I'm good." Eric replied, handing him the beer. Since when was beer considered a good way to stay hydrated? "Well, maybe it is to these rednecks." Eric thought, before clearing his throat, "I gotta find my friend. We were trying to find where North Side is playing at." He looked around, hoping he'd see Calvin so he'd be able to get away from these guys, "But I lost him and..."

"North Side! We can show ya the way." One of the men slapped him on the back, "Jus' follow us. I promise we'll get ya there."

"Oh no, I'll be fine..."

"What kinda men would we be if we didn't help a fella out." The one chimed in, "Besides, you nearly fainted on yer ass back there. Can't be too safe now."

"Yeah! And North Side passes right by ol' Blue Sky Dreamers." Another added, "God, they're great. Never been much of a country fan 'till I heard them." The others nodded in agreement.

Eric raised an eyebrow. These men hadn't been country fans? They looked like they'd been plucked out of a cornfield and dropped here.

"I guess it wouldn't hurt." Eric sighed, "Lead the way."

He followed the men, listening in on their conversation. How they droned on about guns, trucks, and beer. How Blue Sky Dreamers talked to them- resonated deep within them. Their southern accents deep and carefree, their breaths smelling of whiskey and cigarettes. Eric felt out of place- uncomfortable even. He had no interest in getting to know these kinds of people... these...

"Ain't that just lovely." The men stopped, causing Eric to pause, "Ya hear that boys?"

Eric's ears perked up. The sound of a banjo, a fiddle, and harmonica whispered in his ears. Distant but ever present. It was... nice... calming... Eric shook his head and looked over to a crowd of men in cowboy hats, all swaying to the beat of Blue Sky Dreamers.

"I reckon that's the most beautiful thing I ever did hear." He watched as his guides walked towards the crowd.

"Hey, wait!" Eric called out, following behind them, "I still need... huh?" A cool breeze tickled Eric's exposed chest and he recoiled at the sensation, "What in the..."

He hadn't been wearing that. Had he? Since when was he wearing jeans? Since when did his shirt get so dirty? He looked up to see the men from earlier blending in with the crowd, disappearing into the sea of cowboys. He bit his lip and ran a hand through his hair, only to knock his cap to the ground.

"Ain't no way..." He stared at the cap lying in front of him, "I could'a... could have..." He corrected himself, "Sworn I was wearing a bandana." He reached down and picked the cap up, securing it back on his head, "Okay... North Sky... No that's not..."

Eric shuddered. Since when was it so hot? The summer sun beat down on him and the crowd of people certainly didn't help. The shirt he was wearing was soaked, covered in sweat. And with a grunt, he pulled it off and threw it to the dirt ground below.

"Fuck, what the hell?" Eric's eyes widened as he looked down at his lean pecs and toned abs, "I ain't usually..." His voice cracked as he ran a hand through the sparse, new chest hairs that appeared on his increasingly more tanned chest, "What in tarnation..."

And then he heard it. More clearly now. The music. It was filling his ears... filling him... It felt so freeing- each strum of the banjo, each word accented by a southern twang. Eric stepped forward, the crowd opening up around him to let him in.

"Well, ain't this the best dang music ya ever did hear?"

"I never reckoned I'd fall in love with country music."

"I ain't never felt a song hit me this hard."

eRic's mind was swimming with each step deeper into the crowd. His mind's eye filling with new images... an old farmhouse.... swaying corn... sweating after a long day's work... flickering fireflies... a bonfire.... beer... laughter... his truck...

"No stop... I gotta..." eRic swayed, bumping into the other men around him. Their bodies, made sturdy from working on their farms, prevented Eric from escaping, "Please... Calvin... help..."

eRic gasped... he could taste whisky on his breath... feel his muscles contracting and relaxing... He realized how closely packed to the other men he was. But not because they had gotten closer. No... he realized with increasing dread that he was bigger. His body thickening with firm muscle. His chest swelling into a pair of mighty pecs. Hairs sprouting from his crotch, across his abs, and over his chest like a blanket.

"Let me out... I gotta..."

But the men wouldn't budge- captivated by the music. And the song. Oh god the song was so loud... Reverberating in his head, worming into his brain. eRic could feel the sweat dripping from his increasingly rougher skin... an itchiness as stubble sprouted into a short beard. His arms thickened with muscle, blanketed by manly fur. But his attention shifted, even as his body continued to shift and change. His eyes focused on the stage, where Blue Side Dreamers continued to play.

"Well, I'll be! I could sit here an’ listen to these fellas ‘til the cows come home." Ric grinned, his foot tapping along to the beat, "What in tarnation was I thinkin’ not likin’ country music before?" He spoke, unbothered by the twang of his new southern accent.

He didn't know how long they kept playing. His body swayed to the beat... his mind elsewhere...

"Well, that’s a wrap, y’all! Mighty appreciate ya joinin’ us today, and we’ll be seein’ ya next year. Y’all be sure to grab our new album, now—don’t go missin’ out!"

Reality slammed into Rick and he shuddered as he returned to a state of full awareness. He looked around at the other men- men like him... proud country guys.... like himself.... born and raised...

"Hey Rick, didn’t you say you was wantin’ to go see that other band?"

A voice cut through the crowd and Rick grinned when he saw the men from earlier. He placed a hand to his cowboy hat and shrugged.

"I reckon I’m alright now—can’t even imagine wantin’ to hear nothin’ else after this!" A grin formed on his face, "But I could go for a nice cold one fellas!"

The group walked off, laughing and patting each other on the back. Rick ignoring a sign for North Side as he headed off towards the exit with his new friends to his new life.

EPILOGUE

Rick sighed as he walked up to the bar, quickly ordering another shot of whisky and a beer. He glanced over at the group of good ol’ boys he’d been shooting the shit with all night - Jeb, Cletus, and Earl. They were all decked out in checkered shirts, faded jeans, and ball caps. Just like him now. It still felt so natural, even if some part of him couldn’t quite put his finger on what exactly seemed…off about the whole situation.

“Why do I feel like I’m just actin’ a part?“ he wondered to himself, frowning slightly, "Like I’m wearing someone else’s skin." 

Shaking his head, he tried to push the strange thoughts aside. Where were these thoughts coming from? Where else would he want to be? He was just a good ol’ boy enjoying a cold one with the boys after a kick-ass country concert. His thoughts were interrupted as a new song started playing in the bar. Rick knew this song… knew this band… a small smile gracing his lips.

"North Side.” He muttered, his foot tapping to the beat of the music, “Well I’ll be…”

He felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him- a yearning for something he couldn’t quite understand in his slower mind. And as the music continued to strum at some past memory, the redneck couldn’t help but notice the striking Latino man with soulful eyes and a captivating smile, clearly enjoying the song as much as he was. 

“Well, would ya look at that.” Rick muttered under his breath, “Seems like that fella’s got good taste in tunes, at least.”

Compelled by a force he couldn’t explain, Rick walked over to the man. His thoughts, once focused on music, instead shifted as he drank in the sight of the handsome Latino. The way he smiled, the way his dark hair was styled, the way his shirt hugged his muscles. Rick felt his dick stir.

“Howdy there, friend,” Rick drawled, tipping his hat politely, “Name’s Rick. Can’t help but notice you seem mighty fond of this here tune, same as me.”

Alvaro looks up at the man, “Buenas noches. The name’s Alvaro.”

Rick’s eyes flash with recognition, “You mean the Alvaro? Like Alvaro Altuve? I reckon I recognized you from somewhere!”

Alvaro grinned, “Always happy to meet a fan.”

Rick paused for a second, captivated by the singer’s smile. The two stared at one another before Alvaro beckoned him to take a seat at the bar. Rick happily accepted the two chatting it up, their conversation flowing naturally- like two old friends. Their knowledge about North Side and their interest in the band not fitting with their outward appearance.

“I would’ve never expected you to like North Side.” Alvaro laughed.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He chuckled, throwing an arm around the man’s shoulder. They both blushed at the mere touch, and Rick pulled his arm away, “Well, I reckon I was always a fan, I think.” Rick shrugged and Alvaro grinned.

“Makes sense! You were the one who introduced me to them after all.” Those words hung in the air, the two became silent and stared at one another- their expressions shifting, their eyes conveying a faint recognition.

Rick, Alvaro knows Rick. He doesn’t know how he does but something deep within him pangs with familiarity or deja vu. Judging by the expression on the cowboy’s face it seems as if there’s some pang of memory behind his eyes as well. Alvaro stares at the fan wondering if he just saw the man at his concert or something but knows that dressed like he is, that cannot be the case, and then he sees his lips struggle to say, “C- Calv- Calvin?”

At once both men flash back. They were having lunch together, as they have done countless times throughout the years. Eric sees his friend who could scarcely put two Spanish words together, Calvin sees his bestie that would never be caught dead in a cowboy hat. They’re just talking shit as friends do when Eric gasps at a notification on his phone, “Dude- North Side is back!”

Before they left the table, the pair had bought tickets to the CYT festival and had begun planning what they were going to wear. Not for a moment wondering what else they’d care to see at the festival, why should they? They were going to see their favorite band of all time and they were going to do so together. 

Together. 

Back in the present as they look at each other in their new forms. Alvaro sees the sweaty, hairy chest of the good old southern man in front of him. Rick sees the effortlessly alluring manicured body of a latin rock star staring back at him. Together has a different spot in both their minds as they hear a grindr notification go off somewhere in the distance. Might as well see what their new bodies can do.

As quick as their feet can travel they’re in Alvaro’s trailer. Attempts to trawl out memories from who they were are fruitless or painful, so instead they delight in the present. The artist cannot believe how enticed he is by the smell of cheap whiskey and cheaper beer on the man’s breath. Rick is less discerning as he hungrily delights in the sweaty musk of the man who was on stage not all that long ago. 

Rick’s rough beard scratches against Alvaro’s neck as he takes a deep breath, he hears a deep whisper from the performer, “volve loco, vaquero.” He growls and his arms shake as he sees no reason to not obey man. Music playing in the background rapidly shifts from Alvaro’s own album, to the b-sides of the Blue Sky Dreamers, to the music that brought them into these new lives, North Side. Before fading altogether and leaving them alone with the sound of their bodies.

With each passing moment in the heady enjoyment of their new selves they feel their identities cemented. Rick’s clean-pressed closet wiped away for life on a farm, his pen-pushing 9-to-5 is nothing compared to the outdoor lifestyle he far prefers. Alvaro’s whole country of origin irrevocably changed, while he loves the life he’s found in the states they will never be where he’s from.

With each thrust they bury their past lives. Rick is and always has been a rough and tumble, rugged man. The rockstar life may be new to Alvaro, but he has always been a musician, even when he was just a small-town artist playing in cantinas. Despite their pasts being erased and their new lives becoming the only reality they know, they remain together. 

Sweatily making out in a trailer as Alvaro struggles to stop the cowboy from leaving cum stains on his stage outfit, when they are together something just feels right. While everything in the world around them may point otherwise, when they are in each other’s arms, everything just seems to make more sense. Even after they’re done having their fun, something remains between them, pulling them together. 

Sheepishly eying the cowboy as he pulls up his Levi’s, Alvaro doesn’t want to let him go, “Oi, vaquero?” The cowboy looks up thankfully, he’d never say as much but even life on the ranch doesn’t hold a match to the past hour with Alvaro, “Queiro- Do you wanna have lunch?” 

“Thought chu’d never ask-”

Neither would’ve guessed what their relationship would evolve into. Initially, it was the talk of the town. The Latin heartthrob and the rough-and-tumble country boy seemed like a totally unlikely couple. Some called it a publicity stunt, others whispered that it would never last. But through it all, Alvaro and Rick stood strong, their bond growing deeper with each passing day.

Alvaro strummed a guitar softly, while Rick leaned back in his chair, a contented smile on his face. The radio playing softly in the background- the familiar beat of North Side’s music playing.

“Ya know,” Rick said, breaking the comfortable silence, “I still can’t believe we went from two strangers at a bar to…”

“To this,” Alvaro finished, setting down his guitar and taking Rick’s hand in his own, “And I wouldn’t have it any other way, mi amor.”

The two held each other closely, while North Side continued to play in the background.

[jerisch]

Change Your Tune: Alvaro

Calvin and Eric are thrilled to visit the CYT Music Festival to see their favorite band reunite. After losing each other in the crowd, Calvin's mysteriously drawn to a Latin artist he's never heard of. With each step closer it’s clear there's no turning back.

An exciting collab with Misc TFs! Check out Eric's journey towards country music fandom on his blog ! For my part, hope you enjoy my first RC/cultural change in a while! Tossed a brief punk TF in this bad boy too ;) Hasta luego! -Occam

One could not ask for a better day to visit a music festival. Calvin isn’t exactly the type of person to attend something as hectic and high-traffic as the Change Your Tune Festival, but when his friend, Eric, heard that North Side was reuniting he knew they had to go. It had been their favorite band back in high school and there was no way they’d miss this one-time reunion performance.

Neither man was quite expecting just how massive the event would be however. They were so focused on their once-favorite band’s reunion that they paid little attention at all to the other artists taking part and were shocked to find out how eclectic the lineup was. From dozens of disparate sections it seems about any genre under the sun could be found. It was a wonder the fairground even had space for all these main stages. 

For a second Calvin is lost as he stares out across the sea of bodies, melodies from every set apart stage demanding his attention. Metal screams, EDM pulses, and R&B beats clash in the air, leaving Calvin wondering what a bizarre experience they’re going to endure until North Side’s set is set to start. Not as enthralled by the din of contrasting music, Eric bumps Calvin’s arm and shouts to be heard over the crowd, “You wanna head to North Side’s stage right now and sit through whatever’s there to make sure we get in the pit?”

Calvin nods and the pair take their first steps into the fairground proper before realizing they have no idea which stage North Side is actually set to perform at. Cogs turning in their minds, both men decide on different courses of action to find it. Nerves at missing the band superseding common sense, they head off in different directions in search of answers. Calvin wanders over to a map while Eric sees a crowd of festival-goers clearly dressed for North Side and approaches.

Only when he makes it to the map standee does he turn around to see if Eric’s still with him. Calvin finds nothing but the crowd. “Shit.” Looking from cowboy hats to mohawks he adds finding his friend to the to do list before turning to easily find the stage on the map. Mystery one solved with more than enough time to spare, he then sets to finding Eric.Checking his phone he finds that his phone has absolutely no service from the sheer volume of people at the festival.

Gritting his teeth he guesses he’ll just find Eric the old fashioned way and wades into the crowd. Assuming they went in completely opposite directions he feels confident that he can stumble across his friend fairly easily, and if not he’s sure they’ll bump into each other in the crowd for North Side. There’s certainly no real danger here as there seems to be a surplus of security wandering around, he thinks about asking one of the burly men if they could help find Eric though he promptly reconsiders as the sheer presence of the men spooks him away.

No he’ll just brute force it. Worming his way through the crowd, he notices that as he nears one of the stages that the crowds are far more homogenous than in the thoroughfares, perhaps unsurprising given fans are likely to congregate near their chosen bands, but something about it seems odd. Given the CYT Festival’s whole multi-genre vibe you’d think there would be some crossover. Thinking on that matter for a few moments as he pauses his search he realizes that he’s overthinking as immediately in front of him there’s a punk who seems to be quite taken with some real squeaky-clean indie pop.

Calvin almost laughs seeing the man’s liberty spikes sticking out above the crowd of bleached lengthy shags and shoddy perms. Swaying with the crowd, Calvin pauses to appreciate the idea of finding something you enjoy where you’d never expect it. Suddenly he’s bumped from behind by another presumed punk, far more nervous than his smiling cohort enjoying the sanitized tunes. The leather jacketed man clutches Calvin’s shoulders, “Hey! You- Have you seen my friend?” 

At first Calvin stares at him with a dumb look knowing how easy it is to see the punk in the crowd, “Sure dude? He’s right over, uhm?” Upon turning back to point, Calvin hesitates as he sees where the liberty spikes were once held high is an inconspicuous brown flop of hair, bobbing to the music. Stumbling over his words he turns back to the man who has now let go of his arms where he sees something even stranger. The man who was seconds ago possessed with anxiety at losing his friend is staring blankly ahead, Calvin would’ve sworn his shaky eyes were brown. 

Put off by the strange punk, Calvin awkwardly smiles and walks away, unaware as the man’s leather jacket shifts into a half-opened beachy button up as its sleeves fall off. Exposed to the open air his thin body begins packing on weight as his mohawk droops before cascading down his shoulders into a breezy curtain, as unassuming as every other aspect of his new personality.

 Uncomfortable in the strange crowd of this droll artist, Calvin spills back into the walkway and hopes Eric did not have the misfortune of talking with those bleary eyed, must-be stoned pop fans. Fingers crossed his friend is at the next venue, Calvin begins to scan the flow of festival goers once more before he’s distracted by a song he’s never heard calling for him over the throng, wholly demanding his attention.

Everything in the world suddenly feels muted besides this far off melody. His waking mind attempts to steer him back on track, to try and get him to return to the task of finding Eric so they can get to their concert, but suddenly that seems a distraction from discovering whatever delightful melody is pulling at him. He stumbles forward, the crowd almost totally parting to allow him to drift onward. In no time at all he finds himself outside the stage for some Reggaeton artist, Alvaro Altuve.

The young man shakes off the surreal pull the music has on him as he realizes he has never heard of the artist. While not the most worldly man, Calvin is incredibly online and prides himself on having at least a passing knowledge of just about anything he can scroll across. 

On top of that, he has friends who are absolutely into the genre and yet he’s somehow never even seen the name before. Clearly everyone around him has] as a large swath of the crowd behind him begins filing towards his stage. All the while, as Calvin continues to wonder how he’s not heard of this man, even pulling out his phone to frustratingly fail to search him, does his music continue to worm its way into and through his head.

Eventually he’s accidentally pushed by the surge of apparent Alvaro fans and stumbles with them, closer to the stage. Irritated at being manhandled, Calvin huffs to himself before letting curiosity get the better of him and opts to go with the flow. Arriving, he finds the stage empty, the Alvaro in question apparently isn’t set to take the stage for about half an hour, and yet the crowd is ecstatic for the instrumental recording blaring from the stage. Calvin tells himself he doesn’t get the hype, he tells himself he isn’t really enjoying the beat pumping through him. And yet-

He dances, he slams and grinds into the people nearby, he is moving like he never has done before. With speed and strength he shouldn’t be able to summon. Seconds lost to the unsung melodies trail into minutes as he experiences ecstasy from the looping track of an artist he doesn’t know a single thing about. The only thing breaking him out of the ecstasy is when he realizes the tunes begin to feel familiar. When he finally notices that his mind is slowly adding the lyrics. Starting like the buzz of a mosquito, soon enough his mind fills in lyrics in a language he can scarcely understand.

As real as the beats bumping in his chest, Calvir’s mind begins to ache as líricas begin to flow freely through him. He has to concentrate to still his lips from mouthing along. Words that fit perfectly with the ebb and flow, with the drumming pumping bass that lights his chest on fire. His vision flickers with the beat as he clutches at his chest, worried he’s experiencing some form of psychosis. There he finds that it’s not in his mind, something has begun to change. His outfit is entirely different.

Calvir feels bare sweaty skin where his flannel once hung, where it should still be. His hands grasp at a chest like they’ve never been able to before, bouncing with the increasingly familiar beats his body has begun to grow and new pecs are not left out. He feels the scratch of curls pricking against his palm as he tries to tune out his mind’s automatic addition of lyrics.

His mind returns to the two punks he saw not long ago, pupils flickering to the crowd around him; he can’t help but recall how concern left the man’s eyes as he too began to listen to that swill. Looking back he remembers an eyebrow piercing falling away as notched eyebrows filled in. How he could see the man's hair begin to restyle itself. Looking down at his own new chest he sees how around each of the new hairs lancing out of his heavier chest his skin almost looks patchy. As if it were splattered with a light brown paint.

Empowered by a new rising fear, Calvir fights back and begins to push his way out of the crowd. Gritting his teeth he’s unaware that his face has begun its own metamorphosis. His paltry blonde excuse for facial hair that has long been cut back to hide his inability to truly grow a beard returns with a vengeance. His upper lip twitches as the few thin hairs decorating it begin to lengthen, darken, and multiply. With each ambling step towards the edge of the crowd a new mustache thickens before it is similarly joined by a small goatee poking out of his chin. 

In no time at all his jaw and mouth are decorated with a facial hair combo that he has long admired. Wiping sweat from his face he feels them scratch against his arm and is stunned as he realizes he has continued to change even after blocking out the music that had him in its grasp. Looking at his arms it’s clear that the changes haven’t slowed in the slightest. 

The patchy spots of tanned skin have continued to expand, his arms too are similarly being enveloped as they join his chest in bulking larger. His hands shake as he sees veins trailing down biceps bulging heavy with muscle, he feels sweat drip down the side of his chest as his garden of pit hair spreads and thickens into an onyx dark jungle of curls.

Finally escaping the horde of Alvaro fans, Calvar stumbles over the barrier and stands to his feet. Grasping at the flimsy barricade he takes stock of his changed body, how muscle moves under his tight brown skin with the slightest movement. He rubs a scratch on his waist from the fall and feels his rough pubes crest into a treasure trail launching upwards towards his powerful chest. He doesn’t need to see his reflection to know his hair has likewise changed. 

“Qwhat es-” Calvar clutches at his thicker throat as he hears a deeper voice rumble from his chest. Eyes wide with fear, he tries again, hoping against anything that it was a fluke, a frog in his throat, “No, I’m not- No soy-” His eyes flicker across the crowd to find that, just like himself, they have begun to change. Their clothes and bodies continue to morph into whatever the music commands, the perfect audience for Alvaro Altuve to perform for. 

Something in Calvar’s chest flutters as the idea is more than alluring to him. He feels himself longing to give into the music once more as it rises in volume. Beyond that, he feels a burning desire to perform. When his subconscious begins to populate the beat with words once more his mouth can’t help but vocalize. It just feels right. He feels a burning urge to move, not the aimless ecstatic ambling dance of a fan however. No, he feels choreography ingrained into his bones yearning to burst free. 

Calvaro can scarcely stop himself as his legs and arms move to enact it. With an iron grip still on the stage’s barricade however he manages to stay strong. “I have- Teng- ohhh” Tanned hands fly to his face as in his mind the line between languages blurs, while still fluent in English quickly his native tongue is usurped, replaced by español.

As each thought twists and alters into his new tongue, so too does the content begin to shift. Fingers scratch down his face as his hands fall in confusion, rushing past thick dark eyebrows before rubbing a jaw sharper and increasingly covered by stubble as his goatee expands to cover his whole face rapidly connecting with sideburns inching down from his newly black hair.

“¿Tenía que- I had to find? Encontrarlo?” Try as he might, as the hair on his chest thickens and expands to cover his built chest, glistening under the sun. Blearily looking around as he tries to remember who or what he was looking for as his back cracks taller, Calvaro is distracted by the swell of the crowd. He feels the bass of the speakers bumping through their bodies, pulsing through his skill. Pushing its way to the front of his mind as his figure continues filling out is the realization that they are all cheering for him. They are all waiting for him.

His lips twist into a smile and he whispers to himself in his sultry, rough new voice, “para mí…” Suddenly members of the crowd begin pointing in his direction and their shouts begin to rise even higher. Alavarooo- Clicking his tongue his shy smile turns into a smirk as he watches the fans, his adoring fans lose their minds at nothing more than his sheer presence. 

Using his wide hand, he sensually rubs down the whole of his body with a wink and watches them shudder. Suddenly feeling a bulky mic in his back pocket, Alvaro knows what he must do. Memories of Eric totally fall to the wayside, buried deep alongside every other memory of being Calvin Dalton. No. There’s only one reason he’s here, and that’s to give his fans the performance de sus vidas.

He sprints alongside the barrier running to the stage, longer legs carrying his star-powered self to the stage. He shouts into the microphone and even then it’s difficult to be heard over the adoring cheers of the crowd, “Ayay- ¿Todos listos, mis all stars?” the little pet name is accented, as all his English is despite his fluency, though he knows that only makes him all the more alluring to his audience estadounidense. 

And with that he stands on stage, allowing the cheering of the crowd propel him into his final form, who he is, who he has always been. Suddenly joined by his banda and a crew of dancers, Alvaro Altuve begins his performance. With each new song his identity is sealed. With each flex and provocative, thrusting move the crowds wail and fuel his transformation even more. Even his time at the festival this very day is wiped away, replaced by warming up in his dressing room, flirting with other performers at this festival to end all festivals.

On the way to this very performance he passed some American band arguing. Dressed in some early 2000’s get up, something at the edge of his mind cried out to go get an autograph but he couldn’t say what. Why would he after all, he’s not in any state to ask for an autograph from some emos gringos. He’s Alvaro Altuve, and he’s got a show to put on.

Epilogue written with Misc TFs:

Rick sighed as he walked up to the bar, quickly ordering another shot of whisky and a beer. He glanced over at the group of good ol’ boys he’d been shooting the shit with all night - Jeb, Cletus, and Earl. They were all decked out in checkered shirts, faded jeans, and ball caps. Just like him now. It still felt so natural, even if some part of him couldn’t quite put his finger on what exactly seemed…off about the whole situation.

“Why do I feel like I’m just actin’ a part?" he wondered to himself, frowning slightly, "Like I’m wearing someone else’s skin." 

Shaking his head, he tried to push the strange thoughts aside. Where were these thoughts coming from? Where else would he want to be? He was just a good ol’ boy enjoying a cold one with the boys after a kick-ass country concert. His thoughts were interrupted as a new song started playing in the bar. Rick knew this song… knew this band… a small smile gracing his lips.

"North Side.” He muttered, his foot tapping to the beat of the music, “Well I’ll be…”

He felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him- a yearning for something he couldn’t quite understand in his slower mind. And as the music continued to strum at some past memory, the redneck couldn’t help but notice the striking Latino man with soulful eyes and a captivating smile, clearly enjoying the song as much as he was. 

“Well, would ya look at that." Rick muttered under his breath, "Seems like that fella’s got good taste in tunes, at least.”

Compelled by a force he couldn’t explain, Rick walked over to the man. His thoughts, once focused on music, instead shifted as he drank in the sight of the handsome Latino. The way he smiled, the way his dark hair was styled, the way his shirt hugged his muscles. Rick felt his dick stir.

“Howdy there, friend," Rick drawled, tipping his hat politely, "Name’s Rick. Can’t help but notice you seem mighty fond of this here tune, same as me.”

Alvaro looks up at the man, “Buenas noches. The name’s Alvaro.”

Rick’s eyes flash with recognition, “You mean the Alvaro? Like Alvaro Altuve? I reckon I recognized you from somewhere!”

Alvaro grinned, “Always happy to meet a fan.”

Rick paused for a second, captivated by the singer’s smile. The two stared at one another before Alvaro beckoned him to take a seat at the bar. Rick happily accepted the two chatting it up, their conversation flowing naturally- like two old friends. Their knowledge about North Side and their interest in the band not fitting with their outward appearance.

“I would’ve never expected you to like North Side.” Alvaro laughed.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He chuckled, throwing an arm around the man’s shoulder. They both blushed at the mere touch, and Rick pulled his arm away, “Well, I reckon I was always a fan, I think.” Rick shrugged and Alvaro grinned.

“Makes sense! You were the one who introduced me to them after all.” Those words hung in the air, the two became silent and stared at one another- their expressions shifting, their eyes conveying a faint recognition.

Rick, Alvaro knows Rick. He doesn’t know how he does but something deep within him pangs with familiarity or deja vu. Judging by the expression on the cowboy’s face it seems as if there’s some pang of memory behind his eyes as well. Alvaro stares at the fan wondering if he just saw the man at his concert or something but knows that dressed like he is, that cannot be the case, and then he sees his lips struggle to say, “C- Calv- Calvin?”

At once both men flash back. They were having lunch together, as they have done countless times throughout the years. Eric sees his friend who could scarcely put two Spanish words together, Calvin sees his bestie that would never be caught dead in a cowboy hat. They’re just talking shit as friends do when Eric gasps at a notification on his phone, “Dude- North Side is back!”

Before they left the table, the pair had bought tickets to the CYT festival and had begun planning what they were going to wear. Not for a moment wondering what else they’d care to see at the festival, why should they? They were going to see their favorite band of all time and they were going to do so together. 

Together. 

Back in the present as they look at each other in their new forms. Alvaro sees the sweaty, hairy chest of the good old southern man in front of him. Rick sees the effortlessly alluring manicured body of a latin rock star staring back at him. Together has a different spot in both their minds as they hear a grindr notification go off somewhere in the distance. Might as well see what their new bodies can do.

As quick as their feet can travel they’re in Alvaro’s trailer. Attempts to trawl out memories from who they were are fruitless or painful, so instead they delight in the present. The artist cannot believe how enticed he is by the smell of cheap whiskey and cheaper beer on the man’s breath. Rick is less discerning as he hungrily delights in the sweaty musk of the man who was on stage not all that long ago. 

Rick’s rough beard scratches against Alvaro’s neck as he takes a deep breath, he hears a deep whisper from the performer, “volve loco, vaquero.” He growls and his arms shake as he sees no reason to not obey man. Music playing in the background rapidly shifts from Alvaro’s own album, to the b-sides of the Blue Sky Dreamers, to the music that brought them into these new lives, North Side. Before fading altogether and leaving them alone with the sound of their bodies.

With each passing moment in the heady enjoyment of their new selves they feel their identities cemented. Rick’s clean-pressed closet wiped away for life on a farm, his pen-pushing 9-to-5 is nothing compared to the outdoor lifestyle he far prefers. Alvaro’s whole country of origin irrevocably changed, while he loves the life he’s found in the states they will never be where he’s from.

With each thrust they bury their past lives. Rick is and always has been a rough and tumble, rugged man. The rockstar life may be new to Alvaro, but he has always been a musician, even when he was just a small-town artist playing in cantinas. Despite their pasts being erased and their new lives becoming the only reality they know, they remain together. 

Sweatily making out in a trailer as Alvaro struggles to stop the cowboy from leaving cum stains on his stage outfit, when they are together something just feels right. While everything in the world around them may point otherwise, when they are in each other’s arms, everything just seems to make more sense. Even after they’re done having their fun, something remains between them, pulling them together. 

Sheepishly eying the cowboy as he pulls up his Levi’s, Alvaro doesn’t want to let him go, “Oi, vaquero?” The cowboy looks up thankfully, he’d never say as much but even life on the ranch doesn’t hold a match to the past hour with Alvaro, “Queiro- Do you wanna have lunch?” 

“Thought chu’d never ask-”

Neither would’ve guessed what their relationship would evolve into. Initially, it was the talk of the town. The Latin heartthrob and the rough-and-tumble country boy seemed like a totally unlikely couple. Some called it a publicity stunt, others whispered that it would never last. But through it all, Alvaro and Rick stood strong, their bond growing deeper with each passing day.

Alvaro strummed a guitar softly, while Rick leaned back in his chair, a contented smile on his face. The radio playing softly in the background- the familiar beat of North Side’s music playing.

“Ya know," Rick said, breaking the comfortable silence, "I still can’t believe we went from two strangers at a bar to…”

“To this," Alvaro finished, setting down his guitar and taking Rick’s hand in his own, "And I wouldn’t have it any other way, mi amor.”

The two held each other closely, while North Side continued to play in the background.

[jerisch]

You Look Like Your Father

"You look familiar." The coach said, looking curiously at the newest player on the team.

"Me?" The young man asked, slightly intimidated by his new football coach.

"Yes, you. What's your name son?"

"James Garland." He responded.

"Ahh that's where I know you from. Your father went here right?" The coach broke the tension with a hearty laugh.

"Ugghh, yeah."

"I played football with him back when we were students, back before he left for the city life. Well I'm glad you're back, I'll have to catch up with him sometime." He seemed to reminisce for a moment.

"Oh... Cool." James tried not to sound as uninterested as he was. He just showed up for his first practice and is already on a good page with his coach, so he doesn't want to blow it.

"You know, you look exactly like your father." The coach continued, standing up from his chair.

"I do?" James asked.

The coach stood in front of him, towering over the young man. The intimidating man was peeking through his charming mask once again.

"Yeah. He had such big muscles, like you." He said as he grabbed James' arms.

This confused him even further, as James was quite skinny, especially for a college football player. His father, on the other hand, had the classic football jock physique. Big arms and broad shoulders. James appreciated the attempt at a compliment, but considers the coach's hands could fully wrap around his biceps, he wasn't nearly as strong as his father.

But something felt different when the coach's warm hands touched his skin. The warmth spread like wildfire through his arms, making him feel like he was by a campfire. He looked down and watched as his arms began to grow. At first it was hardly noticeable, looking slightly swollen like they would after a workout. But they quickly started to grow faster and faster. Muscle packed into his biceps, making them grow larger than a football, ripping straight through the sleeves of his shirt.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, James knew this was wrong, that he shouldn't want this. But the way his biceps now pressed against his torso made him want more.

His forearms followed suit, nearly doubling in size as a thick pelt of black hairs grew over his skin. The bones in his hands cracked, rearranged, and grew until they were large enough to easily grip a football with one hand. His fingers became thick and meaty with callouses from decades of playing football.

"Oh and those broad shoulders, you know your father was known for having massive shoulders back in the day." The coach said while shifting his hands up towards James' shoulders.

His collarbone and shoulder blade stuck out from his body, and his shoulders were about as wide as his hips, giving him a boxy look. But as the coach rubbed his hands across James' skin, his bones started disappearing under a thick layer of meat. His traps created a thick mound of muscle that layed on top of his shoulders, which were in the process of broadening and tearing through his tiny shirt. His upper body widened, which along with his much larger arms, gave him a hulking wingspan of 6"4.

"And I could never forget his meaty pecs. He used to let me suck on em' if I scored a touchdown. Did you know that he even had a manly coat of hair on his chest back then." The coach continued as his hands drifted down to James' chest.

His flat chest rapidly expanded under the touch of his coach. Once a flat landscape, now there were two juicy pecs that created a shelf over his stomach, finally shredding his shirt to pieces and leaving his shirtless. And a thick layer of short dark hairs sprouted all over his upper body, especially on his pecs and in his armpits.

"He had a perfect set of abs too, though I'd imagine, like most of us, he's lost that in time." He chuckles as he slaps his gut.

Moving his hands down, James' flabby stomach hardens into a defined six pack before a thin layer of fat fades the six pack. His hips stay thin, making his shoulders much wider than his hips. And a sharp V line appears above his crotch as a treasure trail of hair grows along his abs.

James also noticed he was now standing eye to eye with his coach, the coach that was easily 6 inches taller than him just moments ago.

"Oh, I gotta get this right. Your father had the nicest ass I'd ever seen. Round and perky, but still large enough to make his teammates stare whenever he was on the field."

The coach stepped closer to James, wrapping his hands around his growing body and grabbing his non-existent ass. With a firm squeeze, muscle and fat poured into James' ass, enough muscle to keep it round but enough fat to make it jiggle when he walked. His jeans strained slightly as his ass started to spill out the top, but they held on.

"And when we'd shower after our games, your father would choose the player he thought played the worst and top them in front of everybody. His cock was so big, most of our players had loose assholes by the end of the season."

Coach firmly grabbed James' crotch, smirking when he felt that James was already hard as a brick. His modest dick started to swell, snaking down the leg of his jeans and creating a thick bulge that would be visible no matter the clothes he wore. It was something that always made James insecure, watching his father parade around showing off his manhood. Well that insecurity melted away as his dick passed 10 inches, creating a bulge nearly as thick as a pop can in his skin tight jeans.

"Being the quarterback and all, your father had quite the set of thighs. Strong enough to withstand a tackle from any man. But cursed to chafe whenever he moved, because his thighs were always rubbing together."

Coachs hands slid down James' legs. His twig-like thighs exploded with muscle and fat. His jeans ripped in some places but held on, making them look like ripped skinny jeans on James' massive legs. A familiar pelt of black hair grew all over his legs, making it stick out through the rips in his jeans. And his feet grew from a measly size 8 to a hulking size 18, easily bursting through his shoes.

"You're exactly the same height as your father too." Coach said as he looked up at the now 6"4 man towering over him.

"And finally, the moneymaker. The charmer that allowed him to get anyone in bed with him, his face. You've got a thick square jaw just like your father."

His soft jaw sharpened as the fat melted away from his face. His jaw squared out, growing a strong masculine chin as a five o'clock shadow grew over his once clean shaven face.

"Even back then, he had a thick mustache just like you."

A mature mustache filled his upper lip.

"Even those wrinkles look just like his."

Lines and creases started to form around his eyes and forehead as his facial features started to mature, making him look much older.

"And finally the classic James military buzz cut."

His medium length curly hair started to fall out, leaving behind a razor straight buzz cut. And his hairline receded slightly, adding to his mature look.

"It's James Sr. now." James' voice was deep and gruff, just like his father's.

"Of course big guy." Coach playfully punched his shoulder. "Hey, now that you're here. Why don't you be my assistant coach."

"I'm the coach." James stated as he pinned the former coach against the wall.

"Yes, Sir. It'll be like old times." The assistant coach responded.

"Just like old times?" James smiled as he unzipped his jeans.

[jerisch]

1K Story: Altered to Obey

Ethan Cole adjusted the cuffs of his pristine Lila dress shirt as he stepped into the dimly lit bar. The scent of aged whiskey and faint cigar smoke clung to the air, mixing with the hum of conversation and the low thrum of music. It was a place he wouldn’t typically set foot in; too raw, too unrefined for someone of his stature. But after the week he had endured, he needed something different, something to drown out the stress clawing at his mind, and this bar was the closest to his apartment. Which mean he’ll be able to go to sleep fast after he drank some glasses.

Sliding onto a barstool, he signaled the bartender and ordered a whiskey neat. As he sipped, letting the amber liquid burn down his throat, he barely noticed the man who had taken the seat beside him and gestured the barman too for a drink.

“Rough day?” his voice drawled.

Ethan glanced sideways. The man was striking, dark-haired, well-built, dressed in shirt and suit adjusted to his size perfectly. His tanned skin and rough face showed the years in a perfectly natural and mainly way.

There was something about him, an effortless confidence, a magnetism that felt both inviting and dangerous.

“You could say that,” Ethan replied not intending to as he exhaling sharply. “More like a rough week. You?”

The man smirked, swirling the drink in his glass before taking a sip. “Oh, I’ve had my fair share of long weeks. Name’s Adrian, by the way.”

“Ethan.” They clinked their glasses in an unspoken toast before Ethan continued, “So, what do you do, Adrian?”

Adrian tilted his head, as if considering his words carefully. “I guess you could say I’m in between things right now. Figuring stuff out. Trying to sign a deal for a new job. I just need my client to show up in time, but he tends to be … late.”

Ethan raised an eyebrow. “Clients and punctuality. Am I right?”

“Yea.” Adrian said with an easy grin as he took another sip. “And you? You look like you’ve got your life all figured out.”

Ethan huffed a small laugh. “I’m a lawyer. A lot of long hours, negotiations, and making sure clients gets the best deals possible.”

Adrian studied him for a moment, then smirked. “A real man of order and control, huh?”

“I try to be,” Ethan admitted, downing the rest of his whiskey. He felt the warmth settle in his chest, loosening the stiffness in his shoulders.

Adrian leaned in slightly. “And yet, here you are. In a place like this.”

Ethan exhaled through his nose. “Guess even control freaks need to unwind sometimes.”

“Well,” said Adrian as he downed the remains of his glass “to the pressure we need to unwind then!”

Adrian chuckled, flagging the bartender for another round. As the drinks kept coming, their conversation flowed more freely. They discussed everything and nothing, places they had been, people they had met, philosophies on life. Ethan found himself enjoying the company more than he expected. Adrian had a way of listening that made him feel like the most interesting person in the room.

As the hours slipped by, the edges of Ethan’s mind began to blur. His thoughts felt sluggish, his limbs heavy. The warmth of the alcohol had morphed into something thicker, more clouded. He tried to focus on Adrian’s voice, but the words became distant echoes.

“You alright?” Adrian’s voice broke through the fog.

Ethan blinked, realizing he had swayed slightly on the stool. “Yeah… just a little out of it.”

Adrian smiled, slow and knowing. “Maybe you should call it a night.”

Ethan nodded absently, attempting to push himself up. The floor felt uneven beneath his feet. The world tilted, shadows stretching unnaturally under the streetlights as he stumbled outside. The cool night air did little to clear his head. His breath came slower, heavier. He barely registered Adrian’s silhouette lingering near the entrance, watching as Ethan staggered down the empty street.

After a couple of meters, Ethan turned left on the empty dark streets to cut to his apartment as fast as he could. His head spinning and his vision blurred by the alcohol. Ethan took a pause, holding himself against a brick wall just behind the bar he spent the night in, his eyes were heavy and his breath getting slower and slower and then, darkness.

The last thing he felt was the sensation of the ground rushing up to meet him before everything faded to black.

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A dull throbbing pain settled in Ethan’s skull as he regained consciousness. His body felt heavy, sluggish, his limbs refused to obey him. Blinking against the dim light filtering into the room, he tried to move, only to realize he couldn’t. Panic jolted through him as he became aware of the tight restraints biting into his wrists and ankles. He was bound to his bed.

His breathing quickened, heart hammering against his ribs as his eyes darted around the bedroom only to realize it wasn’t his bedroom either. It was modern but minimal, dark walls, a single dresser. The lights of the late dark night casting shadows through the velvety curtains. As his sight ran left and right, he saw a chair in the corner of the room, standing still in the shadows. A tall figure sat hidden in the darkness, watching him. Only the eyes were glowing in a weird alluring reflection, something Ethan couldn’t take his eyes off. Something dangerous and alluring at the same time.

A slow, deliberate smirk spread across the shadow’s face as he leaned forward into the faint glow of the bedside lamp. “Morning, mister lawyer. Or should I call you, jury 28?.”

Ethan swallowed hard; his throat dry. “Adrian? W-what the hell is this? Let me go.”

Adrian tilted his head, amusement glinting in his eyes. “I’m afraid I can’t do so. Not yet.”

Ethan struggled, yanking at the restraints, but they held firm. His breathing turned ragged. “If this is some kind of sick joke…”

Adrian stood, his presence looming as he took slow steps toward the bed. “It’s not a joke, Ethan.” He reached for a weird looking device sitting on the bedside table looking like a pair of high-tech goggles. “But don’t worry, I’m not here to hurt you, if that can reassure you.”

Ethan thrashed, a fresh wave of terror coursing through him. “No! Don’t you dare! I’ll sue you. You don’t know who you came for. No get your hands away from me. Fuck off, don’t!”

Adrian pressed a firm hand against Ethan’s chest, pinning him down with ease on the soft mattress. “Shhh. Relax. Fighting won’t change what’s coming.” He lifted the headset over Ethan’s face, ignoring the muffled protests. “Just let it happen.”

The world went dark as the device settled in place. At first, nothing but pitch black. Then, a spiral. Slowly turning, hypnotic in its endless motion. A low hum filled his ears, rhythmic, steady, invading his senses.

“Ethan,” Adrian’s voice was different now, calmer, smoother, slipping into his thoughts like silk. “Just breathe. Focus on the spiral.”

Ethan squeezed his eyes shut beneath the headset. “I-I won’t…” but as hard as Ethan tried, his eyes opened and started to focus on the spiral in front of him. He tried to stop listening to Adrian’s voice but he couldn’t. it was like it was speaking directly in his brain. Ethan felt like he was losing his grip on reality and he was terrified about what could happen now. His body started to relax. It felt like thousands of ants were crawling on his legs, getting higher and higher as long as Adrian’s voice was echoing in his ears. Ethan hated how much this sensation was getting harder and harder to fight. It was like he was slowly but surely falling asleep without being able to fight this urge to close his eyes and to listen. “Ethan, I’m going to count from five to zero. With every number, your body will get more and more relaxed. You’ll stop thinking, you’ll feel good and relaxed. When I’ll reach zero, you will fall asleep, but you’ll still be able to listen to me and do everything I tell you to do. Let’s start now, Ethan. Five.” A sudden pressure wrapped around his skull, a weight sinking into his mind. His muscles slackened slightly.

“Four.”

His heartbeat slowed, his mind fogging over, as if something was gently pressing against his thoughts, making them heavier.

“Three.”

His struggles dulled. The spiral pulled at him, luring him into its endless depths. His breaths became shallower, steadier.

“Two.”

A deep warmth spread through his limbs. A strange, heavy calm wrapped around his mind, thick and inescapable. He knew he had to resist, had to fight, but… it felt so much easier to let go.

“One.”

His lips parted slightly. His thoughts drifted, floating like dust in the air. Something inside him frayed, unraveling at the edges. His body was still awake, still bound, but his mind… In a last attempt to ask for help, a faint moan, barely audible, escaped his opened and relaxed mouth. “Please…”

“Zero.”

Ethan’s mind slipped away, sinking into the black void of sleep. His body remained, breathing steadily, waiting.

Adrian leaned down, whispering against his ear, his voice the only thing tethering Ethan to reality. “Good boy.”

Ethan did not react.

Adrian grinned, trailing a finger along Ethan’s cheek. “You hear me, right?”

“Yes, master.” Ethan’s voice was monotone, distant.

“Interesting, the whole Master thing wasn’t planned, but I won’t complain about it” said Adrian with a smile creeping on his manly cheeks. “You will listen. You will obey.”

“Yes, master.”

Adrian took a step back, admiring his new puppet waiting for his orders. “Perfect.” He said as a bonner started to grow the front of his pants.

“Stand up.”

Ethan’s body obeyed without hesitation as Adrian finished to unfastened the restraints.

Like a marionette on strings, Ethan rose from the bed, his movements slow, precise, guided by an invisible force. His vacant eyes stared ahead; his mind still locked away in the depths of obedience. Adrian watched with satisfaction, adjusting his coat before motioning toward the door.

“Follow me and don’t talk to anyone.”

Ethan’s legs carried him forward, his shoes padding against the cold floor. The dimly lit hallway stretched before them, and he moved mechanically, shadowing Adrian’s every step. They exited into the quiet, empty streets, the neon glow of a hidden tattoo parlor flickering just ahead. Adrian led him inside, exchanging a knowing glance with the heavily tattooed man behind the counter.

“This the one?” the tattoo artist asked in a deep rough voice, eyeing Ethan’s blank expression with curiosity.

Adrian smirked. “Yeah. Let’s get started.”

The backroom was small, cluttered with ink bottles and buzzing machines. A single chair sat in the center.

“Get your clothes off and sit down on the chair” said Adrian as he watched Ethan taking his suit off piece by piece until his athletic naked frame was standing still in the middle of the room. Ethan’s body then turned left and sat on the cold leathery chair without moving. “You won’t move no matter what happen. You’ll stay still and you’ll wait for my orders.” Continued Adrian as another vicious smile creeped on the corner of his lips. “Yes master. I will wait for your orders without moving.” Answered Ethan in a monotonous tone. Adrian leaned in, brushing his fingers along Ethan’s forearm. “Time to give you a proper look, Ethan.” “Damn bro, remind me not to piss you off. This dude is gone” said the tattoo artist in a cheerful tone as he grabbed his tattoo gun. “Don’t worry bro. Ethan here is having a special treatment.”

The hum of the tattoo gun filled the air as the artist began his work. Ink soaked into Ethan’s pale skin, swirling into intricate designs, dark and bold. Adrian watched as his canvas took shape. Sleeves covering his arms, ink snaking over his chest, his ribs, his thighs. Black and gray patterns wrapped around his thin frame, etching a new identity and personality onto his flesh.

Hours passed. Ethan’s body sat still, accepting every stroke of the needle without a single flinch. His pristine skin was gone, replaced with artwork that exuded raw masculinity, danger, desire, dominance. Adrian ran a hand over the fresh tattoos, admiring the transformation before turning back to Fernando. “That’s perfect. I just think some more modifications could perfect it all. What do you think?” Adrian said in a cheeky vicious tone as his sight landed on Ethan’s untouched cock and shaved pubes. “I got you!” said Fernando as he turned around to grab a gun looking device. “I knew I could have trust in you!” said Adrian as he fists bumped Fernando gloved hands. In the blink of an eye, Fernando positioned the gun at the tip of Ethan’s cock head and with a syringe and a bit of pressure on the trigger, a loud SNAP resonated in the room as a huge silver Prince Albert was now lodged at the tip of Ethan’s cut cock. Fernando then went higher on Ethan’s body and grabbed his left ear as he Snapped a golden earing on his lobe before doing the same with the right ear. Adrian took a step back to admire Ethan’s tattooed and pierced body. He smiles as he saw Ethan still breathing but disconnected body standing still on the chair, still waiting for Adrian’s next orders. “Step 1 done.” Said Adrian as he started to walk back close to Ethan’s limp body. “Now let’s start Phase 2.” He continued as he grabbed a vial full with a shimmering green liquid in his front right pocket. “Can I borrow you this?” He asked Fernando as he grabbed an empty brand-new syringe sitting on the counter next to him. “Thank you, my friend.” He said as he emptied the full vial inside the syringe.

He tapped the side of the needle, then pressed the tip against Ethan’s arm. “This is where the real fun begins.”

The injection burned as it entered Ethan’s veins. A slow pulse rippled through his body, spreading from his core outward. His muscles twitched, tensing involuntarily. His breath hitched as heat surged beneath his skin, his frame trembling as unseen forces took hold.

Adrian stepped back, watching eagerly. “Can’t wait for you to wake up and see this new you.”

Ethan’s shoulders jerked as his collarbones cracked and widened, his frame forcefully expanding. Muscle swelled beneath his skin, his pale complexion darkening slightly as veins thickened beneath the surface. His arms spasmed, biceps ballooning outward, triceps growing dense with corded muscle. His forearms pulsed as tendons strengthened, his once-slender fingers stretching longer before thickening, his palms roughening into something rugged and powerful. His nails darkened slightly, the tips squared and strong, as if built for labor.

His spine arched violently as his torso grew, his ribs reshaping to accommodate his new bulk. Each vertebra popped in succession, elongating him inch by inch until his feet dangled over the edge of the chair. His chest heaved, expanding outward with each deep, shuddering breath, his pectorals thickening into powerful slabs of muscle. A dusting of hair spread across them, brown curls sprouting and thickening at the center. His abs rippled into sharp definition, each ridge of muscle perfectly sculpted, his obliques cutting deep lines down to his widening pelvis.

His legs then started to crack before getting longer and thicker, his thighs surged with power, tearing the fabric of his skin as muscle bulged outward, letting some stretch marks along the way. His calves tightened, taking on a hardened, athletic shape, while his feet stretched, toes curling as they expanded in size. The skin thickened slightly on the soles, his heels broadening to match his newfound proportions.

Adrian’s smirk widened as Ethan’s groin started to pulse, his cock twitching as the change overtook it. His length shifted, shortening slightly but growing far thicker, veins protruding along what remained of the length. His balls swelled heavier, fuller, resting against his inner thighs with a new weight. The prince Albert got closer and closer to his thickening balls and the skin and muscle around the fresh wound started to heal like the cauterization process had taken place years ago.  His pubic hair darkened, thickened, curling wildly in an unkempt display of masculinity. A rich, musky scent began to rise from his body, sweat forming at his chest, his pits, his groin. Something earthy, raw, undeniably masculine.

Ethan’s face was the last to change. His jawline cracked and restructured, sharpening into something chiseled and strong. His cheekbones grew more pronounced, his nose widening slightly to match his bolder features. His lips swelled subtly, taking on a more natural pout beneath the shadow of his thickening facial hair. His brown eyes fluttered momentarily, shifting in hue; turning a deep, striking shade of steel blue before cooling down into a bluey grey. His once-light hair darkened, roots shifting to a rich, dirty blonde, strands thickening and taking on a slightly tousled, effortlessly rugged appearance. Stubble then started to grow on his new cheeks as his face finished to shift into this new appearance. Ethan’s body then started to spasms and twitch on the chair. His muscles spasming and relaxing again and again. His brand-new tattoos engraved in his flesh started to glow a faint green, the same color as the vial. The stretch marks all over his body that appeared because of the sudden growth started to disappear slowly but surely. And after a couple of minutes, Ethan’s body stood still on the chair, as relaxed as before. But his skin was now a healthy golden hue. All the freshly engraved tattoos were now healed perfectly and his prince Albert Albert was now there for good.

Adrian exhaled, running a hand through his hair as he admired his work. “Damn, Ethan… I have to say, prison did me good, but this?” He smirked, gripping Ethan’s chin and tilting his head to inspect his new face. “This is art. I’m sure you’ll be a favorite!”

Ethan remained still, brain still asleep and trapped in his new changed body, body settling into its new form. Adrian chuckled, dragging his fingers along the thick ridge of Ethan’s bicep before giving it a firm squeeze. “You’re gonna be perfect.”

“Well, I guess we can go now. Thank you Fernando. And as always,…” “Yes I know the song Adrian. You were not here and I haven’t seen you since you got out of jail.” “Thank you my friend.” Answered Adrian as he gave Fernando a stack of money before turning back to Ethan still laying in the chair in his new modified body while Fernando got out of the room. “Now Ethan, get up and put this on!” Adrian said to Ethan’s relaxed body.

Still trapped in a trance, Ethan moved with robotic precision, reaching for the pile of clothes Adrian had laid out for him. A pair of tight, worn-out jeans, their denim stiff with sweat and musk. A black tank top, just as ripe, the fabric clinging to his muscular torso, a pair of well-worn converse shoes and a black and white hat. Lastly, a metal cock ring and a thick buttplug sat on the table. Ethan grabbed them. For the first time since all of this happened. Ethan’s body stood there for a couple of seconds without moving the plug and the cockring in hands. Almost like he was hesitating on putting them on. But only one word from Adrian was enough to put Ethan back into the stated of obeisance. Ethan plunged the plug in his tight ass in one soft move before grabbing his thick short cock, passing his Prince Albert through the ring and then locking it around his girth.

Adrian leaned in close, inhaling the scent of submission clinging to Ethan’s newly transformed body. “Perfect. Now, follow me.”

The night air was thick with the scent of the city as Adrian led Ethan through the winding streets, neon lights flashing in puddles along the pavement. The bass of a distant club thrummed through the ground, growing stronger with each step they took. The entrance was unassuming, just a black door with a crimson light above it, but the moment they crossed the threshold, the world shifted.

Inside, the club pulsed with life. Men, drenched in sweat, bathed in dim lights, moved against each other, their bodies slick with heat and pleasure. The air was thick with the mingling scents of cologne, liquor, and raw masculinity. Ethan followed Adrian through the crowd without question, weaving past wandering hands and hungry eyes, until they reached a private changing room in the back.

Once inside, Adrian locked the door and turned to face Ethan’s waiting body. “Sit.”

Ethan dropped into the chair in the center of the room. His new body was still unfamiliar to him, the weight of his muscles shifting with every small movement. Adrian pulled out his smartphone from his suit pocket, his fingers tapping against the screen.

“This part,” Adrian murmured, stepping closer, “is where I make sure you fell what I felt. Trapped in a jail and forced to be fucked. knowing I wasn't strong enough to break free.”

The spiral appeared on the screen, glowing faintly in the dimly lit room. The moment Ethan’s eyes locked onto it, his body stiffened, his mind immediately drawn into the swirling depths of light. Adrian crouched beside him, whispering into his ear.

“You’ve already come so far,” he cooed. “But now, it’s time to let go completely. Because of you, I have lost five years of my life. And you thought you could go ahead with yours like nothing happened? No… You took five years from me and because of you, jury 28, I was put in jail for five fucking years!! I think it’s only fair to give you a bit of your own medicine. With a bit more for the mental struggle you indulged. That’s what you asked for, remember? Now don’t worry. I’m not a monster. I won’t do anything bad to you. In fact, I think you’ll enjoy your time a lot. In jail we have something we call the biatch. Basically, it’s someone not too muscled, not too strong. And we fucked the shit out of him to get our nerves down, doesn’t matter if he wants it or not. Well, let’s say. I didn’t want it at first. But I’m pretty sure you’ll enjoy it after a while. At least I hope for you. You were straight, right? Yea not for long anymore … Now listen to me Ethan, from now on, you are not Ethan anymore. You are Joey. The brand-new gay biatch at this club. You’ll come here and dance and get fucked every night for the next five years and after every shift, you’ll come to my apartment and give me the money you made. You love to get fucked by men. For Joey, every cock is a gift and you want to honor them all in any way you are asked. When I or anybody will call you a good boy, you will cum handsfree and it’ll be the best orgasm you ever felt. Also, when someone touches your nipples, you’ll feel like you are fucked by the biggest cock ever in all the right places. It’ll be painfully orgasmic for you. To finish, every time you’ll cum, you’ll fall back into this trance state where you’ll remember your mantra and that Joey is your new reality: I am a gay biatch who loves to get fucked on stage for money. I love cocks. Cocks are my only focus in life. I love to get played with. Now I’m going to count down from five to zero. With every number, you’ll feel those instructions cementing themselves in your brain. When I will reach zero, it’ll become permanently ingraved in your brain. When I say wake, you will wake up from that trance you are in and be mentally free but your body will still belong to me. And when you’ll cum, you’ll go back into a trance like this one where your new personality and identity, Joey, will be the one in control. You’ll be able to feel everything but you won’t have any control in the situation. Say I agree if you understood everything.” “I- I agree m-aster” answered Ethan in a monotone voice interrupted with fear undertones. “Perfect. Let’s starts the countdown then”.

“Five”

Ethan’s muscles tensed as he unconsciously tried to fight it, his jaw clenched as drops of sweat started to form on his forehead.

“Four”

His breath hitched, his pupils dilating as the spiral filled his vision.

“Three”

His body slumped slightly, tension giving way to relaxation, his mind sinking deeper into the void.

“Two”

His lips parted, a soft exhale slipping through. Thoughts slowed. Resistance faded.

“One”

His shoulders dropped, his head tilting slightly forward.

“Zero. Wake up boy.” Ethan’s breath came in short, panicked bursts. His hands trembled as he ran them over his body, his fingers pressing against his foreign skin, his unfamiliar face. “No… no, this isn’t real. This…” He looked up; his eyes wild. “What did you do to me?” Seeing that Adrian was not answering, Ethan repeated, this time screaming louder. “WHAT THE FUCK!! WHAT HAPPENED!! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME!!” screamed in panic Ethan as the reflection in front of him mimicked his movement? He tried to get up but his legs weren’t listening. Only his head was able to move. Adrian laughed as he saw Ethan finally taking all the details of his new self. He smiled when he saw tears shining on Ethan’s cheeks before dying in his stubble. “Don’t worry Ethan. I know you are scared but you shouldn’t be. I told you you would have pleasure. And even if I went to jail because of you, I’m not a monster. No, I see myself more like the Karma. You see, you sent me to jail for a mistake I did in my youth, I sent you to jail for something you did, kinda… I’m sure you’ll enjoy this don’t worry.” As he finished saying that, Ethan stood frozen on his chair, impossible for him to slightly move even one of his toes. He was totally at the mercy of Adrian and he hated being so helpless. Adrian got closer and stood behind him, putting his hands on Ethan’s shoulders as he started massaging them cheerfully. Now let’s see what happen if I do… that!’ Adrian said as he moved his hands doesn’t Ethan’s chest in a quick movement and his fingers went pinching with force Ethan’s sensitive nipples. All of a sudden Ethan felt like something huge penetrated his virgin ass. He couldn’t understand what was happening as he didn’t see anyone or anything in the mirror reflection. Just himself, mouth opened and moaning in pain and pleasure as he kept on feeling the sensation going faster and faster. At this moment, he felt his cock getting hard under his jeans only to feel a weird tugging sensation at the base. Adrian went on and opened the fly for Ethan to see that his proudness, his huge cut cock was no way smaller than it used to be. Going from 8 inches hard to only 3 inches now. But worst, he saw something shimmer at its tip. “The fuck!! What have you do-ne… hAaaaaAaAhaaAAA” said Ethan while being interrupted as Adrian pinched his nipples once again. “I told you you would have a good time! But now I think it’s time for you to start your shift.” Continued Adrian as he pinched and twisted Ethan’s nipples one more time, sending a wave of pleasure down his body and making his cock leak one more time. “Please Adrian don’t do that to me. I’m sorry, I was just doing my job I don’t want to feel that and be trapped like that. I don’t want to …” “Good boy” said Adrian as he took a step back from Ethan’s body. Like if something had flicked in Ethan’s mind. His eyes unfocused for a moment as he blinked a bit. Cum started to erupt from his frozen body and splattered on his mirror reflection. His prince Albert moving up and down with every orgasm he felt. Ethan felt everything. His body had betrayed him. He tried to ask for Adrian to free him and turn him back one more time but no sound came out of his mouth. Instead, he was frozen watching his reflection starting to smile and turn his head in Adrian’s direction, smiling even more as he contracted his dick to make his cummy prince albert jump with every movement. Ethan was trapped in his own body, feeling everything but not being able to move. He was trapped.

“You’re mine now, Joey” Adrian whispered. “And I’m going to make sure you repay me for for everything you took from me.” “Don’t be late for your shift. Tonight, you have three private dances and maybe a fourth one if you are fast enough. But I know you love your job, so go ahead and go on stage, good boy!” As he finished his sentence, Joey stood up and started to walk on the stage. His muscled body moving in rhythm with the music as the front of his jeans got soaking wet with his second orgasm. Joey loved his life and serving his boss in this club. He was lucky to have someone like that taking care of him and making sure he was scheduled every night of the week for several months in advance. He loved his life, clueless that a couple of hours ago, he didn’t exist and was a straight lawyer about to break into this industry. Ethan stood frozen feeling his body cumming as he got up to go on stage and started moving his body, showing his ass and dick to every client giving him a five-dollar bills. He hated it all, but he couldn’t do anything. Every time someone called him good boy, he felt his body cum handsfree in his jeans and every time the orgasm receded, he felt Joey getting stronger and stronger. It’s gonna be a tough five years of service.

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Hey guys!

Here’s the story you voted for as part of my 1k subscriber celebration! It was inspired by @onebecorrupt3975's submission:

"A recently released prisoner decides to take revenge on the young lawyer who put him behind bars. Using secret mind suggestions, he gradually corrupts him, making him indecent. Eventually, the lawyer quits his job and transforms into a horny thug. Hope you like it!"

I had an absolute blast writing this one, as it’s something I don’t often do. Thank you so much for all your messages and ideas for this event! I’m looking forward to doing more of these, so be ready for another one real soon!

Take care of yourselves, and once again, thank you so much for your likes and reposts.

As always, feel free to send me messages or inbox me if you have ideas! :)

See you!!

[jerisch]

In The Zone

Marcus was nervous about the gym. After becoming a regular he bulks up more than seems possible, probably doesn't matter that he doesn't quite remember his time there. After all, he’s getting huge.

Been a minute since I’ve done diary entries, here’s a briefer corruption/posessionmuscle growth! Hope you enjoy! -Occam

Week One:

Bit late to start, but this year I said I was going to go to the gym more and go to the gym more I simply will. Still a tad antsy about the whole thing, there are an awful lot of men who could stuff my in a locker if they wanted, but after visiting for the first time I’m optimistic! 

While certainly, uhh- distracting, the massive men around were nothing but cordial! Out of the blue a few of them even offered some pointers when I looked lost, which was quite often haha! It’s almost embarrassing how long I’ve been putting off attending simply from stupid anxieties. 

Though saying that it seems I’ve come at just the right time! They have just introduced some kind of free personal trainer program. I filled out a compatibility test which, honestly seemed a little invasive, but if it helps me get into the swing of things quicker (and for free!) I’m all about it~ We’ll see how my first session goes with them soon!

Marcus

Week Two:

It’s going sooooo goood! Every time I go I’m setting new personal records- And it’s like, I’m not even that sore? After the first couple sessions I absolutely was, but now that I’m in the swing of things the only real lasting feeling left in my muscles is a dull soothing burn. I wouldn’t even notice if it didn’t feel so good.

When I look in the mirror I’d swear that I look way better than I ever thought one week of progress would allow? Almost seems like I’m putting on more weight and muscle than seems possible. Good genetics or something I suppose? All the guys assure me I must just be a natural ;)

Oh I will say though I haven’t met my trainer yet? They keep saying any day now he’ll be in but I’m less than confident. Not that I don’t trust the gym admin! Intelligent? No, but honest more than anything! In the meantime a good few of them have stepped up and helped me with my techniques and training plan. But I must say, working out is already starting to feel like second nature!

We’ll see how it goes when I finally meet the man- though how they decided I was compatible with someone this negligent I’m not sure. 

Marcus

Week Three:

Hey! Still making solid progress- My arms are really swelling up and who ever thought I’d be able to get abs haha! Though, besides my growth, there is something strange? I don’t know how to explain, really? It’s like, I don’t really remember working out a lot of this week.

I go to the gym. I’m clearly there for a couple hours, and then I’m back in my car on the way home. Isn’t that bizarre? I’ve messaged some of my boys- er, the men at the gym and they’re kind of just laughing it off, saying I’m just really focused or in the zone or something.

And maybe I am? After the fact, if I really try to remember my time there or what machines I used I usually can. It’s just strange yeah? Even then, when I  pick out bits they’re still a little like efem- ephemur- uhh, foggy? Like I can remember laughing with some guys but I'm not sure what about? 

Shit! Also, also apparently my trainer finally showed!? I only know cause Jim mentioned over text, but I can’t even try to picture the guy. Surely it’s related, I mean dude shows up and suddenly I can’t remember pumping iron?  Right when I was starting to like that shit. Whatever. Maybe I’ll get Jim to snap a pic of me with the guy. Fuck! I don’t even know his name. Why didn’t Jim tell me his name,

marcus

Week Four:

Sup. Some shit is up for real. Yeah I’m making gains. I’m making real gains. Historic type stuff. But that’s not why Im writing. Something seriously fucked is goin on. I lost a birthmark. It’s been on my wrist my entire life, I saw it in the shower THIS morning. And then when I hop in my car to drive home it’s just gone??? 

Sure, I’m bigger but like, I’m not just growing. I’m changing. It’s just little things, I think. Is that even that bad? So what if I get a new haircut, or grow a few inches, ditch my shitty glasses? Is it wrong to try and not look like a dweeb? Wait, I didn’t- I swear I didn’t write that

And that’s another fucking thing- the memory stuff’s just getting worse. Feel like I’m losing my mind. It’s not just the gym anymore, sometimes I’ll just blink and an hour passes. Yesterday I came to standing at my front door signing for gym equipment that I KNOW I didn’t order myself. Or no, maybe I did? I don’t fucking know anything anymore.

Worst part is, I just set that shit up. Not even unconshushly or whatever. I took one look at my reflection, at how ripped my arms are and threw a bench together. Even called a bro over to help and didn't even mention the memory shit. What if he tells me to take a break or something? And lose my progress?? My pecs are the size of my head! I’m not gonna give that up cause sometimes I forget where I placed my keys or can’t remember what color my eyes are- uhhh

Well maybe a rest week couldnt hurt tho-

marc

Week Five:

As if imma let that whiny little bitch take a break week. And ruin all our progress? Thought the loser wanted to be a man and he’s gonna throw it all away when we’re so close to the finish line. Nah I’m, we’re gonna make sure we go all the way.

No holds barred, I’m throwing out all his nerd shit, quitting his punkass job, filling his fridge and pantry with nothing but protein and rice. Maybe I’ll see if our boys down at the gym can give us some gear too, not that we need it. We’re gonna be huge. Place already smells like a locker room, we- he keeps trying to just cover the stink up with more cologne but that only makes the place reek more heh.

Soon enough he won’t even care how much he stinks, how everything he owns is stained with sweat- just another way to show all these lesser punks what a man can be. What he should be. 

Don’t need to do laundry, don’t need these little bitchass books, don’t need to game. Just gotta keep pushing. Just gonna keep growing. With every rep I feel whatever weak hold his loser-self has is waning. He knows he wants to be me, for us to be one. He wants to be the fucking king.  

Should hide the little bitch’s diary too- no need to read or write. Just gotta pump, up and down. Up and down. Up and down. Just gotta stay in the zone. Get so pumped he doesn’t need to think. No need to leave the apartment. No need to do anything. Just need to grow. 

Week Ten:

Yooooo! it’s my old fuckin journal- Good as time as any for an update! Quit my job and ditched all my old friends- Lookin back cant believe i even knew those lil fuckers huhuh- i mean rly, whyd i wanna talk with someone who doesnt live at the gym?? who doesnt wanna get fuckn huge!!

Speakin of- they hired me as a trainer! i mean obviosly lmao how could they not. Said im the quickest growing bro theyve ever seen, not like im surprised- im the best there is! Oh lmao- i was flexing but u couldnt tell 

Sayin that tho i dont rly know what they mean since like? ive always been huge, uh i think? Still gettin bigger of corse lol but watching some of these pipsqueaks bulk up, idk? Try not to think to much these days, just gets in the way. yeah. No need to think, no need to do anything but lift. 

Some little dweeb’s been pokin around recently, comin up to my bros askin about me pparently, think im gonna show him the way, help him get in the zone. got a compatibility quiz with his name on it- sure some bro’ll be perfect to bring him in. show him the ropes, how much better it is to be one of us. once he picks up his first weight there’s no way he’ll wanna go back to the bitch he was before. Cant wait to see another bitch become a man.

your bro.

[jerisch]

FML: Initiate

This is a follow up to FML: Fraternize as selected by you for my 2,500 subscriber special. It took longer than expected and had a few rewrites, but I promised you all this would be the next story released. Hopefully it is worth the wait.

In all my years at this university I had never seen anything like it. Week after week students were seeming to disappear. You expect to see some flux in enrollment as students change schedules and drop classes. But these students weren’t removing themselves from classes. It was as though they were never enrolled at all. Initially within the department we all had our pet theories on the matter. But in a few weeks it was clear where they were going. It isn’t hard to notice a lot more students milling around the business campus, or the sudden discussion within administration of expanding the personal training and physiology tracts. We were all just left wondering why.

I finally hit my breaking point near the end of the semester when one of my more promising students disappeared from my roster. I asked the other pre-law professors and sure enough, they couldn’t find a trace of him ever taking a class in the department. However, I did find one lead. One of my students must have heard me discussing it with the TA’s and said that he was a member of a fraternity on campus. I groaned at the thought of having to trek out there, but I knew it was the quickest way to get some closure. Against my better judgment, I headed to the Eta Psi Rho house.

Every step there filled me with dread. I hate to confess it, but I had once attended this same university, and yes, even tried to join a fraternity. It had been such a long time ago, but I could still remember the cruel ways that my brothers had mocked, berated, and punished pledges. Fraternities we’re nothing but a blight on this campus that produced people like… well people like the man who greeted me out front.

Honestly. Back in our days at least we had the good sense to drag our brothers inside. It’s a shock campus police had not raided the place yet. I knelt down. He reeked of booze and sweat. His snore was almost deafening. Even if his brothers wouldn’t help him, I couldn’t leave him out here. I pestered the young man awake. Groggily, he rose to his feet, stumbling over his feet and his words. Immediately he clapped me on the back, thanking his ‘bro’ for the help. I tried to brush him aside, but his firm grip ushered me inside as he muttered about being late for class. I’m surprised he was still enrolled. Regardless, he helped me get inside and one of his ‘bruhs’ tried pointing me in the right direction where I could find my lost student. I began wandering the halls, looking for any sign of the young man, but they were eerily empty inside. What was I saying, the young men were all in their classes surely. Still, when from down the hall I suddenly heard, “I will be entirely dedicated to the brotherhood,” chanted in unison, I was a bit shocked. I walked up to the door and peered in, hoping to get better directions. I was met with a group of young men, glassy eyed, staring deep into a static filled television.

I walked in front of one young man, trying to get his attention. It was like I wasn't there as he stared right through me. It was no use, and the sound and light in the room was giving me a headache. I was about to leave when suddenly, from the TV, a clear command:

Brothers are lean and muscular.

Brothers are lean and muscular, the men all repeated. I nearly jumped out of my skin as the young man before me changed. His skin rippled for a moment, as though a chill went down his spine. Then, he began to swell. It came in bubbles, uneven and tumorous. But each patch began to combine and normalize with those around it until it suddenly stopped and a different man sat before me. At least, that's what I told myself as I bolted from the room.

Lost in the maze of corridors, I was just following the signs to the nearest emergency exit. Something was wrong here. Young men don't just- just GROW. The sign directed me rounded the corner into the laundry room and more pressingly, into a stranger. I started apologizing before I paused. I assumed there had to be a mistake.

The stranger had a familiar air to him. When he had been my student, the young man I knew was clean shaven, a bit shy and reserved in class, but smart as a whip and friendly. The man in front of me was confident. He shot me a smirk as he greeted me, ‘dabbing me up’ and calling me his bro. Up close he was overwhelming. I had known a brother to miss showers but it smelled like he hadn’t rinsed off in a week. The smell of cologne did nothing to hide the alcohol on his breath and the funk emanating from him. And while I could tell he used to be fit this was absurd. He looked chiseled from a magazine cover! The vacant expression was a far cry from the law student I knew. If it weren’t for his face and eyes, I doubt I would have even recognized him.

Regardless of his appearance, I started talking, pleading with him to tell me what was happening. What was happening in this house? Who was responsible for the poor boys in that room? Why did he throw away a bright future for this? But my words never seemed to get through. He pleasantly smiled and nodded, but gave canned answers about ‘brotherhood’. I really should have made for the exit in front of me but I was past the point of logic.

I finally shouted, “I just don’t understand why you would throw your life away for this!”

“This is my life,” he droned, “I will be entirely dedicated to the brotherhood.”

That same mantra as those young men. I took a breath before continuing. God this place was rank. “Listen son, I know about the brotherhood and this fraternity. But you have to see something wrong is going on here. What were those boys doing in that room?"

"Oh the pledgies? Yeah, initiation is next week, got to make sure they stay in line over the finish line, ya know what I'm saying?"

"Someone's got to stop this. I'm going to the Dean, he'll be able to do something. This fraternity can't operate like this!"

The toothy smile fell, “You’ve got to be loyal to your bros. After all, we are made to be loyal to the frat.” His tone was suddenly flat as he began inching closer. In one swift motion he removed his tank top, flashing all his muscles. In one more, his shorts were on the ground. As he got closer, the heat in the room intensified.

It was getting hard to think, I was feeling so woozy. This bizarre display had gotten far beyond my scope as an educator. I tried to excuse myself, “I think I’d better go, this was a waste of- ” but he was suddenly upon me. I hadn’t realized I had backed myself into a corner.

"Pledge, come here!" and my mind froze.

As much as I wanted to scream and run, I could feel an unnamed power he held over me as his command to stop burrowed into my brain.

"You sound like you were in there for a bit. Let's see how much you got trained. What's a good punishment... ah. Pledge, sniff."

I felt so aroused and so scared as I was forced to closer to the source of his musk. I tried to resist, but something primal drove my nose in and gave a hesitant huff of pure frat bro. I was loosing any… any restraint… left. I couldn’t… resist… my… my…

He smirked, "Bro, what was that? Come on, Pledge, sniff!"

“Yes bruh.” It slipped so easily out, almost as easily as the drool from my mouth. My face crinkled as I shoved my face in his nasty pit. I couldn’t think about it. I sniffed and while I knew it was gross, it all felt fuzzy and warm in my head.

“Oh, you must have been in with them a while. Dude, we can't have you sharing fraternity secrets. Don't worry though, we may be able to save you yet. Come with me.”

My brain only processed the command as I stumbled after him back through the halls. We turned into a familiar room. I stood, head spinning, as he fiddled with a TV for a second and sat himself down.

“I think that the guys won't mind a double dose. Sit next to me.”

“Yeaaah, surrre thing,” I slurred, stumbling into my seat. His firm arm felt nice around me. He held me firmly as he pressed play on the remote and a VHS tape whirred to life. There was a disorientating strobe of colors that left me a bit dazed before starting up into an intro. I was confused at first what the tape was talking about. I wasn’t here to join the fraternity and learn more about a life of brotherhood. The opposite almost. I tried to stand, but his arm held me firmly in place. I started to protest, but the voice sounded so insistent, and it was so confusing to watch. It reminded me of something, some tape I had seen long ago. It was like slipping back into an old pair of pants, something just fit. Maybe I hear him out? Then, the tone switched.

Welcome to the first day of your new life. You have been selected to become one of the few. One of the elite. You feel honored to have been selected.

“I feel honored to be one of the elite,” every voice in the room rang out in unison.

An old pride rose in my chest. I was selected. I was better. I would be in Eta Psi Rho.

This important decision has been made for you. You must accept our guidance. The frat knows best.

“The frat knows best,” we all repeated.

You will be entirely dedicated to the brotherhood.

“I will be entirely dedicated to the brotherhood.” It felt good as it slipped out.

Good. Brothers, step out. We have it from here.

My former student brother released my shoulder, stood quickly and left the room. But I didn’t want to leave anymore. I was to watch the tape.

Let’s start with an attitude adjustment. It is important for bros to be bros. Bros are relaxed and carefree.

“Bros are relaxed and carefree.”

I hadn’t realized how much tension I had been holding in. But as I repeated the words, a wave of relaxation rolled down from my neck, through my shoulders, rippling through my arms and torso, all the way through my legs. I let out a satisfied sigh, leaning back into my seat.

Bros eat, sleep, workout, and hang together. Bros just want to spend time with their bros.

“Bros just want to spend time with their bro.”

All sense of time and obligation suddenly felt swirled in my head. I remembered that I was supposed to go, but it felt so distant. Instead, my mind filled with a schedule of work outs, parties, meals, and frat events. I couldn’t give my lecture tonight, I would miss chapter!

In a few short weeks you will be ready for brotherhood. But first, a reminder. You want to complete your pledge. You want to be a brother.

“I want to complete my pledge. I want to be a brother.”

That almost made sense. I wasn’t a pledge, I was too old. Or, I think I am? But quickly that logic was suppressed by something else. I wanted it. I wanted so badly to be a pledge.

The commands were starting to pick up speed.

A pledge does not think for himself. He follows his brothers’ orders and fits in.

“I follow my brothers’ orders and fit in. ”

Yeah, life is so much easier when I can just listen and follow. Let others make the decisions bro.

A pledge will do anything to become a brother.

“I will do anything to become a brother.”

God it felt so good to have it all sorted out.

Now, it is important to not just act like a brother. You need to look like a brother. Feel your body. Focus on it. Every frat bro's body is a temple. A temple prime for trashing. These next four years are the prime of your life. You will enjoy your college years.

That short phrase rushed through my body. An icy chill ran down my spine that froze me in place. My body felt tight as it slowly rewound itself. I felt young blood pulsing through my body as my muscles swelled, releasing the tension of muscle aches and cranky joints. Skin pulled tight against my muscles as years of work and stress smoothed over my body. Not a wrinkle, not a sag, not a follicle of body hair was left behind as I shed my 50’s for my 20’s. Then, all at once, a wave of testosterone washed over me. It was like puberty all over, as I broke out in a cold sweat that carried that young, masculine funk. My voice cracked and softened as I moaned, my cock was flush with hunger. The brain was in no state to resist as years of history were washed away under twenty-something hormones. Bruh, I could feel my brain unfurl and smooth out a bit too. For the first time in decades, I felt young, dumb, and so full of cum.

Brothers' muscles ache from years pushing it too hard in the gym. It feels good to push your body beyond its limits. Protein powder and energy drinks are the fuel that keep you lit. Bros are swole.

“Bros are swole.”

Any twink-ish hopes I had just developed were quickly dashed against pumping iron. I felt the ice melt as my body twisted under my skin and slowly began to sweat. My stomach began to fill as a familiar chalky taste crept up the back of my throat. Protein. A deep aching filled my body, yet it continued to pulse. The more it hurt, the more I wanted it. I watched as each muscle melted inside of me and reformed out of hardened steel.

Brothers know the power of their masculinity. They are not afraid to show off their bodies. It shows others who is in charge. Let weaker men worship you. Use them for your satisfaction. You will be dominant.

I will be dominant.

I rushed to take off my clothes. They suddenly felt so restricting. I thought back to my bro as he made me sniff his rank pits. The way I just complied to his commands. The gravity of his words. I wanted that. No, I deserved that. My brain filled with a rush of new desires. To walk into a room and see people turn. To be loud, to be seen, to be heard, to be felt. I wanted the thrill of the approach as I singled out the hottest body in the room and commanded them around like my bitch. I wanted to feel their desire flush as I roughly tossed them on my bed and pried my jeans off. I deserved their mouth, open and begging for my perfect cock. I earned their hole, clenched tight as they rode for dear life until I berried my seed deep in them. I claimed the cold wind on my skin, proud of a night of conquest as I stood nude at the window, hitting my vape. I could almost feel it. I could almost... smell it? I had lifted my arms above my head, and a smell rolled off my pits. Fuck, that was the smell he had. The smell of dominance. It was mine now. I took a victorious huff.

Finally, let's ensure you can always find what you need in Eta Psi Rho. Look around you at the bros in this room. You will stay together. You will serve each other. You love your bros.

I felt a swell of kinship in my chest. I wanted nothing more than to be a part of the brotherhood. To fucking dominate this school together. But suddenly there was a tension in the air. God, why were my bros so... hot? We had all been factory made to conquer but, something more held us together. There were a few seconds as we all waited for something to happen when, suddenly, the two bros next to me made the first move.

As the room devolved into chaos, the commands kept coming. We recited back diligently between sloppy kisses, deep moans, and grunts as we slid against each other's bodies. We listened but all waited for the command that would get us to cross the finish line.

You will keep it simple, keep it stupid.

“I will keep it simple, keep it stupid.”

My head felt like it was filled with fluff. No thoughts, just instinct.

You will listen to your pledge master, follow all he says.

“I will listen to my pledge master, follow all he says.”

It was so much easier to just trust my bros. Whatever they said went.

You will live for and serve your bros, live for and serve the frat.

“I will live for and serve my bros and the frat.”

I would do anything for my bros. Gotta keep ‘em happy.

What happens in the frat house stays in the frat house. No homo, bro.

I spit out the cock in my mouth as I kept railing the bro below me,

"No homo, bro!"

The frat is life.

“The frat is life.”

Perfect. We anticipate your full initiation. Cum.

Moans echoed through the halls as the tape ended.

A while passed before a door slamming shook me awake. An ache passed through me as I reached for the jug of water next to my bed. The buzz of pre-workout shook me awake. I was in my bedroom of the frat house. I was where I belonged. My big stood over my bed.

“Look at me,” my big said. My body turned to him and hit him with my cockiest smile. It felt good to obey my alpha bro.

The new man spoke, “Shit, that tape did a number on you. I don't know if we've ever inducted someone so old. How do you feel?”

“I feel relaxed and carefree, bruh,” I responded.

My bro slapped me upside the head, “Is that how you respond to your pledge master?”

Of course, how could I forget. I was so dumb sometimes, “Sorry. Good, Sir.”

His face lit up with glee, "Never get over that. Let’s see. Pledge, I brought home a twink for after the party tonight. Warm him up for me."

I felt my cock suddenly swell, rigid at attention. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

My pledge master whistled, “Dang, you know how to pick ‘em Skunk. He's no Long Leg, but he's up there. You picked out his pledge name yet?” I didn’t know his pledge name was skunk. But catching a whiff of myself as I scratched my head, guess it ran in the family.

“Well, if he’s going to keep acting like a smart ass, I’m thinking Prof.”

“Pfft, that’s hilarious,” my pledge master turned back to me, “One last question little bro. How do you feel about Eta Psi Rho?”

In an instant, an old mantra filled my mind, “I will be entirely dedicated to the brotherhood,” I droned.

[jerisch]

For Sale: Dad Shoes

In need of some new shoes, Robbie stumbles into a pair of sneakers abandoned behind by some strange dilf. After trying them on he grows to appreciate them in more ways than one.

Ready for some Daddification? Robbie wasn't but he seems happy enough to bulk up and grow some hair. Thanks to Fred W. Kong for helping me polish this one up! Hope all enjoy! -Occam

Robbie had just about worn through his old pair of tennis shoes. Wandering around through this shoe store surrounded by flashy boxes and exorbitant price tags, he can’t help but second guess his abandoning the old, almost holey shoes. Looking around at these piled high pairs of sneakers, he’s on the edge of just giving up and truly wearing the soles out of his old pair before this plan is interrupted by an uproar at the cash wrap.

Turning to get a glimpse of whatever the drama must be, Robbie instead finds a burly man, loudly tapping on the counter and guffawing to himself. The clerk shyly laughs along opposite him though clearly the joke didn’t land too well, not that the older man seems to mind all that much. As Robbie continues to sneakily watch from down the way, the man gives the clerk a handshake and departs leaving him staring strangely at his own hand and the pair of shoes left on the counter.

Ever the gossip, Robbie less than surreptitiously makes his way over to the cashier and asks about the bearded stranger. It takes a few seconds for the clerk, dubbed James by his nametag, to snap out of his strange reverie, “Oh! Hi there- Yeahh, I don’t really know? He said he got these shoes here but I’ve never seen them before?” Both men stare at the pair of sneakers in between them. “He apparently wanted to return them.”

Robbie, a little more interested in shopping now that he knows purchases aren’t final, follows this throughline, “I didn’t know you did returns?”

“We don’t”

“Ah.” Pausing for a few seconds he gets back to his first question, “What was he laughing so hard about?” The cashier furrows his brows for a few seconds before sighing, “Oh, it was just a dumb dad joke. Uhhh something like, What is the funniest thing about shoelaces?”

“Hm?”

“Knot-knot Jokes.” 

There’s a silence afterwards as Robbie just tilts his head, slightly disappointed that his trek over here didn’t quite satiate his curiosity. Looking at the neglected pair of tennis shoes on the counter he feels a bit melancholy thinking of his own soon-to-be abandoned pair, “What are you going to do with these then?”

James scratches the back of his head noncommittally, “Not really sure, uhhh- You wouldn’t want them would you?” The young clerk looks at him hopefully and Robbie’s heart flutters a bit at the direct eye contact. Getting the distinct impression that he’d be doing a favor for the clerk he ignores how tacky they are and acquiesces, “I mean? I guess I could. Should probably try them on first though yeah?” James shrugs with a grin and hands them over.

Now in his hands it seems obvious to Robbie that they’ll be too large but he decides to give them a go. Throwing them on he finds indeed they’re quite a bit roomier than he’d prefer. Though man- they’re also way more comfortable than he could have possibly expected. Robbie furrows his brow wondering why on Earth that strange man wanted to send them back, when his mind returns to him however, the strangest thing happens. He hears James repeat the man’s bit in his mind: knot-knot jokes, and he can’t help but laugh.

Robbie tries to stifle himself, knowing he sits in front of a man that in an ideal world he would try to pull. He giggles and struggles to cover his mouth before breaking out into a hyena-adjacent fit of laughter. Mid-breakdown, Robbie sees James flinch back and look at him strangely from behind the counter but he can only continue to laugh, “HAAH! HAH- Man! Hah, ugh Jesus christ so sorry dude- I don’t know what came over me! Hah hah, huh man.” 

James smiles vaguely, clearly writing Robbie off as nothing more than a customer, “So uhh, how do they fit?” Getting to business he prepares to tell them they’re too big before wiggling his toes and gasping to himself. They’re a perfect fit. He knew they were too large, he felt the extra room, and yet, he can see how perfectly his feet fill them. He clears his throat a little louder than he intended and answers, “They’re good, real uh, snug fit…” 

“Great!” The cashier tosses over something in his head, though looking at the man confusedly staring at his feet, he reconsiders. Something strange has shifted and he thinks it best to just default to his customer service programming, “Anything else I can do for you…” without thinking he reflexively tacks on a “sir?” which causes Robbie to flinch.

“Uhh no thanks a lot, James.” Grimacing at the man using his name on his nametag the clerk rolls his eyes knowing he made the right call. Robbie smiles blankly and heads out the shop with a nod, not even thinking to grab the shoes he removed to throw on this strange man’s discarded sneakers. Why should he, he’s already wearing the only shoes one could ever need.

Exiting out to the strip center he was already reluctant to visit, Robbie groans to himself as he feels a tad bloated. Rubbing his stomach trying to recall what he ate, he looks down to find something impossibly strange on his phone. Somehow without being quite aware, he’s snapped a picture of his new shoes and captioned it to post on his story. “Got my first pair of dad shoes 😆”

Robbie balks at this and quickly goes to delete the picture without posting but in his haste he fat fingers his phone and whoosh- It’s up. Deciding that it would be more embarrassing to take it down after posting, Robbie frowns and begins to pocket his phone when he realizes something even stranger than a photo he doesn’t remember taking. Those aren’t his legs?

Zooming in on the photo in his camera roll he gasps in shock at just how hairy those legs are. Sure the shoes and shorts are the same but never has any part of his body neared such a consistent or dense coat of body hair, to say nothing of those god-awful socks! Clicking his tongue at whoever must be playing this bizarre joke on him he pans through the image, poring through every pixel to try and find evidence of photoshop.

Unaware is he that away from view, his legs are rapidly shifting to match the image he knows to be false. Forgotten already that his feet miraculously grew to fill the dad sneakers, his calves are quickly shaped and painted by waves of dark brown hair. Racing upwards from the strange shoes, his ankles itch from their new growth before the curls are matted down by his thick athletic socks. 

He scratches at the still-growing hair quickly covering his changing thighs and takes no notice as his fingers trail through the new garden. Thickening hair is not the only change either as when the rushing forest of fur reaches his thighs they begin to bulk larger, yearning to fill his shorts. On said thighs the hairs curl longer and darken further than on his exposed calves, stopping short of completely blanketing his lower body as a blank patch is left on his inner thighs, precipitating a greater change that is soon to overwhelm him.

Indeed, before he can notice his hefty hair-covered legs, he’s distracted by the strangest feeling ushering forth from his dick. Accompanied by the burning itch of his pubes thickening, Robbie quickly sets his phone down as both hands rush to adjust his growing cock. With a sharp inhale he shudders as his mind is overcome with ecstasy, with each passing moment and fluttering heartbeat he quivers as his cock pushes out further and his balls hang lower. 

In no time at all there’s a baseball sized bulge straining his pants. It’s at this point that Robbie realizes that he’s not even hard. His cock has simply grown larger. Standing in shock the young man almost falls over from vertigo as whatever nightmare he’s living in has struck him lightheaded. Trying not to draw attention to himself, Robbie struggles to keep composure as he makes his way over to his car, though each step is accompanied by a wince as his heavy balls are pinched by his boxers and his cock forces itself further down his leg.

Wrenching open his car door with little thought at all besides the burning need to get home Robbie falls into the driver’s seat. Key turned, he goes to shift to reverse when he’s almost possessed by an intrusive thought, head tilting as his mouth moves of its own accord, vocalizing for no one as he reverses, “Ahhh, that takes me back.” Immediately fearful, he feels his body course correct as his grimace curls into a grin, he giggles before letting loose free-flowing full bodied laughter at something he’d personally barely label a joke.

Panting after being released from this mania, Robbie’s only further driven to race home. The few minutes back are a blur, of which he can only recall flashes. Finally he sees the new shadow of hair covering his legs. He grunts from the pain as his shorts are suddenly far too tight. Would’ve sworn he lost weight but now his belt cuts into his waist. His eyes almost cross from pain as he tries to recall that he wasn’t even wearing a belt when he left his house. He sees his hands adjusting mirrors to a new height, slightly higher from sitting on an ass bulging larger. 

Senses overloaded by each new ticklish strand and the rising, burning need from his cock, when he finally arrives home he races to do the only thing he can think to escape this waking nightmare. Taking great care not to cum then and there as he removes his shorts, Robbie kicks off his new shoes with little affection and flops onto his bed. In a small act of indulgence, Robbie can’t help but bite his lip as he tests the waters and rubs his hands through his hairy thighs.

Looking at the jungle of hair across his legs he feels his cock begin to throb and harden. He doesn’t hate them. No, his hairy legs are more enticing than he could ever have imagined. Tracing the curls from his toes to the dense bush of pubes ushering out from his boxers he bucks slightly as it's almost too much for him. This must just be the weirdest wet dream he’s ever had.

True sleep comes quickly, as soon as his body realizes that he’s not going to be indulging his desires, unconsciousness swiftly takes him. Though unfortunately for the man who wishes this whole situation was indeed a dream, the changes in the waking world are not going to slow down even as he rests.

For the first time in his life, Robbie snores. While he’s not gained altogether too much weight thus far, even the extra few inches on his waist as hair begins spreading onto his once tight stomach have a consequence. As his arm hangs lower off the bed, his wrists eagerly begin to match his hairy legs as forearms are thoroughly coated with a healthy coat of curls. Added length is compounded by bulkier biceps as his arms are not left free from his increasing weight either. As the hours pass his whole arms are blanketed by body hair, coated from wrists to pits

Changes to his physical form are not the only metamorphosis occurring during his slumber either. Having fallen close to his dresser, his shoes are not content to be the only changed part of his wardrobe. Radiating out from the spilled sneakers, clothes messily tossed into his dresser are folded and shift into pieces less fashionable, less haphazard, and far more fatherly.

All no-show socks elongate into tubes as his boxers adversely lose their length, their elastic bands shifting firmer. Each and every pair bleach into briefs befitting his new form, including the pair he currently has on. His sleepful face squirms as for a moment his boxers grow to a size more appropriate his new waist and massive package before both are gripped tightly, perfectly contoured and contained by the briefs he is to wear every day, ever more.

Objects of his youth are shifted and replaced. Video game OST vinyls bend and reshape as they melt and reform into jazz standards and dad rock. Video games and a large manga collection he has long been proud of are lost ever more, replaced by an impressive collection of classics and board games he adores playing with his- family? But that can’t be right. On his nightstand appears a well-worn joke book that his husband has long waged a campaign to get rid of. His eyes twitch in his sleep as his subconscious mind tries to reconcile these things fruitlessly.

Then, as the first rays of morning light blast through his cracked curtains, Robbie awakens. He scratches his slightly thicker waist and yawns loudly. His body burns as he stretches, as if each strand of muscle and slightly shifted tendon were moving for the first time ever. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and his rougher hand wades down his face, for some reason surprised to encounter stubble on his jaw.

Standing to his feet, he encounters that light-headed vertigo once more, though for the life in him he can’t remember when exactly he felt it last. Pawing at the morning wood distending the waistband of his briefs, he scratches his heavy balls and grunts, ignoring the idea that his voice sounds a tad off. He must just be hungover, or sick- yeah. That makes sense.

Wandering into the bathroom to start his day he stretches once more, exposing a couple hairy pits to the open air and causing his back to crack loudly. “Bwoah-” At this point one might expect Robbie to realize how much further he’s changed as he sees his new self in the mirror, though it takes a few moments of staring in the mirror before he even humors the idea that something is off.

He grumbles to himself for a few seconds something about his eyes playing tricks or his vision not being what it used to be. Laughing at the thought, this wakes him. Like the shock of a cold shower he opens his eyes to find himself a completely different man. Nearly hyperventilating, he stares at his changed hands. Trying to reconcile the same wrinkles they have always held with the hairy knuckles and calloused fingers he knows should not be there. Turning his gaze to his reflection he sees a few curls peeking over the collar of the shirt he distinctly didn’t fall asleep in and struggles to remove it over a chest that begins to burst larger from the nerves. Each struggled grunt is deeper than the one that came before as Robbie strains to get it off, at last there’s a tearing sound and the tank flies off, exposing a gut now decidedly hanging over his waist. Staring at his reflection another joke flies out of his mouth as he cups his new belly, “I always did need a father figure- heh”

Accompanied by laugher echoing in the tiled bathroom, exposed to the cool air his treasure trail races outward. Every swath of new, bare skin on his torso is soon enough enveloped and graced by the expansive garden of curls. Like a rolling storm his alluring V of chest hair shoots downward as his pubes continue the great work begun last night and race upward to meet it. In no time at all, and under his fearful gaze he sees his newly bulky stomach completely covered.

His hands go to yank, to pull, to tear at the blanket of fur covering him. Changing him. He must still be dreaming. With shaking hands he feels his stomach hair thickening, pushing out from pores he didn’t even know he had. Tickling his thicker palms and sticking out in between fatter fingers. Eyes racing to take in all the changes of an upper body he sees not as his stubble thickens into a true beard. In his frantic fear, he does not see as smile lines and other wrinkles begin to crinkle around his eyes.

What he does notice however is a small tan line on his left ring finger. His terrified breath catches in his chest as a lifetime of memories flashes through his head, a face, a name, a wedding- Robert clutches at his head as he tries to will them away. As he forcefully stamps his wider feet and struggles to will himself back to the way he was. The way he should be. 

Retracing his steps he tries to remember if he has gotten on the wrong side of any particularly witchy people. Delving into his mind, even the memories from yesterday seem almost too far to grasp, a lifetime away. With a good deal of effort, Robert is finally able to recall his time at the shoe shop. He remembers James behind the counter and his head burns anew with pain as the young man he sees is incongruent with reality. That’s not what James should look like. Pushing his attention elsewhere he finally remembers: the shoes.

Eyes now burning with determination, Robert stamps back towards his room, floorboards creaking slightly under his new weight as they’ve never and always done. And then he sees them, such tacky shoes something within him initially swears he would never be caught dead in them, though this is overpowered by the undeniable fact that they are his. His feet feel cold on the floor of his bedroom.

Looking at the sneakers he’s suddenly filled with affection as he remembers James giving them to him. James. Not the twink working at a shoe store though, no his James. Staring at them his heart flutters just as it did in a past life as his hair starts to thin slightly as its peppered with a few grey strands. His thumb goes to twist and play with a ring not on his hand as he sits there, lost in a daydream on his bed.

Totally distracted, he doesn’t hear the frame creak, from his weight nor from its expansion as it surges larger. The apartment around him slowly changes to fit his new partnered life as he zeroes in on the pair of shoes in front of him. His James. Under his thick beard his tight lips curl into a coy grin as his hands slowly reach down to pick up the shoes, and with little ado at all he tosses them on.

And then Rob is totally overcome. Morning wood that has yet had a chance to dissipate creates a need that simply must be addressed. Thicker palms struggle to sneak under the strained waistband of his briefs and in doing so finally free his heavier cock to the open air. Seeing the stream of pre running down its veiny length he is also made aware of the stain that has slowly been growing in said briefs before discarding them altogether to focus on sating this all-encompassing hunger.

His eyes almost cross as his hands hesitantly begin to rub the length of his rod, and then he gasps as he feels a wedding band get tangled in his pubes. In between heady sensuous gasps as he tries to not cum prematurely he moans out with a grin he utterly wishes not to have painted on his face, “Man, I’ve heard of a hair-trigger but this is ridiculous!” And before he can laugh at this not even a joke, he loses control. 

His wider hips thrust into his meaty palms as he shoots load after load flying. With each involuntary heave, as his cock bobs in the air, he is cemented into his new life. Changed into his new self. He is molded into a father, into Rob. Piece by piece every aspect of who he once was is untethered and replaced by brilliant memories of his new life.

His coat finishes its march as curls launch over his shoulders and he remembers meeting James when they were younger. He remembers falling in love and tying the knot after years of dating. Family pictures dot the room around him and clink against the hallway wall as he remembers growing older alongside his love. With a final thrust, Rob’s exuberant first orgasm finishes and he falls backwards onto the bed, lying on a comforter he clearly remembers his husband convincing him to buy. And then, from the stress of becoming a new man, he falls back asleep.

Impossible to say how long he sleeps, though he is awakened by impatient shouting elsewhere in the house, “Rob! You had better be up! We’re not going to be late to Kay’s concert!” Blearily sitting up, Rob feels his bones settle into their new age as his weight finishes its redistribution. Scratching at his decidedly larger belly, his rougher hands tussle and toy with the curls on a gut that filled him with fear not moments ago. Now it only feels right, cupping his warm hairy stomach, he knows this is who he is and who he should be. He sits for a few moments bathing in acceptance, though quickly there’s a fog as he’s confused on what exactly he’s accepting?

Scratching his thinned hairline, he can’t quite put a finger on it. Before he can investigate the strange sensation, this man, his husband shouts again, “You’d better be ready to go in 30!”

“Oop!” The bear of a man quickly hops off the bed and kicks off the shoes to head into the shower. Gotta look his best for his little angel!

James’ll tear him a new one if he’s not going to be ready on time, hah! But he’ll charm his way out of it just like he always does. Despite the rush he takes time to appreciate his reflection, posing and flexing, observing his curves before nodding with a wink, “Old man’s still got it- heh!” Spending as long as reasonably can basking in his reflection, Rob sprints as fast as his back lets him to get ready for the concert. 

Sifting through a wardrobe as familiar as the back of his hairy hand he throws on suspenders and well-fitted polo. Rushing into the living room he shouts, “And Time!” His new bass resonating deep in his chest. Standing at the door holding a bouquet of flowers for their Kay, the love of his life rolls his eyes and crosses his own burly arms, “Are you about done there Honey? I’m ready to go.” Rob smirks as he’s been laid up now for the joke of a lifetime, “Hi ready to go, I’m dad.” He winks as his husband scoffs before wryly smiling and pulling him over by his unbuttoned collar.

Both men laugh before their mouths find each other as they kiss for the first and thousandth time, each one before flashing through their minds. During the act, James furtively buttons up the top few buttons of his husband’s collar before pulling away. Looking at his husband lovingly over glasses, “You know Kay asked us not to embarrass her in front of her friends Hon.” Rob employs a haughty gasp and puts a hand over his forehead, slightly exposing the hair stretching down his inner forearm. Peeking to see if his husband laughs at his dramatics he gives up the ghost and agrees with a still performative sigh.

“Ahh, I suppose I'll do my best. Anything for our little princess!” Ushered out the door by his husband, the pair at last leave their shared home and hop in Rob’s car, now shifted into an family SUV. Adjusting his mirrors to his final height when he puts the car into reverse James looks at him expectantly. Rob just smiles, holding back the joke and resting his hairy hand on his husband’s thigh, more than content at this life he lives. James overlays his own hand and the men simply sit in each other's silence as long-married couples are wont to do, overjoyed to continue onward in their shared slice of heaven.

[jerisch]

Finding a key to a large truck with a trailer attached to it that is full of land scaping equipment causes the scrawny young man to grow in size. Gaining masculine features as he becomes the new owner of an outdoor landscaping business. He spots his former friends coming down the sidewalk, thinking how they will be perfect to become his new workers.

[jerisch]

The Disappearance of Private Rogers

Bit of a longer one! Wanted to capture all the hypnosis and race tf. Hope you enjoy!

Colonel Hawkins sat behind his desk, his weathered face set in a grim expression as he gestured for Garrett to take a seat. "Listen up soldier, we've got a situation that needs your attention."

"Yes sir, I'm all ears Colonel. What's the deal?" Garrett was always eager- ready to do what he needed for his country.

"There's been a...truce called with one of the major cartels. Part of the agreement is the release of some high-value prisoners, including someone close to their boss, a fella named Miguel." The Colonel tapped his fingers on his desk, “Miguel has gone missing from our custody. Officially, we don't know how."

Garrett's brow furrowed as he processed this information, his mind racing with possibilities. He shifted in his seat, the fabric of his crisp Army uniform felt comfortable against his skin. Like it belonged.

"Missing? That's not possible, sir. Our facilities are secure." Garrett couldn’t understand how such a high-value target could go missing.

“Precisely. Which is why I want you to lead an investigation into Miguel's disappearance. You'll be working with a senior investigator - Dr. Logan Thorne. He's...experienced in these matters."

Something in the Colonel's tone gave Garrett pause, but he pushed the feeling aside. If the brass needed him on this, he'd see it through, no matter what. His duty was clear.

"I understand, sir." Garrett continued, “But are you sure I’m the best for the job? I’m not experienced in this kind of operation.”

"Private, it's simple really. Your track record speaks for itself. You're one of our most dedicated soldiers, always eager to follow orders without question." Hawkins leaned back in his chair, “You see things through to the end. And I only trust another man from Indiana.”

Garrett smiled, “I appreciate it, sir. I won’t question it and I won’t let you down.”

He always viewed Hawkins with great respect. The man taking on a mentorship role for the young private. Both born in small-town Indiana, both avid baseball fans- the man was like a second father to him.

"I knew you'd say that, son. That's why you were handpicked for this job." He released Garrett's shoulder and stepped back. "Dr. Thorne wanted me to give you these." Hawkins pushed a pair of headphones towards Garrett. "These headphones contain crucial information about Miguel. They’ll be invaluable to your mission."

Garrett took the headphones, placing them on his head.

Hawkins continued. "Remember Garrett, discretion is key here. Not even your wife Sarah needs to know." Garrett nodded, a buzzing static filling his ears, "You're relieved of your other duties for the meantime and will be provided a private room. Questions, Private?"

"No questions, sir. I understand completely." Garrett's voice was steady despite the unease churning in his gut.

Hawkins nodded approvingly, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes. "Good man."

_____

Garrett stretched out on his bed and settled into the privacy of his assigned quarters, the headphones continuing to buzz with static. And then...

..."subject name: Miguel Antonio Mortez..." 

..."born and raised in Juarez, Mexico. Grew up in the volatile El Chavo neighborhood..."

..."Miguel likes fast cars. He owns a black '68 Mustang that he worked on restoring..."

..."Miguel plays acoustic guitar when he wants to relax..."

..."A skilled fighter, Miguel honed his skills brawling on the streets of Juarez..."

“Guess this is useful.” Garrett mumbled, wincing at a dull ache developing behind his eyes, “Fuck...” He yawned and felt his eyes starting to close, “So... tired...”

________

There’s a ball. A soccer ball? He stares at it and then up. Tall buildings around him. A dirt field. Makeshift goalposts. A firm kick. GOAL!

A woman’s voice called out sharply in Spanish, “¡La cena está lista!”

Garrett turns- panting, he sprints inside, catching a fleeting glance in a cracked hallway mirror. He pauses... the face of a young Mexican boy stares back at him. Dark hair, brown skin, eyes that hold a fierce determination.

_______

Garrett jolted awake, his heart pounding as he sits up. He blinks away the last vestiges of sleep, and caught sight of his reflection in the small mirror hanging on the wall opposite his bed.

The man staring back at him was unmistakably Garrett. His short blonde hair, the strong jawline accentuated by his clean-shaven face, pale skin. Relief washed over him as he mentally affirmed his own identity.

"That's right," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. "Garrett. Born and raised in the Midwest. Played baseball, not soccer. None of that was real."

Despite the logical reassurance, a faint unease lingered. Garrett took a deep breath, steeling himself as he placed the headphones back over his ears. The unfamiliar voice filled his head once more:

..."You were born on July 12th, 1990 in Juarez, Mexico..."

..."Miguel learned to play the guitar at the age of ten from his abuelo..."

..."You spent countless hours practicing guitar riffs, strumming away your frustrations..."

..."Miguel dreamed of one day singing lead for a big time band, his voice captivating"

A sharp knock at the door jolted Garrett from his trance-like state. Before he could respond, it swung open to reveal a tall, distinguished-looking man in his 50s with salt-and-pepper hair.

"Private Garrett?" The man's voice was smooth and authoritative. "I'm Dr. Logan Thorne, the senior investigator assisting you with the Miguel Mortez case."

Garrett stood at attention, wincing as another wave of pain lanced through his skull. "Sir, yes sir. Good to meet you, Doctor."

Thorne's keen eyes lingered on the headphones. "I trust you've been reviewing the files I provided. I'm sure you find them... educational." Dr. Thorne smiles, "Tell me about yourself, Private. I like to know about the people I work with."

"I... I grew up in..." Garrett paused, "The Midwest. I think? Yeah..." His voice lacked its usual conviction, laced with uncertainty instead.

"Is that all?"

"Uh well... I-I grew up...Juarez? No, that's not right..." He grips his head, "Small town. Flyover country. Had a... a ball field, I think?" He looks up at Dr. Thorne, "I played a lot of... sports. I think baseball, but..."

"Perhaps it would be wise for you to get some rest, Private. You seem... rather disoriented at the moment."

Garrett bristled slightly at the interruption, an irrational surge of anger flaring in his chest.

"Yes sir, probably a good idea," Garrett replied.

"And private. Please continue to wear the headphones. We'll touch base later today."

Garrett closed the door to his quarters and leaned against it heavily, his mind reeling. He took a deep, shuddering breath and began to recite the facts of his life like a desperate prayer.

"I’m Garrett... From... Indiana. Born and raised in a small town. Played baseball, not soccer. Married to Sarah. Served in the U.S. Army. I am American."

He paced the room, his boots striking the floor in a staccato rhythm. "Garrett. Midwestern boy. Baseball, not soc... football...? Not from Juarez. Not a criminal." He stares at the headphones, "Loyal soldier." He places the headphones on his head, the voice reverberating in his ears.

..."You served Papi with unwavering devotion, attending to his every carnal desire..."

..."You found pleasure in submitting to his whims, craving his praise and approval..."

..."You spent long nights kneeling before him, worshipping his body with lips and tongue, relishing the musky taste of his skin and the weight of his thick shaft pulsing in your mouth...”

...“He taught you submission... broke you and exposed who you really are...”

As the relentless voice continued, Garrett felt his eyelids growing heavy. Vivid images conjured, in his mind.

"Not me... Not this... I'm not..."

The words faded into a distant hum as Garrett surrendered to sleep, his head lolling forward.

_____

He’s standing before a nude figure, muscles rippling as his large hand lazily strokes an impressive length of hard cock.

Papi.

"Eres mío, mi amor," Papi purrs seductively in a husky Spanish accent. Dark eyes gleam with lust and possessiveness.

He turns his head away from Papi, his gaze travels downward, seeing himself reflected in the large vanity mirror...

A strikingly handsome young Latin man graces his eyes. Brown skin glowing under the dim lights, eyes the color of rich chocolate framed by thick lashes, wild obsidian hair tousled artfully. His torso is lean yet defined, with a dusting of coarse black hair trailing down from his sculpted pecs to disappear enticingly below the waistband of his jeans.

______

Garrett bolts upright in bed, his heart pounding as he leapt to his feet. He stumbled towards the mirror, grasping the edge of the sink for support as he stared at his reflection with wide, terrified eyes.

"What the fuck..." he breathed, running a trembling hand through his hair. "It was just a dream. Just a goddamn dream."

Garrett stared intently at his reflection, taking in every detail. Blonde hair, blue eyes, fair skin - it was undoubtedly him. Although somewhat disheveled and unshaven. But as he gazed at his own face, a sudden flicker of doubt crossed his mind.

"Why does this feel... wrong somehow?" he muttered to himself, leaning closer to the mirror. "My skin... shouldn't it be darker? Brown maybe?" He gulps, "And my hair... wasn't it supposed to be black? Thicker?" He ran his fingers through the short, sun-kissed locks, confirming their familiar texture and length. Garrett's breath quickened as a confusing jumble of emotions flooded through him, "No, no, stop it!" he growled at his reflection, backing away from the mirror.

Without warning, the door burst open and two burly Military Police officers stormed into the room. They grabbed Garrett roughly by the arms, yanking him to his feet.

"Hey! What the hell is going on?" Garrett struggled against their grip, his heart racing with confusion and growing fear. "I'm Private Garrett, not some damn criminal!"

The MPs ignored his protests, dragging him out into the hallway. Garrett's mind reeled as he tried to make sense of the situation. Why were they treating him like this? What had he done wrong?

They shoved him into an office room where Dr. Thorne waited, his expression unreadable. The MPs forced Garrett into a chair before taking up positions on either side of the door.

"Dr. Thorne, what's the meaning of this?" Garrett demanded.

"At ease, Private Garrett." Dr. Thorne greeted him coolly, taking a seat across the table. Colonel Hawkins stood beside him, his face impassive, "This is...unorthodox, I agree. But I'm afraid we have some concerns that require us to take certain precautions."

Garrett gripped the sides of the chair tightly, his knuckles turning white. He opened his mouth to protest but hesitated, doubts clouding his thoughts.

"But I'm a soldier, aren't I? An American serviceman." His voice lacked its usual conviction. He squinted, trying to recall the specifics of his military career. Flashes of boot camp, basic training, deployed overseas...it all felt hazy, disconnected somehow, "Shouldn't I be treated with more respect? Right? I'm still... I'm a soldier... right?"

Hawkins and Thorne shared a knowing glance, a silent communication passing between them. Hawkins cleared his throat, fixing Garrett with a penetrating stare.

"The prisoner exchange has been expedited, Private. It will occur tomorrow at 0600." He produced a small pill bottle from his pocket, setting it on the table with a soft click. "These will help sharpen your concentration and recall. Take them as directed."

“No... this isn’t...” Garrett gripped his head, “Please, something isn’t right... Colonel?”

“Don’t disappoint me, son.”

His voice was cold, somewhat strained. Garrett frowned, a sense of failure welling up inside him. He didn’t want to disappoint- he was a good... soldier? Lover? Garrett shook his head.

"You must continue listening to the headphones, absorbing every detail. The information is... vital to the success of the operation."

Garrett eyed the pills warily, his stomach churning with unease. Something about their demeanor, the urgency in their voices, set his nerves on edge. He nodded slowly.

The MPs escorted Garrett back to his room, their grips firm on his arms. As soon as they crossed the threshold, they spun him around and shoved him inside none too gently. The door slammed shut behind him with a resounding clang.

Garrett reached for the handle, twisting it frantically. It wouldn't budge. Locked. Panic started to rise in his throat as the realization sank in - he was trapped. Like a prisoner... Like Miguel... He shook his head.

“Just need to complete the mission.” He whispered, “Just finish the mission...” Despite every fiber of his body telling him no, he places the headphones on his head.

..."You existed only to serve Papi, to bring him pleasure in every way imaginable. Every inch of your body was his to claim, to mark with his touch and ownership..."

..."You ached for his domination. The delicious stretch of his thick cock splitting you open, claiming you most deeply, was heaven..."

..."Being his obedient little bottom, gagging on his cock, hole stretched and leaking his cum - that was your highest purpose...”

Garrett's breathing grew heavier as he listened to the sordid details, his body responding despite his mind's resistance. With shaking hands, he swallowed several of the pills. Warmth radiates from within him and he feels compelled to strip out of his clothes.

“Fuck...” He grunted, staring at his hardening cock.  

He grips it firmly, trying desperately to focus on thoughts of Sarah, on the love and familiarity she represented. But the vivid images of Papi, of submission and raw passion, kept intruding.

"Papi... mi amor..." The words slipped out in a breathy moan before Garrett could stop them. The headphones whispered filthy promises in his ear, urging him deeper into fantasy.

He barely noticed the door burst open. Colonel Hawkins strode in followed by Dr. Thorne and two stone-faced MPs. They carried a strange object between them - a folded, nude rubber bodysuit.

Garrett gaped at the lifelike construct, his pulse racing. The suit was crafted to resemble a stunningly handsome young Latino man, with olive-toned skin and a light smattering of dark chest hair. Intricate tattoos coiled along sinewy arms and a broad, muscular back. Jet-black hair, thick and glossy, adorned the perfectly formed head.

“That...”

An intense wave of recognition crashed over Garrett as he drank in the features of the figure. It was unmistakably the man from his dream - Miguel. Garrett's breath caught in his throat.

"Que demonios es esto?" Garrett's voice cracked, desperation evident. "Why does it look like... like him? Like me...?" He trailed off, realizing the implications, "My name is... was... Garrett. Midwestern boy. Baseball. Army. Right?"

"The pills help release the necessary bodily fluids to allow for proper bonding." Dr. Thorne says to Hawkins and the MPs, "Please help Garrett into the suit."

A second later, the MPs roughly grabbed Garrett's legs, forcing them into the waiting limbs of the rubber suit. As the material enveloped his skin, Garrett gasped at the sensation - it felt almost alive, conforming to his contours. Bonding tightly to his skin... sinking into his pores...

"No please! Don't! Arghhhh." Garrett cried out, trying to pull away. But the MPs held him fast, their grips iron-tight as they slowly worked the suit up his torso.

"You see, Miguel was selected for Operation Rising Phoenix." Dr. Thorne said, "His memories, intimate details were saved. And his body was converted into this suit. He could’ve been used by an operative to go undercover."

"Unfortunately, or fortunately, the truce was made." Hawkins sighed, "But we couldn't return him in well... that state." He looked down at Garrett with pity, "So to ensure the deal can be completed, we needed Miguel back."

Garrett thrashed and bucked as the MPs forcibly pulled the rubber suit up his body, covering his abdomen and starting on his chest.

"Déjenme ir! Por favor, quiero ver a Sarah! Quiero vivir mi vida! No hagan esto!" Garrett’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as his cut cock was encased in Miguel’s uncut member, sending waves of new pleasure radiating up his spine, “Oh fuckkkkkkk..... Papí... I need you... please..." Garrett whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to block out the unwanted thoughts and sensations flooding his mind.

He opened them again to find the MPs standing over him expectantly. Looking down, he wasn’t greeted by his pale skin or light hair. His muscles leaner... more toned... skin darker... the body of Miguel. One of the MPs seized Garrett's chin, forcing his head still as he stretched the mask over Garrett's face. Garrett shuddered violently as the elastic material sealed over his skin.

"There, there. It fits perfectly." Hawkins nodded in satisfaction as he examined the encased man closely. The rubber flesh clung to his curves, indistinguishable from real skin save for a subtle sheen.

“Are you sure...”

“Colonel, the Private’s eagerness to please blends nicely with Miguel’s psyche. They were a perfect match to allow for seamless integration.” Dr. Thorne lifts up the headphones, gently placing them on Garrett’s ears, "Just relax you’ve done so well."

"Sarah... please, I'm sorry, No sé qué me pasa..." Garrett's voice broke.

He doesn’t register the men leaving. Only able to run his hands over the rubbery surface of the suit encasing his body. His fingers dug into the pliant material as he tried to ground himself, to cling to his fading sense of self.

"Mi nombre es Garrett... soy americano... army..." He mumbled deliriously, his eyelids fluttering. But the litany of his own name sounded hollow, drowning beneath the tidal wave of new memories crashing over him.

Miguel, Papi, Juarez... the fragments swirled in his mind, threatening to overwhelm his last threads of resistance. A smile forms on his face.

As the lines between his lives blurred, Garrett clung to one final, desperate thought before surrendering to unconsciousness.

“I... I'm still here... Inside. I’m still... me...right?”

______

The first rays of dawn filtered through the window, casting a soft glow over the sleeping form sprawled across the bed. As the light increased, Miguel stirred. He stretched languidly, the sheets sliding off to reveal his bare chest and toned abs.

“Mierda...”

Miguel sat up slowly, running his hands over his arms and torso, marveling at the feel of his own smooth, warm skin. Nothing but skin... his skin...

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, padding naked to the full-length mirror. Miguel turned this way and that, admiring the play of muscle under tanned skin, the intricate lines of his tattoos. A slow, sensual smile curved his lips as he appreciated his own beauty.

“Hoy es el dia.”

Colonel Hawkins entered the room flanked by MPs, “Good morning.”

He stopped short when Miguel turned toward him with a blank expression, clearly not comprehending the English greeting.

“I forgot you don’t speak English anymore.” Hawkins lamented.

Miguel squared his shoulders instinctively, his posture radiating street-honed defiance. "¿Qué mierda queréis ahora, putos?" He gestured angrily at the soldiers. "Me tenéis aquí como animal enjaulado mientras mis hermanos están fuera luchando por lo nuestro!"

"Still got that fire, eh Miguel? Must mean the conversion took properly."

_____

The heavily guarded exchange point buzzed with tense activity as Miguel was led out, his wrists shackled. His dark eyes darted around furtively, drinking in every detail. There, standing tall amidst the armed escort, was a striking figure - Papi. His chiseled features split into a radiant grin as his gaze locked with Miguel's.

"Mi amor!" Papi called out, reaching for him. "Ven acá, mi chico malo."

Miguel surged forward as far as his restraints would allow, straining towards his lover. The second the shackles fell away, he was in Papi's arms, crushing his body against the solid warmth he knew so well. The display of submission, of pure unbridled love, was an unexpected sight. But they didn’t care who saw.

"Papí..." Miguel breathed, nuzzling into the crook of Papi's neck.

Hours later, Miguel lay tangled in sweat-slicked sheets, Papi's powerful body curled protectively around him. The events of the day replayed in his mind - the confusion, the fear, the overwhelming rush of memories and sensations. But now, nestled in his lover's embrace, everything felt right. He smiled and looked up at his lover.

Miguel tilted his head to place a tender kiss on Papi's stubbled jaw. "Te amo, Papí. Soy el hombre más afortunado del mundo tenerte."

His voice was low and thick with emotion, the words flowing in their native Spanish as naturally as breathing. In this moment, lost in Papi's scent, his touch, the familiar cadence of their lovemaking... Miguel knew he was exactly where he belonged.

[jerisch]

What It Takes to Be a Husband

(Content: Age Progression, Military TF, Muscle Growth, Body Hair, Uniform TF, Balding, Beard Growth)

Emil stopped and inhaled deeply as he stood firmly in front of the door. It was a late night and the street would be empty if it wasn’t for that skinny slender figure wearing a tight cheap suit in front of one of the houses. Lieutenant Harris’ house looked like a perfect balance between humble and imposing. Emil waited nervously for the man to come.

“Emil?” suddenly, the door opened to reveal the huge and strong soldier, dressed in casual clothes that still looked sharp. “What are you doing in here so late? Rita is away with her mother, I thought she had told you already.”

“Hi, David. I-I’m not here for her, I just got to talk to you about something.” By having the lieutenant’s daughter as his girlfriend for years, Emil had some special allowances, like calling his future father-in-law by his first name instead of his military rank.

“Come in.” Lieutenant Harris smiled and let the small guy enter his house. “What are you dressed so nicely for?”

Emil felt awkward in his suit. Was it even a good choice? Did he not cause the good impression he was expecting? He sat on the table and cautiously informed the lieutenant about his intentions, looking closely to the man’s eyes to catch his reactions precisely. Emil didn’t went there to ask for much, just to talk about his plans to marry his daughter Rita in the following months. The lieutenant’s daughter hand in marriage was what he wanted. Regardless of his young age, Emil and Rita met and became friends in kindergarten and had been dating since they were both in middle school. Now, at 19 years old and a half-decent job, Emil felt confident enough to bring his lover closer into his life and finally take a bigger role.

“Is Rita aware of your intentions?”

“We’ve talked a little before. I wanted to talk to you first, though.”

“What makes you rush so much for it? You’re not even in college yet, boy.” Lieutenant Harris kept his face firm but soft. He was actually surprised by Emil’s courage and determination.

“I have my own apartment now. It’s pretty small but it’s not rented, it’s kinda mine. Kind of inheritance, you know. My job is paying okay and I’m sure we can both live fine together. I wanna take her with me and build a future together, but first I need the honour to call her my wife.” Emil cringed at himself as he said those memorised words. He sounded so dumb, like a child in a school theatre. The room stayed silent for a weirdly long moment, until the lieutenant took a deep and thoughtful breath.

“What’s the suit for? You won’t marry her tonight, will you?” He then smiled to make Emil feel less intimidated by his imposing frame.

“I needed to cause a good impression. Dress like a man, you know.” Emil chucked, as he struggled to keep his voice firm and deeper.

“I see.” He got up, visibly bothered and thoughtful about Emil’s intentions. He walked around the room, his heavy buff body surrounding the young guy. “Let me be honest, son. I appreciate your effort and I see your honesty. It just concerns me if you’re enough of a grown man to follow this plan.”

“Sir, I know I’m young but I’m sure I’m going to give her a good life. I love her.”

“Don’t get me wrong, boy. You’re barely an adult. And need more than love to have a right to call yourself a husband or even a father in potential. You need more purpose, direction and discipline. I don’t want to be hard on you, but I’m worrying for my daughter. I appreciate you, but you drift through life without any real sense of what it means to be a man.”

“I will work on that. I promise I will.” Emil lowered his head in shame. Was he crazy? What shitty idea he had! "With all due respect, sir, I also think that's a bit harsh. I've been doing my best and we are all still learning. You know it.”

"Your best?" Lieutenant Harris sat down again. "Your best still isn't good enough. Not for Rita, not for this family. Being a man means more than just trying. It means succeeding. It means taking charge and proving your worth."

"I work hard, David. I do my best to support Rita and be there for her. Just because I don't follow the same path as you doesn't mean I'm not worthy." Emil felt a surge of anger.

"Do you think being a man is just about hard work? It's about character, resilience, and the ability to handle responsibility. Right now, you lack most of that. You're still a boy in a man's world. You couldn’t even dress yourself in actual man’s clothes." Lieutenant David looked with pity to Emil’s cheap skinny suit.

“But I think I have an idea, Emil.”

“Look at yourself, Emil. This is not what a man looks like. You gotta be confident, put-together. You'll learn what it takes to fill out a role like this."

“I... I understand, sir."

“No, you don't. Not yet. But you will.”

"So what do you want from me, David?" Emil clenched his fists under the table.

"Hey, calm down Emil. I’m talking to you as a friend. I expect you to understand me.” David had his voice both calm and firm. “I want you to grow up, Emil. To man yourself up into your full potential. To become someone worthy of success and maturity. And I want to help you with it”

“Help? How?”

“You gotta trust me and let my work on you. It won’t be easy, you gotta open your mind and let go of the life you have. Your life won’t be the same. But I assure you that I’m gonna make you a bette person in less time than you expect. After that, you can maybe come to me again and discuss about this marriage, but now we gotta work together and I’ll be in charge. Do you understand me?”

“Yeah, David.”

“Do you agree with what we’ll do together?”

“I will, sir. I promise. All for Rita.”

“My daughter is doing fine. As I see, you’re more likely to become a burden in her life. So you will do it for yourself.”

Emil froze. It was too much for his brain to handle. He deeply regretted ever going there. Lieutenant Harris went back to his calm, more respectful voice tone as he guided Emil into his office.

“If you want to earn the right to call yourself Rita’s husband someday, you need to prove yourself." he sat down on his desk. “Let’s begin your enlisting.”

"David, I don't think it’s a good idea. I will to do what you want but… joining the army? That's a huge decision." Emil stepped back, shocked by the sudden shift of topic in their talk.

“Life is full of tough decisions, Emil. This is one of them. You need to decide if you're willing to do what it takes to be the man you deserve to become. Are you ready to step up, or are you going to remain in this weak position forever?"

"I... I want to be the man you want me to be. The man that Rita needs. But the army..."

“In the army, I will have more resources to give you the tools you need. Discipline, strength, respect. A transformation. These are qualities that are lacking in you right now and I’ll be there to man you up. You need to make a choice, boy. Either agree or step aside."

“Sir, I..."

"This is your enlistment form. Sign it."

“David, this is a lot to take in."

"You think this is a lot? Life's only going to get tougher. You need to show that you're capable of handling it. Sign the form. Don’t waste my time tonight.”

In a sudden energy peak, Emil took the pen and signed the papers. Then, in an unexpected twist of events, he was now a soldier instead of a future groom. What a brutal turn of events.

“Soldier, thanks for your decision. Time to get ready for duty.” Lieutenant Harris got up, in a full military posture, and handed him folded camo clothes and a pair of heavy boots. “I hope these are your size.”

Emil stood shocked and with a blank face.

“Get dressed, soldier.” the lieutenant said again. “Let’s see how you look.”

Intimidated, Emil undressed and start to put on the uniform. The fabric was heavy and uncomfortable. He was still unbelieving that situation, but there was no way back. He was a recruit now and dread consumed his expressions as he saw himself in the mirror in a full recruit uniform.

“Looks good. Now, listen carefully, soldier. From this moment on, I'm your superior. I'm Lieutenant Harris, and you will address me as such. Understood?"

"Yes, Lieutenant Harris." he nodded.

"Good. Stand up straight. Shoulders back. Respect is the main pillar in the army."

Emil adjusted his posture, noticing the quick shift in their relationship. The friendly atmosphere had vanished, replaced by a strict military hierarchy.

“Now follow me here, soldier. We gotta put you in shape.

The lieutenant put a chair on a room and ordered Emil to sit down. Then, he grabbed an electric shaver from a counter.

“Sir? What is-“

“Not a word until I finish, soldier.” his voice spread on the room. Emil trembled as he felt his hair being shaved off his head. “You made your decision and now you gotta act on it. See what I was trying to tell you? You can’t have enough respect and discipline. I see that you will have to learn it on the hard way.”

Emil even felt tears forming on his eyes, but he hold them in as his hair fell on the floor.

"Much better. Now, you're starting to look the part." Lieutenant Harris looked satisfied to the scrawny and scared Emil that was frozen in shook after having his hair shaved by the hands of his girlfriend’s father. The huge man grabbed a pile of clothes in another counter and started to get dressed in them. It was his own uniform. Emil always felt impressed whenever he saw the lieutenant in his duty clothes. How could that man look even stronger? After new orders, Emil followed him outside to his car, feeling a sense of dread.

"Where are we going, sir?"

"To the base," he said. "Your training starts now. And no more talking until my next order.”

The drive was silent, and the tension in the car unbearable for Emil. His mind raced with anxiety. The base was right ahead, with its big gates being guarded by a group of soldiers not older than Emil. As they drove through, Emil felt a chill run down his spine. Harris parked and led him through a series of corridors, each more intimidating than the other. Finally, they reached a dark dormitory. Lieutenant Harris opened the door and gestured for Tom to enter.

“This is where you'll be staying," Harris said, his tone devoid of any warmth. “Any step out of discipline will be met with harsh consequences, okay? Take a rest but don’t get too comfortable. In a few hours I will start my work on you.”

Emil entered the room, crowded with other recruits. It smelled like many locker rooms at once. He laid down on the only empty bed but the heavy aura couldn’t let him sleep, so all he had to do was avoid making noise and overthink the sudden twist in his life. His buzzcut head itched on the pillow and the heat of the room was making him sweat on the thick fabric of his uniform. He closed his eyes to make time pass faster, but he knew it was going to be a tough rest of night.

As soon as the hours passes, Emil was concerned about where the lieutenant was. It was taking too long. At around 4AM, the door opened again and all soldiers got out of their sleepers, standing in posture as Lieutenant Harris entered the room, coming straight at Emil.

“Follow me, soldier.” the other recruits looked with curiosity as Emil was taken out of the room. “And the rest of you, go back to your positions and mind your businesses.”

Emil followed Lieutenant Harris in silence to a tent.

“Take off your shirt, soldier.” Emil froze as he saw the man preparing some needles and syringes on a metal table. “This might itch a little. Hope you don’t mind needles.”

The liquid was injected on his upper arm, followed by two other ones. He felt nauseous and ill.

“For now on, you’ll meet me here every night. Here is where I’ll work on your boosters and analyse the results. Contact me about any side effect, understood?”

“Boosters?”

“This is for your body. You lack testosterone and I’ll be giving you higher doses of it. I expect you to go through sort of another puberty in the following weeks. I also gave you strengthening supplements and growth stimulators.” Lieutenant Harris handed him a bottle of water and a few pills. “This is a few more supplementing. Your training will be different from your fellow recruits so we can have the fastest transformation on your body.”

“How long will it take, sir?”

“This is a duty for life, young man. The military is your future now.” the lieutenant walked Emil back to the dorm. “But my hopes is that your metamorphosis is completed in six months or less. Meanwhile you’re gotta work on your mind to think like a man or I’ll have to teach you in the hard way. Hope you enjoy the first day of training.”

******

Emil’s mornings in the army began right before sunrise, with barely any time to rest due to his meetings with Harris. Leaping out of bed in seconds, he stood rigidly for the inspection. The sergeant’s eyes missed nothing, any detail out of place would be met with immediate punishment. Before dawn, Emil had to go on a brutal six-mile run, with the full backpack and carrying heavy gear. The cold air cut painfully through him, but it was the intense burning in his lungs and legs that consumed him the most. The weight was brutal. There was no room for error. Then, he had finally a few time to shower and change. Breakfast was rushed and silent as he swallowed the food with high calories with extra protein that was prepared specially for him, by Lieutenant Harris’ request.

The morning training was the worst. The weightlifting pushed his muscles past his limits, the calisthenics demanded too much military precision and the obstacle field, a nightmarish route of mud, pointy wire, and high walls, tested his strength and determination. Stopping was never an option, and any hesitation was immediately followed by punishments. The lunch time provided no relief, just a quick and silent meal before diving into combat drills and tactical exercises. The hand-to-hand combat always left him bruised while his mind was about to go insane. It was specially hard with the each of his daily injections of strong hormones and supplements to make him build muscle mass and increase his size. His bones ached as they were slowly pushed to expand. His throat was itchy as the high doses of testosterone were reaching his vocal cords.

The evening brought no relief. Emil had to go on long marches carrying heavy equipment that almost crushed his bones. Every step was a test of his determination and mental stability as the weight of his gear a constant and oppressive burden. Finally, a torturous hour of mental exercises closed the day. The strategy games were too much for his exhausted mind, the military history studies demanded a high amount of focus, and he got quickly mentally drained. Emil collapsed into his bed each night with countless aches and bruises, barely able to process the day's brutality. And then he had to get up to meet with Lieutenant Harris to continue his procedures that were getting weirder and more intense each night

The relentless routine of heavy supplements, testosterone boosters, and different pills added to his torment. By swallowing the bitter medicine every night, his body started going through a strong and painful transformation. The supplements built his muscle mass at a punishing pace, demanding too much energy from his already tired body. The testosterone boosters added up aggression, stamina and the wildest libido to his body. He was hard for most of the day and got aroused constantly. At night, he could sniff the air and recognise the pheromones of each one of his colleagues and couldn’t contain the initial involuntary cum blasts on his uniform because of the constant smell of sweat everywhere. There were also times where he was put inside of a machine where his naked skin was hit by warm laser lighting, especially on his face. This was slowly leaving him skin more hardened and thick. Each week he seemed to look at least one year older.

Emil disliked every moment, from the relentless pressure to the loss of his youthful appearance, but he couldn’t fully hate the changes. His body grew stronger, his mind got smarter and he felt more confidence, even though the cost was immense. Lieutenant Harris’s work, alongside the brutal training, were molding him into someone tougher, resilient and manlier. Every day was a hellish cycle of physical and mental agony, designed to break him down and rebuild him in the lieutenant’s expectations. Slowly, he outgrew his uniforms and boots. He had to get bigger ones as he grew taller, stronger and bulky, with his calorie-dense diet giving him a lot of weight to feed his quickly maturing body. His voice, once clear and youthful, deepened into a resonant and low tone due to the testosterone boosters. This new voice carried an authority far beyond his years.

Emil’s procedures were intense, and they were giving way stronger results than what Lieutenant Harris planned. Weekly chemical peels stripped layers of from his skin, revealing raw, weathered surfaces beneath, simulating months of exposure to draining conditions. The UV treatments added a leathery texture, even some lines around his eyes and mouth, mimicking a long time of stress and fatigue. His skin took on a sophisticated and mature look, making him appear more like a man. The lieutenant just wanted him to lose his childish face, but the processes got Emil a way stronger result. His scent changed as well and he was particularly pleased by that part. The combination of intense physical training and powerful supplements increased his natural body odor, making him muskier and sweatier. Just a few minutes of training left him drenched in sweat, and the rigorous schedule allowed little time for much personal hygiene, adding more richness to his persistent masculine smell. Not that he cared.

After weeks of hair growth pills and high doses of testosterone and minoxidil, his facial hair grew thick and patchy. From night to day, a dark stubble covered his jawline and upper lip. He maintained a trimmed, military-style goatee and stubble that Lieutenant Harris was also not expecting. The treatment was pushing his body beyond its natural limits. The height boosters stretched his bones painfully, adding many inches to his frame. The muscle growth supplements bulked up his physique impressively, while the hair growth supplements covered his chest, arms, and back in dense, dark hair. Despite the prematurely balding caused by the high DHT on his blood flow, his head remained in a strict military cut, so he couldn’t really notice it. The intense training aged his skin even further, as the outside exercises exposed him to many different environments. The constant physical stress also accelerated the development of lines and subtle wrinkles, gifting his face with a hardened and mature appearance. His mind also changed, gone was the hesitant and unsure 19-years-old loser. In his place a young man with confidence and resilience was emerging, looking 25 or 26 years old in just three months. Lieutenant Harris started to get concerned about how far the growing process was going, but it was too late so stop or reverse it because Emil was too addicted to all of that.

****

Three months later, Emil was trying to be happy about finally see his girlfriend again. Rita had been away for some months, with her mother in the countryside, and he was planning to surprise her with his improved appearance and finally propose. Then he would marry her. That was his goal and he was about to achieve it. But why wasn’t he feeling as excited as before? Rita came, surprised by how much he changed in such a short time. His clothes were too tight for him to move, since he had just been wearing uniforms since he enlisted and never care to buy more civilian clothes. His voice, weight, height and even his body language were completely different, as if there was a new man in front of her. They talked, had dinner, and she awkwardly observed Emil’s body. He was very hot, she couldn’t deny it. But he also smelled more, not as hygienic as he used to be. His musk made her lose her apetite and he was too focused on different things in life other than their relationship. She couldn’t contain her uncomfortable expression as he put her arms on her shoulder and she felt the sweaty and hairy skin touching her. That wasn’t really the guy she fell in love it. The date was awkward and long, Emil even forgot to propose. They went home with a bittersweet and indifferent flow of thoughts about each other.

******

Emil was in his apartment packing his stuff. He was about to move permanently to the base and give back his inherited cubicle to his family. He was excited to take another step in his life, not even caring much about the recent break up with Rita.

“Emil?” a deep voice came from the door. “Can I talk to you?”

“Lieutenant Harris, please enter, sir.” he adjusted his posture and stood in a respectful position to his superior.

“Please, I want to talk to you as just David now. Forget the army stuff.”

“What’s wrong, sir?”

“I’ve heard of what happened and I’m sorry for that. I shouldn’t have been so harsh on you and I shouldn’t have taken all of it so far. You’re free to leave your position and take your life, Emil.” Emil never heard the ashamed and regretful tone in the lieutenant’s voice.

“Please, David. It’s fine. It was a mutual decision and I think me and Rita are happy this way.”

“Emil, I think you should-“ the lieutenant tried to say before being interrupted.

“I wish to continue, sir. I want to see how far you can take me and what else you can do to me.”

“Are you sure? This will be irreversible, soldier. You will never be the same person again. You’re already not the same person and it was my fault.”

“I know, and this is what I want.”

“So let’s continue your metamorphosis then, recruit.” Harris finally said, after a long pause for thinking.

******

So six months had passed since Emil joined the military and his transformation had been astounding. The once unsure and youthful guy was now full of strength and maturity. The rigorous training, hormone therapy and physical procedures had sculpted him into a muscular, bearded man who now looked like he was in his thirties. His broad shoulders, full beard, dense body hair and his shiny bald head gave him a well deserved masculine and imposing appearance.

It was the week after Emil’s 20th birthday when David called him into his house on a day off. They were going on a night out together to celebrate the new Emil and his achievements, both in appearance and military development.

"Emil, I think it’s time you try something different," the lieutenant said, pulling out an elegant dark suit from his closet. "This is one of my favorites, and I think it will look even better on this new you."

Emil hesitated for a moment, then took the suit, feeling the expensive fabric on his fingers. "Thank you, David. I appreciate it a lot.”

David smiled with pride and fondness in his eyes. "Go ahead and try it on."

Emil went to another room and carefully got dressed in the suit. He also wore a linen dress shirt, that softly embraced his massive hairy body. He slid silky comfortable socks on his feet and put them inside a pair of fancy loafers. As he looked at himself in the mirror, he couldn't help but feel pleased. David’s clothes were not unfamiliar to Emil, since he outgrew all his clothes too fast and the lieutenant started sharing his wardrobe, but he never got to wear something fancy like that. The suit fit him perfectly, emphasizing his muscular build and mature appearance. David’s scent – expensive cologne, body spray and the odour of a soldier – was now all around his body, mixing with his own scent that sticked deeply through all his body hair. He straightened the tie and took a deep breath, ready to embrace this new chapter of his life.

When Emil reappeared, David's eyes lit up.

"You look really incredible," he said, clapping a hand on Emil’s broad shoulder. "As if this suit was made for you."

"Thanks, David. It means a lot coming from you," Emil replied, feeling the warmth of genuine friendship in David’s words.

They left the house together, heading into the city for a night of fun. Despite their significant age gap and military hierarchy, they had also developed closeness and mutual understanding. Their evening started with a dinner at an rooftop restaurant. As they enjoyed their meal, they talked about everything. From military experiences to Emil’s new personal aspirations. David shared stories from his own past, and Emil got himself laughing and engaging in the conversation with a confidence that he had never felt before.

After dinner, they visited a jazz club, where the vibrant music and atmosphere broke their military posture. They ate more, drank and even danced, forgetting their duties for a second. Emil never imagined that David would be actually such a fun and energetic man.

"You’ve come a long way, Emil. I’m proud of you.” David looked at him, a proud smile on his face.

"Thanks, David. And thank you for everything. I wouldn’t be here without your help." Emil nodded with gratitude.

After their evening of celebration, the tone between them turned serious once more. Emil’s transformation was complete, but the reality of his new appearance couldn't be ignored. He had recently turned 20 years old with the full appearance of a 35 years old man, and this had complications that needed to be addressed.

"Emil," David said, his voice steady, "Thwre are some important changes we need to make in order for this to work. It’s going to be strange for someone your age to look as you do now, so we have to take unwanted steps to protect you and ensure that you can move on successfully."

"What do you mean, David?" Emil looked at David with apprehension. David handed him a folder.

"These will be your new documents. A new name, a new birth date. From now on, you will be known as Neil Roy, born ten years earlier than your actual birthdate. We’re transferring you to a distant military base where you can start a new life with this new identity.”

“I’ll be 30?”

“I was generous with you. No way you look younger than 35.”

Emil opened the folder and stared at the new identity documents. The name Neil Roy and the altered birthdate felt surreal. Not only he got new name, but a new rank.

“Hey... I’ll be a general officer? I’ve only been in the army for six months."

“Your quick promotion to a General is necessary to avoid any suspicion. No one will question a man who looks like you holding that rank." David nodded, his expression firm. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but this is the best way to protect you and ensure your transformation serves a purpose. With your new appearance, it would raise too many questions for you to remain as you were. This is what’s best for you, General."

Neil was shocked but understood the necessity. David was still his superior, and his decision carried weight. "I understand, sir. I’ll do what’s needed."

"I know this is overwhelming, but you’ve proven your resilience and adaptability. You’ve come this far, and I have no doubt you’ll excel in your new role. Embrace this new life and the opportunities it brings." David placed a hand on General Roy’s shoulder.

General Roy took a deep breath, his mind racing with the implications of his new identity. "Thank you, sir. For everything. I’ll make sure I live up to this new responsibility."

In that moment, the air between them was overwhelmed with an unspoken tension. David leaned closer, and Neil found himself unable to look away. Their lips (and beards) met in a brief, but sincere kiss, a culmination of months of shared hardship, respect, and perhaps something more.

"Good luck, General Roy," David whispered with a sad smile. Neil stood shocked about what had just happened. His rough skin blushed under his beard and his heart raced.

——-

The next morning, General Roy packed his belongings and prepared for the transfer. As he boarded the plane to the distant military base, he felt proud of himself. The transformation had been intense and challenging, but he was ready to embrace his new identity as Neil Roy.