occamstfs

[occamstfs]

Frat Friends

Three friends fall pray to fratdom and rapidly become the dumb, drunk, and horny bros they always hated.

Mixing it up with three short TF’s in one ! Vague continuation from Frat Founding, these post-grads take a load off and quickly grow into perfect specimen for Chad's masterplan. Enjoy! -Occam

Lucas, Aaron, and Kyle had been looking for some way to relax after a long week of grading undergrad assignments and struggling to meet the demands of their own self-important advisors. The post-grads landed on some chill card games so they’d spend at least some waking hours not staring at a screen. After a couple rounds Kyle’s eyes light up as he remembers something hiding in their fridge.

“Oh wait! One of those hellions left me some beers in office hours. Not sure what the deal was, seemed like a fifth year so he’s probably just bribing me. But hey, free beer’s free beer!” The trio laugh to avoid confronting their own tight purse strings. Kyle opens the pack of beers and offers them to the rest of his small crew and they are more than happy to accept. 

Upon cracking open the cans bestowed by President of the Greek Life Council: Chad Becker, they find themselves far more intoxicated than a six-pack split three ways should leave them. Cards fall to the wayside as their minds are clouded with brain fog while the world material seems heightened. After an hour of laughing at each other's stumbled through stories, the three roommates depart to their own devices.

While Chad’s schemes had intended his whiny TA to have the six pack himself and see the world from his point of view instantly, from the first sip he had already begun walking the keg-lined path towards frathood. Split with his cohort, Kyle has simply brought more bright minds into the fold of fraternity. Soon all three will fall prey to Becker’s schemes.

His intended target is the first to go. Feeling guilty from drinking so early in the day, Kyle immediately retreats to his laptop to finish an assignment and check his email. Falling back into a recliner, he furrows his brow as he realizes he’s been logged out of his University portal. No problem of course, just an inconvenience. He groans to himself only a little louder than intended as his clumsy fingers go to try and log in.

The first attempt he forgets capslock, the second he just typos, he’s pretty sure? And after the third he’s simply locked out. Sighing, he rubs his face with sweaty palms, not noticing as his hands stretch wider across his face. What Kyle does feel as he leans forward, is his shirt suddenly riding up on his midriff. Pulling it back down with a forceful grunt, he feels it strain against his chest as his fatter fingers tickle against a sloppy treasure trail beginning to peak out of his boxers.

Glazed eyes shift from the screen down to his stomach as Kyle begins to feel more bloated than he has in his life to date. To his increasingly dimmed mind there’s only one solution to that, so when he feels gas begin to rise he simply lets burps fly. With each one his situation only becomes more dire.

Swiftly his shirt is strained as his thin stomach presses out into a well-earned beer belly. After the first couple burps his pale torso tans into a respectable sunkissed brown as he begins to pause in between every thick belch to laugh and congratulate himself. Finding pride in how manly the burps are to himself, his form grows more masculine in turn. 

Fat biceps bulge into existence as he pulls his reshaping shirt up to expose his whole new gut. His laptop goes dim and he inspects his face as it shifts less intelligent, squaring into something rougher as his hair pulls into a more athletic cut. After a few seconds of posing in the dark screen, flexing as his pit hair shows well beyond the end of his tight shirt sleeves, he pauses. Just before he starts reaching for the growing bulge as it begins poking into this laptop he remembers he was supposed to be doing something.

His eyebrows knit together as they must any time Kyle tries to rub two brain cells together. Slamming a few keys to wake up his computer, his mouth falls open as he finds it locked. “Bruhhhh…” As if he fuckin’ remembers the password. Shit Chad’s gonna tear him a new one. In the meantime, Kyle decides he may as well keep the buzz going as he stumbles to his feet with a grunt and ambles to get a drink. Heading to the kitchen he scratches his ever-exposed midriff and yanks at his shorts to try and hide the boner bobbing in his shorts.

Well ahead of him, Aaron had left for the kitchen as soon as they went their own ways. In the meantime he had been looking high and low for the salad he knows he prepped earlier in the week. Instead the fridge seems to be filled with more leftovers and take out containers than the three of them would have in a week, most of them with Kyle’s name on them.

Back strained from bending over a fridge he didn’t remember being this messy, he straightens up and begins to fall backward as his vision blurs. The world spins as his mind is struck woozy. His shirt sleeve catches on the fridge and he spins to fall on his face. Seeing stars, Aaron pushes up off the floor with far more force than necessary. More force than he thought he could summon.

Paying no mind to the sweaty stain left on their suddenly dirty tile, he instead looks down at his upper body in shock as what seems to be pecs suddenly twitch on his chest. Straightening his arm and moving it into a flex in quick succession, he blushes as he sees a bicep slowly begin peaking on his twig of an arm.

Each frantic jerk sends more muscle pilling on as each of his bulging biceps suddenly amasses more strength than he had in the whole of his self moments prior. Grunting with growing pains, Aaron clenches his jaw to delight in the intense sensation of growth. As he does so his jawline squares and his chin juts out into a face almost comically sharp and macho, shadowed with stubble that will never truly leave.

Nor is his polished jaw the only place now decorated by evidence of his new virility. His cock hangs like a trunk in his new dirty boxers, lengthening before growing hard, his eyes almost cross as it nearly pokes out the bottom of his underwear. Pubes race onto his lower abs as pecs actively pulsing with growth are slowly prickled with new curls pushing out from his sternum and slowly encircling his larger nipples.

His itchy pits become something of a pièce de résistance as curls quickly coat his underarms. His grubby mitts can’t rush to scratch them fast enough as his few curls multiply and thicken. Feeling his crude fingers trail through the jungle of hair coated in almost viscous sweat, his expression twitches into an implacable smile as he remembers how he oh so enjoys forcing lesser men into his stinking pits. 

Raising his hand to get a good sniff himself, he delights in the memories of dominating all those lesser men; wrestling with his bros, and getting worshipped in equal parts. One can almost see the static in Aaron’s eyes as he stands there chubbing up from his own musk and the image of some twink licking his pits clean as he slowly becomes a bro himself. But then his stomach grumbles and he shakes it off.

Huhhuh- yeah, he was finna eat before he got all hot and bothered by his manstink. Rushing to the fridge he looks once more for his lunch, carelessly knocking things over in pursuit of the chicken and rice he knows he mealprepped. Instead he finds a massive tankard of beer. Pursing his fat lips his mouth suddenly feels dry in a way that only demolishing a keg will fix. First come first serve-

Aaron’s still downing the drink when Kyle stumbles in in search of something he has already forgotten, “Bruhhhhh, I was savin’ that!” Aaron raises a bicep and flexes at his bro before quaffing the drink entirely and releasing a powerful burp that he knows would easily distract his bro from the apparently stolen beer. Buuuuuuurrp

Obviously it works and after his few moments of laughing Kyle scratches his exposed stomach and wonders aloud what he was looking for. “Uhhhh? Oh, fuccck yeah, duh- Bro, I got locked outta the laptop ‘n Chad reallyyyy wanted us to do sumthin with it today.” Setting the flagon down, Aaron frowns. He usually tried to avoid Chad’s mess, most of his free time goes to keeping his body built despite how he treats it. He certainly doesn’t have the frat log in.

He does however know who will know of course, “Dude, just go get Lucas?” Approximately two seconds after the idea hits his ears, Kyle’s eyes light up and he punches Aaron in the shoulder, “God you right! You’re so smart bro!” Only half smirking at the unearned compliment, Aaron leads Kyle into their living room. Unaware as the world changes in their wake.

Down the hall, at their intended destination, the world has already been irrevocably changed by their third roommate. Having two beers would usually make Lucas sleepy and whatever the frat bro supreme did to that six pack was more than enough to send the overworked TA immediately to bed. So swiftly in fact that he didn’t make it to his bedroom.

Knocking out on the couch, it changes almost as quickly as he does into a filthy futon. Beer stains its fabric almost as much as mysterious bodily fluids as it creaks under Lucas’ shifting weight. Now apparently racing his furniture, his physical changes begin outright as his personality is so easily manipulated in unconsciousness.

From the bottom up Lucas begins to grow. His face contorts as his feet are rapidly constricted by shoes that could no longer hope to fit, no-show socks race up his calves as his toes finally burst through his house shoes, immediately threatening to create holes in the strained fabric of the socks as well.

They are just as soon pushed back down as calves that barely had enough muscle for the thin man to get around suddenly pump larger as his mind dreams of running down a diamond. Dreaming of sprinting, his tibia lengthened uncomfortably as his legs stretch to expand his new baseball sized calves into something even greater. Ink seems to leak from his branded socks into his skin as tattoos web upward, spreading the change into the more impressive muscle group on his legs.

Disparate lines slowly merge together to create dragons as thighs that have been habitually underused surge with strength. Increasing from simply strong to something almost monstrous, his bulky thighs quickly eclipse his torso in size. His brow sweats as his lower body expands his legs into meaty pistons that could rival any professional cyclist’s. Though rarely would Luke ever deign to use them for anything besides self-glorification or getting a load off.

His blank expression twitches into a sinister smile as his hands drift to the bulge in his shorts as it begins to twitch awake as his dreams shift to something far from chaste. Quickly burgeoning into a size that his soft hands cannot handle, his hips hump into his hands as he chews on his lip from the ecstatic feeling of his upper body surging with growth, wont to join in on the fun.

Veiny arms and a chest sculpted catch eyes push against the seams of his shirt before it reforms into an athletic top he wore to the gym this morning, sweat stains visible under his arms and hard nipples purposefully poking through. While Lucas always strove to keep his head down and voice quiet, as he reforms into this new man, into Luke, even when he’s unconscious he demands to be heard. Still thrusting into growing hands, at first he moans out quiet grunts before he begins to vocalize outright

“Mmmmh yeah- fucck- yeah you like that?” His docile soft voice gives way to something deeper, steeped in vocal fry as his throat grows thicker. Precum stains his hands as he continues, getting louder and more aggressive with every further thrust. Luke’s expression furrows into a rough sneer as the couch, fully changed into their frat-den futon, almost collapses under his session.

“Never fuckin’ had dick like this- I’m the- unhhh- fuckn’ king UGh!” Quite the hair trigger despite how he presents himself to any hole he pursues, after barely any time at all properly masturbating he shoots his load into his hands and collapses back onto the couch absolutely spent. His face changed into something that cocky can scarcely begin to describe, his brash snores echo through their whole house as his roommates finally arrive.

“Fuck Lukey- We’ve been over this you gotta use a sock or somethin’ if you’re gonna cum on the couch!” Luke just snores louder as the pair make their way into the living room, decorated with pin-ups and stacks of beer cans. Seeing his mouth open snoring, Aaron is torn between pranking his fellow fitness fiend and seeing if his bro is interested in helping him get his own quick load off before remembering that they’re here for a reason.

Knowing that a burning building could collapse around Luke and he’d sleep through it, Aaron sends Kyle to pinch his nose and cover his mouth. Kyle does so guffawing all the while and quickly he’s assailed by Luke’s fists as their horny bro finally awakens, “Dude! What the fuck!? I was just getting to the good part!” 

Adjusting his still hard cock he feels his blown load and smirks, “Or guess I already got there huhuh,” he wipes his cum covered hands on the couch and still-laughing Kyle in equal parts as he awaits what these two idiots need. Seeing the scene before him, Aaron fights back a burp as he realizes he doesn't remember why they were waking up their bro after all. Knowing there’s not a thought in Kyle’s head he opts for wishful thinking. “We were just about to head out to the bar with, uhhh, Chad I think and wanted to see if you were down?”

Mind swimming with the possibility of busting another nut, Luke gives his pits a sniff to see if he needs to freshen up and grunts as he smells his heady musk. Good to go he’d say, no way he’s leaving the bar without a bitch or a bottom on his arm. Kyle hoists up his cum-covered bro while Aaron hits the deck doing push-ups to get a pump in and look vascular for their night on the town.

Getting texts from all three, Chad smirks at another massive success. Seeing those three dweebs become textbook examples of the  mindless debauchery is more than proof of concept for the President. He so longs to engulf the whole campus into fratdom and as he sees these three fall he knows it won’t be long at all until he gets exactly what he’s after. And that certainly calls for celebration does it not? Besides, what better place for those three to recruit some more bros than their old post-grad bar. Place needs to liven up and this quartet is going to make sure there’s not a quiet soul left unsoiled.

[occamstfs]

Bard Turned Barbarian

After critically failing a roll, Darius' DM forces a reclass on him and for the first time the IRL musician feels true rage. Won’t be the last time either as every step thereafter leads to him truly embodying a mindless barbarian.

Mostly out of game TF of a musician into someone who couldn't dream to read sheet music, not that he'd care anyway- got a body to build. Hope you enjoy this musk filled, mind numbing TF! -Occam

“Roll a con save.” Darius could plainly see the smug grin on his 

Mike’s face as he issued the command. Obviously he has no grounds to protest the forever DM, nor would he get a straight answer if he asked what the save is for. The only recourse available is simply to roll

The eyes of everyone else in the party look to his little box on Discord and await for him to announce what number comes up. With a sigh his themed d20 clatters into his small dice tray, as soon as it leaves his hand he’s filled with grim certainty that it’s going to be a critical failure. There is no surprise when it indeed lands face up on a one. Clenching his jaw, Darius opts to keep that card close to his chest, a fail’s a fail. Michael doesn’t need to know.

“Ugh, yeah that’s definitely not gonna do it. What happens to Derry?” Mike’s eyes light up and his expression twitches into a smirk, “Failed how? What was the total? It wasn’t a nat one was it!?” Crossing his arms, obviously not thrilled by how excited the DM is at his rolling a natural one, Darius squirms in his seat before owning up to the critical failure. 

Mike laughs a little too long after getting the confirmation given the generally cooperative nature of their game. After he catches his breath, and an awkward second of him cuing up some dramatic lute music that usually accompanies the Eloquence Bard’s big moments, the DM steeples his fingers. Changing the backlighting, Michael clears his throat and begins his monologue.

“Derry. You see Nerizath the Consumer tap his Staff of the Magi on the ground as he stretches out a hand, pointing a gnarled finger straight at you. There is no chance for you to react. Everyone watches as a noxious ray shoots from his stretched hand and hits you straight in the chest. You try to stand firm, cast counterspell or cutting words, anything, but it’s too late. Nerizath clenches his hand into a fist and all at once the plumes of smoke enveloping Derry fly back at once. Everyone roll a perception check.”

Interrupting his dramatic moment, Mike waits for a success from one of their party before continuing, “Lorna, you see as the wave of energy retreats from Derry, there are some gold strings embedded in it. You can almost hear the sound of Derry’s lute fading as it seems some kind of spell energy is drained from your bard.” 

Turning back to Derry he finally explains the effect of Nerizath’s action, “Darius, as of right now, Derry loses access to all his class features. No bardics, no spells, no silver tongue. Derry is no longer a bard.” Darius’ mouth falls open as he feels his face burn red from anger faster than he thought possible. He tries to speak up but as it turns out Mike has server-muted him in preparation that he’d have some, obviously earned, complaints. Almost as if he were trying to rile his player up, as if he was trying to enrage him. 

Mike waves him off before letting him speak again, telling him that there’s an upside, though the same glimmer of laughter that hid under his speech when he heard Darius roll a nat one remains. The DM has Nerizath teleport away as soon as he does this and the session goes straight into a long rest afterwards. 

All his party members try to comfort him both in game, and moreover his friends try to do so IRL, though all are obviously relieved that it happened to the poor bard rather than themselves. Hoping against hope that Michael’s little scheme has ended he has Derry try to play a Song of Rest for his party before being interrupted by an ‘um actually’ from his DM. “Speaking of, Derry, as you try to play your lute, it’s almost like your fingers are clumsier on the strings. You try to strum one of the first songs you learned on the instrument, and instead you fully snap a string.” 

Jack of all trades, he goes for the flute and shawm in his bag and is promptly told the same, and in fact Mike reminds him he is no longer a jack of any trades. With every word that spills from his DM’s mouth, Darius just finds himself getting angier, and angier. 

Derry had always been something of a self-insert character for Darius, as the name implies. Something of a virtuoso musician and song writer himself, when his friend group started up a DND campaign he was more than happy to simply live his real life fantasies to the extreme. Truly change the world with the power of his music. And now that’s been taken away. 

Mike ends the session shortly after, reminding everyone that the next session will be in person. The party drop like flies from the discord call, all clearly able to tell that Darius wants a word with their DM. Before he can find said words, the usually articulate player stumbles and is swiftly interrupted as Mike tells him to chill, it’s just a game, just wait until next session. And then he hangs up.

Darius is vibrating with irritation. Blood running hot with anger the likes of which he’s never felt. He can almost feel the throbbing rage in his head, but then he takes a deep breath. It is just a game. Bullshit as the session was, it’s not like it affects him personally. Just a game. Looking down at his smooth, shaky hands Darius calms down as much as he’s able before he realizes that he can instead use this rage.

Bumping into his desk as he stands too quickly, he pays no mind to Derry’s character sheet as it flitters to the floor, stamped into the ground as he rushes to his makeshift studio. While life offers its fair share of petty annoyances and trivial inconvenience, the anger he feels at Michael’s overreach is something else altogether. Something more primal. 

At first he goes for his guitar, searching for some chord that calls for him, one he’ll know when he hears it. Usually he’ll be humming along a melody and strumming out rhythms at the same time, easily finding it all in one go. Music flows through him as naturally as the blood through his veins.

 At present however, it’s as if his guitar is fighting him? His pick gets caught on strings or he flubs his hand position, simple mistakes plague him like a novice. Never does he get close to jamming, even as his hands brute force find their way his strokes and progressions are juvenile, sloppy. And with each misstep he feels that anger, that rage only just pushed down, beginning to pulse once more.

“This is stupid.” He drops his guitar to the floor with no affection, hearing it clatter he just sneers. It’s his backup, whatever. He’ll just work on lyrics instead. This was a great mistake. If melodies were slow-coming, at least they were coming at all. Staring at his blank journal, it was as if the empty lines were taunting him. 

He’s had writer’s block before, but this was something far worse. The pathetic rhymes he was able to scrawl could scarcely begin to capture the complexity of how he feels. Like a child’s poem. Absolutely unusable. Every scratched out line only makes it all the worse. Heightening his frustration. Every shitty attempted verse made it all the more difficult for him to truly write. Every half-formed idea a worse go at explaining just how intense his anger is. How rage more than he can understand burns within him.

There’s no decision made as he hurls his notebook across the room. It is simply something that has now happened. Stumbling through crumpled up balls of its pages, Darius kicks it to the side as he wanders to his bedroom. He’ll just sleep it off. In the morning he’ll be fine. In the morning he’ll just text Michael, like an adult, and he won’t be angry anymore. 

He flops on the bed and in spite of his troubled mind sleep comes easy. Far too easy. Living alone, no one hears as his usual light breathing gives way to unbecoming snores. Drool drips onto his bedspread as he curls into a ball. He’s always been quite an active dreamer, but the images that find him tonight are vivid enough as to be real.

He is Derry. Looking around he sees his adventuring party, it’s not the first time he’s dreamed about DND, in fact it’s quite a common well for his subconscious to draw from. Happy to find creative reprieve here at least, the bard reaches for the lute on his back. Then the world shudders. Looking down, his enchanted instrument is broken at his feet. Realer than anything he feels the splinters in his hand from tearing the instrument asunder himself.

Seeing this reignites his anger. As he stirs in bed, Derry begins to hyperventilate in the dream. His leather armor is too tight, falling to his knees he pounds the earth. Each reckless swing leaves a deeper indentation into the packed dirt. Turning his gaze upward, he looses a bloodcurdling scream into the sky, the world around him shrinks into nothing as every inch of his form burns, like he’s bursting from his skin.

And then Darius wakes, panting and lying in a pool of his own sweat. Bolting up he gags at just how musky it smells, like he’s just run a marathon. His eyes flicker around the room as he feels on the edge of an anxiety attack- or no, that’s not it, he’s just filled with energy. Jumping to his feet, Darius almost reflexively begins jogging in place. 

Ignoring the unmade, sweatstained bed, he feels a desperate pang in his stomach as its rumblings demand his attention. Man he shouldn’t skip dinner if he’s trying to bulk. There’s no chance for him to acknowledge how strange the thought of him bulking is as it’s dispatched by another powerful grumble from his stomach.

Carelessly yanking open his fridge, his mouth waters like a dog’s as he grabs every ingredient he can find to throw into an omelet. Usually he’d keep it light to start the day but now the idea isn’t even humored. He’s lucky to have a pan large enough to handle the six eggs he scrambles in with barely enough patience to keep out eggshells. Probably what leaves him with no bandwidth to actually cook an omelet. 

Just as soon as he begins, Darius finds the process not worth the effort and instead throws everything he’s set aside into the pan to instead make a scramble. As he watches bacon and sausage cook at totally different rates, he realizes how brash he’s being, how he’s not acting like himself. I mean, even after skipping a meal this is far too much food for him- but when the scent wafts into his nose he forgets himself once more.

Impatient foot tapping, it’s not long at all before he deems the mess in front of him edible enough for consumption. Too quick he goes for a test bite and severely burns the roof of his mouth. One would assume that would prevent him from immediately trying again, but a second bite earns a pound on the table as he powers through a bite of burning egg and meat. 

After devouring more calories than his usual daily consumption, he fights back a burp and somehow finds himself with even more energy than before despite the hearty meal. Faced with a fresh day ahead he wonders how he shall spend it. Standing still for half a second his body acts for him as he falls onto his hands, thankfully not throwing out his back as he almost reflexively starts doing push ups.

He hadn’t even tried to do a single push up in years, but as he hits the ground and does his first, why, he may as well do another. In no time he’s more than doubled his previous record of twenty. The burning strain in his arms only drives him further. Up and down. Up and down. Sweat that had barely dried from his unpleasant waking drips freely once more, coursing onto the floor beneath him and almost covering the scent of his fragrant breakfast with heady musk.

After losing count he hears his phone chime and goes to check it. Despite never doing a single one before now, his body automatically tries to shift into one-hand pushups causing Darius to slip into his still-building sweat puddle with an uncharacteristic “Fuck!” Seeing that the message is from Michael does little to soothe his ire.

Heyyy so I was chatting with the rest of the crew and they thot you might be a little upset about the game-

Darius made it exactly this far into the wall of a morning after text sent by his DM before seeing red. The white knuckles of his sweatstained hand clench hard enough to send searing pain into his wrist. It takes serious effort to not simply throw the thing across the room, as is seemingly becoming his default reaction. Staying his breathing after a moment he finishes reading the appeal and merely tosses the phone aside. 

He is not going to be playing a barbarian. It’s not him! Grinding his teeth and stamping his foot, Darius tells himself he doesn’t even get angry. He doesn’t like being angry. God! And yet each appeal to himself only causes his blood to boil more. Looking down the hall to his impromptu studio, he longs to return, to write. Music always helps him blow off some steam. He takes the first few steps towards the room before his mind flickers back to last night. 

It has also always come naturally. Recalling how awkward his instruments felt in his hands seems like reopening a wound. His skin itches with the anxiety of experiencing that wretched discomfort once more. All the while his heart continues to race, energy within him continues to build. His legs begin to drive him towards the door before a stray thought even suggests that he go for a run to burn off some of his energy.

Haphazard hands grab for a heavy gym bag that Darius wouldn’t remember having at all, let alone packing.  Venturing outdoors in the same outfit he has drenched in sweat twice over now, anxieties only just quieted prickle up once more before his mind forcefully derails that train of thought. Something within him demands all focus instead hone in on his body and how he moves rather than these hypothetical, pathetic fears.

Focus instead on the beat of his feet on the pavement, as they speed past a jog and into a sprint. No direction in mind, none needed. The whooshing of the wind in his ears soothes his spirit as he gives into the mindless thrill of physical labor. Every so often he catches a whiff of his musk and rather than concern and embarrassment that should fill him at producing such an overpowering stink, he instead longs for another whiff. 

He imagines what passersby might think after smelling such a strong man, such a virile- His sprinting feet come to a halt as he finally realizes that his thoughts have been increasingly been edged out by these strange ideas that are not his own. I mean, he’s always been the more soft sensitive type?

Looking down at his arms, his body needs no convincing to fall into a flex. His face already red from the effort of his sprint blushes further as he sees his biceps dance under tight skin. There isn’t even strain from his push ups earlier… Before he can even fight the rising urge to fall to the ground and do push ups to failure, Darius takes in his surroundings and finds himself standing at the entrance to an outdoor gym.

Smirking as he wanders in, new neurons fire as some of his most frequented pathways shut down ever more. He quips some half-formed lughead joke to himself that he doesn’t even hear as the clanging of weights inundates his thoughtless mind like a balm. 

Every stray thought in his mind is ignored as Darius’ entire focus is on ensuring perfect technique on these machines, with these weights. Lying back on a bench he produces weights he didn’t even know he was running with before doing dumbbell flyes and presses like it’s what he was put on this earth to do.

Eyes closed, just lifting weights up and down. Up and down. Creative roadblocks and fumbled fingerings are nothing to him. This is the only rhythm that matters. With each repetition, with every laborious measured breath, he begins to give into this mindless new self. And his body begins to grow.

In no time his biceps that had already peaked higher than ever before post-push ups surge larger. Transforming from sticks with some muscle to nigh-footballs of meat that would put envy in the heart of any man who is starting out at the gym. Between his built new arms a chest that truly never held any strength puffs up like a muffin.

Barely disguised by a his sleepshirt that has morphed into a stringer, pecs pound larger on his chest as nipples round out into half-dollars that bring He-Man to mind. Beyond the sheer increasing strength however, so too do other aspects of his masculinity begin to increase as barely perceptible pit hair thickens in his pits, giving his musk even more staying power. 

When some vaguely athletic man wanders close to the park, Darius can’t quite stop himself from looking down on him. Despite the man being clearly bigger than Darius was when he woke up this morning, as he only continues to grow he feels an urge to show this man intruding on his work out who’s in charge.

Lucky for both men, he takes one look at the brute mean-mugging him and reconsiders staying. When the wind shifts and the newcomer smells how the barbaric bro seems to be more musk than man he leaves even quicker than he came, almost gagging at the scent. Darius’ scowl then shifts to something far more sinister at the idea that he overpowered a fellow man with nothing more than presence alone. 

He won. It felt right, good. More him than he’d felt since, uhh? He can’t really remember? Perhaps more pressing than a trip into an increasingly foggy memory lane, at so thoroughly dominating that man he feels the most true show of his masculinity begins to demand attention in his pants.  

Already struggling for room between his two bloated thighs, his ‘little’ Derry has surged into an unmistakable bulge. It twitches as he looks down and Darius can clearly see a vein through his shorts. Biting his lip and crossing his eyes as more stubble coats his strong chin with every throb, Darius knows he’s gotta get home. Obviously not caring enough to wipe down the used equipment, Darius begins sprinting home.

While his strained shorts and tank have grown enough to at least hug his form, not long at all into his return trip do his feet sting with pain as his tennis shoes are pushed to their limits. Seeing red as blisters almost instantly begin to form, barely altering his stride he tears them off his feet and immediately gets back to his sprint. 

Darius laughs to himself as his bare feet patter on the pavement, each one leaving a slightly larger sweat stain than the one that came before. His guffaws leave no impression other than that of a brute. His massive chest bounces almost as much as the package that is clearly free-balling in his too-tight shorts. 

Finally returning home, Darius struggles to remove what is barely a shirt covering his suddenly bulging upper body. Taking a deliberate moment to force his head into his pit for a deep sniff, he sighs as his thick musk brings him comfort. Further emptying his now neglected mind. His own pheromones encourage his descent into thick, simple mindlessness as a sweat-covered strand of pit hairs tickles him enough to elicit a bovine guffaw.

He goes to the fridge and pulls out a massive pre-made protein shake from a line of its brethren. Throwing his head back he downs the shake as if it were nothing before releasing a glass shaking burp for the ages. Burrrrrrrp- Scratching his glistening abs as his fingers play with a new treasure trail, he takes a beat before laughing at the burp and patting his stomach.

Looking around at his home, which itself is at some half-state between that of an artsy songwriter he can scarcely recognize and the barbaric gym bro he can’t tell he’s becoming. On the edge of revelation, he looks around at his possessions in their transient forms. Finding this shred of resolve, he hones in on some scrawled sheet music next to a fitness magazine. 

Something is out of place and his wide hands go for both, first his eyes fall on the muscled pecs of some fitness influencer. Everything within him demands he compare himself with this dude, this chump. Bouncing his pecs he smirks as he remembers he doesn’t need to. He knows he’s better than that preening sellout.

As he asserts this, knows this- every inch of him surges larger. Tears race down every piece of clothing that remains hugging his form as pecs balloon to create an unmissable overhang above his build abs. Stretchmarks are painted down his back and across his shoulders as his body expands quicker than the blink of an eye as traps bulge larger and his biceps grow to a size that may never be covered by sleeves again.

Feeling the burn of years, decades of growth in an instant his mind begins to depart for good. But then he hears the faintest melody and looks down to find that shred of sheet music still clutched in his heavy hand. Mouth lolling open he tries to read it, he could read this right? Darius’ eyes begin to glaze over and he sets the sheet down as frustration begins to give to anger.

As soon as it’s out of sight however, it is evermore out of mind. Looking around as he has the faintest idea he was doing something. Scratching his sweaty hair like an ape in the hopes it’ll jog his memory, it allows him to appreciate his noxious musk once more. Smiling, he then feels a burp begin to rise as his protein shake sends its regards again Buurrrrrup, huhuh- His thicker brow lowers as he feels like he shouldn’t be laughing at his own burps. But burps are like, funny?

Clear as day he remembers being out with his nerdy friends and chugging a beer before burping out some song or another. Right? Mouth ajar, as it now almost always is, Darius vaguely remembers that he wanted to write a song or something about last night’s DND session. His mouth squirms as the idea is resoundingly alien to him. But he’s no bitch. Popping his now calloused hands, he wanders back to his little studio and immediately fills the room with his presence. 

His little piano bench creaks under his weight as he thoughtlessly leans back onto the keyboard before picking up his guitar, shockingly small in his hands. Sweat drips onto the spotless plastic of his Yamaha as he takes a deep breath and starts warming up. Oh so quickly do things begin to fly off the rails.

Off reflex alone, he falls into singing the same song he always warms up on. He knows it better than the alphabet. His voice cracks immediately as he struggles to even find the key. “We alWAYs- Ugh? Ahem, wE Al- fuck!” He clears his throat a few times to no avail, each one only making his voice rougher, deeper. Notes that he could hit in his sleep are now totally unreachable. His jaw widens as he clenches it in irritation. Clearly he’s just got a cold or something. Yeah.

Turning his attention to the instrument, only then does he notice that his struggling vocals were the least of his concerns. Only just now does he notice that his hands are arbitrarily thrust on the guitar. He tries to adjust to how he naturally holds it but the position is uncomfortable. His biceps can’t quite reach, his chest is in the way, his fingers are unable to fall into place as should be their second nature.

And with each readjustment, each irritated sigh, that anger he forgot begins to return. Now so well accustomed to general vacant mindlessness, his anger has new depth, or rather, lack thereof. Every mistake his chest holds more tension, his breathing strains. As veins throb and he begins to see red, Darius for the first time in his life is overcome with what can only be described as a mindless rage. 

What the fuck is he doing!? He doesn’t know how to play this stupid thing- His hands clench the neck with enough fury to send splinters into his rougher skin as the body produces an uncomfortable twang from the snapping of its frets. He doesn’t hear it though. The only thing Darius hears is the overpowering sound of blood rushing in his ears as his massive back heaves from primal breaths. And he raises it to swing.

Drool drips from his jaw as he for half a moment tries to find any recourse to calm down, to not do what he’s about to do. But this is what he’s good for, this is who he is. Faced with a problem that he cannot overcome, Darius does what he does to all problems. What a barbarian is good for. He beats it into submission. 

Screaming enough to render the soundproofing of his little suite absolutely useless, Darius flies into a rage. The guitar in his hands is almost evaporated as he swings it into a music stand nearby. The bench that so valiantly held up his massive weight snaps in two as his monstrous foot slams on top of it. One meaty palm grabs each side of the keyboard and he bends its hard plastic with an ease that seems impossible, individual knobs ping off as shards of its black shell and plastic ivories shatter and scratch against his arms.

Darius revels in the destruction of this place that was once his sanctum against the world, this place that was him. Was. Now he is this, something far greater. Primal man itself. Scars and stretchmarks decorate his powerful form as with each instrument destroyed he inches closer towards his final self. The barbarian he is to become. 

After minutes of destruction, his veins throb  with exertion as his rampage finally slows to a halt. Heaving breaths, he looks down and flexes for himself as is his prerogative at nearly every juncture. This causes his cock to throb as it adds to the pre-stain that already decorates his dripping gym shorts. After a moment pawing his cock and rubbing his burning abs, he turns to leave the room destroyed.

Looking at his new home, messy and barely decorated, he wonders why he’s so beat. Scratching his pit and sniffing his hand as he thinks as well as he’s now able. He guffaws once as he realizes that he’s literally walking out of his home gym, turning back to look in he sees equipment scattered, mirrors steamed from his sweat alone, and the hole in the wall from where he punched it most recently.

 At the edge of his mind something tries to call his attention, some shred of the past begging him to remember. Some forgotten medley or crumb of some unassertive self. But as he stretches and feels that soothing burn accompanied with the heavy, well-earned workout musk he sighs and his mind goes blank. 

Then an alarm goes off and he remembers he has a meeting with a client this morning, rushing to his computer he flexes at his reflection before hopping on a call with one of his many proteges. He laughs and apologizes for being a little late, taking care to show off his own bicep and watch as his trainees eyes can’t help but be glued to it. Fuckkk that’s what it’s all about.

Underneath it all though, there is a glimmer of something else. While countless young men follow his footsteps, trail behind him on the path towards barbarism- he can’t quite feel as if he’s not finished. He knows there’s always more room to grow.

One week later, it’s time for the next session. The first hosted at Michael’s in quite some time! The DM is only slightly on edge as Darius has been a tad stand-offish since last session, if not completely out of sorts? But he’s sure the player’s over it, he needed a break from Derry anyway, try some actual roleplaying for once. In the meantime he’s taken care to make him a new character sheet, sure, maybe Darius wouldn’t have sunk so many points into strength, but that’s what barbarians are all about. 

Never could he expect to meet the behemoth he had crafted. 

Darius fists pound on his door like a hammer to an anvil, causing the DM to flinch despite being two rooms over. Half-wondering if this is a break in, he sheepishly wanders over to the peephole and almost falls over in shock at the beast he sees. Michael’s hands scramble to let him in with haste, desperately needing to see the whole picture, “D- Darius?! Is that you?”

Having only continued to grow in the lead up to this session he doesn’t quite remember scheduling, Darius nods at the little punk that greets him and wanders past him into the kitchen. Doesn’t matter where he is, it’s time to eat if he wants to stay massive. On the way he flexes in every reflective surface that he passes. Finally asserting himself over the man who wronged him, his body begins its final metamorphosis. 

Michael chases after him, face burning with blush from being in the sheer presence of the man. He doesn’t notice as the character sheet in his hand continues to change, strength continuing to rise as intelligence and wisdom continue to decrease. He watches as the man’s brutish back widens enough to render the strained tank top obsolete as a few dense curls begin to creep up his back. 

Hearing some lesser approach, Darius turns to take in the worship. Over a foot taller than he was since they last met, his pecs hang over Michael’s head as he bounces them with a sly smirk. At the same time they’re coated in a blanket of curls as his defined abs begin to push into a gut built for strength over aesthetics.

The dungeon master stammers as he watches the man grow, almost drooling as he sees stubble push out into a beard on the barbarian’s face. Apathetic to whatever the little man says, Darius tilts his head playfully as he’s able and readjusts the massive rod in his pants. His voice rumbles enough to vibrate Michael’s chest as he looks down at him, “Speak up little dude.”

Clearing his throat, the DM mutters something about a character sheet which Darius can almost recognize, “Ohhhhh- that what I’m doin here huh?” He scratches his jaw, not even noticing that he’s sporting a beard. Man as he is stubble’ll burst onto his face if he goes five minutes without shaving. 

Downing half a protein shake that seemed to appear in his hand he pats Michael on his back, taking care to do it with the hand slightly sweaty from playing with his crotch, “Sure sure little man, I’m game.” Michael stays behind to reboot, mind desperately trying to understand what happened to his friend. Though something deeper within him is even more desperate to discover what this new brute can do.

Darius’ musk announces his presence to the rest of his party well before he makes it into the living room where they are to play. DND all but wiped from his mind now almost solely focused on putting on more meat and increasing his brute strength, he instead looks at the mousy crew before him. No one can avoid staring at the behemoth that enters.

Taking time to appraise each one of them, he sees them adjusting their own pants as they can’t help but be swayed in their way by his simply standing before them. He certainly can’t blame them. Smirking he offers only half a bicep flex and sees every one of them twitch from need. Taking in their small frames and baggy clothing, Darius wonder what they’d look like if they spent a little less time reading or playing these games, and instead joined him on the path towards strength.  

There’s a faint sound of pencil scratching in the room as every  class is suddenly written over with Barbarian. Darius smirks as instantly he sees their demeanor begin to change, he smells their nervous sweat shift to something more primal, something more powerful. He still isn’t quite sure whatever he was doing here, but all of a sudden he knows this’ll be a session for the ages.

[occamstfs]

Bumming A Smoke

Harold bumps into the wrong crowd. Forced to have a one on one with their boss Jonny, the world he knows seems almost alien. Though none of that stuff seems as worthwhile as the cig lolling in his mouth.

Last of the novel TF’s from that poll! Reality and mental changes are the headline, hope you enjoy this smoke heavy story of a man becoming a greased up grunt! -Occam

Harold was on the way home from a fairly uneventful afternoon with some friends. Just a quick catch up, knocking out a few mimosas and offering a middling performance at some brunchy bar trivia. The secretary reflects on what a delightful time he had as he strolls down the well-trod streets towards his home. 

He thinks about unbuttoning a button or two, but that wouldn’t be very well, gotta look presentable in case he bumps into a coworker hm? He knows a few of them live nearby. Still, it was quite nice to cut back for a time with his old friends, shame he can’t do so more often.

As Harold’s distracted for some time putting his too brief good times to memory, contemplative smile on his face, he doesn’t notice as he happens upon a crew of people that seem to have spilled straight from an old genre movie. Clad in enough shiny leather to cloth a bear bar with rigid pompadours and other stylized hairdos coated in enough grease or wax to coat a few motorcycles.

Never has there been a worse time for the ever-observant businessman to zone out or lose himself to distraction. Unfortunately, for the man so used to having control of his calm and quiet life, it is at precisely this time that he bumps into who else but the ringleader of this bizarre crew.

“Woah woah woah there baby, gotta watch where yer goin yeah?” Immediately the man’s coarse hands are on his shoulders, Harold doesn’t know whether to be bothered more by the cloud of cigarette smoke pouring from the crew around him or the must-be filthy mitts now sullying his pristine jacket. He offers a courteous nod to apologize, but the man’s grip doesn’t loosen.

His performative smile twitches which only causes his assault’s grin to grow wider. As he moves his smooth hands to tap the man’s arms, he hears jeers begin to fly forth from the crew that has begun to surround the pair of them. “Gonna let a square walk all over yas?” “Lettem have it Jonny Boy!” “Get Beeeent ya asshole”

Before his hand can make contact with the man’s leather covered arm, Jonny releases Harold and steps back, arms raised in a faultless surrender. His eyes are closed peaceably but a coy smirk remains the foremost expression on his face, “Ay now ay now, we don’t mean youse any harm there chief. Let’s you and me have a little chat eh? After all, was you who stepped all into my biz after alls. Love to show youse around, break some bread.”

Harold does a double take, looking around for some hidden camera as this situation simply must be some kind of prank show or something. It has to be! He’d be laughing himself were he not surrounded by men staring at him with such scorn. It’s beyond the pale. Still, he has the stark feeling that Jonny’s words were not an ask so much as an order. Telling himself it would be impolite to flee, despite alarms beginning to blare, he acquiesces.

Harold offers a hand for this ‘Jonny Boy’ to shake, forcing a smile back on his face, “Of course uhm, sir? I certainly meant no ill will towards yourself nor your crew. If you would, please accept my humblest of apologies.” From his first word snickers begin to echo from the rowdy bunch around him, Jonny’s eyes reopen and there’s something behind his congenial expression. Something predatory.

Nevertheless, the boss takes the hand offered. Harold squirms under the rough scratch of Jonny’s callouses, his grip more than a match for the most performatively aggressive handshakes he’s endured during his time at work. He stays firm and waits for Jonny to give, which he does after some time, leaving Harold’s hand only slightly worse for wear, some ash or grease having clearly been left on his hitherto clean palm. 

“Ah! Soz about that Mr?” 

“Harold. Now if you don’t mind-” having now been truly inconvenienced, his patience begins to wear thin and he makes to leave. Before he even takes his first step he is assailed once more by their leader, his heavy arm now forcibly atop Harold’s shoulders, “Ah ah ah- Not quite ye Mista Harold. Youse gotta do a little more than that to make it up to us. Wha’s life without song ‘n dance?”

He begins to lead Harold through his crew, in the opposite direction of home. At one point some particularly brutish member brandishes a switchblade which the polished man flinches away from. After a moment the bovine man clicks it open to reveal a comb and guffaws at Harold’s cowardice before using it to puff up his pompadour. “Ahh Now Harry, can I call ya Harry? Can’t let ol’ Bruise getcha like that. Youse should know that by now eh? Anyways, as I was sayin…”

Only now hearing Jonny fast talk him so thoroughly does he realize just how he’s being strung along. Palming his wallet in his pocket to ensure he’s not been pickpocketed, focused on his intact billfold he’s none the wiser as his suit jacket has somehow flown from his shoulders. Instead he sighs in relief that his pocket change remains safe. Then Jonny’s words sink in, what does he mean I should know!? I don’t know any of these freaks!?

He begins listening to the boss’ words, unaware that even arguing with them to himself gives his assertions space within his head. All the while Jonny continues assailing his memories. Small suggestions that Harold knows not to be true, or are they? Quick and vacuous sentences blur into a vague humming in Harold’s ear. It’s like static. He feels it begin to fill his head like cotton, all the while Jonny’s intentions have begun to affect the polished man’s appearance. Harold is far too distracted by his ongoing suggestions and hazarded explanations to notice how the fabric of his shirt begins to shift.

Expensive linen blends give way to a working man’s cotton shirt, slightly stained under the pits and elsewhere from being worn in a life actually lived outside of an air conditioned suite. The few buttons he intended to leave open earlier pop off to expose his pale, nigh-hairless chest as he follows Jonny in perfect step. His pants lack the flair of white collar life and grow rougher. 

“So I says to her- Well Harry you know what I says eh?” Harold opens eyes that had been clenched shut to hopefully ease the throbbing headache continuing to increase. Before he can correct the, by all intents, gang leader on both his name and reality, he freezes up as the world he sees before him is not one he recognizes. Beyond that, it’s not one that’s possible. His hand flies to his mouth as he sees color begin to drain from the world.

Looking down to discover his changed outfit, he rubs his eyes with a fury to try and undo whatever shock to his senses has caused this. He scarcely notices the scratch of his shirt against his chest or how his pants sit differently on his waist as his pale skin shifts grey. If he strains he can just make out the red of a stop sign, the blue of the sky, but with each passing moment the world feels more black and white.

Then he turns to stare at the man whose arm remains draped across his shoulders, head now tilted despite an expression that belies not a single drop of surprise at Harold’s shock, “Everything alright buddy?” Harold desperately tries to understand what’s going on, what happened to his vision, to his clothes. But then as he shakily takes in the calm man who must be doing this to him.

Try as he might to focus his anger and fear to demand an explanation. The cigarette bobbing in Jonny’s mouth acts as a hypnotist’s pendulum, demanding his attention. Suddenly concern fades as only one thought, one desperate need fills his mind. 

Man, I could use a smoke. His mouth waters with a urge he’s never felt before, yet one more compelling than hunger or thirst. He craves the grit of smoke filling his mouth, the burn racing down his lungs. His mouth falls open in wanting as he smells the trail of smoke wafting from Jonny’s still lit cigarette.

Just before he reaches to his own pocket, not knowing what he’ll discover in these pants still continuing their impossible change- Feeling them pull upward as suspenders stretch under his larger collar, some shred of self returns and he remembers clear as day, he’s not a smoker. After a beat he finally finds the will to throw Jonny’s arm free from his shoulders, “You needta-” 

He clears his throat as his voice resounds deeper, harsher. After a moment to collect himself he resumes with his usual orderly affectation, words only slightly tinged coarse, “Look. I already apologized for bumpin’ into ya- Gragh! For bumping into you. I don’t know what drug you’ve clearly laced me with but you need to fix it, and fast-”

Jonny throws a hand across his chest miming hurt. Taking a long drag of his cigarette, he leans in close to Harold before opening his mouth and letting the smoke spill over the man’s face, slowly rising as he speaks “Now there Harry, how could youse say sucha thing about yer ol’ pal Jonny knowin all too well that youse an’ me don’ do nunathat stuff.” 

Harold can scarcely hear the man speak as his smoke flies true, sending pangs of need coursing through the man now fighting a losing battle with a mind being rewritten. His old reality of files and reports is suddenly less real than the monochrome world before him. His mouth still hanging open, he can’t help but notice how close his lips are to Jonny’s. The stink of his smoky breath and the cheap mints he always has stashed in his jacket to poorly cover his tracks.

Harold's eyes go blank as he just stands there breathing in the smoke. Jonny takes a few more puffs, more for Harold than himself of course, shooting curls of smoke straight into his face, each one clearly shifting his mind and memories. Not only that, as they rise past his glazed eyes, they sneak through the once thinning mop of hair on his head and endeavor to puff it higher. 

As each further wisp of smoke graces his hair, his blonde coif thickens and begins to rise. Feeling something shifting on his head, his hands instinctively go to style, readjust, ensure that he’s looking as fresh as ever. Under his glazed eyes his clothes change in response, everyday wear and tear making the attention given to his perfect hair all the more noticeable.

There’s no outward tell besides his smile growing wider as Jonny puts a cigarette in his mouth and lights it. Closing his eyes as he takes his first, long drag of a cigarette he feels the smoke fill his lungs sweeter than air. From then on each beat of his thrumming heart accelerates the erosion of his past self. No longer does his being labelled Harry even bother him. As if he’d go by Harold- name for a square if ever heard one. not that he blames his ma, course.

Feeling wind blow against his uncovered biceps he frowns as he takes the cigarette from his mouth. Paying no mind to the calloused hands that evermore move without the grace they once commanded, dark hairs coating them almost as heavily as grease stains. While he can’t quite understand why seeing his arms in the open air is odd, he does see firm new muscle beginning to be built under his skin. 

Delighting in strength he has both never had and always wielded, Harry flexes and grunts as his biceps peak higher with every new pose and slight adjustment. He feels his sleeves grow more and more taut as his shirt struggles to expand quick enough to match his still racing growth. His chest fills the front of his shirt, threatening to expose his surely built midriff as his tuck strains. 

So preoccupied is he with putting on his show of strength as his thighs bulk larger and his ass grows unmissable in his tight jeans, that he forgets about the cigarette dangling in between two stained fingers. Under Jonny’s watchful eye, he eventually rushes into a pose far too hastily and sends his cigarette straight to the ground. Bouncing off his shoes he gasps, worried that he scuffed his shoes before stamping the lit thing out. 

There’s not a thought in his mind as he does so. What should he care about littering? Everyone else’s doin’ it these days anyway. His eyes narrow slightly at the idea of these days, as if he had lived any other kind of days. Gears turning slow enough as to not be moving at all the new greaser’s eyes return that thoughtless glaze as his mouth falls ajar once more.

Then he feels a single lock of hair fall out of line before Harry’s grease stained hands quickly force it back into place with a comb that quite resembles one he was threatened with not too long ago. Ah Bruiser- He can’t help but smirk as he remembers his best pal. The other muscle in Jonny’s crew. Jonny’s crew?

As if that were the missing puzzle piece he’d been looking for, Harry jolts up, almost falling over as he’s not used to his new strength. “Boss! Have uhhhh, youse seen my jacket anywheres?” Harry could never hope to understand the thoughts that must be going through his boss’ head. He stares dumbly at the boss, waiting for whatever his orders are to be.

To the observing eye Harry now lacks, Jonny is Clearly sizing him up like a piece of meat, determining then and there what part Harry’s to play in their crew. He laughs at one point, realizing the similarities in the brute before him and the office Clyde that let his crew walk all over him. Anyway, it’s easy enough to see what role the muscled up man’ll do for him.

Content, Harry nods and reaches into the back seat of a hot rod behind him and hoists up a large leather jacket. Harry smirks as the sight brings him no small amount of joy. Powerful as they may be, his meaty arms yearned to be covered by that jacket, by his jacket. His rough hands go to catch it before it’s even in the air.

Nothing matters to him more than the jacket his boss holds. The jacket soaring to him. The jacket clenched in his hands. The scent fills him with surety. Comforts him like an old blanket, like a world he’ll never return to.

It fits like a second skin, Harry wastes no time in throwing it back on his shoulders. Truly a perfect fit, as it always has been. He stretches and moans as he hears the leather squeak and groan from his movement. Finally he feels complete. Anxieties of a life now gone and a world far too complicated disappear as Harry sighs, releasing tension he didn’t even know he was carrying from his newly built shoulders.

Then his eyes open as Jonny struts over, barely able to throw an arm around his new brute. Harry smirks as nothing feels more correct than being at his boss’ right hand side. He speaks up, his slow plodding voice music to Jonny’s ears, “So uhhhh, what’re we gettin’ up to tuh-day boss?” 

Jonny pats the man on the back, “Doncha worry yer pretty little head ‘bout that Harry. Gotsa few ideas kickin’ around but first- as ever, I’m thinkin our gang could use some more members.” Harry’s heart pumps in his thicker chest at the idea. That sounds perfect. Guess that’s why Jonny’s the boss man!

[occamstfs]

Barbearcue

Trevor doubts his boyfriend can host a real barbecue for their friends. After ordering the grill, both men find themselves gaining more than experience as their summer shindig draws near.

Age Progression/Bear TF! Who knew grilling could be so transformative? Hope you enjoy this tale of boyfriends becoming the old married couple they were always to be in time! -Occam

Charlie always prided himself on his abilities as a host. Usually it was game nights or Sex and The City rewatches, y’know stuff his crew of queens and nerdy twinks are expected to do. As the days quickly soared past warm and into searing, their little ragtag bunch started tossing around ideas for a proper summer shindig. 

He wasn’t sure which among their bitchy friends suggested a barbecue, but as soon as it was floated everyone hopped on the idea. Charlie was sure they were trying to get a rise out of him or otherwise push his buttons, but the young man was already rising to the occasion. 

“What do you think babe? Gas or charcoal grill?”

His boyfriend Trevor sighs as Charlie settles into his lap, knowing it’s already far too late to convince Trev to reneg on this idea. Weeks into his campaign on convincing Charlie to do something more sensible, Trevor has thrown in the towel and hopped onboard. Pointing at a random grill he offers his clear grilling expertise, “I mean what’s the difference right? Just do that one?”

Following Trevor’s haphazard finger, Charlie has half a mind to suggest his boyfriend isn’t taking this seriously enough. But then he sees the grill, and he can bring himself to look away. Trev’s saying something but Charlie can’t quite make it out as the sound of sizzling meat fills his ears, vision clouded by imaginary smoke that he can almost smell. His face reddens from heat that isn’t there. It’s perfect.

Eventually he comes to as his boyfriend shakes his shoulder, “All good babe?” He slowly nods as Trev continues, “Good, good- I was just thinking, don’t you think someone with a pool should probably host? I mean, it’s hot right? What kinda-” he’s stunned to silence as Charlie grabs his jaw in more brusque a manner than he intended. 

Turning to him with his expression bordering on a scowl, he releases his grip and responds, “We’ve already decided this babe, we’re hosting. Besides, I already ordered the thing.” Even as he says it he realizes it’s not true- he hadn’t placed the order yet. Or he would’ve sworn he hadn’t? Before he even had a chance to double take his laptop pings with both an order confirmation and shipping date. 

By Friday the pair were to be brand new owners of their new Grill-Master. Charlie awaits some retort from his boyfriend, but Trevor’s still stuck on how out of character it was for Charlie to grab his face like that. He wasn’t bothered by it, not in the expected way at least.

Really it was way hotter than it had any right to be. Trevor smirks as he jokes silently to himself that maybe this whole mess’ll man his boyfriend up a bit. Playing coy and hiding just how suddenly needy he is, Trevor learn in close for kiss, “Well, In for a penny I guess-”

While he’s in for a pound, it’s clear the stress of this impending shindig is affecting Charlie far more than it should. As soon as the grill arrives, Charlie sets to setting it up like a bat out of hell. By the time Trevor prepares some espresso and half thinks-up a bit, he wanders to the backyard to find Charlie’s grease covered hands already lighting the thing up, “Hah Hah! Oh ye of little faith, those bitches are gonna have the best burgers of their lives!”

Trev feels tension leave his shoulders hearing Charlie celebrate. He does seem quite the natural at this whole grilling thing, he tosses around the idea of ordering some novelty apron for him as he sneaks up behind his boyfriend for a hug. Throwing his arms around Charlie as he messes with fobs on the Grill-Master, he notices that his arms don’t reach as far around his boyfriend’s waist as they should, as they always have.  

Before he can pay too much attention to the man’s slightly altered figure however, Charlie nuzzles into the cheek on his shoulder. Trevor recoils in shock as the face rubbing against his own scratches like sandpaper. Falling back a couple steps he balks as Charlie turns to reveal patchy stubble decorating his jaw, “Everything alright Trev?” 

For their whole time together he’s never known Charlie to sport peach fuzz let alone stubble that must’ve taken a few days to grow. Racking his mind as he tries to understand how a face he sees more than his has grown such dense stubble without his notice. On the note of his inattention, lost to distraction Trevor doesn’t notice as Charlie closes the distance between them.

Now pulling Trev into a hug, allowing him to feel the new weight on his midsection, firm muscle between a barely present new layer of fat. Arms more muscular than he knows them to be, thicker biceps that threw together a grill in record time yank him close as he leans down to whisper into Trevor’s ear, once more scratching his face with new prickly stubble, “So babe, whaddya want for dinner?”

Biting his lip, Trevor tries to maintain his focus, but hearing his lover’s performatively raspy voice leaves him with little recourse but to melt in his arms. Worries fade away as he retires to an outdoor sectional. He may as well be kicking his feet and giggling as he watches Charlie work masterfully at the grill.

When dinner is served he is shocked at just how good a job Charlie did. I mean he’s no chef but he thought most of grilling was prep work and he didn’t remember his boyfriend doing anything of the sort. Before he can offer compliments to the chef, he’s interrupted by Charlie slamming a filthy hand into the table and, after a barely muted burp, exclaiming “Man! That’s a damn good burger huh, hun?” 

The words are like a freight train to Trev’s psyche, Charlie simply wouldn’t act like that. His eyes flicker from the greasy burger in his hands to the ever so slightly strained shirt Charlie has on. Something’s not right, something’s different. Unfortunately, after taking a thoughtless bite of the burger, his senses are swayed from pursuit as the intense flavor dulls any sense of concern.

The next few days leading up to the party continue like this. Trevor notices something strange shifting in his lover, some new hair in the drain, a beard growing thicker, more muscle decorating his upper body. His voice and mindset edging coarser, gruffer. He tries to question how his lover has stopped shaving, how a few curls have begun to peek up from Charlie’s neckline, but every query is waved off.

Trevor sees smile lines etching deeper near Charlie’s eyes as he prepares the grill for another dinner. Since it arrived he’s used every chance he gets to use the grill, easily pointing to the party as an excuse to hone his culinary expertise. And each time the meals he produces are all the better, Charlie’s talents progress far more than should be possible, almost directly correlating with every other impossible change that Trev can barely bring himself to notice.

Finally the morning of their little summer barbecue arrives. Trevor awakens to find Charlie stretching at the edge of the bed, grunting and complaining that his back feels worse for wear. Blearily rubbing his eyes, Trevor gasps as he finally takes in just how much his lover has changed. Somehow built more than he ever has been despite spending less time at the gym in the leadup to today. All over his form new copses of hair have sprouted, a jungle covers his chest while forests surge across his thicker waist and up from his burlier mitts.

Trev only stirs as the man he can barely recognize calls out to him in a huskier voice, “Alright there hun? Look like you’ve seen a ghost?” Beneath the thick mustache, Trevor sees the same tilted smile his lover has always had. Seeing it now puts his racing heart at ease. It almost reminds him of their wedding, uh, day?

Turning to look at the ring on Charlie’s ring finger, Trevor almost faints out from shock. Charlie races to his side before he can start to fall, “Hey hey hey honey!? It’s just a party, you know you can take it easy yeah?” Searching his face to find some semblance of reality, Trevor’s mouth tries to point out that Charlie didn’t use to call him honey.

Feeling a cold ring wrap around his own finger he resigns himself to whatever is going on, he’ll just play along. This is a dream, as soon as it ends he’ll wake up. And he’ll absolutely refuse to let his husb- boyfriend buy a grill, “Ugh- yeah, yeah I’m good, enough. So what’s the move for getting ready then?” 

Lurching to his feet, he pays no mind as his own body has slowly begun to change. Slowly creeping up from wider, thicker soled feet his legs begin to coat with furry curls. Hidden underneath a blanket clutched to keep warm as he wanders to a pot of coffee in the kitchen, his own chest is patterned with a jungle of hair that already begins to rival Charlie’s.

He’s never really liked black coffee, but as his uh- husband pours two cups and immediately starts drinking he hasn’t the will to do anything but do the same. Scratching his jaw, Trev is uncomfortable with the sound of scratchy stubble as it creeps across his face. He’s always wanted a real beard. Refusing to acknowledge it any further, he turns to appreciate the profile of the steaming dark roast in his hand. 

Watching Trevor stare off into the middle distance, with every sip of his own cup a joe Charlie’s stubble thickens and fills into a proper beard. With each taste he lets loose some grunt of satisfaction that Trevor feels should irk him, but instead he feels only affection. Such is the way after so many years of marriage he supposes, for a second that is. Then he rolls his eyes at himself for playing along a little too well. This does nothing to stay the muscle beginning to creep its way onto his form as years and experience continue to pile on him.

“Well Trev, I was thinkin’ I’ll probably get started grilling so it’s ready when the boys get in. And you can go ‘head and make sure the pool’s good to go.”

Trevor almost does a spit take before quickly swallowing and landing on laughter instead. “The pool huh? Guess I’ll prep the valet as well” Rather than latching on or continuing what must be a bit, Charlie treats the statement as real, “Oh you hired a valet? I don’t think any of the boys are gonna be driving y’know?”

Hearing Charlie refer to their friends as the boys twice in such short order for some reason sets him on edge. “Why are you saying that, the boys- like they’re so much younger than us?” Charlie puffs up his cheeks and scratches the back of his head. As he stands there his hair and beard begin to prickle with some greying hairs as across his muscular form, his initially defined muscle almost begins to readjust with age.

Feeling he’s stepped in it somehow he tiptoes around the subject, “Well Trev, I guess- I’m certainly no spring chicken, and you’re not that much younger y’know?” His eye twitches, they were always the same age. But looking at the man in front of him, scouring his memories, he does not find what age that is. Whatever. He gets back to the actual sticking point, “Sure. Fine, we’re decrepit hags- why are you bringing up a pool we don’t have.”

Tilting his head in confusion, Charlie halts preparing his grilling accoutrement and instead opens the blinds to their backyard. Trevor forgets even the wedding ring on his finger as he sees their backyard transformed entirely, surrounded by a few tables and an even more professional grilling set up than he remembered, there is a pristine swimming pool. He can scarcely find his tongue in his mouth as he stares at the glistening wind tossed waves splashing. 

Not aware of the mental strain his husband is currently struggling through, Charlie simply laughs as he watches his lover sprint to the water and begin splashing it on his face. For half a second he recognizes it as a desperate attempt to wake oneself up, but such a thought is easy to make sense of. Trev’s just sleepy, yeah.

 With a grunt Charlie hoists up as much meat as he can handle and wanders into the backyard too, humming to himself as Trev continues with whatever he’s doing. Lighting his grill and setting out his tools, Charlie feels content as he begins his favorite thing in the world. Trev playfully calling him a grill dad echoes through his mind, but as he stands at the helm of the barbecue, he can’t help but agree.

A beer materializes in his hands as he begins his joyous work. Words of caution from a doctor echo through his head as he takes his first sip, awfully early start to the day but shittt- he’s grilling! He’s gonna take it easy, besides if he chills maybe Trev’ll follow in his footsteps.

Setting the first meats on the tray, he continues daydrinking with every laid dog and placed patty. And as he does so something other than age begins to creep onto Charlie’s form. His tanned torso begins to expand as a few extra pounds begin to hang over his waistband. Trev always did say he wanted a bigger boy. Charlie grins as he pats his stomach as his gut slowly creeps larger.

Abs he only had for a few days in real time are promptly covered and then buried as he becomes the prototypical grill dad. No one wants a thin chef of course. Smoke and steam rising from the grill act as fertilizer to his new form, sending even more hair cascading across his burgeoning belly as his hairline begins to creep upward, more strands disappearing with every gained pound and indulgent drink.

Seconds standing there, stomach in hand patting its amassing mass, turn to minutes as he debates whether to go for his blase ‘kiss the chef’ or ‘I cook bear naked’ apron just thinking of them sends the man into a laughing fit. His uproarious guffaws made even louder and deeper by his heavier form finally stir his husband from his pathetic mumblings. 

Still poolside, Trevor looks up with wild eyes to find that his husband has continued to change even in spite of his pitiable attempts to wake. Mouth drier than dry as he looks up to find the man of his dreams standing behind the grill, hair growing greyer as his torso expands into a perfect, hair covered beer gut. Of course, that’s nothing new, Chuck- er Charlie’s always been the man of his dreams.

He said as much in his wedding vows? He’s pretty sure? Perhaps thankfully, seeing the man at peace preparing for the festivities, Trevor can’t help but begin to give into the new lives apparently thrust upon them. Just as Chuck had hoped. Feeling something dance in his stomach, and something more concretely rise in his shorts, Trevor stares at his husband of oh so many years and smiles.

Memories of their extended time together lengthen and blur in Trevor’s mind as his form races to catch up to Chuck’s. Hair pushes out from every square inch available on his form. While staring at Chuck’s grabbable gut does more than ignite passion in himself, Trev has always taken care to spend more time on his physique as the years crept by. Age a prime concern for any once twink, as smile lines began to show on his bearded face he only took that as a sign to hit the gym harder.

He did always try not to let aging bother him too much, after all he always wanted to set a good example for the younger generation. And the years have been quite kind, for himself and for Chuck. As a few grey curls begin to join the garden of fur that coats him from head to toe, Trevor stands and wanders to his husband’s side, only groaning a bit as he does so- fair enough, it feels as if he’d sat there on concrete for decades.

Scratching his new beard on his husband’s shoulder, he whines in a voice rougher, “Ughh- no one ever said being so- distinguished would make you feel so tired all the time~”  Chuck offers that half-bit a snort, “Think that’s just about all they say about bein’ old hun.” 

Huffing to himself, Trevor asks if his husband needs any help around the grill. Chuck reminds him he’s lucky that he’s even being allowed this close to his perfectly ordered set-up, “Nah, you just go relax and make sure the pool’s all ready to go.” He could tell something was bothering Trev earlier, but looking into his husband’s eyes, even as he made his meek little appeal, it’s clear that some weight had been lifted from him.

As the hour of the party proper approaches, both men settle into their new selves. The perfect host finishes his preparation and grills more food than their guests would ever possibly eat, though he’s already prepared to-go containers for them all- these kids, never eating enough! Relaxing as commanded, Trevor’s mind being allowed peace finally adjusts to the new world, his hair growing grey as his husband’s hairline thins in rapidity. 

And then the time finally arrives. In the end the pair do a wonderful job making sure that every twink, cub, butch, and doll in attendance cools off and feels safe. Chuck always strives to make sure his guests feel at home, and never is there a person he welcomes into his home that would be anything short of ecstatic to return. His new grill centric strengths having done nothing to dull his perfect host’s instincts.

Watching his husband do as good a job as ever from the pool, Trev can’t help but join in on the hosting fun. While the headline is of course his husband’s truly Michelin star cooking, should they offer those to home chefs, Trevor similarly enthralls their guests in a way only a gay old queen can. The younger folk find themselves drifting over to the man in the pool, waiting on bated breath as stories drip like honey from Trevor’s mouth.

The gaps in his memory fill in as he finishes his transformation into the perfect partner for Chuck, and his husband does the same in turn. By the time their guests leave, the two men who began the week as twenty something twinks shift into their final form of furry queer elders. Decorated with wrinkles and enough fur to clog their pool drain. 

Trevor apologizes for pressing his husband so hard at the start of this little operation, for the life of him he can’t even recall why he’d ever discourage his husband from grilling! As in literally, it doesn’t make sense. But hey, all things change in time. The pair do a wonderful job doting on their guests and making sure their gayborhood block should be well fed for the next few days.

Finally when the guests leave do the husbands get a moment to enjoy the summer day themselves. No party pressing down on them or strange confusing episodes rising up. No, now the two halves of one whole simply get to enjoy the lives in which they find themselves. 

Trevor sips on his drink as he watches Chuck finally step away from his grill and float on the pool. Truly the best host- the best husband anyone could ask for. Trev’d clean the grill for him as he dozes but he’s sure he’d get chewed out for messing with such a prized possession. No, for now he’ll just repose, and wait for whatever life sees fit to bestow upon them next.

[occamstfs]

Wine Drunk

Terry's favorite show's coming on and he forgot to get weed. Opting to try Stepford Valley Merlot instead, from the first sip he's hooked and in no time he begins to understand the world from his ex's refined point of view.

As requested, here's a slightly darker TF: stoner to an arrogant, dignified professional. Had fun mixing it up in topic and tone, hope you enjoy! -Occam

The livestream starts in just under an hour. Terry can’t believe he let himself run out of weed just before the finale of his favorite actual play’s DND campaign. Turning his bedroom upside down in search of some discarded nug or misplaced joint, he double checks that his dealer’s out of town before resigning to watching the actual play sober. 

Crossing his arms and whining to no one, Terry slaps himself and laughs as he remembers that being high is not the only option. He’ll just drink! Not quite remembering when he last bought his go-to beer or hard seltzers he rushes to the fridge and his eyes light up as he sees an open box lying in wait for this rainiest of days.

Wide grin plastered on his face he’s already self-congratulating when he bumps the cold cardboard end of the now obviously empty carton. 0 for 2. Groaning at his, decidedly not unusual, lack of preparedness Terry yanks the beerless box out and tosses it vaguely in the direction of his trash.

Throwing his head back to sulk as the refuse plods to the floor, only then does Terry notice the sole remaining mind altering substance available to him. Pointedly out of sight is a bottle of wine that has been collecting dust since his ex Ev broke up with him. Or no, he only went by Everett then since pet names are apparently too childish. It was a gift from his then boyfriend as he was dumping Terry. 

It takes a couple attempts hopping up for Terry to reach the bottle he was saving to never actually drink. Confronted with the label he grimaces as he sees a small scene of two suited men at a table, glasses raised. Stepford Valley Merlot. The name is not lost on the stoner. Seeing too much of the man Ev became in that artsy logo, Terry can’t help but take an expedited trip down memory lane.

For the first year they were dating they had made perfect sense as a couple, Everett had always been the more put together of the two of them but even then he was always happy to cut loose. To, you know, be a human being. Then his dad offered him some paralegal job and it was like he became a completely different man. 

First he quit lighting up, which was fine. More for me Terry joked at the time. Ev didn’t laugh. Then he quit hanging out with Terry and their friends, started going by Everett, introducing himself as Mr. Dubois even. Near the end he stopped coming over at all. After about a month of Terry doing the heavy lifting that fucker sent him an EMAIL to meet at a cafe. 

He hardly looked up from his work as he explained. Terry’s boyfriend was almost unrecognizable, wearing thick rimmed glasses and a suit, more gel than keratin in his hair. Wearing a suit that he would have been drowning in weeks earlier. It was like a meeting with a manager, like a performance review. Terry got the feeling if he made a scene that Everett wouldn’t even acknowledge it. That he’d just close his laptop and move onto the next appointment. 

God. Just thinking about it makes Terry want to smoke. Looking at his reflection in the dark bottle, he has to fight the urge to toss the drink doled out to him like severance from a man who was at one point the love of his life. Stepford Valley, it seems like a joke. But he wonders if that glassy eyed man even still had a sense of humor. 

Something in the back of Terry’s mind wonders if he should even drink the swill. He hates wine, and more importantly, he’s never been able to fight the suspicion that something unnatural happened to Ev. What if drinking this stuff is what did him in? Fuckkk though, if he didn’t need a drink for his show he certainly needs one now after reflecting on that humiliating break up. His truly pathetic attempts to remind Ev- Everett that he loved him.

Each second spent in recollection only makes him crave mind-numbing release. Clenching his fists, Terry tells himself he’s not going to let his ex get him down, with little pomp Terry begins tearing through drawers in search of a corkscrew. He’s going to down this stupid bottle and be done with Ev, done with Mr. Everett Dubois, for good.

Unfortunately for the habitual stoner, given his disdain for fine booze, he absolutely does not have the necessary tool to open the bottle. Checking the internet for other options he goes for the lighter always in his pocket and sets to pop the cork with a smoker’s touch. Spinning the bottle to evenly heat the neck, he smirks as he imagines what the rich asshole his ex became would be saying upon seeing his surely expensive goods being handled like this.

After about a minute of slightly burning his fingertips to see if the glass was heating up, the cork begins to poke out enough for him to try and pull it out. Careful to not singe his fingertips anymore than he already has, Terry messily pulls it out and spills the first drops of his wine on the palm of his hand. 

Giving the cork a sniff his nose twitches from how intensely it stings his sinuses. Nevertheless, he goes to lap at the few droplets in his palm. His eyes dilate as soon as the dark wine graces his tongue. Ambrosia would be too repugnant a label for the taste now firing off every pleasure receptor in his mouth. 

Lapping quickly turns to sucking at his palm to ensure he enjoys every haphazard stain of the wine on his hand. “Man, shitttt-” Terry can’t believe he’s always written the stuff off as expensive piss. It’s otherworldly. The small amount he’s enjoyed so far coats his mouth like a film. He can scarcely think for the desperate, all-encompassing need to have more.

Turning back to the bottle on the counter, he tries to remember the last time he gave merlot a go. He swore he hated it, or he thought he did? His eye twitches as he reaches for the bottle. Inching slower than it ought. There’s suddenly a thick haze over his thoughts and he tries to dispute the idea that he’s not already drunk before he’s shunted into a memory. 

He sees his boyfriend, dressed “casually,” the sweater tied around his neck is more than enough to signal that this is not Ev. Although, as Terry tries to muster rage, some show of force against this recalled, no- dreamed form of his ex, he cannot still the crashing waves of admiration from this man. So dashing, respectable. Something within him almost speaks out, to denigrate not his behavior, but his tennis shoes of all things.

As if reading his mind, Everett acknowledges this, “There dress sneakers.” Spoken as immutable truth, no humor behind his words, the Dubois scion waves a hand and Everett feels himself thrown into the chair opposite himself. He then raises a glass to Terry, “To our rekindled partnership-” Would that he had the ability to spit on this asshole.

Unfortunately, Terry’s body only has the ability to obey. Terry throws everything within himself to halt his hand slowly raising a cup to his mouth, scowling at the aloof face of his ex. Resistance wanes however as he feels something shift on his arm and sneaks a peak. As he uncontrollably mimics the man raising a toast, he sees creeping up his arm is a suit he couldn’t dream to afford. Nor would he want to.

Fighting against a rigid neck that demands he continue staring at Everett, Terry forces himself to look down and inspect his outfit. Before he’s able to feel the stark white button-up or perfectly fitted pants, he hears his once suitor speak up, “Oh Terrance, you’ll have all the time in the world to worry about your new style. For now simply allow me to congratulate you on your new position. I always knew you too would find your way under father’s wing.”

Terry feels a smile creep across his own face as his eyes strain watching Everett speak in that cold, professional tone. He tries to wipe it off his own face as he realizes he is mimicking the too-wide bleached smile that currently rests on Everett’s face. Sweat dripping down his brow as he tries to enact any kind of will upon the world, he can only watch as Everett Dubois raises his glass to his face, exposing his bleached smile, canines only slightly too large. “Bottom’s up Terrance.”

And then he’s back. Rubbing his face and feeling the scratch of stubble against his sweaty palms, his head pounds with a headache. He hasn’t needed to smoke this bad in months. He can’t quite remember whatever dream or memory he just suffered through, but it has certainly left him, in lieu of a joint, desperately wanting a drink. Moving less than consciously, Terry opens a cabinet to find row after row of pristine wine glasses.

He didn’t even have a corkscrew! Absolutely shocked to find the visibly expensive dishware, Terry yanks one to inspect closer which sends a small note flitting to the floor. He purses his lips as he sees it addressed to himself and decorated with a wax seal he knows instinctively is Everett Dubois’. Changing plans, he carefully sets down his wine glass and stoops to pick up the note. 

Obviously he’s not going to read it, the thought didn’t even cross his mind. No, as soon as it’s in his hands he goes to tear it. Or at least, he tries to. His forearms strain from effort but his fingers fail to even shift the expensive parchment, totally unwavering. He doesn’t even crack the wax seal in the process.

Frustrated at whatever psychological block is preventing him from tearing his ex’s note to shreds, he almost forgets how strange it is that there are suddenly crystal wine glasses filling his cabinet. Steaming with irritation he has half a mind to toss the whole set in the bin. Before reaching towards the bottom shelf to do so, he’s hit with a strong whiff of the wine resting on the counter. 

Mouth drier than the merlot, Terry looks up to find his glass has been filled to the widest point of the glass. His eyes narrow as he wonders to himself, “d- did I do that?” No, he would’ve surely filled the glass more. And so he does, slightly shaky hands reach to the expensive bottle and fill the glass almost to the brim. Mystery wine glasses and some stogy note from an asshole suddenly matter much less.

Overfilled glass of wine in front of him, what is he to do but drink? 

The world aside from the glass now rising to his mouth fades into nothing. His vision is washed away by a tidal wave of dark violet as he begins to guzzle the whole cup. His mind is buzzing from ecstasy as he swallows gulp after gulp of the wine. Not even taking pause to breath, the merlot trickles from his gaping mouth and begins to stain his messy stubble.

Finishing his chug with a few seconds of heavy breathing, he wipes his face with his arm and his whole form suddenly prickles with goosebumps. Almost shivering from sudden discomfort he grimaces as he takes in purple stain across his arm. And then, even worse, he sees a blotchy stain on his shirt, obviously spilled during his sloppy go at that overfilled glass.

So distracted by the slight blotch now decorating an already slightly stained shirt, he doesn’t even notice that with each gulp of the wine his outfit had entirely changed. Long gone are the shabby clothes he woke up in this morning. With each heavy slurp of that exquisite wine the stained sleeves of his tee shirt extend towards his hairy wrists, capturing his forearms in stogy linen.

As the wine settles his boxers tighten into briefs to perfectly contain his hair-trigger package while cheap, holey pajama pants stiffen into decidedly casual khaki pants. No show socks that the man has worn for days on end darken beyond their slightly yellowed pallor before spreading upward and tightening, encasing his undefined calves like a vice. Terry’s hands reflexively go to tighten the tie and hide his pathetic stain. Thank god I wasn’t in the office today.

Before he can even realize the strange thought that flowed through his mind, his shoulders burn with tension as he sees that small wine stain begin to spread. Not acknowledging he now wears a shirt more expensive than whole drawers of his dresser, he is possessed with discomfort at being caught in this visibly stained shirt.

Sweat dewing on his brow from the stress, that strange voice rises once more from some unknown corner of his mind comes a voice, harsh and clinical, criticizing him. I should not have filled the glass to such an exorbitant degree. Nor should I have indulged in drinking it in such a manner. It was unbecoming. Foolish. 

Stumbling to the bathroom, Terry tries to find where these strange thoughts are coming from. Sure he’s self-critical, who isn’t, but he’s home alone? He’d never be so pressed about how he looks, fuck he doesn’t even care about appearence when he goes out? This introspection comes to a halt as he arrives in front of a mirror, hands already tearing the stained top off his upper body. Faced with his bare chest and well, his face, Terry finds those intrusive thoughts only taking up more dominance in his mind.

Leaning in close his wine-stained lips squirm into a frown as he thoroughly inspects his patchy stubble. Eugh- did he go out looking like this!? Terry scowls as he pulls his face back, seeing his jaw ever so slightly more defined as the barely a beard on his face fills him with further irritation. No. No that simply will not do. 

Eyes shift upward and Terry makes eye contact with his own reflection. They’re sharper than they should be given the lightweight’s already one drink deep. Like he’s staring into someone else’s piercing gaze. Uncomfortable with this he allows his eyes fall to inspect the small blotchy stain left on his chest. 

Terry nearly falls to the floor as, beyond the stain being totally absent, so too is the chest he knows to be his. In place of his thin, void of strength chest has burst two pecs. Nothing obscene of course, just dignified fit muscle. What is expected of a Dubois man. Despite the thought coming in his own voice now, he knows it is not his own. He feels his hair pulling back into a coif more respectable as the heavy wine sits heavy in his stomach. His eyes fly back to his face where he sees his own face smiling back at him.

And then he’s in another place.

Startled, sees his fear-filled face reflected in a place that can only hope is in his own mind. Unlike the last memory, dream, whatever, Terry finds he has the ability to move. Theoretically that is. When he sets off to flee, he hears the cry of a man crouched beneath him, “Good Sir! How am I supposed to measure your fine calves if you give me the runabout!?”

Hands shaking as his face tinges a deep redd, Terry takes in his surroundings as well as he can without receiving another reprimand from the man he now recognizes as a tailor. As Everett’s tailor. Carefully learning everything he can from his vantage point, Terry gulps at expensive fabrics hanging around him and meticulous pins in the handmade suit that now rests upon his form. No, not his form . Looking down he knows he’s too tall, his hands too large, his feet thinner and longer. He fights against labelling these changes as improvements.  

Then his shaky pupils find the man who must be tormenting him. Reposed, reading a newspaper with a glass of wine resting on the table next to him is Everett Dubois. An arrogant smirk crosses his face as soon as notices him, “Looking swell Terrance.” he says without looking up, his tone nothing but transactional.

Gritting his teeth, Terry is not going to allow himself to be a plaything of that fucking smug asshole. Flexing his new found willpower he voices his displeasure, or rather he tries to. Discovered only after he begins his verbal assault, when he speaks a new voice spills from his mouth, deeper, smoother, and cordial. “Mr. Browne, I trust it wouldn’t bother you if for a moment Mr. Dubois and I were to have the room?” 

The tailor wipes his brow with a handkerchief and nods with a forced smile, looking at Terry as if he had precisely the same status as the rich jerk in the chair opposite him. Bowing out he grabs his notes and shuts the door to his workroom behind him. Terry hears Everett folding his paper before he turns to see him.

In a stark departure from the blithe smile or clinical passivity, now there is a clear look of irritation on Everett’s face as he turns to Terry and waves a hand, “You have the floor Mr. Albrecht.” Terry flinches as he says the name, that’s not his name. At least Terrance is his name, as much as he loathes when Everett uses it, but Albrecht- that’s not- He’s not?

Everett pauses to check his watch before returning to stare at, stare through Terry. “Any moment now Terrance. Not that money is an issue but you do know we pay Browne by the hour.” No his last name is Alb- No that’s not it, it’s not him! He stomps his foot petulantly before it freezes in place as he can feel his volition being stripped away under Everett Dubois’ gaze.

With some degree of effort he pulls his hands up and stares at those unfamiliar digits. Too long, too smooth. He turns his palms up to look for a long-standing scar that should be there, from a joke gone wrong with a lighter. He remembers Everett laughing, helping him with the burn, babying him. Nothing like the cold man before him.

“Terrance Albrecht. I worry that you are not taking this opportunity as seriously as you should. You know father only employs the best.” Everett stands, something real glimmering behind his stoic face as he reaches for Terry’s hands. He pulls the man down from the alteration platform by his tie, forcing Terry to confront the fact that he’s now as tall as the man who always stood a head taller. “You need to do this for me Terrance, for us.”

Terry tries to shake his head, this isn’t him, this will never be him. But with each passing moment the outfit begins to feel more right against him. It shifts to fit, the sound of fabric adjusts in real time. Cufflinks glimmer on his wrists as polished leather shines on his perfectly sized oxfords. Pants perfectly sit on his lithe waist, masking his respectable package and only hinting at his toned ass.

His three piece tightens to highlight his new, masculine but refined figure. Everett leans in even closer, almost forehead to forehead as he simply breaths. Mouth ajar he fills Terrance’s lungs with his own breath. Terry has no recourse but to breathe and enjoy it, clean with the undercurrent of Stepford wine clear as day. Terrance tries to fight back as each fresh breath of Everett’s essence leaves him less able to resist. 

He feels his messy haircut that has long been retracting sheer itself into something presentable, hugging his head with a helmet of gel just like he so hated on Everett. His eye twitches as that thought is removed, of course he didn't. How could he hate Everett’s look? After all, he styled himself to look as upstanding as Mr. Dubois, his love- No. No. Everett dumped him. Everett dumped him for being a-

Terrance shakes his head at the incongruence, the ability to move fully returning as he finds himself back in his bathroom. His mind pounds with pressure as it holds the memories of two lives at once. With each shake though, Terrance discards that life that is no longer of use, that life that is no longer his. 

He pauses to smile at just how sharp he looks, how clean. Rubbing fingers across his smooth jaw he makes a note to thank Everett for the razor and shaving cream recommendations. His brow automatically furrows at the idea. Is that so, Everett? Didn’t Everett? Adjusting his shirt he closes his eyes and tries to focus on that strange deja vu of his old self fading away. 

Sighing Terrance washes his hands before leaving the bathroom, using a bar of soap that had never been there before. Carefully drying his hands on a monogrammed hand towel, he can’t put his finger on the discomfort still filling his chest. Ah how foolish of him, of course, how could he forget he just needs to smoke. 

Rushing to his bedroom where a rolling tray should be, he takes care not to let his posture slacken. Heavy footsteps echo as he bounds down a hallway longer than his apartment should be able to hold.  Finally he arrives at the master bedroom, alien and familiar at once. Only upon seeing the perfectly made bed and neat-beyond-neat desk does he realize just how laughable his actions were.

Rolling tray? Smoke!? What is this, undergrad!? Even that seems laughable that he’d stoop to such a drug even at his lowest. He places his hand upon his honed torso and laughs. Shoulders heaving as for some reason tears begin to leak from his eyes. It echoes boisterous and hollow to his ears as he takes the handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his eyes.

The young Albrecht must have been thinking of a cigar, though he has little desire to raid his humidor. No he should stick with his wine. Catching his reflection in a mirror stationed like a sentry in his bedroom, he shivers at the idea of going on without a jacket. A Dubois man must always be prepared or perhaps more importantly, look immaculate. Making the brisk walk back to his den he sees that opened bottle of Stepford wine and smiles devilishly. 

Checking his phone he pats his thigh at the fortune, he’s precisely on time for the start of his show. With little consideration he reaches for two new glasses from his cabinet. At last, with a heavy sigh of contentment, Terrance turns to see the television as it flashes on. 

Terrance’s smile wavers as he sees his show flicker on screen. Tight lips twitch as he slowly shakes his head. Surely he wouldn’t be watching this drivel? Some decidedly juvenile fok sitting around a table laughing? Playing with dice? Their laughter is enough to invoke  a migraine. He can’t help but groan at the idea he’d waste time with such- hysterics. No this simply will not do. 

Hearing a knock at the door he quickly switches the program off, if ‘program’ is not too generous of an appellate, lest his mystery guest see such a thing on his television. He hears his door open as said visitor let himself in. Knowing only Everett would be so bold as to intrude in such a manner, Terrance begins to pour two glasses of wine.

Hearing the clink of Mr. Dubois' shoes against the polished hardwood, Terrance turns to offer the gentleman at precisely the opportune moment. “Why Mr. Albrecht, you shouldn’t have!” Grabbing Terrance by the tie with his freehand, he pulls his lesser into a kiss before taking a respectable sip, “You look as splendid as ever my good sir.”

After kissing the man, Everett reaches down to offer a firm handshake. Something buried within Terrance tries to object, demand acknowledgement of how strange that is, how impossibly bizarre all of this is, but the flicker doesn’t even register as Terrance struggles to remember what exactly the pair were to do. Hoping that Everett doesn’t accidentally discover whatever pedestrian tripe was on his television. 

Luckily, his partner pulls out a laptop from his briefcase and taps the chair beside him. “Come now Albrecht. The sooner we finish father’s task the sooner we can begin, well- you know.” Terrance makes his way over as his mind is filled with memories of his work under Mr. Dubois Sr. 

Of course, he and Everett have been tasked with picking the new partner. His eyes haze as he remembers himself getting the call up not too long ago, and at such a prodigious age! Why, he knew his familiarity with his dear Everett, would pay dividends but-

“Terrance? Are you ready to get to work,” Terrance promptly ceases his waxing and wryly shoots back, “Of course Everett, only I’m not the one with the mouse am I now.” Both men laugh more than they should at what is barely a joke, before getting down to business. Time to pick the soul that will be launched into the lofty heights they now enjoy.

In spite of himself, Terrance feels something unbecoming begin to rise within himself. Nerves perhaps, his eyes shifting between the small text of resumes on the screen and the half-scowl on his partner’s taciturn face. Under his few layers he begins to sweat, thankfully at this point the man’s odor is more akin to cologne than musk. An eye twitches as he feels the siren song of need.

Taking another sip of wine, Terrance imagines smoking a cigar with Everett on the balcony once they find the perfect candidate. He bites his tongue before releasing an unseemly complaint that this is unnecessary, any selection will be thoroughly remade into an actually perfect man for Dubois Sr. anyway. In this brief pause neurons fire as he almost remembers what happened to him, who he was, the barest hint of some loud skunky scent almost breaking through the veil.

Questioning the boss would certainly not be proper. No, he was simply thinking of cigars. He can almost feel one in his mouth right now, another spent on the daydream he imagines another similar object he plans to have in his mouth as soon as they choose whatever lucky man is to join their glorious organization. Everett hones in on a mousy paralegal before turning to get his partner’s approval. Mouth full of Stepford Valley wine, Terrance simply nods, certainly not betraying his distraction. Frivolity is unbecoming. One must remain dignified after all.

[occamstfs]

Zero to Hero

In a world with superpowered celebrities, how could one not long to join them. Despite discovering his own cerebral abilities, Shirong/Zero always longed for the flashier sort of strength. When he finally gets the call up to the big leagues, he’ll get just that- though not quite how he always dreamed.

Went a little crazy with this one haha! Bit different than it was on the poll and with quite a long preamble before the TF, which starts at the red 0 0 0 if you want to skip straight to the action ;) Otherwise, I hope you enjoy this story of a hero unknowingly giving up his brain for some brawn! -Occam

Everyone wants to be a superhero. You grow up your whole life watching the Hero Corps jetting around, saving lives, doing flashy photo ops. It’s no wonder every kid out there wants to follow in Mustang’s or Lady Libertas’ footsteps. 

Shirong Ling was not exempt from the sway of these heroes and heroines. Again, who could be. All his youth the young son of second generation immigrants pushed himself to his limit, toiling as hard as he can athletically to end up a bench warmer and max out his lifts at what actual athletes label a warmup. Physically, Shirong plateaued before he even began. 

In just about every other regard, the young man excelled with flying colors. Something of a tech whiz, every adult in his life keeps him on retainer for ever-needed support. He aced rigorous course loads and went above and beyond in any non-athletic extracurriculars, though despite that all he still struggles to accept he’ll never see his name in lights.

His parents longed to see him happy and worried the glitz and glamor of those oiled up superstars was doing irreparable damage to their young man’s ego. After graduating he was on the precipice of finally accepting that it’s just going to be a civilian’s life for him. And then, it happened. 

As is more often the case, Shirong just woke up one day and had superpowers. Quite the bizarre one, the information age youth found himself with the ability to access anything on the internet with his mind. Finally it all made sense to the student, just like his parents said, he had misplaced his priorities though mind now brimming with ever increasing knowledge he’s certain they were not correct in the way they intended.

In terms of the U.S. Hero Corps operations, he was a brainiac. Some superhuman with ultra-enhanced intelligence or similar mind-based paranormal powers. Indisputably useful and outright necessary for any of the hero teams bustling about the world. No team can truly function without heroes like Shirong is to be, though rarely does one have the star power or flat out endurance to make the mainstage and headline a team. 

Knowing this, as well as anything else he forces his awareness to understand, as soon as he honed his skills enough to be useful Shirong hatched a plan. Filled with the confidence of an upstart grappling with unlimited power, he knows exactly how he can be one of the greats. After a few years stateside of using his nigh-limitless knowledge to solve problems that have long plagued just about every field that he has the slightest interest in, when the USHC makes a call for new heroes the multihyphenate is quick to answer. 

Unfortunately for the young hero, he doesn’t even make it in the room, his brand simply isn’t strong enough. They already have a brainiac and Shirong doesn’t even have a logo or heroic deed to his name. Returning home to a bedroom filled wall to wall with degrees he barely lifted a finger to earn, he chides himself for not taking this seriously enough. Spending that night learning everything there is to know about the USHC and their recruitment process.

The next morning he rises a new man and broadens his horizons. Almost immediately into his research he hears that the Beijing chapter of the ZYL has an unexpected need for a new brainiac. Before the sun sets across the Atlantic, Shirong has applied with a new alias and persona. Zhihui 0, Zhìhuì Líng, literally Wisdom Zero. 

Pitching himself as a returning wayward son to that most ancient of nations, as well as a fresh new tech savvy immigrant hero, the Beijing chapter is more than happy to welcome him onboard. He masters Mandarin, Xiang, and Cantonese on the flight over. The whole thing goes as well as he had expected his application to the USHS would, not that he’s bothered. Known mononymously as Zero to his new team, he fits in swimmingly and in little time at all finds himself quickly making waves and getting heat that brainiacs seldom enjoy. 

Never pick of the litter mind, but Zero is reaching heights in Beijing that any man in the van usually struggles to do. Almost as much effort is spent spreading his name as doing good. Zero’s happy to find that the Chinese audience seems primed for a young waifish heartthrob in a way that American fans of the USHC don’t appreciate nearly as much. Faster than he even expected he’s tagging along to group events and glitzy photo shoots. 

With each bound forward and new height of his rising star, Zero never lets himself forget that this whole jaunt abroad is but a stepping stone towards American Stardom. Sure, the language and culture were truly nothing for a man with his skills to overcome and appreciate, and he does truly enjoy the opportunity to service and enjoy a city more than twice as large as NYC. But, having been SF born and bred, the need to reach those specifically American superstar heights is simply too deep.

And in reality he’s beginning to see the limits of his influence in this non-native land. I mean c’mon, the leader of his team is literally the Sun King. Some self-styled computer whiz isn’t going to displace a monkey man literally dubbed Wukong at birth. No, despite knowing he’ll only continue to burn brighter in China, checking the stories etched into his mind of heroes who settled down and grew complacent, Zero refuses to slow.

So, when there’s talk of a hero trade with the USHC, Zero is first in line to return stateside. Using every scrap of influence he has in Beijing, he arranges himself to be sent in exchange for Trailblazer, some bruiser type woman who’s sure to do some dirty work for the ZYL. Before it’s even been finalized, Zero leaves his research and tech with his actual replacement, some meek diviner named Yijing, and he books a flight back home.

Yet again, there’s not a doubt in Zero’s mind that he is soon to be the next big all star in the USHC. He can see his face on billboards now, leading the American superintel team, blazing new ground for all those little ones out who’ll never be able to go toe to toe with bruisers and their ilk. It’s been so long since he’s been, this time no one will be able to stop him. Zàijiàn Beijing, welcome back America.

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It isn’t until his first meeting with the team leader, Mustang, that he finally learns that his dreams do not align with the USHC plans. “Now listen here Zero, ain’t all that bad y’know. Team just don’t need another brainiac right now. Higher ups, the powers that be- Well, they just think that Binary is more than enough an ace that we don’t need two of yas.”

Zero frowns, biting his tongue to not insult the man’s intelligence. Mustang has always been one of his favorite heroes, dim as he may be. Hearing that famous, simple drawl in person is almost enough to distract Zero from the acerbic words spilling from his mouth as he’s reminded that the Corps are just pawns for management to do with as they please. Pieces to play when there is something that need punching, or punching bags when they need to save face.

No, he knows he has no reason to fight with Mustang, who despite his poor job relaying the message, obviously means well with his new teammate. Who Zero doesn’t care for however, is the stoic android who has been standing motionlessly behind his hero since they entered the room. Binary, the current USHC brainiac supreme, some old tech instilled with life that masquerades as a real once-human superhero. Oft kept in the shadows where their rusty profile belongs. 

Apparently the foremost opponent in his way. Them, Zero has no qualms in attacking. ”So you’re telling me this geratic hunk of junk is just going to keep his spot on the roster forever? I’m smarter than them, faster! I mean for fucks sake surely management can see the lengthy list of pros to having an actual human being as the head of their intel department.” The android’s face remains unmoving as Zero tears into them.

Mustang scratches the back of his neck uncomfortably. Groaning to himself as he readjusts his immense weight, “Now hold on there littlun let’s not be too hasty. You, me, and Dupree ere’ll be a team no matter which way this shakes out. It’s just-” Mustang takes a second to adjust, unlike his two present compatriots thinking does not come naturally, “from what Binary thinks, the know-it-all biz just don’t got that high-profile pull that you’re after.”

Hearing the android’s right on the money, Zero’s eyes flicker from Mustang back to his would-be boss only to find the blank slate that must always be painted on their face. Rolling his eyes, he impetuously sighs and skips ahead in the conversation, “So what’s the other option?”

The hero smirks, “Ah! All you thinkers- Love it! So, I’m not gonna pretend to know anything bout the details, but Binary and the researchers’ve ‘pparently made this serum that’ll let any superdude and wonder gal unlock some latent powers. So, we’re thinkin’ what better way to introduce our new techie, Zeehooey Zero than by unveiling you as the first ever do-it-all supe! Ain’t that right Binary?”

The bot slowly nods, still betraying nothing of the processes ongoing behind their synthetic face. “Affirmative. Should Shirong so desire, I, we, have been allowed to grant access to the department’s notes on the program.” Without waiting for a response, Binary’s eyes flash a cold blue as he gives the new Corps member access to the proprietary notes. Immediately Zero’s mind rushes in, spreading thin to learn everything there is to know, searching for a downside, an ulterior motive, a trap.

Unfortunately for the scion of the internet, the trap was laid for him in mind. Binary’s impassive facade finally cracks as they watch him fall hook line and sinker. Highlighted to a degree that should certainly raise red flags, Zero is directed towards the most likely powers gained: super strength, endurance, enhanced reflexes and healing. Exactly the superhero cocktail that every big shot in the league has. 

The young man is so excited by the prospect he doesn’t even realize that the side effects and expectations for his case have been completely scrubbed. As Binary expected. In a microsecond their face falls flat once more and Zero returns from his brief sojourn in the notes on this mystery procedure, not even trying to hide how eager he is to get this done as soon as possible. 

He tells himself he has no choice, that it’s this or nothing. Zero pushes down the excitement quickly overtaking him, the surging theories and potentialities that lay ahead of him, and fanart of himself as a brawny, well-muscled superhero. His eyes slam shut as he forcefully stops himself from imagining the threads on various less than puritanical sites of himself well-hung and oiled up.

After a moment of resetting Zero clears his throat and nods, completely ignoring Binary, “Yeah, Shi de. I think this is something that I’d be interested in doing, sir-” Mustang lights up and promptly reaches over the desk to dap Zero up, “Fuck yeah! I mean who can resist y’know!? Just imagine, you ‘n me ripped as all get out. Brain ‘n brawn, can’t wait littlun- er, for now that is! Hah!”

Mustang gets up with a grunt, ruffling Zero’s hair as he walks by, an eager smile on his face, betraying nothing but his ignorance of whatever Binary has in store for Zero. Binary remains motionless, eyes powering down as they await the new hero to follow the commando before heading off to research where his is to ‘discover his new powers.’ The android would laugh, but that would be unbecoming. yes.

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Zero doesn’t quite understand the outfit they’re having him wear for the procedure. He was ready for a gown or something similar, but these are just, well, gym clothes? Obviously he read the notes and knows the whole thing is far less invasive than one would expect. But as he changes into a tank top, he can’t help but feel ridiculous. 

Pulling up shorts he hasn’t worn since high school, the young hero grimaces as he sits alone waiting in the smallest of the HQ’s operating rooms. In the meantime he does what he always does, to prepare for what’s to come, to kill time. He retreats into his mind. The whole thing is kind of insane, but from his expansive understanding that’s just how it is in the big leagues.

For a moment he considers trying to dive into the USHC’s data on Binary but is promptly denied access. Something about that bot was off. Another time. He shouldn’t let the piece of chrome get him bothered, this is a win, he’s going to be brain, brawn, and out of that brainiac’s jurisdiction. He should focus on himself.

And so he does, racing through the web past fanfic and photoshopped pictures of Zhihui Zero, shifting through long dead links on superhero fanblogs. He knows exactly what he’s looking for as he dives deep into a long abandoned forum kept running through the power of his mind alone. There he finds a post he made decades ago accompanied by a sloppy drawing of a costume that looks not too dissimilar from his current one, albeit on a much broader figure. ‘I wish I could be a superhero. I want super strength and super sped!! And to fly and be able to talk to dogs :) here’s my costume i hope you like it!’

Sitting in this room on the precipice of becoming a new type of hero, a new eidolon of man, Zero simply grins. And then grimaces as his connection slowly fades into static. Shaking his head at being dampened without warning, he returns to the meatspace and sees a doctor not much older than himself smiling with a datapad. “Oop! Sorry about that though you of course knew you were going to be disconnected during this procedure hm?”

In the end, not a world away from Binary himself, Zero performs cerebral stoicism in the face of this man whose eyes glimmer with curiosity and interest. He nods as the scientist continues, “I must say our team is so intrigued by your abilities! I mean a direct connection to a fully manmade phenomena! Well, it’s no wonder Binary wants their hands on-” 

Before he can finish the sentence his free hand flies to an earpiece and his face falls slightly, clearly being reprimanded by someone watching in. Zero turns to the visible camera and waves at what can only be the android, who must be obsessed with him he thinks with a smirk. 

Clearly more muted than he’d like to be, the doctor restates his excitement for the procedure, gets Zero to sign off on a few wavers he should’ve read closer, and puts a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Let’s see what a bruiser we’ll make out of you!”

 Zero does a double take at this, bruiser is a very specific word in hero parlance. Bruiser, Brute, muscle without a brain. His eyes shift back to the camera which is obviously inscrutable. He’s just in his head from being disconnected. He just needs to lay back and let the doctor work. The quietly smiling man moves with some degree of melancholy in his eyes as he puts an anesthesia mask on Zero. Would’ve sworn there were people for that, anesthes- anasteesy- olo just, uh-

0 0 0 = 0 0 0 = 0 0 0

And then he’s awake. His mind humming once more with his powers returned and he lets loose a sigh of relief. Worried about nothing.  Like a computer starting up he flexes his mind and ensures he has access to everything he should, as he does every morning. Pinned like a bookmark to the front of his consciousness is the drawing of him buff and flexing. Looking down at his form, the same as ever he feels nothing but embarrassed.

Distinctly colder from the friendly face that laid him to rest, he is greeted by Binary as he awakens. “Excellent. Now time for the true test.” Still running through start-up processes, Zero simply stares. “I trust you are familiar with the novella: Jekyll and Hyde Mr. Ling. As you are aware with my superior processing power we have little need of a second Dr. Hyde, although, I do appreciate the greater understanding of your abilities which I am sure our associates will make use of down the road. You know, when I have need of a portable computer. However, at his juncture Shinrong, it is time for you to become the Jekyll.” 

For the first time, Zero sees Binary smile before they quickly turn and sidestep out of the room, leaving him alone in this clinical cell. Going to follow in their footsteps, the young man is unsurprised to find Binary locked the door behind them.

 Zero’s face burns red as his mind overheats. He forces his eyes closed as he puts all available energy within him towards overclocking his powers to find out what is going on. Was he tricked, what did he miss in the contract, how does he get out of this room. And then sharper than any headache he’s suffered in his life, Zero falls to the floor as he hits a wall in his mind that has simply never been there before. 

Gasping in shock, Zero hoists himself up on the operating table, arms struggling far more than they should for how light his form is. Hesitant to delve into the internet he checks his surroundings in reality and notices what must be a one-way mirror at the back of the OR, He scowls at his reflection, not knowing who on the other side led him down this path of being a lab rat. He wonders if Mustang was in on it, picturing his genial face, it only introduces more anger in the young man. 

Zero slams a fist down on the table with strength he didn’t know he could summon. Tools on a tray table nearby shake as he does so, no way he could’ve manifested such force. Looking down at his hand still forcefully in place, Zero gasps as he sees the slightest dent in the table. He pulls his arm up to inspect it, using his mind to summon what it should look like and comparing it to how it is now. 

Even this is more difficult than it should be. The intricate assessment should be second nature to his supermind. At present though, Zero’s unable to perform minute calculations groaning he simply goes over the big picture. New veins trail down his arm and with each slight twitch of movement they pulse thicker. Photoshopped images of his bulging biceps, burned into his subconscious as they are, burst to the front of his mind and he suddenly forgets whatever difficulties he's having with his abilities to instead inspect his arm.

His stomach dances as he raises it to flex, smirking as he sees new muscle begin to grow. Stretching and twisting his right arm, he focuses on it with an intensity he hasn’t brought to the real world in years. Drinking in each shifting muscle fiber as they expand. Quickly bringing it into a flex he’s beside himself with primal joy as he sees it peak higher. He does it again, and again. Each time his stare grows hungrier as the bicep bloats larger, rises higher, like a loaf of bread. 

Usually able to keep a running awareness of his body’s processes, Zero simply feels his racing heart and sharp breaths rather than passively watching numbers shift. He forces his hand on his chest, feeling his palm spreading wider, fingers stretching longer and growing fatter across his thin chest. Zero struggles to slow his breathing. Upon his first deep breath he realizes his arms are not the only change. 

He smells the anesthesia in a medicine cabinet across the room, discarded sweat covered tissues and latex gloves in the sterilized trash. Eyes widen as he smells in real time his body odor changing. The muted rarely present stink of his old self issuing forth from his left pit at his left arm begins its rapid journey towards the powerful arm of a hero. Opposite, already changed, he feels the few hairs in his pit joined by a small garden as it now carries the musk of a man, the stink of a hero. 

Turning away from the glass, Zero’s face red from rage softens to one more pink from embarrassment. Thank god they got him in these stupid shorts and not spandex. He smells his heady musk changing with every passing second, grossing stronger as his arms hang heavier and bulge larger. Their odor is then joined by a new scent as he smells pre dripping into his suddenly strained underwear.

Desperately trying to readjust and obscure his newly bulging dick, Zero grunts as every time his clumsy fingers graze it it only becomes more unwieldy. Biting his lip, he forces down his leg, leaving a pipe more than clear in the shorts but allowing him at least a modicum of dignity. His heavier balls pulse with need and his mind that rarely leaves room for sexual fulfillment simply demands that he take in his reflection.

Zero smiles as he sees himself becoming the man he always dreamed he could be, would be. Flexing an arm briefly, letting his long pit hairs drip freely, his eyes then trail down. Past his bulge he, for the first time, notices his calves beginning to surge larger. Doing a quick calf raise, Zero nearly falls over as his whole body stretches taller in that half a moment. And so he does so again, the sound of cracking bones fills the air as his whole form lengthens.

Legs that were already struggling to put on mass to match his new bulky arms surge into overdrive as they race to become the trunks that any top heavy superheroism demands. Long toes burst free from the shoddy surgical shoes they had him in, leaving his grippers exposed as his soles widen into nigh perfect shock absorbers for the hero. He flexes his toes and feels even this awaken more strength in calves, sending shockwaves of growth through the length of his lower body. 

Completely forgetting about losing his mind, unaware that the fire wall he came across moments ago has only continued to shrink inward, one thought surges to the forefront. Zero needs to see what these bad boys can do. Stretching his longer legs to their limits, patting thighs and hearing how dense his muscle mass has grown in such a short time, Zero moans to himself as his pre leaks even more than his memory.

Eyes almost crossing as the thighs that now strain his pants leave his balls little room to breath, his cock straining them even moreso. Zero shifts one of the meaty palms clutching his thigh to instead tear off his underwear. 

This is done with ease, fabric he couldn’t tear without tools is suddenly scattered to the floor as stained boxer briefs are torn away from his form. It’s of little matter unfortunately as in no time at all his legs surge large enough to leave the athletic shorts skin tight.

Problem solved, he laughs to himself as he remembers what his next move was. He was going to see how high he could jump. Crouching down in an instant, he flings himself immediately into the heavily reinforced ceiling of the room before crashing back onto the floor. Thankfully pain was not a sense enhanced as he lies in a heap on the floor, doing something between groaning in pain and laughing at himself.

Resting his fat hand on his chest to steady his breathing once more, he feels one of the few remaining frontiers of his body begin to puff up. With each gasping breath new weight begins to pile onto his chest. Think fingers cup his forming pecs and the bulge in his pants struggles against its confines as his nipples poke into his new mitt.

Perfectly round pecs pounding larger with the beat of his powerful heart, Zero takes a moment to reflect. Why did he just jump headfirst into the ceiling? He never acts without thinking. He should’ve known he’d shoot into the reinforced tiles. It was his job to do the math on stunts like that for his team. It is his job, what he’s good at. Narrowing his eyes, he tries to see the numbers in front of him. 

At first Zero’s able to at least summon the equations in front of him. He can almost recognize the formula, what he’s supposed to do with it and what goes where, almost. Then they fade, becoming little more than spots in his vision. His mouth falls open as it now is almost always to be, bruisers being something synonymous to mouth breathers it’s no wonder that Zero is apt to join the rest of his new cohort. 

On the cold sterile floor, an ass that has yet to slow down its growth begins to send tears down his shorts. Joining veiny thighs and a veinier dick, it’s only a matter of time before Zero is truly baring it all to his colleagues. He tries to ignore the image of fans across the world staring at his ass, admiring his bulge. Feeling his cock throb, both staining and straining his shorts, Zero stays strong. No, he was going to figure it out.

Still the same stubborn man he’s always been, Zero once more tries to do the math, just to show that he can, to himself. This time he struggles to even produce the first digits of the problem. Falling back on an old trick, he uses his meaty digits to try and direct his mind. 

He hasn’t needed to do this since he was first starting out, he’s never had trouble organizing his mind. He’s taken great care to stay sharp, or rather he did? His crutch, his clumsy fingers struggle to offer any aid. Arms raised his musk is once more sent spewing into the open air causing him no small degree of distraction.

Sitting up in frustration, he slams an arm into the side of the operating table. His frustration only accelerates his growth. Raw, primal emotion numbs the mind and sharpens his massive form. Pecs form a wide overhang above abs so well sculpted they must have been crafted by hand. While his new hands lack finesse, this shortcoming is more than overshadowed by arms as powerful as thick and powerful as some of the strongest normies thighs. 

Standing to his feet with a deep, bovine groan, Zero is reunited with his reflection. He is truly unrecognizable. As he watches his face begins to change, jaw widening, eyes dulling. He motions his hand to bring up a saved image of himself, something that should be the easiest thing in the world, but fails to produce even a memory. Static fills his ears as cotton fills his mind. He just watches, breathing in through his mouth as he hungrily stares at himself, changing and growing.

Walking closer, inspecting his massive chest, he bounces his pecs. The static grows louder. The pecs grow bigger. Forgetting he was even trying to do a comparison, his mouth waters as he instead flexes every bulging muscle on his new form. Hypnotized by his massive chest as it pushes his tank to its limits. They’re like nothing he’s ever seen before, like no man he can imagine. His eyes fill with wonder as his pecs continue to inflate as if they were hooked up to an air compressor.

Standing there, staring at his own powerful body, finally being the superhero he always wanted to be. He would almost feel disdain for being the little know-it-all he once was. The scheming little runt who solved calculus problems for the real heroes, the little guy who stared longingly at alpha heroes like the brute he is now. He sneers as he imagines being such a pipsqueak. 

He would, that is, were he not on the fast track to forgetting that’s who he ever was. Hips bucking, Zero rapidly begins to forget his connection to the sum of all human knowledge. His abilities at solving mysteries and effortlessly uncovering buried answers as Zhihui Zero are rapidly wiped from his mind as his balls begin to bulge, pulsing with need.

Mouth watering at his splendor, his strength, he can’t imagine being anything but the strongest man in the room. His hips reflexively buck as he laughs at the idea that maybe he’s got supervirility too. The dumb thought only turns him on all the more. He guffaws to himself, switching poses each time his dripping cock thrusts forward, quickly breaking free of his shorts. 

Massive arms fall forward on the one-way glass that Zero recognizes as nothing but a mirror with enough force to shake the whole room. Staring at his dumb eyes reflected, seeing not a single thought behind them, Zero’s whole body twitches and contorts as he loses control. Spewing his load into the once sterile OR, his heavy breaths steam the glass as his sweaty palms send cracks across the glass simply from holding his weight against them.

His enhanced nose finds its way into his pits to smell his hormones change as he finally tastes sweet release. Fuck that’s the good stuff. Tongue out, panting like an animal, Zero becomes exactly the boorish brute that Binary intended him to be, no, even more of one. Judging by the truly immense size and strength of the USHC’s new behemoth it’s clear that Binary severely underestimated how useful the young technomage would have been. 

Before the new brute gets the wise idea to clean up the spilled cum with his tongue, the door at the far side of the room rears open and in walks Mustang and Binary. The android’s face squirms at the powerful odor of the room, kicking themselves for ever giving themself the ability to smell before turning it off. Adversely, Mustang is absolutely stoked to have another bruiser on the team, “Yeeehaw?! Zero that you dude!?” 

Apathetic to the still dripping cock, Mustang tosses his new teammate a towel and goes over for a bear hug. Zero is similarly ecstatic to see his captain and he tests his own strength on the man built well stronger than a stallion. Embracing and feeling camaraderie in strength, Zero’s cock immediately begins to stir again and Mustang laughs, “Shoo- Gonna need RnD to whip up some real ultragrade spandex to keep that pecker under control ‘ere Zero!” 

The two men laugh for a few seconds before Binary clears their robotic throat. Zero takes a step to look past his leader and is less than pleased to see the android, “Hm, what brings the old recycling bin by Cap?” Mustang pats him on the back and offers a stern look to half-reprimand him as Binary rolls their robotic eyes with a canned, “Hah Hah.” After a moment they continue, “I am simply here for the aftermath of the experiment, Zero.”

Zero’s thick brow furrows and he scratches his wiry pubes peeking above the towel, struggling to remember exactly what experiment must’ve just happened. Lucky for the boor, Binary is more than happy to explain, “Likely you do not recall, as intended, but before coming in here you were a fellow brainiac.” Zero scowls, looking down at his meaty hands he shivers performatively at the idea of being unable to lift a truck. 

“Anyway. You were able to access knowledge from the internet straight from the aether, now I perhaps underestimated the use of this judging by how drastic the counterweight transformation was.” Three sentences in, Zero is finding himself more than bored with the bot. Who cares what he used to be IF he even used to be some nerd, instead his eyes flit to Mustang’s rugged chin and meaty pecs as he wonders whose are bigger.

“Now, should you ever wish to access the power again I will have tech give you equipment to do so. You must keep in mind that any use would directly draw from your strength and form. Now-” Zero interrupts, “Boooooring- Why’d I ever wanna trade brawn for brain Binary? I mean look at me? There’s a reason me ‘n Stang are on lunch boxes. I’ll leave that nerd shit to you. Thanks.”

Slightly regretting adding another meathead to their team, Binary shifts their weight and puts a pin in this conversation, “Very well.” Mustang then seizes the floor and throws his arm around Zero, “Now bud, new powers means new identity, got any ideas kickin’ around in that thick-head o’ yours?” Pinching the bridge of their nose, Binary chimes in with, “What of Idiot Savant, I think it’s-”

They’re interrupted as they often are by their ever louder cohorts as Mustang waves his hand in an arc, “Oh how ‘bout Stud! Wouldn’t mind havin’ a real partner on the team. Stud ‘n Stang, I can see it now!” 

Zero then retreats into their mind to the long imagined image of himself as a brawny hero that remains firmly implanted in his psyche, internet access or not. “Y’know, I’d love to do my mom and pops proud, and they always liked Zero. Would it be alright if I kept the name?” The image of his shoddily sketched costume, still burning bright in his eyes. He’d need to go up more than a few sizes.

Binary and Mustang stare at each other before the captain shrugs. The android’s eyes light up as they set to work, “I’ll send it up to Marketing.” Not soulless, probably, they see the intensity in Zero’s expression and tack on, “I’m sure they’ll find the idea acceptable.” Zero pumps the air with a “fuck yeah!” and faster than Binary has a chance to react he rushes over to hug the robot. 

Patting them on the back hard enough to loosen a few screws, the android sounds winded despite lacking lungs, “for future celebrations a handshake will suffice!” Zero waves them off and after a few seconds allows them freedom from his grasp, leaving them more than a little sweat stained. 

Finally, Mustang saunters over and joins the pair. Putting a massive arm around each compatriot, he starts leading both out the door, “Now it’s about time to get those massive lats fitted for some spandex dontcha think kid?” And so the trio depart, Binary working on a report and Mustang yammering about their other teammates. Zero doesn’t quite hear as he is preoccupied imagining his new start and his first proper day as the hero he has always dreamed he could be.

[occamstfs]

Twink Turnabout

In desperate need of release, dom daddy Rob hits up the nearest twink he can find on Grindr. Arriving at Mattie's though, the king of the gym and femmest of bottoms find their identities realign as they grind a mile in the other's shoes.

Been a minute since I did a steamy one! Here's a muscle theft/role swap, Twink -> Dom and vice versa, hope you enjoy! -Occam

It had been a long day at work for Rob. Going hard at the gym only riled him up more. Thank GOD there’s always twinks down to fuck clicking on his faceless Grindr profile. Checking his pump and changing into a slightly less sweat stained tank, Rob leaves without showering to an uptown address sent by some easy to please bottom. 

There’s little on his mind besides lust as he walks down the city streets, while one bitch in the hand is worth two in the bush, he can’t help but try and cruise on the way. Never know when an even easier fuck’ll present itself, not like he owes anything to this ‘Mattie.’ Rob’s sure the hole’ll find someone else to fill it before the sun rises. Though, smirking, Rob knows no one who’ll be nearly as good a lay as himself.

Today the streets are quiet. Rob returning to Plan A of getting his much needed release, arrives and waits to be buzzed up to the twink’s third floor studio. Opting for the stairs to work up a little more musk, bitches love that, he sprints up in short order and aggressively knocks on Mattie’s door. Impatiently waiting before knocking even more, he takes a few moments to actually look deeper at the twink’s own profile.

Eyes grow wide at what a prize he seems to have caught, assuming he’s not being catfished. Fuck- man’s so fem he might as well be a chick. The trade’s cock throbs against his gym shorts as he bites his lip to distract from his overwhelming lust. Bitch can’t look this good in person, he tells himself. No way. Shifting in place he makes sure his bulge is obvious to make sure that when the door’s answered that Mattie will have no choice but to notice.

Groaning in impatience as his cock only grows harder, the hot headed stud slams his fist into the door even harder. After a second round of this the door opens and Mattie is revealed to be just as, if not more, alluring than his profile suggests. Seeing his pouty lips and an almost translucent nightgown hanging off his thin figure, Rob has to hold back from tackling him at the threshold. 

Looking him up and down with a hunger few can understand, Rob pushes it down and greets him as he would literally anyone else, with a nod and intensive lowering of his already deep voice, he offers a “Sup.” Rob tells himself the blush painted on the twink’s face is from seeing him rather than the makeup it clearly is.

Mattie’s focussed eyes glitter with something Rob doesn’t even try to understand, the words that spill from his mouth are all that matters, “Come on in daddy~” Stomach turning from how much he needs this twink bouncing on his cock, he has no choice but to oblige. 

Following in his footsteps for but a moment, as soon as he closes the door behind them Rob rushes to grab the fae Mattie. Thick sweaty arms wrapped around his impossibly thin shoulders and a dripping bulge pressed firmly into the twink’s back, Rob has no idea in his mind but to get this done quick and dirty. His plans are promptly shot as Mattie turns in his arms and puts a finger to the brute’s lips. 

“Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves Rob. Wouldn’t want you to have me at anything but my best~” Directing the dom to sit on his bed and wait while he finishes preparing, Mattie delights as the horny animal groans in impatience. Hearing the man constantly shift from discomfort on the bed, Mattie taunts him as he disrobes and takes in his reflection.

Thin fingers trailing down his pale neck as he allows his ephemeral robe flitter to the floor, Mattie’s sharp eyes drift from appreciating his own porcelain face and perfumed locks to staring at Rob squirming on the bed. “So, DomRob2, I take it as soon as you bust a load in my ass you’re back out the door?” 

Almost drooling as much from his mouth as his cock is dripping pre, the top rolls his eyes. Ugh. He can never just pump and dump these days. These fucking twinks ride his ass, they’re just as bad as chicks. For half a second Rob considers his response before realizing he doesn’t care enough to get in the bitch’s head. Mattie seems like he wants foreplay, being honest’ll probably seem like playing along.

Scratching his pubes through his stained athletic shorts he shrugs, “Yeah, that was the plan.” Finally Mattie turns from basking in his reflection, coyly smiling with a dark look in his eyes that Rob simply assigns to hunger. Finally. Small bulge revealed in tight, white briefs the twink saunters over to join Rob on his bed. 

Gently resting his arms on Rob’s back as the top almost vibrates with need, Mattie leans in close. Gently biting his ear, the twink whispers, ethereal, “All I needed to hear.” Rob’s rough hands find the man’s impossibly thin waist as he begins to grind against the jock’s crotch. Thick fingers race down to free his throbbing cop but Mattie reaches down to keep the hands focused on himself, forcing them to cup his thick ass.

Mattie’s wet lips swiftly shift to Rob’s mouth, scratching his cheek against the man’s beard as he does so. Rob’s own mouth twitches as the twink moves to begin making out. Ugh, he hates kissing his lays, just needless distraction from what really matters. His cock. Nevertheless, when Mattie’s pillowy lips find their way to his own, Rob is immediately beside himself in delight at how much he loses himself in Mattie’s mouth as his deep moans echo in the bedroom.

Fingers tracing against Rob’s muscular back as he pulls off the trade’s top, stuck to him with sweat, Mattie continues grinding against the man’s leaking crotch. Ever possessed with his pleasure alone, Rob doesn’t notice or care as Mattie performs his work in silence, completely buried by selfish lust and his own loud, needy grunts and groans.

Aggressively forcing his tongue into Mattie’s mouth as his thick hands creep into Mattie’s tight briefs, as soon as he feels the smooth ass directly, Rob opens his eyes to find Mattie staring directly at him. Pulling back in shock his moans immmediately stop as he grunts out a “what the fuck?” before his hips flex and he loses control. Mattie pushes him back onto the bed as the dom whines and thrusts into his shorts. All the while Mattie continues to grind into him with a grin.

Rob’s voice cracks as Mattie lies down over top of him, aiming to cover the burly man like a blanket with his own smooth body, feeling his cock twitch between two layers of fabric through two layers of fabric. He interrupts Rob before his cracking voice can form words, “Girlll- Thought you were an alpha not a one-pump chump?” Mattie’s taunts can barely be heard by the man as his mouth falls open as he cums loosely into his shorts. Mattie sits up and grins as the real show is soon to start. 

Struck woozy from just how powerful his release is, Rob struggles to sit up. Groaning, his arms feel weak as he pushes up off the bed. Must’ve gone harder than he thought at the gym? It’s not just that though, it’s like he’s completely drained? His legs under Mattie feel similarly tired despite the total lack of effort involved in his brief session with Mattie. Or no, it’s like, Mattie suddenly feels heavier?

Sitting up his arms almost reflexively go to hug the man sitting on his lap before he grimaces. Ugh, what’s gotten into him? This bitch’s mind games got him feelin’ all types of ways. Ignoring the fact that he wanted to embrace, he tells himself he’s gotta get out of here before the twink catches feelings. And then, Mattie pointedy rests on Rob’s crotch once more. And despite cumming seconds ago, Rob’s eyes cross from how pleasurable it is, his cock still rock hard.

Jaw clenched to avoid losing control again, immediately. He pushes down pleasure and turns his attention to Mattie and his blood runs cold. No wonder he feels heavier, he is. Rob gasps as he sees the man smirking as he scratches at his no longer rail thin chest. Briefly biting his tongue, he winks before taunting Rob, “Something the matter Daddy?” The man sneers before leaning in close to rub his whole form against Rob’s bare torso.

Rob feels delirious as his body reflexively moves underneath the force of Mattie’s assault. Eyes focused on the twink’s face he sees the dyed hair revert to its natural color before restyling itself into something far less fem. He feels the scratch of stubble against his cheek as Mattie rubs his face against his, tongue tickling his beard as he can’t help but grind into the twink. 

Weariness still plagues him as Mattie continues to pressure him further, his voice clearly lower as he continues to taunt the man, “Oh what? Too manly to fuck someone who’s not hairless? Or is all that gerar you’re taking making it hard to get it up? Fat lotta good it’s doing haha!” Rob feels the man’s lower torso begin to prickle with hair, tangling with his own thick sweaty treasure trail. Rob grunts out a denial as he tries to fight back against his lust as his cock only grows needier, precum coursing down its length.

Something’s wrong. Every inch of his exposed skin feels more sensitive than it ever has before. He struggles to push Mattie off of himself. Struggling to think against pangs of pleasure, he throws his all into flipping over and straddling Mattie. He should be stronger than this. His arms burn with effort. Panting, he hears his gasping breaths and cries out as his dick is caught at an uncomfortable angle. 

Stumbling back, away from the man whose touch must be doing this, Rob feels his shorts begin to fall, the elastic waistband somehow sliding off his waist. Stumbling off the bed he turns to see his reflection and almost falls over in shock. He sees a man that is not himself. His hands fly to the chest that he has spent years defining, the same fucking pecs that got this bitch to swipe right on him to begin with, he feels them give under his fingers as they continue to atrophy.

Moving upward across the shrinking peaks of his powerful chest, ignoring his thinning shoulders, his hands instead clutch at his jaw. His fingers feel his beard give way to smooth skin as the beard he has used to project what a man he is since he has been first able to grow one begins to turn patchy and thin. Crying out to Mattie, his voice cracks even higher as he struggles to access the rage that has always been second nature, “whAT are you doing to me!? You- you? Fucking-” 

Tears welling up in his eyes, he doesn’t finish the sentence as Mattie rises from the bed, now standing well taller than he was when he answered the door. Rob clearly remembers being a full foot taller, and yet as he turns to see the lanky twink-no-more standing to his new height they make direct eye contact. Dripping with sweat and fear Rob backs away as his cock continues to throb with need that only grows as he sees what a man Mattie is becoming.

Rolling his eyes Mattie makes it clear the changes are not skin deep as his tone shifts deeper and darker, “Don’t know what you’re on about babe? Actin’ all emotional n’ shit.” Rob tries not to stare at the fingers scratching at pits now laden with a forest of hair. Mattie stretches as he begins to saunter over, a world away from the sashay he did on the way to straddle Rob earlier.

Doing a double bicep pose Mattie smirks as his itchy stubble fills into a full chin beard. Rob shivers and gasps as he backs away and stares at the twunk’s newly bulging biceps. At the same time he begins to feel his own arms atrophy, shrinking into two thin sticks that haven’t a chance in hell to push off the growing man now approaching him.

With each step closer, Matt continues to loom higher over him. The sneer on his face only grows cockier as he paws at his growing crotch. Robbie feels an emptiness within him as his still hard dick suddenly can’t keep his shorts up anymore, when they fall he is revealed to no longer be commando though, instead wearing a patterned jock that frames his perfect ass, the only part of his form that seems to have not lost mass.

“Matthew, please can you just give me a sec? I think something isth seriously wrong!” Hearing Robbie’s voice tinged with a new lisp, Matt groans as his little bitch refers to him as anything but Matt. Stuffing his hand into his tight shorts to readjust. Smirking as he feels his hand quickly coated before as his shorts begin to tear from his bulking thighs and bulging cock, Matt allows Robbie the few seconds demand of him. 

Even as he whinily begs for a break however, Robbie wonders why he even needs one. Mouth watering, almost drooling as he takes in the sight of the new Matt, his eyes keep flickering down to the softball sized bulge in his pants. Robbie wonders why he’d want anything but to feel that cock in his ass.

His waifish fingers feeling his thin waist and hairless chest, Robbie chews on his thicker lips as he rapidly begins to forget being anything but Matt’s cock-hungry slut. Leaning against the cold mirror behind himself, Robbie feels himself change into his final form, turning to present his ass; he sees his reflection as he becomes the exact type of twink he once hated. Barely enough muscle to ambulate, only the hint of a mustache on his face and a single hair on his chest. His pale, smooth face burns with blush as he sees Matt’s reflected sneer, hungry. Behind him, inching closer like a predator to prey, his top grows larger. Legs lengthening as feet push wider. His paltry facial hair hangs lower as it grows into a thick beard that even at his most masc Rob could never pull off. Pecs pushing out as they grow a garden of curls. The idea that his hair was ever some highly styled dyed coif is laughable as it pulls into a shorn caesar cut. 

Finally reaching the twink presenting himself in the bathroom, Matt leans over him and whispers into his ear in a voice so deep it sounds like a growl, “God you’re fucking desperate aren’t you?” Robbie only moans in response, so needy it's a wonder if he’s even able to think. Matt’s underwear tears off completely as his cock grows too large to ever be contained and the pair begin the first fuck in their new forms, of their new lives

Sweaty handprints are left in the steamed mirror as with each thrust the pair are more cemented into who they are, who they must always have been. Feeling Matt’s thick pubes against his bouncing ass, Robbie can’t imagine wanting anything else in the world as it almost seems to feel better with each bounce. 

Manhandling his twink as if he were a doll, there is a part of Matt that knows he did this somehow. Forced this hungry twink to know his place, to become his perfect little bitch. Feeling him fulfill his needs better than any of his toys ever could he figures he might as well keep this one around, seems good for this if nothing else. Taking time to admire his thick new arms and heavy pecs in between thrusts, Matt finally cums and becomes the dom top that Rob wished he was. 

The pair awaken some time later in the bed, something in the back of Matt’s head swears this is his apartment but looking around at the gay decor he can’t imagine that’s the case. Turning to look at the still sleeping Robbie with a beauty mask on his face he scratches his pube and laughs at his ignorance, duh- he lets his bitch decorate, anything to appease the princess. Less work for him that way.

Heading out to start his day, early as it always is, he throws on a hoodie and shorts that fail to hide his massive bulge and starts his jog before the sun can rise. Before he even makes it a block his phone rings with the telltale sound of a Grindr notification. Cock conditioned as well as pavlolv’s dogs, his cock begins to rise. 

Knowing his bitch won’t mind as long as he saves some for him after he gets his beauty sleep, Matt sends a quick selfie and amends his route to head over to the address sent. When he finally returns home, Robbie’s just about done with his morning beauty routine and demands all the deets. 

Before he even gets to the fun part of his retelling, both of the men are already raring to go for another round. And so they go on, dicks at a hair trigger no matter the time of day. Whatever turnabout that occured between them clearly heightened their libidos more than perhaps sustainable. Though neither seems to mind.

In his new form, with his new needs, Robbie finds more fulfillment than he ever did as the twink seeking top he once was. Hearing tell of his alpha’s exploits only make him needier for his cock. On the other hand, from the start Matt was always looking to put people in their place. Now that he stands tall and catches the eye of every bottom, top and vers the new brute is more than happy to share his new self. All in all, the two could ask for no better lives than what they have found after swapping everything that made them, them.

[occamstfs]

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.

[occamstfs]

Frat Founding

Wanting a simple group on campus for Indian students on campus, Kiran goes to Chad who has other plans for the academic and university at large. In short order Kiran becomes the first link in that chain and soon neither he nor his friends will be able to resist the allure of horny, dumb Greek Life

The corruption of Kiran into a Desi frat bro he would hate to be! Found too many refs so I tossed on some briefer TFs of his friends at the end. Hope you enjoy! -Occam

He was treating it like meeting an advisor, or a professor. Countless times over the last few years Kiran had gone out of his way to ask for advice on personal projects or visited office hours just to gain further insights. The CS Honors student was always looking for ways to get ahead academically.

Never has one of these meetings involved a person quite like Chad Becker however. The President of the University’s Greek Council was only known to Kiran by reputation. Kiran’s never been much of a people person, part of this whole proposal to the frat president. He wants to make a space for other Indian and South East Asians on campus to have something of a Spirit Org on campus, and given the funding provided by the council to fledgling orgs, he figured it was at least worth a shot.

Worst Chad can say was no, right?

Kiran feels the weight of Chad's stare as he awaits an answer after his opening spiel. There are a few beats before the president speaks up, giving Kiran more than enough time to go over a good number of scenarios where he’s promptly laughed out of the room. Instead though, the intimidating ideal of a frat bro smiles and responds. 

Despite the performatively laid back tone, it’s clear that there are cold calculations behind the man’s words, “For sure lil bro. Trust, there’s no one who wants to see Greek Life be more, hm, multicultural yeah? I absolutely hear you.” Listening intently, Kiran struggles to find any sincerity in the Cali bro’s tone as he waits for the ‘but’ that must be incoming.

It doesn’t. Still staring at him with eyes as sharp as a shark’s despite their icy blue irises, Chad continues, “I’m sure you know frat life gets a bad rap regarding biases and having a group like yours on campus would help everyone see that there’s a place for them in Greek Life. So Kiran, bro, correct me if I’m wrong, but you’d be president of the frat starting out yeah?”

Chad is clearly sizing him up as he says this, like a prize steer to go to show or a weed to be pulled so something superior may be planted. Kiran doesn’t notice as he bristles at realizing there’s been a misunderstanding, “Oh! Sorry Mr. Becker, I think- I, sorry- I wasn’t really thinking about a frat so much as uhm? In my mind I was imagining something more along the lines of a support organization for-”

He’s cut off without a word as Chad sucks on his teeth. Kiran swears he feels the temperature drop in the room, nerves. It’s just nerves. Forcing himself with all he’s got to look at the man sitting opposite him, somehow above him, Kiran almost shivers as he sees him only stare more intently, almost glaring. His perfect wide smile only gleams brighter as he continues to look into and through the meeker student like a predator. 

For a moment his surfer-vocal fry fades away, “I see I see, so you want to use our funds for your little hackathons and holi formals but keep us at arms length yeah?” His eyes narrow and his lips twitch slightly, but then he takes a deep breath and resets. That cold tone moving like the ebb of the tide as he reminds Kiran who holds the power here, “Let’s start over. Would you like a drink Kiran?” 

Seeing Chad wander over to a minifridge hiding in the corner and grab a beer, Kiran prepares to turn the offer down. But then the president stands over him, one meaty hand on his shoulder while the other offers him an opened bottle dripping with condensation, “Please, Kiran. I insist.” 

Before he even has an inclination to respond, the bottle already rests in his shaky hand. Only then does he notice the creeping thirst. Suddenly, his mouth and throat are so dry he wonders if he’d even be able to even speak. 

Chad’s smile is too emotionless to be read as cruel and calculating, though there’s sure to be no affection in his words as he seeks to compel Kiran, “Go on, Prez to be, take a sip.”

He’s never been much of a drinker, let alone a beer guy. But as he’s commanded, like a dutiful soldier he has no choice but to obey. As soon as the first sip graces his tongue, the bookish student’s senses are dulled.

In the back of his mind he hears the echo of a memory he doesn’t remember living. Voices shout, ‘Chug, chug, chug!’ Kiran’s eyes go blank as he can’t help but obey. Each heaving gulp is deeper and more labored than the one that comes before. Kiran’s vision swims slightly as he watches Chad’s unreadable expression tinge with contentment.

Patting his guest on the back and laughing, Chad makes his way over to grab a couple more beers, “Hah! Easy now bro, this is a meeting now after all! Didn’t think you were that much of a party animal Kiran.” Popping open two more bottles, he sets one in front of Kiran and watches as the smaller man slowly shakes his head.

He isn’t a party animal, he detests crowds and drunken fraternity bros. Opening his mouth to deny Chad’s asinine assessment, his stomach grumbles. One of his hands goes to put pressure on it and physically  feels it rumble. Still woozy from one drink, the lightweight suddenly begins to feel bloated.

Mouth still agog, his hand quickly flies to his face as he struggles to stop himself from burping. Clamping his lips shut just in time, each second pushing down the urge, each second refusing to let loose, it only grows more intense. He feels pressure rising in his stomach as his jaw burns from the effort of staying decent. 

Beyond simple pressure, Kiran realizes that it’s not just internal, he feels his thin stomach pushing into his hand. In between clutching fingers begins to grow a layer of fat he simply would never eat enough to maintain. This distracts him enough for everything to give. Eyes watering, Kiran turns to look at the Frat president, as soon as he sees the smug look on Chad’s once guarded face, he loses control.

Buurrp- It lasts more than a few seconds. The soothing relief of giving in is firmly repressed by the embarrassment that fills his chest. Deep enough that Kiran can scarcely notice though, some part of him thinks it’s funny. Nothing wrong with burping bro, chill out- And while the thought is buried for now, it only continues to grow. 

“Nice one brah!” Chad reaches out his drink to cheers with the new beer bottle in front of Kiran, lacking willpower to do anything but obey, so he does. Cold bottle in his hand once more he can’t ignore how right it feels in his hand. Clink- Seeing Chad take a swig he once more mimics his, er the president.

Still bloated, Kiran notices another strange sensation begin to rise. Just below where he clutched his stomach earlier, an itch begins to rise. With a frown, his free hand goes to do what one does and scratch it, clumsily continuing to drink his free beer as he does so.

Each pass of his fingers only makes it worse, spreads the burning itch further. Figuring he’s already embarrassed himself enough in front of Chad, he shoves his hand under his shirt. Gasping in shock, he realizes that his lower stomach is covered in a treasure trail growing wider by the second. 

Feeling the strands pushing out into his sweaty fingers he can’t help but steal a look. Waiting for Chad to inspect papers in front of him Kiran quickly yanks up his shirt and bites his tongue to prevent from gasping again as he sees, on top of clearly having more weight, that his stomach that has always been gratefully hairless has been overrun with body hair. 

Too dense and thick to even be dubbed a treasure trail, Kiran struggles to remember how he let it get this bad. Eyes drifting lower, Kiran finds another new problem. Slightly peeking out above his waistband and creating a definite bulge above his cock, his pubes have grown even more rampant than his belly hair. Seeing this and taking another swig of his beer, Kiran burps once more before doing the unimaginable.

He shoves his hands in his pants and scratches at his pubes. Almost moaning from delight he bites his lip as his fingers are immediately tangled in the thick new jungle. Creaking under his squirming form, reminding him that he has somehow put on more than a few pounds, Kiran absolutely forgets where he is as his hand drifts lower to cup his balls. His less-than-graceful fingers find them unmistakably heavier than they’ve ever been, almost filling his small hand. 

Never truly distracted, at this point Chad sees fit it’s time to break Kiran from his reverie, lest he go too far too fast. Clearing his throat he calls Kiran back to his right mind, more or less. The slightly heftier student’s hand tears from his pants and forcefully bumps into the underside of Chad’s desk, producing a deep grunt of pain. 

Now realizing that he was cupping his balls during the most important meeting of the semester, Kiran tries to hide that from the man who sees right through him. Though, without him being aware of it the very same hand races to his nose wherein he takes a deep sniff of the ball sweat soaked fingers. Watching his eyes roll back from the odor, Chad has to stop from bursting out laughing.

Going on something of a victory lap, Chad sees fit to taunt the changing man, “Yo bro, you just adjust your dick didja?” Hand still under his nose, Kiran stammers quickly denying the idea, there’s no way he did that? He’d not do so in private, how could he? And yet, even as he forces his hand back to his papers, the whiff of his sweaty dick remains, “No! Of course not- I mean-”

Smirking, Chad interrupts, “No, no, don’t worry ‘bout it bro. Guys like us don’t gotta worry about stuff like that. You get an itch, it’s the most human thing in the world to scratch it.” Kiran slowly shakes his head, guys like us. He’s not like Chad, he’ll never be like Chad

Seeing the man meagrely fighting back Chad stuffs his hand down his pants and performatively scratches an itch that wasn’t even there, dropping a stray pube on the table. The whole time, Kiran’s eyes never left the man’s hands, staring at the bulge in his pants shifting to the single curly strand that now sits between them. Ready to move on and content that the man’s changes are accelerating, Chad directs his attention back to himself.

“Got something on your cheek there bruh?” There’s the sound of Kiran sucking spit back into his mouth, not even aware that he had apparently been drooling. Quickly taking another swig, emptying his second beer, Kiran’s free hand flies to his face. Still slightly sticky from sweat, his fingers find something so shocking that he almost spits up the amber beer still in his mouth. 

Swallowing the beer and tossing the bottle onto the table he scratches at his face fervently, beyond shocked that without his notice his paltry stubble has exploded to cover his face. No it’s not even stubble, as his suddenly less than pristine fingernails trail across his once hairless cheeks, peach fuzz thickens and spreads further across his face.

In no time at all a mustache pushes out of his upper lip and his jawline is coated with a thick beard. His mind tries to tell him this is normal, he’s got a hairy stomach and bushy pubes, surely he’s had this beard forever. Feeling bloated once more, his shirt begins to strain his chest as two meaty pecs begin to rise above his meatier stomach. 

Focus returns to his eyes, he knows something is horribly wrong. Thicker brows furrowing at Chad he grunts out, finding his voice crackling deeper and slightly tinged with the vocal fry that infects every word out of Chad’s mouth, “What are you grh- doing to me you- urgh Asshole!” The president feigns concern and tilts his head ignoring the question that may well be Kiran’s last show of strength. Chad then simply pushes his half drunk beer closer to Kiran.

Eyes flickering between the man returning to the minifridge and the stale bottle set before him like bait, Kiran’s willpower begins to wane once more. Before the frat bro even makes it across the room, the sound of Kiran’s shirt straining against his heavier arms as he reaches for the drink fills the air. Chad grabs three more and returns to the desk.

When the mousy student entered the room Chad wondered if he’d even be able to sustain the transformation. Sitting here now, watching him drink that backwash laden swill without question, seeing nipples poking through the shirt beginning to tear, it’s clear that no dweeb out there will be able to resist his siren call. Kiran burps loudly, stopping just short of guffawing he tugs at his increasingly uncomfortable shirt. 

Time to finish the dance, “So, Kiran, you were saying you wanted an Indian frat on campus right?” The top button bursts off his button up as he dumbly produces a plodding, “uuuuhhh?” His mind alights with his shifting memories. The fluorescent lights from studying overnight in a library suddenly strobing, changing colors as bookshelves press inward and deep base begins to pump from speakers pushing out from behind tables now littered with red solo cups and spilled cans. 

Automatically drinking from the new bottle sat in front of him, Kiran sloppily wipes the beer spilling onto his beard with his hairier arm. Struggling a bit as his muscular biceps now compete with his heavy pecs for space. His vision swims, rapidly switching between the blowout party and the meeting with Chad. Competing with blaring speakers and crowd uproar that only he can hear, Kiran shouts in his new bullish voice, “Well uhhh, bro kinda just wanted a place for guys like me to hang y’know? Place for all the lil Desi guys on campus yuh?”

“Shirt’s lookin a little tight there bruh, you sure you’re just a ‘lil guy’ anymore?” Turning to take in his thick form, Kiran certainly can’t disagree. Chest hair encroaching on his neck, thighs thicker than his waist used to be. The chair creaks once more, threatening to totally give way under the still growing man. Yeah he’s no twerp, him and his bros are always at the gym.

In fact, Kiran doesn’t remember the last time he was even in a lecture. Attending office hours is absolutely out of the questions, the only interactions he’s had with professors and T.A’s were arm wringing for class credit. Clear as day he remembers meeting with a dude he would’ve sworn he was close with for intro to python, but as he plays it through he remembers burping in the man’s face and throwing a sweaty, heavy arm around him. 

God that nerd was so uncomfortable. His expression turns to a sneer as he sits in front of Chad, and the president knows his work is just about done. Kiran paws at his crotch as he recalls dominating that man, some weak academic who thought himself a superior. Biting his lip, his bulge makes itself more than clear in his tight dress pants as the fabric rapidly e into the same sweats he wears every day, stained as they may be. 

When pre suddenly begins to leave a stain that makes it clear the Desi frat bro is free balling, Chad knows Kiran is far past the point of no return. “Bro, do you ever not think with your cock?” Tearing off whatever remains of his shirt and fondling his bulky pecs Kiran shrugs, “Dunno bro, you ever think about somethin’ other than my cock either?” There’s a charge in the air as the two men stare at each other with something dark in their expressions before both break out into uproarious laughter.

Then, addressing it like it’s something they had discussed a number of times, Kiran takes the floor, “So, big bro, council good if I start recruiting for my new chapter?” Chad raises his glass and takes a long swig, with a content sigh he acquiesces, “Course brobro, we know you more than got what it takes. Been wanting to diversify frat row’s portfolio for a while, you know that.”

Scratching his exposed stomach as he stands, his fingers treading dangerously close to inching under his waistband once more, Kiran nods without a thought, “Yuhhhh!” Finishing another drink he belches yet again and finally there is no shred of decency left to fight back “Burrrrp, Huhuh!” Tossing the bottle onto the ground apathetic whether it breaks or not, the newly dubbed frat president stretches.

Flexing to himself as he stands there, feeling the strength and weight of his new form, Kiran feels his blood rush to his thicker cock as he realizes what a specimen he is. Chad similarly imagines how easy it’ll be for him to finally take over the rest of the school. No one’ll be shit talking Greek life anymore once men like Kiran are bumbling across campus. No need for little brownnosing losers in lectures when everyone finally remembers what it’s all about. 

Eager to get a move on, and sure that if Kiran stays any longer both will have to write off the day for obvious reasons, he prods the man, “You were saying you were gonna go play your old friends a visit right? Go get your first members?” Kiran nods, that darker look returning and temporarily displacing his lust for himself and Chad. Rolling his shoulders he imagines his study group, doesn’t even remember how he knows them or why.

Grabbing a beer for the road, he nods at Chad and heads out the door. The incongruence at those dweebs even knowing his name begins to prickle at his mind, he needs to fix it. His frat must grow and so must they. Losers have spent too long playing MtG and Dota 2, he’s gotta remind them what men should be. That drinking, fucking, and partying are more important than their shitty assignments. 

Wandering around campus he flexes his bicep and delights in his heady musk. Soon every beta male around will be just like him, just as Chad planned. He can’t wait until Chad runs this school. Approaching his old apartment he hears a few shrill men arguing about some lines of code inside. Cracking his neck and pawing at the growing bulge in his sweats, he’s never been more excited for anything. Time for the first inductions into the school’s newest fraternity.

In no time at all, his four best friends are all converted into perfect specimens for Kiran’s frat. Forewarned by his musk creeping in as he stands at the door, as soon as he barges in all four are instantly overwhelmed by his muscular, masculine visage. Under his touch their thin forms bulge. On the couch, Amir’s body immediately thickens into one that never shies away from his keg stand. His nose twitches as a powerful mustache pushes out of his upper lip as he becomes Kiran’s right hand.

Boyfriends Dev and Mo follow shortly after, their suddenly sculpted muscles bulging larger as if they were in competition with each other. Mo’s back cracks as he finally stands taller than his boyfriend, his potable goatee thickening into a beard that would put a lumberjack to shame. Dev’s twinkish face reshapes into something more masculine and handsome despite remaining smooth. While Kiran continues his work, focusing on the other two, the boyfriend’s waste no time rushing to their suddenly messier room.

Finally, quite Ajit who had been doing his best to not give in breaks. Hands that had been gripping the edge of the table trying to avoid the gaze of the man who cannot be Kiran, white knuckles cramp and burst larger as forearms and biceps surge larger in quick succession. His racing anxious breaths allow his chest to rapidly expand. Pecs quickly tatter his shirt as criss crossing veins decorate arms thicker than his legs once were. 

Under the table his legs push larger and his bulge demands his attention. Lips suddenly surrounded by a thick beard, biting his lip he quickly snaps a picture of himself before following in the path of his five best friends as his hands quickly find his newly massive cock. The air of their apartment swiftly smells more of sex than one can imagine. Each man a perfect test case for Chad’s grand plans, perfect frat bros whose dicks will lead their frat to expand. Kiran and Amir hosting parties that no Desi man could resist, no one’s eyes will be able to avoid Dev and Mo as they’re all over each other at the gym, and Ajit’s new online presence and perfect form will send tendrils of change well beyond their university. One unreached community handled, Chad continues his grand plan of ensuring that Greek Life is the only group left standing.

[occamstfs]

Trendy Mustache

Grant was sick of seeing hot guys with mustaches. After being summarily mocked by his friends he opts to grow one, but after clicking on a targeted ad it turns out that facial hair isn't the only thing growing.

Short and simple ode to hot men with mustaches. Muscle growth and mind/reality change. Hope you enjoy! -Occam

Grant had just gotten home from a massive blowout argument with his friends. After seeing one too many clout-chasing gay gym influencers on his for you page touting a brand new mustache, the man without a muscle on his bony body swears he’d look just as good with some new facial hair. He was thoroughly mocked.

In fact, Grant was almost laughed out of the room. Both for suggesting that he could pull it off, but more importantly, for the fact that he couldn’t grow one even if he wanted to. Rather than admitting defeat and taking it in stride, he left early from lunch and is now sulking to himself on the way home. It’s on this small trek that he comes across an ad that must’ve been generated for him after hearing their argument. “Be a new man! $25.99! Start growing some new hair today!!1!” 

Half curious he purses his lips he clicks on the clear spam just to see what ai-generated garbage the ad must be serving up. Obviously this wasn’t the move as the app immediately scans his face and confirms his purchase. Twenty six dollars lighter, Grant curses the rotten scam and starts tabbing his way over to his banking app to demand a refund.

Before he gets there though he stumbles forward as he’s suddenly struck woozy. Stumbling onto a bench nearby, Grant is far too light headed to notice the slow regrowth of patchy peach-fuzz he’s scarcely let grow in a decade beginning to poke out of his upper lip. Eyes almost crossing he groans as he falls to his side on the bench, losing consciousness as his phone clatter to the earth.

He can’t tell if it comes from the speaker of his fallen cell or if it is simply echoing from some deep pit of his mind. But a deep voice that sounds uncomfortably close to his own cries out, “Gotta start growin now to prove ‘em all wrong…”

He awakens in his own bed, shooting up sweaty and panting as his mind is foggier than it’s been during his worst hangovers. Groaning, he wonders if he has a cold as his whinging sounds slightly deeper to his ears. Stumbling to his feet he rubs his face with his arm and almost falls to the floor as he feels the unmistakable scratch of stubble cut through the haze.

He stumbles into the bathroom and stares in shock at his reflection. Slightly darker than the hair on his head, decidedly thicker than it’s ever been before he balks at the clear beginnings of a mustache starting to decorate his upper lip.

His gaping mouth quivers into a smirk as he imagines how good he’ll feel rubbing his new look in his friend’s faces. Only then does he pause to realize that there’s something else strange about his reflection. Leaning in close he tears his eyes away from his new facial hair to notice the other oddities. It’s almost like he’s standing taller in the bathroom, is his jaw sharper too? 

Before he can inspect too closely however the fog returns to his mind in full force as his mind rings with a headache once more. The voice he can only faintly remember calls out once more, “Need to head to the gym. Get a pump in so we can show ‘em we can do it.”

He nods to himself, agreeing with this thought he didn’t think. Ignoring how his throat feels dry, how his quiet grunt sounds even deeper as he wordlessly moans to himself. Shaking off his stupor he looks down to find himself already dressed for the gym, in clothes that are far too big. His shorts barely hang on his waist, his shirt drapes across his thin shoulders, and his shoes have so much extra room it’s a wonder they’re even able to stay on.

Nevertheless, any thought to change or remove a piece of clothing is met with immediate distraction. Soon enough he forgets his discomfort with the outfit at all. He just shakes off the delirium and begins to head out, slightly stumbling on the too big shoes. Reaching for his keys his hand stings as a static shock, trying again his arm locks up a few inches away, “Nahh nah. Gotta run. Get cardio out of the way.”

Again, Grant finds himself nodding along. Yeah, better to run, it’ll be just like when I was back in high school track. Stepping out of his apartment it isn’t until his stumbling steps hit the concrete does he begin to  question the strange thought, he wasn’t in track was he? He was more a mathlete than any kind of track star. That he knows.

And yet, with each step that idea begins to change. Just as soon as his legs begin to adjust to his shoes being too large do they begin to feel fitting, comfortable even. He continues to try and remember if he was in track or not and with each pounding step forward his lower body begins to  make the answer more than clear.

Grant grimaces as he feels his growing feet truly fill the tennis shoes they were once drowning in. His calves slowly begin to bounce larger as they are bulge tight with lean, baseball sized muscle. Above them the shorts that barely hung onto his waist are filled with thighs that punch as powerful as pistons, almost stretching his new shorts to tearing as he finds himself unable to stop his jog to the gym.

Panting, Grant looks down and furrows his brow in shock as he sees a lower body unrecognizable to the legs he went up with. He bounces higher as they continue to lengthen and grow, all the while his heavy breaths sound deeper to his ears. These are not the only ongoing changes. 

The mustache on his face that presumably began all these strange changes has continued to thicken. Launching well past peach fuzz and stubble, it has continued to grow. In the few minutes since he left his house it has become something that would have taken months, no years of growth. Sweat drips down his forehead as his brows change in turn, darkening as the sweaty hair on his head begins to restyle itself as well. 

Growing weary from his short jog, his body struggles to begin its next round of changes as the deep voice in his mind begins anew “great work so far. Now you gotta pump up what our fans are all about. Show the world your massive new pecs dude.”

Stumbling onward on wider feet, his foggy brain struggles to decide which part of the strange statement to get hung up on, he absolutely doesn’t notice how underneath his new stache that his lips mouthed along to the voice that is not his own growing louder in his mind. As his newly furry brows knit together in thought, his grand transformation continues unimpeded.

The whole of his upper body begins changing at once, slightly chaffing nipples begin to burn as they are rapidly pushed into a tank top growing tighter with each racing step. Grant tries to remember a single moment in his life where he exercised enough for any muscle to pack on his chest and at first comes up with nothing. As the pecs continue to pump larger with every gasping breath and swing of a lengthening arm, memories begin to race through his mind.

Obviously he’s been working on those bad boys for years! Looking down seeing how his juicy pecs glisten with sweat he knows that’s what it’s all about. There’s a wide smirk on his face as he imagines his legions of fans obsessing over his perfect picturesque chest. He flexes them to himself and almost starts drooling as he too can’t help but admire them.

At the same time, his arms cutting through the air begin to do so with far more precision and strength. No longer the pathetic stick thin bones they have always been. No. they are his pride and joy. A lifetime at being mocked for weakness is erased from his mind as he can just picture how many times he’s shown some tough guy what it’s like to lose in an arm wrestle.

Biceps emerge from his noodle arms, hanging from a back bursting wider. In no time at all they surge into something to truly be proud of, something that anyone attracted to men couldn’t help to obsess over. He almost falls as he struggles to grow accustomed to just how massive his upper body now is. He clearly recalls men that he once was intimidated by coming to him for tips. Realer than anything he recalls showing off for them, flexing and watching stars fill their eyes before he showed them how it’s done.

His mouth falls open as he continues to pant as he tries to remember why he was ever intimidated by those big men. After all, he’s always been a king hasn’t he? He’s always been a star. Wiping his mouth, from drool or sweat it’s unclear, he again feels the mustache on his face and smirks.

To think those bitches thought he couldn’t pull it off. He can pull anything off! The voice that has been whispering orders and fanning flames in his mind laughs louder than anything, well, almost anything. The guffaws issuing forth from his mouth in reality are quite a bit louder, easily covering up the two inner monologues becoming one as he comes to a stop at the entrance to the gym.

Sloppily drinking water from a bottle attached to his shorts, he wipes his face with the underside of his tight tank as he wanders inside. He wonders why he’s come in just now. Looking down at his massive arms almost shaking with weariness, at his sweaty chest quivering with spent effort, it’s more than clear he just finished up right?

Looking across the lobby and seeing his whole form reflected, he laughs again. He’s gotta take some post-workout pics, obviously. Stumbling his top heavy self across the gym and into the locker room, he discards the sweat-stained shirt he was almost trapped in and shoots away.

He records a quick vlog explaining his progress, his routine, his plans for the rest of the day. For a moment at the edge of his mind there’s the faintest idea to tell his fans the story of his friends saying he couldn’t pull off a mustache.

Obviously that can’t be the case, he’s had his lip candy for years! If anything he’d say he inspired all those other posers to grow them himself. Flicking through his feed he smirks as he sees countless men who look just like he does, massive, mustached, and full of themselves.

Cockily posting himself he wonders what trend he’ll set next. Of course it’s ridiculous to suggest Grant somehow brought mustaches into vogue. Though as every pair of eyes in the gym trails over to look at the massive man posing and guffawing to themselves, as their hands reflexively go to their own hairless upper lips, perhaps the twunk is setting a trend after all. Perhaps any man is simply waiting to follow his lead.

 His bulge is as unmissable as the mustache on his face as he continues to pose in the gym’s stained mirrors. Behind him he sees how he catches the eyes of a man who’s clearly just starting out. Sending a flex that way he imagines what the young jock would look like with a mustache as he begins to make his way over. Got a thing or two to teach the wanting bro about being a man.

[occamstfs]

Evo Bio 101

Annoyed at the prospect of wasting time during his simple lectures, Craig's misplaced ambitions lead to a first hand lesson in (d)evolutionary biology.

Was possessed by the idea and couldn't not write it haha! Here's a story taking hair growth and brutification to the extreme ! Hope you enjoy! -Occam

It’s not that Craig didn’t want to teach the class, he was grateful to have a chance to instruct on anything even remotely close to his research area. Intro to Evolutionary Biology was directly in his wheelhouse and given how cutthroat his department was he was more than happy to jump at the chance.

It’s just- the class was so introductory it’s insulting. The course is required for all students in the university’s tiny biological anthropology program and judging by the recommended syllabus given to him by the department head, there’s not a day where Craig is going to teach his students anything they don’t already know.

Complaining under his breath as he makes his way to the classroom across campus, the doctoral candidate wonders if any of his undergraduates are even going to show up given how remedial the material seems. Kicking the air he wishes to himself that he’ll get the chance to teach them something novel. To show them what their field is all about, how man became man rather than droll lectures on Darwin’s finches and Mendel’s peas.

As soon as he utters the words to no one he shivers and his skin prickles with goosebumps before he fully stumbles over himself just outside the classroom door. There’s a quiet buzzing in the air and he looks around to find its source before noticing the time on an overhead clock and realizing he’s already late. Bumbling into the classroom he adjusts his tie and apologizes as he rushes to get his laptop set up.

“Sorry guys! Always forget these dinky 101 courses are relegated to the middle of nowhere,” there are a few quiet laughs but the lecturer is sure they’re just trying to appease him. He knows because he’s laughed at countless half-jokes from professors over the years. Craig continues to awkwardly mumble to the class as he waits for his equipment to bootup. After getting his introductory powerpoint running he wipes his brow and for the first time turns to look at his small class.

It’s then that he notices how warm it is in the room. Wiping his forehead, his stuffy sleeve wicks sweat from his brow and he assumes it’s just from nerves at standing in front of the bored faces of students who have done nothing today but go over reading lists and play icebreakers. Might as well get this over with. “Welcome all to the intro course on Evolutionary Biology! I’ll be your instructor, Craig Stoll. See a few familiar faces around here from courses I’ve TAed, you guys can just call me Craig. I assume this is no one’s first rodeo-” 

Craig opens his mouth to slyly complain about how basic the material is, to mock the university requiring people well on their way to becoming experts in the field to waste time going over the most absolute basics. But before he can speak, it’s like his throat has been zapped free of moisture. He tries to clear his throat a couple times, stretching open his mouth in between doing so as he struggles in front of his few students. 

Smiling awkwardly as his forehead sweats even heavier under the bright lights above the lectern he turns and digs through his bag for the water bottle that scarcely leaves his side. Still turned away from the class he forces it to his lips and guzzles for a few seconds straight. After a moment he pauses and breathes heavily for a few seconds, gasping for air just as hungrily as he was gulping for water, and then he gets right back to it. Lifting the bottle perpendicular to the Earth as he drinks like he’s dying of thirst.

All students present eye him apprehensively, most of them had seen him countless times over the years sitting performatively uptight as he graded assignments and aided professors as needed. Never could they imagine him doing something so uncouth. One sophomore whispers to her neighbor, Dawson, concerned at how nervous the researcher seems. He replies mocking Craig, excited to see the meek man who gave him a 79 on a final last semester crash and burn.

Letting his bottle fall away once more there isn’t a thought in his mind questioning how peculiar what just happened was. He was thirsty, and now he no longer is. Simple. Craig turns back with a wide smile at his classroom clearing his throat once more this time successfully. He doesn’t notice how his voice echoes through the lecture hall, decidedly deeper than it should be, “Ahh, that’s better! Sorry again y’all!” 

In the front row a student motions for him to wipe his face as water is clearly dripping down his ever-so-slightly shadowed jaw. Craig’s face burns red as he does so, for the first time realizing himself that he’s acting a tad strange. This is only more apparent as he feels a burp begin to rise. He did drink that water awfully fast. Before the thought even occurs to him to silence it he lets it loose, producing the loudest burp he’s ever heard. Stunning the classroom to silence.

Even the student eager to watch Craig fail was shocked enough to grimace in second hand embarrassment as he sees the man’s eyes dull while burping like an animal in front of his class before scrambling back to his senses. “Oh jeez, I don’t know what’s gotten into me today- Let’s just, uhm, get to it.”

Directing his class’ attention to the slides he squirms and adjusts his tie with sweaty palms as he realizes how uncomfortable his clothes feel all of a sudden. Struggling to get the thing loose he grunts and flexes his feet as he suddenly feels confined. Trapped in his shoes. Shaking his head to stay focused he pointedly ignores the feeling of his toes poking the front of his dress shoes and starts lecturing.

Clicking past the introduction his brow furrows as he sees the title of the first slide of substance, ‘What is Evolutionary Biology?’ Grunting once more, Craig scratches his chest as he can’t help but address what he thinks to be the elephant in the room, unaware of the eyes staring at him as his arms seem to be stretching out from their sleeves. Not noticing as his perpetually clean shaven face suddenly begins to sprout stubbly sideburns and a scratchy neckbeard.

No, suddenly the rising anger in his mind can’t help but address how stupid it is that his boss is making him explain to these people essentially majoring in evolutionary biology what those words mean. Clenching his jaw as he yanks the tie from his neck and tosses it to the floor he speaks up, his voice clearly rougher than it was even seconds ago, “This is- You all know what evolutionary biology is, obviously,” his voice cracks deeper as he tries to remove his jacket, ignoring how it gets stuck on arms that have impossibly begun to lengthen. Hanging lower and heavier as he struggles against clothes that suddenly feel like they’re holding him captive. “You all know already!”

He hammers a fist down onto his lectern and hears the sound of his shirt tearing from the back. Students flinch in shock and a few begin to gather their things as Craig stares at his arm. His hand shouldn't be that big. Isn’t that big. Seeing the few thick hairs starting to pepper his bulkier wrists, Craig turns to look down at his chest as it begins to grow, grunting ever deeper he stares as two meaty pecs begin to strain the button-up. 

Hairs poke through the straining placket as they start to spread above the neckline. Every movement sends further sounds of tearing garment through the classroom as Craig tries to understand what he’s seeing. His voice sounds even duller, brutish even as he cries out,  “What goin- What’s, grgh, happening to me-” Thicker fingers yank off his shirt sending sweat and buttons flying into the classroom, freeing pecs that were not there even a minute ago.

Many students begin to flee the classroom as their instructor begins feeling up his chest with hands growing hairier. The student who was initially concerned dials emergency services as she ditches her laptop and begins to race out the door, terrified as Craig’s thickening brows start to just out further from his forehead. The man who was waiting to watch him awkwardly stumble over his words rather than join his fleeing cohort just watches enthralled. Staring at his widening jaw as it is promptly covered with a thick beard. 

Unaware of the small horde of students in flight from his lecture as his newly fat palms cup itching pecs as they grow meatier, Craig groans and apologizes to whoever remains as he leans underneath the small podium to deal with the sharp pain in his shoes. His ass bursts free from his pants, exposing briefs barely holding up and cheeks that are rapidly being decorated by a forest of fur. His wider back bumps into the lectern as he struggles to free his thick feet from shoes that were already a tad too snug. 

Speaking accompanied by the sound of his tearing at leather shoes, Craig tries to continue the lecture in between increasingly common grunts, “So me, unh- I think you uhhh- you know this evo- uhh” The one remaining student, Dawson, begins creeping closer, deadset to see this through to the end. Slowly pulling out his phone and setting it to record what is clearly some impossible miracle of science. Some reversion towards a more primal state, a devolution. Dawson smirks as he imagines how far this will set him ahead in the field.

Craig finds himself suddenly much less preoccupied with said science as he frees his newly hairy feet from their binds, leaving sweat steaming off of their wider soles as they continue to crack larger. Instead, mind leaking intelligence, he begins to drool and quietly grunt to himself as his cock begins to throb. Buried in a bush of thick and curled pubes which are themselves haloed by massive burly thighs, his rougher hands easily claw off his briefs to free his bobbing cock. Dripping with pre he sees veins visibly pulsing as what must be a foreskin begins to encroach towards a head almost purple and pre-covered. 

Dawson sneaks onward, zooming in to capture how Craig’s beard raises higher on his face to meet with the hair on his head growing wild. His eyes flicker across strange bulging muscles on his instructor’s shoulders as they’re rapidly blanketed by a forest of curls thicker than his own pubes. The student's mouth slightly waters as he adjusts the frame to capture the man’s massive hands as he begins to masturbate in the classroom. And then he drops his phone. 

On high alert, the man-no-longer jumps with a start and hits his head on the lectern, guffawing as he rubs the spot he foolishly bumped. Falling to the floor himself, Dawson is torn between fleeing like the rest of his wiser cohort and staring at a living breathing caveman. He can’t resist simply being the first man to witness prehistory. 

Beyond that, Dawson can’t help but stare at the exposed pits of a man he assumed was as smooth as marble. He’s almost possessed, staring at the wild jungle of pit hair that flies free from the brute’s raised arm, dripping with sweat. There are almost visible stink lines as body odor that hasn’t been found on the earth for thousands of millenia begins to fill the room. And the longer he stares, the longer he smells, he begins to lose any will to do anything but submit.

Perhaps it’s simply a biological reaction that Dawson finds himself rooted to the spot, taking in heady breaths of the fetid scent. Why else would his mouth fall open as his cock starts to rise at the sight, Craig speaks up seeing his own remaining pupil sitting there in some state between primal lust and fear. Feeling his cock bob against the podium and seeing himself nude in this clinical classroom, some semblance of self returns to the once-doctoral candidate.

“Dawsugh- Need help. Cra-ug ugh- Crag need help, nowugh” His jaw stings with pain as it widens more, his lips struggling to create sounds he knows he should be able to. As he stares down on the male planted on the ground he feels those bizarre instincts begin to return once more. His skin prickles, back cracking as it compacts while his chest grows wider with every heaving breath. Putting on mass as his mind begins to grow foggy once more.

Crag struggles to stay focused, struggles to remember who he is, what he’s doing. What that strange rectangle is at this lesser man’s feet. But with every precious second his twenty-first century concerns begin to evaporate. Worries about the grind of academia, disdain at being shoehorned into reading powerpoints no one cares to hear, the monotony of driving home in rush hour traffic. Everything begins to fade. Everything that is, besides the need to dominate the hairless, beta man staring at him.

Dawson can scarcely make heads or tails of what happens next as he sees the brute pounce on him. He feels the man’s calloused hands tear at his clothes and lies in repose, waiting for whatever Crag, apparently, is to do next. Desperately wanting fulfillment no man has experienced before. His hands clutch the caveman-apparent’s back, feeling the scratch of hair thicker than man can grow and the bulging sticky muscle beneath. 

Feeling the man’s river of precum dripping down his abs, Dawson begins to feel the prickle of his treasure trail regrowing as his feverish mind realizes his future far too late. Every inch of skin touching the man begins to change likewise. Arms he was never shy of lengthen just as he saw his least favorite TA’s did minutes ago, decorated with hair and bulging larger with thick muscle. 

Even quicker than he witnessed happening to Craig er, Crag, hair begins to engulf him. The concerted efforts towards maintaining his clean-cut appearance is absolutely erased as every inch of his form prickles with thick, dark hair growth. Crag sloppily kisses him and leaves a growing beard in the wake of his tongue. Forearms that have had the lightest coat of blonde peach fuzz erupt with fark jungles of hair before launching even further, coating his increasingly clumsy fingers and biceps twitching stronger with every haphazard movement.

Dawson’s hips reflexively hump into the man dominating him. His changing cock scratches against the man’s essentially fur covered torso which only heightens the student’s rapturous delight and accelerates his transformation. In no time at all the complexities and desires of the life he lived are wiped and replaced by a need to do nothing more than seek sustenance and pleasure. To serve and be served by the Crag who begins to hoist him against a wall and hump.

His handsome face changes, bones restructuring as hands he doesn’t recognize as he clings to Crag who is more monster than man. Feeling his rising cock rubbing against his new alpha’s as it begins to change he knows he is on the fast track to join him. He feels his vocal chords thickening as he cries out in ecstasy, Crag finally claiming what is his. Longer toes burst through tennis shoes, curling on the floor as nails yellow and thicken. 

Dawson’s sharper and larger teeth bite Crag’s shoulder as they continue to frot and fuck. They continue until their sweat and ancient semen coats much of the room, their new balls having apparently quite the short refractory period. When they finally tire or get bored their snores sound loud enough to break glass as they curl up together somewhere behind the podium. Bonded mates of a world that hasn’t existed for hundreds of thousands of years.

Well before the pair were done with consummating their new forms, the whole building was placed on lockdown. Quarantine crews working hastily to contain whatever impossible pathogen has apparently begun to infect the campus. Scientists across the world wait with bated breath from some update on whatever impossible goings on are hidden behind that yellow quarantine tape. Hearing the horrified testimonies of those students that escape does little to sate their curiosities, though it does invite them to be lab rats as scientists watch each and every one of them hoping to observe their own prehistoric changes.

It’s only a matter of time before some foolhardy explorer or researcher desperate for a discovery breaks the seal and finds something they could never be prepared for. Sooner rather than later the mounting need to know will be insurmountable. Sooner rather than later whatever this plague of the past they tried to keep behind lock and key will spread. And then those foolish enough to remain nearby will get a first hand experience on the nature of evolutionary biology. And to think, Craig Stoll was so concerned that nothing of note would come of the course.

[occamstfs]

Typecast Troubles

After turning down twink roles for too long, Henry needs work. Now. Offered one final lifeline in the role of Brutus, a stereotypical meathead, he has no choice to accept. Worry not, by the end of the audition he'll be more than muscular enough to embody the brute.

Here's an actor learning the hard way that some roles can change you whether you like it or not. Muscle growth and himbofication! Hope you enjoy! -Occam

Henry desperately needed some work. For a few years now he had been consistently acing auditions and getting roles, never a lead but never out of work. After being typecast one too many times as bitchy twink and gay best friend he was ready for something else.

Unfortunately for the C-inching towards D-list star the industry did not care about his desire to move on. Never was he in a position safe enough to turn consistent work down. It has now been long enough since someone’s expressed any interest in having him on set that the theoretical actor has begun to search for other work.

Inches away from applying to some unenviable job out of showbiz, his phone rings. Seeing it’s his agent Jeremiah calling, Henry slams his laptop shut and bashes his phone into the side of his head from the excitement. This does not distract from his anxiety at the pile of bills lying in front of him nor the fingers crossed that a solution is on the line.

“Okay Henry, I know what you said a few months back. I fought you on it at the time, after all why shoot yourself in the foot when you’ve got a mouth to feed.”

Henry’s halfway to agreeing and begging his agent to send his resume to every shitty teen drama and made for TV movie out there before he hears Jeremiah continue, “But, I think this little gambit might have paid off. The studio apparently asked for you by name, my friend!  Of course there’s still auditions…”

His agent presumably continues, explaining details about the show and its production, benefits for taking the job, people who might be part of the audition process, but Henry doesn’t hear that. Despite the mail pile filled with aggressive red text still sitting in front of him, with the prospect of work on the horizon, Henry’s mind is preoccupied with what the role is. The fact that he was asked for my name obviously ringing alarm bells that he’ll be back in the circuit of playing teens at least a decade younger than himself, “so what is the part then exactly? Do you have the script?”

There’s a clear hesitation as if Jeremiah isn’t quite sure how to broach the subject, “Don’t you worry now Hen, as demanded it is not at all like your usual stuff. No screaming yaaas or clapping back to your fag hag. No, no nothing the studios y’know, want you to do.” The agent pauses and resets, putting on a saccharine tone as if he knows he’s about to pitch shit as gold.

“Okay! So all goes well, you’ll be going in for a series regular role as Brutus! He’s well- I’ll just read the casting call specs: Brutish and barely literate, this oaf has a heart of gold and mind like a sieve, loves hanging out with his bros-” With each word Henry’s face scrunches tighter. Eventually he has no recourse but to interrupt his agent.

“Jere? What the fuck is this? They asked for me, specifically to come in for this? Is this some kind of a joke?” There’s another pause before Jeremiah releases the telltale sigh of a man at the end of his rope, “Look, Hen. Kid. I get it, you got these big ideas about dream roles and artistic integrity, but you gotta understand. This is what you got, what we got. You know the agency’s breathing down my neck about cutting dead weight. I- Look, you don’t gotta take the gig if it’s no good, but if you’re not willing at least hear ‘em out. I mean shit kid, you’re the one who asked for new ground yeah?”

Were his piling bills and draining savings not enough of a wakeup call, Jeremiah’s words were. Maybe it’s ironic casting, or an animated project, Jere probably said as much earlier when Henry tuned him out. He doesn’t really have a choice. After a prolonged groan, Henry pinches the bridge of his nose and gives in, “Ugh fine- whatever. Just send me the details and I’ll, I’ll do my best.”

Ever the professional, and hearing his client despondent,  Jeremiah shifts gears yet again, “Aces kid. Gonna be a star yet, remember they wanted you. They need you not the other way around. Sent you the information, let me know how it goes. Phone’s always on me.”

The audition is early the next morning, earlier than the actor usually prefers to be awake. The call said something about Brutus being an early bird which, whatever. Henry’s well past the luxury of getting to do what he usually prefers. He briefly tossed over dressing up in character, though checking his wardrobe there is simply nothing that would fit the bill of Brutus.

Instead, he just cleans up as he always does and heads out the door. Wearing a button up and borrowed shoes, with each step closer to the studio he must continually remind himself that they asked for him specifically. For reasons he can’t understand. For reasons he will hopefully understand soon. His questions certainly aren’t answered when he arrives.

Before the actor even enters the lobby the receptionist rushes to greet him, “You must be Henry Harris! We’re so excited to have you in today!” Escorting him to the elevator, Henry is on edge at just how much the secretary seems to be fawning over him. In between what can only be deliberate attempts at massaging his egon Henry catches a few strange remarks, ‘can’t wait to see what you become’ ‘hope you brought a change of clothes.’

It is upon this bizarre encounter Henry reflects as he rides the slow elevator up to the casting office. There he almost recoils away from the door as he’s greeted by another secretary, almost identical to the first who treats him similarly bizarrely. Frequently eying up the actor like a slab of meat, tossing cryptic wanting flirtations as they go. “Here we are! Director Marlowe’s office. Hope you have a productive meeting in there Brutus!”

Henry sneers at the strange escort, “It’s Henry.” For the first time he notices the glassy, almost mechanical look in the eyes of the secretary. Despite being too chatty in their time together, at this his guide simply tilts his head with a grin before turning away and wandering back towards the elevator. Under his breath Henry complains, “Ugh, already ready to write this whole thing off.”

“Mr. Harris, Henry, do come in!” Henry flinches as he turns to find the bearded tank of a man behind him. Welcoming him into the office with an outstretched hand, Henry shifts into his poised polished self and offers his own dainty hand to shake. “You must be, Director Marlowe? Thank you so much for having me in today! I simply cannot wait to see what you have in mind for me. This Brutus character is absolutely the kind of role I’ve been waiting for.”

The director’s wide toothy smile only grows wider as his face betrays nothing besides a desire to get this process started, “Please come in, come in young man, have a seat.” The director leads Henry to a cozy chair opposite his desk before going to sit down himself, “Of course Henry, after all what actor wouldn’t be excited at the idea of a role made for them in mind. Though let’s cut to the chase. You must be wondering why in the world we came to you for this role hm? Quite the leap from twink-phenom to thoughtless gym rat is it not?”

Henry was on the backfoot from the first moment he saw the man, his dark eyes and darker, well-groomed beard were more than enough to set the actor on edge. Now that the man has directly addressed the one line of question that has been preoccupying his thoughts from the moment he heard the name Brutus, Henry is not sure what his next move is to be.

Easily catching the smallest break in the actor’s facade, the director pounces, “Worry not Mr. Harris! Whatever questions you might have will surely be answered by the time you leave today! For starters though, I hope you won’t mind signing a small NDA and consent form? We’re trying something experimental with this show and we can’t risk the exciting details getting out early. I’m sure you understand.” 

Only now does Henry notice the contract sitting in front of him on the desk. This isn’t his first rodeo though and he’s no fool, his eyes narrow at the document and he begins to open his mouth to assert that he’s not going to even humor signing a document without legal advice. Though just as soon as the thought appears he’s reminded how lacking he is in funds for a lawyer. His desperation and curiosity begin to mount his waning caution.

Marlowe raises his hands, feigning sympathy, “Oh of course, by all means if you want to go through the document with a fine toothed comb be my guest, we also have a legal team on site should you need clarity.” The director has a few more droll lines planned on how excited they would be to have Henry on board, perhaps even revealing some of his hand to further entice the actor. Though this is unnecessary as the actor’s apparently even more desperate than they had assumed. 

Biting his lip and already kicking himself for the foolhardy action, Henry Harris signs on the dotted line. Caught off guard, the director frowns in surprise, “Well! Just like that is it? I do believe we can start this process outright Henry.” He reaches and tidies up the paperwork before filing into his desk. Templing his fingers his wide smile returns as he looks down at the actor who nervously stares off into space. 

“The network wants to try something new. I’m sure you’re aware original content is suffering on streaming and the powers that be are tired of finding new creatives. My solution is simple: mold actors into characters so truthful to themselves that the creation of content is simply second nature. Does this make sense to you Henry?”

Having signed away at least some degree of autonomy, wholly unaware just how deep a commitment he just made, Henry decides to focus on the matter immediately at hand, sighing. “Sure yeah. Why me? This guy’s supposed to be a gym bro right? I mean, just look at me!” Motioning towards his pale, purposefully thin body Henry scoffs before looking at Marlowe. 

The director’s expression shifts severe, chiding. “Now Henry. This negative self-talk, don’t you think it’s unbecoming of Brutus?” Henry reflexively rolls his eyes and scoffs, as he is wont to do. Or no, he tries to roll his eyes and does not. He tries to scoff but instead he finds himself nodding, agreeing. Brutus wouldn’t talk about himself like that. 

He glares at the director as underneath thoughts of Brutus slowly flowing into his mind, he realizes something greater than himself has happened. Something sinister has begun to influence his thoughts and he must understand the rules before it is too late. Having spent a solid chunk of change at drama school he is well aware of Faustian bargains. The director simply grins, exposing too-white teeth, “You were saying Hentry?”

Henry’s mouth squirms as the name hits him like a punch. He knows it was deliberate, he knows it is not his name. He struggles to decide if he should dispute it but instead plays along, clinging to his years of experience at keeping up the act. “Sure. Mr. Marlowe, I am of course quite excited to see where the studio goes with this. As you know I will do my best to fill Brutus’ shoes with aplomb. I love a challenge, and playing this character will be more than interesting.”

Pleased, the director sees blood in the water, “Ah yes. His shoes you say, now what size shoes would those be.” Henry, Hentry? hesitates, struggling to play whatever sick game of 4d chess this is. His attention flicks down to his shoes and he discovers just how supernaturally outmatched he is. He knows he’s a size 8.5. He squeezed his feet into size 8 shoes he borrowed from his corporate friend forever ago for this audition, so it’s no wonder his feet feel a little squeezed.

This does not explain how his feet seem to be pushing against the shining leather with each passing second. Hentry’s hand flies to his mouth as he gasps at his feet bursting the seams of his friends shoes. His shock is displaced by grunting pain as toes burst from dress shocks and shoes he does not have the money to pay his friend back for are left tattered on the floor. He feels his soles stretch wider than the soles as his toes splay further, flexing from the pain as they surge onto the carpet of Marlowe’s office. 

Clinging to reality in the wake of this impossible happening, pushing down the visceral bizarre feeling of his feet growing, stretching against socks before bursting from their containment, Hentry finds himself hung up on how much those borrowed shoes cost. Somehow making him more anxious than the fact his body has changed beyond his control. Drawing his attention more than the feeling of thicker soles and a wider foot flexing out of his control. Then from some recess of his mind comes a ripcord. What’s the problem? Why was he wearing dress shoes anyway, surely he should be wearing his gym shoes like always.

To the delight of the director, Hentry’s eyes shift slightly duller as he stares blankly at his feet as shoes begin to reform. The actor doesn’t hear the sound of leather stretching to hide his newly massive feet, doesn’t see as the tanned leather shifts to cheapening fabric, new laces bursting forth and knotting a few times over as the cheap shoes still struggle to contain feet that absolutely do not wish to be contained.

“Much of a runner are you Hentry?” The actor slowly shakes his head, uncomfortable with the memories that begin to surge through it. Clenching his jaw he can’t prevent his mouth from answering, his voice sloppy and slow, “y-yeah. Sometimes I’ll jog, I think? Gotta get the blood pumping before an- umph!-” Whatever admission of gym time that was surely coming is cut off as Hentry forces his arm into his mouth, doing everything in his power to prevent himself from finishing the sentence. 

The wheels have been set in motion however as, sticking out from well-worn ratty gym shoes, slightly discolored socks begin to worm their way up his legs. Launching up past his smooth ankles they struggle to reach too high as new muscular legs begin to form. Eyes determinedly ahead at Marlowe can’t help but steal a glance downward as his calves begin to itch and burn. His mind races with new memories of running on treadmills and down streets as his legs surge larger. New muscle fibers and thick curls strands sprouting forth with every must-be artificial memory. 

They flex in place as Hentry sits there. His calves bulge larger with every faux flex, soon enough they’re the size of baseballs yearning to burst from his dress pants. There’s no risk of this however as his pants rapidly pull up into shorts, exposing the hairy calves to the cold air of this corporate studio. They are however not nearly fast enough on the draw to make it unscathed as thighs larger than his waist begin to bulge into existence.

The chair creaks under the weight of his legs alone as his pale thighs send a few tears into his new gym shorts. Marlowe’s eyebrows raise in shock as he seems almost impressed. Seeing this, Hentry is unsurprisingly of two minds, though for their varied reasons they both yearn to address their boss’ surprise. Jaw slightly sore from pain, he removes his arm and allows his mouth mobility once more. His original self thoroughly convinced that the director's simply so impressed at how well he’s fighting back, Hentry can’t help but try and get a dig in. “Betcha didn’t think I’d put up such a fight huh big guy?”

Perhaps a sign at just how much his mind has been eroded already, Hentry fails to see through the truly pathetic performance Marlowe gives, “My my Huntry! Indeed my terrible powers have been unable to change you at all! Perhaps it is the strength of your legs that allow you to stand so strong in the face of my wicked ways!” He does a twee flinch back, leaving one eye locked on the actor to see his reaction.

Arms crossed and smirking, Huntry’s eyes narrow as he finds himself agreeing with Marlowe, that is after the name of course. His name is, uhh. Doesn’t it start with a B? His eyebrows knit together as he skips past this and tries to find what else is bothering him from the director’s words, his legs are built? He works hard for them after all? Squirming in his chair he feels his powerful ass push him higher as he fights the urge to stretch. 

Failing to hold back, he grunts as he stretches taller. His dress shirt coming untucked from the elastic waistband of gym shorts they had no right of being tucked into to begin with. Midriff exposed it is clear that changes have not arbitrarily stopped at his lower body. Across his thin torso muscle has begun to pack on from nothing. His clumsy fingers scratch at his waist as a treasure trail begins to prickle up and decorate his new lowest rung of abs. 

Eyes closed, Huntry’s mind is totally distracted by the pleasure of his body burning as it grows. Forgetting himself and where he is, Huntry feels his cock pulse as the growing pains of his massive form feel decidedly pleasurable. Feeling the beginning of new muscle on his chest his tight lips twitch into a grin as nipples larger and more sensitive are dragged against his button up by a growing chest.

In no time at all, under the frequent barely quieted moans of delight, his sleeves are strained by biceps  that must have taken years to grow. His blue balls become much more of a problem as he feels the fabric begin to tear, thick arms wholly outsizing the tight sleeves by an order of magnitude. Raised in a flex his veiny biceps send tears down the length of his sleeves as they refuse to be held back. As they refuse to be the scrawny twigs that they may have once been.

Huntry bites his lips he feels pre begin to stain his briefs, no, his jock. His shaky hand begins to reach down, getting so far as gracing his new thick bush of pubes before his quest for relief is interrupted  by the director clearing his throat. “Mr. Buntry? If you recall, we were in the middle of your audition?”

Buntry snaps back to attention, gasping in shock in a deeper voice at having been in such a compromised position in the middle of something so significant. His slightly thicker brows, now jutting out ever so slightly over his eyes, furrow again as he realizes he isn’t embarrassed. Though- why should he be. He’s just a dude, sometimes you gotta adjust right? Yeah. A dumb smile plasters its way across his face as his jaw thickens, his pretty boy appeal falling to the wayside as he shifts to become not quite leading man material, but someone who could easily play a soldier, a goon, a brute. “Whaddya need from me next boss man?”

Shaking his head Marlowe is shocked at just how well this has gone, “I believe you were about to take off your shirt. This is after all quite a physique intensive role if you recall.” Buntry guffaws and scratches his chest, seemingly pulling his pecs larger with every pass of his clumsy, calloused fingers. “Why didn’t ya say so boss huhuh!” He goes to unbutton the shirt before stupidly groaning as he finds obviously he’s not wearing a button up. 

The sleeveless garment has turned into a tank, slightly stained around his pits from deodorant that was instantly rendered obsolete by his heady musk, joined by a dark sweaty patch in the center of his massive chest. Eyes caught up on the strained shirt, he gulps as he tries not to get distracted by his pecs overhanging, by the unmistakable hard nipples showing through the tight top. Barely hanging in there, he gets his fingers under the hem of the shirt hugging his abs and yanks. It gets stuck over his head and he laughs again, trapped in a prison of his own design, pits exposed to the open air as thick curls blossom further from his underarms.

Marlowe’s smile flickers as he wonders if this process was almost too effective. Lost in thought he watches as Buntry stands and struggles to escape, knocking over the chair behind him. Eventually the shirt tears before coming off and the brute guffaws once more, “Sorry boss! Guess I don know my own strength huhuh!” Free from the shirt however, he does what he has done in every audition he can recall and begins to pose. 

Sweat courses down from his hairy pits and shines across his burly chest as he flexes and awaits Marlowe’s feedback. The director’s hitherto constant smile flickers as he wonders how he’s going to be able to run a set with a man who can scarcely find two two brain cells to rub together. Lost in thought he loses track of his polished persona and thorough plan and speaks aimlessly, sniffing the air he complains, “Do you smell that?”

The jock pauses his performance and turns to look at his own pits, bending his thick neck down he laughs and confirms that it’s him. “Huhuh Sorry bro! Thought you wanted me to come au natruale y’know! You’re always saying you want the real Brutus! Well here he is huhuh! Hup!” Grunting he launches into a most muscular, crab pose. 

Marlowe’s eyes widen as the actor refers to himself as Brutus. Clicking his tongue, the director can’t help but feel this has gone off the rails somehow. The plan was to create a perfect combonation of actor and character, but clearly something has gone awry, whispering ‘god damnit’ under his breath, Marlowe forces a smile back on his face as he addresses the man who has yet to stop posing, flinging sweat across the room with every clearly practiced adjustment. “Bunt- er Brutus, yes? Would you mind taking a load off?” 

The new bodybuilder smirks and nods with a “Yuh! No problem boss huhuh!” The director feels a migraine coming on as he sees the behemoth crash to the floor as he sits in a chair that can absolutely not hold his weight. “Oh shit! Sorry Mr. Marlowe!” His mouth is hanging vacant as he struggles to lift his impossibly heavy form. Panting as he often is, when Brutus stands he opts to take a load off on the directors desk.

“Pardon my asking, Brutus. But you are an actor, are you not?” The massive man scratches his defined jaw as his face finishes its transformation into a face that could sell any schmuck some protein powder, “Yeah guess you could say so? I’m always puttin’ out content y’know? Definitely a star huhuh.” A gym influencer? That Marlowe could work with. He temples his hands as he schedules a date to potentially give this process another go. See if they can’t bring back some of Henry’s refinement. These things are complicated after all.

Just to test the waters before concluding this ‘audition,’ Marlowe opts to toss out one final question, “Does the name Henry mean anything to you Brutus?” 

In response the man lights up, “Yeah! Course it does boss! That’s my- uhhh?” Somehow the perpetually confused man looks even more confused for a moment, scratching his balls he holds back from smelling his hand in front of the director before continuing, “‘S that my last name boss? Do I got one of those?” Marlowe waves off the questions, foolish of him to try that. 

“Let’s get you to the locker room hm, Brutus? The young man outside should lead you to the setup we have on site.” Without a second thought Brutus sprints out the door, like a dog chasing a squirrel. He runs right past the secretary, apparently already knowing his way around. Marlowe’s phone vibrates as he sees a text that the next actor is apparently on the way up. Some angsty goth who the network has requested to audition for the role of the show’s rich prep.

Hearing heavy footsteps racing down the hallway he wonders if they are biting off more they can chew. No matter though, these are not his calls to make. Still he sighs to himself as he checks the notes for his upcoming meeting, another tall ask, “No rest for the wicked,” Marlowe complains as a pale frowning form is ushered out of the elevator. This time perhaps he’ll try and take it slower.

[occamstfs]

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 Here ! 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.

Find Eric’s side of the story here !

[occamstfs]

Free Flag

Despite himself, Chris is filled with more bear pride than he can handle after getting a free pride flag with his coffee.

Hope you all enjoy this shorter bear Tf! Now I’m back to playing Cyberpunk, kinda making me obsessed with personality overwriting so expect some of that down the line haha ! Until then! -Occam

Chris didn’t really like coffee all that much, he was just grabbing a latte to support local queer business. It seemed the right thing to do, now more than ever and all that. And when he heard they’re giving away flags as a promotion for their opening, well he wasn’t in the business of turning away free things, it’s just? He assumed he’d get to choose or it’d just be the blanket progress flag or something.

Holding up the seven striped, neutral toned flag with some animal paw in the corner he was starting to reconsider his policy on gift horses. “Uhm, sorry is this like, a furry thing?” The barista sleepily shakes his head, “Oh- no that’s bears, y’know?”

Immediately recognizing it now, Chris apologizes and begins to move to give it back before the barista starts to mime out what a gay bear is, “yeah not an animal, obvi? Surely you know-“ moving an arm to show a large gut and using the other to make a beard, leaving coffee grounds on his face.

After a few seconds of debating whether the barista is mocking him or not, Chris decides it’s not worth it. He’ll just take his coffee and the flag he really doesn’t quite want and leave. Crumpling the flag up in his free hand to obscure exactly what it is, latte in tow, he exits into the mall proper. Unbeknownst to the unhappy customer, the cafe is not done with him yet though. If he’s unsatisfied with his flag, he’ll just have to grow some bear pride.

It does not take long for Chris to notice a strange itch on his wrist. He rubs it on his pants assuming that’ll do the trick as it usually does, and for a few moments the irritation fades. But then it gets worse. The young man grimaces as it even begins to spread further up his arm, trying again Chris forcefully scratches almost his full forearm into his side, and then he yelps as an arm hair catches on his pants and pulls free.

He’s halfway through rolling his eyes when he realizes how bizarre that is, he doesn’t have hair enough to even see on his arms, let alone long enough for something ro catch. Looking at his arm holding the coffee, he confirms this before his eyes fall to the other, the one clutching a flag he should have left in that cafe. Clear as day he sees it suddenly spotted with long dark curls still growing along the whole of its length. Darkest on his wrist, seemingly creeping up from that hand wrapped in the flag, he gasps and drops his coffee to the floor as unmistakably he sees an arm with hair thicker than his pubes hanging from his side.

Trying to drop the flag he grunts in pain as his hand cramps from effort. As he stares he realizes that hair growth is not the only change occurring, Chris’ arm begins to surge larger. With each pump of his racing heart the limb begins to expand. Worried his hand is just tangled in fabric he foolhardily reaches into the fabric and yanks with his other hand. As soon as it makes contact there’s a static shock as the hand he can, could, recognize as his own begins its own transformation.

His mouth falls open as this transformation is plain to see. Like an old werewolf movie he sees each individual digit expand, lengthen. He swears he can hear his palm crack as it widens and almost looks fatter as, despite their added length his fingers similarly begin to look a little chubby. Turning it over he sees the same dark coverage that must coat his trapped hand. He sees a river of curls race up his forearm, creating a pelt before he’s reminded that the growth is not from follicles alone.

Both sleeves begin to strain as biceps he has never exercised begin to grow. He can clearly hear the sound of his shirt start to fray, haphazard strings slowly popping before bare skin is exposed and a few scattered but long hairs begin to lance out through the gaps. 

Still terrified by whatever nightmarish transformation is occurring, when he makes the slightest movement of an arm and feels the still increasing strength they wield, a quiet new impulse begins to prickle in his mind. Would it be so bad to be bigger? To be hairier? Testing the waters to see just how impressive this new bicep is he half-flexes and bursts the sleeve straight of his arm.

Raising it into a right angle he moans quietly to himself as the torn fabric falls to the mall floor. Exposed to the open air, he blushes as he sees hair growth has continued under his shirt. He’s always shaved his pits, but as he looks at the slowly growing curls inching out of armpit he can’t imagine why he would ever think to do so. The paltry stubble that was starting to regrow rapidly becomes an average man’s garden of pit hair. Then in between the strands regrowing, new thicker curls sprout forth. Soon enough both pits have sprouted patches dark enough that deodorant would have an impossible time reaching the bare skin beneath.

Staring at his exposed pit, feeling himself be consumed by the allure of his thickening hair, Chris can barely feel as his other arm burst from its sleeve without even flexing. Blearily turning to see the skin splotchy as it regains color from straining against its wretched containment. His lips twitch as he suddenly needs it to grow more. To this end he flexes, his stomach turning over as he sees muscle bulge and expand in real time, staring hungrily as it quickly grows to match its partner. Chris begins to feel a warmth in his crotch as his transformation is quickly becoming far too enticing for him to observe in public.

Before his eyes are completely with lust, Chris turns his gaze towards a clothes store down the way and begins to make the struggled journey to relative privacy. Stumbling past kiosks whose attendants give him a wide berth, new clothes become more a priority with each step as it becomes clear that bursting sleeves are only the first of many wardrobe dilemmas to come in short order.

Chris’ stomach rumbles as he begins to feel some discomfort on his waistline. The shirt that once hung limply off his thin torso rapidly begins to tighten around his midsection. Fighting back a burp he tastes the coffee from that strange cafe on his tongue as he feels more bloated than he’s felt in his life.

Finally arriving in the quiet men’s clothing store, he clutches at his stomach with his trapped hand and feels it bulge outward, pushing his shirt to its limits. Graced directly by the flag, his midriff is exposed as the shirt is tugged up. Exposed to the cool air of the almost empty store, his thin treasure trail expands quickly. From an inch of curls launched upwards from his pubes to his bellybutton, the trail becomes a highway of hair, rapidly engulfing the whole of his lower stomach as it pushes out over his crotch. 

His slowly ballooning torso is joined by another wrapped package gaining weight and girth as the hanging flag flits against the boner he hopes no one has noticed. In doing so his cock becomes an even greater problem. Chris’ yelps as his cock pushes out further, his balls tugging up as they pulse with need, growing heavier with each beat of his heart and throb of his dick.

No time to be discerning, he grabs the first shirt and pants he can reach and sprints across the store to find  a changing room. Clerks and the few other patrons watch as the growing man sprints past them, foreshadowed by the sound of fabric tearing as his shirt can no longer hold back his form, and trailed by the brown flag slowly unfurling as his hand is released.

Across a clenched jaw which clean shaven would be too generous a term as hair has simply never grown, a fair few prickles of facial hair begin to push out in patches. Pitiful strands create a small goatee while something a little more advanced than a teen’s first mustache launches out of his upper lip. What is initially a few strands of peach fuzz poking across his cheeks rapidly spreads to connect sideburns launching down his cheeks and a neckbeard rising up.

By the time he stumbles into the dressing room and sees his disheveled reflection, his face is shadowed with a level of stubble he finds irresistible. Mouth watering as he rotates his head to see how his new mature face looks from every angle, he almost misses the tear launching down his shirt as his stomach becomes a beer belly that puts any frat bro’s freshman fifteen to shame. His thin chest bursts into something teetering on the edge of pecs as they rip open his neckline.

While a central tear and its many offshoots race down the front of his shirt, curls continue to ascend his torso. Rushing past a belly button almost buried in hair, his new weighty chest is promptly covered in a jungle of curls, spiraling around his suddenly wide nipples and careening above collarbones that are ever more to be buried.

Staring at his reflection his hands cup his new stomach, finding their new resting place as curls push between his thick, fatter fingers. His smile is partially obscured by the beard rapidly covering more of his face as a few curls from his chest connect seamlessly with the itchy stubble inching down from his chin.

He barely noticed as the bear flag fell from his hand and onto his feet, obscuring his shoes as his feet burst free from them, hiding as his toes lance out from their front before they’re coated with a few thick, dark curls. His legs hungrily race to catch up to the rest of his form, growing bulky and strong from carrying his heavy upper body with ease. From his ankles to his hips lies a consistent layer of thick body hair. One that would incite awe. Grimacing, he struggles to remove his pants before his legs burst free, just in time letting them fall as his meaty thighs explode.

Under thickening brows his eyes take in his new self, watching greedily at the one remaining piece of clothing still clinging to his body. Boxer-briefs that had more than enough room this morning hug his thighs tight as their elastic waist band begins to fray and tear. More important though is the heavy bulge at their front. Tight enough to see a throbbing vein on his cock and the clear outline of two balls larger than seems possible, the briefs perfectly frame his package. The new bear almost drools at the dark grey stain at the head of the dick, delighted at how much pre his new self produces.

An eye twitches as he truly acknowledges the thought, becomes aware of his new reality, of his new self. Scratching his beard and moaning at the sound of his fingers travelling through the tangled curls, he picks up the bear flag and smirks. Guess they knew what they were doing all along when they gave him the flag. As soon as he lifts it up his hips thrust uncontrollably and he looses the heaviest load of his life.

Splattering against the mirror of the dressing room, staining the flag clutched in his hairy hand. There’s simply no way people in the store don’t hear the man losing control as his voice finally deepens to a mature, dulcet bass. Every remaining inch of his form that has been untouched by his new fur coat is just as thoroughly covered. His ass hangs heavier, perfect to be manhandled as its cheeks and crack are coated with thick dark curls before they raise in a peak up his lower back. 

His upper arms and shoulders bulge heavier with muscle as he leans against the wall, his hips continuing to rut. His hairline rapidly shooting down the back of his neck to connect with the garden ushering forth across his upper back, shoulders painted with a layer of hair that few could rival. With gasping breaths and heaving grunts his ecstasy slowly wanes and his hands go to grasp his heavy cock, to play with his cum-splattered pubes. His eyes twinkle with delight as he once and for all enjoys his reflection. 

And then he blinks.

Chris buttons up the shirt he just picked out from his favorite store at the mall. Not everyone carries these things in his size after all. Turning he smirks as he sees how perfectly the pants contour to his massive ass. He undoes one more button from the neck to let a few more curls breath free. He nods to himself more than happy with how he looks in the new fit. 

Leaning in close to the mirror stained in memory alone, he straightens his beard and checks his slightly thinner hairline before shrugging. Doing so he pushes down his cock as it starts to harden from seeing his beer gut bounce, no time for that- He’s in public after all. Looking at the watch on his hair wrist he nods and heads out from the dressing room, grabbing his phone from a pile of clothes that aren’t his- they couldn't be his of course, far too small. He doesn’t bat an eye at the bear pride phone case it now sits in. 

Wandering free from a dressing room left only slightly messier than when he entered, Chris pays for the clothes he has on and heads out into the mall proper. Eying the less-than-bustling walkways he sees a cafe down the way. There’s a glimmer of something in his eyes as he smiles, he could do with a coffee.

[occamstfs]

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/possession muscle 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.

[occamstfs]

Peace Together

Devon dreamed of getting out of the South, after achieving his great escape and beginning his Ivy League education he finds a new challenge in his perfect roommate, Phillip Wellington III or Lip. Never has the jock been anything but an angel to his new roommate, so why does he drive Devon mad?

Anxious nerd -> Preppy jock Bit of a self indulgent one, vaguely based on a certain American novel, which anyone who has read it will surely notice haha! Once more aided by Fred W. Kong! Hope you enjoy this tale of two longing roommates! -Occam

Devon never believed that people like Lip actually existed. Sure, superficially he looked just like any number of tormentors he knew from back home; The very ones who led him to avoid any team sports or phys ed, the ones that led him to pour everything he had into his studies and any academic extracurriculars he could find to get out of Mississippi. And so he did, and then he met Phillip. Or Lip, as he prefers to be called.

The pair came from different worlds. Devon was the sole Asian student in a southern public high school. Phillip Wellington III was the scion of a blue blooded Massachusetts clan. From the start Devon knew he would be encountering people from lives he would never understand, coming from backgrounds of such privilege he could scarcely understand.

But when he heard he would be rooming with a Wellington, Devon went almost catatonic with fear that he would be some plaything of a rich asshole. Out from the frying pan of brutish jocks and into the fire of a genuinely powerful preppy tyrant. Come to find out however, Lip was the furthest thing from a cruel snob.

At face value, one would assume Lip was handed his admission to this university on a silver platter, and true, no donor-hungry university would deny a Wellington. Devon certainly thought as much. But after learning even briefly of his new roommate’s achievements it was clear that by all accounts, Lip earned his place here. His test scores were stellar, academically he sometimes even gave Devon a run for his money. On top of his stellar intellectual pursuits though, he was an athletic star unlike any other.

Like a polyglot learns languages or a prodigy instruments, anytime Lip encountered a sport or game he had yet to play, in an hour's time he would be schooling whoever showed him the ropes. He could do it all, he did do it all. He had every right to look down on Devon. And yet ever since their first meeting Lip has been nothing but kind and respectful. He has been a beacon of warmth to Devon as he adapted to this cold, often hostile new university life.

So why does he fill Devon with such dread?

“Y’alright buddy? Dev?” 

Devon shakes out of a stupor he didn’t even know he was in and finds himself staring directly at his roommate, his self-proclaimed best friend, Lip. He smiles awkwardly, as he does most things, and apologizes, “Jeez yeah- too many late nights I guess, sorry Phillip.”

Lip grins, perfect smile gleaming as he walks over to ruffle Devon’s hair. The meek man desperately tries to hide how he freezes up under the faultless man’s touch, something he’s well practiced in after their few years living together. While both are quite busy with the rigor of their course schedules, Lip even more so with his athletic and social commitments, in their free time it was rare to see one without the other. 

Outside observers would be quick to pin Devon a hanger on, but in reality Lip goes out of his way to be near his roommate whenever the opportunity presents itself. Which, given Devon’s proclivity towards static study is fairly often. An entire floor of the campus’ library had become something of a popular haunt due to Devon, and by proxy Lip, frequenting it and attracting the true hangers on of the Wellington golden boy.

For the life of him, Devon can’t understand why a man that anyone in their right mind would describe as perfect would give him the time of day. Why he would care to spend time with him at all, let alone invite him on their family vacations. Since Devon stumbled into their dorm all those years ago and saw Lip hallowed by their cheap phosphorescent ceiling fan, he has done nothing but gone out of his way to ensure Devon would never feel lesser. It made the ever-antsy man feel like he was going insane.

“Man! Lost in your head again Dev? Gotta be a new record,” Devon feels the blush burning on his cheeks as he sees the same genuine smile that is almost always painted on Lip’s face. His blush is certainly not helped by the fact that Lip is halfway through changing into a flowy button up. Not that Devon’s gay of course, or whatever. He just wasn’t prepared to see his friend shirtless. Lip’s smile briefly flickers as he tilts his head before continuing, “Are you still down to head to the frat networking thing tonight?”

Devon groans for a few uninterrupted seconds. Shit- He knows he really should go, but truly nothing sounds more hellish than spending time with those money-bagged brutes. Eyes flicker and something in his chest flutters as he looks to his roommate, at least Lip will be there. The thought is buried without reflection, “Yeah…  Yeah, I’ll go with you-”

“Sweet!” Lip’s smile fades for the smallest moment and he quickly goes to smell his pit before grimacing, “Oof I better hit the shower before though-” The Adonis reaches to grab his shirt by the hem and lifts it over his head with effortless grace, perfectly displaying his waist and sending a gulp down Devon’s throat. Looking down at his roommate with a wink, Lip grabs a hanging towel before rushing into the bathroom, “Be out in 30, you don’t need a shower before the thing too do ya?”

Face angled down, pointedly not looking at Lip as he unbuttons his pants Devon shakes his head and doesn’t see his roommate’s carefree shrug. Finally, when the door closes and Devon hears the shower running, he sighs and feels secure enough to raise his eyes again. With Lip away Devon feels his attention drawn to the discarded, apparently sweaty shirt. His mouth goes dry.

Try as he might to distract himself, the pull the garment has on him is all-consuming. Devon is pulled to it like a mouth to the flame, his eyes struggling to stray just as they always fail to avoid staring at the back of Lip’s head. Comforted by the drone of the shower, he allows himself to step forward and grab the ever so slightly damp shirt, all the while repeating the mantra ‘I’m not gay’ in his head.

Such thoughts are put on hold as he reaches down to grab it, finding the shirt still slightly warm from being worn by Lip. Moreover he feels his hands are sticky with sweat as he lifts it up, unsure why he is doing this or what he is to do with it next. Devon gulps as he realizes just how large it is. It’s of no surprise of course, Lip is so much larger than him. The Achilles to his Pat- er no that’s not right. All these classics classes are rotting his mind.

Devon bites his lip almost to the point of drawing blood as he feels his fingers rest on the damp left behind by Lip’s pits. Before he even knows what he’s doing he thrusts his face into the shirt and takes a deep sniff. Quicker than he can consciously think, his body reacts to this with delight more than he thought possible. In his mind he reflexively pictures his perfect roommate on the green chasing down a soccer ball, working up a sweat as he climbs trees just for the fun of it, sprinting down the university’s track to set a new high jump record. 

Devon’s heart flutters as he is so easily able to recollect the man’s splendor, his success. Burned into his psyche clearer than anything, Devon sees Lip. He sees his brilliant smile, feels his rough palms, smells the memory of his sweat overpowering expensive cologne as powerfully as he smells both on the shirt clutched to his face. This is not enough, he needs more. His mouth waters as he imagines the exposed happy trail, sees a few curls extending past the edge of Lip’s sleeve, hears an echo of his loud lilting laughter. Devon needs to be him, Devon needs him. 

Comforted by the sound of the shower still running, Devon loosens his white-knuckled grip on the shirt and moves to stand in front of a mirror. Throwing off the graphic tee he had on, he moves quicker than he has in years to throw on Lip’s shirt. It hangs limply from his thin shoulders and onto his flat chest, the sleeves fall well past his fingertips. He feels the cold patch of sweat about halfway down his sides where the garment apparently clung to Lip’s pits. 

He pulls the placket tight to feel the shirt strain against his thin back, desperately willing the shirt to fit him. Wishing more than anything it was skin tight as it fit on Lip. Wishing he were man enough to fill it.

Staring at his reflection he sees nothing but the fool he is. The phoney he always has been. He sees his eyes begin to water as his face burns with embarrassment, with envy, with a need to be someone else. With an oppressive hunger to be more like Lip, to be Lip.

Clenching his eyes shut to avoid crying outright, the sound of the running shower fades into silence as he loses himself to his memories, his obsessive recollections once more. Burned into his eyes before the sting of tears can overwhelm him he sees how the waist of the shirt hung low, almost to his knees. And then he flashes back.

It was early on in their relationship, Devon was still unpacking his things as they moved into their first dorm. He had probably spent about half a minute trying to reach something on top of their bookshelf before Lip sidled over to lend a helping hand. Guarded more than could possibly be healthy, Devon almost scoffs before grumbling out a thanks. Turning to look up at Lip, he sees his new roommate scratching the back of his head in as awkward a manner as he’s probably capable, “Sorry Devon- I just didn’t want you to hurt yourself or-”

“It’s fine! It’s whatever.” 

 Refusing to let it rest, and unaware that Devon’s size is obviously an insecurity, Lip continues, “How tall are you anyway?” Devon’s brow twitches into a scowl as he prepares to snap before turning to see a look of genuine care and curiosity on his new roommate’s face. Thrown for such a loop he answers as he always does, falsely, “No it’s fine I’m uh, 5’9” Lip looks the student up and down and knows he can’t be taller than five seven. Devon simply banks that no one cares enough to call him on the matter, usually a safe bet.

The deceit bothers Lip though, quickly he moves to rest a hand on Devon’s shoulder before his new roommate can flinch away. Lip looks him intently in the eyes, “You shouldn’t lie about your height Dev. You shouldn’t feel the need to.” Devon feels the hand twitch on his shoulder as Lip considers moving it into a caress or pulling him into a hug before he instead takes a step back to give him room, “You don’t need to care about what others think of you buddy.”

The conversation dogged him then almost as much as it does now. All this time later he still cannot get over how affected he was by Lip’s kindness. How much he immediately longed to help him, to be his friend. His intense stare, the warm hand perfectly resting its weight on his shoulder, if Devon focuses he swears he can feel it there now, comforting him. Ugh! It’s driving him insane. 

Opening his eyes he sees himself in a mirror, just as he was before. A reflection of his playing dress-up. Shaky hands resting on the counter and then he sees it. Or no? No, the image has changed? It must be in his head, it has to be. And yet, as he stares at the mirror, he would swear the shirt seems to be fitting him better. Making an effort he goes to stand up straight and sees the button up pull a few inches higher, he feels himself take up more space in the room. 

Covering his mouth with a hand, Devon gasps and poses to find himself standing at least 5’9. No. Even taller. His eyes alight with wonder, but there’s no time to question this miracle as he realizes the sound of the running shower has stopped. Then he hears the turning of a door handle and sees steam pouring out from the bathroom door opening as Lip returns, towel wrapped around his waist and sculpted body bare to the world “Don’t remember if you needed to shower too but you’re all good now Dev!”

Shaking his hair dry like a dog, only then does he notice Devon guiltily staring at him, “Oh! That my shirt buddy? Coulda just asked-” Not a hint of judgement or suspicion on his face. Though he’s stunned from shock as Devon runs over and grabs him by his arms, never has the man ever gone out of his way to touch him fully clothed. For him to even look at him while he’s basically nude must mean something is seriously amiss. 

“Phillip. Do you notice anything different about me?” Lip looks him up and down with a shy smile, tightening the towel hiding his modesty as he does so, “Uhhh, not really Dev?” Devon releases his grip as he too realizes how out of character the action was, “Look! I’m clearly taller!” 

Lip tilts his head and looks closely, Devon sees his furrowed brow and for a moment it seems like he’s going to agree, but then his eyes get glassy. With a grunt Lip blinks hard a couple times and then whatever confusion that lay behind his eyes is gone, his expression returned to the usual perfect smile that rests upon his face, “What do you mean buddy? We’ve always been the same height!”

Devon blanches. Looking down he realizes that as he was so honed in on Lip that he didn’t even notice as he sprouted taller once more. He feels the cool air of their dorm room on his ankles as his legs have clearly lengthened, sees his wrists peeking from the sleeves of a shirt that now seems almost too short for his lanky arms. Gasping, he almost falls back from realizing that he is currently making direct eye contact with Lip, a man who has always stood over a head taller than him. In fact he would have fallen, had his roommate not been ready to catch him.

Devon feels the man’s slightly damp arm holding him aloft, he quietly apologizes, knowing that Devon is usually touch averse. “Sorry Dev.” In the rush to catch him, their faces rest but an inch apart from each other. Both men freeze. Devon smells Lip’s minty, warm breath and is faced with a need more pressing than he’s ever felt before. Fortunately for him, Lip’s down-turned eyes and wanting mouth provide no illusion that he craves anything but the same. 

It’s not clear who moves first as their mouths meet. It doesn’t matter as they both lean in and for the first time since they met, Devon feels peace. Even the hysteria of his suddenly sprouting almost half a foot taller cannot stir him from the bliss and contentment he finds in the embrace of Phillip Wellington. When he glides across the man’s brilliant teeth with his tongue and feels his counterpart do the same, Devon finally opens his eyes to see Lip's tanned face far too close for comfort, see his lashes quiver as he somehow finds similar delight in Devon’s mouth. 

And he pushes away.

Devon falls to the floor, causing a clamor louder than either man expected. Scrambling on the floor he gasps deeper breaths than his thin torso should be able to manage. His vision flashes white from taking in more oxygen than he’s ever done before. Hands that moments ago were clutching and rubbing the bare muscled back of Lip now fly to his own chest as his expanding lungs burn, only to find resistance where there should be none. 

Fingers inching under the borrowed shirt scrape against the bulging muscle fibers of pecs beginning to form. As Phillip reaches out a helping hand as he has done on countless occasions in the time they’ve known each other, Devon skitters away, doing everything short of smacking the hand as he struggles to push himself back using his legs alone, crying out in a voice cracking deeper, “WhAT’s happening to me PhILip!” 

Lip, not used to being caught off-guard, struggles to come up with a game plan as he’s distracted watching Devon’s exposed ankles prickle with hair as hitherto non-existent calves begin to press against his pants. Staring hungrily as wider feet press against cheap tennis shoes, filling them almost to bursting as Devon tries to crawl onto his bed. Lip’s mind is torn between two worlds, just as Devon seems to be torn between two selves. He struggles to remember which Devon he knows to be real, the quiet one sheepishly sneaking peeks at him from behind a textbook, or the one that seems to be bursting forth before him.

Crying out as his vocal chords thicken and expand, Devon’s deepening grunts cover the unpleasant sounds of his back cracking as it widens to fill Lip’s shirt. Ribs pushing out and giving him a thick chest that anyone would envy, that he should envy. Memories flash through his mind from years of hungrily staring at Lip’s pecs are interrupted with just as many instances of staring at his own massive chest in gym mirrors. Posing alongside his lov- friend, flexing and playing with a meaty chest. His eye twitches as sees a clear memory of Lip sucking on his larger nipples before gasping and returning to the present moment, hands clenching his bedsheets.

Looking at them, Devon is again stunned with images forcing their way through his mind like a reel. He can’t tell what is real or imagined, he feels himself being topped by Lip. And then he sees Lip’s tanned hands pulling at the bedsheets as he clutches the man’s pecs from behind. Yanking at his blonde curls, he hears heady breaths from his deeper chest. Feels the sweat, smells the man’s natural musk. 

In reality his hips reflexively rut against the bed as he cries out Lip’s name in between drooling grunts, “Lip, help-” For the first time in all their knowing each other that he opts to not use the man’s full name, breaking Lip out of his strange lull. Seeing the man quivering against his bed frame, ass suddenly filling out his pants as they begin to tear, Lip can’t help but get distracted. He’s always been drawn to his bookish er- brawny roommate, but facing the man as he grows he doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to hold back.

His excitement makes itself known as under the towel barely hanging onto his own gyrating waist, there’s a clear, throbbing outline of a cock that could do with some attention. One that Devon finds precisely at eye level as he turns on the spot, “Lip. I need your grgh-,” the words dance as he has trouble controlling his still thrusting form, abs bursting onto his torso give him power enough to push off his bed with ease. Which he does, exercising his new burning strength.

Head light from vertigo, he takes his first stumbled step forward and falls once more into the arms of Lip, his face squarely pushed against the man’s dewy pecs. Looking up to find Lip staring into him with nothing short of total desire, biting his lip with a fervor, Devon struggles to not totally give in to whatever alien drive is pulling them together,“Look we- we can’t, I’m not supposed to be like this!” 

It’s unclear if Lip is even listening as he whines from the feeling of Devon’s bare skin against his own. Shaking with the effort of holding back, he allows his towel to fall to the ground, gasping as his cock bobs free, forcefully bumping into Devon’s barely contained package. Looking down to see Lip’s exposed growing rod, Devon feels his ability to keep his hardening cock and growing lust under control waning.

He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep this up. As he feels his traps bulging and arms bulking, he wonders if he even wants to anymore. There’s only a hint of lucidity behind Lip’s eyes as Devon makes his appeals, and with each needy throb of his package, every scratch of Lip’s hands against his back, every sweaty breath against his torso even that meagre show of willpower begins to fade.

“I’m not some muscle-bound hunk like you Lip! I’m just dweeb! I’m your little pet project!” Lip shakes his head slowly, and with each rotation Devon changes even more, biceps shaping up to be even larger than Lip’s. He feels them strain the shirt and grunts as he is unable to ignore the continuing changes. Lip would never call him a pet project, to Lip they were friends, just friends. Not divided by status, Lip never looked down on him.

“Okay whatever! We’re friends, right? Just friends!” Lip’s mouth falls open, wanting to take a bite, give a hickey, drink in Devon’s saliva, taste his sweat. Devon’s heart skips a beat as his chest feels a pang of need, are they just friends? His jaw squares out, shaping into something impossibly masculine, powerful and sharp. One of Lip’s hands forces itself under his shirt to rub his back as muscle continues to pack on. The other makes its way all the way up to play with Devon’s hair as it changes from the same cut he has gotten his whole life. Changing from one deliberately unassuming to a cut that heightens his masculinity, displays his status. One that looks just like Lip’s

He remembers when Lip took him to the barber shop his parents always took him to, being introduced to men that have known Phillip his whole life. He remembers being introduced as Dev, ‘my boyfr-” No. that didn’t happen, that can’t have happened. And yet he feels his haircut change to something posh and preppy. Something like that which he has always adored on Lip’s head. Oh how he adores him.

His mouth is a millimeter away from kissing his perfect man, the perfect man once more, something he knows would spell the end of life as he knew it. But as the seconds pass in the grasp of Lip, as his hands unconsciously free his cock from its captivity, he can scarcely remember which life lived is even the real one. He’s still Devon, he’s still a student who fought his way here from the south, he’s still intelligent. Still hotter than anything. His head tilts as Lip moves in for another kiss. And for the life of him he doesn’t know why a small part of him objects at all. 

He allows Lip to tear the shirt off him before tackling him onto the bed, almost growling with need as they fuck like it’s the first time they ever have, despite clearly having done so innumerable times. Every burning muscle on Dev’s sweaty body feels brand new as they stretch and trust like they never have before. The bed frame creaks under the weight of both men as their twins burst together into a king size bed befitting the new titanic couple. 

Their wardrobes combine as Dev finds himself far more accustomed to dressing just like Lip. Graphic tees and baggy pants vacate to make room for clothes exactly like Lip wears, if not a tad larger what for Dev’s preference to be bulkier than his, only relatively, lithe lover. Memories of cowering in the shadow of his perfect roommate totally disappear as instead he clearly recalls always standing by the nothing-but-kind man’s side. Dev and Lip are a pair as they always have been, and if they have their druthers, as they always will be.

When the third alarm goes off warning the pair to quit their fun and get ready for the impending networking event for their frat, Lip finally pushes Dev towards the shower, “C’mon now there’re gonna be associates of father there Dev, we’ve gotta look our best!” His lover rolls his eyes and laughs at Lip’s disheveled hair, “Think you might need a touch up there too Mr. Wellington-”

Forcing up Lip’s arm to get a good smell of his b.o. He smirks and mocks his boyfriend, who just like himself, smells unmistakably of sex, “Ooh man- And another shower for yourself I think?” Turning on the faucet he directs Lip in first, “two birds one stone?” Lip rolls his eyes before winking, “Never knew you were so concerned with efficiency there. As long as you’re able to control yourself so we might actually come out cleaner than we went in, you've got a deal.”

Following him in, it’s not long at all before Dev’s pressing his boner into his lover’s back. Lip just smiles and turns before pulling his head down to shampoo the massive man’s sweat-stained hair. Afterwards he grabs him by the jaw and shakes his head, playfully complaining, “You little horndog, what am I going to do with you…” 

Despite Dev’s best attempts to have some fun, the pair eventually get all washed up and head out to the door only a few minutes later than planned. Dressed as well as they can be with what limited time they had, they wander off to the event hand in hand, as they almost always are. For the first time in years Dev is not burdened by his obsession, not held back by his denial. He finally allows himself to take advantage of the life he has found himself in, to feel the love of the man he has found himself with.

Lip of course never felt on anything besides equal footing with his roommate. While the Devon of the past may eventually have shed his self-conscious nature on his own, that he was blown out of his shell supernaturally is all the better for his relationship with the Wellington scion. As they catch the eyes of every guest at the party, no one can say they are not perfect for each other. Feeling his hand clasped in Phillip’s, Dev smiles as he is finally able to feel peace.

[occamstfs]

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.