#cop tf

[occamstfs]

AL:IV Everycop

Streamers everywhere have a chance to try out Auto Larceny: IV before it drops. After being forced into playing as a police officer in game Ethan Davies finds himself fitting the shoes more by the second.

Back to a longer story here's my take on a Cop TF- Sorta sucked into a video game Ethan rapidly becomes an ephemeral everyman of a cop! MG, mental change, and corruption abound! Hope you enjoy! -Occam

Auto Larceny: IV was supposed to be the game of the year. It wasn’t Ethan Davies’ standard fare but the streamer simply couldn’t miss out on the revenue bubble that’s sure to occur when the game first drops. Honestly he wasn’t sure why he got an early access copy of the game but he’s so early in his career that any shortcut to get ahead had to be taken. Still, he’d need to familiarize himself with the game before going straight to streaming it, which is where things began to go off kilter.

The intro cinematic to the game was fairly rote, the franchise was so massive that even disinterested parties were aware of the tone and gameplay. Ruffians driving down the sidewalk being chased by helicopters, wide shots exploring some amalgam of every city in California, drag racing down every major thoroughfare, Ethan was well familiar with the action movie parody tone of the world despite having not picked up the remote to play any game in the franchise before now.

Expectecting to click through menus and make his character, Ethan is surprised to instead be greeted by roulette wheel and a message: ‘In this edition of AL player characters and story modes will be randomly assigned to keep the game fresh! After completing story mode feel free to start New Game+ where you can choose from any of the hundreds of hand-crafted player characters!’ Ethan grimaces, quite a lot to ask of the player to jump into a rpg with absolutely no choice as to who you’re playing. It really doesn’t seem on brand to take player agency totally out of the players hands and there are certainly a good number of roles that he personally would prefer not to play.

Still, contract signed, he does need to stream the game at some point. Tired of being waylaid from playing the game proper he quickly clicks through terms of service and gameplay warnings, accidentally mashing himself right into rolling the wheel of AL:IV characters. Druglords, regressive women, and larger than life drag racers rush past in a circle as the wheel begins to slow with an sonically unpleasant clicking sound. Almost stopping it slowly twirls past Mike Malone-Midtown Vigilante before it slowly rolls onto, Emile Brighton-Billionaire Playboy. He purses his lips thinking how both of these experiences sound pleasant enough before the wheel clicks forward one final time. Ethan immediately clicks his own tongue and complains, “Oh what the fuck. Literally who is this in the game for…” Ethan has been assigned the role of Peter Clarkson-Cop.

Before the game has a chance to explain who his character is Ethan decides in no uncertain terms that he’s not playing as a pig in AL:IV. This game is infamously about playing criminals and ruffians. Even ignoring his IRL issues with the police he wasn’t about to spend any amount of his life walking in their shitty shoes. He resets the system and waits for the game to power back on so he may take another spin of the wheel. They know their fanbase, there literally has to be a way to game the game to play as who you want. 

In the meantime Ethan browses his phone while the system begins starting up once more. Oddly enough he sees a few fellow streamers already tweeting about their time in the game which is more than a little surprising. Even more peculiar, a few of them seem to be putting on affectations to shill for the game? Even some of the straighter shooters are getting into characters Ethan couldn’t imagine them choosing to do. Seeing his friend and fellow streamer Chris Walters tweeting like a surfer bro Ethan scratches his chin wondering if he accidentally missed some bizarre lines in the contract he signed to do promo for the game.

No time to worry about that now though, as his game is finally spinning up once more. The AL:IV logo flashes red and blue as a siren blares and the intro begins once more. Only this time, the whole cinematic seems to have a decidedly more cop-forward tone. Opening in what is unmistakably a police cruiser there's a laptop jutting out from the dash with lines of text soaring past. The thick, suspiciously veiny arm of the driver clenches at a wheel as he chases a speedy scofflaw down the road before following the reckless driver onto the beach. He hears a deep raspy voice bark orders from a receiver on his belt which he quickly yanks to his mouth to shout his own mumbo-jumbo into.

Before the second frame hits Ethan is filled with a desire to shut the game down yet again. Unfortunately, before he can act on that instinct of self-preservation his attention is irrevocably drawn to the cinematic as if he’s possessed. Finding it more engaging than any piece of copaganda he’s seen before, Ethan is completely rapt as he sees the patrol car slide to a stop on the beach, somehow creating a steam trail against the sand. The camera twirls before zooming in onto a figure eating a donut sitting on the hood of his car. Ethan can’t quite make out any details of the man’s face, it’s ephemeral and yet every shifting angle and foggy detail is unmistakably masculine and powerful. He hears the officer’s voice shout Auto Larceny VI, Officer Peter Clarkson reporting for duty.

“Okay. Well I’m not playing this.” He says, shaking off his delirium as he wanders through menus and looks for the way to delete whatever paltry save date that has him pegged to play Officer Clarkson. He pauses for a second slightly shocked that he’d refer to the character by his title rather than take another jab at the pig, er, cop. He exhales from his nose and chides himself, joking about how taken his subconscious must be with the vaguely hot parody of a parody of a cop. Ethan then scoffs as he successfully navigates through the deliberately obfuscated settings to find the ‘Erase All Data’ button greyed out.

Growing rapidly irate at the game doing everything it can to put him in the leather shoes of a man he’d never deign to play as, Ethan dials the customer support number given to him by the developers in the hopes they’ll help him out. He taps his foot impatiently as he hears jarring ambient noise from the game, rather than kitschy hold music. Eventually as sirens blare he groans and accelerates his tapping, unaware that he has begun to sweat as the temperature begins to unnaturally rise in his room. The noise from his phone similarly  begins to increase, or at least it seems it does which only exacerbates the man’s nerves. Feeling his shirt begin to grow damp from sweat and stick to his back he discards it and begins whinily cursing to himself. 

“God why did I even agree to play this shit! I knew it was a bad idea.” Head in hands his glasses begin to steam as his body grows warmer with each passing second of irritation at the game and himself for agreeing to stream it. Before his sour mood could develop any further he flinches back like a loaded spring at the sound of a representative from the company. Shouting once more in shock as his body releases tension he was shocked to find himself carrying at such a low-stakes moment, “Fuck!”

There’s a moment of pause before the voice on the other end speaks up once more, her voice robotic and  uncaring, “Excuse me Sir, this is Kayleigh Moore with AL:IV did you need assistance with your copy of the game?” Ethan’s face tinges red with embarrassment, coupled with his already burning body his eyes almost water as he clears his throat to answer, “Uhm so sorry about that, Miss.” He tilts his head at reflexively calling her Miss, “I was wondering if there was a way to start over, I think my copy’s glitched out or something?” Kayleigh quickly responds, “Of course, for the record is this Pethan Clavies?” 

Ethan pulls the phone away from his ear, her calling him Pethan was unmistakable. Still it’s not like she’s going to pull his leg right? She’s on the clock, it must just be a genuine mistake, “So sorry Mi- Kayleigh, did you say Pethan?” emphasizing the out of place P. “That’s right sir.” Ethan rolls his eyes, obviously that’s not a name, let alone his name, he clears his throat again to hide his still present irritation, “No, my name is Pethan, Pethan Clavies.” Tonelessly she responds, “Right sir. That is what I said.” Pethan’s voice catches in his throat. That’s not. He’s not? God it’s so fucking hot in here.

Getting lost in his head for a few seconds Kayleigh, ever cordial and acting on information Pethan clearly doesn’t have, she gets back to work. “So sorry Mr. Clavies but unless you have a genuine problem with your game I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do. Enjoy your day officer.” Mr. Clavies. Officer. Pethan fights the urge to throw his phone against the wall before realizing how out of sorts he must be right now. I mean, he forgot his name Pethan after all. Even now thinking that to himself, his neck reflexively clenches and one of his eyes slams shut as a headache stings. 

Then it hits him. He’s burning up, drowning in sweat and has hair trigger rage. All signs suggest that he’s just come down with a fever. One he wanted to take out on that poor chick, er. God what’s up with him. Still, he sighs in relief at figuring it out, some tension leaves him though he is still racked with soreness. Stretching an arm he finds the pleasurable burn that usually follows workouts. Or that would follow his workouts, he’s not really one to workout. He thinks. Walking to go sleep off the fever he scratches at his chest and halts as he feels muscle at all where there should be none. Furrowing his brow he sprints to the restroom and clasps at his mouth when he sees his figure.

God he looks fucking hot. Something swimming through his mind knows this can’t be right, it must be the fever. But as he feels rows of sweaty abs under his fingers how could he dispute the evidence. Scratching at chest hair spreading towards his nipples and a treasure trail now inching well past his belly button he struggles to understand how his fever is also making him hairier. Nor too does he understand the dark green stains on his arms that seem like tattoos he’s never gotten. Mmm they must just be bruises he’s missed, convincing himself just enough as he flexes a new bicep at himself in the mirror and begins to chub up.

Somewhere in his fever-ridden head a streamer still kicks around and, unsure if he can trust his own eyes, he takes out his phone to snap a pic of his hard new body. He groans as he wonders who he should send it to. Stumbling to his bed his mind produces an answer, who else but his fellow streamer Chris Walters. He mumbles as his body temp continues to rise, “Chris’ll- huh?” Checking his contacts he struggles to find his friend. In fact a number of his online friend’s contacts seem to have changed, he shakes his head and his clumsy fingers accidentally click on the number for Chase Waves. Oh duh. He laughs at himself, embarrassed for having forgotten his friend’s name, before sending the shirtless selfie off and collapsing into his bed. Swiftly conking out in a pool of his own sweat and snoring as drool snakes out of his mouth onto a cheek that will be itchy by morning.

Indeed he woke up scratching a sweat and drool covered beard that he shouldn’t be able to grow in a million years. His hand briefly gets stuck in the thick new tangle on his face before he wrenches it out with a crunch. Before his eyes are open he stretches, moaning as his bones have put on years of aging and over a foot of height overnight. Consciousness slowly loading into his heavier new body he feels his meatier hands bump against the wall and his sock-torn feet hanging off the edge of the bed. “Bwugh, wuzzat!” He shouts alarmed at nothing as he sits up with a start in his bed, rubbing his thinned hairline and scratching at a treasure trail as thick as his pubes. 

Pethan stumbles to his feet, his head throbbing with a headache as he adjusts to his new height and struggles to ignore new instincts boring their way through his mind. His hand yearns to reach for something on his belt only for him to scoff at himself. He’s of course not wearing a belt, having only gone to sleep in his compression shorts. He ignores his bulging dick and heavy balls to instead check the phone sitting on his bedside table, barely remembering he texted Chase through the haze of his mind.

Checking again he smirks as he sees the picture of himself he sent, “Heh always a stud.” Pethan ignores that he apparently sent this message in a dating app rather than as a standard text. So too is he unable to realize the picture displays him a completely different man than when he went to bed, and even further away than what any image he should recognize as himself. Any conclusions on the matter that could be made however are shelved as he tears his eyes away from admiring himself to see Chase’s response, “Heyyy Brah~ Huhuh, u know what i think fckr!! ACAB LMAOOO good luck finding sum other sucker 2 fuck pig”

Indignation burns bright in Pethan’s chest as he grumbles at the message, anxiety at getting this message from his, uh his friend? He thought they were friends? Pethan furrows his brows and groans at the mismatch, his voice sinking lower as his eyes keep rereading the surfer’s dimwitted message. His hands clench and veins pulse larger as his arms threaten to grow even larger in his rage. Two diametric ideas vie for dominance in his mind, the former just falling short, an angry yet self-pitying ‘upstanding citizens can’t get any dick anymore!’ loses out to the realer concern burning through Pethan Clavies’ mind. One that he shouts at the top of his larger lungs, “I’m not a fucking cop!” Forcing his hands down to his side in a petulant manner he springs up yet another inch in height and is struck lightheaded from the vertigo.

Pointedly moving on from his being shot down by a degenerate he isn’t sure he could label a friend anymore, Pethan stumbles into his living room in search of something. What exactly? He isn’t quite sure. Digging through his mind what for only brings confusion to the forefront, just need a cup of joe and a donut, he shakes it off and grimaces. Need a protein shake before the gym. Need my uniform and my service pist-. Jaw cramping from how hard he’s clenching it to put down these thoughts the, perhaps still, streamer turns on a speaker to blare out the voices in his head as his deeper breaths begin to give way to hyperventilation. Pethan turns into his streamer room which unfortunately brings him no peace. 

His eyes glaze over as they alight on the game, AL:IV still playing. Somehow in the meantime it has abandoned the looping intro video and begun playing proper. The officer he was penned to play as idles in the lobby of the police station as Pethan unconsciously meanders towards the screen. He is less than aware of his movements as he goes to pick up the controller, his clumsier sausage fingers accidentally pause the game, bringing up the character’s stats menu. The first thing he reads is the character’s name: Officer Petan Clarison. His whole body twitches as he instinctively reads it and feels it overwrite his identity once more. That’s not what it said yesterday was it? Well of course it is, he typed in his own name didn’t he?

His head twitches to the side as a wave of old memories are now locked behind his new reality. Unaware of this Pethan endeavors to grasp something hard of his past self to hold onto. Unfortunately any attempt just releases a brief stabbing pain, almost to deliberately discourage Petan to dig deep enough to remember himself. Looking across his stats he finds himself quickly losing interest in the game despite his being unnaturally drawn to it. His eyes glaze over as he looks at his low intelligence, something inside him says he usually maxes that out. After a pause he questions that. When would he have ever even done that before? He’s not even that much of a gamer is he? His neck twitches again as if some neuron tries to fire but can no longer connect. 

He shrugs moving on to see low charisma as well. Petan grimaces before deciding who needs charisma when you have authority. Pride burns in him as he puffs up his chest. Were he wearing a shirt the noise of straining fabric would surely sound as burgeoning pecs begin to bulge. He doesn’t need to persuade or to sway, he simply needs to state. His words are. He is the Law. Or, god. No. He groans as he finds his ability to dispute the assertion increasingly tenuous, “I’m not a fucking pi- not a p- not an, urgh, police officer.” He clenches his jaw finding himself not even able to call himself a pig. Or no, cops at all pigs. Not himself. Cause he’s not, he’s not a cop.

Petan forces his attention back to the game with a good deal of effort as the loud sounds and bright lights begin to actively deter his interest. His investment absolutely does a 180 however when he sees his strength stat not maxed out. Seeing red and exhaling in indignation he looks down at his own body compared to the one slowly spinning on the screen and sneers. Why does he look like a shrimpy little punk. Ignoring the dozens of pounds of muscle he’s put on thus far, Petan quickly tosses the controller down, done with stupid games forever as he makes for the nearest gym.

Keys in a bowl on the counter shine and glisten, somehow asking to be picked up and he thinks about grabbing them before feeling existential fear at discovering what they might unlock. He convinces himself it’s better to get cardio in on the way anyway, god knows he’s not going to step foot on a treadmill. Sprinting out the door he sees a black and white Challenger and his cock pulses at the sight. Before any further thoughts, or other substances, can spill at seeing the vehicle. His vehicle? He grunts and tears his eyes away from the pristine cruiser and sprints away, clearly hard cock bouncing in his athletic shorts. Off to the races Petan purses his lips wondering if he knows where the nearest gym is actually?

Oh, well there’s the one at the station? Groaning to himself at  how quickly that idea sprung to his mind he picks up speed running towards a building with a massive veiny bicep hanging over the door. Hands adroitly cutting the air in front of him as if he were chasing a perp, ugh, running for fun, expertly. As one does. He forces his lips into a tight line as a mustache grows thicker out of his beard and tattoos stretch further across his large arms. He feels something shift in himself as he crosses the threshold into the gym. His beard thinning into stubble as his face shifts and hardens. More importantly his body begins to surge larger, straining his workout attire before he even touches a weight.

Petan stretches at the entrance, seemingly deliberately blocking the doorway as his body rapidly puts on weight simply from entering the gym. Once again immediately damp with sweat his chest packs on weight. Hitherto present but undefined mounds on his chest become two massive muscled pecs, apparently recently shaved. Scratching at his now stubbled face he wonders where his beard went, mumbling something to himself about regulation before he saunters into the gym. Taking wide steps as he adjusts his gait for the heavier package dangling loosely in his athletic shorts. 

He takes a deep sniff in the air which makes his cock even more noticeable as the musk of the gym brings him pleasure immeasurable. The massive man ambles around the place, hooking his thumbs into the elastic band of his shorts, sneering as he feels there should be something harder there, something leather keeping his pants tight above his admirable defined ass. Grumbling to himself as he meanders about the gym as if he owns the place, ogling at the other burly men working out. All of them seem vaguely familiar, and jarringly stereotypical. Burly men wearing oil stained wife beaters arguing at the free weights, playboys with platinum blonde hair pouring water over themselves on ellipticals, some greasy hackers in the corner seemingly out of place, though they’re decidedly more shredded than any man in the van should be.

Petan fights the urge to assert himself over these groups. His chest thrums as he forces his legs to still as there’s a desperate pull to go brawl with the rowdy men. To force the suave white collar criminals if they don’t fork over some cash to him. To just go shout at the mousy sure to be cybercriminals and hope they piss themselves. He sneers at the idea and is really only held back from doing any of them by the desire to do all of them. The rising lust for action, to dominate and enact his rotten will trips whatever sense of self, whatever shreds of Ethan remain and he shakes his head, eyes widening at how much he seems to be losing himself as he feels a weight growing in the pocket of his athletic shorts. 

His eyes then light on another perp, er, civilian. One he knows without a doubt. He sees Chase Waves and nods his head. Keys jingle in his pocket as he swiftly heads over to the man, something deep within him, growing deeper by the second, suggests that is a man he can trust. Seeing the hulking figure saunter over, chest forward, Chase rolls his eyes and puts up his guard. Head down and smile uneasy he speaks up before Petan can issue an order, “Heyy brah, er officer.” Flinching back as he feels treating the man before him with anything but respect would break bad quick.

Petan furrows his brow at this odd intro. Why is this man so on edge? His lips twitch as instinct swirl, he’s my friend, or was my friend, right? Why does he not trust me. Various muscles within the no-longer streamer twitch and grow as he begins to lose whatever ground remains. The surfer must have done something wrong. Petan’s body inches taller, wider, veins bulge down arms as they bulk. His chest presses against his workout shirt as it begins to darken. 

Sleeves quickly appear as the garment shifts black. He grunts as a collar presses out of the neckline before performatively clearing his throat and speaking up, his voice dry and perpetually on edge, “Why’re you so nervous son?” His hair straightens into station standard as he sneers down at the surfer who audibly gulps. He feels his shorts begin to hug his ass and crotch as the fabric grows rigid, thickening as they expand and lengthen down his defined calves.

Waves responds, “We’re just uh, surprised you’re here is all uhhh, sir? Usually your type keeps to the station unless there’s trouble.” Trouble. Petan’s jaw hardens and widens as he looks down at the man, his tennis shoes rapidly thickening into a dark shined leather as the heels raise him even higher over this obvious delinquent. He clears his throat as he feels the cotton sleeves of his workout shirt grow firm and hug his massive biceps. Flexing just to hear his arms strain the tight sleeves he hears fabric tear down the whole front of his shirt as his pecs burst it wide open. Just as soon as his now hairy chest is exposed, buttons pop into existence and struggle to close it back up, still hugging impossibly tight. Trouble. What is there in this gym other than trouble.

Still wordlessly staring he can’t help but feel delight at the discomfort he has evoked in the typically chill surfer bro. Living a life almost deliberately to avoid men like Petan and yet, face to face what can he do. His memory lights to this morning when this twerp DM’d him ACAB, is he just going to let the punk say that to him? Petan’s brow hardens as his shoulders hunch and his back widens. One hand clenched at his side ready to reach for something on his waist that’s not there, the other scratching at his stubbled, or no, bearded face?

Seeing sweat trail down the blonde’s tanned face as he almost shivers in fear of the cop backing him into a corner, some impossibly frail shred of conscience cries out and fills Clarison with disgust at his domineering actions. Fear in his own eyes Petan steps back which only sets Chase more on edge. The surfer bumps into some equipment as he backs away. Hands raised as he speaks up and eyes an escape route, “Ah sorry for the trouble officer! Hope you have a pleasant day!” He sprints off into the locker room and Petan turns to see the commotion he’s raised, every patron in the gym now turns to look at him scowling. His hands once more go to his waist only this time he finds the leather belt he has been so craving to wear.

Biting his lip as weight begins pulling the belt down at every angle he struggles between pleasure and fear as bulky black items begin to appear from nowhere on his belt. Each new yank on the belt fills him with contentment as he finally has the tools of his trade, pepper spray, his trusty taser, his receiver. He audibly moans as he feels the weight of his service pistol finally arrives on the scene. Anyone keeping even half an eye on the officer would see his cock throb through his uniform pants as he does so.

Standing in the gym moaning in delight and struggling not to fondle his crotch only draws more attention to the out of place cop. Men as large as himself begin to rise across the gym and eye the officer with suspicious and disdain. Knowing when it’s time to beat feet Petan makes a note to rub one out later, when he uh? Gets back to the station? Twitching larger as he lets that slide without dispute he shakes off his masturbatory plans and sets to the crowd. Petan shouts over the din of clanking weights with bluster and authority that shall never leave his tongue again, “Yew all can return to yer business. Keep it clean and we’ll have no trouble.” He makes a decidedly not commanding expression as he looks so uncomfortable at the volume and weight of his words. Despite this everyone seems to listen and obey, cock throbbing once more as he sprints out the door, new car keys already in hand.

He clicks the keys and his pristine patrol car sounds off, he hops in the Challenger the station yoinked from some drag racer and speeds off. There’s a badge hanging from the rearview, P. Clarkson. Peter without a thought or hesitation yanks it off and throws it on, comfort filling him as he feels he just found the final missing part of himself. Leather seat creaking under him as his huge form shifts larger yet again, clearly unhealthy veins bulge down his arms as he speeds down a thoroughfare, unconcerned with the other drivers as he goes to the only place he can think of. The only place that matters to him. The station.

His face shifts yet again as he enters a different part of the city, smiling as he nears what may as well be his home. It is his home. Tattoos shift in the same ephemerality that apparently encompasses the whole of his form. Some other scofflaw runs a red light and his hand flashes to press a button that activates his sirens. Shaking head to stay on target he instead uses the sirens to run the red light himself before simply keeping on his way to the station. Each inch closer he finds himself drifting permanently away from the streamer he once was. Good riddance he thinks, twerp probably pirated games anyway.

Theme music from AL:IV begins playing from his game stereo and he smacks it until it begins playing the theme of Officer Peter Clarkson, that of the police force as a whole. Shifting in his seat as his bulge hardens and fills his pants and his butt forces him to sit higher in the seat. Officer Clarkson swerves across lanes and finally pulls into the station, expertly drifting to a stop. His eyes take a few seconds to adjust as he hops out of his car, as if the world were loading in around him. He gets out to sit on the hood of his car and his form shifts again. Body mind and face becoming one of a million combinations that Peter Clarkson is to embody. In the game Officer Clarkson doesn’t quite matter. He’s a grunt. He’s a sheriff, he’s the chief. He is whatever the role the force needs to fill, and some unfortunate sod had to take that bullet.

Uniform shifting military green as his torso alone bloats heavier than the whole of Ethan Davies’ body once took up. He thoughtlessly shoves his pistol in his pants for easy access as he goes to sit on his hood and eat a donut as prophesied in the officer’s intro, rather, his introduction cinematic. He sits and waits as the cracks of who Officer Peter Clarkson is begin to fill just enough that he can indeed become anything demanded of him within the world of AL:IV. Oozing authority and dripping with unearned condescension his mind goes blank enough be anything from intro mission cannon fodder grunt to the stogy commander of the department as a whole.

Flashes of his programmed life, of his shifting lives, sear through him. Basic enough to fit any dreamed role as needed, thorough enough that anyone who cares enough to inspect the officer would find substance. Officer Peter Clarkson leans back on the hood of his car as he feels his potential, smirking and fondling his bulging package as the hood creaks underneath him. Bad cop, ‘good cop,’ new blood, hardened detective. Brawny, bulky, wiry, wounded. Officer Peter is a blank slate for the programers to work like putty. Each one of course having the chauvinism and fragile masculinity that they saw fit for the character to embody. 

Officer Clarkson feels in his the roles that he is perfect to fulfill. Overtly virile officers to spar with vigilantes and players who prefer to play as seedy criminals. Goody-two-shoes fresh faced straight shooters who step in to apprehend those the good guys wish to see behind bars. Perhaps preferably for the man he once was, the game was rated M for a reason after all and on the more erotic side of things Peter steps in to be the cop stripper that any male-interested players can see fit to ogle or play with to their heart’s content. Perfectly sculpted body speckled with as much or as little body hair as they so choose.

AL:IV is at the cutting edge, a truly living and breathing game. One that is made more perfect with each and every player. Thanks to fame seeking steamers like Ethan eager to immortalize themselves online, the developers have ensured that even the least compelling characters and storylines are teeming with personality. When time comes that the litany of waivers and contracts signed by any parties involved in the making of the game are up, any content creators ready to move on are absolutely free to return to the lives they lived before. Though who knows, at that time AL:V is sure to be right around the corner.

[badguyswin]

how about a guy caught the attention of a conversative cop, The cop forces to consume a red pill then let him go, later on at home with his boyfriend the changes are kicking in, he is progressivly acting like a MAGA Douche and his clothe are progressivly looking like a cop uniform, when he finally turns into a fully converted MAGA cop he shoves tons of red pills on his boyfriend's mouth, making his changes alot faster and alot more agressive and loud

The rain-slicked street glistened under the sodium glow of streetlights as Harry hurried home, his sneakers splashing through shallow puddles. His rainbow tee clung to his slim frame, damp from the drizzle, and his messy undercut dripped water into his eyes. The encounter with the cop still gnawed at him, a splinter in his mind. Officer Ken Bradley—his name etched on the badge—had cornered him outside the bookstore, his towering presence radiating menace. Ken’s cold blue eyes had bored into Harry, dissecting his liberal ideals with a single glance.

“You’re lost, kid,” Ken had said, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down Harry’s spine. He’d pressed a small red pill into Harry’s trembling hand, the capsule’s scarlet sheen catching the light like a drop of blood. “Swallow it. Or I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Harry had hesitated, his heart pounding, but Ken’s grip on his shoulder tightened, a silent promise of consequences. He noticed in horror that Ken's other hand was resting on his gun holster. Aware that he really had no choice, Harry choked down the pill, its bitter taste lingering on his tongue. Ken’s lips curled into a smirk, and he released Harry with a dismissive shove. “See you around, princess.”

Now, hours later, Harry sat on the couch in the apartment he shared with Greg, his boyfriend of three years. The living room was a cozy testament to their life together: pride flags draped over the windows, a shelf of books on intersectionality and queer theory, and a photo of them kissing at a protest rally, framed in bright blue. Greg was in the kitchen, singing off-key to a pop song as he chopped vegetables, the scent of garlic and thyme wafting through the air. Normally, Harry would’ve joined him, teasing Greg about his terrible pitch. But tonight, he felt… off.

A faint warmth spread through his chest, like embers smoldering beneath his skin. He shifted, tugging at his t-shirt, which suddenly felt too soft, too loose. His fingers brushed his arm, and he froze. His skin, usually smooth and pale, felt firmer, the faint outline of muscle pulsing beneath. He stood, unsteady, and caught his reflection in the mirror across the room. His undercut was sharper, the sides inexplicably tighter, as if someone had taken clippers to it while he slept. His eyes, normally a soft hazel, glinted with a harder edge.

“Harry, you okay?” Greg called from the kitchen, his voice warm with concern.

“Yeah,” Harry lied, his voice catching. He sat back down, trying to shake the unease. But the warmth grew, curling through his limbs, slow and deliberate, like a lover’s touch. His thoughts wandered, unbidden, to Ken Bradley. The cop’s broad shoulders, his commanding presence, the way his uniform hugged his powerful frame. Harry’s cheeks flushed, and he shook his head, horrified. Why am I thinking about him?

Over the next few days, the changes crept in, insidious and relentless. Harry woke each morning to find his body subtly altered. His slim arms thickened, veins snaking across his forearms like rivers on a map. His chest broadened, straining the seams of his graphic tees. One morning, he caught himself flexing in the bathroom mirror, admiring the new definition in his biceps. The sight thrilled him, even as a voice in his head screamed that this wasn’t him.

His clothes began to shift, too, in ways that defied logic. His favorite flannel softened into a stiffer, more structured fabric, the plaid morphing into the deep navy of a police uniform shirt. His skinny jeans grew heavier, reshaping into tailored pants that clung to his increasingly muscular legs. Each change felt like a violation, yet there was an undeniable allure to it—the way the fabric caressed his skin, the weight of the badge that appeared on his chest, gleaming with authority. He’d rip the uniform off, only to find it back in his closet the next day, pristine and waiting.

His mind was changing, too, and that was the worst part. At a coffee shop with Greg, Harry found himself sneering at a barista with a they/them pin. “Pick a side,” he muttered under his breath, then froze, horrified. Greg raised an eyebrow, but Harry brushed it off, his heart racing. Later, scrolling through his phone, he lingered on a news article about a Trump rally. The former president’s brash confidence, his unapologetic swagger, stirred something in Harry. He gets it. He knows how to take control. The thought felt foreign, yet it rooted itself deeper with each passing day.

Greg noticed the changes, too. “Harry, you’re acting weird,” he said one evening, his voice trembling as they sat on the couch. “You snapped at our neighbor for their BLM sign. You’ve been… distant. What’s going on?”

Harry wanted to confess—about the pill, the cop, the creeping transformation—but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he felt a surge of irritation. Why’s he so needy? Always whining. He stood abruptly, towering over Greg in a way he never had before. “Maybe I’m just tired of all this,” he snapped, gesturing at the pride flags, the books, their life. Greg’s face crumpled, and Harry’s stomach twisted with guilt. But the warmth in his chest flared, drowning it out, and he stormed out into the night.

Outside, the city hummed with chaos—honking cars, shouting protesters, the pulse of a world spiraling out of control. Harry’s eyes landed on a campaign poster plastered to a lamppost: Trump’s face, bold and defiant, with the words Make America Great Again in stark red. His lips curled into a smile, and for the first time, he didn’t fight it. The warmth in his body surged, sensual and intoxicating, as if the pill were whispering to him, reshaping him from the inside out. He ran a hand over his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath his half-formed uniform, and a low chuckle escaped his throat. This is power.

Days turned into weeks, and Harry’s transformation deepened. His voice grew richer, more commanding, each word laced with a confidence he’d never known. He spent hours at the gym, reveling in the burn of his muscles, the way his body responded to the weight of the barbell. His apartment, once a sanctuary of progressive ideals, became a battleground. He tore down the pride flags, their colors now garish and offensive to his new sensibilities. He tossed the books into the trash, their pages meaningless compared to the clarity he now felt.

Greg tried to reach him, his pleas growing desperate. “Harry, this isn’t you. We can fix this—please!” But Harry—now calling himself Harrison in his mind—felt only pity for Greg’s weakness. The old Harry was a ghost, a pathetic shadow he was eager to erase. One night, as Greg slept, Harrison stood over him, his new uniform gleaming in the moonlight. He felt a pang of something—love, maybe, or its memory—but it was fleeting. He’s holding me back.

The final piece clicked into place when Harrison ran into Ken Bradley again. He was patrolling the neighborhood, his squad car idling by the curb, when Ken stepped out, his grin as sharp as a blade. “Looking good, Harrison,” Ken said, his eyes raking over the younger man’s transformed physique. The uniform fit Harrison perfectly now, every seam accentuating his powerful build. The badge on his chest bore his new name: Officer Harrison.

“Thanks to you,” Harrison replied, his voice low and warm. He extended a hand, and Ken clasped it, their grip lingering a moment too long. The air between them crackled, charged with a shared purpose. Ken wasn’t just the cop who’d forced the pill on him—he was a brother, a mentor, the one who’d opened his eyes. “You’re my best friend, man,” Harrison said, the words slipping out naturally. Ken’s grin widened, and he clapped Harrison on the shoulder.

“Welcome to the team,” Ken said. “Now, what are we gonna do about that boyfriend of yours?”

Harrison’s jaw tightened. Greg was the last thread tying him to his old life, a life he now viewed with visceral disgust. The thought of their kisses, their shared dreams, made his skin crawl. He wanted it gone—all of it. “I’ll handle it,” he said, his tone cold.

That night, Harrison returned to the apartment. Greg was waiting, his eyes red from crying. “Harry, please,” he whispered. “I love you.”

The words were a knife, but Harrison’s resolve was iron. “My name’s Harrison,” he said, his voice dripping with authority. Before Greg could react, Harrison grabbed him, his strength overwhelming. He forced a handful of red pills into Greg’s mouth, far more than Ken had given him. “Swallow,” he growled, holding Greg’s jaw shut until he complied. Greg choked, tears streaming down his face, but the pills went down.

The transformation was brutal, accelerated by the overdose. Greg’s body convulsed, his lean frame swelling with unnatural speed. Muscles tore through his t-shirt, his shoulders broadening until the fabric shredded. His face hardened, his jaw squaring, his eyes burning with a feral intensity. The soft curls Harrison had once loved straightened into a much tighter cut, and a cop uniform materialized, tighter and more imposing than Harrison’s own. Within minutes, Greg was gone, replaced by Officer Gregory—a hulking, aggressive figure who radiated raw power.

Gregory stood, his massive frame filling the room. “Those freaks,” he snarled, his voice a thunderous growl. “They’re a plague. I’ll wipe ‘em out.” His eyes locked onto the few remaining pride flags still hanging limply on the wall, and he ripped them down, tearing them to pieces with a ferocity that made Harrison’s pulse quicken.

Together, they destroyed the apartment. Gregory smashed the photo frame, glass exploding across the floor. Harrison burned the books, their pages curling into ash. When they were done, the room was a husk, every trace of their former lives obliterated. They were a pair of brutes now, hiding their fragile toxic masculinity behind violence. Gregory turned to Harrison, his grin savage. “Let’s clean up this city, brother.”

Harrison nodded, a fire burning in his chest. He thought of Trump—his strength, his vision—and felt a surge of loyalty. He thought of Ken, his best friend, who’d shown him the truth. And he thought of the world they’d build, one where weakness had no place. The two officers stepped into the night, their squad cars waiting. As they roared into the darkness, Harrison glanced at Gregory, his new partner, and felt a twisted pride. The red pills had taken everything, but they’d given him something better: purpose, power, and a cause worth fighting for.

[inanimatetffantasies]

[malestransforming]

DILF tf, silver fox tf???

snap

Hello there! It’s not often I get asked to age someone up. I’d be happy to help you with this one.

Let’s see… Where should I start. You said silver fox, right? You’re feeling your head get itchy right now, and that’s only because I’m making it shorter. I’m making the sides grey, so there’s your silver! Your jawline is tingling as I make it more chiselled and I’m going to add just a hint of stubble too.

You said older, right? It’s going to show in your face. Some deep crevices and laugh lines, especially around your eyes and mouth. You still look handsome though. Especially now that I’ve made your eyes a piercing blue. Look at me a second. Wow, you’ll have people willing to do anything do you with baby blues like that.

But hey, it’s not all bad! Your body is expanding out as I make your muscles bigger and stronger. Do you want perky nipples? Of course you do. See how they point out on the end of your massive pecs? Holy fuck that’s hot dude.

Bigger arms next! Some massive guns on you. And a full sleeve tattoo. Oh baby it’ll drive your admirers wild.

Imagine getting out of the shower every morning, looking in the mirror and you see this. Actually, we don’t have to imagine. There you go! Like what you see? Yeah I thought so.

Okay but now you’re late for work! Here’s your uniform. Brown pants, brown shirt, black boots. Feel your mind changing as you’re putting them on? Here’s the last piece: a black tactical vest. You’re a cop dude.

But go ahead, snap a picture and send it to that guy you saw at the club. Tell him he’s going to jail unless you fill his hole tonight. Tell him to submit to you. You’re a boss, nobody fucks with you.

[immortalmrwavell]

Getting The Job

(Original story posted November 7th 2021. Original story title “Better Life, Cop Life”) This story has been mildly Updated!

Recently Eric’s life had been going down the drain. First he split up with his boyfriend Jake after discovering he was cheating. Then he lost his job due to staff cuts. And to top it off he then lost his old apartment since it was all in Jake’s name. Now his ex was living in their old place with the guy he cheated with while Eric was struggling to find a new job while living in the cheapest apartment he could find. As he applied for shitty job after job he couldn’t help but wonder what he’d done to deserve all this? Was it all some kind of cruel universal joke?

As he was job hunting, one of the positions that popped up was a job at a small clothing shop called “Threads for Life”. The description of the job itself was extremely vague but he assumed it would just be retail. Working a till and serving customers etc. So he applied.

Surprisingly they were the first to get back to him about his application and in such a short time frame as well. They emailed asking for him to come in for an interview. Of course Eric accepted. Why wouldn’t he? The only weird thing was how close this shop seemed to be. It was just down the road from his old apartment and still rather close to his current one but he could swear he’d never seen or heard of the shop before. He just chalked it up to him being unobservant and forgetful.

On the day of the interview Eric found the shop just where it was said to be. Even after seeing it though, nothing clicked. He could’ve sworn it wasn’t here before. He shook the odd feeling off however as he stepped up to the front door perfectly on time and looking his best.

Upon entering he was greeted by a middle aged man who introduced himself as the owner of the establishment, Tony. The two exchange greetings before Tony ushered Eric to follow him. Eric expected to be taken immediately to an office but instead Tony simply walked through the many isles of clothing with him while chatting casually about the shop and its history.

Before Eric had assumed this to be a simple clothes shop. One that sold shirts, pants and all the rest like most other shops. And it did. But something Eric was quick to notice was how most of the clothes seemed to be matched together in outfits. Rather than being separated into different sections, almost all the clothes in the shop had already been prematched. There were plenty of casual combos like t-shirts and jeans or shorts and tank tops however as they moved from aisle to aisle there were a very noticeable amount of clothes that seemed more like costumes.

Some were more understandable like suits. But a lot of the others?… Eric took note of medical scrubs, fireman uniforms, motorcycle gear, handyman clothes, police uniforms, cowboy costumes, construction clothes and so much more. Eric also couldn’t help noting that none of the clothes seemed to be marketed towards women. He supposed the shop specialised in men’s attire specifically. Still he couldn’t help but find the layout of the store to be… strange.

“Soooo… Eric was it? Before I can give you a job. I want to ask you a couple questions.” The owner said as he sat down on a cushioned stool near the back of the shop, prompting Eric to do the same.

Eric of course agreed to this as questions were standard procedure for almost any interview so he was ready for it..

“Okay first question then. Growing up, did you ever have any dreams of who you’d eventually become? What job you’d want to strive for? What kind of man you’d want to become?” Tony asked.

It was a strange question for sure but Eric still pondered it for a moment before answering. “Well I don’t think I was ever dead set on anything but I remember wanting to be something along the lines of a fireman… or a police officer maybe?”

Tony nodded, seeming pleased with that answer. “Okay then second question. Are you content with the current direction your life has taken or would you still like to fulfill that childhood dream if you could?”

Eric chuckled at the bizarre question. “Well… my life hasn’t exactly been going in a good direction recently. If I could change some things I would. But if you’re asking me whether I’d wanna become a cop then… I just don’t think I have what it takes.” He gestured down at his body. “I’m thin and lanky. Don’t really go to the gym that much and I’m not all that good with confrontation. To be honest I just don’t think I have the right mindset to be a cop you know?” Eric huffed before looking back up at the owner. “And no offense but what does that have to do with me working here?”

Tony didn’t answer at first. He just smiled before standing back up again. The owners eyes glanced around the store, mainly at all the costumes and then turned back to Eric.

“Alright. I think I can give you a job.”

Eric was surprised when he heard that. All he’d done was answer two silly questions. He tried to query as to how those questions even mattered but Tony simply asked Eric to follow him. Confused as ever, Eric did just that.

The pair made their way back down the isles of outfits. They passed by the suits, doctors scrubs and all the other costumes yet again. Only the weird thing was now that Eric was getting a closer look at them, he started to notice how real the costumes looked. They weren’t just silly fake costumes you’d wear to a party. They were the real deal! Actually looking as though they belonged to real firemen and real doctors. Even the tradie outfits looked dirty as if they’d been used for actual tradie work.

Tony stopped in front of the police uniforms. Eric was quick to notice just how real those looked as well. Not just uniform but genuine looking police badges as well. Not to mention the radio, utility belt and even a body cam that all looked completely real. As if they’d been taken directly from actual cops and put on display.

“Pick one.” Was all Tony said.

“What? Seriously?” Eric was baffled. This had to be some kind of joke right?

“Oh come on. Humour me a little. Pick one out.” Tony urged, patting Eric on the back. “Though if I were you I’d certainly pick that one.” The shop owner pointed out a specific uniform amongst the selection. Eric didn’t really see why it’d matter which one he chose as they mostly looked the same anyway.

Eric sighed. “Fine, I’ll pick that one then. Now what? Want me to go try it on.” He joked only to be met by an affirming nod from Tony.

“Changing rooms are just over there.”

Eric raised an eyebrow at the man but decided what the hell. He took the uniform off the rack along with the equipment. Tony then picked up the large black boots and placed them on top of the uniform in Eric’s hands. Eric shook his head as he turned and walked off towards the changing rooms.

He shut the blue curtain behind as he stepped into one of the stalls. It was a fair bit bigger than he’d expected it to be. Eric sat the uniform down on the bench before striping himself down to his boxer briefs. After setting his own clothes to one side, he began to get dressed in the police uniform.

First thing he did was pull on the pants which he found to be rather baggy. He sat down to prevent them from falling as he grabbed the shirt, pulling it on and buttoning it up. He made sure to tuck it into his pants before grabbing the utility belt and strapping firmly around his waist. He still couldn’t believe it had a real taser attached to it and everything. Lastly Eric slid his feet into the heavy black boots which were clearly a couple sizes too large.

With that Eric stood up to take a look in the mirror. He looked ridiculous. The uniform was far too big and baggy on him. He looked like he was playing dress up more than anything. He slid his hands into his pockets as looked at himself a little more, amused by the uniform. Though as his hands dug around in the pockets, he realised something was in one of them. It was small and metallic. Eric pulled it out to reveal a name tag with “J. Desmond” engraved on it. Jokingly Eric decided to pin it to his shirt for a laugh.

Eric shook his head again at how silly this all was. Why had Tony made him put this one anyway? With a shrug he was just about to start taking the uniform off, not wanting to look stupid when he stepped out of the changing room. But before he could even start unbuttoning the shirt, he began to feel…weird. Like a warm wave of pure pleasure began flowing over him. A wave so incredible that he almost didn’t notice his body starting to change.

His upper body was first to see a transformation. His back widening significantly as his flat chest began to bubble and swell into two thick hefty pecs. Pecs that grew larger until they started to strain his shirt slightly. The same shirt that’d been hanging loosely off his frame moments ago now starting to fill out at an alarming rate. Especially as his shoulders bulged to the size of cannon balls while his traps grew to match. His waist grew larger but tighter at the same time as fat melted away in place of pure raw muscle. Showing itself even more so in the form of abs. They weren’t chiseled washboard abs, they were thicker and softer than that but still impressive all the same.

But his arms. They were what really caught Eric’s attention. Partly thanks to the cop shirt he was wearing being a short sleeve which gave him a full view of their transformation. He got to watch as veins pulsed across his skinny twig-like arms as though they were being pumped full of unseen energy. And then with pain or warning they started to swell. His previously non existent biceps began hulking into reality as the muscle beneath his skin inflated. It should’ve been impossible. Seemingly gaining mass from nothing. But his eyes witnessed it all. His forearms expanded rapidly while his hands cracked and thickened. His biceps continued to balloon with power and size until they stretched his sleeves. Only then did they finally stop. His veins subsided as his arms reached their new colossal size.

His upper body might’ve been massive now but his lower body was getting ready to catch up. Eric’s waist and hips had already widened enough for the waist of the cop pants to fit securely. Now it was his legs turn to catch up.

In seconds they put on an unbelievable amount of sheer muscle mass. It was as though someone had plugged an air pump into his legs and started filling them up. But it wasn’t air. It was pure real muscle. Eric couldn’t help but groan a little as his pants began to feel tighter. He leaned against the wall of the cubicle for support as his thighs and calves continued to bloat thicker and more powerful by the second. The once baggy cop pants now fit him like a glove. But it wasn’t just his legs. His backside started to swell as well. His once average butt growing into a juicy muscular bubble ass that strained against the back of his pants perfectly. Not to mention his feet cracking and lengthening similar to hands. Growing multiple sizes until they fit perfectly inside the black cop boots he had on.

When the next change kicked in, Eric’s eyes widened as one of his hands instinctively flew towards his crotch. Grabbing his bulge tightly as even that began to swell and grow. His eyes began to roll back as his cock snaked down one his legs, growing girthier in the process. Meanwhile his balls followed suit as they bloated into fat heavy nuts full to the brim with cum.

His body was complete but his head still had to change. A stinging sensation came over his face as it started to morph. The shape of his head and all of his features altering dramatically until he was unrecognisable from the man he once was. His new look being much sharper and masculine in a way that would’ve screamed high school jock had he been a little younger. All the while the light stubble he’d always carried grew into more of a short well kept beard while the messy mid length hair he adorned shortened into faded crew cut.

“Fuuuuuck…” Eric groaned as the transformation subsided at last. There was a clear difference in his voice. It must’ve been altered with the rest of his body. He found himself looking back into the mirror with amazement. No longer was he that scrawny pale figure of a man he’d seen reflected all his life. Now he was… buff. Really buff! And hot as fuck!. It was unreal. The uniform that was more or less falling off him moments ago now clung to him as though he were made for it. He couldn’t stop himself from running his hands up and down his torso, feeling a set of strong abs hiding under his shirt before drifting back up to squeeze his power new pecs through the fabric. He never thought he’d actually have fucking pecs but here he was now! Groping and kneading them.

In all the excitement his cock began to firm up. Eric could feel the blood rushing to his crotch as his growing erection created a clear outline in his pants. He smirked as he brought both hands down towards his crotch. Gently he rubbed his hands across the length of his dick through his pants.

Eric looked back into the mirror before bringing both arms up into flex. His already hard cock twitched at the sight of his biceps bulging, threatening to rip his sleeves in the process. The strength he felt flowing through his arms… No, his whole body was intoxicating! With his left hand Eric proceeded to grasp and squeeze his right bicep. It seemed impossible, like he was living in a lucid dream!

Just then Eric thought of something he’d always wished he could do. He’d never been buff enough to do it before. But now? He lowered his arms to his sides, stood up straight before flexing his chest. His pecs bounced. Eric’s eyes widened in amazement at the sight of his new muscle tits jumping underneath the shirt. He bounced them a few more times before cupping them again with a sense of pure wonder flowing through him. “These feel fucking amazing…”

Once he’d finished admiring his pecs, Eric remembered something else that’d grown. He turned his back to the mirror and looked behind. His cock twitched extra hard this time as he caught sight of his muscular new cop butt straining against his uniform pants. He couldn’t help himself. Before long his greedy hands were reaching back and grasping at his thick bubbly ass. “Oooohh fuuck.” He growled, feeling just how hefty they were. “My ass is fucking huge!…” Eric murmured aloud, lost in the pleasure. So lost in fact that he didn’t even notice Tony peering through the curtains. Watching with a horny gaze as Eric squeezed and groped his fat new ass. Even watching as Eric went as far as to place his hands just under his ass cheeks and start jiggling them, dumbly laughing as he did.

Eric felt his cock pulsing and bucking uncontrollably as he played with his cop butt. So much so that he couldn’t hold back anymore. Soon enough he spun back around to face the mirror again before unzipping his pants. Tony continued to creep in on the show while Eric shoved a hand into his underwear, struggling to free his erection. With a little effort however Eric was able to let out a satisfied sigh as his girthy python sprung free. The thing must’ve been around 9 inches long and insanely thick. It was every man’s dream cock.

A slapping noise could be heard from the changing rooms as Eric began smacking his cock against his hand while he admired it. Every smack sent a pleasurable shiver through his body. He had to stroke it. He was just able to wrap his hand around its full girth before he started to pump. It had to have been at least three times more sensitive than his old cock as Eric couldn’t stop cursing while he pumped it.

He began to jerk faster as he looked over his new body in the mirror again. His handsome bearded face and buff body. How thick his legs were. How buff his arms had become. How massive his chest had grown. Just looking at it all reflected back at him allowed him to jerk off furiously. He then looked down at his cock. He loved seeing it. Soooo thick and excited as some precum started to drip from the tip. With how sensitive it was and intensely he was pumping it, Eric could tell he was gonna to blow any moment.

He turned to his left, getting a perfect side view of his body. He couldn’t help but fixate on how much his ass stood out. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching his free hand back towards it again. Before long he was groping his ass and jerking his cock all at the same time. The new cop was having the time of his goddamn life!

“Fuuuuuuuccck!” That was enough to send him over the edge. Tony, who was still watching, saw Eric's ass clench and his cock erupt with an enormous load. One so big that it shit cum all over the benches adjacent to the new cop as well as his old and now ill fitting clothes. His cock continued to buck and twitch for a good few moments afterwards. Shooting a few more times as it covered the floor in front of him with cum.

“See. I knew you’d like that one.” Tony finally made himself known as he pulled back the curtain.

Eric whipped around, still panting a little. “Fuck I… my deepest apologies sir… I couldn’t stop myself.” He tried to reason.

“No need to apologise Officer.” Tony smirked as he glanced down at Eric’ softening cock, still dripping cum. “Most find it hard to contain themselves after what you just went through. So no need to worry. I’ll even get it cleaned up for ya.” The store manager smiled innocently.

“Officer?…” Eric repeated what the other man had said to him as though it weren’t the truth. It sounded weird and off putting to hear someone call him that. So why did it sound so right at the same time?

“Well you are a Cop now. Officer James Desmond to be precise, so you better get used to hearing it.” Tony nodded towards the name tag that was pinned to Eric’s shirt.

Hearing that name triggered something inside Eric. Memories of being Cop flooded his mind along with a bunch of other unfamiliar memories. He still remembered who he used to be but now he had a whole new life filling his head that made his old one feel like a fleeting dream. A new life as Officer James Desmond.

“Thank you sir. You have no idea how grateful I am for all this…” James stated, his new manners kicking in right away. Immediately after he tucked his fat new cock back into his pants before pulling up the zip. “But I’ve got to be back at the station in half an hour.”

“No worries Officer! I completely understand. You head off and I’ll be sure to get all your ball batter cleaned. Might take me a while though.” Tony joked, earning a chuckle from James.

“Heh sorry sir. Got myself a pair of bull balls down here.” James gave his crotch a quick squeeze. “Well I’m off. If you ever need anything don’t hesitate to ask for me down at the staton.” He said, passing by Tony as he exited the changing cubicle.

“Oh don’t worry I will.” Tony replied, giving James’ ass a smack as he passed. He continued to watch James’ ass shake as he sauntered away up until the sexy new cop reached the front door.

James hopped into his car, not even noticing it’d been morphed into a cop car, before starting up the engine. As he drove towards the station he couldn’t help but daydream about plunging his cock into some other hot cop’s ass or having another cop fuck his new bubble butt. Surely some of his buddies down at the station would be down for some fun. According to his memories he seemed to recall catching his own partner checking out his ass a couple times…

Back at the shop. “Another life bettered and another hot stud on the streets. A pretty good day I’d say” Tony sighed to himself with a smile before turning back towards the changing room. Looking over at the huge mess of Cop nut he now had to clean. “Well… best get to work.”

[octuscle]

Proll-Stalking

Alter, wenn du 'n richtiger Assi bist, dann denkt halt keiner, dass du was auf’m Kasten hast. Scheiße, als ob einer checken würde, dass du längst am Drücker bist und dass es genug Leute gibt, die dir ihre Kohle hinterherwerfen und auch noch freiwillig deine Sneaker putzen. Kenn ich nur zu gut. Und wenn du dann mit den Jungs nach Lloret de Mar ballerst, glaubt natürlich keiner, dass du in der Business Class sitzt. Jedes Mal dasselbe an der Kontrolle, die fummeln mich da gründlich ab. Aber wenn der Security-Typ heiß ist, schieb ich meine Goldkette schön in die Tasche, bevor’s durch die Schleuse geht.

Dieser Spasti, der mir seit der Kontrolle auf den Fersen hängt, denkt echt, er könnte mich verarschen. Alter, der muss aber früher aufstehen! Sein Plan? Gar nicht mal so schlecht, aber mega leicht zu durchschauen. Dass der Steward mir meinen Jacky Cola über die Hose kippt und dann meint, ich soll den Platz wechseln? Lächerlich! Aber ey, kein Problem, ich hab’s eh gern, wenn mir einer im Schritt rumreibt. Außerdem gibt’s schlimmere Sitznachbarn als so Typen mit Bomberjacke und kantigem Gesicht.

Der Penner gibt sich Mühe, locker zu bleiben, während ich auf meinem Handy 'n paar goile Proll-Bilder als Wichsvorlage durchscrolle. Klar, er glotzt rüber, kann nicht anders. Und natürlich kriegt er 'n Harten. Natürlich folgt er mir auf’s Klo. Und natürlich ist er, wenn er meinen Dödel sieht, plötzlich keine harte Sau mehr, sondern nur noch 'n kleiner devoter Wichser mit ’nem Steifen.

Der Steward drückt mir zum Abschied noch 'nen Jacky Cola in die Hand, und der Wichser darf schön meine Tasche tragen. Klar, Alter, ich kann viel, aber trinken, cool aussehen und gleichzeitig meinen Louis-Vuitton-Weekender schleppen? Nicht drin. Sieht auch besser aus, wenn ich jemanden hab, der den Hampelmann für mich macht.

Der Bullen-Spitzel? Natürlich ohne Gepäck, musste ja spontan hinter mir her. Was für ’ne erbärmliche Tarnung, was für 'n Loser. Aber 'n knackigen Arsch und 'ne Zunge hat der, das muss man ihm lassen. Er packt mir die Tasche in den Kofferraum der G-Klasse, die mich abholt. Fragt noch, ob wir uns die Tage mal sehen. Alter, ist der dumm! Aber hey, ich spiel gern mit Idioten, die mich unterschätzen. Frag ihn, ob er Bock hat, ins Hotel zu kommen. Klar sagt er „Ja“. Jackpot, denkt er. Jackpot, denk ich.

Natürlich kann der Bulle sich im Auto nicht zurückhalten. Er hat gerade erst in 10.000 Metern Höhe meinen Schwanz gelutscht, jetzt kann er nicht bis ins Hotel warten. Eigentlich würde ich ihm meinen Sabber lieber in den Arsch als in die Fresse schießen. Aber ein guter Proll ist zur Stelle, wenn ein Loch gefüllt werden muss. Auch, wenn es eine Bullenfresse ist. Der Fahrer des Wagens ist eine coole Sau. Und eine clevere. Aus den geilen Boxen vom AMG dröhnt „Fick die Polizei“ von Automatikk. Passend!

Im Hotel fragt der Bulle, ob er mal duschen darf. Klar, sag‘ ich, aber bitte auch den Arsch gut ausspülen, bevor ich ihn ficke. Aus der Dusche kommt lautes Stöhnen. Klar, ich habe ihn noch nicht abspritzen lassen, das muss er jetzt nachholen, der Wichser. Ich durchsuche mal seine Jacke. Stinkt geil nach Zigaretten und Bullenschweiß. Muss man ihm lassen, ne geile Sau ist er. Handschellen hat er auch dabei. Das Bett hat Gitterstäbe am Kopfteil. Dann weiß ich schon, was ich mit den Handschellen anfangen werde. Und wenn die Sau so richtig durchgevögelt ist, gehen wir mit den Jungs einen Saufen. Er mag noch ein Bulle sein. Aber Lloret verlässt er als Proll-Sau!

Goile Pics von @proll4you

If you liked to read this in English, please let me know!

[ki-kink]

That's what happens when you go from tanning bed #4 to #8! Police hottie with the brain power of a basic toaster, can't even deal 🤯 #sizzle #toastyAlexei #sunbum #glowup

[worldoffetish69]

[leatherpupcolt]

Linked

These two were probably the dumbest, most hateful cadets in our whole class. Not a moment went by when one of them wasn't smarting off to an instructor, berating a fellow Cadet for being different, or just being a general nuisance, constantly thinking themselves to be the "Straight Macho-Men" this PC world needed. Always late for class, sometimes still hungover, today they decided to "Practice Police Brutality" on the best Cadet in class. This girl was top in class for her marksmanship and athletics, kindest person in the world, and growing up in the south I was taught to respect all people, and them pickin on her was the last straw.

That was 4 months ago, 2 weeks ago we graduated and everyone moved on with their lives and no one even mentioned their disappearance. I think they're doing rather well now, alot better in this form than as some piss poor cops

[sightseertrespasser]

Digging Up Secrets

Reverse Mecha AU spawned by @keferon

Nothing like being trapped underground with just your crush and concussion for company.

———————————————————————

Time stopped.

Or.

Prowl stopped.

Everything was loud moving crashing dangerous move move move.

The radius of destruction. Inside-outside.

He pushed Jazz Outside. Radius.

Fell. He fell. The floor, hollow topped cylinders of raw materials, Inside Radius.

Prowl was Inside the.. Radius of. The radi..

He can’t See. He can see. But he cannot See. He can’t see behind himself anymore. He can’t see outside himself anymore.

Immobilized. Blinded. Living.

Failing. His body was failing. Crushed beneath tons and tons and tons and-

A sound, different from ringing ears or groaning metal. Choppy. Static.

… voice?

“Prowl?”

A voice. He knows that one. It’s new but he knows it. He does, it’s.. His name is..

All Prowl can hear is static.

“Prowler? C’mon babe talk to me.”

Jazz.

“Ja- agh.” Prowls voice was sticky and his mouth tasted like blood. He swallowed dry air and tried again.

“Ja-azz?”

His voice cracked halfway through. Dully, Prowl hoped Jazz wouldn’t be upset.

“Prowl! Oh man I am so glad to hear your voice!” The reception was poor, or maybe Prowls hearing had finally gone with his eyesight. Either way, the pilot pressed his bleeding ear to the warm and rumbly speaker.

“You made it?” Prowl strung the words together like taffy.

“Yeah, I made it. Thanks for the assist by the way. Can I get a location?”

Task. Prowl had a task to do. Leaning backwards into his own mind, Prowl was met with collapsed corridors and broken edges. He navigated, carefully until he found the correct data packet that thankfully survived the crash.

He forwarded it to Jazz.

Just as he was about to slip under again, Jazz crackled through the comms once more, “Uh Prowler? This is for the pickup location.”

“Yes?”

“I need your location.”

“Um.” Prowl tried to think. “Down?”

Why did he need his location? His mecha was an unfathomable wreck, he couldn’t access the programs to run the numbers, but this kind of damage outpaced the repair costs.

His body was a dead weight.

“You okay man? You’re not talking like yourself.”

Prowl tried to run a diagnostic on his comms, why wouldn’t he sound like himself?

Talking.

Jazz said Talking like himself. His brain caught on there was an implication in that wording and Prowl trudged after it like a dollar in the wind.

“What do I talk like?” He needed more information.

A jump in static that Prowls brain interprets as laughter precedes Jazz’s response.

“You talk very precisely. Like. . you talk like if you don’t get everything out exactly right and in the clearest way possible then people won’t listen to you. Or they won’t understand you.”

“They don’t.”

“You also don’t usually use contractions this much.”

“They do not.” Prowl fixed. There. He was fine.

He could smell his own breath. It smelled bitter, like cleaning chemicals and hospitals.

“Can you keep talking? I think I can get a read on where you are by the strength of the signal.”

That was incredibly sensible.

“You’re so smart. Why are you so.. You- you’re the smarter-est. Smart-trest.”

There was a long pause where Jazz processed and Prowl did the human equivalent of a computer dial up tone inside his skull.

“Ooookay, hey Prowler? What do I do if I find a human with brain damage?”

The tactician pondered this riddle.

Mentally, Prowl pulled up a file of information and read it aloud, “Don’t.. let them do stupid shit..”

“Gotcha.”

The letters in his brain didn’t make sense, he tried to remember instead.

“You need to, you keep them awake because, because it’s bad if they go to sleep.”

“What happens if they go to sleep?”

“They don’ wake up anymore.”

“Hey Prowler?”

“Yeag?”

“Yeah, hey I need you to keep talking to me okay? Can you do that?”

“For the signal search?”

“Yeah, for the signal boo.”

Okay. He had a task again. Talk.

Talking is just making words with sounds and doing them in an order that you want them to do and it will make them sound like they’re not going through with what you don’t want them to do, which is the thing that is not the good thing.

Yes.

Good.

What?

“Oh ho WOW you are super out of it.”

His head lolled back towards the speaker, “What?”

Jazz’s voice was coming through much clearer than before, “I was asking about your favorite foods, then you said you didn’t remember and I was all like “Is memory loss a sign of brain damage in humans?” And then you said you didn’t remember because it’s been so long since you’ve enjoyed eating and I was like “Okay that’s actually somehow worse.” And then you asked me “what’s worse” and this is now the third time I’ve had to repeat this conversation.”

Prowl considered this information, sifting through his memories.

“It’s doughnuts.” He mumbled.

“What’s doughnuts?” Jazz grunted between his words like he’d been exerting himself.

“M’favorite food. It’s um, a circle? With a hole, in the middle. .” He tapped a finger subconsciously. “A torus.”

“Can humans taste shapes? What does a torus taste like?” A little bit of wonder was in Jazz’s voice.

“Nooo no no.” Despite himself, somehow Prowl was giggling. “They don’t taste like much. Lot’s of toppings and sweet stuff, but we used to get plain and I’d dip mine in coffee.”

“So a coffee doughnut then?”

He sounded absolutely whiny but didn’t care, “Nooo coffee doughnuts are different. Plain Doughnut dipped in, um, in plain coffee is.. what’sit.”

Prowl tried to put it into words. Sunlight through a window. Sitting on a desk and a peeling office chair. Splitting the torus because there weren’t enough left for two this time. Bitter and sweet, because Prowl got a coffee and hot chocolate for their usual order. Talking, eating, listening.

“Not plain.”

“Duly noted.” There was a hint of mischief in Jazz’s voice that had Prowl zeroing in on it.

“You- you’re- I KNOW what you’re doing you- you-“ Prowl pulled on all his linguistic prowess. “Fucker. You’re prying- plying? Probing me for all my secrets!”

Prowl thumped his gloved hand against a random dead screen inside his mecha.

“Ooo you got me there. Alien invader, come to probe ya. So what do you find attractive in a mech? Er, man.”

“Visors r hot.”

Either the speakers were shorting out or Jazz was. The static resolved back into coherent speech, “Oh I was so not expecting you to actually answer that. Your filter is a little broken right now huh?”

Refusing to answer, Prowl grumbled disgruntedly.

“Wait, are you into Tarantulas? Is that why you let him do that shit to you?”

“Wha-? No I’m not- what? Jazz, Tarantulas is just a coworker. He’s necessary. He’s not- I need him I don’t want him Jazz.”

“Prowl I think he’s killing you. What does he do that’s so “necessary?”

Prowl tried to find the words and began a tumbling run of it.

“He listens to me. And it does, feel good sometimes. The attention. And the compliments. But I don’t need that, I don’t need to be liked by anyone. I need to be better and he listens to me and then makes me better. You don’t- you wouldn’t understand. I have to be faster. I needed to be faster and I wasn’t and Tarantulas is the only one who will help me.”

“Respectfully, but someone who lets you destroy yourself isn’t helping as much as you think they are.” The bitterness in his tone made Prowl go quiet.

“Prowl, I’ve seen you do some absolutely crazy shit to save an absurd number of people. You literally just saved my life and now you’re talking like that isn’t enough?”

“You don’t know. Tarantulas knows.”

“Then what the fuck does Tarantulas know about you that I don’t?” Jazz shouted through the speaker.

“If I was faster it would’ve been me!” Screaming into the confines of his mechas cabin, Prowl choked on the stale air.

His head spun. There was an intense pressure against his chest and something wet dripped tracks down his nose, pooling onto his visor.

“He got to the gate first. He- we had to close it from both sides. I wasn’t fast enough and he crossed over first and- and I killed my-“ His voice cracked in two.

Prowl dry heaved. He screamed. Had he ever stopped? He was blind and broken and half the man he needed to be. Stretching out what little remained of his soul until it could cast the shadow of a complete person.

Shooting pains dulled into cracked bones of exhaustion. Where the marrow seeps away to leave nothing behind but a sad sack in the limp shape of a human being.

Why was he so dizzy? Why did everything hurt? Prowl tried to scan around himself but came back with nothing. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t remember why he was crying but the pain was so familiar that he did.

A sound, different from ringing ears or groaning metal. Fast. Gentle.

A voice. A voice he knew.

Prowl hiccuped and tried to lean into the sound.

“Hey hey hey, Prowl you’re okay. You’re okay we don’t have to talk about any of that anymore.”

Jazz. The voice was Jazz, he knew Jazz.

“Can you just start counting or something? Recite the alphabet?”

Prowl felt his eyes start to slip closed. Listening didn’t hurt. He wanted to not hurt.

“I’m almost there baby, you’ve just gotta stay awake a little longer. Just a little longer okay?”

Maybe it was a trade? The foggier Prowl got, the clearer Jazz became. Jazz was supposed to get closer. That was good.

“Prowler? Please say something.”

The sounds washed over him. It continued for a while, lulling him down further.

He couldn’t remember why he’d been hurting.

He couldn’t remember much of anything.

Silence.

Blissful silence.

“HONK”

Prowl woke with a shout.

“Fu- Wha- What?!”

Heart racing, Prowl tried to figure out where the hell he was and what the hell just startled the shit out of him. Coming up blank on both fronts.

“Prowl! Shit. Keep talking to me. I see plating, it’s looks like you’re face down. There’s some metal beams in the way. I can’t lift them. Tell me how to reach you.”

Prowl was still reeling from the honk. He felt out the remains of his mecha.

“There’s a breach. Right side of m’chassis.”

“Okay. Okay. Ah shitting fuck.”

Prowl was slipping again, but he couldn’t. Why couldn’t he..?

“I’m fine. Jazz. You can jus’ tell them where I’m buried. They’ll get the mecha back later.”

“And you’ll live that long?”

“Umm..no?” Prowl didn’t understand the question.

He heard something that sounded like alien cussing.

And then a scraping against his side.

“Prowl?”

“Jazz?”

“Start disconnecting. I’m getting you out.”

Prowl barely initiated the disconnect sequence before an earth shattering screech of metal tearing away whited out his thoughts.

It felt like it went on forever. The residual power sparked around the open chest wound of his mecha. Prowl was blind. Again. So much of him was missing, missing, missing.

He didn’t realize his eyes were open until a bright blue blob bobbed into view.

“Heya Prowler.”

He’d know Jazz’s voice anywhere.

Prowl was pretty much useless. All he strength was going into staying awake. Because Jazz wanted him to stay awake.

That started out easy. Staying awake. With the pain of extraction and disentangling of limbs from harnesses.

It got much harder once Jazz had him. There was this, this sound. Like a hum. But slowly ebbing and flowing, like slow calm breathing.

Prowl pressed his ear to something warm and rumbly. Metal surrounded him. He wanted it to press harder until he could phase out of his broken body. But it just held him steady.

“Dij.” He tried. “Didou get smaller?”

The voice he knew laughed in.. fear? Relief? Prowl didn’t know. Wasn’t his strong suit.

He could feel the rocking of steps. The metal got a little warmer and time ran in little circles around his head.

And Prowl fell under.

Much, much later, Prowl woke up. Properly this time.

It was a familiar enough sight. Tile ceilings, beeping machines, the general scent of chemicals that denoted Tarantulas’ presence.

The scientist wasn’t immediately here, surprisingly. When Prowl turned his aching neck to find him, instead he saw a plain blue box next to his bed.

Curiosity peaked, Prowl dragged a protesting arm over to the side table, thumbing it open on the second attempt.

Inside, were two plain doughnuts and a closed cup of coffee.

Scrawled on the inside of the lid, “Could you describe them for me later?” - J

———————————————————————

Prowl spent a good 15 minutes trying to work out how the fuck Jazz’s giant metal ass hand delivered that box into a tiny ass room three stories below ground level.

Because there was no way in fuck Tarantulas was going to let Prowl eat that, and it took him another 15 minutes to remember Tiny Jazz. Then another 15 to determine if that was a hallucination or not.

This is future science land were scientists are just wizards with an aesthetic, so Tarantulas will get Prowl back to “normal” pretty quickly.

Additionally, we’re seeing only what Prowl remembers from his conversations with Jazz. Poor dude was digging for hours trying to keep Prowl awake and not set off anymore emotional land mines. With varying degrees of success.

This is probably (for my own sanity’s sake) the only reverse mecha au story I’m writing so if this inspires you go nuts and make it!

-SSTP

[attyrocious]

survivor's guilt

[mrrharper]

mrrharper Masterpost

what's up bros

to make this blog a bit more accessible, this is gonna be an index of all of my stories and other stuff connected with me, neatly divided into themes

also hey, i have a discord server for horny bros that y’all should join asap - here's the link

everything's under this pic of a hot stud

Jock TF

Todd goes to a gym / Academic requirements / A Son, Reformed / Muscles In Chains / The Rookie's Figuring It Out / Headphones In, Guns Out / Waiting For The Roommate / Mandatory PE Class / A Real Jock's Supposed to Be Dumb / Cocky And Proud, By Accident / Elevator Malfunction / Former Friend / There Are Always Jocks / Desperation In College / The Jocks Of Dark Forrest College / Strings Attached /

Jock-focused

Under Armour Jock™ / Coach's Process of Developing a Jock / More Loyal, More American, More The Same / Muscle Memory / Inside A Jock's Mind / Script For A Jock / No-Trade Clause / Taming The Football Beast / Enforcing The Bro Code / Just Let It Go, Brah /

Cop/Soldier reprogramming

Programming Adjustment / Law, Order and Musk / Personal Muscle, Uniform Included / A Guard Programmed To Control And Obey / Summer Bootcamp / Army Surplus / Neighborhood Association / Another Cop For The Collection /

Gym Bro TF (and adjacent)

Gym Bro / Bro Advice / A Workout Break / This Is How You Recruit Gym Bros / Waking Up Huge And Jocked / Empty Eyes, Pumped Bis / The Grindset / Big Bro's Job / The Bro Zone Resort /

Inanimate TF

Not In The Exhibit Brochure /

NPC TF

Player Of The Month / Guarding The Base / Gamer Night /

Biker TF

Fitting Into The Gear /

Other stuff

Discord - I run a discord server for other horny bros, come join us

Commissions - I am open for commissions. Want me to write you a story? Check the linked post for all the necessary details

#AMA - you can see all the questions I have answered from previous AMAs under this hashtag

Ko-fi page - you can support me and my work on ko-fi

[aznisure]

my beautiful princess with a disorder

[octuscle]

Hey support, I have a unique request. See, my dad is a retired police officer and he’s been kinda sad recently cause his old partner pass away. I was wondering if there’s some way that I can use your app to make him a young officer again and make me his partner so he can remove that. I’ve seen the pics of the two of them and they were definitely big muscles studs back in the day. Do you think that would be possible?

"Tell me about the old days!" Normally, you would never ask your father to do this. The boring and tedious stories always repeat themselves anyway. But today you feel you owe it to your father. You look at old photos and your father talks. He literally blossoms. It does him good. And it's good for you.

You see a picture of him in his summer uniform. The short sleeves of his shirt emphasize his powerful arms. You ask if no one had tattoos back then. Hard to imagine today. Your father says he thinks tattoos are cool too. But back then it was unthinkable. It's different today… Artistic images begin to form on your arms, barely visible.

Damn, your father was already an attractive man. The hairstyle was perhaps a little strange. I wonder if he wasn't ashamed of it. Your father laughs. He was always up to date with hairstyles. It was very fashionable. When it came to haircuts, he was more of a trendsetter… Well, that's still the case, you think as you look at yourself and run your hand through your perfectly trimmed undercut.

There is only one picture of your father in which he wears a moustache. His colleagues, on the other hand, almost always seem to have a beard. When you ask him about it, he replies that he was always the good cop in the game of good cop, bad cop. And a clean-shaven chin simply suited the good cop better. You scratch your three-day beard. Your father is always perfectly shaven, that's true. And that's why he always looks so much younger. On the street, you'd estimate him to be 40 years old at most.

Your father was first in the traffic police, then he switched to the criminal investigation department and made a career there. He switched to management positions in the office quite early on. In his younger years, he was really a muscular eye-catcher. Over the years, he got a bit fuller. You ask him whether he would have the same career again today. He says that he was jealous of the SWAT guys early on. He would have thought that was cool.

His body would have gone along with it. He's damn well trained. Well, maybe not as muscular and defined as you. But he just joined the squad. You've been with the squad for a year and took him under your wing as a mentor six months ago.

Man, he was such a wimp when he was fresh out of the academy. He was still wet behind the ears. But since then he's really come on. Good, you spend a lot of time together in the gym and in the tattoo parlor. A lot of people think you're siblings. But you're just partners. In the SWAT unit. And occasionally in bed. But only without eye contact. Otherwise it would be totally gay!

[ki-kink]

So, like, the tanning bed 8 was totally sponsored by the cops. The visitors are creating like, super dumb, but also hot followers of orders.

[siennamoth]

hey guys i had to draw this after finding out about another thing the australian government wastes its money on (THE 2016 BMW?!! AS A POLICE CAR?? WHY???) . also i do feel like its more like smokescreen vibes but i hate him so prowl it is. i will draw it properly someday okay