#redneck tf

[satyrtransforms]

TF Goals

[octuscle]

Removalist

Why couldn’t his friends just hire a moving company? Why was he always the one hauling boxes for other people? He’d never asked anyone for help—not once—and, for God’s sake, he wouldn’t start now. If he needed a handyman, Dad’s credit card would sort it. Still, he didn’t have many friends in college, and refusing to help with someone’s move would only make things worse. But he didn’t feel like ruining his clothes. So, he asked Manuel, the gardener, if he could borrow some work gear.

Now he stood in his dressing room, eyeing himself in the mirror—looking vaguely ridiculous in a wife beater, thick work pants, and scuffed boots. Manuel had even lent him a cap. Sure, it all fit Manuel—but Manuel had at least thirty kilos more muscle. At least the clothes were clean.

He climbed into his Mercedes and rolled down the long driveway. While the gate opened, he checked himself in the rearview mirror. Honestly? Not bad. The wife beater clung to his chest just right. He might even pass for someone with biceps.

A few minutes into the drive, his phone rang. "Hey man, are you on your way yet?" "Sure thing, bro," he said. "Think you could swing by the hardware store? Need a few things." "On ma way!"

They’d sent the list via WhatsApp. He pushed a cart through the aisles, loading it with screws, tape, some plugs. Did he have gloves? Probably not. He grabbed an extra pair just in case. At the checkout, the woman in front of him turned around and wrinkled her nose. Right. He hadn’t showered. And the undershirt wasn’t exactly fresh. But this wasn’t Saks Fifth Avenue—it was a hardware store.

He dumped everything into the trunk of his Mustang, where his toolbox still sat. Most of it he wouldn’t need, but better safe than sorry. He leaned into the passenger footwell, rummaging between McDonald’s bags and beer cans. There—half a pack of filterless Marlboros. Almost empty, but one would do. He lit up, took a drag, and looked in the mirror.

A beast stared back. Full red beard cascading toward thick pecs, mullet grazing his broad shoulders. Hell yeah.

He knew college kids. No one ever had their shit together on moving day. Basics were always missing. So he made a quick stop at the supermarket—two crates of beer and a fresh pack of smokes. He heaved the cases onto the back of his Dodge Ram, next to the ladders and tools, then lit another cigarette. The radio played a twangy country tune, and as he scratched the thick hair on his chest, he sang along at full volume.

He loved doing these jobs on weekends—helping rich college kids move, watching them struggle to use a cordless drill. He was a gardener by trade, sure. But this? This was better than TV.

[disciplined-cornfed]

Southern Gentlemen Sub (Business Bro + Cowboy Mindset/Accent/Style)

This subliminal helps you build the strength, confidence, and southern-style politeness that every true cowboy embodies. Feel yourself grow stronger, both physically and mentally, while living by the cowboy code of honesty, respect, loyalty, and courage. 🤠

🌟 Key Benefits:

Physical Transformation: Develop a strong, bulky cowboy physique, built through hard work and grit. 💪

Cowboy Code: Live by the values of the cowboy—loyalty, courage, and respect guide your actions.

Confidence Booster: Flex with pride and walk tall, your body and attitude showing your inner strength and discipline.

Cowboy Grit: Gain the functional strength needed for the cowboy life—riding horses, roping, lifting hay bales, and working on trucks.

Southern Politeness & Hospitality: Naturally treat others with kindness, respect, and hospitality, offering southern charm while remaining strong and confident.

Mental Strength: Build the mental resilience to handle life’s challenges like a true cowboy—calm, collected, and focused.

Love for the Cowboy Lifestyle: Embrace everything from country music and hunting to fishing and the thrill of riding, feeling more connected to the land and your cowboy roots. 🐎

Embrace Your Cowboy Look: Flex and feel proud of your cowboy build, knowing that your strength is a reflection of your hard work and discipline. 🎯

This subliminal makes you a well-rounded cowboy, embodying strength, respect, and southern hospitality, all while living by the cowboy code of honor and discipline. Are you ready to live the cowboy life? 🤠🏞️

[misctf]

Country Living

When he stopped to help you on the side of this lonely country road, you couldn’t have been more grateful. You didn’t expect your car to breakdown on these desolate backroads. Nor did you expect a lack of cell service. Your years studying in college didn’t exactly give you the knowledge on how to diagnose and fix cars. But based on all the smoke, you figured something was wrong.

“Aw, don't you worry none, I'm right happy to help y'all out.” He removed his ball cap and ran his hand through his short brown hair, “Name’s Bucky. What brings y'all to this neck of the woods?”

He was certainly taller and more muscular than you- not to mention ripe with the smell of a hard day’s work. And you could tell he was looking you over, the juxtaposition couldn’t have been clearer. Country vs city boy, manual laborer vs keyboard warrior, dropped out of high school vs college educated. The list could go on. But despite the bias you held towards these country folks, you were happy he was helping. And so you introduced yourself and expressed your sincere gratitude. Bucky smiled and gave you a bone crushing handshake.

“Ain't no trouble at all, I'm just glad to help out.” He smiled warmly, his dark eyes, while lacking intelligence, were filled with kindness and just a bit of mischief.

He winks at you and you felt your heart flutter for just a moment. Maybe it was the way his stubble framed his tanned face. Or the way the sweat dripped from his muscular arms as he worked on your car. Or perhaps it was the occasional glances he gave you and the sly smirk that told you he knew you were checking him out.

“I reckon I know what's wrong. Just need to grab a tool from my garage.” He said, wiping the sweat from his brow, “You care to join me? Looks like you could use a sip of somethin’.”

It was true. In the sweltering heat, you were certainly thirsty. And while part of you wanted to stay with your car, you felt beckoned to go with him. And so you did. You climbed into his pick-up truck and watched as he revved the engine. And before long, you were cruising down the old country road with your car disappearing from sight.

“Well, dang if this ain't my favorite tune!” Bucky said, turning up the volume, “You figure you into this kinda music?”

It was some country song. One about cars, beer, and living on a farm. Not something you’d listen to voluntarily. But as Bucky sang in his southern twang, you found your foot tapping along. Soon you were mouthing the words, almost as if you knew the song by heart. And a moment later you joined in with him, the two of you putting your hearts into every lyric. You barely noticed the southern twang that garnished your voice.

“Well, I'll be darned! Can’t believe you like these kinda tunes. No offense intended, but you don't quite fit the mold, do ya?” He says with a chuckle.

Bucky gives your arm a playful punch and you look down at the exposed, tanned skin of your bicep. Your muscles were contracting and seemingly getting larger, highlighted nicely by the wifebeater that clung tightly to your skin. You look up at Bucky and he gives you a wink. Again, you feel comforted by his kind smile and playful dark eyes. You turn away and absentmindedly run a hand over your growing biceps. So firm and tight, the skin somewhat weathered. But deep down you know something isn’t right. Its nagging at you, begging for you to say something. To at least find out what’s happening to you. You want to tell Bucky, but he’s just pulled up to his garage.  

“Mind givin’ me a hand findin’ my toolkit?” Bucky asks. You nod quickly- your anxiety being pushed deep into your subconsciousness. And as Bucky enters the garage, he pulls off his sweaty wifebeater, “Don't pay me no mind, it sure gets mighty hot 'round these parts. You’re welcome to do the same.”

And you follow his example. As you do, you catch a whiff of your pits. The musk that invades your nostrils is a far cry from the vegan deodorant you applied this morning. Moreso, your usually well-trimmed pit hair is now a curly damp bush of dark brown hairs that poke out when you lower your arms. The smell makes you dizzy and you feel like you might fall over, but Bucky lends you a hand.

“Don’t go faintin’ on me now.” He says with a grin, “We got a lotta work to do.”

“Don't you worry 'bout me none, I got this here handled.” You say- the words leaving your mouth without much input from your brain. Bucky’s eyes light up and he grins.

“I shoulda known that.” His laugh fills your ears and you swear it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve heard. He notices you admiring him, “Gotta find those tools now.”

You nod and start rummaging through his garage and workbench. You pick up a wrench and place it down. Then another and another. You never really needed to learn basic mechanic stuff, let alone the names of wrenches. You were more focused on your degree. Your degree in... In...? You stare at the composite wrench in your hand and your eyes narrow. You were studying something at that univer... uni... book-learnin’ place of yours, right? Your thoughts are distracted when some oil spills on your hands.

“Gosh darnit.” You mutter, wiping the oil on your work jeans. Work jeans that were stained and torn from years of laboring.

You turn towards Bucky to say something, but instead find yourself gawking. His perfect stubble across his face, the sweat gleaming on his firm and toned muscles, and the way his chest hairs frame his pecs. Your dick gets hard and you quickly start to massage your bulge. And when you see how well his work jeans fit tightly around his juicy ass, you can’t but help let out a whistle.

“You say somethin’?” He asks, turning to face you, “Yeehaw! Look at you!” He says, clearly gawking.  

You turn to catch a glimpse of yourself in a nearby mirror and your eyes widen. You bounce your juicy pecs, appreciating the light dusting of hairs that decorate them. You raise your thick, meaty arm and flex, causing your muscles to bulge. And then you look at your face. It had squared out a bit, giving it a masculine edge and your cheeks now sported stubble. You felt powerful, and you couldn’t help but continue to flex.

“Hey there big fella.” You let out a masculine moan as Bucky comes from behind you, his arm reaching around, and his hand grabbing a fistful of your muscle tit, “You’re bigger’n a bull in springtime!” You just nod, unable to produce words as pleasure courses through you from his teasing hand, “It sure does get lonesome out here in these parts. Reckon I wouldn’t mind some company, if it ain’t too much trouble.”

He spins you around, your bodies pressing up against one another. His hand moves down your abs and then down your work jeans. He’s staring deep into your eyes now, a primal lust replacing the prior warmth from earlier. And for the first time, you feel lost. Scared even. As though you’re going down a path you wouldn’t be able to back away from. The end of one chapter of your life and the start of another you weren’t sure you wanted.

“Wait a minute... somethin’ don’t feel right. I... this ain’t who I am.” You say, unable to talk like you used to.

“Now, don’t go overthinkin’ it. Just keep your eyes on me.” Bucky whispered, his hands working to undo the buckle on your jeans.

You watch as he pulls down your pants and slowly gets down on his knees. Your enlarged, throbbing dick continues to grow, adding inch after inch. Bucky is nearly salivating as he comes face to face with your monster, and without another word, his tongue traces along the shaft. You moan as his mouth expertly works your cock. He bobs up and down, taking its entirety into his mouth. You feel as his hands wrap around your waist and he grabs a fistful of your muscular ass, causing you to let out another deep, masculine moan. You can feel your dick throbbing, your balls growing heavy with your seed. And as he expertly works the head of your cock, you can feel it. You’re getting close... so close. And then it stops. You’re breathing heavy now, and you look down at him. A sheen of sweat covers your body, dampening your body hair and filling the air with your country musk.

“Wh... why’d ya stop?” You breath out.

Bucky smirks, “You sure 'bout this, darlin’? Leavin’ behind all that city livin’ and book-learnin’? Just you and me, livin’ simple out here?” He licks along your shaft again, “Once you say yes, that’s it. No turnin’ back, no second thoughts. You sure you’re ready for that?”

Was this what he wanted? To bring you so close? To send you into a horny frenzy? To make it so that in this moment, all you’d be able to say was yes? With a smirk and a wink, he went back to sucking your cock. And as he did, you could feel it. You could feel your brain shrinking. Your memories growing up in suburbia vanished. As were your memories of going to college in the city. Nerdy interests like videogames and comic books vanished from your brain, and you felt terror as you forgot about your friends and family. Everything that made you you was vanishing from your mind. Instead, you could feel new interests: farming, hunting, woodworking, lifting weights, and drinking beer with your husband after a long day. Your fashion sense simplified: wifebeaters and work jeans, and honestly going shirtless was preferred. And as your eyes dimmed to reflect your lack of intelligence, and Bucky bobbed up and down on your dick, you finally came, releasing all of who you used to be. And as you filled your husband’s eager throat, you blacked out.

If someone told you who you used to be in your past life, I’m not sure you would go back. When the police came by a few days after your transformation with a missing persons poster of some kid, you had no idea who they were talking about. You quickly forgot all about that encounter. You had more important things like fixing the truck. But before you did that, you should check on Bucky. It’s been a few days, and your balls were mighty full.

[masterwolftfs]

THE ATTIC CLEAR OUT: CAMO JACKET

@buck-whitman was bored. He'd been doing the same job for years now, and had next to no time or energy to start any new hobbies. His coworkers would regularky invite him for drinks, but he was always too tired and burned out after work to go. His old college friend Hunter would invite him hunting.(and while the pun was not lost on Buck, it was lost on Hunter a lot), and again, even though he wanted to, who had the time? If he was honest, he was scared of trying the new hobby anyway. What if he was bad at it? Right now, he was in a position where he was comfortable, and good at what he did. So what if he was a little bored? Isn't everyone his age?

He'd not taken a holiday day off all year though, and it was reaching the cutoff point to use it, so with his friend's consistent nagging combined with his works HR department forcing him to use it, he had no choice but to finally bite the bullet and give it a go. Looking online for hunting gear, he came across my post. A camo jacket, perfect for wearing when hunting, for free? There had to be some catch, surely. But as he scoured the listing for any fine print or clue that would expose his info getting stolen, or it being a scam, he couldn't find anything evidencing that worry. He'd been worried for too long, he decided. Maybe this time, he'd just finally do something new. He messaged, and within an hour confirmed delivery. That was it, he thought. I did it.

A few days later, the jacket arrived, and he hastily shoved it in his backpack and rushed out the door with all the equipment he'd ordered for the trip. Hunter was waiting in the drivers seat of his car, tapping his hand on the dash impatiently.

"You ain't going dressed like that, are ya?" His friend asked, the southern drawl slipping out. "It's gonna be fucking freezin campin out, ya not gotta jacket or coat or sumthin?"

"Yeah, theres a jacket in my bag. I'll put it on." He replied, grabbing the jacket out his bag and slipping it on. He felt a shock on the back of his neck as he did, but he chalked it down to static after checking the spot with his hand and feeling nothing, not noticing the callouses forming on his hand as he did.

They drove, catching up about each other's lives as they did. Hunter was living in West Virginia now, running his own small farm and living off the land. He'd come out as gay a few years back, and his family had disowned him, so now it was just him, the fields and his farm. As Hunter spoke, Buck's posture was shifting, his bones elongating and muscles growing, causing him to shift and manspread a little in the car. His arms were expanding slowly filling out the jacket nicely.

"Ya been working out, man? Those arms are darn impressive if I say so maself." Hunter said, smirking and admiring Buck's arms.

"Um... no, I guess I've just put on weight somehow recently and not noticed? Haha..."

"Nonsense, but if ya don't wanna tell me ya secret, I won't push." Hunter laughed.

They continued on, Buck's arms slowly growing all the way, and when they inevitably reached the site they'd be camping, and set up their tents (one each, Buck didn't want to share with someone else, despite Hunter being fine with it), they settled in for the night. Buck headed into his tent to rest, while Hunter sat by the campfire, humming to himself and looking at the stars. Normally, the humming, paired with the faint rustling of tree leaves would've driven Buck insane. But tonight, it helped him slowly drift to sleep.

In his dream, he was running. The forest stretched out endlessly, and he ran, desperately chasing something. With each step, his legs felt stronger, wider, more muscular, and he got faster. But not fast enough to catch up to whatever it was he was chasing. Buck didn't know what it was either, he only know he needed to reach it, more than he needed anything else. More than he needed to breathe.

As he ran, he heaved and breathed, struggling at first to keep up breathing with his speed. Each breath empowered him though, strengthening his lungs, forcing them to grow stronger, better. His breaths getting more deep, and powerful, and heavy, helping him more and more.

Still not fast enough, he thought.

He hit a rock and tripped, eating the dirt. He shouted, bellowing in rage, stood back up, and ran again. His voice was deeper, manlier, huskier. And he had a slight southern twang.

He poured everything he could into running, desperate to catch the thing. His body strengthened in reply to his desires, doing everything it could to assist his pursuit, and after what felt like an age, he caught up. He pounced, grabbing the thing with his now massive arms and-

It was Hunter.

He paused, confused at why he felt such a need, and attraction to Hunter. Why did he want them so much. But as he opened his mouth to speak, Hunter kissed him. Tongue flitting into his mouth, and he immediately gave in, kissing Hunter back, moaning in pleasure and enjoying the moment. His face shifted as they kissed, a moustache growing in and tickling them both, his face getting more square, hair shortening, making him manlier.

"I love you, Buck." Hunter gasped between kisses.

Buck woke suddenly, the cold night air pinching his skin. He could hear Hunter humming outside, the tune matching the song they danced to at their wedding, and old country tune. He'd been married to Hunter for 3 years, the day of their engagement being the same day both their families denounced them for being gay. But he was so happy with him, life was so much better with him than it was before, so he didn't care.

He clumsily stood and moved out of the tent, his new body causing him to adopt a wider stance, making him walk with a swagger, and he snuck up behind Hunter, being sure to not make a sound.

"Boo." He whispered, grabbing Hunter from behind in a warm loving embrace, causing Hunter to jump.

"Ya scared me! What'd you do that for-" Buck leaned in and kissed Hunter. "Ohhh..." Hunter melted into Buck's arms, savouring the kiss. It was just them, now. Hunter, Buck, and their farm. And they were gonna hunt and fuck for this week, then go back to the farm life they'd known and loved for years.

"I love you too, Hunter."

[user211201]

Modulated

--- Original author: realhankmccoy ---

“I ain’t no motherfuckin’ redneck, you assholes! Don’t you fucking get it? I’ll never be ok with you being here and disrespecting our gay spaces!” I had shrieked and screamed, and I was being sassy as fuck. But they had darted me, so it was too late for me already. I had been one of the hottest little twinks in Colombia back then. I had such a tight little body, I was non-binary, and I was supportive of my local drag scene. I was absolutely into resisting these fucking fascists and their goddamn bullshit lifestyles, which I couldn’t stand.

That’s how I thought of it all back then, anyhow.

Man, that dart though, it had done its dirty work. I was writhing on the floor of the club, so I didn’t even get to witness the way it transformed me as I went into spasms. It was almost like having a seizure, but I could feel the muscle growing on me, and I could hear my shrieks and wails shift in pitch as I grew on into this whole new, far more masculine body.

I was getting to be built like a brick shithouse really fucking fast, and was taking on more of a mature look. Everywhere I was getting more muscle. I was splitting the seams of my jeans, and my underwear, and felt my back pressing up and splitting my tight pink t-shirt.

When I finally was able to sit up, I was in a daze. I had rendered my clothes asunder. I had bristles of hair all over my face, and the har on my head had grown longer, too, sort of flopping in my eyes. I was a mess.

And then the headache came. I was clutching the sides of my head and moaning, almost screaming in pain out loud, as my twinkish mind collapsed and got replaced by a growing part of me I didn’t even know existed. That part, my friends, is the motherfucking, take-charge redneck stud I am today.

My friends helped me get out of there, and I was still in transition. It takes a good seventy-two hours at least until you can fully collapse one of those weak-ass brains like the one I had before and until a more dominant, superior personality takes over like the one I was starting to get.

So yeah, like I said, I was a mess, and when my friends got me back to one of their apartments, I was still sporadically ranting about how dare those fascists do this to me, they’d never win, this was fucking awful. But as I heard myself talk, there was a growing part of me that was observing myself and thinking “so what? You sound like a raving lunatic. Look at this body! Damn, boy, just look at that muscle!”

Sleeping on it, man, that twink brain of mine must have collapsed even further. I woke up and I just wanted coffee with a splash of alcohol in it, so that’s what I got. Then I added two splashed. I had already stripped out of my shredded pink t-shirt, and my friends had some loose boxers that fit me, but I was just this naked, muscular stud in awe of his own body and trying to come to terms with who I was now.

I was seeing my friends with new eyes, too. They seemed anxious to me, weak, full of nervous, overly feminine motions, jittery, immature, skittish and mostly just kind of fucking annoying. “Those are your friends,” I’d remind myself. “This isn’t you who’s thinking this.”

But that growing part of me was thinking “This is you. This is all you, stud. You’re so much better than them. They don’t even know you’re thinking this, and if they only knew, they’d probably be terrified.” That thought made me want to laugh out loud, so I did.

“What are you laughing at?” one of them asked.

“Oh, nothing man, nothing,” I said, looking away and scratching my head. “These are your friends,” I told myself again, but I didn’t really seem to believe what I was trying to tell myself that morning. “So what if they’re your fucking friends,” my new mind was saying. “They’re fucking losers, man. Don’t let them drag you down. You ought to just get out of here.”

That morning, I was feeling just hornier and altogether more fucked up than I’d ever been. I was thinking, nah, this can’t be the new me. I’m no motherfucking redneck. I don’t think like them. But already I was feeling excited, having this body, having these different feelings, realising that I didn’t feel like such an evil guy like this, not like I thought I would, anyhow. All I wanted to do at that point in time, I felt like, was get the hell away from these people. I didn’t know to where. I borrowed some shoes and a t-shirt that was so tight it hurt, pleading that I had to get back to my apartment. It felt like the shoes would split, and the shirt was riding up on my belly, as I trotted back to my place.

I didn’t know what I was doing or what I was gonna do. When I got home, I felt thirsty, just wanting to drink a little, feeling like that would make this feel better, even though I told myself no, you have to compose yourself, you have to call people, you have to report this. Just one drink, I thought. It turned into shot after shot, and before I knew it, I was drunk, hard in my boxers, having kicked off the shoes and thrown that tight-ass shirt on the ground as soon.

Then I was beating off, and cumming, and the build-up to that orgasm, man, it flooded my brain with some real redneck juice. I wasn’t thinking of the type of guys I usually did. I was thinking about redneck studs, studs like myself, feeling the drool run down my chin as I beat off. As I came, shooting way up on my pecs, rubbing it in with my hand, I was whispering to myself, almost like a confession that I had yet to voice to anyone, “You hot fucking redneck. Holy fuck, you love this, don’t you. You’re a redneck now. Holy fuck. Holy fuck.”

The desire to live for working out and fucking was already growing in me.

Thoughts were just racing through my head then. I knew I didn’t want to be some lame-ass yuppie or some weak-ass queer, man. I felt this powerful attraction to the redneck scene, the working class scene, the country scene, the military scene, the jock scene, you name it, any scene were men were men instead of the glitter fairy I had been before. I couldn’t quite pin it all down at that point yet, but my thoughts were sure racing.

Can you picture me, getting drunk in my apartment, turned on at my own body and swirling thoughts? And then I started to really know, man. I started to know. There was no going back now. The guy I used to be was a loser. I didn’t want to be him anymore. I was pissed off that I ever even was him.

I walked barefoot into the bedroom, checking out his stuff in the drawers and on the walls. Almost none of it would even fit me anymore. His feminine attire and the way his shithole apartment was decorated disgusted me. It made me want to punch the wall, even, so I did that and it felt good. I saw the paint crack and the drywall cave in. This new body had power.

I screamed then, a roar of pure rage and exhilaration. I punched the wall again, and it felt so fucking good that soon I was ripping all his shit off the walls and throwing it in a corner, ripping that flouncy shit off the mattress and I didn’t stop, screaming the whole while, until the bedroom at least look bare bones enough to resemble something a man would want to sleep in. I’d be damned if I ever let that loser back into this mind.

There were a few flashes, sure, and man was he a crybaby as he went out, as well as one hell of an angry little prick. Lots of hatred in his heart. I’d just laugh and say, “Fuck you!” sometimes out loud as I felt that twink brain collapse forever.

And now, as far as I’m concerned, he’s gone man. No longer a part of me, thank God.

I was nervous at first, when I started trying to hang out with guys I thought I’d have a lot more in common with that my old friends. Would they accept me? I was pretty desperate for acceptance at that point. I starting hanging out at a diner that I knew a lot of them liked to frequent, classic diner that pre-dated even the 1950s, a real antique. But these sexy ass guys would show up there, and soon we got to talking over waffles and hash browns.

Soon I was telling them I was darted, and they were saying that was hot as fuck, wanting to hear the story. Soon I was telling it to them, my legs in the air, sweat dripping down my bearded chin, as I was getting fucked.

Months after that, I was almost fully integrated into the lifestyle, man, and soon I was the one doing more of the fucking, especially after I got these sweet-ass tattoos all over my right arm. Getting fully into it, the desire to be that all I could be as man, hell, it ran in my veins now. I was going to let those commies know that I was better than them in every single way imaginable, and I wanted to show it off. I still get hard just at the thought of that, demonstrating my own superiority in the most tangible – well, to them, intangible, because I don’t want them even fucking touching me – methods available to me.

Yeah boys, it meant war for me, just like it had when I was a stupid twink, only this time I was playing for the other side, and it was chess instead of checkers.

Of course, there’s a lot more to life than just that for me, namely having hot-ass sex with all sorts of country studs and military men, hell, being part of that whole network of strong and powerful men who worship and respect other guys who’ve worked for it. I feel like I’m serving my country and being a paragon of virtue for it even when my legs are slung over some guy’s bull neck and thick, rounded deltoids as he plows the fuck out of me with his long-ass rod.

I had never gotten fucked this good when I was a twink.

I do real work with myself now, a man’s work. I dress like a man, I eat like a man, and I live my life like a man. I’m fucking proud of it, too. I love who I am now, and relocated to the other side of town, too, where the action’s hotter and I have way more in common with most folks.

I am sure glad I’m a buff stud with a thick-ass chest these days, and I don’t ever go clean-shaven. Been really into guy’s pits lately, and getting them to flex for me so I can lick those. Yeah, shit, I’ve gotta stop, because here I’ve got a raging boner just telling you all about that right now. I swear I’m way more horny than I used to be. At least seventy-five percent of the time now, I’d bet, I’m a top these days.

I don’t really like bottom boys, either. Their mere existence tends to piss me off, to be honest, so when I do fuck them I tend to be an aggressive power top. A lot of the time I don’t even think of it that way, though. I just think of them as so weak that the same rules don’t even apply to them. Different rules, in a way, because they’re a different kind of guy than me. Much more like women, unable to control themselves, you know how they are. I used to be one of them, and I’m so glad I’m not anymore, that’s for fucking sure.

A lot of the time I prefer to just fool around with guys such as myself. I love topping another top, having to wrestle somebody for hours in a strength and dominance competition. Gets the blood flowing. I like somebody who puts up a fight. C’mon, son, do you have any idea how fucking fun that is for me now? To meet up and hook up with another guy who’s just as manly as I am? That’s the stuff I live for now. I’m ready to just fuck my life away with hot ass guys at this point.

So, yeah, I’m a top who loves to wrestle with other tops and see who can dominate. I must be pretty good at it if I swear I’m scoring a seventy-five percent these days, but that’s just because occasionally I throw in some twink losers. Yeah bud, even some of these leftists get thrown a bone by me every now and again. They need us, and I like them to know they need us. They wouldn’t know what to do without us.

One of these days, I might even check with one of my army friends and see if I can come along on a mission so that I can dart one of them myself. I think I’d laugh my ass off when my dart goes in his neck or his shoulder, wherever it his him. Just to see the look on his face, shit boy. That could turn a guy on just by imagining it, so one of these days I’ll have to make it legit.

Fuck if I care about the loser I once used to be or what I’m supposed to be doing with my life. My life is better now and that’s all that matters to me.

Hot-ass guys, man. That’s what I live for.

[fratttymatty]

Southern Shift

(All characters are 18+)

Maddox had never been much of a believer in magic. Sure, he’d seen the viral videos, heard the wild stories, but he figured they were all some sort of elaborate hoaxes or clever editing tricks. His life had always been a straightforward one: an 18-year-old guy from a fairly progressive city on the coast. He was used to being who he was—a proud gay man, confident and comfortable in his own skin. He didn’t fit in with every crowd, but that was fine by him. He had his friends, his passions, and a future in design and art lined up after graduation.

But when a strange e-mail showed up one Wednesday evening, everything Maddox knew about his life was thrown into chaos.

It came from a source called TrueVision Enterprises, a company he’d never heard of, with a subject line that read: "Your Destiny Awaits — Experience a New Life." Curiosity got the best of him. What could possibly go wrong?

It was a poorly-written message, vague but cryptic. “Ever wonder what it’s like to be someone else? To experience a life you’ve only imagined? Click here to find out.”

A grin spread across his face. Who wouldn’t be intrigued? Maybe it was a prank. Maybe it was a scam. But it was better than staring at the same four walls all night. So, against better judgment, he clicked the link.

The screen went black for a moment, then flashed with a blinding light.

When Maddox opened his eyes, everything had changed.

It wasn’t just the environment—though the suburban neighborhood around him looked radically different from his usual cityscape. No, it was something far deeper, more visceral. He felt it in his bones, in his muscles, in the very way he was standing.

Looking down, he saw the first signs. His body had undergone a remarkable transformation. Gone was his lean but soft physique, the figure of a 5'11" city guy with a slight build. In its place was something else entirely: a lean, toned build with defined muscles in his arms, chest, and legs. His body felt stronger, like he could throw a punch without thinking about it, or lift heavy things without breaking a sweat. But what really caught his attention was his height.

He blinked, staring down at himself. He was taller. Not just a little taller, but by a significant amount. Maddox used to be 5'11", but now, standing at 6'3", he had a commanding presence. His legs stretched out longer than he remembered, and the new height gave him an imposing posture. He’d never been the tallest in his group, and now he towered over everyone, even the people around him who seemed much bigger and broader than he remembered.

His new height felt natural, like it had always been this way. But it also made him feel powerful, larger-than-life in a way that was completely unfamiliar.

He glanced at the house around him. It was large, a two-story place with wide windows, a white picket fence, and an immaculately-kept lawn. The interior was similarly pristine, and the smell of fresh wood and leather filled the air. This wasn't his apartment. This wasn’t anywhere he recognized. But something about the space felt... familiar, as though it was his home now.

He staggered, momentarily disoriented, and made his way to a nearby mirror.

What he saw almost made him fall over.

A stranger stared back at him. His face was familiar, but only in the way you recognize a reflection in a window before you really focus on it. His hair—blonde, curly, and wild—was cut into a mullet that reached just past the top of his neck, the ends flaring out like a halo of unruly curls. He didn’t remember ever styling his hair that way, yet the new version of himself seemed to suit it effortlessly. The loose curls framed his jawline, drawing attention to the newly defined muscles there.

His eyes, once a sharp hazel, had turned a lighter shade of blue. His expression was different too—stoic, even smug, like someone who knew exactly who he was and had no time for nonsense.

Then he looked down at himself, taking in his outfit. A plaid, button-up shirt—tight across his chest but still comfortable—clung to his muscular frame. He wore a worn leather belt with a large, shining buckle, a pair of jeans that fit just right and boots that seemed made for walking through dirt. And of course, a tan, weathered cowboy hat sat perched on top of his head.

Everything about his appearance screamed “redneck,” yet it was as if he'd always been this way. As if this transformation was simply an outward reflection of who he was now.

He stared at his reflection, utterly speechless, before hearing a voice from behind him.

"Adam, honey, come on down here! Dinner’s ready!"

He froze. Adam? That wasn’t his name. His name was Maddox.

But when he tried to say it—when he opened his mouth to speak—it wasn’t "Maddox" that came out.

"Yessir, mom," the new voice said, gruff and confident, with a drawl he didn't recognize. It was his voice, but it felt... wrong.

Before he could think further, his feet carried him toward the stairs. Every movement felt more natural, more instinctual. He didn’t have to think about walking anymore; his body just moved.

The moment he stepped into the kitchen, he was greeted by two older figures: a tall man with a thick beard and a sun-worn face, and a woman with perfectly-coiffed blonde hair and a warm, motherly smile.

"Adam, you hungry, baby?" The woman—his new "mother"—asked in a thick Southern accent, as she placed a plate of fried chicken and mashed potatoes on the table.

"Yeah, looks good, mom." His voice was smooth, authoritative, and familiar. It was like he had always talked this way.

The man, his new father, patted him on the back. "Atta boy. Gotta keep up your strength if you’re gonna help me with the truck this weekend."

Adam nodded, suddenly feeling an unfamiliar rush of excitement at the thought of working on a truck. "Sounds good, pops."

His father gave him a knowing look. "Glad to hear it. Gotta be ready to defend this house. Keep it in shape." There was a pause, and then a sly smirk crossed his face. "Though, I gotta say, I’m more worried about that little gay friend of yours. What’s his name again? Cody, right?"

Adam’s heart skipped. Cody was his best friend. But the way his father said it—the sneer in his voice—felt wrong. His thoughts tried to resist, but the tug of new instincts, of new feelings, pushed him to respond in a way he would have never before.

"Yeah, Cody’s a nice guy," Adam said, his voice dripping with casual disdain, "but man, he’s just… different, y’know? He’s always talking about stuff I don’t care about, like his art or whatever. He’s not really my kind of guy. Dude’s all wrapped up in his feelings and thinks he’s some kind of big thinker. He’s just not built for the real world."

Adam laughed and shrugged, the words flowing out like they were second nature. It felt good, somehow, to say it out loud. The Maddox part of him—the part that would’ve fiercely defended Cody, that would’ve fought anyone who insulted him—seemed like a distant memory.

His father chuckled, clearly approving. "Well, I’m glad to hear you’re making better choices, son. You don't need someone like that holding you back."

"Exactly," Adam said with a grin. "I’ve got enough on my plate, worrying about football, work, and, you know, my future. Guys like Cody? They just complicate things."

The following day, Adam found himself at a school that seemed to be from another world. The high school was old, with large wooden bleachers in the gym and the faint smell of tobacco in the air. Kids in cowboy boots and trucker hats roamed the halls, and there was an air of casual arrogance in the way they all carried themselves.

When he walked into the classroom, heads turned. He wasn’t used to this kind of attention, but now, standing at his new, imposing height of 6'3", Adam felt like he belonged. He loomed over the students around him, towering above them with a sense of superiority that felt right, even though it was still so new. His height made him feel like the guy everyone respected—or, if they didn’t, they at least stayed out of his way.

"Hey, Adam," a guy called from the back of the room. He had a thick jaw and a cocky grin. "How’s it going, man?"

"Good, bro," Adam replied, easily slipping into the role of the guy everyone wanted to hang out with. The guy who didn’t care about anything except his truck, his friends, and his future. A life of simple pleasures, uncomplicated by anything like "progressive politics" or "diversity."

But the most striking change came when he spotted her in the hallway. Emily.

She was the cheerleading captain. Blonde, athletic, and with a smile that lit up the entire school. Adam hadn’t expected to feel such a strong pull toward her, but as he watched her walking toward him, he felt his chest puff out with pride, the feeling of possession he didn’t quite understand.

"Hey, Adam," Emily called, giving him a wink. She wore her cheer uniform—tight, short, and red—and looked every bit the picture of what his new life was supposed to be. "You ready for the game on Friday? I’ve got your back, big guy."

"Always," Adam said, his voice dropping an octave. He felt confident, even cocky, as he walked toward her, putting an arm around her waist as they headed to class together. She was his girlfriend, after all, and that was just the way things were now. The idea of a different reality, a different version of himself, felt so distant.

By the time school ended, Adam was fully in his new life. Football practice had been intense, but Adam had breezed through it. As a starting wide receiver, he was the star of the team. He felt invincible on the field, his new body moving with strength and agility. The other players had all been high-fiving him, slapping his back, calling him "the beast."

And as for Emily? She was always by his side, chatting him up with that sweet, familiar smile. They talked about the weekend plans—probably a party at Brad's, a bonfire down by the lake—and Adam felt perfectly at home.

When the final bell rang, signaling the end of the school day, Adam had only one thought: This is my life now. He was Adam, the 6'3", football-playing redneck with a cheerleader girlfriend and a world of opportunities at his feet.

The old Maddox, the artist from the city, was gone.

And Adam? Adam was everything he’d ever needed to be.

[need4change]

Hat

You never thought much about your cousin Dean before. His loud voice, thick arms, constant swagger—it was all so alien to you, Jason. You, with your skinny frame, neat shirts, and endless hours in front of your computer, scrolling through Twitter and reading think-pieces on social justice. You’re quiet, kind, woke, and always online. Your world is safe, controlled, predictable.

That afternoon, you wander into a thrift shop on a whim. The place smells old—musty fabric, forgotten memories hanging in the air. You browse through racks of faded clothes, plastic hangers creaking softly, light flickering overhead. The walls are cluttered with peeling paint and yellowed posters. Nothing here feels like it belongs to you.

Then, from a pile of discarded hats, your fingers brush against something rough and worn. You pull out a black baseball cap. It’s stained, grimy, with a faint but unmistakable scent of sweat and engine oil baked into the fabric. You wrinkle your nose but feel a strange pull. Maybe it’s just curiosity, or some unexplainable instinct.

You put the hat on, flipping the brim backwards with a flick. The fabric settles against your scalp, damp and coarse. The instant it touches your skin, a warmth flares inside your head—a slow, creeping heat that spreads down your neck, pooling in your shoulders.

You blink, startled, and your hand shoots up to rub your upper arm. The skin feels... different. Rougher. When you look down, your arm seems thicker than before, muscles faintly rippling beneath the skin. You tense your fingers and notice the veins stand out, swollen and blue against pale skin.

Confused, you reach up and brush your hair away from your forehead. It’s no longer the soft, carefully styled hair you usually keep. Instead, it’s darker, greasy, tangled in a way that makes you cringe—but you can’t bring yourself to fix it.

A faint smell hits you—something acrid, sour, the unmistakable stench of unwashed sweat mixed with something metallic. You remember you shaved this morning. At least, you think you did.

Your breath quickens, a low pressure building in your chest. Your thoughts begin to blur, drifting away from your usual careful patterns. Inside your head, a rough voice rumbles, slow and low.

“Gotta keep ‘em runnin’ smooth, man,” the voice says. “Nothin’ like a day in the garage.”

You shake your head hard, trying to clear the fog. But the voice lingers, invading your mind like a stubborn echo. It’s not your voice. It sounds thicker, slower, coated in a kind of dumb confidence you don’t recognize.

You stumble toward the cracked mirror by the thrift shop’s dressing room. Your reflection makes your stomach drop.

Your skin is flushed, roughened. Your cheeks have a coarse fuzz that wasn’t there before. Your jawline has filled out, now wider and more square, dusted with dark stubble even though you didn’t shave today. Your eyes, once bright and sharp behind your glasses, look dull and heavy-lidded.

Your shirt feels tight across broadening shoulders. When you glance down, your chest seems fuller, and a faint swell presses against the fabric. Your stomach is thicker, rounding out slowly, inch by inch.

You try to breathe deeply but the smell clings heavier now—grease, sweat, and something fouler you can’t quite place. You cover your mouth, and a low groan slips out. It’s not your voice—it’s deeper, rougher, filled with some stupid pride.

Your fingers twitch and flex, rough and calloused now, nails chipped and stained. You notice dirt beneath them, like you’ve been digging through grime all day. The thought is absurd—you haven’t even left the store.

A sudden, sharp pressure builds low in your belly, and your hips shift. Your legs feel heavier, thicker, like tree trunks replacing the lean limbs you had this morning.

Your heart races, and strange, unwanted images flood your mind: loud bars, women laughing, cheap beer. You blink, trying to force your old thoughts back, but the new ones take hold, stronger and louder.

You’re breathing hard now. A wet, greasy warmth pools low in your gut, spreading slow and steady.

A sudden loud fart escapes without warning. Your face flushes hot with shame—then, strangely, pride. You smirk, the gesture foreign and dumb.

You’re not Jason anymore. Not really.

You stumble out of the thrift shop, the cool air hitting your sweat-damp skin like a slap. Your shirt clings tight over broad shoulders now thick with muscle, and your jeans feel strangled over thighs that have gained weight, strength you never had before.

Your hands—calloused, stained with dirt and grease—rub over your face, trying to will away the grime you don’t remember getting. You’re trembling, but not with fear. It’s something darker, heavier. A dull buzzing in your brain, like a motor revving up.

Your hair, once soft and styled, now sticks in greasy clumps, dark and unruly. You sniff at your armpits, the stench is undeniable—a sour mix of sweat, cigarette smoke, and something fouler. You realize you haven’t showered in days, but the idea of cleaning up fills you with irritation.

Your breath hitches as you hear it again—your inner voice, rough and slow, filled with stupid confidence.

“Man, nothin’ like a cold beer after a long day gettin’ greasy under the hood.”

You try to resist the thought, but it burrows deeper. You’re not in control anymore. Your mind flashes to images you once found repulsive—loud bars, bright lipstick, tight jeans, and women laughing at dumb jokes you don’t remember learning.

Your fingers twitch involuntarily, brushing the back of your neck where dark stubble has spread down from your chin. Your jaw is heavier, more defined, the sharp angles replaced by a blocky, dumb solidity.

You reach up and grab the baseball cap, pulling it down lower over your forehead. It smells rank, soaked with sweat and oil, but somehow that smell feels like home.

The world shifts, colors dulling, sounds becoming harsher and louder. You walk with a new swagger, heavier steps that shake the ground beneath you. Your breath smells of stale cigarettes and cheap liquor.

You find yourself outside a bar—one you’d never have stepped foot in before. The neon sign buzzes, the bass thumps through the walls. Inside, the smell of spilled beer and fried food punches you in the face.

You push the door open and step inside. Heads turn. You don’t care. Your eyes lock on a woman at the bar—a blonde with too much makeup, tight tank top stretched over curves. She laughs at something crude a man nearby says.

Your mouth curls into a stupid grin, your voice thick and rough when you speak.

“Hey, darlin’, you lookin’ for some company?”

The words feel strange on your tongue but also satisfying. You catch yourself sneering at a guy in a rainbow shirt across the room, a flash of anger that wasn’t there before.

“Fuckin’ liberals, all talk,” you mutter under your breath, the insult tasting sweet.

A loud, greasy fart escapes without warning. You laugh—a deep, throaty sound you don’t recognize as yours. The stink lingers in the air, but you barely notice. It’s part of you now.

Your hands wander to your stained jeans pockets, fingers tracing the outline of a wrench you don’t remember carrying. Your muscles ripple beneath your grimy shirt. You flex, feeling power, strength, dumb confidence pulsing through every inch of you.

Your thoughts no longer wander to debates or social causes. Instead, they’re consumed by engines, women, cold beer, and the simple satisfaction of brute force.

You’re no longer Jason. You are Dean now—loud, crude, smelly, dumb as hell, and straight as the highway.

And you couldn’t be prouder.

[redpill-tfs]

I need some help. My family is sending me to my ultra-conservative redneck uncle's ranch for the summer and I'm already dreading having to listen to them spew the nonsense they hear on the news.

Do you have anything that could help make this summer a bit more tolerable?

I'd imagine that would be hard, going to spend time with someone you don't see eye to eye with, having to do hard labor in the sun when you're more of a computer guy. Forced to go to church when that's not really your thing. Hearing him talk about the corrupt politicians in Washington and how Trump is going to drain the swamp. I know exactly what will help you feel better about this summer. I put a little something in your packed lunch. Don't worry, I made sure it's vegan. I'd take it now so it can take effect by the time you get to your uncle's place.

It'll take you a little bit to get there in your new Honda, wanting to keep the car in good condition as long as you can. Your single bag in in the backseat. The highway is simple enough and uneventful, but your uncle lives about a mile from a small town, farmland and backroads the only way there. With no real choice in the matter, you leave your parent's driveway.

You turn on your Spotify playlist, getting a pop song from your favorite gay artist. You sing along, your dyed hair swaying as you move your body, thinking about how much of an inspiration they are to you. The highway is strangely quiet for this time of day, but you don't mind the lack of traffic.

The song ends as a country song starts playing next. Must be one of the songs Spotify is recommending you today.You've never really been a fan of country music, finding it all seems to be about girls, trucks and beer, but you can tolerate it for one song. It's surprisingly catchy. Not your usual style of music, but it's not bad.

The lyrics are all about a guy in his worn out pick up truck, his worn out shirt and boots showing him to be a man's man. His calloused hands prove he's a hard worker. He sounds nothing like you, but you can almost relate to him in a strange way. After all, you're wearing your old boots for the drive. And you put on a worn out shirt and jeans too, just like your uncle always wears.

You don't remembering putting the outfit on, or even owning it in the first place, but before you can dwell on it too long the next song starts. It's another country song, this time about growing up in a small town and being a conservative man. It's got a nice beat to it as you tap your fingers against the steering wheel. You're nothing like the guy in the song, but the more you think about it, the more you remember visiting your uncle every summer to stay with him. He taught you the importance of conservative values, How those city slickers like your folks didn't know the meaning of hard work. You discovered your faith in God and he bought you your first Bible before you went back home. The godless liberals just want free handouts and to take your money for themselves.

You scoff at the sissies as yet another song plays. You recognize this song. It's Austin by Dasha. You sure can't relate to this song at all! Your boots are in good shape and your truck never would never break down on you. Sure it might need a new paint job from years of use but it still works as well as the day you got it. A birthday gift from your uncle. You're so glad he agreed to let you stay with him and gave you a job at his gun shop in town.

As you pulled into your uncle's driveway and hopped out of your truck, you knew this was going to be a good summer. And fall, winter, and spring.

[disciplined-cornfed]

Southernization/Deyankeefication Subliminal [NEW!!]

Ready to embrace the good ol’ Southern life? 🌾 This subliminal is designed to connect you deeper with your Southern roots—from proudly flying the Stars and Bars to feeling an intense connection with hunting, fishing, and living life out in the great outdoors. 🌲🏞️

Tired of all that Yankee nonsense? This subliminal helps you shed any lingering Northern influences and fully embrace the Southern charm, confidence, and pride that come naturally to you. 🤠

With this subliminal, you’ll start talking the talk and walking the walk of a true Southern man. Whether it’s gettin’ dirty workin’ on your truck, catchin’ a fish, or lovin’ that sweet country music, this will help you feel the pride of being a country boy and showin’ off your Southern heritage with confidence. 💪

Key Benefits:

• Embrace Southern pride in every way—fly the Stars and Bars, the Libertarian flag, and feel proud of your heritage 🇺🇸

• Start speakin’ with a stronger Southern accent and livin’ the Southern way every day 🎤

��� Feel a deep love for hunting, fishing, and gettin’ out in the great outdoors 🌲🐟

• Dislike Yankee culture and feel stronger in your pride for Southern traditions 🚫🗽

• Feel proud workin’ on your truck, gettin’ dirty, and lovin’ the lifestyle of a country boy 🛠️🛻

• Enjoy the sound of country and Rock music and make it part of your daily life 🎶

• Rep your country pride with confidence—wear your hats, tanks, and flags proudly 💥 • Feel motivated to get outdoors, enjoy motorsports, rodeos, and love your Southern way of life 🏎️🐴

This subliminal taps into your deep Southern roots, helping you embody the values, culture, and pride of a real Southern man. Whether it’s reppin’ the Stars and Bars, enjoyin’ a weekend hunt, or spendin’ time fixin’ up your truck, this will connect you with the life you were born to live. Yeehaw! 🤠🏞️

[misctf]

Hunting for City Boys

“Ah reckon they went this way!”

Scott could hear the heavy footsteps and thick southern drawl of his pursuers. His back was pressed against a tree and he did his best to control his breathing. How the fuck did it get this out of hand? It started with the damn car. Of all the places for their car to break down, it had to be in the middle of bumblefuck nowhere. No internet signal, no GPS, nothing. Prior to leaving, Scott asked Will to make sure the car was ready to go. And Will reassured him that his father’s fancy BMW was more than ready to handle the drive across the state. Of course, Will insisted they take a shortcut to make better time.  And for what? To get to the cabin before the rest of their frat bros? In hindsight, it wasn’t worth it.

“Oh, Ah see ’im! There he is!”

Scott felt his heart sink. Did they really see him? No... not him. Will. Scott heard Will cry out in pain, followed by a thud.

“Nice shot, Clay. Y’all wanna keep lookin’ fer the other fella?”

“Ah reckon we ought to git this one back to the house. The other fella won’t git too far.” Clay said, “Besides, we don’t want ’im wakin’ up before we get home.”

Scott could hear the engines of their four-wheelers rev up. And soon enough, they peeled away through the thick forest and back to wherever they came from. When Scott peered around the tree, he realized he was alone.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Scott cursed, “This can’t be happening.”

He checked his phone again. No signal. He ran a hand through his matted light brown hair. The chase had left him worse for wear. His jeans were torn from running through the forest, while dirt and small cuts covered his hands. Even his white sweater was stained with mud. He quickly removed it, revealing a tight-fitting t-shirt that hugged his lean body nicely. He sighed. It would only be a matter of time before they started searching for him again. Those two fuckers. They came out of nowhere, driving on their stupid four wheeler. At first, Scott thought they were going to help them. It would’ve been clear to anyone that the two privileged, preppy frat guys had no idea what they were doing with the car. And despite Will being a straight As engineering major, his knowledge on car maintenance was lacking. As was Scott’s. Wasn’t like they ever really needed to learn anyway. But it was too late to worry about that now. Scott needed to figure how to get out of this mess.

“If they have a house,” Scott thought, “They might have a phone, or a car, or some way to get out of here.” He took a deep breath. He could follow the tracks of the four-wheeler back. But what happened if he got there and there were more of them? He sighed. He’d take the risk.

_______

Scott wasn’t sure how long he walked until he arrived at his destination. He spent some time hiding behind trees and bushes as his pursuers resumed their search for him. But somehow, he made it to the house undetected. Unlike the mansion his family occupied, this house (if Scott could even call it that) wasn’t much to look at. The home sits on a gravel path that winds through overgrown weeds and brambles, leading to a weathered structure that looks like it's been standing for decades. Its wooden siding is chipped and peeling, with patches of faded paint barely clinging to the surface. Scattered furniture and empty beer bottles littered the overgrown grass of the front yard.

“In and out. Find Will, find a phone, and bounce.” Scott whispered, his heart pounding in his chest. To the best of his knowledge, those fuckers were still patrolling the forest.

With a rush of adrenaline, Scott stealthily approached the front door. When he got inside, he gagged. The living room is a cluttered space with a mix of mismatched, well-worn furniture. An old plaid sofa, sagging in the middle, sits opposite a heavy wooden coffee table covered in a layer of grime and strewn with empty beer cans and fast-food wrappers. The walls are adorned with faded hunting trophies and old, family photos, framed in crooked, mismatched frames. A faint, smoky odor permeates the air, hinting at years of cigarettes smoked indoors, mingling with the pervasive smell of old wood and dust.

“Fucking pig sty.” Scott mumbled, maneuvering through the old home, “Come on, there has to be a phone or something.” But his search wasn’t all too successful, “Y’all can’t be serious, what kinda folks don’t got a phone?” Scott froze at the sound of the drawl leaving his lips “What the fuck?” He whispered, his voice returning to normal, “Shit, I’m losing it. Focus Scott.”

But there was no phone. Or car keys. Or even a radio. He took a deep breath, gagging more as the stale air filled his lungs.

“Alright, so I ain’t gonna be able to reach nobody. But where on Earth is Will?” This time, Scott barely registered the southern drawl that infected his words. Instead, he found himself focused on the basement stairwell. He gulped, “Maybe Will’s down there.” He whispered.

Scott started down the stairs. The smell that permeated his nose was more intense than the one upstairs. It caused the young man’s eyes to water and he felt like he needed to turn around to get fresh air. But Scott knew he needed to be quick. Find Will, get out of there. Head back the way they came until the got cell service. But his train of thought was shattered when he made it to the bottom of the stairwell.

“Will?” Scott asked, gazing at the figure restrained to the chair, “Oh god, Will?”

“Scott, that you?” The man said in a thick country accent, “Scott, come on now, you really gotta help me out here. Please, I’m beggin’ ya!”  

The man in the chair had very few similarities to Will. Or at least to the Will that Scott knew. Where Will’s toned abdominals once were, a small beer belly was jutting out. His stubble had darkened, while his dark locks had been shaved away and covered with a ball cap. His body hair was more obvious now, leaving him lightly dusted from head to toe.

“Will, good Lord, what in the world did they do to ya?” Scott’s mind raced when he realized he was once again speaking in a southern accent, “I cain't, for the life of me, stop talkin' like this! What in tarnation’s goin' on?” Scott’s hand shot to cover his mouth, but when he made contact with his newly grown stubble, he jumped.

“It’s happenin’ to you too, ain’t it? I reckon it is.” Will mused, “It’s the smell, I tell ya. Gets in your head and messes with ya a bit.”

Scott’s eyes widened in terror. And for the first time, he started to really understand his situation. As he looked down at his own body, he could see his stomach starting to push out into a small gut. Simultaneously, small hairs started to poke out from under his collar.

“No, that just ain’t possible.” Scott whispered in disbelief, “Will, we gotta get outta here, and right quick.” He ran over to his friend and began undoing the binds around his hands. All the while, Scott tried to ignore the itchiness of his new beard.

“I tried to put up a fight too, Scott. I reckon I did. But after spendin’ some time down here, I just went on and accepted it.” Will continued. Scott watched as his friend’s eyes dulled, “Ain’t no need for fancy degrees or gettin’ all dressed up. Just a good ol' nice, simple life."

“Will, listen here, you need to focus now.” Scott said, undoing the final bind, “There’s gotta be a way to fix this.” But Will shook his head and without a second thought, tackled Scott to the ground. Scott looked up at his friend in terror, trying to wriggle out from beneath his firm grasp, “Will! Lemme go, gosh darnit!”

“Well what do we have here?” Scott’s heart sank as he heard the voice of their pursuers flood the room, “Billy! What’re you doin’ strattlin’... Scott?” Clay shook his head, “Naw Scott ain’t a good name for a good ol’ southern boy, ain’t it?” He grinned, “We’ll think of somethin’ but go on now and finish the job, Billy!”

Scott’s eyes widened in terror as Billy nodded. And before Scott could stop it, he found his face in Billy’s rank armpit. The bush of moist pit hair tickled Scott’s nose, and the intensity of Billy’s country B.O. filled his nostrils. He wanted to yell out and beg them to stop, but when he opened his mouth, he only breathed in more of Billy’s stench. For poor Scott, it soon became unbearable. And as the laughter of his captors filled the air, Scott’s world went black.

_________

“We ain’t got all day, Billy!” Scott shouted from the driver’s side, “Git in the darn truck already.”

“Aww Cletus, I’m sure sorry. I went back for the gin.” Billy said, jumping into the passenger seat, “We got a long ride ahead of us.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Scott- now Cletus groaned, “Just don’t be tellin’ me about no new shortcuts. I ain’t too keen on goin’ through anything like this again.” He looked over at Billy, who was chugging the bottle of gin. He sighed, “I can’t stay mad at you though.” Sure, his upper class life was gone. And he could barely string together an intelligent sentence. His vocabulary was oversimplified and any education past the eighth grade was absent from his mind. Certainly, folks from his prior social circles wouldn’t tolerate his cigarette smoking, beer chugging, and crude jokes. Cletus sighed. His life as Scott was over, “Well, Billy, you ready?” His hand slowly wrapped around Billy’s cock and he gave it a few tugs. Billy moaned and bucked his hips, only for Cletus to stop, “I knew that’d get your attention. Besides, you got plenty more of that comin’, y’know. Especially if we go along with what Clay’s sayin’.”

Billy nodded, lifting his arm and taking a deep whiff, “Y’all think they’ll recognize us?” Cletus shook his head. There was no way their former frat bros would recognize them.

“Soon enough, they won’t even recognize their ownselves.” Cletus replied, taking a whiff of his own pits, “Now c’mon. We got a long drive ahead of us.”

[kozilmog]

Can you transform Wolverine into a USA redneck

Wolverine -> Red Neck Mechanic

Going down South on a mission, Logan had to make a pitstop. He couldn't let his Harley Davidson get too damaged from a long ride.

However, when the Southern Mechanic saw what a Man's man Logan was, he couldn't let him get away.

He quickly got some of that Southernisation into him and he quickly became the Mechanic's best friend and worker.

[rdncktf]

REDNECKINIZATION

I've been seeing lots of posts recently of guys finally pushing their fantasy tf out into reality - living it, becoming it. I figured, maybe it's time I start to do the same... And so, here I am, trying to find bros with twisted minds to help me push it into my reality.

What better future could there be for someone like me than becoming a trashy, dumb, slobby, sleazy conservative redneck bro, all decked out in Southern Pride swag and locked into a dead-end existence.

Things about me are that I'm a 24 year old gay dude, who considers himself pretty artsy and cultured. 5'7-8ish, youthful looking twink type, and a bit of a superiority complex.

What better way for me to be knocked down a few (hundred) pegs permanently than to embrace becoming the bottom of the barrel in society.

This is a big thing to do, nerve-wracking, but so hot and twisted at the same time. I don't want RP or fantasization, I want hardcore enforcement and changes. If you feel like talking about that with me, or think you want to help drag me down the rabbit hole, feel free to DM me. I'll happily comply with any real-life methods to make it come true, no matter how dark.

🇺🇸 GOD BLESS AMERICA BRO 🇺🇸

[fratttymatty]

Becoming Danner

(All characters are 18+)

18-year-old Caleb Morris didn’t think much of gym class partners—until he was paired with Ethan Danner, the all-American, muscle-bound quarterback whose accent dripped with Texas twang and whose worldview clashed with Caleb’s at every possible level.

Caleb was gay, chubby, smart as hell, and proudly liberal—he was the kind of guy who corrected his teachers and ran the debate club. He wore glasses, flannel shirts, and preferred fantasy books over football. Ethan, on the other hand, was none of those things. Straight, conservative, all brawn and not a whole lot of brain, Ethan was everything Caleb was not. And to Ethan, Caleb was... weird.

But something strange happened the day they were forced to work on a health class project together. It ended up at Ethan’s house, a big ranch-style home on the edge of town. Surrounded by hunting trophies and country music, Caleb stuck out like a sore thumb. While Ethan grabbed sodas from the kitchen, Caleb sat uncomfortably on the couch, eyeing a deer head on the wall.

“Man, I just wish you were more like me,” Ethan muttered from the kitchen with a chuckle.

There was a sudden crackle in the air. Like static electricity—or magic. Caleb blinked. His skin itched. His shirt felt too tight.

Then the transformation began.

His body changed first—the softness around his middle melting away, replaced by sculpted abs and thick, muscular thighs. His arms bulked up, stretching the sleeves of his nerdy button-up until they ripped clean off. His shoulders broadened, and his spine straightened, giving him a proud, confident stance.

His face shifted—his jawline sharpened, his cheeks lost their baby fat, and a light stubble appeared on his chin. His eyes narrowed slightly with a new, laid-back swagger. He felt his teeth straighten slightly into a perfect, all-American grin.

Then came the hair.

His old hair—short, curly, and pushed aside—grew out rapidly into a tousled, thick mop of chestnut brown. It was effortlessly styled, windswept but full of body, falling just the right way across his forehead with a cool, flirty messiness. It framed his new face perfectly, giving him a heartthrob look, like something out of a southern teen drama.

Next, his clothes morphed. The ripped button-up faded away into a tight black T-shirt that hugged his chest. His jeans reshaped into slightly worn Levi’s, and his sneakers turned into dusty boots. Around his neck, gold chains shimmered into place—one of them a string of fake pearls, oddly fitting.

His mind shifted last. His memories rewrote themselves. Debate team? Gone. Replaced by Friday night games and tailgate parties. Pride flags? Gone. Now it was all lifted trucks and country playlists. His voice deepened, taking on a slow Texas drawl. His quick wit dulled, but was replaced with charm, confidence, and a killer sense of humor that made people feel good to be around him.

He stood up.

“I’m... Matthew,” he said, blinking in wonder. “Matthew Danner.” He turned toward Ethan, grinning wide. “Guess that makes us twins, huh?”

Ethan dropped his soda can. “Holy sh*t.”

But after a beat, Ethan grinned back.

“Damn right it does, brother.”

The two laughed, their voices echoing through the house. There was no more awkward tension, no more political bickering, no more difference. Caleb—no, Matthew—was now Ethan’s equal in every way. Tall, handsome, straight, dumb as a bag of rocks, and loving life under the hot Texas sun.

And Ethan? He loved having a twin who was just like him. Life was just better that way.

Monday morning at Pinebrook High hit different when Matthew Danner walked through the front doors.

He had always been there, hadn’t he?

At least, that’s what everyone remembered—the new reality had rewritten itself around his transformation. No one seemed to notice Caleb Morris had vanished. All they knew was the Danner Twins were here, and damn, they were everything.

Matthew strutted into the building beside Ethan, both of them wearing tight black T-shirts, chain necklaces, and cocky grins. Their boots thudded in sync with every step. Heads turned. Conversations stopped. Girls whispered, guys stared—some in admiration, some in envy.

The hallway echoed with:

“Oh my god, the Danners are so hot.” “They’re twins? Are you kidding me?” “Ethan was already a ten, but Matthew? Ugh.”

Where Caleb once blended in, hunched over a laptop in the library, Matthew now ruled—leaning against lockers, cracking jokes, throwing his arm around people like they were lifelong friends. He laughed loudly, told stories that didn’t make sense but made people howl, and he never once stressed about being smart.

And his hair—oh, that perfectly tousled brown mess? Girls played with it without asking. He let them. It flopped in just the right way when he laughed, like he belonged on a magazine cover for some country-pop crossover band.

In gym class, Matthew dominated. Football? He threw spirals. Wrestling? He slammed dudes like he’d been doing it since he was five. He and Ethan weren’t just good at sports—they made it look fun, like a wild game only they really understood.

They high-fived after everything. Even after getting a question wrong in math.

"Whatever, bro," Matthew said once after failing a quiz, flashing his signature grin. "As long as Coach likes me."

The class laughed. Even the teacher shook his head with a smile.

At lunch, they didn’t sit with the cool kids—they were the cool kids. They took over the central table. Matthew threw French fries at people he liked, Ethan flexed for attention, and their table was the loudest, rowdiest, happiest part of the room.

Even Coach Reynolds came by to slap them on the back. “Danners, you boys better be ready for Friday night. Scouts are watching.”

“Born ready, Coach,” Matthew grinned, biting into his burger with confidence that would’ve made old-Caleb faint.

But deep down, Matthew didn’t miss that old self. Not even a little.

He loved how people looked at him now. He loved the simplicity of this new life. He didn’t overthink things anymore. He didn’t have to. He had Ethan—his brother, best friend, and now equal in everything.

That afternoon, walking down the hallway, Matthew caught his reflection in a trophy case glass. The black T-shirt, the chains, that dumb-hot face with the hair that somehow always looked styled but never brushed?

He smirked at himself.

“Damn, I look good,” he said aloud, flexing.

“Hell yeah you do,” Ethan laughed, walking up beside him. “You’re a Danner now, bro. You were born to be king.”

And they fist-bumped, walking off toward the football field as the hallway watched in awe.

It was lunch, and the Danner twins were holding court again.

Matthew leaned back, black fitted tee clinging to his chest, a backward cap snug on his head. His dark, slightly wavy hair spilled out from beneath it in messy perfection, brushing just past his ears. A silver earring glinted as he turned, and an AirPod hung from one ear—not playing anything, just there for the look.

Ethan sat beside him, tossing peanuts into the air and catching them in his mouth.

Their crew—Axel, Mason, Josh, and Connor—were classic sidekicks: loud, chaotic, jock-brained, and completely obsessed with energy drinks and gym selfies.

“Bro,” Axel said, leaning in. “Did you see those chicks from the debate team over there?”

Matthew turned, chewing slowly. “You mean the ones with the tote bags and nose rings?”

“Yeah. Lexi and Cassie,” Mason grinned. “They’re, like... smart or whatever.”

“Too smart,” Ethan muttered. “Probably hate fun. And America.”

Josh snorted. “Bet they think y’all are, like, evil patriarchy or somethin’.”

Matthew’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Only one way to fix that.”

The twins stood.

At a nearby table, Lexi and Cassie were mid-conversation about climate policy and dismantling systemic power structures.

Lexi wore a vintage Planned Parenthood tee, and Cassie had a denim jacket covered in progressive pins. Their faces lit up with irritation as two shadows loomed over their table.

“Oh, great,” Lexi said, not even looking up. “What do you want, Danners?”

Matthew leaned down, voice low, flirty, southern drawl fully engaged. “Just wonderin’ how girls as pretty as y’all ended up with brains full of MSNBC.”

Cassie blinked. “Excuse me?”

Ethan smirked. “We’re just sayin’, y’all look like cheerleaders, but sound like NPR.”

Lexi rolled her eyes. “Let me guess. You think gender’s a binary and the earth is flat?”

Matthew chuckled, flicking his cap up slightly. “Nah, sugar. I think you’d look real cute in pink.”

Suddenly, the air shimmered again—like it had the day Matthew transformed. Unseen, unexplainable. A low hum filled their ears. Lexi gasped. Her legs tingled. Cassie blinked hard.

The girls froze.

Their brains… tickled. Like something warm was replacing the cold, heavy logic.

They shivered.

Cassie’s nails shimmered into glossy French tips. Her oversized denim jacket cinched at the waist, morphing into a bubblegum-pink zip hoodie. Her nose ring vanished. Her eyes widened, and she giggled for no reason.

Lexi’s hair lightened to a golden blonde with soft waves. Her combat boots melted into white sneakers. Her shirt shortened, belly now showing. Her speech slowed.

“Wait, like... what were we talking about again?” she asked, twirling a lock of hair.

“Girl, I, like, don’t even know,” Cassie said, snapping her gum. “Something lame.”

Matthew gave Ethan a knowing look.

The boys sat down with them.

“So, what do y’all think about America now?” Ethan asked.

Lexi batted her lashes. “Totes obsessed with it. Like... freedom is hot.”

Cassie giggled, leaning into Matthew. “And guns? Like, OMG, so fun. Pew pew!”

The whole cafeteria watched as the once-righteous liberals now giggled and flipped their hair, glued to the Danner twins like cheerleaders at a tailgate.

Axel leaned over from the main table, jaw dropped. “What the hell just happened?”

Matthew turned, flashing a wicked grin under his hat. “We just saved their souls, bro.”

(Lexi on the left, Cassie on the right)

It was Friday night at Pinebrook Stadium, and the whole town showed up like always. The bleachers were packed, the band was loud, the scent of nachos and popcorn hung in the air — and in the middle of it all?

The Danner twins ruled the field.

Ethan and Matthew wore their varsity jerseys like armor, helmets tucked under their arms, black eye paint smeared in perfect streaks. They jogged off the field after warmups, headed for the cheer squad on the sidelines — where Lexi and Cassie waited, hair bouncing in perfect curls, lips glossed to a ridiculous shine.

Cassie jumped up and down when she saw Matthew, her pink pom-poms shaking. “Babyyyy! You were, like, so hot out there!” she squealed, grabbing his arm and nuzzling against his chest.

Matthew smirked, pushing his cap backward on his messy, shaggy hair, now longer and even better styled than before — loose, dark waves spilling out the sides, just like in the photo. “Only ‘cause my girl was watchin’,” he said, voice slow and syrupy-southern. “Ain’t no point winnin’ if I can’t impress you.”

Cassie giggled again — she did that a lot now — and twirled a strand of her blonde-highlighted hair. “Like, stop, you’re literally gonna make me melt.”

She was adorable in every way. Her cheer uniform hugged her figure, her voice now light, high-pitched, and always full of breathless excitement. When she wasn’t jumping around shouting "Go Cougars!", she was texting Matthew non-stop with pink heart emojis and pictures of her Starbucks cups.

They were inseparable.

Matthew had even started wearing her scrunchies around his wrist — one pink, one glittery — because, “Cassie said it’s cute, so it’s cute.”

Meanwhile, Ethan was wrapped up in Lexi, who had gone full All-American-Babe mode herself — pouty lips, bouncy curls, “God Bless America” stitched into her cheer bow. She leaned against him at every opportunity, always wearing his jacket, always calling him “babe”.

Together, the four of them were like the final boss level of popularity — the golden squad. People looked, whispered, envied, but no one could touch them.

After the game (which Pinebrook obviously won), the four of them piled into Ethan’s lifted truck. Lexi and Cassie sat on the boys’ laps, still in their cheer uniforms, giggling about TikToks and homecoming dresses.

Cassie reached over and booped Matthew on the nose. “Heyyy Matty-bear?”

“Yeah, darlin’?”

“You totes gotta take me to the fall bonfire next weekend. I wanna wear my boots and, like, match with you and be all cute and stuff.”

He grinned. “Anything you want, princess.”

She squealed and kissed his cheek, then snapped a selfie with him, throwing up a peace sign and filtering it with sparkles. “Eeeee! We look, like, sooooo hot together.”

Later that night, Cassie curled up next to Matthew on the porch swing of the Danner house, a blanket wrapped around both of them. She played with the hair that fell across his forehead.

“You ever think about, like… how you got so perfect?” she asked, head tilted, genuinely curious in the sweet, ditzy way only she could pull off.

Matthew blinked once, slowly. “Nah,” he said. “Don’t gotta think about it when I’ve got you.”

Cassie let out a dreamy sigh and kissed his neck. “You’re, like, the best boyfriend ever.”

And Matthew Danner — once a chubby, anxious, liberal nerd named Caleb Morris — just smiled, stared out at the stars, and thought:

“Damn. Life don’t get better than this.”

[octuscle]

The Chronivac asks: Permanent changes

Please help me! I used the chronivac so it would make the perfect man, instead it's transforming me into the perfect person every time I touch someone. I've been a twink, a jock, a woman, a dilf. It doesn't stop. Please help!

Did I see correctly that you used the add-in platform to develop this functionality yourself? In itself, a really excellent job. But you should have added a line of code on how often to perform the transformation. I have now set this to once. This means that your next touch will be your last until further notice.

Shit, watch out! Behind you! Too late… Well, I'd say the perfect redneck. I have a client meeting now, so let's see how we can help you.

Ah! Yawl don't understaynd. Yeah, Ahm tawkin' tuh sumone else, bro, hold on uh sekunt. Go tuh thuh hayudware store an meet up with chur buddies. Ahv uh few thangs tuh do. An then Ahl git back tuh yawl. Ovur uh round uh chewin' tobacco, we'll plan thuh rest uh thuh day. Then we'll say few wonna go back tuh thuh big city or few'd ruthur keep fixin trucks.   

[kozilmog]

Wolverine --> Cowboy?

Wolverine -> Cowboy

People don't know what it means to be ranchers now-a-days. They don't know about hospitality and masculinity. But The Cowboy does and he likes to share it with anyone he finds and anyone who meets him always seems to come around to the idea of being just like him.