A little fucked in the head, but people still seem to like it~

30 Year old Santa Cruz local born and bred. I enjoy fuzzy men, Punks~, muscle jocks and more - video games, art, dance, performance art/spinning lights & TRIPPY to follow.

[tfcaptions]

[hairy-bothered]

Press Any Key

The build was not supposed to be in his hands. It was an internal beta, one of those strange vanity projects the studio’s creative director liked to throw at the programmers after midnight, when everyone was too tired to argue. A character creator for a game that did not yet have a title attached to it. Upload a photograph, let the software generate a full-body avatar, adjust the sliders, export the model. That was the pitch. The next wave of interactive media - put yourself directly in the game. The first thing José changed was meant to be a joke. At least, that was how he would explain it later, if he ever explained it to anyone, which he knew he would not.

José had been testing it from his apartment in Madrid for hours, barefoot under his desk, wearing an old powder blue T-shirt and the same round glasses he had been meaning to replace for three years. His balcony door was open a crack. Somewhere below, a scooter whined through the narrow street. On his second monitor, a bug tracker waited with the patience of a priest hearing confession from a young unmarried man.

The first monitor showed him. Not a stylized version. Not a handsome approximation. Him. Bald head, dark brows, mustache, glasses, slightly tired eyes, ordinary shoulders, a patch of chest hair visible at the collar of his shirt. The avatar stood in a neutral pose, rotating slowly beneath cold digital light. José leaned back and grimaced.

“Ok,” he said to the empty room. “That’s a bit much.” The face and scalp shine were too accurate. The uncertain half-smile was unforgivable. He clicked through the sliders. Height, weight, muscle mass, age, hair, facial hair, posture, skin texture, body hair, voice profile. Most of it was absurdly detailed. There were fantasy presets too: elf, vampire, demon, wolf-man.

José snorted when he saw the last category. Then he grinned and he clicked wolf-man.

The avatar hunched forward. Its shoulders broadened. Dark hair crawled up its neck and across its cheeks. The mustache thickened into something feral. The nose pushed forward. The ears sharpened. Claws slid from the fingers. The creature on-screen still looked, horribly, like him. Like a version of José after being dragged through an old German fairy tale and then thrown into jeans and a t-shirt.

He laughed once, low in his throat. “Perfect,” he said. A warning appeared.

APPLY CHANGES TO ACTIVE MODEL? PRESS ANY KEY TO CONTINUE.

José rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes.” He hit Enter.

For half a second, nothing happened. Then his teeth hurt. It was not pain exactly. It was pressure. A deep, intimate pressure, as if invisible hands had reached into his gums and were pushing each tooth into a new place. José lurched upright so violently his chair rolled backward and hit the bookshelf behind him.

His glasses slid down his nose. The room seemed too bright. Too loud. He could hear his own breath catching, the hum of the computer fan, the traffic below, the click of pipes in the wall, a woman yelling at her husband somewhere across the courtyard, two men having sex a floor below.

Hair prickled along the backs of his hands. He looked down. Dark fur was blooming from his wrists - his fingers distorting and elongating.

“What?!” he whispered. The word came out rougher than it should have - almost more like a snarl.

He stumbled toward the bathroom, painfully knocking his hip against the desk in his haste. His shoulders strained against his T-shirt. His nails darkened, thickened. The sides of his scalp tingled, then burned as hair pushed from skin that had been bare for years. The mirror caught him mid-change: José's own frightened eyes behind thick glasses, José’s mustache spreading onto his cheeks and down his neck, José’s jaw widening under skin that seemed to ripple.

As the changes finished José made a sound he had never made before - somewhere between a howl and a bark. Back at the desk, the monitor waited, a little light flashing: CHANGES APPLIED.

After the pain passed, José stared at himself in the mirror, at his pointy wolf-like ears, at the fur matted across his entire body, at his impossibly thick neck and the bulge in his jeans that the fabric was barely able to contain - and he was too afraid to examine. "What the fuck...how is this possible - why is there hair everywhere but I’m still bald?!" was all that he could mumble out, barely intelligible with his reconstructed mouth, teeth and lupine anatomy.

Just then he remembered his avatar on the screen in the other room. He dashed back across the apartment on a mix of two and four limbs. He looked at the monitor and saw the same face and body from the bathroom mirror staring back at him. His hands were now too large for the keyboard. He jabbed at the mouse, missed, tried again. The cursor skittered over the screen. There. A button.

REVERT.

He clicked it. The second transformation was worse because he knew it was real. His body folded back into itself. Fur retreated. Bones softened. Teeth shrank. His body went cold and bare again. When it was over, José was on the floor under his desk, shaking, his stretched out T-shirt damp against his chest, his glasses hanging on the bottom of his nose.

He did not move for a long time. Then, because he was a programmer, because terror and curiosity lived closer together in him than he liked to admit, he pulled himself back into the chair and looked at the screen. The avatar had returned to its original shape. Bald. Mustached. Middle-aged. Familiar. José stared at himself... Then he had an idea.

⸻

For three days, he told himself he would report the bug. He wrote the email in his head several times.

“There appears to be an unexpected physiological feedback loop with the avatar editor.”

No. Insane.

“The build is interacting with the user in a way that may pose health and safety concerns.”

Also insane.

“I turned into a wolf-man in my bathroom at 1:17 a.m. Please advise.”

He deleted that thought before it could become language. Instead, José did what he did best - he tested. Carefully, at first. Scientifically, he told himself, though he did not write anything down because writing it down would make it evidence.

He adjusted his mustache by twenty percent. Thicker, longer, cleaner, more deliberate, a handlebar. When he hit Enter, his upper lip warmed. The hair shifted under his fingers, filling in at the corners, becoming heavier and better shaped. He stared in the mirror for ten minutes afterward, turning his face left and right.

It looked good. Not young. Not fake. Hot. The next night, he tried the hair slider. He did not give himself teenage hair. That would be ridiculous. He chose “mature density,” then “temple restoration,” then lowered the hairline only a little. He selected dark brown, with a touch of natural variation. When he hit Enter, he gripped the sides of the desk until his knuckles went white.

The sensation was almost sensual this time - like a head massage. A warm pressure under the scalp. A spreading fullness. Thousands of tiny awakenings. In the bathroom mirror, a man he recognized and did not recognize looked back at him. Not bald - still José. Still forty-something. Still the same nose, the same eyes behind the glasses, the same thick mustache. But his head was framed now by short, dark hair that made his face look less exposed, less apologetic. He quickly hit revert - it would be too noticeable…

After that came posture. A slight correction to his shoulders. A little muscle through the chest and arms. Not a model’s body, not a fantasy warrior from Street Fighter 6, just the version of himself he might have had if he had slept better, eaten better, gone swimming more, walked into rooms as if he belonged there. The changes were addictive precisely because they were reasonable - believable.

No one on the studio call noticed except Marta, who squinted at him through Zoom and said, “You look rested.”

“I slept,” José lied.

“You never sleep" she retorted so quickly it gave José pause.

“I experimented.”

“With what?”

José touched his mustache. “Being less melancholistic.”

Marta laughed and moved on.

That night, José updated his dating profile. He used a new photo taken on his balcony at golden hour. Same glasses, same smile, improved mustache, stronger neck, shirt open one button farther than usual. He stared at the picture too long before posting it. For years, apps had felt like standing under fluorescent lights while strangers silently decided what parts of him were worth loving. He had come out later in life, at thirty-eight, and though no one had said the words directly, José had carried the private conviction that he had arrived late to a party where all the best rooms were already full.

Then Pedro messaged him.

The first message was about a video game José mentioned in his profile. Not his body. Not his age. A game.

You have suspiciously good taste in RPGs for someone who also lists debugging as a hobby.

José smiled despite himself and responded:

And you have a suspiciously good mustache for someone in their twenties.

Pedro was twenty-six, a sweet-looking redhead with a messy auburn mustache, broad shoulders, and the sort of hairy, muscular body that made José immediately distrust the possibility of sincerity. But Pedro wrote like someone who listened. He sent long messages, funny ones, slightly awkward ones. He liked old video games, bad horror movies, tortilla with extra onion, and arguing about whether Roegadyn or Midlander Hyur were the hotter race selection in Final Fantasy XIV.

José tried to be normal. He failed miserably. He waited too long between replies so he would not seem desperate. Then he reread Pedro’s messages until they became scripture. When Pedro sent a selfie from bed, shirtless and smiling sleepily, José put the phone face down on the table and walked around his apartment twice.

“You are a grown man,” he told himself, "get a hold of yourself."

The phone buzzed.

Coffee this weekend? No pressure. But maybe a little pressure.

José stared at it. His first instinct was delight. His second was suspicion. His third was arithmetic.

Twenty-six. Forty-five. Nineteen years difference.

He typed, deleted, typed again.

Coffee sounds good.

Pedro answered with a string of victorious emojis so earnest that José laughed alone in his kitchen. For the rest of the week, José did not touch the game. Almost. On Friday night, he opened it just to look. The avatar stood waiting. It had become his secret twin: the man who did not hesitate, the man who walked through Madrid with his shoulders back, the man whose mustache curled at the edges in that special way that made José feel hot. José rotated the model slowly.

There was an age slider. He had avoided it. Not because he lacked curiosity, but because he had too much. He slid it down bit by bit. 40 - the avatar softened and its skin brightened. 35 - the jaw sharpened in that unfair way youth sharpened everything and hair reappeared on his scalp. 30 - the eyes looked clearer. Then 25 appeared in the box beside the slider - younger than Pedro even.

José felt something open in him. Not desire, exactly. Grief. There he was: the man he might have been if fear and confusion had not eaten fifteen years from the center of his life.

He imagined meeting Pedro like that. No arithmetic. No apology hidden in the first hello. No waiting for the younger man’s expression to flicker with disappointment when he realized what 45 year old men actually look like outside of carefully considered lighting and camera positioning. Just two men in the same decade, laughing over coffee, and nerding-out over Zelda or the next season of the anime "Delicious in Dungeon." He looked at the prompt on the screen:

APPLY CHANGES TO ACTIVE MODEL? PRESS ANY KEY TO CONTINUE.

He shook his head and closed the program.

⸻

Pedro chose a café near Antón Martín, bright and narrow, with plants in the window and little tables too close together. José arrived early and stood outside sweating through a clean shirt, then cursed himself for arriving early, then cursed himself for sweating.

His mustache was perfect, thick and dark and shaped with care. His body felt quietly stronger under his clothes. He had even taken his glasses off and put them back on three times before leaving, finally deciding they were part of him and he should stop acting like his own face was a negotiation.

Pedro came around the corner in a green jacket, red hair messy from the wind, smiling before he reached him.

“José?”

The sound of his name in Pedro’s voice did something unreasonable to his chest.

“Yes,” José said, and then, because his brain had become a useless decorative object, “Your hair is redder in person.”

Pedro blinked, then laughed. “Good red or traffic cone red?”

“Good red. I like red heads...I mean, I like it!” José said embarrassed at himself.

“Strong start.” Pedro said with a grin.

The date was not perfect. That was why José trusted it later. There were awkward pauses. José talked too much about procedural animation in gaming and mustache grooming. Pedro admitted he had stalked José’s profile twice before sending a hello. José spilled coffee on the saucer, not on himself, which he considered a small triumph.

But Pedro watched him with open interest. Not politeness. Legitimate interest. When they walked afterward, their shoulders brushed once. Pedro did not move away. José’s whole body registered the contact like a system alert.

At the Metro entrance, Pedro looked at him with a softness that made José afraid.

“I’d like to see you again,” Pedro said as he stepped closer to José.

José heard himself answer, “Me too.”

Pedro smiled. “Good. Because I already planned three possible second dates.”

“Only three?”

“I didn’t want to scare you off.”

José could have kissed him then. He wanted to. Pedro looked as if he would allow it. Instead José nodded, smiled, and let the moment pass like so many others.

That night, happiness curdled into panic. He replayed every second, searching for the hidden mistakes. Pedro’s smile. Pedro’s hand brushing his arm. Pedro’s eyes dropping once to José’s mustache-covered mouth. It had been real. It had been real, and that made it exciting but also disturbing. Because now there was something to lose.

At 2:03 a.m., José opened the game. The apartment was dark except for the monitor. The avatar waited, patient and merciless.

José clicked the age slider. “This is just to see,” he said. Twenty-five. The body on-screen became youthful, beautiful to José's eyes, in a way he hadn't felt in years.

APPLY CHANGES TO ACTIVE MODEL? PRESS ANY KEY TO CONTINUE.

José paused for a second...then he hit Enter before he could stop himself. Youth returned to him like a theft in reverse.

His skin tightened. His back straightened beyond the posture correction. The small aches in his knees vanished. The hair on his head erupted and thickened into a dark, careless fullness. His beard shadow lightened. His chest and arms firmed, his waist narrowing, his face smoothing until the man in the black mirror of the monitor was not older or younger but alternate.

José stumbled to the bathroom. A handsome young man stared back at him with José’s eyes. He touched his face. His throat. His hair. Then he smiled. “Surely Pedro would prefer this version of me.” The thought frightened him before he finished putting words to it.

⸻

A few days passed before their second date. José had called in sick to work to avoid explaining his new impossible appearance. Pedro decided a museum trip in central Madrid would be the perfect spot. José was eager and nervous. When he arrived he saw Pedro waiting - Pedro did not recognize him at first. That was the part José had not allowed into the fantasy. He had imagined surprise, desire, laughter, maybe disbelief followed by wonder. He imagined a delighted Pedro instantly drawn to a version of himself he thought was better. He had not imagined Pedro standing outside the Reina Sofía with his brow furrowed, looking past him for the middle-aged man he was supposed to meet.

“Pedro,” José said.

Pedro turned politely. “Yes?”

“It’s me, José.”

A cautious smile. “Sorry?”

“José, this is our second date.”

The name landed badly. Pedro’s expression changed, first into disbelief, then into recognition that the 40-something year old nerdy goofball he had been messaging and who he had met just a few days ago was replaced by someone his own age, someone familiar yet not. Pedro’s face shifted - not into recognition but into guardedness.

José rushed. “I know how this looks. I can explain. Something happened. The game I told you about, the beta—”

“Is this a joke? Are you José’s younger brother?”

“No. I swear. It’s me.”

Pedro looked him up and down. Young face. Young body. Same glasses…same eyes. Impossible - yet there was too much proof and none of it usable.

“Who are you really?” Pedro asked, sounding increasingly annoyed and embarrassed. “Why would José put you up to this?”

The hurt in his voice stopped José cold.

“I’m José...we met a few days ago for coffee. We talked about video games and mustache grooming, I almost kissed you in front of the metro but chickened out…”

Pedro shook his head in disbelief. “No. You’re some guy who knows things José told you.”

“I can prove it!” José yelped.

“That’s not the point.” Pedro stepped back. His red brows drew together. “The point is I was meeting him.”

Him. José felt the word strike harder than rejection. Pedro looked angry now, but under it, embarrassed. Maybe frightened. “Tell José that this was cruel.” And with that Pedro walked away.

José followed two steps and stopped. People moved around him. Couples, tourists, students, old women with shopping bags. The city continued with offensive ease while Jose’s fantasy came crumbling down all around him.

Just then his phone buzzed. A message from Pedro.

I don’t know what this was, but please don’t contact me again.

José stood there, dejected, until the screen went dark.

Then José did what men have done for hundreds of years when handed the exact lesson they asked for - and refused to understand. He went out looking for a release.

⸻

José’s young body knew how to be wanted and he had a missed youth to make up for. That was the worst and best part. At the first bar, men looked at him before he reached the counter. At the second, someone bought him a drink. At the third, in Chueca, a handsome man with silver in his beard touched Jose’s arm and asked if he was waiting for someone.

“No,” José said.

“Good...”

The man’s name was Luis. His husband was Andrés. They were both in their late forties, both confident in a way José never felt he was and had always mistaken for arrogance until he saw the kindness underneath it. Luis had a thick head of hair and a salt-and-pepper beard. Andrés had soft eyes, a heavy mustache, and the calm smile of someone who had survived himself.

They flirted with José shamelessly, but not carelessly. They made him laugh. They made him feel seen. Even though he knew they were seeing the wrong body, and with Pedro’s hurt still buzzing in his head, Jose latched onto the moment - at the opportunity to be young and the object of desire.

Later, in their apartment, the night became warm and blurred at the edges: they sat for a while in the living room with José in the middle, moonlight leaking through curtains, the rough familiar comfort of older hands caressing the cheek and thighs of a younger body, laughter against young soft skin, the strange ache of being desired while feeling absent from oneself. Making up for missed opportunities of a youth Jose never openly acknowledged to anyone, let alone himself.

It didn’t take long before Luis seized the opportunity and leaned in for a forceful kiss which lead to shirts and pants scattered on the apartment floor.

The older men were more than happy to take the lead and José was more than happy to let them. Andrés rose to his feet and took Jose’s hand and led him towards the bedroom.

Andrés took his turn kissing José before pushing him back on the bed and removing his underwear while Luis watched. Andrés crawled up the bed kissing Jose’s body. His mustache tickling José while he slid up from his inner thigh, around his engorging member, across his stomach to his neck - where he lingered. Andrés lifted his body to the side and laid beside José, nibbling at his ear and running his hand through his hair while Luis approached from the front and lifted Jose’s legs, wrapping them around his neck.

Luis began to suck on José’s perky young cock and licked his testicles making his way down to his ass. He licked around the hole then put two fingers in his mouth before shoving them deep in Jose’s throbbing ass. This sent a little jolt through his young body and the two older men shared a knowing glance.

Luis flipped José onto his stomach and pulled him towards the edge of the bed. José responded by rising to all fours and arching his back - exactly what Luis was hoping for. Luis then spit on his dick, and pressed it against Jose’s tight hole - teasing the opening while Andrés slid in front of José and presented his engorged 8” hairy uncut dick sporting a large metal cock ring to José’s mouth.

José responded by leaning into the moment and taking the entirety of Andrés into his mouth just as Luis pushed into him from behind - slowly at first, then with increasing force. José’s skin crawled with energy at the sight and sensation of the two older men lusting after what José had become - what the game had let him be - even if only for a while.

Within a few minutes Luis’s pace quickened and his grunting intensified as he edged closer - José still found the wherewithal to suck on Andrés’s dick as he was being plowed from behind - his prostate overstimulated. Then, from behind Jose heard Luis say to Andrés “Are you ready? I’m going to cum!” to which Andrés replied “whenever you are!” and both men suddenly pulled out of José. Andrés released thick ropes of cum on José’s arched back while Andrés came all over José’s face - cum splattering and sticking to his mustache.

After cuming, Luis flipped José onto his stomach and stuck his dick back into his ass. Andrés approached from the side and deep throated Jose’s dick. It didn’t take long for his youthful hormones and sensitive young dick to respond to the stimuli and José came deep down Andrés mouth. Fully spent and satisfied, José sat up briefly before excusing himself to the bathroom to shower and clean himself up.

As he turned on the shower and stepped in, José reflected on how he spent his evening dealing with his mix of grief and lust. Not with Pedro at the Reina Sofia. Not talking about video games or Star Wars. Not looking into Pedro’s soft eyes or pinning for how his thick auburn mustache twitched when he cracked a small smile. But instead by being skewered and sucked-off by two daddies in a random apartment in central Madrid.

As the warm water ran across his skin, José was overcome with a flood of emotions:

At the excitement of meeting Pedro and the disappointment of ruining it all by not being himself.

At the relief of avoiding being overly attached to a young man that surely wouldn’t really love the forty-five year old version of himself and the grief of never really giving it a chance.

At the thrill of being young again and at the simultaneous anxiety of being middle-aged with the accompanying fear of wondering how much longer he had to find love.

At the overwhelming desire to just be seen by other people - to be known and understood.

It was all more than José could bear and he collapsed into a ball of tears under the warm running water before regaining his composure and rejoining the men in their bedroom.

José sat on the edge of the couples’ bed wearing one of Andrés’s shirts, too large for his younger frame. Luis was already asleep. Andrés came back from the kitchen with water and handed him a glass.

“You look like a man who has successfully made himself miserable,” Andrés said.

José laughed because it was easier than answering. Andrés sat beside him. “Bad breakup?”

“Bad decisions.”

“Those are more common.”

José drank the water and paused a few seconds. “Would you go back?”

“To what?” Andrés said.

“Being twenty-five.”

Andrés looked the young man over and considered the question. “For a weekend? Maybe. Permanently? God, no.”

“You say that because you were probably happy at twenty-five. You seem so confident, so sure of yourself and your decisions.”

Andrés laughed “I was an idiot at twenty-five. Beautiful, dramatic, and completely convinced every closed door was the end of my life.”

José looked down at his hands. Young hands. Smooth hands. A stranger’s hands. “I came out late,” he said.

Andrés did not answer too quickly. So José kept talking. “I spent years thinking there would be time later. Then later came, and everyone already knew the rules. Everyone had stories. Exes. Confidence. Bodies they understood. I felt like I had arrived at my own life after the credits.”

Andrés nodded. “And now?”

José gave a small, bitter smile. “Now I look like someone who didn’t.”

“But you still feel like someone who did.”

The sentence settled between them.

From the bed, Luis murmured something in his sleep and rolled over. Andrés smiled at him with such ordinary affection that José had to look away.

“Younger men are not free of shame,” Andrés said. “They just have smoother skin while they learn it.”

José laughed softly.

“And older men are not expired,” Andrés continued. “Some of us are just finally ripe enough to stop apologizing for being touched.”

José swallowed.

Andrés nudged his shoulder. “Whatever you’re running from, cariño, don’t run so far you leave yourself behind.”

In the morning, José kissed them both goodbye at the door. Luis gave him a look so knowing it felt almost indecent.

“You’re welcome back,” Luis said, “but only if you arrive as the person you actually are.”

José stared at him half wandering if Luis had figured out his secret.

⸻

Later that morning the beta build was still open when José came home.

Of course it was. He had not closed it. Some part of him must have known he would return like this: exhausted, ashamed, smelling faintly of another apartment, carrying his shoes in one hand because his young feet had developed a blister anyway.

On the screen, the twenty-five-year-old avatar stood under perfect light. José sat down. For a long time, he did not touch the mouse. Then he clicked Revert to Original Scan. The avatar changed back.

Bald head. Glasses. Thick mustache, though less shaped than he now preferred. Average shoulders. Softness at the middle. Chest hair at the collar. A man in his forties who looked tired and kind and uncertain.

José looked at him and felt no lightning of acceptance, no internal music, no sudden healing from his conversation with Andrés.

He felt grief. Then fondness for his old body. Then, unexpectedly, amusement. “Oh, come on,” he told the screen. “We can do better than that.” He opened the settings.

Age: forty-five.

He left it there.

Hair: restored, but with a mature density.

Yes. He was keeping that. He had suffered enough.

Mustache: improved, full, deliberate.

Obviously a no-brainer.

Muscle: plus twelve percent.

He reduced it to eight, then raised it to ten.

“Don’t be a coward,” he muttered.

Skin: natural.

Glasses: yes.

He selected the final avatar.

It was him. Not the boy he had tried to become. Not the man he had feared was unlovable. A mid-forties José with dark hair, a thick confident mustache, stronger shoulders, soft eyes behind round glasses, and a face that had lived long enough to know what it wanted, even if sometimes he felt like he didn't.

The game asked:

PRESS ANY KEY TO APPLY CHANGES TO ACTIVE MODEL?

José hovered over Enter.

His phone buzzed. Pedro.

For one wild second José thought it might be forgiveness, but the message was shorter than that.

I’m still angry. But I keep thinking about you. Was that really you yesterday? I don’t understand what happened. I don’t know if I want to. But if there is something honest to say, say it tomorrow. In person. As yourself.

José read it three times. Then he typed:

I’m sorry. You were right. You came to meet me, and I didn’t trust that I was enough, so I made myself into what I thought you’d want. Tomorrow, I’ll come as myself.

He stared at the words. Then he added:

Possibly with better hair. It’s a long story.

For almost a minute, nothing. Then Pedro replied:

That part I noticed ;)

José laughed so hard he had to take off his glasses and wipe away a tear. When he put them back on, the screen was still waiting.

He pressed Enter.

The change moved through him not like invasion this time, not like escape, but like tailoring. His body warmed, adjusted, settled. Hair returned to his scalp in soft dark thickness. His mustache filled and shaped itself. His shoulders strengthened under his shirt. His face remained lined where it should be lined. His eyes stayed his own.

When it was over, José went to the bathroom. The man in the mirror was forty-five - smoother around the edges but obviously him.

He looked nervous. He looked ridiculous. He looked handsome. Most importantly, he looked present.

José touched his hair, then his mustache, then laughed at himself because of course he had kept both. Self-acceptance, he decided, did not require theatrical suffering. If the universe handed you a miracle beta build, you were allowed to fix a few things just as much as you were allowed to work out to improve your fitness, take a GLP-1 to lose weight or fly to Turkey if you wanted hair.

He returned to the computer and closed the program. For the first time all week, the room went dark. Outside, Madrid was beginning to brighten toward noon. Somewhere below, a delivery truck rattled over the stones. Jose stood at the balcony door in his bare feet, older than he had wanted to be, younger than he had feared he was, and very much alive.

Tomorrow he would meet Pedro again. As José - more or less.

>>>To be continued?<<<

[urban-farmer-in-ca]

[urban-farmer-in-ca]

Narnia dude

[occamstfs]

Viral Transformation Writers

Hi all!

Hope you've enjoyed my last few stories! In other news, I'm happy to announce writers who are currently planning to write Viral Transformation stories for my little 2k shindig:

✦ MiscTf

✦ YourNewBody

✦ HairyJockTf

✦ Just-A-Jock

✦ MuscleJedi-Tameem

✦ YellowJesterTfs

✦ CaptainMaleWriter

✦ AlphaJockLover

✦ Sanzaibian

✦ Brains4Brawn

✦ Eilorow

✦ Warping-Realities

In the meantime check them out! They're all such stellar writers and they have quite widely varied styles/TF themes. I’m so excited to see what they all end up penning for my prompt!

Also, although I’m throwing this up now, until the poll is posted on the 29th anyone still interested is free to throw their hat in the ring! If you want to be added to this list just let me know!

Cheers! -Occam

[tuggerinthasea]

Chav 4 Life

On a quiet, overcast afternoon, Timothy McAllister stepped into the alleyway behind the local convenience store. His heart raced as he clutched the crumpled note in his pocket. It was a simple message, yet it contained a world of mystery and potential danger. He had never done anything like this before, but the promise of adventure was too tantalizing to ignore. He had been invited to a secret meeting with someone who claimed they could change his life.

As he approached the shadowy figure leaning against the wall, Timothy's stomach churned with a mix of excitement and fear. The man, who went by the name of 'Joker', had a smirk that made him seem both alluring and slightly menacing. He wore a hoodie that obscured his face, but Tim could see the glint in his eyes as he held out a hand-wrapped cigar. "You the one looking for a new look?" he drawled in a thick British accent.

Timothy nodded, his curiosity piqued. "How does this work?"

Joker chuckled, revealing a set of gold teeth. "Just take a hit, my friend. Let the magic do the rest."

Timothy took a tentative drag from the blunt, his eyes watering as the harsh smoke filled his lungs. He coughed, feeling the heat spread through his body, but as the cough subsided, a strange warmth began to envelop his mind. His memories of all-nighters spent coding and his collection of comic books grew fuzzy, replaced by a new set of images. He saw himself hustling on street corners, flashing wads of cash, and a wardrobe that was more Mckenzie than Mark Zuckerberg. On the street he goes by Tugger, no longer Timothy

The transformation was as sudden as it was shocking. His glasses shattered, and his shaggy hair was replaced by a harsh buzz cut with a line shaved into the side. His baggy jeans and t-shirt morphed into a matching tracksuit, the kind that screamed 'chav'. His ears glinted with diamond studs, and when he dared to glance at his reflection in a nearby window, he saw his teeth had been replaced with gleaming silver grills.

The blunt burned between his fingers, releasing a thick, acrid smoke that seemed to coil around him, accelerating his metamorphosis. Tattoos began to bloom on his skin, starting as faint lines that grew darker and more intricate with every breath he took. The words 'skin' and 'chav' were etched onto his knuckles in bold, block letters. A pot leaf, the universal symbol of rebellion, claimed the right side of his neck, its leaves reaching up towards his ear like a botanical embrace.

The tracksuit was now a second skin, hugging his body in a way that screamed 'I'm not to be messed with'. The fabric was covered in a pattern of tiny crowns, a nod to the British monarchy, but the real kings of the street were the ones wearing it. His ears sparkled with the weight of the diamond studs, and when he talked, the light bounced off them, sending tiny glitters of light dancing across the alley.

Tuggers voice had changed too, now a gruff, nasal twang that echoed down the alley. The words 'innit' and 'blud' slipped from his lips as naturally as they ever had 'algorithm' and 'synergy'. His vocabulary was a strange mix of cockney slang and aggressive posturing that was as alien to him as the tattoos that snaked down his arms. He felt his brain rewiring, filling with the slang of a world he'd only ever seen on TV.

As if on cue, a pack of cigarettes materialized in his hand. He flicked one out and lit it with the smoldering end of the blunt. The smoke curled around him, and with each inhale, he felt a piece of his old self peeling away like a forgotten skin. His mind was a blur of new memories, of hustling on the streets, of the rush of adrenaline when a deal went down, and the cold sting of fear when the piggies rolled by. He was becoming someone else entirely, someone who reveled in the thrill of danger and the flash of bling.

The tattoos grew denser, more intricate. His arms and neck now a canvas of ink. The letters 'S-K-I-N' on one hand, 'C-H-A-V' on the other. His teeth were gone, replaced by a gleaming grin of silver and gold. The pot leaf on his neck grew into a full-on shrine, its tendrils wrapping around his face like a crown of defiance. A 0g septum ring winked at him from his nose, the size of it making him feel like a bull ready to charge. His eyes narrowed, and he flexed his arms, feeling the power of the new life that was being forcibly etched into him.

The ciggies called to him, a siren's song of nicotine and rebellion. He took a deep drag, feeling the smoke fill his lungs, and his mind swim with the lingo of his new brethren. 'Cus', 'innit', 'blud', all rolled off his tongue as if he'd been speaking it his whole life. The thrill of the streets, the allure of the underworld, it was all so intoxicatingly foreign and yet… familiar. Like a video game he'd played a thousand times, but now he was living it for life.

[md7tf]

A Perfect Fit

A request from @cyocfan : I love clothing tf. Hey stud! If you had me, how would you tf me?

You were out shopping for a new shirt to wear to a friend’s summer barbecue when you stepped into the dressing room and found it a mess with clothes dumped on the floor. You realize with a scoff that they aren’t even new clothes—there is what looks to be a sweat-stained tank top sitting right on top of the pile.

For some unknown reason, you pick up the shirt to smell it. The ripe, pungent odor of man-sweat assaults your nose, causing you to recoil in disgust for a split second before the scent begins to overpower your senses. Your vision turns hazy, and you feel your mind begin to fog over.

Through the fog, you feel an overwhelming need to put the shirt on—to have that salty scent of man cover your body. Moving as if in a daydream, you strip out of your clothes and pull the shirt on. Immediately, a sense of rightness hits you. You are vaguely aware of your muscles twitching as your lanky body grows more defined and the slight outline of tattoos appears on your arms with a pleasant, prickly sensation. You inhale deeply, letting the ripe, masculine smell wash over you.

Still in a daze, you grab a musky pair of old jeans from the pile on the floor and struggle to pull them on. Your legs seem to be thicker than you remember. The unfamiliar feeling of the fabric stretching tight over your quads and ass sends a trickle of thrill through you. It feels so good... so right.

Next comes a denim vest—heavy with the persistent, sour scent of sweat and cigarette smoke clinging to the fabric. It fits perfectly over your bulky frame, showing off your broad shoulders and massive arms. It is like it was made for you, or you were made for it; your dazed mind is unable to decide. Either way, it is right.

Then, as you pull on a cap claimed from the pile, you blink and look around in confusion as if waking from a dream. But when you catch sight of your reflection in the mirror, a cocky grin spreads across your face. You’ve always loved ducking into a dressing room to admire yourself whenever you got the chance. Fuck, you look good.

After flexing for the mirror one last time, you grab a pack of smokes and the six-pack you came to get for your buddy’s tailgate party. Stepping out of the store, you immediately light up a cigarette and take a long drag. It feels like it’s been a lifetime since you’ve had a good smoke, but it couldn’t have been more than an hour or so. You lean against your truck, savoring the taste of the cigarette and the way the sun falls on your massive, tattoo-covered muscles.

As you take another long drag, an odd thought crosses your mind that things are finally right now. But you quickly shake off the thought; after all, you’ve always been the same man as you are today—a natural-born powerhouse and the pinnacle of everything masculine. A man who is simply doing the world a favor by standing in it. Fuck, it’s good to be you.

[cherwallyx]

[thelastofthewine]

***

[misctf]

Damage Control

"I can't believe I fuckin' agreed to this." Chris sighed as he shifted uncomfortably on the hard, plastic chair, "This is definitely overkill."

The midday sun beat down mercilessly on the makeshift dunk tank setup in the middle of the bustling tailgate party. Laughter and chatter filled the air as fans milled about, while eyeing the football star perched precariously above the water.

Chris couldn't meet their gazes. After his drunken social media rant went viral and pissed off the entire town, he'd been forced to agree to this humiliating spectacle as penance. But as he gazed out at the sea of camouflage hats, flannel shirts, and pickup trucks, he couldn't help but think that maybe he hadn't been entirely wrong in his assessment of this place. The whole damn town reeked of pig shit and ignorance.

"Step right up to say hello to our resident football star!" The dunk tank operator's voice boomed out over the crackling loudspeaker, "Chris Mason is here and ready! Y'all know what he said last weekend!" The crowd booed, "That's right folks, this city slicker thinks he's too good for us!" The operator continued, clearly relishing the opportunity to publicly humiliate the disgraced athlete. "So step on up and show him how we do things 'round these parts!"

A line quickly formed- one by one they stepped up to the mark, sizes ranging from wiry farmhands to barrel-chested factory workers.

"Hah! Look at 'im squirm!" Cackled one patron.

Chris watched as it hit the target dead-on. He could feel the chair underneath him to give way.

"Oh shi…!" Chris plunged into the cold water beneath him.

Chris surfaced from the frigid dunk tank water, sputtering indignantly as he hauled himself back onto the seat. His lean, muscular frame glistened in the sunlight, water streaming down his handsome features.

"Whatever." he muttered under his breath, trying to ignore their laughter. "Think they're so fuckin' clever." Despite the embarrassment of the public humiliation, he knew he looked good- his toned physique on full display, "Let them laugh." A smirk played across his lips as he scanned the crowd, "Bunch of…"

Chris's thoughts were interrupted as his gaze landed on some nearby cars. He was expecting to spot his sleek sports car among the sea of pickup trucks, yet there was no sign of his ride. In the spot that he knew he parked his car was instead an old, rusty pick-up truck.

"Hey! Where's my car?" Chris called out to the dunk tank operator, his brow furrowed in confusion. "It was right there, I swear!"

"Don't you worry none 'bout that, son. We gotcha covered. Ain't nobody gonna be needin' a fancy sports car 'round these parts anyway."

Something about the man's tone set Chris on edge, "What does that even mean? Seriously man, my car…" He can't even finish a sentence as the chair gives out from under him once again, "Oh fuck!" He plunged into the icy water beneath him.

"Ahhh, fuck me," Chris groaned as he resurfaced for the second time, shaking the water from his hair, "Seriously, my car..." His voice trailed off as a new desire filled his mind, "What...?"

He couldn't name it, but as his eyes drifted over the crowd, taking in the sight of the locals guzzling from cans of cheap lager and lighting up cigarettes with practiced ease- to his shock, he found himself almost salivating at the thought of joining them. He looked over at the dunk tank operator, who was lighting up a cigarette of his own.

"Hey uh…" Chris paused, unable to process what he was about to ask, "… you got a spare smoke?" The words felt foreign on his tongue. Wrong. His body was a temple. Smoking? He didn't smoke.

The operator just grinned, "Thought ya might be askin'. Here ya go, son." He tossed a cig and a cheap lighter over to Chris.

"No no no no.." Chris fumbled with the lighter, his hands unsteady. "What am I doing?" he muttered, the confusion and dread rising inside him. He lit the cigarette, brought it to his lips, and inhaled deeply. The harsh smoke filled his lungs, burning like fire.

But somehow, it also felt strangely comforting, like coming home. He coughed slightly, then exhaled a cloud of smoke, watching it dissipate, "Shit," he whispered, his mind reeling as he tried to make sense of it all.

But he didn't have much time to process as he was once again plunged into the icy waters below.

"Goddamn it!" Chris cursed as he broke the surface once more, gasping for air, "Ugh fuck..."

His stomach hurt. Bad. And as he ran a hand over his abdomen, he froze. His abs... gone? He looked down, confirming what he was feeling- a soft paunch instead of his rock-hard abdominals. His chest felt different too, slightly hairier than usual. Hadn't he just shaved yesterday morning? Confusion swirled in his mind as he tried to rationalize the changes.

"Looks like someone's lettin' themselves go!" One of the locals jeered, pointing at Chris's now pudgy midsection. His buddies snickered in agreement, the sound grating on Chris's nerves.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Chris snapped, his voice laced with irritation. "I'm in peak condition, asshole."

"Yeah, sure ya are," another local chimed in, his words slurred from too many beers. "Peak condition for a lazy good ol' boy, maybe!"

The insults stung more than Chris cared to admit. He was used to being admired for his athletic physique, not ridiculed for it. But this wasn't him. Something was definitely off about his body.

The dunk tank operator seemed to read his mind, a knowing smirk playing across his weathered face. "Best get used to it, son."

Chris stared at the operator in disbelief, his heart pounding in his chest. Get used to what exactly? Before he could demand an explanation, the chair gave way once more, plunging him into the icy depths below.

"Fuckin' bullshit!" Chris exclaimed, as he came back up, his arms flailing in frustration. He could feel a hot flush of embarrassment spreading across his cheeks as he sputtered, spitting out water. He was done with this. Done with the jeering, the mockery, the bizarre changes to his body.

"I want the hell outta here, ya hear?" Chris demanded, turning to the dunk tank operator, "Ya better lemme outa here real quick-like or… or…" His words trailed off, "No, wait…"

"Or what, son?" The operator drawled, leaning back against the side of the tank, a smug grin plastered across his face. "Whatchu gonna do 'bout it?"

Chris opened his mouth to retort, but the words that came out sounded foreign to his own ears, "I… I ain't gonna take this no more, ya hear? This here's… this here's bullshit!" He cringed internally at the twang in his voice, the odd phrasing. What the hell was happening to him?

The operator just laughed, shaking his head in amusement. "Sounds like somebody's gettin' awful worked up. Might wanna settle down 'fore ya say somethin' yer gonna regret, y'hear?"

Chris clenched his fists, anger and confusion warring within him.

"I ain't settlin' fer nuthin'," Chris growled, his voice low and threatening. Or at least, it would've been threatening if it weren't for the pronounced Southern drawl that colored every word. "Now ya best git me outta here 'fore I…"

Before he could finish the threat, the chair gave way once more, sending him plummeting into the icy depths below. Chris crashed into the water with a splutter, his breath stolen by the force of the impact. When he finally surfaced, gasping for air, his whole body felt… different. He glanced down, horror dawning on his face as he saw the unmistakable signs of change—his once-taut, chiseled muscles had grown bulkier, but not in the way he wanted. His arms had certainly grown larger, swelling obscenely, now sporting an excess of hair and girth that would rival even the largest of the local farm boys.

"Wha… wha's happenin' to me?!"

He ran trembling fingers over his chest, feeling an unfamiliar layer of softness atop his pectoral muscles. His meaty hands traveled south, where he cautiously poked at his belly. There was a distinct, rounded curve to his lower belly now, a noticeable gut that jutted outward. He gasped as his fingers sunk into the pliable flesh of his gut.

"This ain't… this cain't be happenin'." Chris muttered, panic seizing his chest. "What the fuck's goin' on?"

His stomach gurgled, demanding sustenance, and suddenly all he could think about was sinking his teeth into a greasy double bacon cheeseburger, followed by a thick slice of apple pie, and finishing it off with a couple of beers. This new body had no cravings for his carefully planned out macros.

"Oh mah god." Tears stung at his eyes.

He stared into the water as his face broadened- his features aging and settling into a rougher, coarser look. His stubble had thickened too, blanketing his cheeks in the beginnings of a small beard. Finally, the weight of his situation started to sink in. Gone was the chiseled, sculpted physique he had prided himself on. In its place was the body of a stereotypical redneck - big, burly, and unkempt. The type of man he had always scoffed at- the type of man who lived in this town.

"Please… Please lemme outta here!" Chris pleaded, desperation creeping into his voice as he turned to the dunk tank operator. "I don't… I don't wanna do this no more!"

"Aww, but we're just gettin' started, ain't we?" he drawled, his tone mocking.

Chris felt a chill run down his spine at those ominous words. What else could possibly happen to him? He was already a far cry from the person he had been mere hours ago. As if in answer to his silent question, the chair beneath him gave way once more, plunging him back into the icy depths.

Chris burst forth from the water, his skin flushed and burning. As he wiped the droplets from his eyes, he caught sight of his arms—and froze. Intricate tattoos adorned his flesh, twisting and curling in elaborate designs. Skulls, snakes, and flames danced across his skin, the colors vivid and bold.

"No… No, this ain't right!" Chris cried out, his voice cracking with emotion. "These ain't mine! I ain't never had no tattoos!"

He frantically searched his body, only to find more of the same. His chest, his back, even his neck—they were all covered in the same garish ink.

"Please, I'm beggin' ya," Chris sobbed, his words heavy with desperation. "Is this 'cause of what I said? I didn't mean none of it, honest! It was stupid and I'm sorry, I'm so fuckin' sorry!"

Chris's mind raced with thoughts of his future—of going pro, of making a name for himself in the NFL. How could he do any of that now, looking like this? Like some backwoods hick instead of the promising young athlete he was meant to be?

"Nobody's gonna recognize me like this. I'll lose everythin' I worked for!" Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the tank water. The thought terrified him- his friends, family? Did he even want them to see him now? "I swear, I'll change. I'll do anythin', just please…"

The dunk tank operator's grin widened as he savored Chris's despair. "Ya know, we could just wipe that pretty lil' brain of yours clean. Make ya forget all about bein' some bigshot football star. Make ya just another dumbass redneck, content as a pig in shit." Chris whimpered, watching as the dunk tank operator casually tossed a baseball between his hands, "Just one more plunge."

"No… I'll do anythin'." The thought of totally losing himself made him sick.

He chuckled darkly, reveling in the power he held over the once-proud athlete. "But maybe… maybe we can work somethin' out. Ya seem like a reasonable fella, all things considered. So here's the deal…"

--------------

The dimly lit bar was filled with the raucous cheers and jeers of its patrons as they watched the football game playing on the mounted TVs.

"Didja see that play? That new quarterback just ain't cuttin' it no more!" Jed slurred, downing his beer in one gulp.

"Aw, quit yer bellyachin'!" his buddy replied, elbowing Jed in the ribs. "Least he ain't as bad as that pansy-ass pretty boy."

"That city boy who done thought he was too good for us?" Jed scratched his beard and belched loudly.

"That's the one! Chris Mason, or whatever his fancy pants name was." Another of the group chimed in, "Done dropped out. Serves 'em right."

Jed nodded sagely, a faraway look in his bloodshot eyes as memories surfaced, "Well, I reckon that boy learned his lesson real quick-like."

"Ah enough about that prick. Say Jed, whatchu doin' this weekend?" one of the men asked, taking a swig of his beer. "We was fixin' to head out to the lake for some fishin' and drinkin'. You oughta come along!"

Jed mulled it over for a moment, his mind sluggish from the alcohol. Fishing did sound mighty fine right about now. "Reckon I could stand to spend a day out on the water," he drawled, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Count me in, boys!"

The group erupted in whoops and hollers, raising their bottles in a toast. "To beer, fish, and good company!" one declared, and the others echoed the sentiment. Jed clinked his bottle against theirs.

As the group stumbled out of the bar, Jed's eyes locked onto a familiar figure loitering near the exit. The dunk tank operator. Curiosity piqued, he excused himself from his friends with a mumbled "Be right back, y'all."

Jed ambled over to the operator, swaying slightly on his feet. "Evenin' there, sir," he drawled, tipping his cap. "Can't help but notice you lookin' mighty pleased with yourself."

The operator's grin widened, revealing yellowed teeth. "Well, well, if it ain't my favorite customer from last week's festivities. Enjoyin' your new life, Jed?"

Chris scowled, crossing his burly arms, "It ain't exactly paradise, if ya catch my drift."

"Now, now, don't go complainin' to me. You made a deal, remember? Live as Jed, maybe one day you can go back to yer ol' life. Just gotta give this one a chance." His voice lowered to a menacing whisper. "But trust me, boy, I can make this here arrangement a whole lot more…permanent, if'n you keep gripein'."

Chris's blood ran cold at the threat, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. He knew all too well the power this man held over him. "N-no, sir, I ain't complainin' no more. Just…just feelin' mighty homesick is all."

The operator patted Chris's shoulder condescendingly. "Aw, you'll get used to it soon enough." He grinned, "Besides," the operator continued, his eyes gleaming with malicious amusement, "you're doin' just fine as Jed. Why, I heard tell of your grand plans for the weekend - fishin', drinkin', carryin' on like a proper redneck. Ain't that just what the doctor ordered?"

Chris couldn't argue with that. As much as he loathed to admit it, he had fallen into the role of Jed with a frightening ease. The beer, the camaraderie, the simple pleasures of a life far removed from his old one - it was becoming... comfortable. Terrifying, but comfortable nonetheless.

And as Chris lay in bed that night, in a body that was becoming increasingly more comfortable and familiar, with a new name increasingly becoming his own, he grappled with the unsettling realization that perhaps...he didn't want to go back. The aches in his muscles from a hard day's labor on the farm, the burn of whiskey on his tongue, the smell of tobacco clinging to his clothes, drivin' his pick-up while blastin' country music - it all felt so right, so natural. Was he really contemplating throwing away everything he had worked for, everything he thought he wanted?

"I reckon I am." Jed mumbled to himself, as sleep threatened to overtake him, "Ain't nothin' wrong with that, is there?"

[misctf]

I'm back in college this week and my roommate is going to be a guy who is notoriously a dumb jock who is always skipping class to get laid or get high, I don't know how I'll get through this year with him

You were dreading returning to campus. Dreading the start of a new year. Dreading him. Seth. You and your friends had agreed to enter the roommate lottery system rather than risk your friendships. After all, good friends don't necessarily make good roommates. But when you saw who you would be rooming with... well, you weren't all too happy. And everyone knew. You sent texts to all your friends- even brought it up when you were talking with them over the phone.

"This year is going to suck."

"You think the rumors are true?"

"I heard he never showers, even after working out. Guy stinks."

"I heard he skips classes just to work-out. Probably why he's nearly failed all his classes."

"His previous roommate basically lived in the library to avoid him. I heard he was having sex every night and kicking his roommate out."

"His room always smelled like weed. I'm surprised they didn't expel him."

Your friends were willing to support you- listen to you. But as the first day of classes approached, it was getting clear they were tired of listening to all your complaining. After all, it seemed to be all you focused on. No conversation could go by without you bringing it up. Truthfully, it was kind of sad. So consumed with the idea of him being your roommate that you never gave him a chance.

"Hey bro, thought we should talk about our room."

You sighed when you saw the message from Seth. From him. Surprisingly mature, you had thought. You didn't think he'd be able to plan ahead like that. And so you two conversed. Divvying up who brought what to your soon to be shared living space. And just when you thought the conversation was over...

"Just wanna clear the air, I heard you've been talkin' shit about me."

You pause, rereading the message over and over again, "Don't know where you heard that from." You replied.

"At least be man enough to admit it." He replied, "Look, being me ain't no picnic. Don't need someone spreading shitty rumors too."

"I didn't say anything, sorry you think that." You figured his dumbass would leave it at that.

"I see." He replied, "If that's how you want this to be, fine. See you soon, bro."

You scoffed, "Being me ain't no picnic." You mocked, "Dumbass."

And then you arrived on campus. Finally had the chance to meet your new roommate. Seth first-bumped you upon your arrival, greeted you with a smile even. But all you could focus on was his body odor, the dull look in his eyes, the faint smell of weed on his clothes, and his muscular physique from all the time spent at the gym. Rumors? More like reality. But you wouldn't say that to him. Just keep the peace and get through this year.

It was 2AM when you realized the first challenge of living with Seth. The sound of rapid-fire gunshots and explosions fills the small dorm room as Seth hunches over his gaming setup. You toss and turn under your covers. But it's useless - Seth's late-night gaming binge is ensuring you remain wide awake and increasingly irritated. Morning comes far too soon, and you groggily silence your alarm before flopping back onto your pillow. Sleep feels too good to give up right now. Surely one missed class won't hurt…

But the pattern continues. Another missed morning class, then another. And you can't help but notice that Seth is going to bed earlier, playing less videogames, and even attending all of his classes. Yet despite the positive changes in Seth's behavior, you found yourself continuing to skip both your morning and afternoon classes. When a concerned friend called to check in, you brushed it off.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm just really tired lately. That Seth guy kept me up for weeks with his stupid games. Now my sleep schedule is all messed up."

Yet something about that seemed... wrong. You didn't really believe your words, did you? The next day, you woke up at 1PM as was becoming routine. No point in going to classes, right? No. Instead, you felt a different urge. With your classes falling by the wayside, you found yourself at a loss for how to spend your newly freed-up time. On a whim, you decided to hit the campus gym. As you walked in, you spotted Seth there, but something seemed different. He wasn't dominating a weight machine or running on a treadmill for hours on end like the rumors suggested. Instead, he was doing a quick, efficient workout before heading to the showers.

As you went through your own intense workout, you couldn't help but feel invigorated. Your muscles burned in that satisfying way, your heart raced, adrenaline pumping through your veins. It felt...good. Really good. Better than you ever remembered feeling after a workout before. As the days passed, you swore you could see changes in your physique - definition emerging where there had been none before, strength growing in your limbs with each rep. It was exhilarating... almost addictive. Soon, trips to the gym became your primary focus, your absences from class stretching longer and longer as you chased this new high. In the back of your mind, you wondered vaguely if the speed of your gains made sense. But it was easy to dismiss such thoughts. After all, you looked great walking around campus in your new tank-top. When one of your friends made a comment to you about how much time you were spending in the gym, you brushed it off.

"Livin' with Seth sucks, bro. Gotta hide out in the gym, ya know?"

One day, as you were admiring your rapidly developing physique back in your dorm room, Seth approached you. He looked different somehow - less rough around the edges, more put-together.

"Hey man," Seth said, sounding friendly but with an underlying tension. "I think we should talk about our room." He hesitated. "It's a bit messy."

As you followed Seth's gaze, a sinking realization dawned on you. Your side of the room was indeed a disaster zone - clothes strewn everywhere, empty protein shake bottles piled up, posters peeling off the walls. How had you let it get this bad?

"This isn't…" you mumbled, struggling to form a coherent thought as you took in the mess. Something felt off, like you were seeing it through a haze. Your usually sharp mind seemed dulled, sluggish. The changes in your body, the skipped classes, the obsession with the gym…

"Not a big deal." Seth smiled, "Just wanted to bring it to your attention."

Days turned into weeks, and despite your initial shock at the state of your room, you found yourself unable to muster the motivation to clean it up properly. In a moment of frustration and seeking escape, you stumbled upon Seth's old stash of weed hidden in his closet. Seth hadn't used it in forever, so you figured it wouldn't be a big deal to borrow some. The smoke filled your lungs, a strange calm washing over you. Maybe this was what you needed to take the edge off, to cope with the stress of your declining grades and the constant mess surrounding you. The habit quickly grew, a few hits here and there becoming a daily occurrence. The smell of weed clung to your clothes, mixing with the scent of sweat from your frequent gym sessions. And as you walked across campus, you couldn't help but overhear snippets of whispered conversations:

"…seen him lately? He looks different, man."

"…heard he's been skipping all his classes, just goes to the gym non-stop."

"…weed smell? Yeah, it's coming from his direction. Thought Seth was the pothead, but…"

"…those gains though! Bro must be juicing or something."

"…ever shower? Or wash his clothes?"

Frowning at the whispers, you ducked into your dorm room, locking the door behind you. With a heavy sigh, you approached the full-length mirror hanging on the back of your closet door. As you gazed at your reflection, your eyes widened in shock. The person staring back at you was unmistakably you, yet...not quite. Your muscles bulged, veins popping out along your arms and chest. A sheen of sweat glistened on your skin, and dark circles rimmed your bloodshot eyes. Your hair was greasy, messy, and unkempt. And the smell...when did you last shower? Days ago? Weeks? The stench of stale sweat and marijuana clung to you.

Panic rising in your throat, you spun away from the mirror, your mind reeling. This couldn't be happening. You weren't this person - the lazy, stoned gym rat skipping classes and letting himself go. Something had to have caused this drastic change. Your thoughts turned to Seth. He had changed so much recently - getting his act together, being responsible. Meanwhile, you had spiraled downwards. It couldn't be a coincidence. Seth must have done something to you, some kind of sick prank or twisted experiment gone wrong. Rage and fear battled inside you as you paced the room, trying to piece it together. But your once sharp mind was slow and sluggish.

The knock at the door jolted you from your spiraling thoughts. Irritated, you yanked it open, ready to snap at whoever dared to disturb you. But the words died on your tongue as you saw the cute twink from down the hall standing there, his eyes widening as they raked over your shirtless, muscular form. You suddenly became acutely aware of the tent forming in your gym shorts.

"Uh, hey man," the twink stammered, averting his gaze but sneaking another peek at your chiseled abs. "Sorry to bother you, but, um, your music is pretty loud. Could you maybe turn it down a bit?"

You grinned as you leaned against the doorframe, flexing subtly. The twink's pupils dilated with lust.

"My bad, bro. Guess I got carried away, huh?" You drawled, voice low and rough. An idea struck you and you jerked your head towards the interior of the room. "Why don't you come inside for a minute? We can discuss it more…privately." You adjusted the tent in your shorts.

The twink hesitated only briefly before nodding eagerly, stepping past you into the room, hand tracing along your chest as he walked by. As you closed the door, you quickly pulled out your phone, firing off a text to Seth.

"Need the room for a bit, bro. Got company, don't come back till I say so." You set the phone aside, turning to face the horny twink.

Days blurred together in a haze of weights, weed, and constant sex. Your grades plummeted, but you couldn't bring yourself to care. This was living, right? Being desired, indulging every urge. One afternoon, as you lounged on your bed in nothing but a pair of loose basketball shorts, Seth entered the room.

"Yo, we need to talk," you slurred, eyes bloodshot from an earlier smoking session. You fixed Seth with a glare, anger simmering beneath the surface. "Those rumors about me…did you spread 'em? Trying to make me look bad?"

Seth's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed defensively. "Whoa, hold up. I didn't spread any rumors about you, man. Where'd you even get that idea?" He crossed his skinnier arms, looking genuinely offended.

"Ah, sure." You grunt, "Just know, being me ain't no picnic."

So maybe now you understand. Maybe now you can appreciate being the undesirable roommate, the loser, the stoned gym rat that people whisper about behind their back. And Seth? Seth has a bright future ahead of him. Disciplined, studious, well-liked- really turned it around, eh? Now what was it you said?

"I don't know how I'll get through this year with him"

Don't worry, bro. You are him. Now and forever.

[megachiraztfs]

The Phone's Colour

They say: Don’t buy anything from untrustworthy websites. Viruses, spam and far worse things could be lurking there. The moment your details fall into the wrong hands, your peace of mind is gone and your money is gone too.

But Roman says: I don’t care! I want that orange iPhone! For $300, I just have to buy it!

He waited several weeks for his parcel from Zingiber Technology – and sure enough, it arrived after seven weeks. Slightly battered, but it was there. Full of impatience, Roman tore it open. There it was. The latest iPhone. Shiny and shrink-wrapped. He carefully picked it up, turning it gently in his hands. He set it up. Everything worked. His Apple ID, all his passwords. He was just about to install his tax app.

But then… he felt an irrepressible urge to take a selfie. Right at that very moment. Not just any selfie. It had to be topless. Roman was slim; he would never take a photo of himself bare-chested. But it was like an inner compulsion that made him rip his shirt off and throw it to the floor.

Now he stood there in front of the mirror. His heart was beating and bumping against his chest.

Bump.

It tickled.

Bump. Bump.

Hair blossomed on his chest. Bright orange curls wiggled out of his slightly reddening skin. Slowly they spread over his pectorals. Wait...

Bump. Bump. Bump. Bump.

His flat chest muscles pressed against Roman's skin, filling it with hard textur, coated with bristly hairs. His free hand came in touch with his new furry chest. Feeling the rough patch under his fingers, he gasped for air. Like water falling down a waterfall the rusty-orange hairs created a path to his lower regions, accompanied by a subtle swelling in his mid-section.

Fffffffhhhhhh. The air was filling his body.

Bump. Bump. Bump. The blood was pumped through his thickening body.

Roman's shoulders tensed. Widening, rounding, spreading into the room, while some sparse red hairs greeted from there, declaring it as their new home.

His forearms filled out. Thickening with every breath as freckles joined the fight over the free patches of skin on Roman's body. They lost around the elbow, giving space to the luscious red curls flowing down his forearms.

Fffffffffffffffffh. Bump. Bump. Ffffffffffffffffffffh.

His upper arm crunched. Muscles and fibers dwelling beneath the skin, creating a solid unit of strength from hand to head.

Click. Another picture. Ffffffffffffh. The growth wandered down to his butt, swelling and stretching his shorts.

He moaned, caressing his nipple, throwing back his head as he could feel blood rushing to his face.

Bump. Bump. Bump.

Roman's hair started curling, forming locks that looked redder by the second, while the same orange hair spread over his clean-shaven face. Crunching and creaking sounds escaped his face as his lower jaw sharpened. His brows extended slightly forward, taking the reddish tone that could be found almost everywhere on his body. An invisible blade carefully traced the outlines.

Deep inside him Roman could feel something shifting. Away from the phone gamer to a trained camera expert, knowing how to show off with the right light. But as the wave of red hairs hit his legs, he was not thinking about it.

He was feeling it. The swelling beneath his skin, the tingling on his skin. He did not think about his feet, bursting out of his sandals.

He did feel the power surge blasting the thin leather stripes away, making place for bigger feet with freckles and tufts of red hair. Different thoughts occupied his minds. Training. Showing off. Posing. Taking pics.

Click. Bump. Bump.

Roman was looking at his mirror selfie. That was who he was. Who he had always been. Who he will always be. And he was feeling everything of himself.

Click.

"That's good enough, the lads gonna love it."

Pfffffffffffffh.

Roman exhaled.

Bump.

Posted.

Hi, fellow tf enthusiasts! This is a little short story that came into my mind when I saw this pic. Have a great day!

[hairy-bothered]

Bear Honey

Sundays were the one day of the week I liked to let myself wander through town with no purpose. This one was no different. I threw on a gray shirt and jeans and looked myself over in the mirror. Brown eyes, thin, and a mop of hair on my head. Average in every way.

I headed out the door bound for an eclectic neighborhood I’d never visited. After grabbing a coffee and strolling for an hour I happened across a magic shop delicately crammed between a tattoo parlor and a record store. I popped in for a quick look - browsing through card decks, ouija boards,  and old books explaining everything from how to brew Wiccan tea to how to make someone fall in love with you. 

The jar sat on the highest shelf of the magic shop, behind a row of cracked porcelain masks and dusty bottles labeled things like Moon Milk and Widow’s Salt. I almost missed it.

It was small, squat, and sealed with black wax. The honey inside glowed dark amber, thick as syrup, with little gold flecks suspended in it. A handwritten label curled around the glass:

BEAR HONEY

For the man who wants more of himself.

I laughed under my breath. “Cute.” The shopkeeper, a narrow old woman with silver rings on every finger, looked up from behind the counter.

“That one is not cute,” she said.

I turned the jar in my hand. “What does it do?”

“It gives appetite,” she said. “Weight. Warmth. Hair. Presence.”

My face went hot before I could stop it. I was twenty-three and built like a coat hanger. Narrow shoulders, flat chest, soft chin, patchy stubble that never became anything no matter how long I waited. I had spent years wanting to be bigger. Not gym-bro cut. Not pretty. Bigger in the way certain men were bigger: thick, hairy, solid, impossible to miss. Men with bellies that filled out flannel shirts, beards that swallowed their jaws, voices that sounded like gravel in a barrel. Men who got called bears.

I bought the jar.

At home, in my quiet little rental house at the end of a suburban cul-de-sac, I set it on the kitchen counter and stared at it like it might stare back.

“One spoonful,” I said aloud. “It’s not like it’ll work anyway.”

The wax broke with a soft crack. The smell hit me immediately: honey, smoke, pine needles, warm skin. It made my mouth flood.

I dipped a spoon in. The honey stretched in a golden thread, reluctant to let go of itself. I tasted it. For a second, nothing happened. Then heat bloomed behind my ribs.

I gripped the counter. “Oh.”

It rolled through me slowly, down into my stomach, up into my throat, out along my arms. My skin prickled. My T-shirt tightened faintly across my chest. I ran to the bathroom mirror.

At first I thought it was the lighting. Then I leaned closer and saw my jaw looked sharper, darker with new stubble. Not a full beard. Not even close. But more than I’d had that morning.

I smiled. My reflection smiled back, hungry-eyed.

The next day at work, nobody said anything at first. I sat in my cubicle and tried not to touch my face. By ten, I’d gone to the bathroom three times to admire the stubble that had thickened overnight into a real shadow. My cheeks, usually smooth, were rough under my fingers. My shirt clung differently too. Not much. Just enough that I felt aware of myself every time I moved.

At lunch, Marcus from accounting passed me near the vending machines and did a double take.

“New look?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Just forgot to shave.”

He grinned. “You should keep forgetting.”

That was all he said. But it followed me home. I told myself I wouldn’t touch the honey again. I made it until 8:17 p.m.

“One more,” I whispered, standing barefoot in the kitchen.

The second spoonful was easier. My body seemed to know what to do with it. The heat came faster, thicker, almost pleasurable in how overwhelming it was. My back arched. My knuckles pressed into the counter until they hurt.

Hair prickled across my chest. I yanked my shirt off. Fine dark curls were spreading from the center of my chest, gathering between my pecs, trailing down toward my stomach in a line that hadn’t existed before. My belly, always flat and forgettable, had softened outward slightly, warm and rounded under my palm.

My voice came out lower when I laughed.

“No way.”

By morning, I had to shave my neck but couldn’t bring myself to touch my cheeks. The beard was still short, but it was real now, dark and dense, with a mustache beginning to push over my upper lip.

At work, people noticed.

“Dude,” Marcus said. “You look different.”

“Good different?” I asked, too quickly.

He looked me up and down. “Uhh. Very good different.”

That day, men looked at me. They noticed me. Not everyone. Not dramatically. But enough.

A guy at the coffee shop held my gaze too long. A man in the elevator smiled at me and said, “Nice beard.” My own reflection in the dark glass of the office lobby looked older, broader, less apologetic.

By Thursday night, the jar was half empty.

Each spoonful came with a promise.

This is the last time.

Then my shoulders spread until old shirts pinched under the arms.

This is the last time.

Then my voice dropped so low the automated phone system at work stopped recognizing me.

This is the last time.

Then my beard came in all at once, a thick black-brown mass that covered my cheeks, jaw, and neck, with a heavy mustache that brushed my lip and made me look like some lost mountain man standing in a fluorescent bathroom.

I loved it. That was the worst part. I loved rubbing both hands through it. I loved the dark hair thickening over my chest, my shoulders, my forearms. I loved my belly growing heavy and round, no longer something I could suck in, but something powerful and warm that pushed against my shirts and made me look lived-in, animal, real.

I loved the way my hunger sharpened. I ate everything. Eggs, toast, steak from the fridge at midnight, peanut butter from the jar, spoonfuls of honey after every meal. Not the magic honey. Regular honey. It tasted thin now, almost insulting.

By Friday morning, I could barely fit into my work clothes. The buttons of my largest shirt strained over my belly. My beard had grown wild overnight, spreading high on my cheeks and down my throat. My hair was longer too, thicker, unruly. I looked like an older brother I’d never had. Or a father. Or a warning.

In the office lobby, the security guard frowned at me.

“Can I help you?”

“It’s me,” I said, giving my name.

He blinked at the sound of my voice.

I showed him my badge.

He stared at the photo: skinny, clean-faced, nervous. Then he stared at me.

“How old is that photo?” he said.

I tried to laugh, but it came out like a growl.

Upstairs, my coworkers barely hid their reactions. Some were fascinated. Some were afraid. Marcus didn’t joke anymore. He watched me from across the break room as I devoured two vending-machine sandwiches and wiped mustard from my mustache with the back of my hand.

“What the fuck happened to you? Are you having an allergic reaction all over your body? Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine.”

Something in his tone irritated me. The concern. The softness. The assumption he could ask. I stepped closer before I meant to. Marcus stiffened.

“I said I’m fine,” I rumbled.

The room went silent. I went home early. That night, I stood in the kitchen with the jar in my hand. There was only a little left. A dark golden smear clinging to the bottom.

I could stop. I should have stopped. My reflection stared back from the black window above the sink: huge shoulders, heavy belly, beard spilling down my chest, eyes bright and feverish beneath a lowered brow. I looked like every man I had ever wanted to be, exaggerated until he became something else.

“Last time,” I said. But my voice did not sound like mine. I scraped the jar clean.

The final change came in my sleep. I dreamed of trees pressing close around the house. Of digging my fingers into bark. Of smoke, meat, cold air, wet leaves. Of men looking at me with fear and wanting mixed together until I couldn’t tell the difference.

When I woke, the bed frame was cracked. My feet were at the end of the mattress. My body filled the room with heat and musk. Hair covered me in a thick dark pelt across my chest, belly, shoulders, back, arms. My beard had become enormous, bushy and untamed, with a broad mustache that hid my mouth unless I pulled it aside. My belly rested heavy in my lap when I sat up.

I strained to stand and my shoulders brushed against the door frame as I left my room. 

“No,” I whispered. It came out like thunder.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. A message from Marcus.

Are you ok? I’m really worried about you.

I looked at my hands. Bigger. Rougher. Nails thicker than they should have been. I typed slowly.

Sick. Leave me alone. 

Then I deleted it. What was the point?

By afternoon, I had eaten almost everything in the fridge. By evening, I found an old cigar box in the back of a drawer, left by the previous tenant. I had hated the smell when I moved in. Now I opened it and inhaled. My whole body relaxed.

I sat on the back porch under the darkening sky, massive and shirtless, belly fur shifting in the cool air, beard spilling over my chest. The first cigar tasted like smoke and earth and inevitability.

A neighbor’s dog barked at the fence. I turned my head. The barking stopped.

My phone buzzed again. Then again. Friends. My mother. Marcus. I ignored them all.

Somewhere inside me, the skinny kid I used to be was panicking. He wanted to call the magic shop. He wanted to beg the old woman for a cure. He wanted his badge photo to match his face again. But I swallowed that voice until he was nothing but an echo.

I leaned back in the porch chair, felt it creak under my weight, and dragged one hand through the enormous beard that had taken over my face.

The honey jar sat empty on the kitchen counter behind me. For the first time all week, I did not tell myself it was the last time. There was no more honey. And there was no going back.

[misctf]

Can we please get a sequel to the upside-down tf posted last January? Would love to see how that virus going around swapped another innocent guy with his cock, making him a dumb horny bro

"Rich, seriously you need to go home." Rich sighed, meeting the worried eye of his coworker Anna, "All the other guys stayed home… as they were told." She continued to lecture him, "Don't you know…"

"Yeah, yeah, I've heard the news reports. But do you actually believe all that stuff? I mean, I get that it sounds nasty, but c'mon." Rich smiled, trying to mask his discomfort, "I'm a healthy guy in my prime. What are the odds it would hit me?" He adjusted his watch strap. "Besides, even if I did catch it somehow, they'd figure out a cure quick, right? This is the 21st century after all."

"Rich, seriously. Haven't you seen the news?" Anna insisted, "And not just the news! What about Jake? You heard, right?" Rich nodded slowly- he thought it was just a rumor, "Then you know. How his girlfriend found him midway through the process and…" She shuddered, "Why would you even risk that? To end up as nothing but a…"

"Woah woah, hold up! Spare me the gory details, thanks." He chuckles, a growing sense of unease building. "I'm sure Jake is fine, right? I mean…." Jake was around his age, probably just as healthy as him- always down to go to the bar after work or join the company's softball team. Rich shuddered- when was the last time he was with Jake? Was it recent?

Anna looked away, "Jake didn't make it. By the time his girlfriend got him to the hospital, the inversion was complete. There wasn't anything they could do."

"Holy shit…" he muttered under his breath, "Okay, maybe this whole staying home thing does make some sense after all." He grabbed his bag, "But what about work? I mean…"

"You can take a break for just a little Rich." Anna said, "You're always working too hard anyway."

Rich sighed, "Fine… fine, okay…" He ran a hand through his hair, "Alright, I'm gonna jet. See you when all this blows over."

"Stay safe, Rich." She smiled and watched as he headed out.

--------

Rich rushed through the city streets, his polished shoes tapping against concrete with increasing urgency. As he walked, memories flashed through his mind—beers at the bar with Matt two nights ago, gym locker room chats with Luke earlier that week. Both of them seemed fine then… hadn't they? Matt had sent him a text yesterday afternoon, something about picking up a case of beer, but nothing since. Luke had been quieter too—their usual back-and-forth banter replaced by silence. A cold pit formed in Rich's stomach. If something happened to them… he pushed the thought away, breaking into a jog toward his apartment building.

The elevator ride felt endless. When the doors finally opened on his floor, he froze. His neighbor Tom was slumped against his own doorframe, breathing heavily. "Hey… Rich," he wheezed, "you lookin' pale man. I think... I need..."

Infected. Rich swallowed hard and rushed past him, quickly entering and slamming his apartment door shut. He sunk to the floor, breathing heavily- his back against the apartment door, chest rising and falling as he tried to steady himself. Something felt… off. His stomach twisted uncomfortably, and there was an odd pressure building between his legs—not quite painful, but definitely strange.

"Just stress, just stress." He repeated to himself, "Nothing to worry about, I'm okay…"

His phone buzzed twice in rapid succession. Rich fished it from his pocket with unsteady fingers. Two notifications glared back at him—texts from both Matt and Luke. His thumb hovered over the screen before he forced himself to open them.

Matt's message came first: a selfie of a broad-shouldered jock flexing in the mirror, grinning wildly. The caption read: "Dude, check out my NEW DICK! Best upgrade EVER!!"

Luke followed immediately: another shirtless selfie, his bulge proudly displayed. "Who knew getting inverted would feel THIS good? LMAO!"

"HBU Richie?"

"Yeah bro, where you at?"

Rich's vision blurred. His stomach lurched violently, and he fell forward. The pressure between his legs intensified, spreading outward like fire.

"God it burns! Fuck!" Rich cried out, tearing his clothes away and throwing them aside, "So hot… Ice… I need ice!" He let out a moan and fell to his hands and knees, tears dripping down his cheeks, "Wh-what's… this isn't… No... Not me! I can't…" His eyes widened as he looked down at his hands, "God…"

They were changing shape, stretching and thickening. The skin becoming more weathered, coarse hairs sprouting along the backs of his hands.

"Wha…"

Rich stared in horror as his hands elongated… thickened. His fingers shrinking, becoming stubby. His palms forming dense callouses. He shook his head frantically, watching as his once smooth hands morphed into two thick, musky meaty feet. "This isn't happening… it can't be…"

Rich gagged violently, feeling something foul building up in his throat. He coughed, trying to clear it, but only managed to expel a glob of thick, salty fluid onto the floor. "What the fuck…?" He spat again, the taste making him retch.

As he knelt there, shaking, he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. Slowly, his gaze drifted downward. His arms were… shifting. The muscles rippling, thickening. Dark hairs sprouting along his forearms, spreading upwards towards his shoulders. His biceps and triceps ballooned, squeezing his head between the growing muscle.

"No… please no…" Rich whimpered, watching in terror as his arms lengthened, twisting and contorting. His elbows cracking and shifting into knees, wrists thickening into sturdy ankles.

Rich opened his mouth to scream, but only choked out another gag, more salty fluid oozing from his lips. He coughed and sputtered, moaning as his chest began to ripple and shift. His pecs flattened, stretching outward into a powerful set of abdominal muscles. Meanwhile, his faint six-pack consolidated, the individual abs merging together into a solid slab of rock-hard muscle, bulging outwards into a pair of thick, meaty pecs.

"Mmmphh… stop… stoppppp!" Rich tried to cry out, but the salty liquid kept pouring forth, filling his mouth and nose.

Rich's legs twitched and writhed, the muscles contracting and expanding. His calves stretched, thickening into powerful biceps. His quads rippled and merged, forming massive triceps. His shins elongated, becoming thick forearms. Even his feet shifted, toes curling inward and merging into thick, calloused hands.

A new voice, albeit soft, filled the air. "Hey there, lil dude. What's up with all the gagging, bro? You alright down there?"

Rich forced his eyes upward, struggling to focus through the haze of pain and panic. His gaze landed on a pair of thick, muscular thighs, covered in dark hair. Following them up, he saw a flat, toned stomach, rippling with every movement. His eyes traveled higher, taking in a broad, hairy chest and a smirking face with a strong jawline and piercing blue eyes.

"You're looking a bit rough though, dude. You okay down there?"

Rich tried to respond, but his words came out slow and slurred. Salty fluid leaked from the corners of his mouth, which was becoming harder to move. "Mmph… mmmff.. stop… pl… pleasseee…"

His vision blurred as he watched strands of his once neatly styled hair fall away, drifting lazily to the floor. More salty liquid gushed forth, and he gagged again, feeling it fill his nasal passages. His mouth hung open, slack and unresponsive.

Suddenly, Rich felt a large, calloused hand wrap around his head and neck, gripping tightly. He gasped, trying to pull away, but the grip only tightened.

"Oh, don't worry, little buddy. I'll take care of you." The jock chuckled, giving Rich's head a firm pump. "You might not be the biggest dick in the world, but hey, size ain't everything, right? Know what I mean?"

Rich's eyes watered as he struggled to breathe, his face turning red. The jock's hand moved up and down, pumping him roughly. "Mmmm, yeah. Just relax and let me handle things, okay? I promise I know exactly how to use you right."

As the jock pumped Rich's head, he felt his facial features begin to shift and contort. His sharp jawline smoothed, his high cheekbones flattened. His lips became fixed in their new position- a vertical piss slit. Rich screamed inside as his nose and ears receded, sinking into his flesh. His entire head molding into a single, smooth surface – a bulbous cock head. His neck just a veiny shaft. And with a final pump, he felt the salty fluid surge through his entire form, erupting from his new mouth.

"Oh fuck yeah…." The new jock bellowed, falling backwards in utter bliss.

-----------

Time lost all meaning for Rich. At first, he thought the actual transformation would be the worst part - the agony, the debasement. Going from a living, breathing person with dreams to a leaking fuckstick squeezed between two massive, muscular thighs. But as days turned into weeks, he realized he was wrong. Wrong because he remained aware. Awake. Sentient within his new form. Forced to endure as the new jock lived its life, indulging in whatever pleasures he could, over and over and over again. And Rich was along for the ride. Felt every pump, every thrust as the jock used him to plow through countless holes.

Now, Rich hung limp, twitching weakly as the jock stroked him idly, gazing at the TV. The anchor spoke gravely, "Despite ongoing efforts, researchers have made no progress in finding a cure for the Inversion Virus. Scientists now believe it may be impossible to reverse the effects."

"Hear that, little buddy?" The jock grinned, pumping Rich faster. "Yeah, you like the sound of that, don't ya?" Rich felt his body growing harder, salty fluid oozing from his mouth, "I think we ought to celebrate our new, permanent arrangement, right bro?"

[catton346]

Shower Surprise

The reality hit you like a car, fast and quick. Everything started to make sense, you knew exactly what was happening but it was too late to do anything about it.

You had always wondered what your boyfriend saw in you, all his exes were hairy men with big beards, thick pelts, and receding hairlines. They were stronger, tougher, more masculine than you. You were like your boyfriend, hairless, effeminate, a twink. A few months into your relationship he tired to get you to grow a beard, told you to stop using nair on your arms and back. You said youd only do it if he did the same but he would always respond "I dont want to look like an animal!" Eventually you gave in, did a no shave november as a birthday gift for him. You looked horrible, with only a light dusting on your upper lip to show for it at the end of the month... your boyfriend was expecting more. You tried to tune him out, he kept talking about supplements and testosterone treatments. There was something you could add to water, a pill you could take, a cream. You didnt want to hear it. You liked being a twink, you liked being a bottom, you didnt want to be like you boyfriends exes all dilfy and straight passing. They watched sports, treated your boyfriend like a house wife, and worked blue collar jobs. You wanted to stay in your field as a scientist, you wanted to have an equal partnership with your partner. Though there was a part of you, an animal part of you, that wanted to let go and devolve into the kind of man your boyfriend wanted you to be.

Today, on your day off, you decided to take a shower. Your boyfriend had already been up, cleaning the house or something. You stumbled to the shower, half awake and not thinking. You didnt stop to ask why your wet skin felt itchy and why your morning wood didnt get ofter with the water, in fact, it was getting harder and harder. You were planning on saving your load for your boyfriend but you couldnt help it. You needed it. You wrapped your hand around your cock and began stroking only a moment later realizing that it wasnt your think twinky hand stroking your cock but a thick bearish man's paw, covered in thick black hairs. You screamed in a deep manly voice, its not your own voice or at least it wasnt. Your boyfriend came in, half scared half excited. He looked at you as you rubbed your hands over your body, as you felt the hair growing in, the beard, the pelt, the growth. The reality hit you like a car, fast and quick. Everything started to make sense, you knew exactly what was happening but it was too late to do anything about it. You were becoming what he wanted, a bear of a man. Its starting with your body, the hair on your head beginning to fall out, the beard pushing out of your skin, the layer of fur, and then its going to be your mind. Your boyfriend must have snuck those supplements, the oils, into your shampoo or something. You look at him over your shoulder, if its true that he put the oils in your shampoo maybe theres still enough on you.

You grab him, pulling your fully clothed twink boyfriend into the shower with you. Hes panicking, "youre supposed to be the daddy not me!" Its too late, as your body gets bigger, hairier, older, so does his. He's crying as the oils, stuck in your thick pelt of fur, get all over him and begin to work their magic. You probably would have cried too, probably would have fought it, but by the time you realized what was happening your mind had already been changed. The old you was already gone and in its place was a mans man more interested in sports than in his appearance.

In the end there wasnt enough oil left to change your boyfriend completely but you made sure to get his face. He might look a few years younger than you and be less hairy but that beard makes up for it. You can imagine the old him screaming trapped inside his new jock brain. You boyfriend used to only care about makeup and boys, now all he cares about is beard care and gains. As for you? Youve settled into your new lifestyle as a daddy. Youre a sold man now, with a nice beard and good pelt of hair. Every night you and your boyfriend watch a football game to get you in the mood before you rail him like the good daddy you are.

[hairymaletf]

Suddenly very aware of his body

[hairymaletf]

Now entering phase 2: daddification

[hairymaletf]

👀