Bodyswaps and transformation stories.

21 + only. Body swaps, possessions, fantasy, leather, gay. Other account: @bodyswappertransforming

[dlthrkinkgar]

[swappetf11]

Engines came alive one by one.

The quiet lot filled with the deep, uneven thunder of exhaust pipes igniting in sequence. Marcus’s bike first, then Caleb’s, then Eli’s. The sound rolled across the gravel and into Michael’s chest like distant thunder.

He swung his leg over the seat of his own bike without thinking.

The motion felt natural now—one smooth movement as his boot cleared the saddle and his weight settled down into the seat. His hands fell automatically to the grips, fingers wrapping around rubber worn smooth by years of use. The leather vest pulled slightly across his chest as he leaned forward.

The machine vibrated beneath him as the engine turned.

The first pulse of it startled him.

Not the noise.

The feeling.

The entire motorcycle hummed with contained power, the vibration traveling through the seat, through the frame, into his hips and thighs. His body reacted instantly, settling deeper against the saddle as if welcoming the sensation.

It was physical in a way he hadn’t experienced before

Alive.

The pipes roared again as someone revved slightly ahead of him. The vibration intensified for a moment, rolling through the machine and into him. He felt it along his legs, through the thick denim and leather chaps, deep into his hips and lower body.

His testicles shifted subtly with the motion of the bike beneath him, the constant low vibration carrying through the seat. The sensation was strange—new, undeniable—something his mind registered with a brief flicker of surprise before his body simply absorbed it as part of the ride.

This body liked it. The engine idled roughly beneath him, powerful but steady.

Caleb looked back once and gave a small nod.

Michael responded instinctively, easing the clutch without needing to think about the motion. The bike rolled forward smoothly, joining the line as they pulled out onto the road together.

Wind met them immediately.

It pushed through his hair first, lifting the longer strands away from his forehead. He felt it rush through his beard and mustache, the coarse hairs shifting against his lips and cheeks. The sensation was constant now, the wind threading through the thickness of it as they gained speed.

He leaned into the bike without thinking.

The road curved and his body responded before his mind could analyze it—shoulders angling slightly, hips shifting in the saddle, hands steady on the bars. The machine obeyed the smallest movements.

It felt effortless. That realization unsettled him as much as it impressed him. I’ve never done this before, he thought. And yet his body rode like it had done it for decades. They picked up speed as the road opened ahead of them.

The vibration deepened as the engine climbed, a steady mechanical pulse beneath him. It traveled through the frame and into his core, into the muscles of his legs and lower body. His body absorbed it naturally, responding with the same grounded calm it had shown all afternoon.

The wind grew louder.

His hair whipped back from his forehead, his beard shifting against his jaw as the air pushed through it.

He glanced down briefly.

The tattoos on his forearms flexed as his hands worked the throttle and clutch without conscious thought. The rings on his fingers caught flashes of light as they moved. Everything about the image felt foreign and yet increasingly natural.

The road stretched ahead. The men rode in a loose line, engines rumbling in rhythm with one another. No one rushed. No one broke formation.

They moved together. For the first time since the swap, Michael’s mind had space to wander. The road required just enough attention that his thoughts could drift without panic.

What if this is permanent?

The question returned quietly.

The Hamptons felt impossibly far away now. His house. His husband. His life.

What was happening there right now? Was someone wearing his face? Speaking in his voice? Sitting in his kitchen with his phone in their pocket?

A chill moved through him that had nothing to do with the wind.

How do I get back?

The question had no answer.

He shifted slightly in the saddle as the road curved again. The bike responded instantly, leaning with him in smooth cooperation. His body flowed with the motion, muscles adjusting automatically.

The machine and the body understood each other.

That fact both fascinated and frightened him.

The wind rushed through his hair again as they accelerated.

His mustache brushed his upper lip with every breath.

The beard moved along his jaw.

The rings on his fingers glinted faintly as his hands worked the controls.

He rode.

Still trapped.

Still confused.

But no longer entirely disconnected from the man everyone around him believed he was.

The road opened up ahead of them as the pack settled into a steady formation, engines rumbling in a deep, rolling harmony that vibrated through the asphalt and up into Michael’s body. The motorcycle beneath him felt less like a machine and more like an extension of him now. The seat pressed firmly against his hips while the powerful rhythm of the engine traveled through the frame, through the leather and denim, and into the base of his spine. Every pulse of the pipes sent a low mechanical tremor through the saddle, through his thighs, and deeper still into the sensitive weight between his legs. The sensation surprised him at first, the subtle vibration reaching his testicles in a way that made his body react with a faint surge of awareness that bordered on excitement. It was not something his old body would have noticed or responded to, but this one did, absorbing the sensation like part of the ride itself. The motorcycle growled beneath him as he rolled the throttle slightly, and his body responded with a quiet satisfaction he couldn’t deny.

The wind cut across the road and rushed over him as they picked up speed. His longer hair whipped back behind his head, strands brushing the collar of his leather vest and lifting away from his neck. The beard moved with the airflow, the coarse hairs shifting against his jaw, while his thick mustache bent and flickered against his upper lip every time he exhaled. The wind threaded through the hair on his arms as well, moving across the tattoos that wrapped his forearms and biceps. His hands remained steady on the grips, rings catching brief flashes of sunlight as they moved with the throttle and clutch. Every motion felt natural now, the machine responding instantly to the smallest shifts of his body.

He leaned slightly into a curve without thinking. The bike angled smoothly beneath him and his weight followed it automatically, hips and shoulders moving together in a fluid motion that felt practiced. The confidence in the movement startled him again. He had never ridden a motorcycle in his life. Yet his body handled the machine with ease, adjusting pressure on the bars and throttle instinctively while the tires traced the arc of the road.

For the first time since the transformation, his mind had space to wander.

The roar of the engines around him created a cocoon of sound that drowned out everything else. The road required just enough attention that panic couldn’t fully take over. His thoughts drifted between the rhythm of the ride and the reality pressing in on him.

Am I stuck like this?

The question had been lurking beneath every moment since the swap, but the motion of the ride forced him to face it directly. His old life felt impossibly far away now. Just hours ago he had been standing in a kitchen in the Hamptons with plans for the day, a quiet morning with his husband, coffee on the counter, sunlight through the windows of the house he had worked years to build a life inside.

Now he was riding down an open road surrounded by men who called him Rook.

His chest tightened slightly as the thought surfaced again. What was happening back there right now? Was someone living inside his body the same way he was trapped in this one? Was someone speaking in his voice, answering his phone, sitting across from the man he loved as if nothing had happened?

The wind pushed harder against his face as they accelerated, and the sensation snapped his attention back to the present moment.

His hands shifted slightly on the grips and he glanced down for a second, studying the tattoos that stretched along his forearms. The ink moved with the flex of his muscles, lines and shapes that meant something to the man whose body he occupied. His rings flashed again in the sunlight as his fingers adjusted the throttle. He lifted one hand briefly, flexing it before returning it to the grip, studying the thickness of the knuckles, the weight of the metal bands, the faint grease still caught along the edges of his nails from working on the bike earlier.

He ran his tongue across his teeth, still tasting the faint bitterness of the cigar he had finished before they left.

The bike surged forward slightly as the road straightened. His body leaned lower over the tank, wind tearing through his hair and beard while the motorcycle settled into a deeper, smoother rhythm. The vibration returned again through the seat and frame, pulsing through his hips and legs in a way that made his body respond with another quiet surge of sensation.

This body loved the ride.

Michael realized that with a strange mix of awe and discomfort. The man he had become—Rook—did not just ride motorcycles. He belonged on one. Every nerve in this body seemed to wake up when the engine roared and the road stretched ahead.

Yet even as the ride filled his senses, his mind continued searching for answers.

How do I get out of this?

The question repeated itself silently. How long does this last?

And the most frightening possibility of all settled quietly at the edge of his thoughts as the road stretched farther ahead.

What if it never ends?

[nonotnolan]

Stories I Love (Part 4)

It's time for that annual tradition, wherein I collect and hyperlink a lot of stories that I really enjoyed reading. You can find the prior installments here-- Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3. Allow me to repeat a few disclaimers-- it's a subjective list, so you won't find celebrities, athletes, or sweat/fart transformations. If your writing has involved minors or pro-Conservative viewpoints in the recent past, you are not on this list. If I can't credit or hyperlink the OG post, it doesn't appear on this list (particularly relevant, given authors like theshift, dadnotize, swappermanent, or take-my-body-from-me whose blogs are deleted). This also applies to the myriad authors who are currently in Tumblr Safe Mode jail, so allow me to shoutout authors like @betweenthelinesfiction and @malebodyexhibit. All works are assumed to be original and not AI written. If I've seen you leave an AI generation prompt in your work, you are not on this list. Once again, an honorable shoutout to @verus-veritas, who is upfront about their AI usage. If you think my criteria is too restrictive, you can create your own list.

But also-- please do create your own list! Don't take your community of authors for granted-- without the love and support of readers, we're just shouting into the void. If I thought all of my work was going to get ignored, I wouldn't be doing this anymore. One of the best ways to keep an author active and engaged is to show them support and encouragement.

Aside from grouping multiple works by the same author together, he list is presented in no particular order:

@hauntedestheart A Product Demonstration (Part 1, Part 2) Security Footage: Artifacts (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4) A Business Investment

Pumping Dumb by @mehtallee

@mindmelter A Body Stealer Tale: Pissed Out Theo the Womanizer Alien Appetite: Snacking the Biker

What He Really Wanted for Christmas by @transformee

Golfing With the Boss by @possessedmen

@shootingstarwritings Body A Day #13: Money The Faces Change, but the Words Remain the Same DNA Drone

Jockifier by @bigification

A Wanted Exchange by @wrongbodies

@possesseddesiress Immature Size Swap

Untitled August 14th by @goon-mate

Diving Instructor by @multiplicationdivision

@thegreatstoryteller Matter of Perspective (Part 1) Matter of Perspective and Awareness (Part 2)

Hunky Appliances: Older Models by @thirsty-lakedream

@etoilecyber The Pay Off Syncronized Breathing

Shift Anomaly: Swap Curse by @the-shiftshop

New Hardware by @cashmerecatwithme

@tristswipaccou I Do... in his Shoes MIrrored Reality

Mythical Beach Body by @onelittlespiral

@kylecrusoe-captions Untitled August 20th Stealing Brock's Reflection (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3) Untitled March 9th

Trading Places (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3) by @bodyexchangeman

Untitled April 21st by @amazing-new-body

@swappingbryn Untitled June 3rd Untitled January 7th

Break Out by @transformhim

[lookslikeleather2]

[anonymous1233211]

Mechanic TF

[swappetf11]

Brotherhood swap

The small gathering began to dissolve the way it had formed—without ceremony. Helmets were lifted from handlebars. A few of the men stretched their backs or rolled their shoulders after sitting so long. Someone drained the last of a bottle and tossed it into a crate in the back of a truck.

Michael stood beside his bike a moment longer before moving.

The cigar was nearly finished now, the band sitting only an inch above the ember. Smoke rolled slowly from its end as he lifted it again, drawing in a long pull. The mustache brushed the wrapper the same way it had all afternoon, the coarse hairs grazing his upper lip before he exhaled through his nose. The scent had fully settled into him now—into beard, leather, and breath.

His hand dropped naturally to his waist as he shifted his stance.

Without thinking he adjusted the leather chaps where they rested over his jeans, tugging them slightly where they had crept higher against his thigh during the afternoon. The thick denim beneath held him firmly, the weight of his body settling comfortably into the cut of the jeans.

The motion was unconscious now.

So was the way his other hand flexed, the rings on his fingers catching the late afternoon light.

He looked down at them again.

Four thick bands of worn silver and steel wrapped around the knuckles of a hand that still didn’t feel entirely like his own. They were scratched and nicked from years of wear, not decorative so much as lived-in.

He rotated his wrist slowly, watching the light slide along the metal. One ring bore a small etched design he didn’t recognize yet. Another had been worn smooth along one side.

He rubbed his thumb across it absently.

There was a faint sensation beneath the touch. Not memory exactly. But something close to meaning.

Someone behind him whistled.

“Rook, you comin’ or you admirin’ yourself?”

Marcus again

Michael lifted his head. “Just finishin’ up.”

He took another slow draw from the cigar. The ember glowed brighter for a moment before settling again.

Caleb was already swinging his leg over his bike.

“We rollin’ soon.”

Michael nodded once.

A couple of the men were already walking toward the edge of the lot where a narrow strip of trees and gravel lined the back of the building.

“Bathroom line’s full,” Eli said with a shrug, gesturing toward the door.

Marcus jerked his head toward the tree line.

“Outside’s faster.”

Several of them drifted that way casually, the movement easy and familiar.

Michael followed.

They stopped along the far edge of the lot where the ground sloped slightly down toward a patch of brush. The group spread out a few feet apart without much conversation, boots crunching softly on gravel.

Michael stepped beside Marcus and Eli.

For a moment he hesitated.

Then instinct carried him forward.

The cigar stayed in the corner of his mouth as his hands moved to his belt. The leather chaps shifted slightly as he loosened the buckle and adjusted the waistband of his jeans. The motions were automatic, practiced by a body that clearly had done this thousands of times before.

He glanced sideways briefly as the others did the same without any hesitation, conversation continuing easily between them as if this were simply another pause in the day.

Marcus was still talking about the ride.

“That stretch along the water—road was clean today.”

Eli nodded. “Less traffic.”

Michael exhaled slowly through his nose, cigar smoke curling past his mustache as he relaxed enough to follow the moment rather than fight it.

The cool air brushed against his face and neck while he finished the cigar, drawing the last steady pull from it. The wrapper crackled faintly near the ember.

He pulled it from his mouth, looked at the short remaining length, then crushed the final inch beneath the heel of his boot against the gravel

“Alright,” Marcus said, adjusting his belt again.

The group finished and stepped back toward the bikes almost as naturally as they had walked away from them.

Michael fastened his belt again, the leather chaps settling back into place over his jeans as he followed.

The engines began coming to life one by one, deep mechanical pulses rolling through the quiet lot.

He glanced once more at the rings on his fingers as he walked back to the motorcycle, flexing his hand slightly.

Then he reached the bike, swung a leg over the seat, and settled back into the saddle as the rest of the group prepared to ride out together.

Engines came alive one by one.

The quiet lot filled with the deep, uneven thunder of exhaust pipes igniting in sequence. Marcus’s bike first, then Caleb’s, then Eli’s. The sound rolled across the gravel and into Michael’s chest like distant thunder.

He swung his leg over the seat of his own bike without thinking.

The motion felt natural now—one smooth movement as his boot cleared the saddle and his weight settled down into the seat. His hands fell automatically to the grips, fingers wrapping around rubber worn smooth by years of use. The leather vest pulled slightly across his chest as he leaned forward.

The machine vibrated beneath him as the engine turned.

The first pulse of it startled him.

Not the noise.The feeling.

The entire motorcycle hummed with contained power, the vibration traveling through the seat, through the frame, into his hips and thighs. His body reacted instantly, settling deeper against the saddle as if welcoming the sensation.

It was physical in a way he hadn’t experienced before.

Alive

The pipes roared again as someone revved slightly ahead of him. The vibration intensified for a moment, rolling through the machine and into him. He felt it along his legs, through the thick denim and leather chaps, deep into his hips and lower body.

His testicles shifted subtly with the motion of the bike beneath him, the constant low vibration carrying through the seat. The sensation was strange—new, undeniable—something his mind registered with a brief flicker of surprise before his body simply absorbed it as part of the ride.

This body liked it.

The engine idled roughly beneath him, powerful but steady.

Caleb looked back once and gave a small nod.

Michael responded instinctively, easing the clutch without needing to think about the motion. The bike rolled forward smoothly, joining the line as they pulled out onto the road together.

Wind met them immediately.

It pushed through his hair first, lifting the longer strands away from his forehead. He felt it rush through his beard and mustache, the coarse hairs shifting against his lips and cheeks. The sensation was constant now, the wind threading through the thickness of it as they gained speed.

He leaned into the bike without thinking.

The road curved and his body responded before his mind could analyze it—shoulders angling slightly, hips shifting in the saddle, hands steady on the bars. The machine obeyed the smallest movements.

It felt effortless.

That realization unsettled him as much as it impressed him.

I’ve never done this before, he thought.

And yet his body rode like it had done it for decades.

They picked up speed as the road opened ahead of them.

The vibration deepened as the engine climbed, a steady mechanical pulse beneath him. It traveled through the frame and into his core, into the muscles of his legs and lower body. His body absorbed it naturally, responding with the same grounded calm it had shown all afternoon.

The wind grew louder.

His hair whipped back from his forehead, his beard shifting against his jaw as the air pushed through it.

He glanced down briefly.

The tattoos on his forearms flexed as his hands worked the throttle and clutch without conscious thought. The rings on his fingers caught flashes of light as they moved. Everything about the image felt foreign and yet increasingly natural.

The road stretched ahead.

The men rode in a loose line, engines rumbling in rhythm with one another. No one rushed. No one broke formation.

They moved together.

For the first time since the swap, Michael’s mind had space to wander.

The road required just enough attention that his thoughts could drift without panic.

What if this is permanent?

The question returned quietly.

The Hamptons felt impossibly far away now.

His house.

His husband.

His life.

What was happening there right now?

Was someone wearing his face? Speaking in his voice? Sitting in his kitchen with his phone in their pocket?

A chill moved through him that had nothing to do with the wind.

How do I get back?

The question had no answer.

He shifted slightly in the saddle as the road curved again. The bike responded instantly, leaning with him in smooth cooperation. His body flowed with the motion, muscles adjusting automatically.

The machine and the body understood each other.

That fact both fascinated and frightened him.

The wind rushed through his hair again as they accelerated. His mustache brushed his upper lip with every breath.

The beard moved along his jaw.

The rings on his fingers glinted faintly as his hands worked the controls.

He rode.

Still trapped. Still confused.

But no longer entirely disconnected from the man everyone around him believed he was.

[megaglatze84]

Shisha of destiny

I am not sure this beard suits me. Aaron does not like it. Maybe, I should shave it off ... Mmh, this shisha tastes funny

"What is going on here? This beard growth is CRAZY!!"

What ... I mean ... WHAT???

I am a bald, bearded muscle freak!! This must be a dream, it surely is!

Yeni kıyafetler güzel, değil mi? Wait, what?

Wallah, I swear, this is the shit! Shisha tastes great.

"Who are you??? And what did you do to my boyfriend??"

"But, brother, it is me. I am your Aşıklar!"

"No, way ..."

Woooah ...

What have you done to me???

Oh my god, wallah, I am a monster, Bu inanılmaz!

Ne oldu bana?

[swappetf11]

He stepped back into the afternoon light and the world felt subtly altered—not just because of the body he inhabited, but because of the space he now occupied. Gravel, oil, sun on metal. Men whose lives he would have once categorized from a distance without ever standing among them. The shift wasn’t just physical. It was psychological. He was inside a foreign body in a foreign place, surrounded by foreign people, and every instinct he had been raised with tried to sort them into stereotypes before he could stop it.

Biker gang. Criminal. Unlawful. Dangerous.

The labels rose automatically, uninvited. He could feel his former self clinging to them like life rafts, desperate to categorize this new reality into something manageable. But the longer he stood there, the more those assumptions collided with what he was actually seeing—men decompressing after a ride, checking on each other, laughing softly, passing drinks and tobacco in shared ritual.

He was trapped in a body that belonged here.

That was the disorienting part.

His mind still spoke in the language of Hamptons restraint and financial precision, but his body responded to gravel and engines and smoke as if it had always known them. He walked with growing confidence not because he chose to, but because the body carried itself that way. The weight in his shoulders, the grounded stance of his boots, the way his hands rested naturally at his sides—none of it felt borrowed anymore.

It felt inhabited.

“Rook,” Caleb called, pushing off the truck bed. Caleb’s sandy beard caught the light, his posture relaxed but alert. “You good in there?”

“Yeah,” he answered, the word slow, deliberate. “Just needed a minute.”

He heard the difference in his own voice again. Less layered. Less curated. He wasn’t speaking to impress or defend. He was speaking to exist.

Marcus—thick neck, shaved head, ink climbing toward his jaw—smirked faintly. “You looked ready to tear that finance bro apart.”

The word finance landed like a spark in his chest. He masked it quickly.

“He came in hot,” he said. “Didn’t know where he was standin’.”

Caleb gave a low laugh. “Hamptons kid probably never had anyone step to him.”

Michael felt the irony press against his ribs. Two and a half hours ago, he had been that kid. That man. Standing in pressed linen with clipped irritation and inherited confidence.

Now he stood in boots and leather, beard damp from sink water, cigar smoke woven into his mustache.

He looked down at the cigar in his hand. It had burned nearly to the band now, ash long and fragile. The smoke felt foreign every time he drew it in—thicker than anything he would have allowed into his old lungs, heavier, textured. And yet his body accepted it without protest. His mustache brushed the wrapper again as he lifted it, the coarse hairs bending slightly before settling back into place.

The tickle along his upper lip was still strange.

He tapped the cigar gently against the heel of his boot, watching the gray ash crumble to the ground. The ritual steadied him in a way he didn’t fully understand. He took one final pull, letting the smoke linger longer this time before exhaling slowly through his nose. The mustache shifted again, catching the warmth of the smoke, the scent of tobacco embedding itself deeper into damp hair.

This body loves this, he thought.

The realization unsettled him.

He finished the last drag and pressed the cigar down against his boot, extinguishing it carefully. The movement felt practiced, almost ceremonial. Final. Controlled.

Around him, the men continued talking.

“Those curves near the marsh were tight,” Eli said, running a hand through his dark hair. “You handled ’em clean, Rook.”

He met Eli’s eyes. For a second, the old fear surfaced again—what if they expect something from me I can’t give? What if this life demands things I can’t morally survive?

“Road was good,” he said evenly. “Bike did what it’s supposed to.”

They nodded.

That was enough.

The intimacy of it unsettled him more than aggression would have. No one postured. No one tested him. They simply accepted him in the space he occupied. And that acceptance made him more aware of his own unconscious bias—how quickly he had assumed the worst, how easily he had slotted these men into caricatures without ever standing among them.

He was still intimidated.

Still standoffish.

Still calculating.

But he was leaning in.

Each step he took toward the row of motorcycles carried more confidence than the last. The body moved naturally, shoulders squared, chin level, hands relaxed. He wasn’t stumbling. He hadn’t stumbled once.

“I’m gonna check somethin’ on the bike,” he said casually, gesturing toward his machine.

Caleb nodded. “Yeah.”

He walked toward the motorcycle, boots crunching steadily against gravel, and felt the urgency return beneath the calm surface. He needed information. He needed proof.

The phone.

It had to be in one of the saddlebags.

He could feel the plan forming clearly now: find it, dial Michael Harcourt’s number—the one he knew by heart—and see who answered. If someone picked up in his voice, in his cadence, in his life, then this wasn’t temporary confusion. It was something far more permanent.

He reached the bike, resting one thick hand against the seat for balance. The leather creaked faintly beneath his palm. He inhaled slowly, catching the lingering scent of smoke still clinging to his mustache.

Trapped in a foreign body. In a foreign place. Surrounded by men he had once reduced to assumptions.

And yet this body did not feel foreign anymore.

That was the part that frightened him most.

[swappetf11]

Body swap brotherhood part 5

Part 1 here

Post by @swappetf11 · 2 images

💬 0  🔁 2  ❤️ 24 · Post by @swappetf11 · 2 images · Brotherhood Swap The road cut between salt-bitten marshland and clipped white fences,

 He stood at the sink for another moment, both hands gripping the porcelain edge, the cigar resting loosely between his fingers. Water still clung to his beard, droplets gathering at the ends before falling in slow, irregular intervals into the basin below. He leaned forward slightly, studying the reflection again—this time not just in shock, but in careful observation.

He lifted his hand and touched his face again, pressing his palm against the damp beard. The texture was undeniable. Thick. Coarse. Alive in a way that made him hyperaware of every nerve beneath it. His thumb brushed across his mustache, pushing the wet hairs aside, and he watched the movement in the mirror with quiet disbelief.

So this is what it’s like, he thought.

To have this. To feel this.

The water continued to drip, sliding from the mustache to his upper lip, and instinctively his tongue flicked out, catching the moisture. He could smell the cigar more clearly now, the rich tobacco clinging to the hair, embedding itself in the dampness.

This body likes that smell.

The realization came uninvited.

Not Michael Harcourt.

This body.

Rourke.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, watching the beard shift with the motion, watching the man in the mirror breathe.

The pressure in his bladder returned sharply, unavoidable now. His hands lowered to his waist automatically. The cigar shifted from his fingers back to his mouth without conscious decision, settling between his lips as his hands worked his belt loose. The leather gave waya familiar resistance before giving way, the buckle releasing with a soft, grounded weight.

He didn’t look down at first.

He didn’t need to.

His fingers moved to the zipper, pulling it down in one smooth motion. The tight denim loosened slightly as he shifted his stance, his body already anticipating relief. He reached inside instinctively, his hand encountering unfamiliar heat and weight confined by the firm structure of the jeans. He reached down instinctively to pull out the lengthy penis. This is the first time he’s touched it. He couldn’t help but be paused however, the instinct and the urge to pee surpassed his thoughts. The shaft could fit two hands and he’s got big hands, and their girth is about 2 inches. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees himself with a silhouette the cigar hanging from his lips takes a big puff in slow, exhale out.

He froze.

The physical reality of himself startled him—not visually, but tactically. His hand wrapped naturally, guided by muscle memory he did not consciously possess. The sensation was immediate and undeniable. Solid. Warm. Real. The sheer presence of himself, the size and density contained moments earlier by tight denim and leather, forced his mind to confront this body in a way the mirror alone had not.

His breath caught faintly around the cigar.

He hadn’t chosen to touch himself. His body had. And yet he felt it fully.

He drew it free from the confinement of the tight jeans, the pressure easing as the fabric released its hold. The sensation of movement alone was enough to send a quiet shock through his awareness—not arousal in the way he understood it from his former life, but a deeper astonishment at the scale, the presence, the undeniable physicality of himself in this form.

He turned slightly toward the sink, and then he saw it—not directly, but reflected in profile in the mirror. The broad shoulders. The beard still damp. The cigar resting at the corner of his mouth. His hand steady. His body grounded.

And then he let go. Relief came instantly.

His shoulders lowered slightly, tension draining from him in a physical exhale that seemed to originate somewhere deeper than his lungs. He stared at his reflection while it happened, watching this body perform something so basic, so instinctive, with complete certainty.

That’s me. The thought landed heavier this time.

He took a slow pull from the cigar while watching himself in profile, the mustache brushing it again, smoke filling his lungs and blending with the scent of damp hair and tobacco.

His hand remained steady, his posture grounded. He was not trembling. Not faltering. He was present inside it.

So this is what it’s like, he thought again.

To be him.

He watched the beard move faintly with his breathing, watched the way his chest rose and fell, watched how naturally this body carried itself even in stillness.

He finished slowly, adjusting himself without looking down, guided entirely by instinct. The denim reclaimed its firm hold as he secured his belt again, the familiar pressure returning, containing him once more.

For a moment longer, he remained at the sink, staring at the reflection, cigar between his fingers, water still clinging faintly to the beard.

He didn’t look away.

He stood there a moment longer after finishing, one hand resting against the edge of the sink, the cigar now back between his fingers. The bathroom was quiet except for the faint drip of water from his beard onto porcelain. He stared at his reflection, chest rising and falling slowly, feeling the steady weight of himself settle back into place as he adjusted his belt and pulled the zipper closed.

The tight denim reclaimed him fully, firm and supportive, holding him in a way that felt both restrictive and stabilizing. He flexed slightly, testing it, feeling how this body carried its own mass without effort. The sheer physical presence of himself was impossible to ignore.

The thought came plainly.

This penis is huge.

It wasn’t pride.

It wasn’t ego.

It was shock.

He wasn’t panicking—that was the strangest part. He was grounded, fully present inside this body, but beneath that grounding the questions would not stop. What happened? How long am I here? Is this permanent? His eyes locked onto his own reflection again. Am I trapped like this forever? The thought of returning to the Hamptons like this—walking up his own driveway, seeing his husband face to face in this body—tightened his chest. And then another thought crept in, quieter but sharper: prison. The stereotype rose automatically, shaped by everything he had assumed about biker gangs and outlaw culture. Am I going to prison in this body? He didn’t know what Rourke had done, what history was attached to this name, what consequences might follow him, and that uncertainty unsettled him more than the physical transformation.

He flexed his fingers slowly, watching the rings shift against his skin, replaying how the men outside had spoken his name with familiarity and trust. They followed him. That meant something. He took another slow pull from the cigar and exhaled steadily, studying the man in the mirror who did not look afraid, who looked steady, capable, grounded. Beneath the surface calm, his mind began working again, analytical even in shock. He needed information. He needed confirmation. He needed proof that his old life still existed. A plan formed quickly: he would call his former cell phone number. He knew it by heart. He would dial Michael Harcourt’s number from this body’s phone and see who answered, see who was now in possession of the device that had lived in his pocket for years. If someone picked up—if that someone spoke in his voice—he would know. The thought steadied him in a different way, giving him something actionable in the middle of chaos.

He adjusted his vest instinctively, tugging the leather into place across his shoulders, posture aligning without conscious effort, and then turned toward the door, boots heavy and steady against tile, pushing it open and stepping back into the afternoon light where the men still stood, cigars burning and voices low, waiting for him without realizing he had just decided the first move in figuring out how to get his life back.

[swappetf11]

Part 4

Part 1 https://www.tumblr.com/swappetf11/809268152711217152/brotherhood-swap-the-road-cut-between-salt-bitten

Post by @swappetf11 · 2 images

💬 0  🔁 2  ❤️ 24 · Post by @swappetf11 · 2 images · Brotherhood Swap The road cut between salt-bitten marshland and clipped white fences,

 Boots shifted around him, gravel crunching under steady weight. Someone brushed past his shoulder.

“Rourke.”

He didn’t react at first.

He was still staring at the dust settling near the tires, still trying to organize his thoughts into something coherent. The name passed through him like background noise, not attaching itself to him yet.

“Rourke. You hear me?”

His head turned automatically.

“Yeah,” he said. The word came out slower than he expected. Lower. Unhurried. The man nodded and moved on. It wasn’t until a second later that it registered.

They weren’t talking to someone else.

They were talking to him.

Rourke.

Rook.

“Rook, that kid back there almost clipped you.”

He answered again without thinking. “He didn’t know what he was doin’.”

The cadence of his voice surprised him. The words came spaced out, deliberate. No polished edges. No carefully measured tone. Just grounded, steady sound that felt pulled from deeper in his chest.

Caleb stepped closer, studying him briefly. “You two looked close.” Rourke shrugged, slow and easy. “He got nervous. Rich kid. Didn’t like the noise.” The men chuckled quietly.

He shifted his weight, leather chaps creaking as his stance widened naturally. The tight denim pressed firmly against him, the ride having settled everything into place. Without conscious thought, his hand moved briefly to adjust himself at the front of his jeans—an instinctive motion, subtle but necessary. The fabric was thick, restrictive, holding him securely in place. There was no looseness. No excess. The jeans were built to contain him fully, to keep everything supported while riding. To contain as large and long cock. Support his balls and testicles.

He froze for half a second. He hadn’t decided to do that. His body had.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, beard shifting slightly with the breath.

No one noticed. Or if they did, it meant nothing.

This was normal here.

He reached for the saddlebag again, flipping it open with practiced ease. His thick fingers moved without hesitation, pulling out the wooden case of cigars. He didn’t deliberate over which one to choose. He simply knew.

He lifted one to his mouth, then reached back into the case and pulled out another.

He handed it to Caleb.

Their fingers brushed briefly. Caleb nodded once.

“Good ride,” Caleb said quietly.

Rourke gave a small nod in return. “Yeah. It was.”

Others stepped closer now, forming a loose half-circle around him. He pulled out more cigars, handing them off one by one to the men nearest him. He didn’t think about who should receive them. His body knew the order. The familiarity. They accepted them with quiet appreciation.

Someone passed him the cutter. He used it cleanly, then handed it off to the next man. The cutter moved around the circle without words, each man performing the same ritual.

Lighters flicked open.

But Caleb waited.

He stepped closer to Rourke, holding his unlit cigar forward.

Rourke lifted his lighter.

Their flames met at the same time, both cigars catching in shared ignition. The glow spread evenly along the ends. They held there for a second longer than necessary.

Ceremonial.

Acknowledgment.

Conclusion of the ride.

One by one, the others lit theirs as well, using each other’s flames, sharing the moment. Smoke curled upward around them, drifting into the open air.

They exhaled together.

The tension of the ride dissolved fully.

“What was that about?” one of them asked, nodding toward the road behind them. “That finance bro.”

Rourke leaned back lightly against his motorcycle, cigar resting between thick fingers. He took a slow pull before answering, letting the smoke settle in his lungs.

He spoke slowly.

“He thought the road belonged to him.”

The sentence was plain. No embellishment. They nodded.

Another rider smirked faintly. “Figures.”

Rourke stared out across the gravel lot for a moment, his darker eyes steady. “He wasn’t ready for anything else.”

The words surprised him. Not what they said. But how they said it.

Calm. Certain.

He exhaled again, smoke drifting through his beard. His hand rested casually near his pocket, the rings on his fingers catching faint light.

Standing there among them, he could feel the bond clearly now. It wasn’t spoken. It didn’t need to be. They didn’t demand explanation. They didn’t challenge him. They simply existed beside him, accepting his presence as fact.

He took another slow pull from the cigar.

Two and a half hours ago he had been Michael Harcourt. Now he stood as Rourke, answering to a name he hadn’t consciously accepted, moving and speaking and breathing in ways that were no longer entirely foreign.

And as the smoke settled into his lungs and his body stood grounded in boots and leather, surrounded by men who trusted him without question, he realized with quiet certainty that whatever had happened on that road had not only changed where he stood—

It had changed how he stood there.

He leaned back against the motorcycle, the cigar resting between his fingers, its ember glowing steadily as he drew in another slow pull. The smoke filled his mouth, thick and warm, and when he exhaled it rolled upward past his face in soft, curling ribbons. His mustache shifted again, the coarse hairs brushing his upper lip as the smoke passed through it. The cigar itself grazed those same hairs when he brought it back to his mouth, bending them slightly before settling between his lips.

He could feel it.

Each strand.

Each subtle movement.

It was new. Completely new

And yet there was something deeply comforting in it.

The tactile sensation grounded him in a way nothing else had. It made the moment feel real, physical, undeniable. The mustache moved again as he exhaled, tickling his lip faintly, and the sensation lingered just long enough to remind him that this body wasn’t an illusion.

It was his reality now.

He let the cigar rest between his teeth, the weight of it natural, balanced easily without effort. His jaw adjusted instinctively, holding it at the exact angle needed to keep it steady.

Around him, the men relaxed fully now, their voices low and easy. They talked about the ride, about the road, about nothing and everything all at once. One of them laughed quietly at something Caleb said. Another passed a drink across the circle.

There was intimacy in it.

Not forced. Not spoken. Just present. He listened, occasionally nodding, occasionally speaking when it felt right.

“Road was clean,” he said at one point, his voice slower than Michael’s had ever been. “Felt good out there.”

They nodded. That was enough.

He lifted the cigar again, drawing in slowly, feeling the smoke settle deep in his chest. As he exhaled, he absently reached beneath the open front of his leather vest, brushing at his sternum. His fingers moved instinctively, wiping away fine grit that had settled into the coarse hair across his chest during the ride.

He paused.

Chest hair. Thick.

His fingers rubbed lightly over it again, feeling the density, the texture. It was thick, real, nothing like the smooth skin he remembered. The dust clung differently there, caught in the natural growth. He brushed it away without thinking, his hand moving in familiar patterns his mind hadn’t learned.

No one paid attention. It was normal.

He took another slow pull from the cigar, letting it hang between his teeth afterward as the nicotine continued to settle deeper into his bloodstream. His thoughts had slowed now. The panic wasn’t gone, but it wasn’t suffocating him anymore.

Then the thought surfaced, blunt and immediate.

I gotta take a piss. He froze internally. The phrasing hit him as strange.

Michael Harcourt would never have thought that way. Never have used those words. His old mind would have framed it differently. Softer. Controlled.

But this thought was direct. Physical.

Real.

Before he could second-guess it, he heard himself speak.

“I’m gonna take a piss,” he said, the cigar still resting between his teeth. The words came out calm. Casual.

No one reacted.

Caleb nodded once. “Yeah.”

That was it.

No judgment. No attention.

It was normal.

He turned and began walking toward the building. He didn’t think about where the bathroom was.

He just knew. His boots crunched steadily against gravel as he moved, leather chaps shifting softly with each step. He expected himself to stumble, expected the unfamiliar size and weight of this body to betray him.

But it didn’t. His stride was steady. Balanced. Controlled. He wasn’t stumbling. He was walking.

The cigar stayed balanced easily between his teeth, his jaw adjusting naturally with each step. Smoke curled upward past his eyes, his mustache brushing it faintly as he breathed.

His body knew exactly where to go. He reached the door without hesitation, pulling it open and stepping inside.

And for the briefest moment, standing there in the quiet interior, cigar between his teeth, boots planted firmly on the floor, he realized that even though his mind still belonged to Michael— His body belonged entirely to Rourke.

He pushed the bathroom door open with his shoulder, the hinges giving a soft protest as it swung inward. The space was utilitarian—tile, dull mirror, a sink bolted into the wall. The faint scent of industrial soap lingered in the air. He stepped inside and let the door close behind him.

For a moment, he forgot why he had come in.

His bladder was full—uncomfortably so after hours of riding and the steady morning that had begun at a desk in another life—but the urgency receded beneath something more immediate. The mirror drew him in before he could think.

He caught sight of himself fully for the first time.

Not just a flash in a rearview mirror. Not a distorted glance in motion. This was stillness. Fluorescent light. No distraction.

The cigar rested between his teeth, smoke curling slowly upward past eyes that were darker than the ones he remembered. The sight of it struck him sharply. In his old body—his real body—he would never have stood like this. He treated his body like a temple. Clean fuel. Controlled habits. Early mornings. Discipline. He had curated it carefully.

Now there was a cigar in his mouth.

And it looked right.

The contradiction unsettled him.

He reached up and removed the cigar, holding it between thick fingers for a second before glancing around for somewhere to set it. There was no ashtray. Without thinking too much about it, he rested it in the corner of the sink, letting the ember hang safely over porcelain. Smoke continued to curl upward in slow spirals.

Freed from holding it, his hands were suddenly available.

He stepped closer to the mirror.

The man staring back was broader through the shoulders, heavier through the chest. The leather vest hung open, framing dense hair that spread naturally across muscle built for endurance rather than aesthetics. His chest rose and fell steadily, each breath deeper than what he had been accustomed to.

He lifted one hand slowly and ran it through his hair. The texture resisted him—thicker, coarser, more stubborn than the fine strands he used to brush neatly into place. It didn’t fall back obediently. It stayed where he pushed it, carrying weight at the crown and along the back of his head.

His fingers drifted downward to his face.

He touched his mustache first, brushing it carefully across his upper lip. The hairs bent under his thumb, springing back slightly when released. He traced along the edge of it, then down into the beard. The density surprised him again, even though he had already felt it outside. It wasn’t cosmetic. It wasn’t decorative. It was full, real growth that altered the entire structure of his face.

He dragged his palm across his jaw slowly, listening to the faint rasp of hair against skin.

His other hand moved lower, pressing tentatively against his chest. The hair there felt even more unfamiliar. Coarse. Warm. It clung to the lines of muscle beneath it, following the natural shape of his torso. He rubbed lightly, brushing away the last of the road grit caught in it, watching in the mirror as his fingers parted and smoothed it.

He leaned closer.

His eyes held something new. A steadiness that wasn’t cultivated through social training but forged somewhere else. There was weight behind them. A quiet authority that he didn’t remember earning.

He flexed his jaw again, watching how the beard shifted with the motion. His lips pressed together slowly, then parted. The man in the mirror did not look confused. He looked grounded. That realization unsettled him more than the transformation itself.

He glanced briefly at the cigar still resting in the corner of the sink, smoke rising steadily. The image of himself standing there—bearded, broad, leather vest open, cigar burning beside him—would have repulsed the version of him from that morning.

And yet now, standing in this body, there was a strange thread of admiration woven into the shock.

This body was not fragile.

It was not curated.

It was built.

He rested both hands against the sink and leaned forward slightly, studying himself from head to waist. The leather, the hair, the sheer physical presence of him.

The urgency in his bladder returned, insistent this time.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes never leaving the reflection.

This was not a dream.

This was not temporary confusion.

He straightened, glancing once more at the cigar before reaching for it again, the smoke still curling steadily upward as he picked it up and brought it back toward his mouth, still studying the man in the mirror as if memorizing him.

[swappetf11]

Transformation brotherhood part three

 The engine’s vibration deepened as he accelerated, the low mechanical pulse traveling upward through the seat and directly into his body. It was no longer just a sound or external motion—it was something he felt internally, resonating through bone, muscle, and nerve. His hips settled more firmly into the saddle as his body instinctively adjusted to accommodate the rhythm. The tight denim of his jeans and the thick leather chaps held his new long cock as well as his new girth and large testicles securely in place, compressing and supporting him in a way that felt deliberate, engineered for exactly this purpose. The vibration on his balls was new to him, but really not and it was compelling and a bit arousing.

He became acutely aware of the physical density of himself, of the sheer mass and presence between his thighs. The jeans constrained him firmly, preventing excess movement while still allowing him to feel the constant, low vibration of the engine beneath him. Each subtle shift of the motorcycle translated upward into him, absorbed and redistributed through muscle and fabric. The leather and denim worked together, stabilizing him, anchoring him to the machine.

He adjusted his posture slightly, testing the sensation.

His thighs tightened around the frame, leather creaking as the chaps stretched over powerful muscle. The vibration settled into a steady, almost hypnotic rhythm. His body adapted quickly, instinctively compensating, absorbing the motion until it no longer felt intrusive but integrated. His breathing deepened in response, lungs expanding fully as his chest rose and fell with calm strength.

It was startling how quickly the discomfort faded. What had felt foreign only moments before now felt expected. Natural.

His hips found a stable equilibrium against the seat, spine aligning perfectly as the machine carried him forward. His muscles made constant, microscopic adjustments without conscious instruction, maintaining balance and control. The firm pressure of the jeans provided structure, keeping him contained, supported, preventing distraction as his body synchronized with the motorcycle’s movement.

His hands tightened slightly on the handlebars.

He could feel everything more clearly now—the wind moving through his longer hair, the coarse beard shifting against his jaw, the powerful steadiness of his arms as they guided the machine. Even his breathing had changed, deeper and slower, drawn from a chest that felt built for endurance.

The motorcycle responded to him effortlessly. Or perhaps he was responding to it.

He leaned into another curve, confidence emerging not from decision but from instinct. The machine vibrated steadily beneath him, and his body absorbed it completely, adapting, settling, synchronizing until the distinction between rider and machine began to blur.

The road stretched ahead in a long, winding ribbon of gray, cutting through manicured hedges and glimpses of open marsh where the Atlantic wind rolled freely across the land. The motorcycle carried him forward with steady purpose, the engine’s vibration now fully embedded in his awareness, no longer something separate from him but something shared. His hands rested firmly on the grips, thick fingers steady and sure, veins shifting subtly beneath weathered skin as the throttle responded to even the smallest movement of his wrist.

He didn’t know where he was going. And yet— His body did.

Each turn appeared and his shoulders leaned naturally into it. His hips followed. His thighs tightened against the frame, leather chaps creaking as they flexed over muscle that felt dense and capable. The steady vibration of the engine traveled upward through the seat, through his pelvis, into his core. The tight denim held him firmly, containing him, stabilizing him. It was impossible to ignore the physical presence of himself in this form—the grounded heaviness, the way the structure of the jeans and leather prevented excess movement while still allowing him to feel the low, constant hum of the machine.

The sensation lingered in his nerves.

Not overwhelming.

But present.

Alive.

He exhaled slowly, his breath emerging deeper and rougher than he remembered, his chest expanding fully with each inhale. The vibration did not distract him. It centered him. It made him aware of his body in a way he had never been before—not as something fragile or maintained, but as something built for endurance.

He glanced into the rearview mirror again.

The reflection staring back at him was not Michael Harcourt. It was Rourke.

The beard framed his face heavily, thick mustache shifting slightly with each breath. His eyes—darker now—stared back with unfamiliar intensity. He watched his own reflection as the wind pushed his longer hair backward, exposing the full shape of his face. He barely recognized himself. He lifted his chin slightly, studying the angle of his jaw. The density of the beard. The shape of his nose, stronger, more blunt. His eyes looked different. Harder. Older. But not empty.

Present.

He flicked his gaze forward again quickly, his heart pounding, then glanced back once more, unable to stop himself.It was him. He raised his tongue unconsciously, running it across his teeth. They felt different too. Larger. Real.

His mustache shifted slightly with the motion of his upper lip. He could feel it now without touching it, each strand alive with sensation. Another engine pulled alongside him.

Then another.

His brothers. The word surfaced naturally.

Two riders flanked him briefly, their presence immediate and steady. One raised his hand in a sharp gesture—two fingers, then forward.

Michael saw it. Understood it instantly. He returned the signal without thinking, his thick fingers lifting from the grip to mirror the motion. The other rider nodded and accelerated ahead.

Another rider moved forward beside him, turning his head slightly. Their eyes met for only a second before the man gestured forward again.

And then the name surfaced. Caleb. It wasn’t a guess. It was memory.

Caleb moved ahead of him, the motorcycle sliding smoothly into the lead position. The formation shifted instantly, every rider adjusting with silent coordination.

Michael’s hand eased off the throttle automatically. He slowed. He let Caleb take the front. His place was no longer there.

He fell back into the formation naturally, settling near the rear. The engines surrounded him now—not threatening, but protective. The sound enveloped him, the steady mechanical chorus creating a strange sense of structure and belonging.

They rode as one.

He felt it.

Not in thought.

In instinct.

These men did not question him. They did not demand explanation. They simply rode beside him, around him, forming a moving perimeter of sound and presence. He did not know them, and yet his body recognized them completely.

His brothers.

He glanced into the mirror again. Still him. Still Rourke. His reflection moved with confidence now, beard shifting in the wind, eyes steady.

He flexed his fingers on the throttle, feeling the strength in them. The rings pressed against his skin, familiar in a way that bypassed thought. He adjusted his posture slightly, feeling the powerful stability of his frame, the way his core held him upright effortlessly.

The fear was still there. Confusion still lived inside him. But something else was emerging alongside it.

Acceptance. Or at least adaptation.

His gaze dropped briefly toward the saddlebags mounted behind him.

He knew what was inside.

Cigars.

He could almost feel one between his fingers, the dry texture of the wrapper, the slow inhale that would fill his lungs completely.

The craving sat quietly in his chest, patient. He exhaled slowly, his breath long and steady. Ahead of him, Caleb led the pack forward.

Michael remained at the rear, leather creaking softly as he rode, beard and hair moving freely in the wind, glancing occasionally into the mirror at the face that had become his, studying it, exploring it, trying to reconcile the man he had been with the man reflected back at him while the road stretched endlessly forward and his body—this body—continued to ride with absolute certainty, carrying him deeper into a life he did not choose but was already beginning to live.

The gravel lot opened wide before them, dust lifting lightly as the pack slowed in staggered precision. Caleb rolled in first, cutting his engine near the entrance of the low, weathered building. The others followed in practiced rhythm, machines easing into place one by one.

Michael—still Michael, he reminded himself, even if his reflection argued otherwise—rode near the back of the formation. Second to last.

Two and a half hours ago he had been in a different body. Linen shirt. Clean jaw. Structured calendar. He had woken up beside his husband in a climate-controlled bedroom overlooking the Atlantic, thinking about market volatility and dinner reservations.

He was still Michael.

But somehow he was trapped inside someone else’s body—someone who clearly did not belong in the Hamptons. Someone whose presence disrupted white fences and generational quiet. Someone whose reputation traveled ahead of him in whispers and assumptions. And now he was pulling into a destination with men who treated him as one of their own.

Before cutting the engine, before placing his boot down, he hesitated.

His gaze lifted to one of the bikes mirror.

The face staring back at him was still not his.

The beard framed a jaw he did not grow. The mustache moved slightly with his breath, heavy and coarse over his upper lip. His eyes—darker, more intense—met his own stare without blinking. Wind had pushed his longer hair back from his forehead, strands falling unevenly along his temples.

He stared.

This was not a dream.

Slowly, cautiously, he lifted one hand from the grip and ran his thick fingers back through his hair, pushing it into place. The texture startled him again—dense, resistant, nothing like the fine strands he remembered. His fingers dragged through it, feeling the weight at the nape of his neck.

He lowered his hand to his face.

His thumb brushed across the mustache first, then along the line of his beard. The hair was coarse, real, alive beneath his touch. He pressed his palm more firmly against his jaw, feeling the density of it.

The sensation was chilling.

Not because it felt wrong. Because it felt grounded.

Solid.

Tactile.

There was no haze. No blurring at the edges of reality. The scrape of his fingers against beard, the pressure of the rings against his skin, the steady rumble of the engine beneath him—all of it confirmed what he already feared.

He was not dreaming.

He was not hallucinating.

This was happening. And this was no longer just the Hamptons.

As he glanced beyond the gravel lot, he realized the landscape had shifted subtly during the ride. The architecture felt different. The terrain less manicured. Industrial hints creeping into the edges of coastal space. This part of the New York and New Jersey area was unfamiliar to him. He had never been here in his old life. His world had been curated zip codes and familiar routes.

This was not that world. The realization tightened in his chest.

He lowered his hand back to the throttle.

The engine idled steadily. The vibration on his testicles, even more intense.

He inhaled deeply once more, then twisted the key. The roar softened, cut cleanly. Silence settled around him except for the ticking of cooling metal.

His left heel dropped to the pavement, stabilizing the machine. His body leaned slightly, adjusting to the weight as though he had done it for years.

His left boot pressed outward and downward instinctively. The kickstand dropped with a solid metallic click. The motion was fluid. Unthinking. His body had known exactly where to apply pressure and how much.

The bike settled securely to one side.

He stared down at it briefly, astonished. I don’t know how to do that. But he did.

Boots hit gravel around him in staggered rhythm. Leather shifted. Gloves came off. Someone laughed—low, easy, familiar. The camaraderie was subtle but unmistakable. No one postured. No one barked orders. They moved around each other with the comfort of long familiarity.

One man clapped Caleb on the back. Another removed his helmet and shook out his hair. A third leaned casually against his bike, nodding toward the building.

There was no chaos. No immediate threat. Just presence.

He swung his leg over the seat, the leather chaps sliding against the saddle with a muted creak. His boots hit the gravel firmly, weight settling evenly through thick soles. The chaps adjusted naturally around his thighs as he straightened, the denim beneath tight and supportive.

He stood there for a second longer than the others, grounding himself. Two and a half hours ago he had been someone entirely different.

He was still Michael. But he was also undeniably this man.

This body felt powerful, stable, built for endurance rather than comfort. His shoulders were broader. His stance wider. When he breathed, his chest expanded fully and without strain. If this were adrenaline, he would have been shaking or exhausted by now. If this were panic, his thoughts would be spiraling uncontrollably.

Instead, his pulse was steady.

His muscles felt alive. He hated that part. He hated that his body wasn’t rejecting this.

One of the riders approached from his right, stopping close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed.

“You good?” the man asked casually.

The question was simple.

Loaded.

Michael’s throat tightened briefly.

He had always been afraid of men like these. In his old life, they were symbols of disruption. Of unpredictability. Of something uncontrolled entering controlled spaces.

But here, standing among them, he wasn’t prey.

He wasn’t an outsider.

He was one of them.

The man’s gaze held steady, not threatening, just checking.

His mouth opened before he fully decided what to say.

“Yeah,” he heard himself answer.

The voice was deeper, rougher, and it carried weight.

The rider nodded once and moved on without suspicion.

The camaraderie wasn’t loud. It wasn’t exaggerated. It was a quiet understanding that existed in shared glances, shoulder taps, the way the bikes were parked close but not crowded. A brotherhood built on rhythm and presence rather than constant affirmation.

He was the second to last to pull in.

Second to last to dismount.

And yet no one rushed him.

No one questioned him.

He flexed his fingers slowly, feeling the rings press against skin that now felt like his own. His gaze dropped briefly to the tattoos stretching across his forearms. The ink felt familiar to the nerves beneath it.

Somewhere deep inside, the name of this body lingered just beyond reach. It would come.

For now, he stood beside his motorcycle—kickstand firmly down, engine cooling—trying to reconcile the man he had been with the man the world now saw, as gravel shifted under boots and the men he once feared moved around him not as threats, but as brothers.

[swappetf11]

Part 2 transformation brotherhood

The leather creaked softly as he swung his leg over the motorcycle, the motion fluid and unforced, as if he had performed it thousands of times before. His thigh cleared the seat with natural precision, and when he lowered himself into the saddle the weight of his body settled perfectly into the worn leather, hips aligning instinctively with the shape molded by years of use. The machine accepted him without resistance. His boots planted firmly against the pavement, heavy soles gripping asphalt with grounded certainty. For a suspended second he simply sat there, breathing, feeling the mass of himself distributed differently than it ever had been—broader through the chest, denser through the thighs, heavier in ways that felt powerful rather than foreign.

His hands hovered above the handlebars, thick fingers trembling slightly as he studied them. They were not the refined, careful hands he remembered. These were wider, rougher, knuckles pronounced and skin weathered. Silver rings rested against his fingers, cool metal pressing into skin that seemed accustomed to their weight. He swallowed. He did not know how to begin.

And yet his body did.

His right hand closed around the throttle without hesitation. His left hand settled over the clutch, fingers falling precisely into place, joints aligning with mechanical familiarity. His thumb moved toward the ignition as though guided by something older than thought. There was no fumbling. No searching.

The engine roared to life beneath him.

The vibration struck immediately—deep, resonant, alive. It traveled upward through the frame, through the seat, directly into his hips and spine. His thighs tightened automatically, muscles engaging in response to the machine’s pulse. The sensation filled him completely, occupying space in his body he hadn’t known was empty. It was not merely sound or movement. It was contact. A low, constant hum that anchored him in this new form.

A slow breath left his chest.

He rolled his wrist slightly and the engine answered, a guttural growl reverberating beneath him. The sound vibrated through his hands, into his forearms, across his broad chest. It felt good. That realization unsettled him. The pleasure was subtle but undeniable—physical, grounding, almost intimate. The tight denim of his jeans and the leather chaps wrapped firmly around his thighs, holding him securely against the seat, amplifying every tremor of the machine. When he shifted slightly to test the sensation, the vibration deepened and his breath caught unexpectedly.

He squeezed the clutch.

His foot found the gear lever without looking. He pressed down and felt the mechanical click travel through the frame like confirmation.

He released the clutch slowly.

The motorcycle began to roll forward.

The motion was seamless. There was no awkward lurch, no instability. His boots lifted and found the pegs at exactly the right moment. His spine adjusted naturally, shoulders rolling back as his hips aligned with the engine’s rhythm. Wind rushed toward him, striking his face fully.

His beard shifted against his jaw, coarse strands brushing his neck. His longer hair whipped backward, lifting from his scalp, tugging at the nape of his neck in a way that felt shockingly right. He could feel the texture difference—the thickness, the weight of it, how it resisted the wind instead of surrendering to it. He inhaled deeply, lungs expanding with strength he had never possessed before. The air filled him fully. His breath emerged slower, huskier.

He leaned slightly into the forward motion, not consciously deciding to do so but responding to the bike’s rhythm. His thighs gripped the frame more firmly, leather chaps creaking as they stretched over muscle. He became acutely aware of the solid weight of himself, of the way the tight denim supported and contained him as the engine’s vibration pulsed upward. Every sensation felt amplified. Present. Immediate.

He flexed his fingers around the grips and glanced down briefly at his forearm, noticing the tattoos stretching across thickened skin. The ink felt raised beneath his thumb when he brushed it absentmindedly. He knew where each line curved without needing to look. The knowledge did not feel borrowed. It felt internal.

He accelerated slightly.

The surge pressed him backward just enough to trigger an instinctive tightening of his thighs. His core engaged. His shoulders settled lower. The movement was clean and controlled.

A craving surfaced abruptly.

It was sharp and specific. His mouth felt empty in a way he could not explain. His tongue pressed against his teeth unconsciously. His lungs drew in air deeply, but something was missing. Smoke. The thought appeared uninvited. Nicotine. A cigar. The taste of it lingered in his imagination with unsettling clarity.

He frowned beneath the beard, confused by the familiarity of the desire.

Behind him, other engines followed, their sound blending into the rhythm of the road. The presence of those motorcycles did not alarm him. Instead, it felt steadying. The word formed in his mind with ease.

Brothers.

Part 1 https://www.tumblr.com/swappetf11/809268152711217152/brotherhood-swap-the-road-cut-between-salt-bitten

Post by @swappetf11 · 2 images

💬 0  🔁 2  ❤️ 24 · Post by @swappetf11 · 2 images · Brotherhood Swap The road cut between salt-bitten marshland and clipped white fences,

The road curved gently ahead. He leaned into it smoothly, weight shifting without calculation, trusting the machine. The wind roared louder as his speed increased, beard and hair moving freely, rings catching flashes of light as his fingers adjusted minutely on the grips.

As he straightened from the turn, his gaze lifted briefly to the small rearview mirror mounted near his left hand.

And he saw him. His old body.

Walking away. The sight hit him like cold water.

There, framed within the mirror’s narrow reflection, was Michael Harcourt—lean, upright, linen shirt hanging perfectly against narrow shoulders, refined gait intact. The posture was unmistakable. The controlled stride. The calm exterior.

The body that had once been his.

It moved toward the gray house without looking back.

His chest tightened violently. For a fraction of a second his grip faltered, the motorcycle wobbling slightly before instinct corrected it immediately. His breath shortened.

“That’s me,” he whispered, voice carried away by wind.

But the reflection did not turn.

The man in the mirror—his former self—walked with composed certainty toward a life of polished floors and quiet control. There was no panic in that stride. No confusion. Only smooth inevitability.

The distance grew quickly as the motorcycle continued forward.

He stared at the mirror longer than he should have, watching his old shoulders disappear beyond white fencing and clipped hedges. Watching the life he understood shrink into a background detail.

His chest rose deeply. The engine vibrated steadily beneath him. His hands were steady.

His thighs remained locked against the frame. The man in the mirror vanished from sight as the road curved again, forcing his attention forward.

For a suspended moment, grief tried to surface. But the machine demanded presence.

His body leaned into the next turn with confidence, beard whipping in the wind, breath long and steady as the reflection of his former self faded behind him and the road ahead opened wide, stretching forward into something his muscles already recognized even as his mind struggled to accept that he was no longer riding toward a destination he had chosen, but into a life that was already taking hold of him.

[swappetf11]

Brotherhood Swap

The road cut between salt-bitten marshland and clipped white fences, engines idling nose to nose.

On one side stood Michael Harcourt, linen shirt open at the throat, loafers without socks, a watch older than most governments resting against his wrist. The Atlantic wind tugged gently at his hair, sun-lightened brown brushed back with habitual precision, each strand soft, fine, and obedient. His face was clean-shaven, jaw smooth, skin maintained with quiet ritual. Behind him, a slate-gray shingle house with columns and glass that reflected the sea.

Opposite him, boots planted wide against the asphalt, was Rourke “Rook” Donnelly. Oil under his fingernails, beard thick and dark, leather vest cut off at the shoulders revealing roped forearms tattooed with saints and skulls. His beard was dense and coarse, covering his jaw fully, mustache heavy over his upper lip, individual strands catching light like wire. His hair was darker than Michael’s, longer too—falling to the base of his neck in thick, uneven waves, unstyled, wind-worn. He wore heavy leather chaps over faded jeans, the leather scarred from years of riding, hugging his thighs and framing his stance like armor. His bike—a low-slung black machine with matte pipes and hand-stitched saddle—ticked and cooled between his thighs. Sweat, gasoline, tobacco.

They had nearly collided at the curve.

“You think that pretty little driveway gives you the right of way?” Rourke’s voice rolled low, smoke-rough.

Michael’s lips thinned. “I think traffic law applies universally.”

“Traffic law,” Rourke repeated.

Michael stepped forward—. The wind shifted.

There was a sound—not mechanical, not natural. A deep internal crack, like frozen earth splitting open beneath their bones.

Michael staggered. Rourke gasped.

Their shadows twisted and folded together.

Michael’s scalp burned first.

He reached up instinctively, fingers trembling as his soft, fine hair thickened beneath his touch. Each strand hardened, darkening from sun-lightened brown into deeper, heavier brown. The texture changed completely—no longer soft and groomed, but coarse, stubborn, resistant to the wind. His hairline shifted slightly, forming Rourke’s rough widow’s peak. The hair lengthened too, brushing his collar, tickling the back of his neck in unfamiliar weight.

“No—no—” Michael whispered. His jaw ignited next.

Tiny needles erupted across his cheeks. He gasped as dark stubble burst through smooth skin, thickening instantly. It spread down his jawline, across his chin, over his upper lip. The mustache formed heavily, brushing his lip, foreign and intrusive. His beard thickened further, filling in, dense and full, coarse against his fingertips when he instinctively touched it.

“Oh God,” he rasped, feeling it. Across from him, Rourke screamed hoarsely. His beard fell away. Not dissolving—falling.

Chunks of thick dark hair shed from his jaw, tumbling down his chest and onto the asphalt. He grabbed his face, panic flooding his eyes as his once-dense beard thinned rapidly beneath his palms. The mustache receded, hairs slipping loose and falling. His cheeks were exposed. Bare. Smooth.

“No—no, no, no—”

His scalp tingled violently as his thick, uneven biker hair softened. The coarse strands thinned, lightened, becoming finer. The weight disappeared. His hair shortened subtly, retreating upward, reshaping itself into Michael’s refined, groomed style. The wildness left it.

Michael’s body thickened brutally. His linen shirt constricted, fabric tightening across swelling shoulders and expanding chest. His arms filled the sleeves, muscle pushing outward. He grabbed at the shirt as seams groaned, threads snapping one by one.

“I can’t—”. He tore it off. Not intentionally.

His expanding chest split the linen apart, buttons bursting loose, fabric tearing down the center. He ripped the remains from his shoulders, gasping as cold air hit skin now dusted with coarse hair.

Across from him, Rourke’s leather vest slid from his shrinking shoulders, suddenly too large. His t-shirt sagged loosely against his narrowing torso. He grabbed at it in confusion.

His jeans loosened around shrinking hips.

“What’s happening—”

Michael’s trousers constricted brutally at the thighs. He clawed at them, ripping the fabric open as his legs thickened beyond their limits. He tore them down, breath ragged, until he stood barefoot and bare on the pavement.

Rourke staggered as his jeans slid down his hips, falling to his ankles. The leather chaps loosened around his legs, slipping off as his thighs narrowed beneath them.

Two strangers wearing each other’s bodies. Michael looked down first.

His chest was broad. Hair dusted across it. His stomach thicker, powerful. His thighs massive. His hands trembled as he ran them across his beard, feeling its coarse density, the foreign masculinity of it. “This isn’t my face,” he whispered.

They stood there. Naked. Michael’s, now thick, heavy cock with dangling balls, supported by the tight jeans that Ro is used to are now exposed to the ocean breeze. Michael looked down, an astonishing enemies at the reality and the feeling of such a long 8 inch cock about 2 inches in diameter with the roar of motorcycles in the background. He had to look further down because his chest is now so large and the beard gets in the way, but also it’s pretty easy to see. Panic starts to settle in.

Across from him, Rourke stared at smooth hands, clean forearms devoid of ink. His fingers moved to his jaw. Smooth. Bare. “No…” he whispered.

Voices echoed in the distance.

The brothers.

Witnesses approaching. They couldn’t stand there like this.

Michael’s eyes fell to the pile of leather and denim at his feet.

The chaps. The jeans. The vest. He hesitated. His mind screamed rejection.

But his hands moved anyway. He stepped into the jeans, pulling them up over thick thighs. The denim hugged him tightly, perfectly. He lifted the leather chaps next, heavy and scarred, and wrapped them around his legs. The leather settled against him with disturbing familiarity. He fastened them with clumsy fingers, heart racing.

He grabbed the vest last. He slid it over his shoulders.It fit perfectly.

Across from him, Rourke picked up the linen shirt. With confusion and discussed, but also a natural habit that seems to be taking over and Comfort as he slides on the linen. His new cock is significantly smaller than his previous, but nevertheless, he’s intrigued. He must be a a grower.

His hands shook as he pulled it onto his smaller frame. The fabric draped perfectly across his chest. He fastened each button slowly, staring at his smooth hands as they worked.

He stepped into the tailored slacks.They fit perfectly.

He slid his feet into the loafers. Perfect.

They looked at each other.

Michael ran his fingers through the thick beard again, feeling its resistance. The wind caught his heavier hair, moving it differently now.

Rourke touched his smooth jaw, still disbelieving the absence of beard, the softness of his hair as it brushed his forehead.

“I don’t understand,” Rourke whispered.

Michael didn’t answer.

He couldn’t. The motorcycle waited. The house waited. Their lives waited.

Michael swung his leg over the bike, leather chaps tightening around his thighs, denim pulling across muscle as his hands fell naturally to the grips, beard brushing his collar as he leaned forward and the engine roared beneath him while behind him Rourke turned toward the gray house, linen shifting softly around his new body, fingers rising unconsciously to smooth hair that had once been wild but was now perfectly, permanently tame as both men stepped forward into lives their bodies already understood even as their minds struggled to catch up, already losing ground with every step.

Part 2 https://www.tumblr.com/swappetf11/809476082030067712/part-2-transformation-brotherhood-the-leather

Post by @swappetf11 · 2 images

💬 0  🔁 0  ❤️ 17 · Part 2 transformation brotherhood The leather creaked softly as he swung his leg over the motorcycle, the motion fluid an

[immortalmrwavell]

Red Hot Youth

“God I missed this.” Arthur grinned, hand on his hip as stopped near the top of the mountain to admire the stunning view. Lush greenery extended as far as the eye could see, only broken up by a huge lake down below. The small town where he’d started his hike was hardly a speck from all the way up here.

“No more knee pain. No more back aches. No young ’uns telling me what I can and can’t do for my age.” Arthur took a long deep breath before running a hand through his full head of hair. The sensation still seemed alien to him. “Though I suppose I am a young ‘un now.” He chuckled before looking down at himself. His strong new body was so full of life that it practically radiated vitality even beneath his clothes. Just the way his pecs bulged against his shirt or how his quads flexed with every little shift in weight. It all made him feel so alive again for the first time in decades. Honestly it was an even better view than the landscape ahead.

Arthur couldn’t help letting out a small grunt as the front of his pants began to tighten. His cock was already swelling again at the mere thought of his young hunky body. “God damn…” he mumbled while tracing the outline of his dick. “Was I this horny when I was this age?” He’d already jerked off once early this morning when his morning wood just refused to go down before his hike. Then a few hours later he had to stop again halfway up the mountain just to bust another load behind some shrubbery. And now here he was getting yet another stiffy. Not that he wasn’t enjoying it. He’d just forgotten over the years how insatiable a cock could be in its prime. Especially when Arthur could barely even look at himself without drooling. Just the feeling of these young muscles moving at his command, bulging with every step as he ascended the mountain, had been enough to make him want to cream his pants.

———

Just a few days ago Arthur had been an eighty three year old man. He lived in a nice home with his wife of just under fifty years. He had three adult children, a daughter and two sons, as well as four grandchildren so far. He’d lived a good long life up to now and at his age he shouldn’t have had much to complain about. But there was always something he couldn’t help wishing he’d done.

Most of the time it was all the hiking trails and mountain climbs he never got to do. In his youth hiking had been one of Arthur’s biggest passions. He adored the adventure of getting to explore all the different sights and wonders nature had to offer. Not to mention the challenge of pushing his body through days worth of walking and camping through any kind of trail he could find. The connection he felt to the world around him was unlike anything else. To Arthur there was nothing quite like the beauty of discovering some secluded part of nature just off a path that was almost untouched by humans. Whether it be a hidden waterfall or a sparkling river that flowed through an opening in the foliage. Same goes for completing a long and gruelling ascent to the peak of a mountain and getting to experience whatever fabulous view it came with. For all of his twenties and some of his thirties, that was Arthur’s life.

But eventually he had to settle down. Partly due to pressure from his parents and society itself. It was the 1970's after all and most men his age had long since become fathers. So he gave in. He soon met a woman to marry and have kids with and before he knew it he was practically housebound with parental responsibility. Hikes and climbs were few and far between. It was only once his kids moved out that he finally had enough real time to start adventuring again. But even then between being out of shape and being middle aged, it wasn’t as easy as it used to be. He got tired much quicker and struggled to complete climbs and trails that’d once been a cake walk. So much so that his wife and children would start telling him to be careful and to go easy. Those comments would only start to sound more forceful and condescending the older he got. By the time he reached his seventies, his kids would lecture him about his own fragility if he so much as mentioned the idea of hiking. As much as he understood their concerns, it didn’t make it any less frustrating for a man who was once so free.

Now that he was in his eighties, all he could do was think about all the places he wished he’d gone when he was younger. All the adventures he missed out on. It was selfish of course considering he’d had such a good family instead but he couldn’t help it. He was at that age now where he was reevaluating all the decisions he’d made throughout life and what might’ve become of him had he done things differently. Along with that came another regret. Not exploring his sexuality.

For a long time Arthur had known he was bisexual. He found himself just as attracted to other men as he was with women, if not more in some cases. But naturally, having grown up and lived in a time where being queer wasn’t well tolerated, he hid the part of himself that was interested in men. He presented himself as nothing more than straight because it was easier and safer. In hindsight he couldn’t help but wonder if he should’ve been braver but the past was the past. Even now his family had no idea of his bisexuality, not that it particularly mattered at his old age. He couldn’t get up for a man now anymore than he could for a woman. Although… there was one man that’d been able to make his aged cock twitch just a tiny bit back to life. His granddaughter's now ex-boyfriend, Joel.

Joel was a young man who’d not long since turned twenty eight. From the second his granddaughter had first introduced them a couple years ago, Arthur had been infatuated with Joel. The man was a stallion! Tall, virile, masculine were the first words that came to mind. He was the perfect example of a young stud with thick biceps you just wanted to kiss the moment he flexed them. Hypnotic pecs that strained against any shirt he owned. Sculpted abs with a strong v cut that Arthur had been lucky enough to catch a glimpse of. An ass that Arthur just couldn’t look away from whenever Joel turned his back. It was clear Joel treated his body like a temple but if that wasn’t already enough, he had a delightfully rugged face too and immaculate ginger hair. Arthur always had a thing for ginger men…

As such Arthur was always shamefully excited to see Joel whenever his granddaughter Amy brought the hunk along for a visit. He felt like an old pervert eyeing up a young piece of meat he knew he couldn’t have. It only made him long for the days when he was that age again. Wishing he could start over and experience everything he missed out on. He couldn’t help the creeping sense of envy either. Joel was hotter and buffer than Arthur ever was. And while Arthur’s own chestnut hair had mostly fallen victim to severe male pattern baldness by the time he hit thirty, Joel’s red hair still looked thick and full. The man was everything Arthur wished he could’ve been.

That said, Arthur couldn’t help feeling a little distraught when he heard the news of his granddaughter breaking up with Joel. Of course he was concerned for his granddaughter but he was honestly more upset that he might never get to see that dreamy stud again.

Only a few days after the breakup however, there was a knock at the door while Arthur was home alone. Imagine the shock when he opened the door to see none other than Joel wearing nothing more than a pair of shoes and the tiniest pair of shorts Arthur had ever seen. Hairy chest, abs and quads on full display as he bared his inked skin for all to see. One could even make out the faint outline of his dick.

“O-oh!… Joel…” Arthur said, slightly lost for words as he stared up and down at the Adonis before him.

“What’s up gramps? Thought I’d stop by and say hello.” Joel replied with a smile and a chipper tone that was oddly uncharacteristic. “I thought just cuz me and Amy broke up doesn’t mean we can’t still hang and chat.”

Before Arthur even had a chance to respond, Joel had already invited himself inside. His muscled frame brushed past Arthur with a pat on the shoulder as he made his way into the kitchen. The elderly man was too shell shocked to stop him. Then again how could he possibly say no to such a stunning young man who, for whatever reason, was so eager to spend some time with him.

Arthur soon joined Joel in the kitchen as the stud leaned back against the counter, arms folded over his strong fuzzy chest. He tried not to stare too much now, as difficult as that was, while taking a seat at the table.

“So Joel? What brings you here my boy?” Arthur asked. It was as good a question as any. Especially considering that every other time visited with Amy, Joel had never really said too much. He would answer questions when asked but it was clear he’d only come because Amy wanted him to. Not much of a social butterfly, that’s for sure. So for him to just drop by unannounced like this was unexpected to say the least. “Anything specific you wanted to chat about or…?”

The ginger Adonis smirked as he shifted his weight slightly. “Well I suppose there was a little something I wanted to get off my chest.” He began slowly. Joel waited a beat as if to build suspense before continuing. “You see Arthur, I’ve noticed you.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes, causing the wrinkles around them to scrunch. “You’ve uhhh… noticed me?” He tried to sound as clueless as possible.

“I have.” Joel stated before pushing himself off the counter and stepping closer to Arthur. “I saw the way you looked at me whenever Amy dragged me over here. Staring at my arms.” He raised his left arm up, placing a hand behind his head in a way the both accentuated his tattooed bicep and showed off his hairy armpit. “Eying my pecs.” He added while smoothing his right hand over the hairy expanse of muscle on his chest. “Probably wishing I would take off whatever shirt I was wearing so you could get a better look at these abs.” His right hand drifted lower, slowly brushing over his cobbled stomach before gently teasing the waistband of his shorts.

“Hell, I bet you were staring at my ass too. Am I right?” Joel spun around briefly, making sure to emphasise his pert muscle ass. “You like that view you old pervert?” He laughed. The way he said it didn't sound accusatory. It sounded like he was just teasing more than anything.

“J-Joel. I don’t…” Arthur’s words got caught in his throat for a moment as he looked up at the wall of muscle before him. Something like this was the last thing he ever would’ve expected from Joel. The man had always been so reserved. Not to mention undoubtedly straight. At worst Arthur might’ve expected Joel to call him disgusting for all his stolen glances. Not whatever this was. “I don’t know what you’ve seen or heard but this is highly inappropriate. I’m Amy’s grandfather for god's sake!” He tried his best to deflect the accusations but the reddening hue of his face did little to hide his guilt.

Joel tutted while shaking his head, hands on hips. “You might be able to fool your wife and children but you can’t fool me old man.” He reached out and took Arthur’s hand gently before guiding it towards his chest. Allowing the elderly man’s gnarled hand to feel the taut hairy muscle he clearly had an eye for. “You crave me.”

“No I-I can’t I…” Arthur stumbled over his words in an unconvincing attempt to deny what Joel had claimed yet he couldn’t bring himself to pull his hand away. He never imagined he’d get the chance to touch a man as handsome as Joel in this way. In his old age, he assumed the opportunity had long since passed. But here he was… feeling a semblance of what he remembered as being horny. The feeling had dulled over the years as his testosterone levels dropped with time. But being so close to this man, it got his old heart beating in a way he hadn’t experienced in decades.

“See? You want my body, don’t you?” Joel hummed before bouncing his pecs a little. “Well it’s your lucky day because all this is up for sale.” He said before taking a step back and lewdly gesturing down at himself.

Just when he didn’t think he could be any more dumbfounded by this whole situation, Arthur found himself staring up at Joel with his mouth agape. “For sale?” He mumbled, mouth dry. “Joel… you’re a fraction of my age. I’m old a-and married! I don’t know what kind of man you think I am but I’m not going to pay you to strip for me or whatever else.” He tried to stay firm but doing so was hard when Joel’s abs were still within touching distance.

Joel shook his head again. “Ohhh you’ve misunderstood. I’m not selling myself for sex here. I mean I’m literally selling my body. To you. Get it?”

“Uhhhhh… no. I don’t think I do?” Arthur replied slowly.

The hunk sighed gently. “Alright. I’ll make it a little bit clearer for you then.” And without another word, Joel allowed his arms to fall to his sides before taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. Immediately the air around them shifted as an unnatural force that began to swirl around Joel’s body. Purple wisps of energy twirled through the air. Then without warning, his eyes rolled back as a bright bulb of purple light forced its way out of Joel’s mouth! Forcing the hunk’s jaw wide as it passed by his bearded lips like some kind of paranormal parasite finally leaving its host.

Once free, the compact bundle of magical energy grew from a bulb into a ghostly silhouette. That silhouette would quickly solidify as the purple light started to fade until a new man had manifested before Arthur and Joel.

He wore a grey checkered suit paired with a crisp white button down and an expensive watch strapped to his left wrist. He looked to be firmly in between the age of Joel and Arthur with gorgeous silver hair and immaculate facial hair to match. Any wrinkles he adorned only served to elevate the sharp maturity of his features as they were testaments to his wisdom. And his eyes… they were such a dazzling shade of purple before settling to a natural blue hue.

Mr Wavell rolled his neck a little with a grunt of satisfaction. “Mmmmph. It’s been too long since I last took a vacation inside a hunk like that.” The silver fox commented nonchalantly with a deep voice that was smooth like velvet. “But it’s good to be back.”

Meanwhile Joel blinked rapidly as started to come back around. “W-what the…” He muttered. The last thing he could remember was some rich looking middle aged dude approaching him at the gym. He’d complimented Joel on his gorgeous body and good looks which all sounded a little gay but before Joel had time to question it, he blacked out. Now here he was, standing in the girlfriend’s grandparents kitchen wearing nothing but a slutty pair of shorts. “Why am I… what happened?!”

“Quiet boy.” Wavell commanded not unkindly. His words however were absolute. Joel suddenly found himself unable to speak or protest. “Just stand and look pretty.” Joel couldn’t help but obey. Each word threading through his brain in an effortless pursuit to make him submit, forcing him to stand idle behind the warlock.

Arthur was… surprised he hadn’t already fainted. Or had a heart attack for that matter. He wasn’t even sure what the hell he’d just witnessed! It was otherworldly! Impossible even. As for the new dapper man that stood between him and Joel, Arthur didn’t know whether to be terrified or awestruck by whatever the hell he was. Luckily he didn’t have to wonder for long as the man quickly introduced himself as Mr Wavell, a warlock with unparalleled magical prowess.

“As you might’ve been able to gather, I’ve been in possession of this handsome young man’s delectable form for the past week. It’s been quite an enjoyable experience, I must say. I’ve always had a soft spot for hunky gingers like that one.” Wavell glanced over his shoulder at Joel briefly with a lustful spark in his eye. Thinking about all the trouble he’d gotten Joel into over the last seven days as he enjoyed what limited time he had in that body. He turned back to Arthur. “And I can tell you have similar taste.”

The elderly man struggled to respond, his voice shakier than usual as he forced out the words. He asked how any of what he'd just seen was possible. He wanted to believe he was dreaming or that this was all some hallucination. But Wavell ignored the question as he looked inside Arthur’s mind. He quickly learned of Arthur’s life as a closeted Bisexual and how he’d wished he could start over and explore the other sides to his sexuality. He saw how Joel had been everything Arthur would’ve wished for in a man had he not hidden from that side of himself. A revelation that perfectly aligned with Joel’s own memories of catching Arthur leering at him for just a bit too long on the few occasions he’d visited with his girlfriend. All the puzzle pieces fit.

“Alright, here's the deal. I’m going to make this very simple for you Arthur. I’m going to give you Joel’s body. You get his life, his memories and all that jazz. After which you’re going to repay me by using that body fuck and get fucked by as many other men as you can. I want you to turn that ginger ass of his in a total slut. How’s that sound?” Wavell gave a smile that could almost be interrupted as endearing.

Arthur hesitated naturally. His mind desperately tried to catch up and comprehend everything he’d just heard. But finally he responded. “Is there… any other catch? Will you punish me if I don’t sleep with enough men? " He asked hesitantly despite the growing excitement at the mere thought of actually getting to become that stud of a man behind Wavell.

The warlock hummed with amusement. “No tricks or catches. I only do that with folks who I deem worthy of punishment. You seem like a good man though. My only condition is that you enjoy that new lease on life to the fullest and explore all the things you never did the first time around. That includes men.” Wavell outstretched an arm, offering his hand to the elderly man.

“I don’t know what to say. This doesn’t even seem real.” Arthur mumbled.

“Ohhhh it’s real. All you have to do is take my hand. Then all of that can be yours forever.” Wavell gestured over at Joel’s enticing form. Skin slick with a thin layer of sweat that glimmered under the light trailing in from the windows.

Arthur raised a hand. Cautiously reaching out before stopping mere inches away from Wavell’s hand. “Wait. What happens to Joel? Will he be in my body?”

Wavell shook his head. “No. I’ll be erasing your current body. Once your soul is inside Joel’s body, his soul will be removed. I’ll take good care of him after that. Maybe I’ll put him inside another body someday but rest assured he won’t be in any pain.” He subtly edged his hand closer to Arthur’s. “So. Do we have a deal?”

The eighty three year old waited a beat before finally giving in. The temptation of youth was too great to pass up. He accepted Wavell’s hand.

The warlock shook Arthur’s hand firmly. Immediately that same purple magic from before returned in full force, this time in the form of glittery tendrils that emerged from Wavell’s grip. The magic spun itself up and around Arthur’s arm before spreading across his entire body. Wrapping him in Wavell’s god-like power until every inch of his aged body was covered. He was nothing more than a glowing purple silhouette. And then he wasn’t even that. Beneath the magic, Arthur’s physical form dissolved painlessly, leaving only his conscious soul behind as a pulsing orb. After that Wavell ordered Joel to open wide. The hunk had no choice but to obey as Arthur’s soul was pushed in between his lips in a similar fashion to how Wavell had possessed him previously.

The older man’s soul forced itself down his throat instinctively where it began to fight for control with Joel’s soul. But before Joel had a chance to overpower the invader, Wavell used his magic to tug on Joel’s soul before pulling out with ease. As soon as it left Joel’s mouth, Wavell grabbed the younger man’s spirit before conjuring up a jar to capture it in. With that, Arthur's own spirit was left uncontested as it settled into Joel’s body and began to take control.

The next thing Arthur knew, he was seeing through much clearer eyes. For the first time in years the world around him seemed so in focus without the need of glasses. All the pains and aches he’d grown used to over the decades had vanished completely, leaving him pain free in a way that almost brought on tears of joy. The weakness and fatigue he experienced day in and day out was no more. Instead he felt strong. Stronger than he ever had in his life. Even the first few breaths he took felt so full of life thanks to healthy lungs that’d never once felt the burn of a cigarette.

“How does your new skin feel Arthur? Tight I imagine.” Wavell quipped while tossing the jar with Joel’s soul through a portal that went to his mansion.

Arthur simply stared at Wavell for a moment, the shock still lingering in his bright new eyes. “Did it… actually w-work?” He stuttered, though the sound of Joel’s voice coming from his mouth should’ve already confirmed as much. Despite that he was almost scared to look down at first. As if looking too fast might scare away the possibility of seeing the body of his dreams.

“Of course. You’re a stallion Arthur. Or should I start calling you Joel? Go on. Take a look.” Wavell urged.

Slowly but surely, Joel tilted his head forwards. In that moment he was greeted by a sight that almost didn’t seem real. A valley of young, hairy muscle from the neck down that caused his breath to hitch. His eyes first landed on the generous shelf of muscle sitting on his chest. Thick pecs, bigger than he’d ever had before, that heaved with strength. Joel’s pecs. Covered in an abundance of ginger chest hair that even swirled around his incredibly stiff nipples. And as his gaze dropped further, Arthur could feel himself getting even more light headed at the sight of his new equally hairy abs. He was in shape when he was younger but never to the point of having visible abs. But these weren’t just visible. They bulged with definition! Not to mention the fat around his waist was almost nonexistent. It was unlike anything he’d ever experienced! He’d seen it all on Joel moments prior but actually owning a physique like this was something else entirely. It’s almost impossible to imagine what owning a body as perfect as that is like unless you own it for yourself. Now Arthur did.

But it wasn’t just his torso that he was blown away by. His arms… they were magnificent. Arthur watched as veins coiled along his forearms and up towards the bulge of his biceps. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how many hours had been spent at the gym pumping them up to such a gorgeous size and shape. Not to mention the power behind them. He’d felt it in his chest too, the raw strength of his new muscle, but with his biceps that power felt more direct. At the same time his arms felt heavier and yet they weren’t any more difficult to move or lift. It was trippy as hell initially. Every movement felt unique and unfamiliar. Even the tiniest differences in size and weight seemed dramatic at first. Even just the size of his hands, bigger and more calloused but still younger and far less weathered. The flex of his biceps though… that was something else entirely. The bunching of the muscle into a single peak of pure masculine strength. He never imagined he’d get to feel what it was like to have biceps like this. Yet here he was, flexing them as a smile began to spread across his stolen face.

And that wasn’t all. Despite how enticing his upper body was, his lower body seemed just as alluring. His new legs were enormous trunks of mass, built from endless squats and lunges that allowed his thighs to balloon. They were the kind of hairy muscle thighs some men would kill just to be suffocated between. It was hard to pay attention to them however when the enormous tent in shorts was blocking his view. His young new cock, stiff as a board and leaking precum in all the excitement. It was almost dizzying how hard he was. Like all the blood had drained from his brain and gone straight to his dick. It’d been so long that he’d forgotten this was what an erection should’ve felt like. Powerful. Uncontrollable. Demanding. It felt like it was gonna burst out those tiny shorts at any second and start launching cum all over. The idea of which sounded tempting beyond all hell. He’d also forgotten how hard it was to ignore the urge to cum whenever his cock demanded it. The kind of virility had been lost on his old body long ago. But not now. Joel’s dick was pulsing angrily at him as it begged him to relieve his fat balls of the potent seed they were churning.

“O-ohhh god… Jesus… fuuuck.” The words poured from his lips in a heady haze as his hands explored the vast expanse of his body. Tapering across the ridges of hairy muscle and tracing along his new tattoos through shivers of delight. Squeezing his pliable muscle tits. All the while finding it next to impossible to ignore his throbbing dick. It was so much bigger than his old one. He could tell just by his bulge. Girthier mostly. He couldn’t keep his hands away from it no matter how much he tried, constantly running his palms over the outline. All the while grunting and moaning in a voice that was so much younger yet still carried the deep grit of masculinity in a way that only made him want to bust even more. Everything was a turn on and he wasn’t sure if it was because of his newfound youth or just because Joel’s body was somehow even hotter from the inside! Probably both.

But it was his ass that pushed him over the edge. He’d reached back to grab a feel of his new cheeks and almost immediately his cock lurched. Arthur hadn’t expected his new muscle ass to feel so… so soft. It jiggled so delightfully even under the slightest touch. So much so that his brain was already imagining how heavenly it would be to see it jiggle as another man plugged his cock inside it over and over and over again until…

“N-NRUUUAAHHHhhhhhuu…” He groaned long and deep as he painted the inside of his tiny shorts with an enormous load of thick cum. A dark sticky stain quickly began to seep through the fabric as a momentary look of bliss took hold of his face. He couldn’t help panting as his dick quivered in the after math, still shooting a few small spurts of jizz as it began to soften.

Wavell began to clap slowly. “Bravo! That was quite the show.” He praised before not so subtly biting his lip. “Seeing a man get lost in a new body for the first time never gets old.”

The sexually charged fog that’d been clouding Arthur’s mind from the second he took control of Joel’s body finally began to lift. Finally he could think straight again. Despite that however, his new body was still the only thing on his mind. Now he could actually appreciate it with a clearer lens. The beauty of it all. The youth. The vigor. The gorgeous hair and-

Arthur’s eyes widened as a realisation dawned on him. He was so absorbed into worshipping his muscles that he hadn’t even noticed the distinct lack of a chilly breeze passing over his bald scalp. “No way…” He muttered as his hands shot up towards the top of his head. A big cheesy grin spread across his face as his fingers found themselves tangled in a mess of short but very thick hair, the likes of which he hadn’t experienced since he was in his early twenties. Now here he was, blessed instead with Joel’s incredible genetics. “I’ve got hair!” He couldn’t help but shout with glee in Wavell’s direction.

Mr Wavell couldn’t help but laugh. “I can see that. Looks good.” With that the warlock held out a hand before conjuring up a small hand held mirror. “Here. Take a look for yourself.” He offered.

Arthur took the mirror, heart pounding in a way that might’ve worried him had he still been eighty three. He took a moment to steady himself with a deep breath before finally bringing the mirror up to his face. The man who stared back at him was none other than Joel. His gorgeous masculine features, now moving under Arthur’s control. That impeccable hairline. Those dreamy eyes. That subtle but distinct nose ring he wore. And most of all that incredible ginger hair which connected nicely to the ginger scruff that coated his jaw, growing just a little bit thicker above his upper lip to give him a somewhat prominent mustache. Arthur still couldn’t believe it was all his. Even though the visage looking back at him in the reflection was none of that the red headed hunk of his dreams, his mind still struggled to comprehend it.

“Mr Wavell… I don’t even know what to say…” Arthur said, unable to rip his gaze away from the mirror.

“You don’t need to say anything. This was my pleasure.” Wavell reassured him with a wave of his hand. “Just promise to take good care of your new body for me, okay?”

Arthur prodded at his facial features with wonder. “Of course. I’ll do anything to keep all this.” A few moments after he said those words however, something dawned on him. “Wait… you said I was going to get all his memories didn’t you? I’m not feeling any of them yet. Did something go wrong?” He lowered the mirror slightly as he squinted in an effort to recall even a single memory of Joel’s. Nothing. How was he supposed to keep this body in shape if he didn’t even know what gym routine he was supposed to be following or what food to be eating.

“Don’t worry about it. The memories just haven’t unlocked yet. They’ll begin to drip feed into your mind within the next hour or so. It’s better that way. Gaining all the memories at once alongside the body itself can be a little overwhelming. So don’t sweat it. Just enjoy the body for today.” Wavell explained while patting Arthur on the shoulder. “Oh that note I should also mention that I took the liberty of shifting reality slightly.”

“You did… what?” The crazy thing was that Arthur believed the warlock wholeheartedly after everything that’d just happened.

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad. I just made it so that everyone believes that the old version of you died about three years ago. Makes things easier on your previous family. I’ve also wiped out any connections Joel had to them, most notably to your former granddaughter. Lord knows you wouldn’t want to deal with that kind of awkwardness. Plus a couple of other quality of life changes for your benefit.” The warlock explained it all away as if changing reality was just Tuesday for him. “That said… you should probably leave before your former wife gets home and calls the police on the strange, almost naked man wearing cumstained shorts in her kitchen.” He continued while somehow maintaining a straight face.

Arthur blinked. “Right. Okay… yeah okay yeah.” He didn’t sound as though he’d fully processed that either. So instead Wavell spun him around and began walking him out of the kitchen, down the hallway and towards the front door.

The two stepped outside into the warm rays of the sun. As they did Wavell made a comment about how Arthur would have to be more careful in regards to the flaming ball in the sky now. Being a red head meant he was gonna burn much easier than before if he wasn’t wearing sun block. Especially if all he was wearing was a slutty pair of shorts. Granted that was Wavell’s fault for not putting anything else on when he arrived in that body. As such the warlock was happy to hook Arthur up with a flick of his wrist, conjuring a set of fresh stylish clothes that suited his new body quite well.

When Arthur turned to thank Wavell however, the mysterious suited man was gone. Vanished like he was never there. Arthur whipped his head around but there was no sign of the man who’d just granted him the greatest gift he’d received. Despite that he said thank you anyway with his full chest, confident that the otherworldly being could still hear him.

With that, Arthur set off to begin a new lease on life. One that promised himself he wouldn’t waste a second of. He was going to keep his body in peak condition so that he could jerk off to the perfection of his new muscled physique every morning for years to come. He was finally going to accept his sexuality and fuck some hot male ass and hopefully get his own muscle butt stuffed with cock too once he was ready for it. And of course he was going to do all the hikes and mountain climbs he always wished he could’ve done in his previous life. With a form like this, he’d have no problem recapturing his dreams and living out a few new ones in the process.

———

In the few days since taking over Joel’s body and life, Arthur had really settled in. By now he’d gained most of the memories he needed to pull off a more than convincing impression of the original Joel. He’d familiarised himself with his new home and friends. He’d spent countless hours trying on almost every new item of clothing he owned. He’d even gone out of his way to go out and buy a few new things. Sure all the clothes Joel owned looked great on him, practically everything did, but Arthur wanted some more outfits that really screamed gay. Tighter pants and jogging bottoms. More pairs of tiny shorts. Brightly coloured jumpers. Skimpy tank tops. Jock straps of course. He even got himself a crop top that showed off his irresistible abs and ginger happy trail.

He’d had his first gym session where he trained chest and biceps which felt absolutely incredible. Lifting weights he would’ve struggled with in his youth, never mind his old age. Feeling the euphoria of blood pumping through his new muscles, making them feel even more inflated to the point where he could stop checking himself in almost every mirror he passed. Though he did that most of the time anyway.

But only after a couple days in this skin, Arthur found himself gearing up for his first mountain climb in over twenty years. Boots and backpack on, a flexible pair of pants and a top that hugged his arms and pecs tightly. Maybe he was being hasty but he just couldn’t wait any longer. He had to get out there again! He’d already allowed so many years to pass him by that he couldn’t bear to put off his passion any longer. So as soon as he had all the essentials together, he jumped into his new car and set off for the nearest climb.

Now here he was in the present. Standing near the peak of a small mountain. There was a bigger one not far off in the distance but he thought better than to push himself too much. Joel’s body might’ve been young and beefy as hell but it would still take some time to get used to this kind of activity. He could already sense that quads and hamstrings were gonna feel like jelly tomorrow. But it was all worth it for the adventure and the challenge. Not to mention the view. He’d almost forgotten just how much he adored the rush of finally reaching the peak of a mountain. But it was all coming back to him now and almost as addicting as his hunky new body.

As he stared out across the landscape, Arthur’s mind began to wander. So far he’d been so focused on worshipping himself at every junction that he hadn’t really thought too much about finally hooking up with some other dudes yet. Though who could blame him for being distracted by himself. Right now he seemed more likely to fall in love with his own reflection than anyone else, judging by how long he’d spent kissing the bathroom mirror yesterday. That said he could probably get any guy he wanted now. No doubt he’d have twinks, jocks and bears alike all lining up for a taste of his cock or ass. Even just his adorably handsome face would be enough to melt the heart of any man he desired. Hell when he was in the locker room at the gym he could’ve sworn he saw an older daddy stealing glances at him while he changed out of his sweaty gym clothes. He’d have to try and follow that one up at some point.

Arthur let out a long relaxed sigh as the wind blew through his hair. He breathed out all the worries and regrets he once had about his old life. The possibilities now were endless. He only wished that one day he could thank Mr Wavell properly. If anyone deserved to have his new lips around their cock, it was him.

Regardless, Arthur promised himself that he wouldn’t waste another minute. He’d enjoy Joel’s life and body to the fullest.

[swappetf11]

The road cut between salt-bitten marshland and clipped white fences, engines idling nose to nose.

On one side stood Michael Harcourt, linen shirt open at the throat, loafers without socks, a watch older than most governments resting against his wrist. The Atlantic wind tugged gently at his hair, sun-lightened brown brushed back with habitual precision. He smelled faintly of bergamot and clean cotton. Behind him, a slate-gray shingle house with columns and glass that reflected the sea.

Opposite him, boots planted wide against the asphalt, was Rourke “Rook” Donnelly. Oil under his fingernails, beard thick and dark, leather vest cut off at the shoulders revealing roped forearms tattooed with inked saints and skulls. His bike—a low-slung black machine with matte pipes and hand-stitched saddle—ticked and cooled between his thighs. Sweat, gasoline, tobacco. Brotherhood patches sewn across his back.

They had nearly collided at the curve.

“You think that pretty little driveway gives you the right of way?” Rourke’s voice rolled low, smoke-rough, the sound of a bar at closing time.

Michael’s lips thinned. “I think traffic law applies universally.”

“Traffic law,” Rourke repeated with a short bark of laughter. “You hear that, boys?” A cluster of leather-clad riders lingered fifty yards back, engines rumbling like distant thunder.

Michael felt irritation climb his neck. “Is this a performance?”

Rourke swung off his bike in one fluid motion. The height difference between them was negligible—Michael six feet even, Rourke perhaps an inch taller—but Rourke seemed broader, denser. He stepped closer, boots heavy on the road.

The wind shifted.

There was a sound—not mechanical, not natural. A crack through bone, a low pressure inside the skull like altitude sickness.

Michael staggered first.

Rourke’s grin faltered.

Their shadows on the pavement wavered, stretched, then folded into each other like ink dropped in water.

Michael felt heat erupt along his spine. His chest tightened, ribs compressing inward as if squeezed by invisible hands. “What the—”

His voice broke. The cultured baritone splintered, dropped, rasped. He coughed and the sound that came out was gravel.

Across from him, Rourke’s vision tunneled. The weight of his beard tingled, prickled. He reached up instinctively and felt hair thinning beneath his palm, follicles retracting like grass burned by frost.

“No,” Rourke muttered, but the word came out smoother, higher, rounded in the vowels.

Michael doubled over. His loafers slipped on the pavement as his feet cramped. Toes shortened, nails thickened, skin roughening, calluses forming in layers as if years of pressure condensed into seconds. He felt arches flatten slightly, the memory of steel-toed boots imprinting into bone. His calves tightened, muscle density increasing, fibers compacting.

Inside his trousers, a sharp pull. His hips widened a fraction, then narrowed more aggressively as ligaments shifted. He gasped as heat flooded his groin. His penis twitched, lengthening, thickening, the shaft swelling heavy against his thigh. The skin darkened a shade, veins surfacing bold and blue. His testicles dropped lower, sac stretching, weight increasing until they hung pendulous and substantial between his legs.

“What is happening to me?” he tried to shout, but the voice—God—the voice belonged to someone who drank whiskey for breakfast.

Rourke staggered backward toward the shingled fence. His shoulders pulled inward, breadth receding. Years of manual labor dissolved; muscle thinned and redistributed into leaner lines. His thick forearms slimmed, veins less pronounced. The tattoos on his skin blurred, ink running like wet paint before fading entirely into unmarked, pale flesh.

His boots felt cavernous. His feet narrowed, toes lengthening elegantly. The calluses softened, skin smoothing with a strange effervescence. He clawed at his vest as his chest tightened, hair retreating across pecs and stomach until his torso was nearly bare of it, save for a faint dusting.

His beard shed in clumps against the road. Underneath, his jawline sharpened, lips refining into a thinner, aristocratic bow. His teeth began to ache.

Michael felt it too.

A violent pressure in the gums. He gagged as molars loosened. One by one they fell, clattering against asphalt—white fragments streaked with blood. His tongue darted instinctively to the gaps just as new teeth pushed through. Straighter. Larger. Slightly uneven in a way that felt lived-in, not orthodontically engineered. His bite shifted. He spat copper and saliva, tasting cigarettes he had never smoked.

Rourke dropped to his knees as his own teeth loosened, spilling into his palm. “No, no—” His voice now carried Michael’s clipped diction. New teeth slid into place, perfect, uniform, subtly whitened by decades of clean living and routine dental care.

Michael’s hair itched violently. He grabbed at it, feeling texture coarsen beneath his fingers. The soft Atlantic breeze now tangled through thicker, darker strands. His scalp tingled as the hairline shifted slightly, reshaping into Rourke’s widow’s peak. A beard sprouted in real time, bristling down his jaw, crawling over his chin. He groaned as the mustache thickened above his lip, ticklish and foreign.

Across the road, Rourke felt his own hair lighten, thinning at the sides, styled by an invisible hand into something restrained, expensive. His eyebrows softened. Even his eyelashes felt different against the air.

The leather vest slid from Michael’s shoulders as his torso expanded, seams straining. His linen shirt—Rourke’s linen shirt—tightened obscenely across a broadening back before splitting along the spine. Buttons snapped free, skittering across pavement. The clean scent of bergamot was swallowed by sweat and engine oil as pores shifted, glands recalibrating.

Rourke clutched at the oversized denim hanging off his narrowing hips. His cock shrank with a sudden, nauseating pull, drawing upward, losing thickness, losing that heavy swing between his thighs. His balls tightened close to his body, sac smoothing. He gasped, instinctively cupping himself in disbelief.

“My God,” he whispered in Michael’s voice.

Michael, now feeling the drag of larger genitals against thickening inner thighs, sucked in a breath. The weight was obscene. Every subtle movement made his cock brush against denim that had once fit Rourke’s body. His testicles shifted, settling lower with a fleshy heaviness that tugged at his groin.

Their clothes were wrong.

Rourke’s oversized denim slid down his hips entirely, pooling at his ankles. He stepped free, breath hitching at the unfamiliar coolness against his now-trimmed body hair and sleeker thighs. The linen remnants clung to him in torn ribbons.

Michael’s loafers split as his feet broadened. He stepped out of them instinctively, flexing thick toes against the asphalt. He felt grounded. Solid. Heavy.

The wind stilled.

Their bikes hummed simultaneously.

Rourke looked up and saw his own face staring back at him—no, not his face. Michael’s former face now crowned atop Rourke’s former body.

“What did you do?” Rourke demanded.

Michael blinked, feeling the weight of beard, the pull of skin across broader cheeks. “I did nothing. This is impossible.”

From the cluster of riders, one of the brothers called out, “Rook, you good?”

Michael’s heart slammed at the nickname. Rook. The word hit something deep in his chest, like an echo.

He knew that voice.

He shouldn’t.

Rourke—inside Michael’s body—felt memories brushing at the edges of his mind. White tablecloth dinners. Sailing regattas. The taste of champagne at seventeen. He squeezed his eyes shut. “This isn’t mine. None of this is mine.”

Michael flexed his hands. The knuckles were scarred. Familiar. Too familiar. He knew how to wrap them in tape. He knew how to throw a punch without breaking them.

“No,” he murmured. “I do not know that.”

His tongue felt thick with a different cadence. Words wanted to shorten. Vowels wanted to flatten. He swallowed and tried again. “This is temporary.”

But his body didn’t feel temporary.

It felt anchored.

The brothers approached slowly, boots crunching gravel. One of them clapped Michael—Rook’s body—on the shoulder. “You look like hell, man. You hit your head?”

Michael opened his mouth to say he wasn’t Rook.

Instead, what came out was, “Just a little dizzy. I’m good.” The ease of it terrified him.

Rourke—inside Michael—stared at the gray house. He knew the code to the gate. He could see the study in his mind, the paintings inherited from men who signed documents in powdered wigs. He felt the absence of nicotine in his blood and it made him restless.

“This is wrong,” he muttered, pacing awkwardly on softer feet. His gait had changed—hips looser, steps measured. He hated how light he felt.

Michael felt the drag of leather against his now broader back as one of the brothers helped him into the vest. It fit perfectly. The weight of the patches settled like responsibility across his shoulders.

He inhaled deeply.

Gasoline. Sweat. Brotherhood.

His cock stirred at the raw masculinity of it—an instinctive response that made him flush beneath the beard. He shifted, feeling the thick length press insistently against denim that now molded to his heavier thighs.

“This is not me,” he told himself.

But his body disagreed.

Rourke rubbed his smooth jaw, shocked at the absence of beard. He caught sight of himself in the polished chrome of the motorcycle. Refined features. Calm eyes. A man who did Pilates and drank filtered water.

He swallowed and tried to summon anger, but what surfaced instead was a memory of being told to stand up straight at boarding school. His spine corrected automatically.

Michael swung onto the bike without thinking.

The engine roared to life beneath him and his hips rocked instinctively to balance its weight. His hands knew the throttle. His thighs gripped the frame. His testicles shifted with the vibration, heavy and alive.

Rourke stepped backward toward the house, drawn by an internal compass he didn’t understand. The front door was unlocked. Of course it was. Safe neighborhood. Old money.

He paused on the threshold, heart racing.

Michael revved the engine once, the sound rippling through his new chest. One of the brothers leaned close and said quietly, “You sure you’re straight, Rook?”

Michael met his eyes. A flicker of his old self screamed inside him.

But another part—older, rougher—answered calmly, “Yeah. I’m right where I’m supposed to be.”

And he believed it for a second as he rolled the throttle again, feeling the machine surge forward beneath him, the wind tearing at his beard while somewhere behind his eyes a man in linen and loafers pounded at the walls of a skull that no longer belonged to him, begging to be let out as the motorcycle shot down the curve toward open highway and the brothers roared after him, engines swallowing the last coherent thought he had before instinct took over and his body leaned hard into the turn, knee dropping low, grin splitting wide across a face that felt more and more like home while in the Hamptons foyer polished floors cooled beneath bare refined feet and Rourke—no, Michael—ran trembling fingers over a family portrait, trying to remember which of the silver-haired men had been his father as a voice inside him whispered the answer in perfect diction and he found himself straightening his spine, adjusting cuffs that fit exactly, stepping deeper into the house as servants’ footsteps approached from somewhere down the corridor and he opened his mouth to speak in a tone he had never practiced yet somehow owned completely just as the engines outside faded into the distance and his new pulse settled into a rhythm that matched the sea beyond the windows and he reached for the banister, feeling the smooth wood beneath fingers that once gripped handlebars, and began to climb toward a bedroom he both recognized and did not, mind splitting, merging, surrendering inch by inch while on the highway Michael’s heavier body pressed forward over chrome and steel, leather creaking, thighs flexing, cock thick and insistent against rough denim as he shouted over the wind, voice raw and exhilarated, “Let’s ride—

[salmonskinrolltf]

Short: Wrong Era

[Thank you to @tf-vigilante for contributing the image that inspired this one!]

I was one of those people who always said, “I was born in the wrong era.” I loved the 1950s. The music was better. The architecture was better. The outfits were way better. With my trim but muscular body and clean-cut look, I could rock any 1950s outfit, anytime. I didn’t care which. I sometimes wore the tight Marlon Brando T-shirt. Sometimes the greaser jacket. Often a nice pinstriped suit. But no matter what vibe I picked, it was always 1950s-inspired.

That’s why, when I blew out the candles on my 25th birthday, I wished that I had been born in the 1950s. If my wish came true, whichever type of 1950s subculture I belonged to would work for me.

I just forgot one thing. Math. When my wish was miraculously granted and my birthdate changed to February 12, 1952, that meant that my 25th birthday would actually be happening in 1977.

The first thing I noticed was a fluttering sensation as I blew out the last candle. A fluffy mustache had sprouted over my upper lip as the follicles on my cheeks and chin began to surge, sprouting inches and inches of bushy hair that were caught by my breath and tickled my skin.

The pompadour that I had worn for the occasion began to melt like the wax on my candles, falling over my forehead as the rest of my hair elongated, tumbling down in messy, greasy waves.

I shook my head, feeling the new hair slap against the sides of my face. “No, no, this isn’t what I meant!” But it was too late. My body began to overheat. I didn’t care that all my friends were watching, I was going to burn up if I didn’t rip off my leather jacket and white T-shirt.

My bared chest grew broad and strong and my stomach tightened even more, which I wouldn’t have minded if I wasn’t distracted by the horror of thousands of dark hairs wriggling out of my skin, covering my torso in a profuse blanket.

As my jeans began to shrink into cut-off shorts, I looked up at my friends to ask for help, but I didn’t recognize anybody in the room with me. Hell, I didn’t recognize the room. I was in a wood-paneled basement with a bunch of hippie types who were passing around a joint and barely paying attention to me.

In a panic, I grabbed my Aviators (wait, had I always had those?) and rushed upstairs and out the front door. I was blinded by blazing sunlight, which short-circuited my brain. I put on the glasses and, as my eyes adjusted, so did my mind. A comfortable, bleary haze settled over me and I relaxed. Confidence and ease sparked inside my chest, and everything that had been bothering me just… melted away.

All that hair that had suddenly appeared on my head, face, and body? Why bother maintaining it? I looked hot. Rugged. Just the way a man should look.

How would I find a job in this new, unexpected environment? Who cares?

When I stepped out onto the streets of 1977 Los Angeles, I was no longer some stuffed-shirt suburban loser with dreams of 1950s conformity. I was an off-the-grid stud who had enough cash, grass, and ass to get around for a long, long time.

Maybe next year I’ll try to fix things with my 26th birthday wish. But then again, maybe I won’t.

[swappetf11]

The eclipse arrived without warning.

One moment he was standing on the rooftop of his high-rise, phone pressed to his ear, voice sharp, efficient, accustomed to being obeyed. The city below him gleamed in late afternoon heat—glass, steel, the hum of traffic threading through avenues. He rolled his eyes at whatever his assistant was saying, impatience etched into the tightness of his jaw.

Then the light changed.

Not darker. Thicker.

The sun flattened into a pale coin as a shadow slid across it, deliberate and absolute. The air turned metallic in his lungs. The sound of traffic dulled, as if submerged underwater. He lowered the phone slowly, confusion creeping up his spine.

The sky rippled.

Not visually—physically. As though gravity had shifted its grip and the world had inhaled.

His knees buckled first.

A heat bloomed in his sternum, sharp as a brand. He gasped, fingers clawing at his shirtfront as the cotton tightened, seams straining. His heartbeat pounded erratically, then deepened, slowed, heavy and foreign.

“What the—”

His voice fractured mid-word

It thinned. Cracked upward.

The sound that emerged was higher, breathier, unfamiliar in its pitch. He froze, horror flooding his face as his throat fluttered under his fingertips. Something inside his neck rearranged—vocal cords tightening, length shortening. He swallowed and felt the motion differently, the architecture of his throat narrower.

His shoulders jolted.

Bones creaked with a wet, grinding shift. The broad, athletic frame he had built over decades began to narrow. Collar bones sharpened under his skin. The firm line of muscle across his chest softened, pulling inward. A tightness gathered across his pectorals, then pushed outward in two slow, swelling arcs.

He staggered back against the rooftop ledge as weight redistributed across his torso. The center of gravity slid lower, forward. His shirt tore open at the buttons, fabric snapping as new curves pressed insistently outward. He stared down, breath shuddering, as his chest reshaped itself—skin stretching, darkening slightly in hue as pigment spread like ink beneath the surface.

His hands.

He lifted them in front of his face and watched in disbelief as the veins receded. Fingers slimmed. Nails lengthened, rounding at the tips. The coarse hair along his knuckles thinned, then vanished. His skin tone deepened further—olive shifting to a rich, warm brown that gleamed under the strange eclipse light.

“No. No, this isn’t real.”

But his hips answered him.

They widened with a deep, grinding pop that made him cry out. The pelvis tilted, re-angled. His thighs brushed together where they had never touched before. Muscle melted and reformed along different lines—leaner, curved, strength wrapped differently around bone.

His pants constricted painfully. He fumbled with the belt, breath coming in ragged bursts, as sensation pulled violently between his legs.

There was pressure.

Then absence

Then a pulling inward so intense it stole the air from his lungs. He collapsed to his knees as his anatomy inverted, restructured, rewrote itself with clinical finality. A deep ache radiated through his lower abdomen as internal organs rearranged, hollowed, expanded. Hormones surged like fire through his bloodstream—hot, dizzying, destabilizing.

He trembled.

His jaw tingled. Teeth shifted in their sockets, molars grinding as the shape of his mouth subtly altered. His nose refined, narrowing at the bridge. His brow smoothed. Cheekbones lifted higher beneath tightening skin.

Hair spilled down his back.

He felt it before he saw it—a tickle along his shoulder blades as follicles awakened. His short, conservative haircut lengthened rapidly, strands sliding past his ears, down his neck, over his chest in a cascade of dark, coiled curls. They were thicker than before, springing into tight spirals that framed a face no longer his own.

He crawled toward the reflective glass doors of the rooftop lounge.

The figure staring back was a woman. Large breasts, and a voluptuous ass.

Mid-twenties, perhaps. Dark-skinned. Full lips parted in stunned disbelief. Wide brown eyes rimmed with thick lashes. Curls tumbling past her shoulders. Shirt hanging torn around a newly formed body that was unmistakably, irreversibly female

He—no. She.

Her breath hitched at the pronoun shift inside her mind.

The eclipse tightened overhead. A ring of fire crowned the blackened sun

Memories surged. Not replacing—overlaying.

A different childhood flickered through her mind. Heat rising off pavement in a neighborhood she had never visited. The smell of plantains frying. Spanish slipping easily over her tongue.

“Dios mío…”

The words came naturally. Effortless. Her accent wrapped around them, soft and melodic. She clamped her hands over her mouth, stunned.

Her heart pounded again, but differently now—quicker, lighter. Emotional currents intensified, colors sharper, sounds clearer. She felt… everything. The brush of air against her collarbone. The weight of her hair against her spine. The subtle sway required to balance this new distribution of flesh and bone.

She pushed herself to standing and nearly stumbled. Her gait was wrong. Hips led instead of shoulders. The rooftop gravel felt different beneath narrower feet now perched in heels she had not been wearing moments ago.

She looked down. Looking over the bumps that are her double deep breasts with her cleavage hanging out. And the new sensation as she moved with her size 2 waist

Her clothing had changed.

The tailored suit was gone. In its place: a fitted summer dress hugging her waist, clinging to her hips. Gold bangles encircled her wrists. Hoop earrings tugged gently at newly pierced lobes. A leather purse hung from her shoulder.

A phone buzzed inside it.

She hesitated before answering.

“¿Dónde estás?” a woman’s voice demanded. “You’re going to be late again.”

Her mind split between panic and recognition.

“I— I’m on my way,” she replied automatically. The voice that emerged was smooth, confident, unmistakably feminine. The cadence carried history. Familiarity. Intimacy.

Late for what?

Images sharpened.

A girlfriend waiting at a café. The memory of her smile—dimples, short-cropped hair, paint smudged on her knuckles from the studio. The warmth in her chest at the thought.

Her stomach flipped.

Not with resistance.

With longing.

That realization hit harder than the physical transformation. Attraction recalibrated like a compass snapping north. The old reflex—desire for women filtered through masculine pursuit—dissolved. What remained was something different. A current of tenderness. A pull toward softness, toward the curve of a woman’s jaw, the sound of her laughter. Not conquest. Connection.

She pressed a hand to her sternum, dizzy.

This wasn’t possession.

It was occupation.

She felt the other life fully now—the job at a community arts nonprofit. The modest apartment painted in bright colors. The constant negotiation of space in rooms where she was underestimated, overlooked, talked over. The resilience forged from that friction.

And beneath it all, a certainty.

She would remain here.

Until the next eclipse.

A year? Two? Decades?

Panic threatened to rise, but something steadier anchored her. The memory of being dismissed in boardrooms faded like a dream. The ruthless edge that had defined her prior life dulled under a flood of empathy that felt ancient and earned.

Car horns resumed below. The sky brightened incrementally as the shadow passed.

She stepped toward the rooftop stairs, testing her stride. The sway of her hips felt less foreign with each step. Bangles chimed softly with movement. Her curls bounced against her shoulders.

Halfway down the stairwell she caught her reflection again in a metal handrail.

She paused.

Tilted her head.

Studied the woman staring back—strong jaw softened by youth, eyes alert and perceptive, lips curved in cautious wonder.

“Okay,” she whispered to herself, voice low and steady now. “Then let’s see how you live.”

Her phone buzzed again. Another message.

Her girlfriend.

She smiled before she could stop herself and quickened her pace, the city unfolding before her in colors she had never truly seen, heart racing not with fear now, but with a strange, electric anticipation as she pushed through the café door and saw her waiting at the table by the window, sunlight catching in her hair as she looked up and—