Untitled

[forthegaze123]

"And the payment is... done. I hope it's not too long bef-Urghhhhh... Ohhh goooddd it's happening... Haaarghhhhhh... Hmmmmm... Espera, ¿esa es mi voz? Y este cuerpo... ¡OH DIOS MÍO, es su cuerpo! ¡Ahora tengo su cuerpo! ¡Las nuevas funciones de OnlyFans son increíbles!!!"

[forthegaze123]

After hearing that OnlyFans had just released its immersive 'BeStar' feature, Ryan couldn't resist trying it out for himself.

[forthegaze123]

Don't get me wrong, Jason is a smart guy. But when he explains something in front of the class, it immediately becomes soooo boring. I wish he could be more engaging and able to hook everyone's attention.

[forthegaze123]

"And the payment is... done. I hope it's not too long bef-Urghhhhh... Ohhh goooddd it's happening... Haaarghhhhhh... Hmmmmm... Espera, ¿esa es mi voz? Y este cuerpo... ¡OH DIOS MÍO, es su cuerpo! ¡Ahora tengo su cuerpo! ¡Las nuevas funciones de OnlyFans son increíbles!!!"

[forthegaze123]

After hearing that OnlyFans had just released its immersive 'BeStar' feature, Ryan couldn't resist trying it out for himself.

[forthegaze123]

I can't stop thinking about this story by @maleagetransformation all weekend. You can check the og story here.

https://www.tumblr.com/maleagetransformation/707184709054185472/maleagetransformation-my-sons-birthday-was-coming?source=share

So, this is my attempt at rewriting it, with a few twist of my own (and using the gif I posted earlier). I hope you guys enjoy it as much as I did.

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

Harness for Birthday

The apartment was quiet that morning, the kind of heavy, anticipating silence that pressed against the cheap walls like the humid air outside. Sunlight slanted through the half-drawn blinds in the living room, catching dust motes that danced lazily above the worn couch where I sat, my massive frame sinking deep into the cushions. I was already half-hard just thinking about it, my thick cock twitching inside my sweatpants as I glanced at the clock for the hundredth time.

Noon.

Clay’s eighteenth birthday.

The day everything changed.

I’d spent eighteen years waiting for this. Eighteen years of knowing the family secret—the one that hit every man in our bloodline like a freight train on their eighteenth birthday.

Not just any change. I can say it's like a full, bone-deep metamorphosis. One minute you were you, the next you were having the skin, the muscle, the very essence of some hunky stranger. It was hormones and those rare HOX genes firing off in a way that made great apes look basic. One in a million men got it. We got it every generation, and we made it a goddamn tradition.

My great-great-grandfather had started this ‘cheat’ way, scouring docks and gyms for the perfect specimens, stealing socks or snatching shirts right off clotheslines if he had to.

I’d done it cleaner—mostly. Forums, auctions, back-alley deals. Premium cash for a single sweat-stained tank top or a crusty jock. But this time? This time I’d hit the jackpot.

The leather harness had arrived two days ago, wrapped in plain brown paper like it was nothing special. But I knew. I’d bid like a madman against every horny fucker on that dark-web auction site. A straight-laced Russian bodybuilder—real name ‘Davide something something unpronounceable’, but the profile pic had been pure sex—selling off a piece of his personal used bondage gear. Black leather straps thick as belts, gleaming metal rings and buckles that looked like they could hold a bull in place.

The description said it reeked of him after a heavy lifting session: sweat, musk, testosterone.

No doubt I’d maxed out the budget I’d saved for years just to win it. Shipping had been a bitch, but it got here in time. Can't wait to see my son use gear that his old man had hunted down like a wolf.

And no big family blowout this year. The divorce had seen to that. Just me and Clay in this cramped two-bedroom apartment, cheap rent but comfortable enough with the creaky floors and the faint smell of old takeout. No uncles, no cousins, no distant relatives crowding in to watch the boy become a man.

Just us.

Which made the other tradition—the one that came right after the change—even easier. Convenient even. Incest? Not anymore. Not when the boy who stepped out of that bathroom wouldn't be Clay anymore. No blood ties anymore once the metamorphosis hit.

It'll be just two horny, transformed studs celebrating the brotherhood the only way that mattered: Skin on skin, bodies pressed close. Raw, filthy, no-limits sex.

I adjusted my heavy balls through the fabric of my pants, feeling them churn with anticipation. My own body was still the same bulky beast it had become decades ago—hairy chest straining my tank top, thick gut from years of hearty eating mixed with powerlifting, arms like tree trunks. I’d transformed into a lumbering American powerlifter type back in my day. But Clay was about to get something even better.

The bedroom door creaked open at exactly noon.

Clay shuffled out, that lanky, almost comical frame of his on full display. He was still my boy in every way that mattered right now—skinny shoulders hunched a little under the blue-and-white checkered button-up shirt that hung loose on his narrow chest, khaki pants belted tight around his slim hips. Freckles dusted his cheeks, and those wire-rimmed glasses sat perched on his nose, magnifying the nervous excitement in his hazel eyes. His brown hair was tousled, a little too long in the front like he’d been running his hands through it all morning.

At eighteen he looked more like a gangly college freshman who’d forgotten to hit the gym, dwarfed next to my massive bulk on the couch. He rubbed the back of his neck, a shy smile tugging at his lips.

“Dad? What’s the big present? You said it was special.” His voice was still that high, boyish pitch, cracking just a little on the last word.

I grinned, slow and wide, my cock giving a heavy throb as I stood up. The floorboards groaned under my weight. “It’s time, son. Time for you to join the brotherhood. Are you ready?”

Clay’s eyes lit up, that desperate hunger flashing across his face. He nodded so fast his glasses slipped down his nose. “Fuck yeah… I mean—yes. I’ve been waiting my whole life for whatever this is. You’ve been dropping hints since I was like, ten.”

I reached behind the couch and pulled out the box, wrapped in dark blue paper with a simple black ribbon. My hands—big, calloused, veined—trembled just a fraction as I handed it over. Clay tore into it like an animal, paper shredding everywhere. The harness spilled out: thick black leather straps crisscrossing like a cage for a god, metal rings cold and heavy, buckles glinting under the light. The scent hit us both at once—deep, masculine, the ghost of whatever Russian beast had worn it last. Sweat, leather oil, pure man-musk that made my mouth water.

“What the…,” Clay breathed, already yanking at the buttons of his shirt. It hit the floor in seconds, revealing his flat, smooth chest and the faint outline of his ribs. His pants followed, kicked aside along with his boxers. His little cock—still soft, maybe five inches even hard—bobbed free, nothing special yet. He tossed his glasses onto the coffee table without a second thought. “This is it? This… harness thing?”

“Oh, come on, don't be ungrateful. Now put it on,” I growled, my own hand slipping down to palm the thick bulge in my sweatpants. “Arms and head through the holes. Then get in the bathroom. Trust me, boy. This is the start.”

“But how am I…”

“You'll know it, son.” I cut him off, stroked myself slowly through the fabric, feeling the heat build.

Clay’s fingers fumbled with nervousness and excitement as he slipped the leather over his head, threading his skinny arms through the straps. The metal rings clinked against his narrow frame, the harness hanging loose on him like it was made for someone three times his size. He looked ridiculous and perfect all at once—my lanky kid drowning in premium bondage gear that smelled like pure sex.

He gave me one last wide-eyed glance, then padded barefoot toward the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him.

I stood there in the hallway, heart hammering, cock fully hard now and leaking into my pants. Seconds ticked by. I pictured it all, just like my own transformation years ago—the rush of heat, the bones shifting, the muscle exploding outward. My hand worked faster inside my waistband, thick fingers wrapping around my veiny shaft as I listened.

A groan filtered through the door first.

“Nngh…” it's Clay’s voice, still his own but already strained.

Then it started.

The sounds built slowly, real-time, like the universe itself was savoring every second. A sharp gasp. The creak of the harness straps pulling tight. A wet, stretching pop—like joints realigning.

“Ahh—shit, Dad, it’s… I think it’s happening…” His words came out breathy, higher-pitched at first, then cracking on the next moan.

I pressed my forehead to the wall, stroking myself harder. “That’s it, Clayton. Let it take you. Good boy.”

Inside, the groans intensified.

“Hhhnnnggghhh…” The sound of skin stretching, muscles swelling against the leather with audible creaks and snaps. The harness rattled as his frame expanded, filling the empty space strap by strap. I could hear his feet shifting, toes spreading wider on the tile, growing longer, thicker, the soles flattening out to monstrous size thirteens. His back arched—audible pop-pop-pop of vertebrae lengthening—and his lats flared out like wings, straining the metal rings until they bit into new, burgeoning muscle.

Dark brown hair lightened at the tips, fading to dirty blond as it thickened and tousled. His jawline cracked forward with a deep, masculine snap, lips plumping fuller, brow ridge pushing out into that heavy, effortlessly alpha slope. Thick stubble erupted across his cheeks and chin, rasping against the leather as he tilted his head back.

“Uuuuuhhhhh…” The moan rolled out longer now. Soon that high-pitched whine of my boy will melt into something gravelly and foreign.

His pecs ballooned next. I knew it from the wet, heavy slap of flesh against flesh—two massive slabs of muscle inflating, swelling outward, pushing the harness straps apart until the leather groaned in protest. Thick, dark fur carpeted them in seconds, turning those swelling mounds into deep, jiggling cleavage that I could already imagine burying my face in.

“Mmmph—fuck, they’re so heavy…”

Arms thickened in sequence—shoulders ballooning into cannonballs, biceps swelling into massive peaks that got higher and higher, forearms corded with veins and dusted in the same dirty-blond hair. His hands—once slim and boyish—grew meaty, fingers lengthening into thick, powerful digits that gripped the sink edge hard enough to make the porcelain creak.

Hips gyrated with a wet slap of skin. Thighs inflated into tree-trunk hams, quads splitting and reforming under the harness until the leather dug deep into new, striated muscle. His spine lengthened with a series of soft, wet pops.

He was getting taller. The bathroom suddenly felt too small for him.

His ass rounded out behind him, cheeks growing heavier. Two massive, furry globes that I knew would feel like warm steel under my palms.

The best part—the part that had my cock drooling pre-cum all over my fist—was the voice. That familiar, whining pitch from my son shifted completely, turning into deep, husky groans that vibrated through the door.

“Arghhhhhhh… Hmmmggghhhhh… Daahhhddy…”

His cock was last. I could hear it—the wet, pulsing throb as it lengthened, veins snaking up the shaft like ropes. The foreskin stretched over a plump, leaking head, the whole thing swelling thicker and longer until it hung heavy, almost to his new knees, a fat cucumber of a dick swinging between thighs that could crush watermelons.

The voice that came next was almost unrecognizable—deeper, thicker, rolling with a heavy Russian accent that hadn’t been there seconds ago.

“Hhhahhh… zey feel like… like zey’re gonna bhurzzsstt…”

All of that finalized as two tennis-ball-sized nuts dropped low in a loose, furry sack, churning audibly with fresh, potent seed.

“Arghhhhh… Hmmmggghhhhh… Zis… zis bahdee… eet ees… perfect…”

The sounds slowed. Heavy breathing. The occasional soft creak as he tested the new limits of the harness. Then silence for a few heartbeats.

The door handle finally clicked.

He finally stepped out.

And there he is. No more scrawny Clay.

He filled the doorway—the newly made man, the doppelganger locked in for life.

Six-foot-three of pure Russian muscle god, every inch matching the bodybuilder from the auction photos but brought to throbbing, breathing life. The harness strained perfectly now, metal rings biting into fur-covered pecs that heaved with each breath, leather straps framing abs like cobblestones and a waist that tapered dramatically into those tree-trunk legs.

His nipples were larger and stiff. Sweat ran in rivulets down the deep cuts of his eight-pack, catching in the thick treasure trail that led down to his cock.

The cock—uncut, thick, already half-hard and glistening—veins snaking along the shaft. It swung heavy between his thighs, the head peeking from the foreskin like it was begging for attention.

His feet were monstrous—size thirteen, wide, powerful. His arms hung like slabs of meat, shoulders capped and round, biceps peaking even at rest. Thick forearms, meaty hands.

He wobbled for a second on those massive new feet, then righted himself with a cocky roll of his shoulders, massive back flaring wide enough to block the hallway light.

He stared at me—eye level now, not looking up like the boy he’d been five minutes ago. His face… god, that face. I guess he's a couple of years older than me now. Rugged, masculine, square jaw dusted with thick stubble-beard, full lips parted, brow slightly forward, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. Curly dirty-blond hair tangled at the ends, thick stubble shadowing a jaw that could cut glass.

That wide, white-toothed smile stretched across his face, as broad as the massive, furry ass flexing behind him. He leaned in close, I can clearly see his beard damp with tasty sweat.

Hot breath ghosting my ear, and whispered in the thickest, sexiest Russian accent I’d ever heard— just like the auction seller’s voice clips I’d jerked to.

“Zanks for ze harness, Dahddy. Deed ay yust gyet talair ahnd beeger? Hhhahhh…” The words rolled out low and rumbling, trilling deep in his throat.

His massive chest rose and fell. He reached up with one meaty hand and cupped one of his fur-matted pecs, squeezing the thick muscle. The harness creaked. He tweaked the stiff nipple between thumb and forefinger until it pebbled, and let out a low, rolling moan.

“Mmmph… zey feel zo zensitive… ees too goood.”

He looked down at himself, then back at me. His smile widened.

My cock jumped in my pants, leaking so much pre it soaked through. I tore my tank top off, pressing my own huge, hairy chest against his—sweat-slick skin meeting sweat-slick skin, fur rubbing fur, the harness cold metal biting between us. His new musk hit me full force: deep, masculine, like a gym locker room after a record deadlift session mixed with leather and raw testosterone.

“What else do you want to do now, Clayton?” I growled, voice thick with lust. “It was so worth waiting eighteen fucking years for this.”

He laughed—a deep, barrel-chested sound that vibrated against my sternum—and wrapped those tree-trunk arms around me, pulling me in until our cocks slapped together through my pants. His was already rock-hard, a massive, veiny monster throbbing and ready to combust.

We kissed.

It started slow—lips brushing, tasting, then deeper. His new tongue was thicker, stronger. Our tongues wrestled as he moaned right into my mouth.

He tasted like heat and musk and something new. I groaned into his mouth. His massive hands—calloused now, strong—slid down my back and grabbed my ass, squeezing hard. I grabbed his chest, fingers sinking into the thick fur and hard muscle, thumbing his nipples. He broke the kiss with a sharp hiss.

“Ahhh—dahd… do zat again…”

I did. I pinched and rolled the stiff nubs. His hips jerked. His cock swelled fully against me, hot and heavy, the head leaking against my stomach.

“Mmmphhh… Pleez, Dahddy… khelp meh eksplorr zis nyu bahdee. Ay jast vant yuu. Ay am zeksy hunk nau. Ay doan’t mahnd beeng heem for ze rrrrrrest of mai laaaife, daaa.”

We kissed harder, wet smacking sounds filling the hallway as saliva dripped down our chins. His accent made everything filthier—every word a turn-on that had my balls tightening. I reached down and wrapped my hand around his enormous cock, feeling it pulse hot and heavy in my grip, the foreskin sliding back and forth over the fat, leaking head.

“That’s my boy,” I murmured against his lips, stroking him slow and firm, thumb circling the slit until more pre-cum oozed out. “Feel how fucking huge you are now? This Russian stud’s body is all yours.”

“Uuuuhhhhh… Dahddy, eet feels zo goood…” He bucked into my fist, hips rolling with raw power, those heavy balls slapping against my wrist. The harness creaked as his pecs flexed, nipples hard as diamonds. I dropped my head and latched onto one, sucking hard, tongue flicking the metal ring that pierced it through the leather strap.

He groaned loud— “Ahhhrrrrghhh!”—and his free hand tangled in my hair, holding me there while his other hand groped my own thick ass.

We stumbled toward the bedroom, bodies grinding, cocks leaking trails of pre-cum on the floor. I shoved him back onto the bed, the frame groaning under his new weight. He sprawled out like a king—legs spread wide, massive cock slapping wetly against his furry abs, balls hanging low and full. I stripped the rest of the way, my own heavy dick springing free, and crawled between his thighs.

“Vatch me, Dahddy,” he rumbled, voice dripping with that exaggerated accent as he flexed one arm, bicep peaking like a mountain. “Ay vant yu to see everyzing.”

He reached down and stroked himself lazily, the wet schlick-schlick of his fist over that fat, uncut shaft filling the room. I watched, mesmerized, as he explored his own new body—pinching nipples, running thick fingers through the fur on his chest, lifting one heavy pec and letting it drop with a meaty jiggle.

I couldn’t wait anymore. I dove in, burying my face between those massive thighs, tongue dragging up the seam of his balls before sucking one fat nut into my mouth.

“Mmmph, you taste like pure man,” I groaned around it, the salty musk flooding my senses. Clay—my new Russian god of a son—threw his head back, moaning loud and guttural.

“Hhhnnnggghhh… Dahddy, yesss… suck zem. Zey’re zo full for yu…” His accent thickened even more with pleasure, r’s rolling endlessly as his hips jerked. I moved to the other ball, then dragged my tongue up the underside of his cock, tracing every throbbing vein until I reached the plump head. I swallowed him down as far as I could—still only halfway, he was that fucking huge—gagging wetly around the girth while he fucked my throat with shallow, powerful thrusts.

“Glk—ahhh—glk-glk—mmphhh!” The sounds were obscene, spit dripping down his shaft and soaking his balls. He gripped the back of my head, guiding me, his moans turning into a constant stream of accented filth.

“Zat’s eet, Dahddy… choke on mai beeg Russian cock…” he groaned, one big hand settling on the back of my head. “Yor tongue ees zo hot…”

I gagged when the head hit the back of my throat, but I didn’t pull back. Tears pricked my eyes. I wanted all of it. His balls slapped my chin—heavy, full, swinging. I reached up and rolled them in my palm. He shuddered.

“Unnnghhh—!”

I pulled off with a wet pop, strings of spit connecting my lips to his cockhead, and flipped him onto his stomach. That massive, furry ass presented itself—two perfect globes split by a tight, pink hole that winked as he arched his back.

I rubbed and pressed my fingers into it. He pushed back against my touch with a low moan.

“Pleez… put zem een… ay vant to feel eet…”

As he wished, I worked two fingers slowly, scissoring, stretching. He was tight but yielding, new muscle relaxing under my touch. I added a third. He rode my fingers, hips rolling, the harness straps shifting across his massive chest with every movement. Sweat dripped from his pecs onto my stomach.

“Oh yeahhhhh, this hole is mine now,” I growled into his crack, dove in without hesitation. My tongue speared deep, rimming him sloppy and loud. The taste of clean sweat and new man driving me wild.

“Uuuhhhhrrrgghhh! Dahddy—pleez—more!” He pushed back against my face, harness straps digging into his lats as he flexed. I ate him out for what felt like hours—tongue-fucking, sucking, biting the firm flesh—until he was a whimpering, moaning mess, cock leaking a puddle onto the sheets.

Finally, I slicked my own throbbing dick with spit and pre-cum and pressed the head against his hole. “You ready for Daddy to welcome you properly, boy?”

He looked back over his massive shoulder, that thick Russian accent dripping with pure lust. “Da, Dahddy… fuck meh. Make me feel zis nyu bahdee from ze inzide. Ay need eet.”

I pushed in slow—inch after thick inch stretching him open—while he moaned and pushed back, the harness rattling with every thrust. The room filled with the wet slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bed, and his endless, accented groans.

“Ahhh—yesss—fuuuuck—zo beeg… zo deep… yesss… harder, Dahddy—ruin zis tight hole for yu… Fhuuuaaaackkk!”

We fucked like that for ages—slow at first, then harder, me pounding into that perfect ass while he flexed and moaned and begged in that filthy Russian drawl. Cum was everywhere by the time the first load hit—his cock erupting hands-free across the sheets in thick, ropey blasts while I filled his guts.

But we didn’t stop.

He bottomed out, sitting fully on my lap, my cock buried to the root in his furnace-hot hole. His massive chest heaved. The harness creaked. He leaned down and kissed me hard, then started to move.

Up. Down. Slow at first, letting himself adjust to the stretch. Then faster. His ass slapped against my thighs. Plap. Plap. Plap. Wet, filthy sounds. His huge cock bounced between us, slapping my stomach with every drop. Precum splattered. I reached up and grabbed his chest, squeezing the thick pecs, tugging the harness straps, pinching his nipples.

“Harder, dahd—ahhh—fuck mai ahss harder!”

I thrust up to meet him. The couch creaked under us. His moans filled the room, deep and rolling and accented.

“Da… da… yesss, dahddee… yor cock ees splitting meh open… ay love eet…”

He rode me like he was made for it. Sweat flew. The smell of sex—musk, leather, cum, sweat—thickened the air. His cock leaked steadily onto my chest and stomach. I stroked him in time with his bounces, while he groped my hairy chest and called me “Dahddy” between broken moans.

Next I came with a shout, hips jerking, pumping thick ropes deep inside him. He kept riding through it, milking every spurt. Then he grabbed his own massive cock and stroked once, twice—

“Arghhhhh—!”

His orgasm hit like a truck. Thick, heavy ropes of cum sprayed across my chest, my face, my open mouth. Pulse after pulse. He kept cumming, painting me, the smell of it sharp and masculine. Some landed on the harness straps. Some dripped onto the couch. e sounds of pure, filthy brotherhood.

And still, we kept going—exploring every new inch of his body, every position, every filthy fantasy the transformation had unlocked. His accent never faded, his cock never softened, and neither did the hungry way he looked at me, whispering.

He collapsed forward onto me, massive body blanketing mine, both of us panting, sticky, shaking. His cock still twitched against my stomach. Mine was still buried inside him, softening slowly.

For a long minute we just breathed. His curly hair tickled my cheek. The harness was warm now against my chest. I ran my hands slowly up and down his huge, sweat-slick back, feeling every ridge of muscle.

He lifted his head. Those new, handsome eyes looked into mine. A slow, filthy smile curved his full lips.

“Ay love zis, Dahddy… give meh more…. Ay am going to fill yor ahss… breed yu… Ay am going to make yu feel zo good…”

[forthegaze123]

You know your best friend is such a nerd. Lately, he's been obsessed with DNA cloning. Heck, like you really want to know what that actually means.

Early this morning, he told you he went to visit the campus gym to "take a survey". You asked him why, but he left you on read for hours.

It's 5 PM now and suddenly he sends you a video captioned "exclusive proof just for you <3"

[littleeatbig]

[muskming]

兄貴と俺 III 好きと言えなくて (Aniki to ore III: Suki to ienakute) 2004 Japanese pinku film directed by 加藤義一 Yoshikazu Katô

[the-transformation-hub]

Handsome Devil

Miguel had been up all night searching through profiles on Grindr for a hookup, specifically with someone who shared his affinity with sleek shiny black leather. Miguel would come home after a long day at work and put on the little gear he owned. In the mirror, he would admire his appearance in his black leather jacket, his leather button up, and his tight leather pants and gloves. He would run his gloved hands across his leather-clad body and the feeling of leather on leather would drive him wild. He NEEDED someone who shared his kink to explore with but so far had been unable to hold anyone’s interest. All of the guys he messaged either left him on ‘read’ or said that they weren’t into the same kink as him and therefore didn’t care to meet up.

He was just about to give up when he heard that familiar ‘blip’ sound that notified him that a new a message had popped up from an account with the username ‘LTHRDaddy👀4Boy’ that said “you looking?” This wasn’t someone Miguel had seen on the app in his area before and even though the profile was mostly blank he still felt like this might be his chance for the connection and experimentation he was looking for. And not to mention this man was incredibly fucking sexy. He was a 40-something year old white guy with a cleanly trimmed beard and muscular frame. From his profile pic, Miguel could tell that this man was also incredibly hairy. His beard was one thing but his chest hair was practically spilling out of the man’s open black leather jacket.

Miguel was too eager to pass this up. He messaged back ‘hell yeah’ to which the man replied with his location and a message that said ‘looking forward to getting to know you inside and out.’ This seemed a little odd to Miguel but he was too pent up to ask questions and so he got off the couch and began walking to the location which was surprisingly only a couple hundred feet away from his apartment.

When he finally rounded the block he found himself between two seemingly vacant store fronts with an alleyway between them. This didn’t seem right so Miguel pulled the app back up and messaged ‘you here?’ Immediately the ellipses popped to say that the other man was typing. “Yeah, just make your way to the back door between those two buildings’ and that was all he said.

Miguel still couldn’t help himself, he needed this so badly and so he began his walk down the alleyway. As he got closer to the doorway, a figure dressed in all black leather almost seemed to fade into existence through a puff of grey tobacco smoke. It was as if he suddenly appeared from out of nowhere.

The man nodded to Miguel who shyly said a quick ‘hey, how’s it going’ to which the man just chuckled. “You need to build up some confidence, boy” he chortled and Miguel blushed. Miguel knew part of why he had so many missed connections is because he lacked the confidence that this strange man seemed to have in spades. “Maybe you can show me how” he practically begged. The man laugh again as he exhaled a puff of smoke that enveloped Miguel like a snake coiling around his body. The smell of the smoke was sweet but also had hints of burnt oak and tanned cowhide. Miguel had never really cared to smoke or even be around smokers but this scent was intoxicating to him. He wanted to breathe in as mush as possible and show this man that he had the making of being a cigar smoking leather daddy himself.

‘Come a little closer’ the man commanded and Miguel immediately obeyed. Was it the thrill of a hook up, or was Miguel starting to feel a little dizzy? He couldn’t tell and all he cared for was to push forward and see where this meeting would take him. The man grabbed Miguel by the chin and pulled him in for a sloppy kiss that had Miguel going absolutely nuts and he immediately started getting hard. The feeling of this man’s beard against his skin was overwhelming and he needed more. Miguel leaned in even closer and could feel the man’s chest pressed up against his own. Through their jackets, he could still feel the outline of the man’s big sweaty pecs, two round indents gave away where his nipples were and Miguel could feel that they were big and hard. This man’s nipples could cut diamonds!

The mysterious leather daddy reached around Miguel’s back and planted a firm hand on his plump ass. If Miguel wasn’t mistaken, he could have sworn that he felt the man’s hand directly on his skin. That couldn’t be right, he had worn his only pair of leather pants and he knew he had definitely been wearing briefs under them. But sure enough, he could feel the cool night air as it breezed across his skin. A new thought entered his mind ‘oh yeah, I wore my ass-less chaps tonight’ he thought to himself though he couldn’t even remember owning a pair let alone when he had bought them.

The man reached his other hand up and placed two fingers in Miguel’s mouth making him suck on them. “That’s just a taste of what’s to come” he teased. The hand that was holding Miguel’s cheek made its way up to the top of his head, grabbed a handful of Miguel’s curly black hair, and pushed him down to the man’s crotch. “Go on, unzip these pants and show daddy some respect” the man barked. Miguel eagerly obeyed and pulled the zipper down revealing a thick hairy uncut cock that flopped out before his hungry eyes.

“Well… what are you waiting for, boy?” The man asked. Miguel was more than happy to oblige and took the man’s cock inside his eager mouth and began sucking like he had been dehydrated for days and just stumbled upon an oasis. The leather man was pleased and Miguel could hear his approving moans. “Yeah boy, that’s how it’s done. Gotta start at the bottom before you can be a dom leather daddy” the man said while groaning through the pleasure.

After he was pleased, the handsome stranger pulled Miguel back up by his hair and turned him around, his plump ass brushing the man’s rock hard cock as he was maneuvered into position. Miguel wanted to protest and say that he was looking to top and not bottom but he was too gooned out to reject this chance. The man slowly worked his cock into Miguel’s virgin hole causing Miguel to whimper with delight as the man began to start pumping.

Slowly, the man started to pick up the pace of his thrusting. What had started out as a slow rhythmic motion was now a reckless pounding and Miguel didn’t know if his hole could take more yet he still found himself crying “deeper” to the stranger who was more than happy to continue hitting Miguel’s prostate and making him moan in delight.

Miguel’s cock, which had been completely ignored so far, began to feel a pressure that he couldn’t make sense of right away. It almost felt like something was trying to push inside it, not from the outside but from within him. Was it possible that the strange man had penetrated him that far? Before he had a chance to say anything, it pushed all the way through. Miguel looked down as he saw the shape of the man’s cock sliding through his own. Miguel would have screamed but it felt so fucking good! He was so full of adrenaline that he almost didn’t notice the prickling feeling inside his cock. He reached down to give it a scratch and then the man said “That’s right. Play with our cock, boy.”

Our cock? What did he mean? Miguel didnt have a second to respond before he suddenly felt a stretching feeling as his cock began to elongate and expand. His hairless cock quickly began to sprout thick dark pubes with a thick black bush at the base. What the fuck was happening to him? He wanted to ask but all he was capable of thinking about was to continue working his beautiful new cock. To say he was obsessed was an understatement. This new cock was uncut like the stranger’s but the length and thickness was that of both their cocks combined. It was everything he wanted and he couldn’t wait to use it to fuck some tight boy holes.

The stranger was pleased to see that Miguel was thrilled by the changes that were being made to him. It wouldn’t be long until he was done shaping his new masterpiece and then taking the reigns of this new vessel so he could pass along all of his techniques to Miguel and then they could have a bit of fun together.

Miguel was so engrossed with his new cock that he didn’t even feel it as the rest of the strange man began to melt into him. Their legs began to combine, creating big muscular hairy thighs and two plump hard hairy mounds formed where Miguel’s usually hairless ass had been.

The man reach his hands forward and helped Miguel work their thick cock which was practically leaking with pre-cum. Miguel was too blissed out to even notice the strangers arms and hands being integrated into his own. His new hairy arms kept working his cock with their meaty man hands. Not to mention the burly muscle gut that was beginning to form on his abdomen as the men’s abs melded with Miguel’s soft squishy stomach.

Had anyone happened to stumble upon them in the alley, they would have been lost for words at the site before them. How could anyone make sense of the shadowy figure of one man who seemingly had two heads just standing there stroking an admittedly impressive cock? Luckily, the two remained undisturbed as they approached climax together. Thick loads of cum shot out of their cock as squelching sounds could be heard as the two heads finally converged.

Miguel looked down at the cum soaking the ground and thought ‘damn, that’s a fucking impressive amount of seed.’ A voice in his head could be heard responding ‘and we’re only just getting started, boy. With me in the driver’s seat of our newly made dad bod, you’re gonna score asslike never before. When I’m done with you, you’re gonna be the best fucking Dom top this city has ever seen. Buckle up kid, we’re not done with making improvements for the night.’ The man looked at their new reflection in a window and said “I think we need a couple more years on us” Miguel was already enamored with the looks he now shared with this man but he wasn’t in a position to say no. With a snap of their fingers they began to age rapidly until an older white haired leather dad was looking back at them in their reflection.

‘Now we’re perfect’ the man said to Miguel and he couldn’t agree more. They pulled out their phone and snapped a pic of their new handsome mug with its thick black mustache that was going to be perfect for teasing holes while they rimmed guys’ asses. They hopped on Grindr and uploaded their new image and immediately messages started pouring in from guys looking to be fucked by an older leather daddy. The stranger was gonna make sure Miguel had some of the kinkiest sex in his life while they were together like this and Miguel was more than eager to get started.

[dd4321]

Part 1 of The Saint (1997) at 7:15 with additional scenes generated via Youtube Shorts Remix

More AI face swaps: https://discord.com/channels/1278512277359820882/1278757977561759806/1521394191819739166

[vnscwby]

waking up in my body

why can’t i control my arms?? how are you controlling my body?? what the FUCK did you do!?!

bro i have shit to do. you can’t just sit in my room rubbing my abs all day.

dude this is so not cool.

[malestransforming]

I love the button idea! Can I push it to make me from a small white guy into a huge Arabic or Indian bodybuilder?

“It’s a no brainer,” you think. “I have to push the button.” 

And so you do. 

Your nostrils flare and fill with strong scents. Dust, spices, and flower blooms waft through your senses, but they do nothing to hide the overpowering body odours. You look down and see a glistening layer of sweat building on your skin. You lift your pits, eyeing the thickening hair, and realize the smell is coming from you. You feel the prickling of a beard forming in. Dark, thick hair continues to spread across your body and face.

A pulse of heat rolls through your torso. Muscle tightens across your chest and shoulders. Your traps swell subtly beneath the damp fabric.

The skin on your arms darkens and the muscles broaden. Dense black hair creeps across your forearms, thickening around your wrists and climbing higher. Beneath your sleeveless vest, your chest swells subtly with hard muscle, the fabric tightening against a heavier frame. Sweat continues to gather beneath your arms. You lift one arm, catching the sharp musk pouring off your own body.

More hair prickles across your legs, across your stomach, beneath your arms. You lift one instinctively and catch the pungent smell pouring off yourself — fresh gym sweat soaked deep into your the vest after a brutal workout. A trail of hair sprouts across your stomach and down to your crotch.

Your face tingles and when you reach to your cheek you are greeted by rough stubble scratching against your fingers. It becomes thicker and fuller, rapidly filling in across your jaw and cheeks. Dense black curls spread across your head, growing heavier and messier.

You swallow, trying to remove the taste of the air from your mouth. Your stomach lurches forward as you are transported to the back of a crowded bus. You blink and look down at yourself, at your sweat soaked arms, vest and gym shorts. You feel the familiar poke of a half-empty pack of cigarettes in your pocket, your phone in the other. 

Your shoulder bumps the rain-speckled glass and you finally catch your reflection staring faintly back at you in the dark window.

You see a muscular Indian man in his twenties. Curly hair damp with sweat. A thick beard. Powerful arms shining under the flickering lights. Your government ID says “Arjun.” Tired eyes stare out into the wet streets of the city after a late-night gym session.

And somehow, horrifyingly fast, the body already feels natural.

The smell. The heat. The weight of your muscles. The exhaustion after lifting. Everything coalesces inside you.

Outside, motorcycles weave through traffic while signs smear across the rain-streaked glass.

The bus keeps rumbling toward home.

When you arrive at your stop and step off the bus, your lungs pull in the thick night air. It’s hot, humid, heavy with exhaust, spice, damp concrete, and sweat. Every smell crashes into you at once. Heat radiates from your body, making your skin prickle beneath the soaked vest clinging to your torso. The ground is still slick from a recent rain, puddles reflecting streaks of neon and passing headlights. Rainwater splashes against your feet, exposed through your worn flip-flops.

“Fuck,” you mutter.

The voice that comes out is deeper, rougher, and tinged with a thick Indian accent that already feels strangely natural in your mouth

You take out the cigarettes and light up. The first drag fills your lungs with euphoria. You flip upright a plastic stool and squat down on it, taking in the night and the smoke in your lungs. 

A motorcycle roars past. It feels like home.

[fatisthenewshape]

It's "Allahu akbar" not "allah u akbar"!

magic tf - Arab tf - vidéo - short tf

[fatisthenewshape]

The photograph 2

weight gain - vidéo - short tf

[fatisthenewshape]

Under the Storm’s Skin

male weight gain - bearded - bear tf - hairy

The forest stretched endlessly around them, dense and alive, the kind of place where the outside world felt like a distant rumor.

Julien adjusted the straps of his backpack, breathing in deeply. “God, I needed this,” he said, glancing up at the canopy where sunlight filtered through layers of green. “No noise, no emails, no people.”

Marc smirked behind him, stepping over a root with easy confidence. “You say that now. Give it twelve hours before you start missing your coffee machine.”

Julien laughed. “I brought coffee.”

Marc raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? That powdered camping garbage doesn’t count.”

They kept walking, their pace light, practiced. Their movements had an effortless coordination—two bodies used to activity, to control. Their clothes fit them perfectly: slim hiking pants, breathable jackets, shirts clinging just enough to hint at their lean builds. Clean lines. Sharp silhouettes. Nothing excessive.

They looked like men passing through the forest.

Not belonging to it.

Marc pulled out his phone, glanced at the screen, then scoffed. “No signal. Officially off-grid.”

“Good,” Julien replied. “That’s the point.”

A distant rumble rolled across the sky.

They both paused.

Marc looked up first. “Was that thunder?”

Julien frowned slightly, scanning the patches of sky visible through the trees. The light had shifted—subtly, but enough. The gold had dulled into something grayer.

“Probably just passing,” he said. “Forecast didn’t mention anything serious.”

Another rumble. Louder this time.

Marc exhaled through his nose. “Of course it didn’t.”

The wind picked up—not strong, but sudden. Leaves shivered. Branches creaked.

Julien tightened his jacket. “Let’s keep moving. Campsite should be… what, another hour?”

“Yeah, if we don’t get lost,” Marc replied, though his tone was still light.

The first drop hit Julien’s arm—cold and heavy. He stopped. Another drop. Then three. Then ten. And suddenly— Rain. Not a drizzle. Not a warning. A wall.

“Okay—shit,” Marc muttered, already pulling his hood up. “That escalated fast.”

Within seconds, they were soaked. Their clothes clung to them, outlining every line of their bodies, turning light fabric into weight. The trail beneath their feet darkened, softened.

Julien wiped water from his face, blinking against it. “We need shelter.”

“No kidding,” Marc snapped, though there was no real irritation—just urgency.

They stepped off the trail, instinctively moving closer together as visibility dropped. The forest changed under the rain. Sounds dulled, then amplified. The air thickened. Every direction began to look the same.

“Do you remember seeing anything back there?” Julien called over the downpour.

Marc shook his head, water dripping from his jaw. “No. Just trees and more trees.”

Lightning split the sky—brief, blinding.

A second later, thunder cracked so loudly it seemed to shake the ground beneath them.

Julien flinched despite himself. “Okay, yeah, this is not ‘passing.’”

The rain intensified further, if that was even possible. It soaked through layers, through skin, chilling and heavy at the same time.

Marc squinted ahead, wiping his eyes again. “Wait—there!”

Through the curtain of rain, barely visible between the trees—

A shape. Angular. Still. Man-made.

Julien followed his gaze. “Is that…?”

“Cabin,” Marc said, already moving. “Has to be.”

They pushed forward, slipping slightly on wet ground, branches snagging at their clothes. The structure grew clearer with each step—a small, weathered cabin, half-hidden by the forest, its wood darkened with age and rain.

Julien let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Marc reached the door first, grabbing the handle. “Please don’t be locked.”

He pushed.

The door creaked open.

They both froze for a fraction of a second, standing on the threshold, rain pouring behind them, the interior dim and still.

Julien glanced at Marc. “Well?”

Marc gave a short shrug. “Better than drowning out here.”

Another crack of thunder decided it for them.

They stepped inside, pulling the door shut against the storm.

Immediately, the sound of rain softened—still loud, but distant now. Contained.

The air inside was different. Warmer than expected. Heavy. Still.

Julien ran a hand through his soaked hair, water dripping onto the wooden floor. “Okay… that’s… lucky.”

Marc leaned back against the door, catching his breath. “Yeah. Real lucky.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Outside, the storm raged. Inside, the cabin waited. The door shut with a dull thud behind them. For a moment, neither Julien nor Marc moved.

The storm still roared outside—rain hammering against the wood, wind pressing insistently against the walls—but inside, everything felt… muted. Contained. Almost insulated from the chaos beyond.

Julien exhaled slowly, wiping water from his face again. “Okay… we’re good. We’re good.”

Marc nodded, though his eyes were already scanning the room. “Yeah. Yeah, this is… actually not bad.”

The cabin was small, but solid. A single main room. Rough wooden walls darkened by time, a stone hearth long gone cold, a heavy table near the center, and a narrow bed against one wall. Everything looked old, worn—but maintained, in a strange way. Not abandoned. Just… waiting.

Julien shifted uncomfortably, his soaked shirt clinging to his skin. “God, I’m freezing.”

“Same,” Marc said quickly. He pulled at his sleeve, grimacing at the way the fabric stuck. “We need to get out of these.”

Julien nodded toward a set of hooks near the wall. “Looks like someone left stuff here.”

They stepped closer.

Hanging there were several pieces of clothing—thick flannel shirts, heavy wool pants, suspenders. All of it oversized. Rough. The kind of clothes made for long days of labor, not weekend hikes.

Marc let out a short laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me. We go from Decathlon to full-on lumberjack?”

Julien smirked faintly. “Better than hypothermia.”

Marc grabbed one of the shirts, holding it up. “This thing’s huge.”

“Yeah, well,” Julien said, already pulling off his wet jacket, “we’re not exactly in a position to be picky.”

They stripped quickly, more out of necessity than comfort. Wet fabric peeled away from their bodies, hitting the wooden floor with soft, heavy sounds. The air against their skin felt warmer than expected—not cozy, but not cold either. Just… present.

Marc paused briefly as he pulled his shirt over his head, running a hand across his arm.

“…Weird.”

Julien glanced over, halfway through changing. “What?”

Marc frowned, flexing his fingers slightly. “I don’t know. Just—” He shrugged. “Feels like the air’s warmer than it should be.”

Julien exhaled through his nose. “Yeah, I thought that too. Cabin’s probably insulated or something.”

“Yeah. Probably.”

Marc didn’t sound entirely convinced—but he dropped it.

They pulled on the clothes.

The fabric was coarse, heavier than anything they were used to. Julien slipped into a thick flannel shirt, the sleeves hanging past his wrists, the shoulders loose. The pants bunched slightly at his waist even when tied.

Marc buttoned his own shirt, shaking his head with a grin. “Okay, yeah—this is ridiculous.”

Julien chuckled, rolling his sleeves. “We look like we’re about to chop wood.”

Marc glanced down at himself. Then paused.

“…Huh.”

Julien noticed the shift. “What?”

Marc tugged lightly at the front of his shirt. “It’s just—” He hesitated. “It doesn’t feel as loose as it should.”

Julien raised an eyebrow. “What, you shrink in the rain?”

Marc smirked faintly. “Very funny.”

But he looked down again.

The fabric still hung on him—but maybe not as dramatically as it had a moment before.

Julien adjusted his own shirt, then stilled.

There was a subtle difference. Hard to define.

The weight of the fabric on his shoulders felt… different. Not heavier exactly—but more present. Like it had settled into place rather than draping loosely.He flexed his hand unconsciously, then pressed his palm briefly against his side. Warm. Warmer than it should have been.

“…You feel that?” he asked.

Marc glanced up. “Feel what?”

Julien hesitated, searching for the right words. “I don’t know. Just… warmer. Like—” He shook his head. “Like my body’s holding heat or something.”

Marc shrugged, walking past him toward the center of the room. “We were just out in a storm. Bodies do weird things.”

“Yeah,” Julien said quietly. “Yeah, that’s probably it.”

Marc dropped into one of the chairs near the table. The wood creaked slightly under his weight.

He blinked.

“…Did that always do that?”

Julien looked over. “Do what?”

“The chair,” Marc said, shifting slightly. Another creak. “Feels like it’s… I don’t know. Lighter or something.”

Julien stepped closer, resting a hand on the back of another chair. It felt solid. Normal.

He pushed it slightly. “It’s fine.”

Marc let out a breath, rubbing his face. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m just tired.”

Julien nodded slowly, though his gaze lingered for a second longer than necessary.

Outside, the storm showed no sign of stopping.

Inside, the cabin settled around them.

And beneath the warmth of dry clothes and the illusion of safety, something—subtle, quiet, undeniable—had already begun to shift.

Time lost its shape inside the cabin.

Minutes stretched. Or maybe it was hours.

The storm never let up. Rain battered the roof in steady waves, sometimes soft, sometimes violent, as if something outside was testing the limits of the walls. The light beyond the window had dulled into a permanent gray, making it impossible to tell how much of the day had passed.

Inside, the air remained warm.

Too warm.

Julien shifted in his chair, rolling his shoulders slowly. The flannel clung differently now—not tight, not restrictive, but… settled. As if it belonged where it rested.

He frowned slightly and tugged at the fabric near his chest.

It didn’t fall away like before.

Across from him, Marc exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Okay… no, seriously.”

Julien looked up. “What?”

Marc was staring at his own arm.

“I shaved this morning.”

Julien blinked. “…Yeah?”

Marc raised his forearm slightly, turning it toward the light.

A faint shadow darkened the skin—not just stubble, but more than that. Thicker. Denser. Not fully grown, but wrong for the span of a few hours.

Julien leaned forward, squinting.

“…Huh.”

Marc let out a dry laugh. “Huh? That’s your reaction?”

Julien hesitated. “It’s probably just the lighting.”

Marc looked at him.

Then back at his arm.

“…Yeah,” he said slowly. “Yeah, okay. Lighting.”

But he didn’t sound convinced.

A low crack of thunder rolled overhead.

Julien shifted again, this time leaning forward, elbows on his knees. The movement felt… heavier than it should have been. Subtle, but there.

He froze for a second.

Then pushed himself upright again, more deliberately.

Marc noticed.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Julien said quickly. Too quickly. “Just stiff.”

Marc nodded, but his eyes lingered.

Silence settled between them again—thick, almost tangible.

Julien’s gaze drifted toward the small mirror fixed to the wall near the bed.

He stood, almost without thinking, and walked toward it.

The man staring back at him looked like him.

Same face. Same features.

But—

He leaned closer.

There was something in the lines of his jaw. Not different, exactly. Just… fuller. Softer around the edges. His cheeks carried a faint weight that hadn’t been there that morning.

He lifted a hand, brushing his thumb along his jawline.

Rough.

He stilled.

That wasn’t possible.

He had shaved. Carefully. Smooth skin.

Now—

Not a full beard.

But the beginning of one.

Already.

Behind him, Marc let out a short, humorless chuckle.

“Okay, yeah, no. This is—this is bullshit.”

Julien turned.

Marc was on his feet now, pacing once across the room before stopping abruptly.

“This is just… what, some kind of reaction?” he said, gesturing vaguely. “Humidity, stress, I don’t know—people hallucinate weird stuff all the time.”

Julien watched him, saying nothing.

Marc kept going, faster now.

“We’ve been hiking all day, we get caught in a storm, adrenaline spikes—body does weird things. That’s it.”

Julien glanced down briefly at Marc’s shirt.

It fit him differently now.

Not oversized.

Not really.

The shoulders filled it more. The fabric rested against his chest instead of hanging loose.

Marc followed his gaze—and immediately crossed his arms.

“What?”

Julien shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Say it.”

Julien hesitated.

“…Your shirt.”

Marc looked down sharply. For a second— Just a second— Something flickered across his face. Then he scoffed, loud and forced.

“Oh, come on. You think I just—what, grew into it in two hours?”

Julien didn’t answer.

Marc ran both hands over his face, exhaling hard.

“This is stupid,” he muttered. “We’re tired. That’s all.”

He dropped back into the chair. It creaked again. Louder this time. Marc froze. Slowly, he shifted his weight. Another creak. He looked up at Julien, something uncertain breaking through his expression.

“…That didn’t do that before.”

Julien didn’t reply. He was too busy noticing his own breathing. Deeper. Heavier. His chest rising more slowly under the flannel, the fabric moving with a weight that hadn’t been there earlier.

He pressed his hand lightly against his side again. Still warm. Warmer. And now— Softer. He pulled his hand away. Marc leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

“This is just in our heads,” he said quietly. “It has to be.”

Julien looked at him. Then, slowly, back at the mirror. The man reflected there hadn’t changed completely. Not yet. But the difference was no longer something he could ignore. Subtle. Quiet. Undeniable. And outside— the storm kept raging.

If anything, it grew louder—as if it had been waiting.

Inside the cabin, something shifted with it. Not subtle anymore. Not quiet. Marc stood abruptly, the legs of the chair scraping harshly against the wooden floor.

“No.”

Julien looked up, startled by the tone. Marc was breathing faster now, his chest rising heavily beneath the flannel. The fabric—once loose—stretched faintly across his torso, clinging in places it hadn’t before.

“This isn’t normal,” Marc said, voice tight. “This isn’t—this isn’t just stress or whatever you think it is.”

Julien stood slowly.

“I never said it was.”

Marc let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Right. You just… what? Accept it?”

Julien hesitated. That was the problem. He didn’t have an answer. Another crack of thunder shook the cabin, the walls groaning softly in response. Marc ran both hands through his hair—then stopped.

His fingers lingered at the top of his head. Something… different. He pressed down slightly, as if testing it. Less density. Less resistance. His jaw tightened.

“No. No, no, no—”

Julien took a step toward him. “Marc—”

“Don’t,” Marc snapped, backing away. “Don’t say my name like that.”

Julien froze.

Marc’s breathing was louder now. Rougher. His face—fuller, undeniably—was flushed, whether from heat or panic, it was impossible to tell. The beginnings of a beard darkened his jaw, no longer subtle, no longer deniable.

“This place—” Marc gestured wildly around them. “There’s something wrong with this place.”

Julien glanced instinctively at the walls, the low ceiling, the hanging clothes. The warmth. The stillness. The way everything felt… settled.

“…Maybe,” he admitted quietly.

Marc stared at him.

“You hear yourself?”

Julien swallowed.

“I’m just saying—we don’t know what’s happening.”

“Exactly,” Marc shot back. “So we leave.”

Another silence. Heavy.

Julien shook his head slowly. “In this?” he said, gesturing toward the door as the wind howled outside. “You won’t make it ten minutes.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“You’re not thinking clearly.”

Marc stepped closer now, his presence suddenly… larger. Not just emotionally—physically. His shoulders filled the space between them, his frame heavier, grounded in a way that hadn’t been there before.

“Thinking clearly?” Marc repeated. “You’re the one standing here like this is fine.”

Julien felt it then. Not just the heat. Not just the weight. But something deeper. A pull. Subtle, but steady. As if the cabin itself was asking him to stay.

“I’m not saying it’s fine,” Julien said carefully. “I’m saying running out there won’t fix it.”

Marc shook his head, stepping back again.

“You don’t get it.”

Julien’s voice softened. “Then explain it to me.”

Marc opened his mouth— And stopped. Because he couldn’t. Because there were no words for what was happening to them. Only the feeling. The change. The loss of something familiar, slipping further away with every passing minute.

“I’m not staying here,” Marc said finally.

Julien’s chest tightened.

“…Marc.”

But Marc was already moving. He grabbed his pack from the floor, fumbling slightly with the straps—his hands less precise than before, thicker somehow. He shrugged it on anyway, ignoring the way it sat awkwardly against his broader back.

Julien stepped forward. “Wait—at least let the storm pass.”

“No.”

Marc moved to the door. His hand hovered on the handle for a fraction of a second. Then he turned back. For a brief moment, something flickered in his expression.

Fear. Real, unfiltered.

“…You’re coming?” he asked.

Julien didn’t answer immediately. He looked at Marc. Really looked. At the heavier line of his jaw. At the way his shirt now fit like it had been made for him. At the presence he carried—solid, undeniable.

Then he glanced around the cabin. The warmth. The stillness. The strange, growing sense of… belonging. He shook his head.

“…I think we’re safer here.”

Marc stared at him. Disbelief. Then anger.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered.

He yanked the door open. The storm exploded inward—wind, rain, cold slamming into the warm space like a living thing. For a second, Marc hesitated on the threshold.

Then— He stepped out. The door slammed shut behind him. Julien flinched. Silence rushed back in, broken only by the muffled violence of the storm outside. He stood there, unmoving. Listening. Waiting for the sound of footsteps. A voice. Anything. But there was nothing. Only the storm. And the cabin. Holding him.

The storm swallowed Marc almost immediately. The moment he stepped beyond the threshold, the warmth vanished—ripped away by cold rain and violent wind. It hit him like a wall. His breath caught in his throat as water soaked through him in seconds, clinging to his already heavy clothes.

“Shit—”

The word was torn from his mouth, carried off into the storm. He pushed forward anyway. One step. Then another. The forest had changed. What had felt open, almost inviting before was now dense, shifting, hostile. The trees blurred together under sheets of rain. The ground, once firm, had turned slick and uneven beneath his boots.

Marc wiped his face, but it didn’t help. Water kept pouring into his eyes.

“Just keep moving,” he muttered to himself. “Just… get out.”

But out of what? He didn’t even know which direction he had come from anymore. A branch caught his shoulder—harder than expected. He stumbled, barely catching himself. His balance felt… off. His body didn’t respond the way it should have. Slower. Heavier.

His breath came faster now. Too fast. His chest heaved under the soaked flannel, the fabric clinging tightly to him. His stomach—he felt it with every step now—shifted, pulled downward with a weight that hadn’t existed hours ago.

“No,” he said under his breath. “No, this is—this is nothing.”

He kept walking. Or tried to. The ground gave way beneath his foot. Marc slipped. Hard.

He hit the forest floor with a wet, heavy thud, the impact knocking the air from his lungs.

For a moment, he didn’t move.

Rain hammered against him, cold and relentless. Mud seeped into his clothes, into his skin.

He groaned, trying to push himself up. His arms trembled. Failed.

“…Come on,” he muttered, voice weak now.

He rolled slightly onto his side, grimacing as pain flared through his leg. Something wasn’t right. Not just the fall. His body— It felt wrong. Too heavy to lift. Too slow to obey. His head spun. The forest tilted. The storm roared louder.

Then— Nothing.

Inside the cabin, Julien stood near the door, unmoving. He had tried not to think about it. Tried to convince himself that Marc would come back. That he’d realize it was too dangerous, that the storm would force him to return.

But the minutes passed. Too many. And the silence— No footsteps. No voice. Nothing. Julien exhaled slowly, his hand tightening unconsciously at his side.

“…Damn it.”

He grabbed his jacket. It felt tighter than before. He ignored it.

The moment he opened the door, the cold hit him—but it didn’t bite as sharply as he expected. His body held the warmth longer now, like it refused to let it go.

Still— The storm was brutal.

“Marc!” he shouted into the rain.

No answer. Julien stepped out, pulling the door shut behind him, and moved into the forest. Each step was deliberate. Grounded. Heavy. Branches scraped against his arms, but he barely felt them. His focus narrowed, cutting through the chaos of the storm.

“Marc!”

A pause.

Then— Something. Not a voice. A shape. Half-hidden against the ground. Julien moved faster. And then he saw him. Marc lay sprawled in the mud, motionless, his body partially turned to the side. Rain soaked him completely, his clothes plastered against him, outlining a form that had changed far beyond anything Julien could deny now.

“Shit—Marc!”

Julien dropped to his knees beside him, grabbing his shoulder. No response.

His face— Fuller. Heavier. His beard now unmistakable, dark against his skin. Julien swallowed hard.

“Hey—hey, come on.”

He shook him again. Nothing. But he was breathing. Slow. Deep. Julien exhaled in relief.

“Okay… okay.”

He slid an arm under Marc’s shoulders, trying to lift him. And froze.

“…Jesus.”

Marc was heavy.

Not just dead weight—real weight. Solid. Dense.

Julien adjusted his grip, straining slightly as he pulled him upright. Marc’s body sagged against him, unresponsive.

“Come on,” Julien muttered. “Come on, man…”

He got him to his feet—barely. Marc slumped immediately against him, his full weight pressing down. Julien staggered, then steadied himself. Step by step. Slow. Difficult. But steady.

The forest seemed longer on the way back. Or maybe it was just the weight.

The effort.

Julien’s breathing deepened, his chest rising heavily under the flannel as he pushed forward, dragging, supporting, carrying.

By the time the cabin came into view, his muscles burned—but not in the way he expected. There was strength there now. Endurance. Something grounded.

Something that held. He reached the door, shoved it open, and guided Marc inside. The warmth rushed over them again.

Julien lowered him carefully onto the bed. For a moment, he just stood there, breathing hard, rain dripping from his clothes onto the wooden floor. Then he moved. Quick. Efficient. He pulled Marc’s boots off first, then his soaked pants, peeling the heavy fabric away. The flannel shirt followed, clinging stubbornly before finally giving way.

Julien paused. Just for a second. Marc’s body— There was no denying it now.

Broader. Heavier. Covered in thickening hair across his chest and stomach. His torso rose and fell slowly, solid, grounded in a way that felt almost… immovable.

Julien swallowed. Then grabbed a dry blanket and pulled it over him.

“Yeah…” he murmured quietly. “You’re not going anywhere.”

He sat back slightly, watching him. Outside, the storm still raged. But inside— Marc was breathing. And Julien, for the first time since he had left— wasn’t alone anymore.

Marc woke slowly. Not all at once—but in fragments. First, the weight. A deep, crushing heaviness pressing him into the mattress, like his body had sunk into something that refused to let him rise. Then the warmth—thick, enveloping, almost suffocating.

His breath came in low, slow pulls. Too slow. His chest rose… and fell… heavy beneath the blanket. Then came the ache. Dull. Everywhere. Not sharp pain—something broader. Like his entire body had been strained beyond what it was meant to carry.

His eyes opened. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar. Wooden. Dark. Still. The cabin. Memory came back in pieces.

The storm. The argument. The forest— Marc inhaled sharply and tried to sit up. Bad idea. His body resisted. Not just from weakness—but from weight.

“—ugh…”

The sound that left his throat was deeper than he expected. Rougher. He pushed again, slower this time, bracing his arms against the bed. They trembled. Thicker. He froze. His gaze dropped. His hands.

Broad. Heavy. The fingers thicker, the veins less defined beneath a layer of something softer.

“…no.”

The word barely escaped. He forced himself upright. And immediately felt it. His stomach.It shifted as he moved—pulled downward with a weight that made his breath hitch. It rested heavily against his thighs as he leaned forward, undeniable, impossible to ignore.

Marc stared at it. Then touched it. Slowly. The flesh yielded under his palm.

Warm. Real.

“…No,” he said again, louder this time.

A chair creaked somewhere in the room. Marc’s head snapped up. Julien. Sitting across from him. Watching. Marc blinked.

Once. Twice. And for a second— His brain refused to process what he was seeing.

“…Julien?”

The voice that answered was calm.

“Yeah.”

But the man— The man was not the one he had left.Julien sat heavily in the chair, his posture relaxed, grounded. His frame had expanded—broad shoulders filling the flannel, his chest thick, his stomach resting naturally beneath it. His arms were larger, covered in dense hair that caught the low light of the cabin.

His face— Fuller. Bearded. A thick, dark beard covering his jaw, blending into heavier features that gave him a presence Marc had never seen before.

And his hair— Thinner at the top. Noticeably so. Marc stared.

“…What the fuck.”

Julien didn’t react immediately. He just held his gaze.

“I was wondering when you’d wake up.”

Marc shook his head, backing slightly against the wall behind the bed.

“No—no, that’s not—what the fuck happened to you?”

Julien exhaled slowly.

“…Same thing that happened to you.”

Marc let out a broken laugh.

“Yeah? Yeah, okay—good one.”

He looked down again. At his body. The size of it. The weight. The hair across his chest, thick and dark, rising and falling with each heavy breath. His hands—still resting on his stomach—barely spanning its width. His throat tightened.

“This isn’t real,” he said quickly. “This is—this is some kind of—of—”

He pushed himself to his feet. Or tried to. The movement was clumsy, unbalanced. His center of gravity had changed. His body didn’t move the way he expected—it lagged, shifted, pulled. But he managed. Barely.

“Mirror,” he muttered. “I need to—”

Julien didn’t stop him. Didn’t move. He just watched. Marc crossed the room in uneven steps, each one heavier than the last, until he reached the small mirror fixed to the wall. And looked.For a moment— Nothing.His mind refused to connect what he was seeing.

The man in the reflection—He was large. Obese.

His face round, cheeks heavy, jaw softened beneath a dense beard that fully covered his lower face. His neck thicker, blending into his shoulders.

His eyes— Wide. Panicked. Familiar. Marc’s breath caught.

“No…”

He leaned closer. The mirror didn’t change.

“This isn’t me.”

He touched his face. The reflection followed. The beard scratched under his fingers. Real. He grabbed the edge of the mirror, gripping it tightly.

“No—no, no, no—this isn’t—this isn’t possible—”

His voice cracked. Behind him, Julien spoke quietly.

“It is.”

Marc spun around.

“How are you so calm?!” he snapped. “Look at you! Look at—this—” he gestured wildly between them “—this isn’t normal!”

Julien met his gaze.

“I know.”

“Then why aren’t you freaking out?!”

A pause. Julien leaned back slightly in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight—but holding.

“…Because it’s not stopping,” he said simply.

Marc froze. Julien’s eyes dropped briefly—to his own body, then back to Marc.

“It didn’t stop when you left. It didn’t stop when I stayed.”

Marc shook his head, backing away again.

“No. No, we just—we just need to get out of here.”

Julien didn’t answer. Marc’s breathing quickened. His chest rose faster now, his body moving with a heavy, visible effort.

“We leave,” Marc insisted. “We go back. We find someone. A hospital, a—something—this can be fixed.”

Julien watched him. Long. Quiet.

“…Can it?” he asked.

Marc opened his mouth. Stopped. Because he didn’t know. Because deep down— He already felt it. This wasn’t something external. It wasn’t something on them. It was in them. Marc looked back at the mirror. At the man staring back. And for the first time— The panic didn’t disappear. But it shifted. Into something heavier. Something harder to escape.

Outside, the storm had begun to fade. But inside—there was no going back.

Marc stumbled back from the mirror. One step. Then another. As if distance alone could undo what he haseen.

“No… no—”

His voice came out strained, uneven. His chest rose faster now, dragging air in heavy, audible pulls. The movement made everything worse—his body moved with him, responded with weight, with presence.

There was no separation. He shook his head violently.

“This isn’t me.”

Behind him, Julien didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt. Marc kept backing up until the edge of the bed hit behind his knees. He dropped onto it heavily, the wood creaking under him. His hands went to his head, fingers digging into his scalp—

Then stopping. Again. That same spot. Less hair. More skin. He let out a broken sound, somewhere between a laugh and a gasp.

“No, no, no—”

He pushed himself up again, restless, agitated, pacing now—but the pacing was wrong. Slower. Each step deliberate, weighted. His body resisted speed, resisted urgency.

It imposed something else.

“Say something!” he snapped suddenly, turning toward Julien. “You’re just sitting there—say something!”

Julien met his gaze. Calm. Grounded.

“I don’t think fighting it is helping,” he said quietly.

Marc stared at him in disbelief.

“Fighting it?” he repeated. “You think this is something you just—accept?”

Julien’s eyes flicked briefly over Marc’s body. Not judgmental. Not shocked. Observing.

“It’s already happened,” he said.

“That’s not an answer!”

Marc’s voice cracked again, louder this time, filling the cabin.

Julien leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his thighs. The movement was slow, controlled. Natural.

“You felt it out there, didn’t you?” he said. “Your body not responding the same way. Heavier. Slower.”

Marc didn’t reply. Because he had. Because he still felt it. Julien continued.

“It didn’t feel like something being done to you,” he added. “It felt like… something settling.”

Marc shook his head violently.

“No. No, that’s not—don’t twist it like that.”

But his voice had lost strength. Julien stood up. The shift was subtle—but it filled the room. He wasn’t just bigger. He occupied space differently now. Stable. Rooted.

Marc’s eyes flicked over him again despite himself—the breadth of his shoulders, the way his shirt stretched naturally across his chest and stomach, the quiet confidence in how he moved.

Julien took a step closer. Marc instinctively tensed.

“Don’t.”

Julien stopped. Held his hands open, non-threatening.

“I’m not saying it’s normal,” he said. “I’m saying… it’s real.”

Marc let out a slow breath, his chest rising and falling heavily.

“I don’t want this.”

Julien nodded once.

“I know.”

Silence stretched between them again.

The storm outside had softened now—rain still falling, but no longer violent. Just steady. Persistent. Marc’s gaze drifted back toward the mirror. Then away. Then back again. He hesitated. And this time— He didn’t rush. He stepped closer. Slowly. Like approaching something dangerous. Or inevitable. He stopped in front of it.

The man in the reflection didn’t change. Didn’t flicker. Didn’t give him an escape. Marc exhaled shakily. His hand lifted again—almost automatically—and rested on his stomach.

It shifted slightly under his palm. Heavy. Warm. Present. His fingers pressed in. The flesh yielded. He swallowed.

“…It doesn’t feel wrong,” he whispered.

Julien didn’t answer. Marc’s brow furrowed, confused by his own words.

“I mean—” he tried again, voice unsteady “—it’s not… what I was. But it—”

He stopped. Because he didn’t have the words. Because what he was feeling wasn’t panic anymore. Not entirely.Something else had slipped in. Something quieter. Julien spoke softly behind him.

“It feels… stable.”

Marc’s eyes closed briefly. Then opened again. Still staring at himself.

“…Yeah,” he admitted.

The word barely audible. But real. Outside, the rain continued to fall. Inside— the cabin held them. Not as intruders anymore. But as something that belonged. Silence settled again in the cabin. But it wasn’t the same silence as before. Something had shifted.

Marc’s hand still rested on his stomach, fingers slowly pressing, exploring the weight, the warmth… the presence. His breathing steadied, no longer panicked—just deep, heavy.

Across the room, Julien watched him. Not with concern anymore. With something softer.

“Feels different, doesn’t it?” Julien said quietly.

Marc didn’t answer immediately. His thumb moved slowly across his skin, feeling the texture, the thickness, the unfamiliar density that now felt… consistent.

“…Yeah,” he admitted.

He lifted his gaze. And this time, when he looked at Julien— He didn’t recoil. He observed. Really observed. The breadth of his shoulders. The way the flannel stretched across his chest. The weight of his stomach resting naturally as he sat. The beard—full, dense, framing his face in a way that made him look… older, yes—but also stronger. More present. Marc swallowed.

“You don’t look…” he hesitated, searching for the word. “…wrong.”

Julien’s brow lifted slightly.

“No?”

Marc shook his head slowly.

“…No.”

He stood up again, more carefully this time. His movements were still heavy—but no longer resisted. He crossed the room, each step grounded, deliberate.

When he stopped in front of Julien, the difference in their bodies was undeniable. And yet— It didn’t feel like distance anymore. Marc hesitated. Then, almost instinctively, he reached out. His hand pressed lightly against Julien’s chest. Warm. Firm beneath the softness. Julien didn’t move away. Marc’s fingers shifted slightly, testing the weight there, the thickness.

“…You’re solid,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Julien let out a quiet breath.

“So are you.”

Marc huffed a faint, surprised laugh.

“Yeah… I guess I am.”

Julien’s hand lifted in return, slower, giving Marc time to pull back. He didn’t. The contact came to rest at Marc’s side—then lower, at the curve of his waist, where the weight of his body settled naturally. Marc tensed— Then didn’t. Julien’s thumb moved slightly, not exploring, just… acknowledging. Present. Marc exhaled.

“That’s… new,” he said.

Julien’s lips curved faintly.

“Not bad, though.”

Marc met his gaze again. Something unspoken passed between them. Recognition. Not of who they had been— But of what they were now. Closer. Heavier. Real in a different way. Marc’s hand shifted, gripping lightly at Julien’s shirt now, feeling the fabric stretch over him.

“You fill this out better than I did,” he muttered.

Julien let out a low chuckle.

“Same goes for you.”

Marc shook his head, but he was smiling now. Slightly. Uncertain—but real. Their proximity lingered. Neither stepping away. Neither rushing. Just standing there, bodies close, breathing slow and deep, the warmth of the cabin surrounding them. Marc’s gaze dropped briefly—to Julien’s beard. Then back up.

“…It suits you,” he said.

Julien tilted his head slightly.

“You too.”

A pause. Then— Marc closed the distance. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just… certain. Their foreheads brushed first.

Then, slowly— They kissed.

It wasn’t sharp or urgent. It was heavy. Grounded. Like everything else they had become. Time seemed to stretch again. But differently now. Outside, the storm had faded. The rain had stopped. The forest had gone still. But inside— Neither of them noticed. The cabin held them. And for the first time— they weren’t resisting it anymore.

[blusterb8]

Dramatic Before and After. Islamicization. From Roman Priest in elegant Formal Vestments and polished shoes to barefoot Muslim in thobe, step by step.

Even his polished black dress shoes and socks are gone. Distinguished silver hair is covered. First the shoes and socks are taken away from him and left behind, then the Alb is stripped off, leaving only outer vestment the chasuble, then the chasuble is traded for thobe and head is covered, the background is disappearing as well.