Write something triggering based on being hacked and installing the goon virus from bro to bro. Each of their transformations are different, a reflection of their deepest inner desires.
[This Quick and Dirty story was written by a human (me) based on a prompt that was previously sent to generative AI. I wrote it in one uninterrupted stream-of-consciousness flow with a hard time limit of 20 minutes. It is not perfect. No edits have been made, except to correct typos. Feel free to use my asks to send me more prompts!
For this one, I think I took a real left turn from the actual prompt, so I’m sorry if this isn’t exactly what you were looking for, anon! Oh, and thank you to @dumberswitch for providing the third image. (He has brought it to my attention that the man in said image is Australian, not English, which is actually quite obvious, but y’all, I only had 20 minutes 😵 please roll with it)]
Clayton was hanging out with his three best friends, who had just helped him move into his new apartment. They had all met the year before, during their freshman year of college, and they had bonded quickly over a shared taste in women, movies, sports, and well… everything.
They were relaxing after a tiring day, but Clayton could feel their palpable boredom, so he decided to come up with something fun to do.
“How about we each go around and say something we’re thankful for?” he asked.
Roderick sighed and said, “I’ll bite,” lowering the speed on his exercise bike so he could speak more easily. “I’m thankful I never gained the freshman 15.”
“I’m thankful for England,” said Chris, who was lying on the bed re-reading a Douglas Adams book and not really paying attention.
“I’m thankful for my pickup truck,” said John, who was peering out the window making sure his new truck was still there. It had just proven its usefulness in helping Clayton move all of his shit.
“And I’m thankful for my friends,” said Clayton. “Thanks again for helping me out today. I really owe you one.”
“Well, that was fun” said John, sarcastically. “Now what?”
Clayton racked his brains. “Oh! Why don’t I download that new app everyone’s been trying out!”
“Goonr?” asked Roderick. “The joke one that tells you your gooning style or whatever? I don’t really get it.”
“My friend Des tried it and he really got a kick out of it,” said Clayton, shrugging.
“Des is a perv,” said Chris. “But sure, why the hell not?”
Within minutes, the app was downloaded on Clayton’s phone and they all huddled around it. The loading icon finally cleared and what was revealed were the words “Friends.”
“Is that it?” asked John.
Clayton shrugged. “Guess so. At least it was free.”
Suddenly, all three of his friends’ phones pinged. They opened them to find that the Goonr app had spontaneously downloaded itself onto all of their phones.
“Is this some sort of promotion?” asked Chris. “Like that shitty U2 album that Apple put on everybody’s phones?”
One by one, the loading icons cleared.
Roderick’s phone said “Fitness.”
Chris’ phone said “England.”
And John’s phone said “Truck.”
Simultaneously, all of their phones starting glowing white, momentarily blinding them all. When Roderick’s eyes cleared, he found that he was still sitting on the bike, blinking dazedly. “What the…” he said, before catching sight of himself in the mirror on the wall in front of him.
“Damn, I’m looking yoked,” he said, appreciatively.
He flexed his bicep. It looked big. He flexed his other bicep. It looked… bigger. Were they mismatched? He frowned and flexed the other one again. OK, it must have been a trick of the light. It bulged out properly, matching the other one.
He felt his dick stiffen in his pants. Fuck, was he making himself hard? That was embarrassing. But he was hot… He flexed his quads. Bam, bam! They bulged and grew. Fuck… He was such a stud. He lifted his shirt, admiring the six-pack abs that were bulging and growing from his flat stomach.
His dick got harder and harder. It felt like it was practically squirming. He touched it and his mind went white.
Chris’ eyes cleared next. The first thing he saw was his friend Roddy, feverishly pumping his meat while rubbing his abs and pedaling on the exercise bike. His hair looked a bit disheveled, and he had a short beard, as if he hadn’t shaved in a few days. Chris was about to panic when his attention was caught by his book, still lying open on the bed. He loved Douglas Adams so much. He loved everything English.
English literature, English culture, English food. English rugby. English beer. English girls. He even dressed English. He looked down to see his grey clothes shimmering and becoming bright yellow rugby kit.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell mate, what’s going on?” he asked. Hell, he even sounded English. Just hearing his voice turned him on so fucking much. He pulled down his shorts and started rubbing his cock, thinking about his favorite Page 3 models.
John’s eyes cleared next, revealing Roddy whacking off (again? He never stopped) and John lying on the bed, grinning.
He winked at John and pulled out his cock, beginning to wank himself off. His eyes crossed with sheer pleasure.
John averted his gaze, looking outside to see his truck. His pristine new truck, with that lovely moon roof and those Truck Nuts and all the mud on the bottom and the dents and… John felt dizzy. Was it dirtier than it was supposed to be? Was he dirtier than he was supposed to be? His hair suddenly felt greasy, as it began to lengthen and slide down his neck. He jammed his trucker cap over it to keep it contained, just as his trash stash grew in on his upper lip, nice and thick. He looked back out at his truck and thought about all the country babes he had wanted to plow out in the cornfield when he was growing up in Arkansas. His cock got hard in his pants. Would anybody mind if he…
Clayton’s eyes finally cleared, and he could see his friends. There was Roddy, feeling himself up. Pre-cum beaded at the tip of his red cock as his other hand furiously slid up and down his shaft.
There was Chris, going “oi” and “bruv” every few seconds as his spit-slick hand wanked his member. There was Jonno, shirtless (as usual) and sticking his tongue out as he beat his meat furiously.
God, they were all so hot. His friends, jerking their hogs, not a care in the world. This was all he wanted to see, all he wanted to think about, ever.
So that’s what he did. He stopped thinking about the job interview he had in the morning, or what he wanted to get for dinner, or even the fact that none of the four of them had looked quite like this a few minutes ago. All he could think about was his masturbating friends. He wanted to join them so bad. He whipped off his clothes, leaned over on the desk, and started going to town on himself, drooling as he stared intensely at the three hunks beating their meat in front of him. God, he was so thankful for his friends.
The final story in the Love Languages series to finish off February. Check out the others: Quality Time, Words of Affirmation, Acts of Service, and Receiving Gifts. Enjoy!
Thomas moaned into the kiss with his boyfriend, Will. The two quickly stripped out of their clothes, their hands greedily roaming one another's bodies. Their kiss broke, Thomas looked up at his slightly taller boyfriend and grinned.
"Physical touch," he said, his hand caressing his boyfriend's smooth pec. "Makes sense, right?"
"Yeah," Will breathed, leaning down to capture Thomas's lips again,
"Fuck, that feels good." Thomas gasped as he broke the kiss. Will grinned, squeezing his boyfriend's ass and sending another wave of electric pleasure throughout his body, "Will..." He moaned.
"You like that, don't you?"
He gasped as Will tweaked a nipple, arching into the sensation. "Oh fuck, Will… Feels so good."
"What does?" Will asked, trailing kisses along Thomas's jawline.
"This… everything. Your hands on me…"
Thomas panted heavily, his eyes glazed over with lust as Will continued to explore his body. Even the slightest graze of skin against skin sent shockwaves of ecstasy through him.
"I need you," Thomas whimpered desperately, grinding his hips up against Will's. "Inside me…" He bit his lip as he looked up at Will.
Will smirked, and pushed his boyfriend into the bed. Thomas let out another gasp as even the cool sheets made his body twitch with pleasure. His thoughts were racing, mind spinning as he tried to process the growing pleasure.
"Will... My head..."
But before he could continue, Will had lined himself up and pushed inside him with one swift thrust. Thomas cried out, the intense fullness almost too much to bear. He had bottomed before. Felt Will's cock inside him. But this was something different entirely. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and his mouth went slack as his boyfriend continued to fuck him.
"Don't stop. Harder. Fuck…" Thomas gripped the sheets tightly, drool falling from his mouth, "Oh fuck… you feel so good."
Each deep thrust sent ripples of euphoria coursing through Thomas's body. His mind was hazy, thoughts scattered. But as Will hammered away relentlessly, Thomas felt a tingling in his limbs- a new heaviness. Through half-lidded eyes, he glanced at his arms.
"W-What?" Thomas managed to gasp out between moans. His arms were shrinking quickly into his body. "W-Will... Something's wrong... I don't know…" He winced as the same feeling built in his legs- they too were shrinking.
But Will didn't seem to hear him, lost in his own world of lust. Will moaned and continued to thrust, totally unaware of Thomas's growing concern.
"Oh fuck…" Will grunted.
Will slowed his rhythm, stopping his thrusts entirely. Instead, he reached down to run his hands along Thomas's rapidly shrinking body. His moans became louder as he continued to run his hand up and down Thomas, seemingly deriving more and more pleasure from simply stroking his boyfriend.
"W-Will…" Thomas gurgled on something in the back of his throat, "Ohhhhhh." Salty fluid leaked from the corners of Thomas's mouth.
Thomas tried to wipe away the liquid leaking from his mouth, but he found his arms had nearly vanished into his torso. And while Thomas wanted to cry out, scream, and beg Will to stop- the bliss he was feeling from Thomas's rough, calloused hands on his skin made coherent thought nearly impossible. Meanwhile, Will grunted as his muscles expanded outward rapidly under his skin.
"W-Will?" Thomas tried to say in between the bouts of fluid leaking from his mouth.
But Will was oblivious, too busy pumping his boyfriend's shrinking body. Will didn't notice how his pecs expanded outwards into two slabs of muscle. Or how his arms bulged and veins popped as his biceps and triceps expanded beneath his skin. Nor was he aware of the coarse hair that sprouted along his chest and new abs. He rocked his thickening hips lazily, moaning shamelessly as his larger hands gripped and pumped his boyfriend's now increasingly tubular shaped body.
"A-Ahhh! Oh fuck!" Thomas tried to scream as he watched his hair fall out in clumps, leaving behind a bald, shiny scalp.
"Fuck... brah... this feels..." Will bit his lip, gripping Thomas harder and pumping with more force, "Fuck..." Facial hair sprouted from his previously clean-shaven face, quickly thickening into a scraggly beard.
Thomas could feel something building within him. His form throbbing as his arms and legs fulled vanished into what had been his torso. By this time, his torso had seemingly gone through its own metamorphosis. With each pump of Will's meatier hand, Thomas's features simplified. Each pump shaping Thomas's previously toned form into that of a thick, fleshy cylinder.
"W-Will! Staahhhhhh…"
Fluids poured freely from Thomas's slack mouth as it stretched and warped, reshaping itself into a single gaping slit.
"Nnnggghhhh…"
Will groaned, his voice deeper and rougher than before as he pumped faster. He only let up for a moment, to spit in his hand, before wrapping his saliva-coated hand around Thomas's new cylindrical body- pumping quickly along the slick surface. Thomas couldn't speak now as his mouth fixed itself into a slit. He could only stare out in front of him as Will used his thumb and caressed his head. And while Thomas knew he should be scared and horrified, his mind was fogging over at an alarming pace. Consumed with thoughts of pleasure, bliss, and wanting nothing more to be used by the man who had once been his boyfriend.
"W-Will..." Thomas could barely string together a coherent thought as Will's hands teased his head, "P-please... I don't..."
The last vestiges of Thomas's face melted away, leaving behind only a bulbous tip and a thick shaft. No eyes, no nose, no ears - just a perfect, thick pink cock-head.
"Yes, yes, fuck!" Will growled, "Gonna... gonna..!"
As Will frantically rubbed Thomas's transformed body, Thomas could feel the build-up in the back of his new throat. But it was just more than Will's seed. No, it carried something more. Thomas could see glimpses of places he'd never been, faces he'd never met, hopes he never had. And with sickening clarity, he realized what it was. All of Will's identity. All of the unique traits that defined him. His quirks, opinions, experiences, memories, hopes, dreams, fears. Everything that made Will, well Will. The entirety of Will, his loving boyfriend, was contained within it. And he was about to release.
"The fuck? No no no no no--!"
Horror lanced through Thomas as realization set in. What would happen to Will if he came. What would…
"…no no no please…" Thomas begged silently, knowing it was already too late.
Will tensed above him, his muscles flexing as he let out a long, low moan. Then, with a final shudder, he released. His very essence- all of who he was beyond a horny, lustful gooner- draining away with his orgasm. Thomas could only watch as the memories, emotions, knowledge, flowed out of his new body and onto his hairy abs. And the worst part? Thomas felt so good, consumed in the bliss of the orgasm that stole his loving, thoughtful boyfriend from the world.
"Fuck yeah…" Will grunted, his sweaty, muscular, and hairy form collapsed into bed. His dick still semi-hard, throbbing, and leaking.
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Two weeks passed since that day. And in those two weeks, Thomas was able to find out just what kind of man Will had become.
"Ah fuck... So good..."
Will, his once thoughtful and caring boyfriend, was sprawled across the bed, stroking himself vigorously. Building up the pleasure, just to stop, and then start up again. His eyes glazed over as he focused solely on building and denying his pleasure.
"Ohhhhhh..."
He moaned as he pumped his cock with his meaty hand. Between gooning, he was in the gym, somehow gaining even more mass since that fateful night. His muscles bulging obscenely beneath his sweat-slicked skin, coarse hairs dampened with sweat covered his chest and abs, leading down to a thick, musky bush surrounding his swollen balls.
"So close... so close..."
Will's hand slid up and down Thomas's length, squeezing and twisting. Pleasure sparked through Thomas's body. Intense as always, mind numbing. His thick, hard, sweat-slicked body throbbing with the ache for release.
And in that musky, slovenly, dark bedroom, as Will continued to goon away, Thomas was trapped. Only able to revel in the man's physical touch.
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Hope you liked that one! I've been struggling with some writer's block so I may be stepping away for a little bit. Still open to suggestions and story ideas that may help get the creative juices flowing- so feel free to message or send something to my inbox. Thanks!
Georges Vale had lived his whole life with his head in panels of ink and color. At eighteen, fresh out of high school and fumbling his way into adulthood, he had never outgrown the thrill of comic books. His shelves sagged under graphic novels, posters of superheroes sprawled across his walls, and a weathered pair of action figures stood guard over his desk.
But of all the heroes that had ever graced his imagination, none stood taller than Nightwing.
Nightwing wasn’t just another caped vigilante. He was cool, sharp, acrobatic. He had swagger that Batman never did, a charisma that made him feel less like a myth and more like a man you could imagine actually running across rooftops with. Georges had watched every clip, read every issue, memorized every detail of his suit down to the stitching. For Halloween this year, he’d promised himself one thing: he was going to wear Nightwing’s costume, the perfect replica, no matter what it cost.
But as the weeks ticked down, his excitement curdled into frustration. Every site he checked, sold out. Every costume shop, backordered. The replica of his dreams was gone, swept up by all of those fuckboys ordering all the costumes only to film their thristraps than he could click “add to cart.” By the fifth night of fruitless searching, he collapsed into bed with a groan.
“Fuck my life. Fucking gooners jerking themselves to their hot bodies for everybody to watch them. They don't even like Nightwing... THat's unfair!!” he muttered into his pillow. “Guess it’s just… jeans and a dumb t-shirt again.”
When his phone buzzed the next morning, he thought it was spam.
Your package has been delivered.
He blinked. He hadn’t ordered anything recently, not unless his half-asleep clicking had betrayed him. But the message had his name, his local post office address, and every bit of information that made him believe that this was a real package and not a scam.
Curiosity gnawed him awake. By mid-morning, he was jogging to the post office, heart hammering. The clerk passed him a box without question, a box unlike anything he’d seen before.
It wasn’t cardboard. It was wood. Dark, polished, carved with swirling patterns that shifted if he looked too long. The edges shimmered faintly like oil on water. His name was inked on a tag tied to the handle in looping script, old-fashioned and deliberate.
Back home, he set it on his bed and just stared.
When he finally unclasped the latch, his breath caught.
Inside, nestled in folds of black silk, was a leather armor costume. Not plastic, not cheap foam like he’d seen online, real leather, supple yet solid, glowing with craftsmanship. The chest bore the iconic blue bird emblem across it, bold and gleaming. Gauntlets and boots matched, sleek and deadly. And strapped to the back were two escrima sticks, their handles bound in dark grips.
Tucked on top was a coin, golden and heavy, etched with symbols he didn’t recognize. And with it, a letter.
The paper was yellowed, ink shimmering faintly as if it had been written only moments ago.
“George Vale,
Dreams are not so unreachable as you believe. What you could not buy, I have chosen to gift. Every world requires its champions. Every boy who stares at heroes longs to become one, though most never find the courage. You will not need to search further.
This costume will fit as if it were made for you, because it was. When worn, it will reveal the man you were always meant to be. The coin is yours to carry. Do not discard it. When the moment is right, you will know its use.
Consider this your blink from the universe.
—M”
Georges’s hands shook. The signature was just that single letter —M, swirled elegantly at the bottom.
His throat was dry. A dozen thoughts swarmed his brain, but one burned brightest: this was real. This was Nightwing’s suit, or close enough to be magic.
He didn’t waste a second.
He stripped out of his clothes, heart hammering, and slid into the costume piece by piece. The leather hugged him tightly, warm against his skin, as if it adjusted itself to fit. The chest plate clicked snug across his torso. The boots swallowed his calves, lacing tight without effort. Even the gloves seemed to mold around his fingers like second skin.
By the time he strapped the sticks onto his back, he was trembling with excitement.
He stumbled into the bathroom and flipped on the light.
What stared back in the mirror was still him, pale and skinny, the shy eighteen-year-old with bad posture and a jaw too soft for his liking, except now wrapped in the flawless suit of his favorite hero.
“Holy…” He grinned wide, adrenaline sparking. “This is insane!”
Out of pure excitement, his heart rate started to go faster, making his blood rush into his veins and giving him a feeling of getting warm. Except this feeling didn’t stop and in a couple of seconds, Georges felt his body rushing through a tsunami of heat.
It started low, a strange ripple under his skin, spreading like molten waves up his stomach, across his chest. His breath caught. His reflection blurred.
The heat surged higher, bubbling, rushing, his whole body tingling as if every nerve had been woken up at once. His vision tunneled. His head spun so fast he grabbed at the sink.
Then the floor rushed up to meet him.
He collapsed, cheek against the cold tile, his body shuddering. His last glimpse of himself in the mirror was distorted, like his own outline was melting, reshaping.
Darkness swallowed him.
He didn’t dream this time.
Bones lengthened and realigned with audible cracks. His shoulders stretched wider, collarbones pushing outward as his chest inflated. Muscles swelled under the leather, forcing it tighter, then tighter still until the costume sighed and expanded to match. His stomach cinched in, abs tightening into ridges of definition, skin pulling taut over the emerging blocks of muscle.
His arms bulked, veins rising, hands thickening, fingers broadening. His legs surged outward, thighs packing with meat, calves carving into diamond-hard muscle. His spine arched as it lengthened, pushing him taller on the bathroom floor.
His face twisted. His jaw sharpened, cheekbones climbing higher. His nose straightened, lips fuller, hair darkening and thickening, sweeping into a shaggy but stylish cut. His eyes burned, shifting to a brilliant crystalline blue, sharper than any shade they’d ever been before.
Even between his legs, changes rippled. His cock lengthened a fraction but thickened dramatically, heavy and weighty, hanging with new heft. His balls swelled, fat and potent, their outline pressed blatantly against the leather. A deep musk rose from him, masculine and intoxicating, filling the bathroom with a scent of sweat, leather, and something undeniably sexual.
The costume flexed, shifting with each change, adapting as though it had been woven for this exact body.
On the floor, Georges moaned in his unconsciousness, hips twitching, back arching, caught between pain and pleasure as his body betrayed his boyhood and sculpted him into a man.
When his eyes finally fluttered open, the ceiling swam above him. His skull throbbed; his whole body heavy. He rolled onto his side, panting, his head spinning so violently he nearly collapsed again. He felt like a truck had drive on his head and turned in brain into mush. Everything was spinning around him and he tried to grab the sink to help himself to get back up.
For a short moment, Georges wondered what happened to him and if everything was a dream. But when he realized his hand still wore the black gloves and his feet were still trapped in the boots, everything came back to him. The heat, the rush, his head spinning faster and faster.
When he finally stumbled to his feet, clutching the counter for balance, the mirror didn’t lie. He staggered, bracing himself against the counter as his head spun like a carousel gone wild. His vision steadied in shaky waves, his reflection flickering in and out of focus.
When it finally sharpened, his breath caught.
He wasn’t staring at a skinny, awkward eighteen-year-old anymore. He was staring at perfection. Standing there, wrapped in flawless leather armor, Georges stared at himself dressed in the iconic outfit. Except after a moment of realization, Georges realized he wasn’t staring at himself. His face had changed, his pupils were foreign, his height was higher, his sight was cleared. The men facing him wasn’t Georges anymore.
His jawline was cut like stone, cheekbones sharp, lips full and smirking even when he didn’t mean to. His hair was thick, dark, styled into a tousled sweep that looked like he’d just come back from a rooftop chase. His eyes, bright, crystalline blue, were so piercing they didn’t even look human. They looked superhuman.
His chest rose and fell, wide and powerful beneath the gleaming blue emblem that stretched across it. His shoulders were broad and capped with thick, rounded muscle. Veins ran faintly beneath skin that looked too flawless, too sculpted, like every pore had been erased and replaced with smooth perfection. His abs pressed against the leather, each ridge defined and sharp, his waist narrow and tight.
He looked down at himself and felt dizzy again. His arms were ropey and vascular, his forearms thick, his hands strong and veined. His legs, once skinny sticks, were massive and solid, thighs bulging against the pants, calves flared. Even his feet felt heavy and manly inside the boots, larger than they had been, toes flexing with new strength.
And below the waist, he flushed. The costume didn’t hide the fact that his cock was thicker now, hanging with obvious heft, his balls swollen and heavy, their shape bluntly visible in the tight fabric. His pubes had darkened and thickened, the musk rolling up from between his thighs strong enough that it filled the bathroom.
He groaned, deep and resonant, pressing a hand against his forehead. Even his voice was different, lower, smoother, carrying an edge of cocky confidence he’d never possessed.
“What the hell… what the HELL happened to me?” he muttered, though it didn’t sound like muttering. It sounded like the kind of voice that belonged to someone who commanded attention without effort.
His hands shook as he ran them down his body, tracing the sharp grooves of his abs, the swelling curve of his chest. His heart hammered, equal parts fear and intoxicating pleasure. Georges took a step back until his body hit the tiled wall behind him. Without being able to control himself, Georges moaned out of pure orgasm. Almost like if he was about to cum on the spot.
He reached over his shoulder, trembling and hesitant to see what just caused this orgasmic feeling. He was fumbling until his hand brushed the handle of one of the escrima sticks strapped there.
And the second he touched it, his body exploded with sensation once again.
“MMmmmMmmMMMMmmm…. The fuck is that!!” he moaned deeply out of his new deep baritone voice as he felt his knees almost giving up on supporting his muscled body because of the pleasure he just felt.
It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t simple touch. It was like every nerve in his cock had been rewired, funneled straight into that stick.
The contact sent a jolt of white-hot pleasure ripping through him. His legs buckled, his mouth falling open in a sharp cry.
“Ahh…OH MY GOD!”
He stumbled forward, hand gripping tighter without thinking. The harder he squeezed the stick, the more the pleasure intensified. His hips jerked involuntarily, his entire body trembling like he was seconds away from climax.
He let go with a gasp, stumbling to the sink again. His chest heaved, sweat dripping down his temple. His cock throbbed in the suit, leaking a wet patch into the leather.
“No way…” His voice cracked on the words. He looked back at the reflection of himself, his perfect, muscled, superhuman self, and shuddered.
Slowly, trembling, he reached back again. It was almost like he couldn’t stop himself from touching, grabbing, groping and playing with his stick.
This time when his hand closed around the stick, he moaned outright. His knees went weak, his back arching, his face twisting in pure ecstasy. It felt obscene, intimate, like the stick was his cock and he was stroking himself through it by only touching it. His balls ached heavy, his thighs trembling as the waves of sensation washed over him.
“Ahh…ahhh, god… I’m gonn…a … CUUUUU………..MMMMMMMM”
He clutched the stick, panting, his reflection staring back at him with flushed cheeks, eyes blazing blue. His body shivered with every breath, and the musk pouring off him thickened, salty and intoxicating.
When he finally ripped his hand away, collapsing against the counter, he realized he was moaning. Not with fear, though fear still ran sharp through him, but with a pleasure so raw it terrified him.
His cock pulsed again inside the leather, still leaking, but that’s when he realized all this time, he was so focused on his stick that he didn’t feel anything down there. He went to touch his cock and that’s when he realized that his dick was now totally un-sensitive. It felt like he was touching a finger. A thick finger with balls attached to it and able to cum, but nothing more than a finger. This vision and realization both terrified him and excited him.
He may was looking like his favorite super heroe, but still, he was nothing more then one of those costumed gooners with a muscled body that he used to hate so much.
On the counter, the coin shine, waiting for its moment to come to continue with this Spooky Gift.
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Hello, everyone!
I'm slowly but surely making my way back to the event. For those participating, don’t worry, I’ll be posting all the stories soon. Life’s just been really busy lately, and I need to prioritize work and personal matters for now.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy this new story! It’s for @morphmastersilver, who requested Nightwing. He also mentioned he loved Brendon, so I hope this one hits the mark.
As always, feel free to reach out if you have any questions or just want to chat. I’d be happy to answer!
@beachedkiwi wished for balance after my last transformation request so thats what he'll get. Once a stocky white guy now becomes the nerdy asian guy that became a lumberjack.
He'll lose all memories of his old life. He won't mind that though, he'll be too busy jerking off all day in his room. He might be a nerd but he's one hell of a gooner!
