TEASER: PROTEUS LABORATORIES - SOCCER
"Proteus Laboratories: A new, brighter future for all!"
An upcoming interactive, choose your own adventure tf story! Progress on this has been slow, so I did a poll here on tumblr to see what ending yall would like to see next! Yall picked the soccer player ending, so here you go champs!
"Please select any of the following sports you consider to be an active hobby or interest of yours:". The options are a bland list, but one stands out to you. Soccer.
A wry, almost bitter smile touches your lips. You haven’t played a sport since compulsory PE in secondary school, where you’d been the last picked, the clumsy one who preferred the library to the pitch. But a faint, ghostly sensation flickers in your memory: the fleeting, forgotten thrill of connecting your foot with a ball, the cheer of a non-existent crowd. A fantasy. A lie.
Your hand, holding the pen, hovers. On a whim, a tiny act of imagining a different life, you check the box next to Soccer. You aren't sure what to expect, but it isn't a jolt.
It starts at your fingertips, where your fingers touch the pen. A sharp, electric SNAP of static that races up your arm, not painful but profoundly invasive. The simple form seems to blur, the letters swirling into a vortex of green pitch lines and ghostly, roaring chants. A low hum fills your ears, syncing with the frantic, sudden pounding of your own heart.
The scent hits you first, exploding in the sterile air: freshly cut grass & mud, cold rain, and hormonal musk. It is the smell of the pitch. It is a smell your brain associates with... you? A deep, resonant hum vibrates through your bones. Your spine, used to being hunched over a keyboard, pops and cracks, forcing itself straight, then settling into an athlete’s ready, balanced posture. Your shoulders, narrow and sloping, begin to burn. A fierce, stretching, and tearing sensation as your clavicles broadened, your deltoid muscles swelling from nothing, rounding into powerful, defined caps. Your rib cage expands with a groan of cartilage, pushing outward, creating a vast, cavernous space in your chest. You can suddenly breathe much deeper than before, full lungfuls of the potent, masculine air that now fills the room.
The hum becomes a river of molten, golden energy, surging through you. It is the adrenaline of a last-minute goal, the power of a sprint down the wing, the relentless drive of a training session. It detonates down your spine, thickening the ropes of muscle along your vertebrae, erasing the softness of your back. It floods your shoulders and back - the trapezius muscles thickening into a formidable form, lats flaring outwards into a dramatic V-taper that makes your waist seem narrower, yet harder. Your pectorals, previously undefined, swell into thick, firm slabs, pressing against your slim-fit shirt, the buttons straining.
Your arms, resting on the desk, begin to bulge. Biceps thicken like coiled hawsers, triceps harden into dense, horseshoe-shaped slabs, your forearms have veins that rise to the surface like blue rivers beneath skin that is darkening to a healthy, sun-kissed tan. Your hands ache, fingers thickening, knuckles becoming pronounced and strong - a player’s hands, meant for controlling a ball, for throwing it in, for gentle, celebratory head-tousles that were really displays of power. Your thighs press against your chair, quadriceps harden into powerful tree trunks, the chino fabric groans in protest. A deep cramp seizes your calves as the muscles there expand, shaping themselves into sculpted diamonds of pure power. You groan, a sound that starts as your usual shocked gasp and deepens, mid-note, into a guttural, resonant rumble that vibrates in your newly cavernous chest - the sound of pure, athletic power awakening. "Ungh... yeah..."
The energy surges upwards, as your jaw aches as it squares off, your cheeks losing their softness, becoming defined and harder. A dark, prickling shadow erupts across your jaw and cheeks - thickening instantly into a perfect, sexy scruff, meticulously messy. Your cheekbones sharpen. Your nose seems straighter, stronger? Your lips, once thin, become fuller, settling into a permanent, confident, slightly cocky smirk. Your hair - your carefully styled, longer hair - darkens at the roots to a rich, chestnut brown, then shortens violently, coarsening into a short, textured, effortlessly cool crop that screams of post-shower gels and fingers running through it after a win. Your eyes... your intelligent, thoughtful gaze vanishes, being replaced by a bright, vacant blue. They hold no complex thoughts, only a dawning arrogance, a competitive fire, and a deep, smoldering, hunger.
The faint scent clinging to you is violently annihilated. Erupting from your pores is a new, potent signature, matching that you smelled just seconds ago. It mingles with the phantom smells of the pitch, creating a new cloud: The old you is gone. This new man smells like a football star. You smell expensive and horny.
The golden fire in your mind is blazing away as your old world dissolves. It is erased with a violent, final contempt. Gay? The thought surfaces only to be met with a wave of aggressive, confused disgust. Weak. Soft. That isn't you. It has never been you. Your thoughts are replaced by a flood of sensations and memories that are sharper, more real, more yours than anything that has come before. You recall the burn in your chest during a full-pitch sprint, the thud of a perfectly timed tackle, the roar of the crowd chanting your name. The smell of the locker room after you bring a win, the feel of your teammates' slaps on your back, and you giving them head ruffles, the taste of cheap champagne. The sight of girls on the sidelines, their eyes wide and mouths open, screaming for you. The way their bodies look in tight tops, the only thing that feels... right. The constant thrum in your blood, the ache for competition, for physical release, for women. A pure, hormonal surge, that becomes the centre of your universe. Your fuel.
Your entire personality narrows into a single, laser-focused channel: Football. Fitness. Females. In that order. Intelligence is a currency you no longer trade in. Bliss is this simple, brutal, hormonal clarity.
A slow, arrogant smirk spreads across your new face. It feels natural. Right. Yours. You look down at your body, at the shirt that is now stretching drum-tight over your sculpted, powerful torso. You flex an arm, watching the muscle swell and the fabric strain. Pride, fierce and warm, floods you. 'Look at that. Absolute weapon.'
You are Lucas. Lucas, who plays striker for a Sunday league team you are sure is gonna go pro. You’ve always been Lucas.
The low thrum in your body intensifies, becoming a hot, liquid pull low in your gut. The arousal is immediate, insistent, a demanding pulse that syncs with your heartbeat. Your new, thick cock strains against your ruined chinos, a heavy, unfamiliar weight that feels utterly, perfectly right. It is a tool for pleasure. For women’s pleasure.
With a grunt, you shift stance, adopting a more cocky, manspreading position. You don't need to think; you act. Driven by the primal heat coursing through you, by the dumb, horny certainty of your new self. Your thick, strong fingers tear at the remains of your trousers. Your new, calloused hand wraps around your thick, hard cock. The touch is electric, a circuit of pure, narcissistic lust completing, images of women flashing in your mind.
You begin to stroke, not with shame, but with a confident, possessive rhythm. Your eyes aren't closed; they are locked on your reflection in the dark monitor screen - on the powerful arm working, the bicep bulging and swelling with each stroke, the thick veins, the perfect stubble, the vacant, hungry blue eyes. 'Fuck, look at me.'
“Yeah… score…” you grunt, your voice a deep, stupid rasp, a hint of a laddish accent colours your words. Each pump is practically an affirmation. With each stroke, another fragment of yourself is annihilated, and replaced by the solid, sensory reality of Lucas.
The phantom roar of a crowd echoes in your ears. The smell of the pitch. The feel of a trophy in your hands. The memory of a hundred girls, their numbers in your phone, their eager mouths. It is all yours. It has always been yours.
Your rhythm becomes more urgent, your breath comes in ragged, powerful grunts. The muscles in your stomach clench into a hard, rippled board. Your powerful thighs tremble. The pleasure builds, a terrifying, incredible peak of pure, mindless, straight release. With a final, guttural roar that is pure, unadulterated Lucas, you cum. Thick, hot ropes shoot across your now defined abdomen, the smell of it - musky, potent, and virile - mixes with the scent of your sweat.
You slump back in the chair, breathing heavily, a sheen of sweat glistening on your incredible new physique. You look down at the mess on your stomach, then at your own hand, and let out a low, throaty, arrogant laugh. “Fuckin’ legend.”
You are Lucas. You are strong. You are sexy. You are horny. And you are so, so fucking dumb. The survey lies discarded and forgotten on the floor, a meaningless trigger for your true form. You need to hit the gym. You need to find your mates for a kickabout. You need to find a chick. Right fucking now. The king of the pitch is ready to play.
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