inspired by a suggestion from @innermostthoughtsartappreciation
James stood in front of the mirror, disappointed with what he saw. He looked just like he always did — same greasy brown mullet, same patchy neckbeard, same unhealthily pale skin, same flabby body. The only part of him that had changed since he'd last gazed upon his reflection was his brand-new tattoo.
It was a simple drawing of his favorite character from his favorite anime. He'd gotten it in an attempt to stand out — and while it did stand out, it was mostly in a negative way. Evidently, many people found it "distasteful" and "unfit for a member of polite society." It didn't even help him connect with other fans of the anime!
But that wasn't even the biggest issue with the tattoo. No, the real reason James was standing shirtless in front of his bedroom mirror was that the skin around the ill-advised tattoo was rapidly becoming discolored. Starting a few inches from the borders of the tattoo, his vanilla-white skin abruptly transitioned to dark chocolate. Strangely, the tattoo itself also seemed to be affected, the anime girl's blue hair and bulging eyes dissolving into swirling black lines.
"Ugh, I knew there was something funky about that tattoo parlor," James sneered to his extensive collection of cartoon memorabilia, Funko pops, and body pillows.
They, of course, did not respond. They wouldn't have done so normally, because they were inanimate objects, but right now they were slowly but surely fading out of existence, which made things a lot harder for them.
But James didn't notice that tiny little detail, because right before his eyes, the discoloration was starting to spread. Inch by inch, his white skin was darkening, darkening. He rubbed a hand over the changed skin, but it didn't feel any different from regular skin. That probably ruled out skin cancer, at least. Small mercies. Although, come to think of it, he did feel a little tingling at the tattoo site...
That small sensation was all the warning he had before his entire body erupted. He could feel every muscle, every bone in his body rippling and reshaping, from his masculinizing head to his rapidly growing toes. It felt like a swarm of bees had taken up residence inside him, but it was the most pleasurable feeling he'd ever experienced.
He rose in height and shrank in width — but not by too much, because his rolls of fat were being converted into mounds of muscle: Bulging biceps, wide lats, meaty quads... His stomach collapsed in on itself, melting away into a perfect inverted triangle garnished with six cobblestone abs. He still had tits, but now they were pecs instead of moobs.
The changes had mostly avoided James' face, but that would soon be corrected. There was no reason for the Black Adonis he was becoming to have the head of a white geek, after all. Melanating skin and masculinizing muscle converged around his neck and spread up from there. His Adam's apple became more prominent, deepening his voice to a sensual baritone. His lips plumpened up, and his nose flattened out, and a thick black mustache emerged between them. His neckbeard tamed itself into a short, tasteful beard. His hair was undergoing rapid improvements as well — coiling up and receding into his skin until his mullet had been replaced by a textured fade.
Comparatively, the final changes were tame. Stained sweatpants shifted into gym shorts that left nothing to the imagination. A gold chain appeared around his neck, not hanging but resting comfortably in the groove between his pecs. He blinked, and suddenly he had piercings in his ears and nose.
James stared at himself in the mirror, dumbfounded. Where a dumpy, overweight white man had once stood, in his place was a prime specimen of Black manliness. He blinked rapidly, trying to understand what had just happened, but when he opened his eyes again, he was Jamari.
He liked being Jamari a lot better, he realized. Not only was he a rich and famous athlete, but he also had much better taste in tattoos. Better taste in general, Jamari conceded, nodding in approval at his surroundings, which had transformed from a nerd's wet dream to an expensive private gym. His previous body had been optimized for pirating anime and playing Paradox games, but this new one was optimized for working out, winning national championships, and posting thirst traps for his millions of horny followers.
Raising his bicep up to his head, Jamari attempted to find the tattoo that had started it all. But there was no sign of the anime girl, just tasteful calligraphy in the same style as the art engraved in the rest of his body. What was the character's name again? What had she even looked like? He couldn't remember. All his previous nerdy fandom knowledge was fading away, but it had been replaced by expertise in sports, exercise, and celebrity culture — more than a fair trade.
Jamari gave the mirror one last smirk. Damn, he looked fine today. His adoring fans would not be disappointed with what they saw.
You looked up from the online textbook you’d been reading. And up. And up. Looming over your bus seat was an absolute behemoth of a man. His black hair was slick with sweat, a clear sign he’d just been at the gym, although his beefy physique and rank musk could’ve clued you in just as easily.
“S-sorry, what?” you stammered.
The guy responded with an easygoing smile on his broad, bearded face. “Your phone. Could I borrow it for a sec? I’m visiting my bro, but my phone’s outta juice and I forget what stop to get off at. I just need to call him real quick.” His voice was deep and vacuous.
“Uh, yeah, sure,” you said. “Knock yourself out.” You placed your phone in his meaty bronze hand, carefully trying not to notice how dainty and pale your fingers looked compared to his sausages.
With nothing else to do, you watched awkwardly from your seat as he dialed his friend’s number. “Yo dude, it’s me,” he greeted boisterously. “Yeah I’m on the bus using this nerdy guy’s phone right now, mine fuckin’ ran out, haha…”
You blinked in outrage, and embarrassment. “Nerdy guy”??? Just because you wore a white button-down, and had a mousy brown mop and a complete lack of facial hair, and your entire body was skinnier than his arm, didn’t make you a nerd! You had a leather knapsack — those were cool, weren’t they? Anyways.
As the bus continued on, you caught snippets of the conversation unfolding in front of you. Evidently, the guy had gotten hopelessly turned around, and his friend was trying to figure out how to get him to his destination. Privately, you thought this seemed too complex for his simple brain to comprehend.
“Ok wait, so you’re saying I need to be on the 115? And then take Johnson Street to the 67 line? Uh-huh, uh-huh. Gotcha. Thanks, bro. That means I should get off on…” He glanced at the route map above you, and you could see his thick head visibly struggling to make sense of it. Then his brown eyes widened comically. “Shit, this stop right here!”
Sure enough, the bus had been decelerating, and now it came to a complete stop. The guy pushed his way to the crowded exit, still absorbed in his conversation. You noted with disgust that he had your phone lodged between his bristly cheek and his broad shoulder, both of which were sheened with sweat. Then it hit you — he was about to leave with your phone!
“Wait!” you said, trying to get his attention. You hated how squeaky your voice sounded compared to his bovine bass, but still, it worked.
“Huh? Oh right,” he said. Speaking into the phone, he said, “Fuck bro, gotta go. See ya soon, king.”
Then, he hung up and turned his attention to you. “Yo, thanks so much, little guy!” At this point, he was too close to the door, and there were too many people pushing to exit, for him to turn around and give your phone back. So instead, he stood up straight, braced his knees, and lobbed your phone at you with a dumb, cocky grin. “Catch, bro!”
Oh my god, what was this idiot thinking? You were going to miss, and then your phone would hit the floor and shatter into a million pieces, or it would smack someone’s head and they’d sue you for everything you had, or…
You gripped something in your hand. Peeking one eye open, you found that your phone was secure in your grip. Despite your lacking hand-eye coordination, you had somehow caught your phone, acting purely on instinct.
Then you immediately laid it on your lap, because it was slick with sweat and had thoroughly absorbed the guy’s scent. As you leaned down to clean it, your phone screen lit up with a notification. It was a message from an unknown number.
wait did u say u we’re on the 103
BRUH u werent supposed to get off yet lmaooo 💀💀
You internally groaned. Did that meathead’s friend think he was just going to keep your phone forever? He probably did; he was obviously just as much of a dumb gym bro as his friend.
You prepared to type in a polite response informing him that he had the wrong number, but suddenly the bus lurched and you lost control of your phone for a moment. Glancing back at your screen, you realized that you had accidentally pressed send:
bro just gimme ur addy i’ll put it into maps
That was absolutely not what you had typed in. You tended to be pretty dexterous, so you had no idea how that had happened. Although… you looked at your hands consideringly. They were brown and veiny, with wide and hairy fingers. You supposed it was hard to type on a phone keyboard with massive mitts like yours. Briefly, you thought that your hands seemed disproportionately large against the rest of you, that they weren’t supposed to be this big and manly, but you dismissed it, because why wouldn’t they be?
Anyways, now that that encounter was over, you could go back to studying. You scrolled through your phone, trying to locate your Kindle app. But it didn’t seem to be anywhere. Frustrated, you swiped back and forth across your home screen, not noticing how each tap sent a jolt up your body.
Swipe. You felt movement on either side of you — which you quickly realized was caused by the passengers sitting next to you. You couldn’t avoid brushing up against them with how broad your square shoulders were. It was a good problem to have.
Swipe. Absent-mindedly, you dragged your giant paws across your equally giant pecs. You didn’t know what made you feel more virile — scratching your tangled black curls of sweaty chest hair, or accidentally brushing against your protruding dark nipples. Oh wait, you knew the answer — scratching your tangled black treasure trail and brushing against your washboard abs.
Swipe. You splayed your tree trunk legs further out, stomping your size 14 feet on the floor of the bus. You didn’t care if the other passengers thought you were rude — with thighs this thick, it was impossible not to manspread, especially for someone as well-endowed as you. A wet protein fart trumpeted from your inflated ass, but you took it in stride.
Swipe. The bus lurched again, and for a moment it felt like you had leaped half a foot into the air. But your line of sight never shifted back down, and why would it? You had always been tall — just like you had always had perfectly sculpted lats and traps, and a thick bull neck, and…
Your swiping was interrupted by a notification: 5% battery remaining. You furrowed your caveman brow in confusion. Hadn’t you left your place with a full charge? How had it run out so quickly? As you were thinking, you grabbed your squirt bottle from the pocket of your gym bag and took a swig.
Duh, your gym bag — you’d been at the gym! That explained the phone battery, then; you liked to listen to workout podcasts or mindlessly scroll through TikTok as you worked out, and with how long you spent at the gym each day, more often than not you walked out of there with much less charge than you’d started with.
Judging by the sweat leaking through your black mesh tank top, though — and not to mention your musky stench — it had been an especially good session today. It had been an arm day, and you silently admired your hard work, the way your biceps and triceps swelled with power and your veiny forearms pulsed in time with your heartbeat, all wrapped up in a layer of thick black hair and perfectly tan coloring. Yeah. Those were some impressive arms you had.
A text notification popped up at the top of your screen:
bro how do you not know this by now 😭
its 992 carter st apt#208
Oh yeah, you’d been so distracted by your muscles that you’d forgotten why you were on this bus. You were going to visit your best bro later today, and your license was suspended from the last time you two had gotten a little too crunk, so public transit it was.
You glanced at the route map above you, trying to figure out the best way to get there. So you were on the red squiggly line on the left side of the image, which meant… no wait… maybe you were on that green dot in the middle? Your eyes glazed over, and your brain felt like it was stuffed with cotton candy. While that was a feeling you were very much used to, and even proud of, right now you were annoyed. Why’d they have to make these picture thingies so fucking confusing anyway? Whatever, that was why they’d invented Google Maps.
Copying over your friend’s address, you attempted to navigate to the map app. But your thick finger missed the icon entirely, instead opening your photo gallery. The most recent photo was a selfie you’d taken at the gym today, and you took a moment to admire yourself. You felt your blocky, bearded face form the exact same cocky smirk that was in the photo. Hell yeah, you were one sexy motherfucker.
Suddenly, the image turned black. You’d run out of power. You stared for a second at the face reflected on the blank phone screen, identical to the one in the photo.
“Fuck,” you muttered in your deep, slow voice, scratching your temple with one finger like a Neanderthal. You hadn’t gotten to put your friend’s address into Google Maps, and you definitely were too dumb to get there on your own. What to do?
Slowly, painstakingly, an idea formed in your thick meathead mind. Maybe… you could… use someone else’s phone… to call your friend up and ask him how to get there! You scanned the bus for people to ask. There were lots of people on their phones, but for some reason, one passenger stood out to you. He was shrimpy and short, sitting a few seats away from you in the opposite row as he tapped away at some mobile game.
Pocketing your dead device, you rose from your seat and swaggered over to the little guy.
heads up, this story contains lib to con tf as its main focus, so you might want to skip this one if that's not your thing. as a disclaimer, this story is in no way intended as a glorification or endorsement of conservatism or the republican party! that being said, i hope you enjoy the ride...
Crazed cultists weren’t the types of enemies the Avengers typically fought, Steve Rogers mused as he battled his way through waves of hooded henchmen, but he supposed there was a first time for everything. Apparently this particular cult was worryingly close to summoning an actual demon, so it fell on Captain America to put an end to their plans. Not just Captain America, too — Iron Man, the Hulk, and Thor himself were there as well, racing to the center of the complex to stop the ritual before it was too late.
Sometimes Steve missed the relative simplicity of his original time. Sure, the 21st century had smartphones and polio vaccines, but it also had alien invasions and, apparently, demon summonings. But he didn’t let those thoughts distract him as he threw his shield out in front of him, clearing the path forward.
Eventually, the four superheroes reached the central chamber, where numerous cultists chanted in front of a glowing red pentagram.
“Hey Cap, look at that — a star inside a circle. I think these guys are trying to steal your style,” Tony quipped before leaping into battle, the rest of them following suit.
Steve had thought the battle was going well, but just before he slammed his shield into the last cultist standing, the circle on the floor flared with blinding light, forcing the Avengers to avert their eyes. When they were able to look again, they were faced with the sight of a muscular man with ruby-red skin and hair vaguely shaped like devil horns. Steve’s first thought was that the hair was a little on the nose. His second was that they had failed to stop the ritual.
“Mephisto,” Thor growled. Evidently, the Norse god recognized this demon. Still, he made no move against him, instead idly swinging his hammer in his hand — perhaps he was waiting to see what Mephisto would do.
“Indeed, it is I,” Mephisto said with a flourish. “And you foolish Avengers have fallen right into my trap!”
Steve tensed, ready to leap back into action, but the demon just continued standing there.
“Uh, is anyone else not seeing the trap?” Iron Man said. “Because gonna be honest, I’m not feeling too trapped right now.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw Thor slightly shaking his head. The four heroes stood there, wary of what the demon was planning, but it wasn’t long before the Hulk apparently had enough. With a mighty roar, he charged at Mephisto, aiming a green fist directly at his red face.
Moments before impact, Mephisto did something, and Hulk’s clenched fist stopped inches away from its target, surrounded by a faint crimson aura. Steve moved to assist his teammate, but found to his chagrin that he too was frozen in place — as were Iron Man and Thor. He struggled and strained, but it was no use. Despite the super strength granted to him by the serum, he was powerless against the demon’s occult magic.
“My, such anger! Such violence!” Mephisto taunted. “For all that you claim to fight for good, there is evil in your hearts, Avengers. Such beautiful darkness…”
Fear slowly crept into the back of Steve’s mind. Whatever this guy’s deal was, he might be too much for the four of them to handle, he realized.
Mephisto continued his monologue. “Why not embrace the dark? If you let the corruption take hold, you’ll be rewarded with pleasures unimaginable. In fact…” An eerie smile spread across the demon’s face. “…By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be positively eager to cast aside all that useless morality.”
Steve couldn’t abide by this. “You’re wrong!” he growled, struggling to overcome the immobilizing enchantment. “We’ll never give in to you!”
Mephisto turned to look directly at him, and Steve felt those demonic eyes boring into him. “Ah, Steve Rogers. Captain America himself. You’ll enjoy this process the most, in the end.” Steve felt a renewed sense of foreboding as Mephisto’s sickly smile grew wider. “After all, the brighter the light… the darker the shadow. As you’re about to find out.”
Quickly, the demon muttered an incantation as he aimed a burst of crackling red energy directly at Steve. He only got a brief glimpse of the horrified faces of his friends before his surroundings shifted impossibly around him. Although he remained stuck in place, he felt himself falling faster and faster, until eventually the world around him stabilized. Suddenly released from the spell, he stumbled forward and warily examined his new surroundings.
It looked like he was in an office, and a fancy one at that. In the center was an ornate mahogany desk neatly outfitted with stationary and all manner of documents, accompanied by an expensive-looking leather chair behind it. It was flanked on both sides by large bookshelves filled with books and binders of varying thickness. The office was decorated in a way that clearly indicated the owner’s immense wealth, from the exquisite rug on the floor to the opulent paintings placed tastefully on the walls. Currently, the far side of the room was covered by velvet curtains, which Steve opened to reveal a large floor-to-ceiling window. Through it, the Capitol Building could be seen, and much further in the distance, the Washington Monument.
“I’m in Washington?” Steve muttered. “Why would he bring me here?”
It didn’t matter, he decided. He’d simply exit the office and navigate to one of the Avengers’ safehouses. Hopefully his teammates could handle themselves without him. But that plan quickly ran into a fatal error: the door was locked. It refused to budge no matter how hard Steve jiggled the doorknob, much to his consternation. What kind of door couldn’t be unlocked from the inside?
Well, it was no matter. He’d tried doing things the easy way, so it was time for the slightly less easy way. Holding his shield in front of him, he braced himself, sent a mental apology to whoever owned this office, and then charged full steam ahead at the locked door. He expected it to fly right off its hinges, no match for his super soldier strength. Instead, it stayed stubbornly put, sending waves of pain through his arm as his shield crashed futilely into it.
Befuddled, Steve looked down and clenched his fists. How had that not worked? How had he met his match in a simple door? But that was when he noticed something odd. His gloves had disappeared, fully exposing his hands. And his hands…
Steve gasped. Before his very eyes, his hands seemed to be aging, piling on years of wear and tear every second. As if he was watching a timelapse, he could only stand there in horror as a patchwork of veins and arteries became visible over newly wrinkled skin. Before he knew it, his hands had become gnarled and leathery. These weren’t the hands of a superhero in the prime of his life. These were the hands of an old man.
Shocked, he stumbled over to the window, dreading what he’d see reflected back at him. He tore off his helmet and threw it aside, not noticing that it faded into nonexistence before ever touching the ground. Sure enough, the face he was greeted with was vastly different from the one he’d woken up with. Oh, his facial features were all the same, but they were now accompanied by a wide array of forehead creases, crow’s feet, frown lines, and more. Every type of wrinkle one could imagine was now present on Steve’s face. Making matters worse, as he gazed into the window, he could see his hairline rapidly thinning and receding like an ebbing tide. Concurrently, his blond hair was being shot through with gray; soon enough, it had become entirely silver.
That was enough for Steve to start panicking. What had that demon, Mephisto, done to him? Had he extracted the super soldier serum from his body, made it so that the years spent under the ice were finally catching up to him? Would he soon be nothing but a frail old man? He felt his legs beginning to quake from the stress, so he quickly collapsed into the nearest thing he could find: that leather office chair.
As if a switch had flipped within him, Steve felt himself calming the moment he came into contact with the chair. It was a heavenly feeling, the way the soft leather hugged his ass, allowing him to sink into it the perfect amount for maximum comfort. That comfort paved the way for his next changes as an insulating layer of fat rippled into being all across his body. It started with where he was sprawled in the chair, with his back sagging under its own weight and his ass becoming as soft and cushioned as the chair itself. From there, it spread to his arms and legs, which threatened to burst out of his superhero gear due to their newfound width. His hands grew meaty with fat, larger now than they’d ever been. His torso was blessed with the presence of his newfound flabby moobs and perfectly round musclegut. Finally, the fat reached his face, framing his square jaw with stately jowls. He should have been freaking out, but strangely, he found he didn’t mind the changes. Enjoyed them, actually. His muscular figure hadn’t disappeared — he could still feel its power underneath the added weight — it had just been enhanced. He may be turning into an old man, but with his physique, no one would ever think of him as frail, he thought with no small satisfaction.
Strangely, the sense of comfort was beginning to extend beyond the chair to encompass the entire room. The office felt strangely familiar to Steve, and he wondered if he’d been in here before. It certainly felt like somewhere he’d spent a lot of time in — as if it was his base of operations, his seat of power, almost. Was that weird to think? No, he didn’t think so. The more he considered it, the more he could distinctly remember fielding calls and hunching over legal text in here.
Lost in his reminiscence, he didn’t register anything abnormal when the color began to fade from his uniform, becoming monochrome — pure white above his waist, pure black below. His clothes were changing in other ways, too. His pants weren’t designed to hug his no-longer-muscular form anymore; instead, they became black slacks that hid how his fat legs jiggled whenever he moved. They were soon joined by spotless leather dress shoes and a belt with a simple, but elegant, buckle. Meanwhile, his upper half was soon covered by a perfectly ironed white dress shirt, and that was soon covered by a woolen black suit jacket. A tie in matching black whipped into existence, wrapping itself around his collar to form a perfect Windsor knot. Finally, his shirt tucked itself into his pants, beautifully framing his round belly in the most flattering way possible. Steve couldn’t help but love the sensation of his belt buckle digging into his belly. It made him feel masculine. Powerful.
Speaking of power, something shifted within him as the strength granted to him by the serum was redirected toward a different purpose. His physical capabilities were diminished to the level of an ordinary man of his musculature — which was still far greater than average, but nothing more. But he was still just as powerful as ever. It was just that now, he used his power in subtler ways. Beating up bad guys morphed in his mind into humiliating his opponents every six years. Motivating his teammates with inspiring speeches shifted into winning the support of skeptical voters with empty promises and divisive rhetoric. People looking at him in admiration transformed into people gazing upon him in fear and envy — a change that made him swell with pride. Somehow, these new memories were so much more pleasurable than his old ones, so he embraced the new ones.
Steve didn’t even stop to question where these memories had come from, as the more he thought about it, the more he realized he already knew the answers. After all, he couldn’t have served in the Senate for this long without becoming a master of the game. Coming up on the end of his seventh full term, he had seen it all, and he had thrived in this world of smoke-filled rooms and underhanded deals that weaker men recoiled from. He had rapidly climbed the ranks, going from backbencher status to national prominence in no time at all, aided by his ruthlessness and total lack of morals. His appearance was swiftly updated to match his newfound personality, as his face became capable of exactly two expressions only: a mean, unpleasant scowl, and an arrogant smirk. Meanwhile, a golden Rolex appeared on his wrist, and he fondled it lovingly — it was just one of the many “gifts” he’d been given over the years in exchange for his full-throated support for one bill or another.
But as much as his cutthroat personality had helped him gain power, it was ultimately his ideology that endeared him to his colleagues. After all, without their support, Steve could never have become the Republican leader in the Senate. Selfish, conservative ideals rushed into Steve’s head like a tidal wave, drowning out any previous convictions he’d held beforehand. With them came even more memories, which felt more real — and more pleasurable — than ever.
He remembered voting against expanding healthcare, because he’d used the payout from the insurance lobby to buy a second summer home in the Hamptons. He remembered voting to fund increased coal mining and fracking operations, because it would be so much better for his stock portfolio that way. He remembered railing against the immigrants and the queers on the Senate floor, frothing with rage, because they weren’t real Americans, not like him.
He remembered all this, because he was no longer Steve Rogers… He was…
Wait, no!
For a brief second, his old identity reasserted itself. He wasn’t some curmudgeonly, conservative politician; he was Captain America, dammit! Desperately, he held on tight to the very pillars that formed the core of his identity as Steve Rogers: his childhood growing up in Brooklyn, his time spent fighting HYDRA in World War II, his commitment to looking out for the little guy, his loyalty to the American ideals of liberty and justice. But all of those rang increasingly hollow to the man he was becoming.
Why would he have fond memories of Brooklyn? He was a real American, born and raised in a small Missouri town — he felt nothing but contempt for that woke shithole, he thought as his hairline receded an inch farther.
How could he have fought in World War II? That was decades too late for him, and in any case HYDRA was small potatoes next to the real threat — communism. As he mentally reaffirmed his commitment to his rancid ideologies, the wrinkles on his face deepened by another year.
Why would he look out for the little guy? Unlike the so-called “little guy,” he had worked hard to reach his station in life, and he saw no problem with doing whatever it took to maintain his place at the top of the pyramid. Freed from the burden of caring for others, his greed and ego reached new heights, causing another pound of fat to be piled onto his portly frame.
And as for liberty and justice? He scoffed and cast them aside, feeling a wave of euphoria wash over him as he did so. That wasn’t the America he believed in. No, his America was one that revolved around himself, one that allowed him to line his pockets and ascend the ranks of power while closing the door on anyone who wanted to reach those same heights. Reacting to this redefined America, the shield that had served him so well in his life as Captain America floated into the air and flung itself at him. By the time it reached him, though, it was no longer a shield, but a small metal American flag pin attached to his lapel.
But still, throughout all this, a small piece of Steve remained within the new, old man, fighting desperately to hold on against the barrage of corrupt conservatism. Despite everything, he refused to give in to the alluring pleasure that tormented him. But then a familiar voice made itself known in his head.
“See Steve Rogers, didn’t I say you’d enjoy this? Like I said, the brightest lights produce the darkest shadows,” Mephisto said. “And your shadow is dark, indeed. Don’t you think it’s time to embrace it? Embrace him?” His voice lowered to a seductive purr. “You don’t have to fight it. Tell me you want it, and it will be yours.”
Steve tried to shut the demon out of his head, but his words echoed in his mind. Combining with his memories of life as an unscrupulous politician and his immaculate clothes and his fancy office and his burly old man physique, it all coalesced into a cascade of pleasurable pressure. He tried to resist. He tried to want to resist. But…
His wealth. His power. His personality. His body. The temptation was too much for Steve to bear. “Yes!” he shouted desperately. “Yes, I want this!”
And that was all Mephisto needed to hear.
Finally, his identity as Steve Rogers detached itself fully, unable to hold on in the wake of the corruption he was experiencing and embodying. He gleefully cast his old self aside. He wasn’t Steve Rogers, not anymore. No, the old man thought triumphantly as he allowed his new personality and memories to settle into their rightful places, he was someone far superior. He was Senator Roger Stephenson.
Roger breathed deeply, satisfied, as he grounded himself in his new life. Not that he had ever experienced another one, he thought as he mentally went over his biography.
Roger had been born in 1943 — ironically on the very day his former self would have received the serum if he hadn’t been deleted from reality — and many said his outdated policies hadn’t changed much since then. Consequently, he was celebrated as a hero by the American conservative movement, and equally reviled by those on the left. His approval ratings were among the lowest in the country due to his blatant corruption, and yet it was thanks to that corruption that he always won reelection comfortably. He was well-known as a slimy, cantankerous old bastard — that combined with his aggressive jingoism had earned him the moniker of “America’s Ass” — and he was proud of it.
On a whim, he turned in his chair and gazed out upon the cityscape outside, feeling a surge of intoxicating power wash over him. Sure, the President got all the press and the credit. But up here on Capitol Hill, Roger was the one in charge. He decided which bills passed and which ones failed before ever reaching the floor. His endorsement was widely coveted, and with his mountains of cash he could swing elections however he wanted. He had all of Congress, all of the country, wrapped around his fat, wrinkled finger.
Speaking of which, he took a glance at his schedule for the day. This afternoon alone, his office would be visited by a couple of junior lawmakers, a team of auto industry lobbyists, and even a foreign dignitary or two. All of them were coming to grovel at his feet for his support, and he would give it to them… so long as it enabled him to garner more wealth, more influence, more power. To do so was his god-given right as an American.
truly blown away by the incredible response to my first story! hope you enjoy this one as well — it's the first of many age progressions to come!
A little voice in Daniel’s head whispered that he really shouldn’t be doing this, but he ignored it as he lifted his twinkish frame over the fence into Mr. Entwistle’s backyard. So what if this was technically breaking and entering? Really, Mr. Entwistle had started it.
The situation was this: Growing up, Daniel had been neighbors with a sweet old lady named Mrs. Owens. She made the best cookies and instantly charmed everyone she met, but most importantly, she had a pool in her backyard — and everyone was invited to use it. The neighborhood children eagerly took advantage of this arrangement, Daniel most of all. He took to it like a duck to water, spending hours perfecting his form, and his hard work paid off when he was offered a scholarship to compete for his university’s swim team. Suffice it to say, the property may have been Mrs Owens’, but everybody knew the pool really belonged to Daniel.
So imagine his dismay when he returned home from his first year in college only to find the pool had been walled off, sealed away in plastic and plexiglass. Apparently, Mrs. Owens had moved to be closer to her grandkids — and her replacement was her polar opposite in every way.
Mr. Entwistle was a middle-aged man who never seemed to smile. He was tall and broad, but not notably so, and in any case his dad bod was invariably obscured by his business-casual uniform of a dumpy dress shirt and drab khakis. Combined with his rapidly thinning auburn hair and his just-starting-to-gray beard, it all added up to make him the epitome of middle-aged male mediocrity. The only noteworthy thing about his appearance was that Daniel could have sworn he had spotted a wedding ring on his finger. But if the man had a wife, Daniel had never seen her.
In terms of Mr Entwistle’s personality, there wasn’t much to speak of. He was cold and taciturn, gazing at everyone with a vaguely disapproving look in his eyes. This was reflected in his daily routine, which consisted of him exiting the house at 8 on the dot, driving to wherever it was he worked, returning at 6, and disappearing until the cycle repeated itself the next morning. Insultingly, at no point in this schedule did he even use the pool — it just sat there in its cage, its chlorinated waters placid and lonely. But on the flip side, Mr. Entwistle’s rigid routine made it trivial for Daniel to plan his little heist.
It was currently 10 in the morning, which meant Mr. Entwistle was at work and wouldn’t be home for hours. And Daniel planned to spend each and every one of those hours swimming in the pool that was rightfully his. Not wanting to delay, he stripped down to his baggy green swim trunks, revealing his pasty, lanky, and hairless body. He quickly snapped a cheeky selfie to commemorate his audacity.
He could already feel his pale skin beginning to burn in the sweltering summer sun, so without further ado, he dove into the pool with perfect form, leaving behind only the faintest ripple.
The water was cool and refreshing, and for a moment, Daniel allowed himself to just tread water as he basked in the sensation. But it wasn’t just the feeling of the pool water lapping against his skin that excited him — it was also the thought that he was reclaiming his property, his territory, from that interloper Mr. Entwistle. His cock briefly rose to its underwhelming length of 4 inches at that rebellious idea, but his swim trunks were so baggy that they entirely concealed his boner. Well, it didn’t matter — he had better things to do in this pool.
Once his erection had receded, Daniel got started on his training regimen, doing laps around the pool until his entire body tired. At that point, he allowed himself to mindlessly float on the surface until he felt rejuvenated enough to continue. But even when he was exhausted, his face displayed a wide, genuine grin — it felt good to be back in this pool. It was somewhere he truly felt at home.
Occasionally, he paused his training to swim to the deck and check the time on his phone, wanting to give himself plenty of time to leave. Right now, it was 1:33, which should have given him plenty more hours of pool time. The key phrase was should have, because at that moment, Daniel heard the telltale rumble of Mr. Entwistle’s car pulling up in the driveway.
Oh shit, Daniel thought. That’s not good. You see, there was one unexpected variable in Mr. Entwistle’s schedule. On certain days, he came home from work in the early afternoon — and when that happened, rather than entering the house through the front door, he liked to go through the gate to the backyard and relax by the poolside. These short days at work seemed to follow no rhyme or reason that Daniel could perceive, but Mr. Entwistle had just had one the previous day, so Daniel had assumed it wouldn’t be an issue. Evidently, he’d assumed wrong.
Panic set in as Daniel realized he had just seconds to escape before Mr. Entwistle arrived to witness his trespassing. That panic soon became despair as his eyes darted between his phone and his scattered clothes, forced to admit that he’d never make it out in time. As he heard the car door slam shut and Mr. Entwistle’s heavy footsteps trudge toward the backyard gate, Daniel grew desperate. And in his desperation, he did the one thing he could think of — he took a deep breath and dove underwater, praying that its turquoise hue would hide him from view.
Through the muddled underwater light, Daniel watched, terrified, as his neighbor’s silhouette walked down the pool deck. A few seconds passed, and he gave a mental sigh of relief. It seemed Mr. Entwistle somehow didn’t notice either Daniel or his belongings strewn across the patio. Of course, from his submerged vantage point, Daniel had no way of noticing his clothes and his phone fading into nothingness above him.
Mr. Entwistle remained up there for a minute, then another. Daniel was quite strong at holding his breath, but he couldn’t keep at it forever, and he was quickly reaching his limit. Just when Daniel thought he would be forced to abandon his hiding spot, a miracle happened — Mr. Entwistle got up and went inside, probably to use the bathroom.
As soon as Mr. Entwistle was out of sight, Daniel rushed to the surface, his lungs burning. But rather than emerging into the bright sunlight, he instead felt his head hit something solid with a muted thunk! Alarmed, he reached his hands out and found them unable to breach the line between the water and the air. There was some kind of invisible barrier covering the pool, preventing him from surfacing! He banged on it, pushed against it with all his might, but it was no use. He was trapped.
Now Daniel was in full panic mode. He was about to drown! Was this his punishment for breaking into his neighbor’s property? He tried to conserve his remaining air for as long as possible, but he only lasted a minute more. With his air depleted and his time up, he inhaled.
Surprisingly, he didn’t die. In fact, it was as if he could breathe underwater. Although he could feel the pool water entering his lungs, it was a rather pleasant feeling, filling his chest with pleasurable warmth. He didn’t notice that this wasn’t all that was happening to his chest. As he greedily inhaled more and more water, his torso rapidly inflated, bulging with muscle. His previously flat chest grew into two balloon-like pecs, and he developed chiseled abs far more prominent than anything his lithe swimmer’s build had previously allowed. His back grew, too, developing an immaculate triangle shape that any man would kill for.
Daniel now had the torso of an Adonis, which looked quite strange in tandem with the rest of his skinny body. But he wasn’t quite done yet. One last gulp of water caused a layer of fat to grow over his muscular middle, thickening him up while doing nothing to hide the strength that lay underneath. It was a shame that such an impressive body had no hair to accompany it, but that soon changed as Daniel felt pins and needles erupt across his torso. Black hair erupted everywhere the sensation appeared, and soon his chest, stomach, and back were covered by a carpet of the stuff — a vast improvement over his previous hairlessness.
Its work done in that region, the lovely warmth moved out to his appendages, where the process repeated. First he gained bodybuilder levels of muscle — biceps, triceps, quads — and then an additional layer of padding and hair to complete the package. As an extra perk, a tattoo appeared on his left shoulder, a simple, masculine thing that would have looked out of place on the man he had been but fit perfectly on the man he was becoming.
From there, the warmth migrated to his extremities, turning his delicate and skinny hands and feet into meaty and calloused bludgeons. His fingernails and toenails, one perfectly groomed, became cracked and weathered. His feet also grew tremendously, exploding into a monstrous size 15.
Next was his head. As the pleasant warmth traveled up his neck, Daniel’s vocal folds thickened, dropping his voice from a youthful tenor to a rumbling bass. He felt a satisfying cracking sensation as his facial features shifted. His nose became squatter, his brow became much more prominent, and his sharp chin became wider and rounder. Every part of his face did, actually, as it grew fatter, making it difficult to tell when his neck ended and his head began.
His face sagged a little as it became weathered and slightly wrinkled, as did the rest of his body. Daniel now appeared to be well into middle age, a far cry from his former self. Adding to that impression was the fact that all the hair atop his head was beginning to fall out, floating freely in the water before vanishing entirely. Soon his head was entirely bald, proudly exposing his smooth, shiny scalp to the world forevermore. As if to counterbalance that, he rapidly grew a well-groomed goatee, surrounding his mouth with a thick circle of hair.
The warm water centralized in Daniel’s brain, rendering him in a state of total, blissful calm. At some point in the process, he noticed all that was happening to him, but it was so relaxing and so pleasurable that he couldn’t bring himself to care. So he didn’t question it as thoughts and truths started rearranging in his head. The burgeoning knowledge and potential he had gained in his first year of college drained away, permanently slowing his brain to a sluggish crawl. He was dumb, and he didn’t care. In place of intelligence, more important skills entered his head, and suddenly he was an expert at bodybuilding and auto mechanics. That’s what he was now, an auto mechanic, although he hated to get dirty. No, wait, that wasn’t right, he realized. While Daniel the young swimmer couldn’t stand dirt and grime, Daniel the middle-aged mechanic couldn’t get enough of the feeling of sweat and engine grease on his body. That was just one facet of the cockier, manlier personality he was developing. Ironically, the new him wasn’t even all that into swimming, except as a means to cool off or show off his hot bod.
At this point, anyone who looked at this burly bear of a man would have no inkling of the weak little twink he used to be. There was just one incongruity left — his cock. His previously baggy swim trunks were now skin tight against his tree trunk thighs, exposing his 4-incher to the world. But a man like Daniel wasn’t meant to have such a glaring weak point, so the warmth rushed down to his penis, bringing with it all his memories and traits from his old life. They filled his balls, inflating them twofold, and aroused him like nothing he’d felt before. In the midst of the pleasure, his cock suddenly went soft, but it remained the same length — and then it hardened again, doubling to a monumental 8 inches that strained against his trunks. The trunks themselves shrunk into a black Speedo that left nothing to the imagination, making his cock even more prominent.
The arousal was so great that Daniel immediately found himself jacking off, moaning every time his fingers brushed his sensitive manhood. However, something within Daniel prevented him from going all the way. Deep down, he knew that if he allowed himself to give in to the pleasure, he would lose everything that made him, him. So slowly, reluctantly, he separated his meaty hands from his throbbing erection.
But then a face appeared in his mind’s eye — Mr. Entwistle’s. No, his name is Scott, his mind corrected. And Daniel realized how wrong he had been to dismiss him as mediocre before, because Scott was truly the hottest man he had ever seen. Everything about him, from his receding hairline to his curly beard to his perfectly proportioned dad bod, got Daniel going like nothing else. More information about Scott entered Daniel’s head, information he should have had no way of knowing, but through his newfound adoration for the man he didn’t question any of it. It was just a fact of life that he loved Scott’s hairy body (not nearly as hairy as Daniel’s, obviously), and his work ethic, and his sharp intelligence, and the way he was really a big softie underneath that stern demeanor, and of course the hot and raunchy sex he had with him. Really, he loved everything about Scott Entwistle, his husband, and that epiphany was enough for him to climax, releasing his old self into his Speedo without even touching his prodigious cock.
The force of his orgasm physically propelled him upward, breaking the invisible barrier and allowing him to breach the surface as his new, better self — Dan Entwistle.
Blinking to adjust to the afternoon light, Dan was faced with a welcome sight: Scott, his beautiful husband, lounging in a pool chair in nothing but trunks, his massive pouch clearly visible and ready for action.
Scott greeted him with a wry expression and a peace sign — his husband was a man of few words.
“Someone’s home early,” Dan said, relishing the sound of his sexy, masculine gravel. Not that his voice had ever been anything else.
“I wanted to surprise you,” Scott said in his sensual baritone.
“Well, Mr. Entwistle,” Dan replied, “consider me surprised.” Dan noticed Scott’s 7-inch sausage perking up at that. After all, Entwistle was Dan’s surname, which Scott had adopted after their wedding. To be called “Mr. Entwistle” was a reminder of their love — and a massive turn-on.
Knowing his horny husband was like putty in his hands, Dan stepped out of the water, fully revealing his godlike body — and giving Scott a full view of his bulge within his Speedo.
“I think that you deserve a reward for surprising me,” Dan said, feeling himself begin to chub up even though he’d just come minutes prior. “And this Speedo ain’t gonna hold much longer.” He winked, causing Scott to shiver. “Why don’t you hop in the pool with me and see how else you can surprise me?”
Scott licked his lips, clearly into it. “But babe… what if the neighbors see?”
“Oh, Mr. Entwistle…” Dan said. “That’s what this fence is for.” And he fell back in the water with a mighty splash, knowing his husband would follow.
Loved your first story, cw to see the rest of your stuff! Would love to see some sort of stoner tf? Maybe another college situation, where more of a jockey-stoner gives a hit to a gay guy, turning him into a dumb bi stoner too.
i do have a stoner tf in the works, actually! it won't be out for a while and it's pretty different from what's described here, but i hope you'll find it hot nevertheless ;)
this is my first time posting something like this to tumblr, hope it's an enjoyable read !
Arthur and Jimmy may have had the same last name, but that was the only thing they had in common.
Arthur Lee was, by all accounts, a nerd. When the Asian math major wasn’t dutifully taking notes on complex equations at his lectures or studying in silence at the library, he could usually be found holed up in his dorm, gaming until the wee hours of the morning. His only extracurricular activity to speak of was his weekly participation in the Chinese Student Union, if by “participation” one meant “sitting in the back of the room and not speaking to anyone.” His naturally pale skin was made even more so by a lack of sunlight, and his messy black hair resisted any attempt at styling. Short, shrimpy, and gay, he had clearly never seen the inside of a gym. In short, he was the exact opposite of his roommate.
Jimmy Lee was everything Arthur was not. Tall where Arthur was short, buff where Arthur was skinny, popular where Arthur was friendless. The straight white jock spent his days living out the all-American college fantasy — playing sports, pumping iron, and partying all night long. Of course, that hardly left any time for Jimmy to work toward his comms degree — but that hardly mattered, because everyone knew he was as dumb as a bag of rocks. His brutish Neanderthal features, extensive body hair, and blond buzz cut only added to that impression.
Maybe it would have been unrealistic to expect Arthur and Jimmy to be friends, but certainly no one could have anticipated the sheer antipathy that defined their roommate relationship. Arthur’s reasons for hating Jimmy were predictable — he was dumb, loud, and obnoxious; he left dirty clothes and sweaty exercise gear everywhere; and he stank up the dorm with his alpha musk. Jimmy equally couldn’t stand his prissy, prudish roommate. Arthur nagged him constantly, and he shot down all his invitations to work out or go out. Not to mention, he forbade Jimmy from getting laid while he was in the room, which was all the time. Nothing said unsexy like the presence of a judgmental Asian nerd hunched over his gaming PC at two in the morning.
Needless to say, it was not an ideal situation for anyone. So when a flier for the Roommate Compatibility Program was slipped under their door one evening, their interest was piqued.
Having issues with your roommate(s)? The Roommate Compatibility Program is here to help! Our trained experts use scientifically proven methods to ensure you and your roommate have a lifelong bond. 100% success rate, guaranteed!
In a rare moment of agreement for them, they decided they had nothing to lose.
That was how they found themselves entertaining a stranger in their dorm the next day. The man, who had introduced himself as “Mr. Thompson-Filipowski, from the RCP — but you can call me Mr. T.F. for short” had shown up out of the blue, giving them no time to prepare. So now they sat in their respective beds, answering Mr. T.F.’s questions as he appraised their living space thoughtfully. He wore a loud blue suit and had in hand a clipboard that he occasionally used to jot down notes, but otherwise he had no distinguishing features to speak of. Everything else about him, from his build to his skin tone to his hairstyle, was somehow impossible to pin down. He must have just had one of those faces.
“Thank you, boys,” he said after he was done interrogating them about their (lack of a) relationship. “I just have one more question for each of you before we can officially get started.” He turned to Jimmy first. “Jimmy, what would your ideal roommate be like?”
Jimmy had to think for quite a bit at that question. Finally, he responded in his vapid baritone: “Uh, I dunno… I guess he would just, like, be my bro.”
Mr. T.F. nodded, scribbling something on his clipboard. “Okay, excellent.” He turned to the Asian nerd next. “And Arthur, what about you?”
“My ideal roommate would be someone who’s, well, similar to me,” Arthur said, wincing at how his voice still cracked at every word. “Someone who shares my interests, and who I can spend time with, and… yeah.”
Mr. T.F. returned to his clipboard. “Right,” he said. “So, to summarize — Jimmy, you want your roommate to be your bro. And Arthur, you want your roommate to be similar to you. Is that correct?” There was a strange weight to his words, exuding the sense that something significant was carried within them, but Jimmy didn’t register this and Arthur thought it irrational, so both roommates ignored it. They nodded.
“Excellent!” Mr. T.F. said, the ominous presence now gone from his voice. “Okay, so often what we’ve found at the RCP is that roommate incompatibility is often a case of misapplied expectations. Often, our roommates do meet our expectations, you just need to keep an open mind about it. I’d wager you boys have much more in common than you think.”
Arthur rolled his eyes and Jimmy audibly scoffed at that, but they both kept listening anyway.
“For instance, looking around your dorm room, I can tell that both of you have a pretty similar fashion sense, wouldn’t you say?”
Arthur wanted to protest that all of the clothes strewn about belonged to Jimmy, not him, but the more he looked, the more he realized that wasn’t entirely true. That jersey on the floor definitely belonged to him, as did the baseball cap hanging from his bed and the sweaty white socks next to his desk. In fact, now that he thought about it, roughly half of the clothing he could see actually was his. Huh, he supposed he did dress similarly to Jimmy, then…
“I guess so,” Jimmy said as Arthur was distracted. “It’s hard to remember whose is whose sometimes because we dress the same and wear the same size, huhuh.”
As Jimmy spoke, his words became reality. He didn’t notice, but he shrunk down a few inches from his previously monstrous height until he was just under six feet — still respectable, but no longer anything more. Meanwhile, Arthur rose dramatically to meet him, until they stood at the exact same height. Since the two were equally small and shared the same taste in schlubby, sporty clothes, they essentially owned one wardrobe between them, borrowing and swapping constantly — although what looked tight and well-fitted on the muscular Ajimmy was loose and baggy on the lanky Jarthur. Curiously, the shirt Jarthur currently wore was the one item of clothing he wore that didn’t update itself to match his new reality; as such, it was now uncomfortably small on him.
Mr. T.F. continued, “And judging by the sports gear and gaming equipment in here, it looks like you also have similar interests, isn’t that right? Have you ever tried bonding over that?”
Again, it seemed Mr. T.F. was mistaken. Yes, their room indicated their respective interests in fitness and video games, but those interests were far from shared. Jarthur wanted to correct him, but then he had to reconsider. While he wasn’t into sports like Ajimmy, he certainly knew his way around them. He got as hyped as any other guy watching the Super Bowl, and he had fun whenever he was invited to play a quick game of basketball or soccer.
Meanwhile, Ajimmy was trying not to laugh at the implication that he liked video games. What did Mr. T.F. take him for, some nerd like Jarthur? But now that he thought about it… he did have fond memories of owning his bros with his mad gaming skills. He didn’t really want to call himself a gamer — he wasn’t into any of that anime or Nintendo kiddie shit. But Madden, CoD? Yeah, he fucked with those.
Imperceptibly, the dorm room shifted to match the roommates’ changing interests. Posters of popular players duplicated themselves from Ajimmy’s side of the room and pinned themselves into the wall above Jarthur’s bed. At the same time, the gaming computer vanished from Jarthur’s desk, swiftly replaced by a small TV between their beds. Well-used controllers popped into existence, one for each of them. The roommates themselves weren’t spared from the wave of changes, either. The tan leached out of Asjimm’s skin until he was quite pale, although not unhealthily so. Meanwhile, muscles made themselves known for the first time all across Joethur’s body. He was still lanky, but there was a definite sculptedness to his body that had never been there before, demonstrating his newfound appreciation of physical activity and straining his shirt even further.
“Yeah, all the time,” Joethur responded to Mr. T.F.’s questions. “I can destroy Asjimm at basketball in real life and in 2K,” he bragged.
“As if!” Asjimm retorted good-naturedly. “Next time, I’m kicking your ass, nerd!”
Joethur laughed. He may have had some problems with his roommate, but their shared competitiveness was not one of them.
“Ah, that’s lovely to hear,” Mr. T.F. said, checking a box on his clipboard. “The best way to become closer is to spend time together, after all. But that should be easy for you two — I’d imagine your class schedules are quite similar, since you’re in the same major.”
What was Mr. T.F. talking about? Joethur had never taken a comms class in his life, and Asjimm would certainly never be caught dead in a math classroom. But then Joethur went over his class schedule in his head again, and he realized that he did share most of his classes with his roommate. There was Accounting 101 on Mondays and Wednesdays, and Entrepreneurship every Thursday morning… In fact, aside from Joethur’s one math class and Asjimm’s lone comms class, their schedules were identical! But how could that be the case…?
“Well, I mean, yeah, I guess we do,” Asjimm said. His face twisted into a cocky smirk. “But just between you and me, it’s not like we bother to show up to class most of the time, right Joethyr?”
Everything suddenly snapped into place for Joethyr. Ausjim was right, of course — being a business major required confidence, charisma, and leadership skills more than anything else, and both Joethyr and Ausjim had that in spades. It certainly didn’t require studying or smarts, which was fortunate for Joethyr, as his brain was rapidly shrinking to match his meatheaded roommate’s. In fact, it was even smaller than Ausjim’s — he had scored highly enough in high school math that he was able to take an elective comms class for an easy A this semester, while Joethyr was being forced to struggle through calculus for a second time.
Records across campus rapidly rewrote themselves to reflect this new reality. Ausjim’s grades rose slightly, even as Joethyr’s GPA dropped from a 4.0 to a 2.0 — but whatever, C’s got degrees. In turn, the two roommates underwent their own changes. Joethyr’s unkempt hair retreated into his skull, leaving behind a slick fade. Moreover, the spark of intelligence retreated from his eyes, leaving them dark and hard. Ausjim’s hair experienced the opposite change, growing out into an impeccably groomed quiff that perfectly framed his face, neutralizing his unattractive Neanderthal features. His body hair also faded into nothingness, leaving him totally clean-shaven. The business classes he was taking had taught him the importance of presentation, after all.
“Yeah, bruh,” Joethyr agreed, now speaking in the same vacant timbre as Ausjim.
“Well, how do you boys spend your time then?” Mr. T.F. prompted. He was nearly at the bottom of his checklist — this far into the process, he didn’t even need to guide the roommates’ transformation. Their new personalities had largely subsumed who they used to be, and would be happy to fill the remaining gaps by themselves.
“Isn’t it obvious, bruh?” Ausjim said. “The gym — duh! Gotta get those gains!”
At his roommate’s proclamation, Joethy underwent a startling change. At last, his muscles ballooned all across his body until they were identical in size to Ausjim’s. No longer did he have to settle for merely toned — he was well and truly ripped. So dramatic was the change that his shirt was instantly torn apart, revealing his glorious pecs and washboard abs for the world to see. The Asian hunk subconsciously flexed as he thought about his answer to Mr. T.F.’s question, realizing something funny in the process.
“Hell, we probably even spend more time at the Chinese Student Union than class, right bruh?” Joethy nudged his equally jockish roommate.
The word “Chinese” resonated in Ausjin’s mind as he experienced sudden changes of his own. His lush hair was quickly thickening and inexorably staining itself midnight black. And as for the rest of his body, his lack of hair down there became much easier to maintain, as he naturally had less of it. Meanwhile, his facial features were shifting all at once — brow softening, nose broadening, eyes narrowing, lips plumpening. Eventually, they settled on what the rest of his body had already become — a carbon copy of his roommate.
“Yeah, bro, totally…”
At the word “bro,” the roommates’ final changes began. The physical refinements were over, but there was still work to do mentally. Ausjin’s brain was purged of the faces of his former family, their white features morphing into far more familiar Asian ones. Fond memories shifted as his mother’s famous meatloaf became her authentic dumpling recipe, and the destination of his childhood summer vacations was corrected from Europe to China. Through it all, he remained the dumb, popular jock he had always been. That was also true of Joethy, who could no longer remember being a lame, skinny nerd. Nights spent studying were replaced with nights spent partying, and members of an extensive social circle easily entered the parts of his brain that had never experienced true friendship. His memories of his family remained the same, however — with one key addition. The newcomer’s face was blurry, but the more that he focused on it, the more familiar it seemed. Almost like… his own face…? Or was it Ausjin’s face? That seemed closer, but…
By Joethy’s side, Ausjin found his memories haunted by an identical face. The two jocks sat there in dumbfounded silence, both trying to recall who it was that featured so prominently in their memories. What was his name? Not Joethy or Ausjin, but rather… rather…
“Joey! Austin!”
Joey and Austin Lee snapped back to attention, refocusing on their strange guest.
Mr. T.F. chuckled, putting his clipboard away. “You boys zoned out there for a sec! It’s okay, I’ll get out of your hair soon. I just have one last question for you — are you getting along as roommates?”
“Well, of course we’re getting along, bruh!” Austin exclaimed.
“We’re basically the same person already!” Joey finished his twin’s sentence with a pure, dull guffaw.
Because it was true. Joey and Austin Lee were clearly cut from the same cloth: The identical twin Asian jocks were both brainless, buff, bisexual business-major bros. The only appreciable difference between the twins was their hairstyles. Austin fancied himself a pretty boy, spending hours by the mirror meticulously maintaining his gelled hair. Joey, meanwhile, rocked a utilitarian crew cut, confident enough to put his angelic face on full display. But other than that, they were totally inseparable — everything they did, from working out to gaming to partying, they did together. (Rumor had it that they even fucked together, only bringing a lucky girl or guy home when he or she was willing to share.)
“Great to hear that! Thanks for participating in our Roommate Compatibility Survey, you two — although I don’t know what results we were expecting from twins like you… Anyway, have a great one!” As Mr. T.F. exited the room, he allowed himself one last glance back at the Lee twins as they mindlessly bantered. Both of them had certainly gotten their wishes. Joey was exactly like Austin, and Austin was exactly like Joey, and they were certainly each other’s bros — in both senses of the word. Another success for the Roommate Compatibility Program.
As soon as the door clicked shut behind Mr. T.F., the Lee twins promptly forgot he had ever existed, returning to their existences as paragons of young Asian American masculinity.
“So, what’s the plan for today, bro?” Austin said. “Hit the gym, then hit the streets?”
Joey smirked, admiring himself and his twin in the mirror. “You know me so well, bro!”
