Magic Markers

The towel bar on the third floor of the Driftwood Inn had come off the wall. Again.

I crouched in the cramped bathroom, wedging my multitool behind the bracket. The drywall was soft, and the stud was too far left. No matter how tight I got the screws, it would sag. I could already picture the guests – another couple from Portland, probably – sending in a complaint about “basic standards.” I’d have to smooth it over. Offer a bottle of wine.

My shirt stuck to my back. My phone buzzed in my pocket.

One missed call from my boss.

Two from the cleaning crew.

Three from Troy.

I didn’t answer.

By the time I got back to the office – a prefab shed with a busted AC unit – I was thirty minutes behind. I cracked a La Croix, booted up the system, and tried not to look at my reflection in the monitor. My hair was matted. My eyes looked tired.

Troy, on the other hand –

He’d only been living with me for six months. We knew each other from college. Not close, but close enough that when he messaged me saying he needed a place in town, I said sure. I figured we were both older now. Settled. Responsible.

I figured wrong.

He was always shirtless. Always tan. Always lounging around. Every week it was something new – new sneakers, new gadgets, new girls. I had no idea where the money came from. He barely worked, as far as I could tell. Maybe he was doing something online. Maybe people just gave him things.

It pissed me off more than I wanted to admit. Because it worked. People liked him. They gave him free shots at the bar. They laughed at his dumb jokes. The universe, somehow, kept saying yes to him. He’d breeze into a room and leave with a number, a job offer, a free meal. I’d spent my whole life trying to get ahead by being responsible.

It was never that easy for me.

My phone buzzed again.

TROY: DUDE

TROY: You gotta come home

TROY: It’s actually insane lol

I didn’t answer. I had six units turning over and half a pallet of linens missing. Whatever “insane” thing he’d come up with could wait.

—————

I got home around seven. My shirt clung to my lower back, and my thighs were chafing. I wanted a shower, leftovers, and maybe one episode of something dumb.

Troy’s voice hit me before I even opened the front door.

“Dude. You’re gonna lose it.”

I found him in the kitchen. Shirtless, again. Blue board shorts slung so low they should’ve come with a warning. He was grinning like he’d won the lottery.

“Check it out,” he said, waving a wooden box at me.

He flipped the lid open. A dozen thick markers gleamed inside, each one a different color, arranged like a grade school pride flag. He picked up a green one and sniffed it.

“They smell like candy,” he said. “But the guy said that’s not the cool part. The cool part is, they work. Like, really work. You write something on a thing, and the thing becomes what you wrote.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Literal transformation. You want your couch to be leather? Write ‘leather couch’ on it. Want your toaster to be a panini press? Write it on the side.”

I stared at him. “You’re serious.”

“Deadass.”

“That’s not how objects work.”

He grinned. “Come outside.”

Troy’s car was parked half on the lawn again. A silver Nissan Versa. The one part of his life that wasn’t flashy. Ding in the front fender. Cloth seats. A “Keep It Simple” sticker on the bumper that I’m 99% sure came with the car.

“This,” he said, uncapping the marker, “is the test case.”

“Please tell me you’re not going to vandalize your own hood.”

“Dude. Watch.”

He bent over and wrote in big, looping letters across the dusty silver paint.

1968 Mustang GT 2

“‘G2’ because the guy said you can’t write anything that doesn’t exist,” he added. “Apparently it messes with the magic. Or the grammar. I don’t know.”

He stood up, beaming. “Now we wait twelve hours.”

“For what?”

“For my mid-ass Versa to turn into a Mustang.”

I folded my arms. “You are the dumbest person I know.”

“And yet, everything works out for me.” He winked. “We’ll check it in the morning.”

I grabbed a cold slice of pizza and sank into the couch. There was no way this could be real.

But when I looked out the window… his car did look different.

Sleeker. Shinier. Lower to the ground.

I rubbed my eyes. It was probably the light.

—————

I didn’t sleep well. I kept checking the window, half-convinced something was going to happen. Police lights. A knock at the door. Nothing came.

When I walked into the kitchen the next morning, Troy was at the stove cooking eggs. He didn’t look tired. His skin caught the light through the open blinds. He nodded toward the driveway.

“Go check.”

I opened the front door.

The Mustang sat where the Versa had been. Same driveway. Same angle. But everything else had changed.  A real muscle car.

Back in the kitchen, Troy was plating the eggs.

“You could do your shoes,” he said. “Or that couch you hate. Or take care of stuff at work?”

He said it like it was nothing, but this was rewriting the laws of physics.

I poured my coffee.

“You could write ‘perfect body’ on a mirror,” he said. “See what happens.”

I didn’t respond.

“You could write ‘ten million dollars’ on a pile of receipts. ‘Happy’ on your forehead. ‘Big dick’ on your boxers.” He grinned. “Whatever, man. I’m just saying, it’s got range.”

It all sounded insane. There were a dozen things I could fix. Things I hated about my body. My apartment. My life.

I thought about writing something on my shirt. Something small. Something easy to reverse. But then I pictured it going wrong. My chest swelling too fast. My skin breaking out. My teeth falling out of my head.

Troy watched me think.

“It’s not cursed,” he said.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared. I’m rational.”

He forked into his eggs and didn’t say anything else.

I kept thinking anyway.

------

I came home to the smell of weed and taco meat.

"Unit Three’s a disaster," I complained, dropping my bag by the door. "The lights don’t work, the guests are pissed, and the owner wants a full electrical report like I’m a certified contractor. I can’t even get the breaker panel open without risking a fire. I’m supposed to make magic happen with a screwdriver and a YouTube tutorial?”

Troy was on the couch, stretched out in mesh shorts.

"Bro, check it out," he nodded toward the kitchen. I followed his eyes.

The toaster had the word "toaster oven" written across the side in green marker. The ink was faded at the edges, like it had soaked in. The coffee table said "vintage walnut slab." The fridge now had "double wide smart fridge" ghosting across the lower door. All of them looked weird – in-between somehow. Not quite changed, not quite normal.

I opened the fridge. The inside light was brighter. The drawers looked newer. A little smoother. The La Croix was stacked in perfect rows like it came from a vending machine.

"I wish you wouldn't do this to our place," I moaned. “What if it makes things worse?”

“What, like Unit Three worse?”

I shut the fridge.

“You can’t fix that job,” he said. “You don’t have what you need. You don’t have the time. You don’t have the tools. So try the marker. Worst case, it doesn’t work and you’re stuck exactly where you are. Best case, you save the day.”

“I don’t know how the transformation works.”

“No one does. You don’t have to. You write what you need. You wait twelve hours. That’s it.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“You want reassurance or results?” He looked over at the markers in their wooden tray on the coffee table. The order was all mixed up – Troy had been busy.

“You could write ‘fixed electrical panel’ on your clipboard. Or ‘professional tools’ on your kit. Or ‘giant cock’ on your underwear. You’re only limited by how uptight you want to be.”

I looked at the markers. It was tempting.

He leaned back. “One try. That’s all I’m saying.”

----------

Troy wouldn’t let it go.

Every time I tried to get something done around the house, he brought it up again. When I took out the garbage: "You could write 'self-emptying trash can' on that lid." When I started cooking pasta: "You could write 'chef-grade' on that pot." He hovered. He teased. He got bored and turned it into a bit.

I told him to shut up. He didn’t.

Eventually, I cracked. I needed to fix Unit Three, and this was the only option I hadn’t already burned through.

"Fine," I said, setting my cracked old toolkit on the counter. "But only for this. No shortcuts. I just need tools that work."

Troy held up both hands like he was promising not to interfere. "Just one try, dude. You won’t regret it."

I grabbed the red marker. It smelled like cherry. The scent hit fast and clung to the back of my throat. I uncapped it and wrote slowly across the top of my toolbox.

Professional tools

The ink sat bold for a second, then began to soften. It started soaking in slowly, darkening the plastic around each letter. I stood there, staring, waiting for something to happen. Nothing dramatic did. But the case looked cleaner. Straighter. The scratches along the edge dulled.

I popped it open.

The inside was already starting to shift. The foam lining looked deeper, tighter. The screwdrivers gleamed a little too much. The hammer didn’t have tape on the grip anymore. There was a laser level in the lid, and a voltmeter I didn’t remember buying.

I picked up the hammer. The grip was firm and balanced. The head looked untouched. It felt right in my hand.

The markers were goddamn magic.

I locked the case shut, set it on the floor, and didn’t say anything. Troy didn’t either.

He just smirked and turned on the TV.

----------

I woke up early and checked the toolbox.

The ink had faded completely. The case looked brand new. I opened it, half-expecting everything to have snapped back to normal, but the screwdrivers were still pristine. The voltmeter even had a digital readout. It worked.

Unit Three wasn’t a problem anymore. The voltmeter let me trace the issue back to a single faulty breaker, and the tools let me swap it out without calling for backup. The guests were thrilled. The owner called me "proactive." I hadn’t heard that word in years.

I felt good about it. I’d used the marker for something necessary. Practical. I hadn’t abused it. I hadn’t taken the easy way out. It felt like the kind of choice I could live with.

Troy, on the other hand, was on a tear.

By the time I got out of the shower, the blender had "smoothie station" scribbled across the side. His toothbrush read "celebrity white smile." His bedroom door had a new label: "private gym." The ink on half of it was still wet.

He was in the kitchen eating Greek yogurt out of the container and flexing one arm every time he reached for the granola.

“Trying to get symmetrical,” he said, mouth full. “Girls notice that shit.”

“Don’t you think you’re pushing it?”

He shrugged. “I’ve got goals.”

Troy was straight. That much had never been in question. But lately he was working overtime to look like the shirtless guy in every protein ad. Bigger arms. Wider back. Straighter teeth. The marker was making it happen.

“You going again?” he asked, nodding toward the marker tray.

“I don’t need to,” I said. “But I was thinking about the fit of my shirts.”

I grabbed a faded navy tee from the basket. It used to fit before I lost weight last year.

I chose the purple marker this time. It smelled like grape soda. I wrote carefully across the inside of the collar:

Tailored fit for Nick

The fabric shimmered faintly. The letters began to fade.

Nothing changed right away. I held it up, turning it in the light. For a second, I thought maybe I’d done it wrong.

But an hour later, when I went to pull it over my head, it moved differently. The collar was firmer. The sleeves didn’t bunch. The hem hung straighter.

By lunchtime, the shoulders sat tighter against my frame. The sleeves had drawn in, not by much, but enough to make my triceps look pretty good. The fabric around my chest smoothed itself out. I could feel it shift slightly every time I moved.

By the end of the day, the whole shirt felt like it had been cut for me. When I leaned over a countertop or twisted to reach something high, it followed the motion without sagging or riding up.

Troy noticed. “Hey, that fits way better.”

“Yeah.”

He gave me a thumbs up and went back to his flexing.

----------

The next morning, I spent twenty minutes staring at myself in the mirror.

The shirt still looked good. Better than anything I owned. The way it sat against my chest made me look stronger than I was.

But that wasn't what had me stuck. I knew I had to be careful or I'd get hooked on this feeling.  The markers were good in an emergency, and they were even helpful for saving money on new clothes... but watching Troy. go wild...

Whatever.  It was fine as long as I showed some self-control.  I went back to the hamper and pulled out another shirt. An old grey one that always looked awful on me.

Better fit for Nick. I wrote it along the inside of the collar.

The ink pulsed. The letters softened.

I went for my shoes next. They were cheap slip-ons from two summers ago, scuffed and worn. I grabbed them, uncapped a the marker and wrote –  Air Force One, perfect size for Nick

The ink began to soak in. The stitching along the sole straightened. The toe box shifted. The fabric thickened beneath my fingers.

Troy walked in from the bathroom. Just a towel around his waist, glistening like he’d stepped out of an Instagram reel.

“Dude,” he said, spotting the marker in my hand. “You’re on a roll.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Sure it is. It’s progress.” He grinned. “You’re finally loosening up.  Hey... I was thinking of writing ‘3D delts’ on my shoulders next,” he said. “Already did ‘Big pecs’ last night. Gonna hit ‘Diamond calves’ today. You think I should do ‘cobra back’ or is that too cringe?”

He wasn’t joking. His handwriting was still faint on his chest.

“Are you sure changing your body is a good idea?” I asked. “I just want my shirts to fit.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He smirked. “It a slippery slope, right?”

I didn’t respond.

By the time I left for work, the shirt had already started to change. The collar was firmer. The sleeves settled closer to my arms. My old shoes pinched tighter around the toes, reshaping themselves as I walked.

----------

I didn’t plan to use the marker again that day.

But the new shirt and shoes kept catching my attention in shop windows. Reflections in car doors. The weight of the cotton against my chest. The soft squeak of the upgraded soles on tile. I moved better. I looked cleaner. More put together.

So when I ducked into a guest bathroom at work and caught my reflection in the mirror again – hair flat, jawline soft, posture slouched – I grabbed a marker out of my bag.  Yeah... I slipped one in there.  For emergencies.

It was practical.

I didn’t want to turn into Troy. I just wanted to feel like I had a handle on my appearance. I unwrapped a comb from the complimentary supplies and wrote carefully across the tines.

Easy volume, natural hold.  I ran it through my locks.

Within half an hour, my hair started lifting. Not all at once. Just the crown, then the sides. It held shape when I ran my fingers through it. A small change. No one else would notice.

Except Troy.

When I got back that evening, Troy was sprawled across the couch shirtless. His body was covered in fading black marker.

"Diamond calves." "Wider lats." "Thicker traps."

He glanced up from his phone. “See dude” he grinned. “Nothing to worry about.  Hey... did you do something to your hair?"

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

He walked right up to me, bringing a waft of sandalwood. His traps looked fuller. His calves curved more dramatically. The words on his body had faded and he was looking pretty pumped.  Troy reached out and tousled my hair with a chuckle.

"Look at that," he smirked.  "Falls right back into place.  Good idea dude, I gotta try that."

He put on a long sleeved shirt and went to the bar.  I stayed at home and tried to stop dreaming up more ideas for the markers.

----------

Troy came home after midnight, slamming the door harder than usual.

I was half asleep on the couch, TV still playing. He stomped in, breathing hard, and dropped his keys with a loud clatter.

“Girls are fucking useless,” he snapped. “I bought drinks, I danced, I was charming – nothing. They were all, like, ‘you’re not my type’ or ‘you remind me of my ex.’ I’m so sick of it. It’s always some new excuse.”

He paced for a second, then snatched the marker tray off the coffee table.

“Screw it. I know what works.”

And with that, he stomped to his room and slammed the door behind him.

In the morning, I found him shirtless in the kitchen, chugging water straight from the Brita pitcher. His hair stuck out in all directions. His eyes were bloodshot. The marker ink was mostly gone now, the words from before having already faded into changes.

His chest was broader. His calves were carved and taut. His whole body looked like it had been sculpted for a fitness magazine.

But scrawled across the middle of his chest in huge, blocky capitals:

GAY

I froze.

He looked up and caught me staring.

“Yeah,” he said. “I wrote it last night.”

I didn’t know what to say.

He stretched his arms overhead, yawning like nothing was weird. “I was at the bar, right? Got fed up. Girls weren’t down. Bunch of flirting, then ghosting. But gay guys? Dude, they’re always ready. Grindr’s like a buffet. So I figured, why not?”

“Troy—”

He grinned. “Now I can get laid whenever I want. No more games. Just sex.”

He scratched at his abs, and the faintest remnants of ink smudged under his fingertips. “You could do it too, you know. No pressure. Just so long as you’re cool living with a gay stud.”

He winked.

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

Then I pulled off my shirt. Troy raised an eyebrow.

I grabbed a blue marker from the tray on the counter. The tip was soft and familiar.

I looked him in the eye as I wrote across my chest:

ALLY

The ink settled into my skin.

Just to prove I was cool with it.

——————

The word felt warm on my chest the rest of the day.

Not literally, but... yeah. I kept tugging at my shirt. I was suddenly hyper aware of how it draped over my body. The fabric felt heavier. The tight fit felt exposing. Every time I passed by a mirror or a window, I checked to see if the letters were showing through.

They weren’t. But I knew they were there.

And Troy knew too. He didn’t say anything, but I caught him looking. Like he was proud of me. Like we were in this together.

I just wanted to be supportive. I wanted Troy to know I was cool. That was all.

By lunch, the letters had started to fade. By late afternoon, they were gone.

And I couldn’t stop thinking about Troy.

He seemed so... free. He was still the same dude, but looser somehow. Like he’d finally stopped fighting something. And the more I watched him be completely, unapologetically himself, the more I liked having him around..

When I got home, Troy was shaving his scruff in the kitchen mirror. He was shirtless again, but now wearing short white gym shorts, no socks, and clean white sneakers. A pink crop tee was tossed carelessly on the counter beside him, like he'd just taken it off. His eyebrows looked freshly shaped, and a thin chain rested just above his collarbone. The marker lines were gone, but the results were all there.

“Dude,” he said, without turning. “You ever think about writing something lower?”

I blinked. “Like where?”

He smirked. “You know where.”

I laughed it off. “You do you, man.”

Then I looked at him a little closer. “Hey... for what it’s worth? I think it’s actually really cool what you did. Like... gay guys are just cool. Honestly.”

Troy raised his eyebrows, amused. “You wanna try it?” he said, holding out a marker with a teasing grin.

“Nah,” I said, chuckling. “I’m happy like I am.”

He tapped the marker against his palm. “You know what’d make coming out easier?” he asked, all coy.

“What?” I asked, a little nervous.

“It’s no problem having a straight roommate,” he said, smile widening. “But... can I?”

I hesitated. “Uh... I mean...”

He gave me a mock-wounded look. “C'mon, you don't trust me? Just 'cause I'm gay now?”

That hit me square in the chest. I had this instinctive need to prove I was good with gay people. That I could handle it. That I was an ally.

I nodded. “Yeah. Go ahead.”

Troy stepped forward and gently took my hand. Then he wrote a single word in thick, confident letters:

Mancandy

I stared at it.

Hey, if that made it easier for Troy to come out, it wasn’t like it’s a bad thing...

----------

I didn’t think much of it at first. The marker said “Mancandy,” sure—but I figured that meant a little glow-up. Better hair, maybe. Some skin-clearing magic. Nothing big.

But that night, Troy had some guy over. Grindr date, I guessed. The two of them were laughing in the kitchen, pouring drinks, when I came out to grab water. I wasn’t shirtless or anything—I was wearing my usual old tee and shorts. But the guy gave me a long, slow look.

“Hey,” he said, nodding at me like I was dessert.

Troy raised an eyebrow, amused. “That’s my roommate,” he chuckled.

“Lucky you,” the guy said.

I grabbed my water and slipped back to my room, trying not to think too hard about it.

The next morning, I woke up and rubbed my eyes. My sheets felt different—smoother against my skin. Lighter. I sat up and stretched.

And froze.

The reflection in my closet mirror didn’t look like me. Not completely.

My body was thicker. Sculpted. I had pecs now—round and prominent, my nipples pushing against the fabric of my undershirt. My arms were defined, veined, strong. My jawline had sharpened, and I had dimples now when I smiled. Dimples. I looked like a Calvin Klein ad.

I pulled on jeans and felt the way they hugged my thighs and cupped under my ass. I tossed on a fitted tee and a backwards ball cap and checked the mirror again. It didn’t feel like a costume. It felt like... me. Or some part of me I hadn’t known was waiting.

But that wasn’t the end of it. By lunch, I’d grabbed the marker again.

I rolled up my sleeve and wrote a full paragraph down the inside of my forearm:

Two inches taller. Muscles proportional to current frame. Hairless from the neck down, except for armpits and pubic area. Pores minimized. Skin tone warmed and deepened. Natural tan enhanced. Beard softened to precise scruff.

By the time I’d finished the last word, I already felt it starting.

Throughout the afternoon, I caught myself glancing at windows, noticing the subtle shifts. My shirts fit even tighter. My arms looked slightly bigger by the hour. When I ran my hand over my chest, it was smooth. So were my legs. My skin looked like it had a filter on it – clean, even glowing.

The tan was deeper. Not fake or orange. Just... sunkissed. Healthy. My scruff had evened out, too, tight and dark across my jaw.

I was a walking thirst trap.

When I got home, Troy was already pre-gaming. A bottle of wine on the table. Candles lit. Crop top slung over a chair.

“Date night?” I asked, amused.

“Grindr guy,” he said with a grin. “Says he’s into masc types. Hope I don’t scare him off.”

When the guy showed up, I blinked.

It was like looking in a mirror—if the mirror had been dunked in a vat of frat house energy. Tank top stretched tight across his chest. Five-inch gym shorts that showed off thick, tan thighs. Bleached blond hair that made his dark brows pop. He was just a few notches more exaggerated than I was. Dumber. Bouncier. Gayer.

But the resemblance was uncanny. Same build. Same proportions. Same effortless hotness.

“Hey, I’m Connor,” he said, looking me up and down with a grin. “You must be Nico.”

“Nick,” I corrected automatically.

He winked. “Cool. Guess our boy’s got a type, huh?” he said, nudging Troy with his elbow.

Troy gave me a look that was half guilty, half smug. I just shrugged and smiled.

Connor was harmless. Slutty. Sweet. And I was an ally, after all.

I poured myself a drink, slipped on my ball cap, and left them to it. From my bedroom, I could still hear them. Laughing. Kissing. Fucking.

For hours.

I stared at myself in the mirror.

Nico, huh.

Didn’t sound so bad.

———

Over the next few days, it became a pattern.

Troy kept bringing home guys from Grindr. And all of them looked eerily similar to me. Bro-ey. Buff. That beachy, effortlessly hot vibe with tight tanks, short shorts, backwards caps. A rotating cast of dumber, sluttier Nick-alikes, all just a shade or two more flamboyant or dazed than the last. One had a nipple ring and talked about astrology for an hour. Another asked if I knew where to get “like, really good EDM gummies.”

It wasn’t just their builds—it was the way they carried themselves. Giggly. Airheaded. Constantly touching Troy, or play-wrestling on the couch. And they all had this look in their eyes when they saw me. Like they’d found a cousin, or a mirror, or maybe just their competition.

Connor was his favourite, though. He came back the most. Always grinning, always high-fiving me like we were teammates in some locker room fantasy. He kept calling me Nico, too, but of course, by then I’d stopped correcting him.

It felt like an inside joke.

Troy started teasing me about it.

“You know,” he said one morning, leaning over the kitchen counter in a tank top that showed off his sculpted arms and a new piercing in his brow, “you could always try it. Being gay.”

I blinked at him over my cereal. “What?”

He shrugged. “Just saying. You can always write it down, right? Try it out. Worst case, you change it back.”

“I’m happy like I am,” I said quickly.

“Really?” he smirked. 'Cause, like… you already kinda look the part.”

Then, more quietly: “Connor thinks you’re hot, by the way. Keeps asking if we’ve ever shared.”

I rolled my eyes. “You can tell him I’m straight.”

Troy laughed. “Yeah, well. So was I.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. He leaned back, took a sip of his coffee, and grinned at me across the table.

“I’m just saying,” he added, voice playful. “You’re already half the fantasy, Nico. Just think how much easier it’d be to get laid.”

I stared at him, and for a second - just one - I considered it.

He held up a marker. “Wanna try it?”

“Not tonight,” I chuckled, trying to let him down softly.

I mean… I was an ally.

----------

The jungle was thick and wet and pulsing with noise. Every leaf shivered with heat. I ran, barefoot, branches slapping at my chest and legs, lungs burning as I pushed through the endless green. Somewhere behind me, I heard it—the soft rumble of padded feet, then a growl that made my spine lock up.

The tiger was getting closer.

I stumbled over a root, rolled, scrambled back to my feet. I didn’t know why I was running. I just knew if it caught me, everything would change. I could feel it in my bones.

I reached a clearing and turned—and it was there. Golden, muscled, and watching me. Its eyes burned yellow, unblinking.

Then it pounced.

Massive paws slammed into my chest, knocking me onto my back. Claws dug in. I gasped. Its breath was in my face. Hot. Hungry. And just before it sank its teeth in—

I jolted awake.

Troy was on top of me.

The room was dark, moonlight spilling through the blinds. My sheets were half on the floor. And Troy was straddling my hips, his face focussed a marker in one hand.

"Dude – what the fuck–"

He startled, but didn’t move off me. “Shh. Almost done.”

I looked down. Thick black letters stretched across my chest.

My heart thundered. I tried to sit up, but he held me gently in place.

“It’s fine,” he whispered. “Trust me. It’s gonna feel so good.”

“What the fuck, Troy?” I hissed. “You can’t just—”

He smiled lazily. “You’ve been flirting with it for weeks, man. Thought I’d help you get there.”

I shoved him off and scrambled out of bed, stumbling to the bathroom. I turned on the light and stared in the mirror.

The letters glistened across my chest, fat and bold and red.

HIMBO SLUT

I grabbed a washcloth, ran it under hot water, and scrubbed. Nothing. I tried again. Soap and a scrub brush. My chest grew red, irritated—but the letters wouldn’t fade.

“Relax dude,” Troy grinned from the doorframe. “It’ll be gone in twelve hours.”

I could feel it already. A slow warmth spreading from the ink. A drowsy kind of hum under my skin.

I leaned in closer, examining the reflection. My pupils looked bigger. My lips felt fuller, a little poutier. There was a faint flush in my cheeks, like I’d just come back from a run or gotten off. My hair was perfect like always, but in a messy, tousled kind of way.

And then there was my chest.

The muscles there weren’t just irritated from scrubbing. They looked… swollen. Pushed out a little more. My nipples seemed larger too, a little puffier, a little more sensitive when the cool air hit them.

I pressed a hand over the word "slut." My fingers tingled.

I backed away from the mirror, heart racing. My cock was starting to chub up in my boxers without any input from me. The warmth wasn’t just in my chest anymore—it was dripping through my gut, settling in my hips.

The tiger had pounced.

And it wasn’t letting go.

—

I must’ve fallen asleep again, though it wasn’t restful. I drifted in and out of strange dreams, full of sun-drenched beaches and slow grinds and soft moans that seemed to come from my own throat. When I opened my eyes, the world was bright. Too bright.

I blinked a few times, then sat up—and immediately noticed the weight.

My shoulders felt heavy. My chest tugged forward. My back strained slightly. Everything was unbalanced.

I pulled off my hoodie and stared.

My body had grown in the night. Not evenly. My pecs were massive, jutting out with swollen pride. My shoulders were almost cartoonishly broad, creating a V-shape that made my waist look tiny. My ass… holy hell. It curved up and out, thick and round and impossibly perky.

But the rest of me hadn’t caught up yet. My arms and legs looked smaller by comparison, like I was being built in stages.

I stumbled to the bathroom. The mirror confirmed everything.

My jawline had sharpened. My lips were thick and inviting. My lashes curled naturally, eyes gleaming beneath them. And my muscles – I looked like someone who lived at the gym and took thirst traps for a living.

I tried to be mad. Really, I did. But the tension just… wouldn’t come. I felt good. Kinda floaty. Loose. Happy.

I was smiling at myself again without realizing it.

I stepped into the shower. The water hit my skin and I moaned before I could stop myself. My whole body felt hot and sensitive. I tried to scrub quickly, but even that felt good. Too good.

My cock was hard. Thicker, maybe. Longer too? I wrapped my hand around it and let myself stroke, slow and lazy.

The marker had faded to a ghost of pink.

No big deal, right?

——

I opened my closet to get dressed, and everything looked awesome. Brighter. Tighter. Like my wardrobe had been invaded by a frat house that loved music festivals.

I reached for a hoodie and hesitated. Why would I hide this body? The pecs alone were begging to be shown off. I pawed through the hangers until I found a cropped tee that squeezed my chest just right, paired it with some low-rise shorts that hugged my ass, and tugged on a backwards ball cap. The look was California slutty – bro vibes and ready to show ‘em. Casual. Confident. Chill.

By the time I padded into the kitchen, Troy was already there, leaning on the counter and sipping his coffee. He slid a mug across the island toward me.

"Looking good," he said with a grin.

"Thanks," I said, puffing my chest and flexing my arms. "The chicks are gonna eat this up."

Troy blinked with confusion.

“The chicks?”

“Yeah, dude,” I grinned, giving a little flex. “I’m gonna get like… so much tail.”

Troy sighed and reached into the drawer.

He pulled out a marker.

“Come here,” he said.

I tilted my head. “What for?”

“Just trust me.”

I shrugged and stepped closer, relaxed and curious. Troy pulled the cap off the marker and, with quick practiced strokes, wrote a single word across my shoulder.

GAY

The ink tingled.

I blinked. “Hey—”

He wrote on the other shoulder too.

FAGGOT

“That’s better,” Troy smirked.  “Grindr’s fine, but… I need a boyfriend.”

——

At work, everything was… weirdly great. Instead of glares or awkward hellos, people lit up when they saw me.

“Morning, Nico,” someone purred.

I turned, and it was Brendan from the front desk, giving me a once-over with a very obvious smile.

“Uh. Hey,” I mumbled.

Everywhere I went, it was the same. People complimented me. They laughed at my jokes, even when I wasn’t trying to be funny. They forgave me when I forgot what I was talking about. And that happened a lot.

I kept getting distracted. Like—what was I doing again? Didn’t matter. I was smiling. I felt good. My hips had a little bounce. My pecs jiggled under my crop tank and I caught people staring.

The words Troy had written were fading fast, already a faint pink by noon. And my thoughts kept drifting to guys. Their hands. Their chests. Their voices. Their smells.

I caught myself checking out my coworker Owen as he reached for the copier. The slope of his back. His ass in those slacks. I bit my lip.

"Hey," he said with a grin, catching me. “How ya doing Nico?”

I winked. “How you doin’.”

He laughed and walked off—and I realized I was hard. At work. In shorts.

That felt good.

——-

Troy was already on the couch, shirtless and beaming, legs sprawled wide, his phone in one hand and a smoothie in the other. He looked up as I dropped my keys in the dish and shot me a grin that made my stomach flutter.

"Damn, Nico," he said. "That look is really working for you."

I grinned back, instinctively puffing my chest. "Yeah? Just something I threw on."

He stood and crossed the room, his eyes raking down my body like he owned it. His hand brushed my arm. "You always smell this good or is that new too?"

My breath hitched. I didn’t pull away.

Troy leaned in, his voice low. "Y’know… we’ve been living together for a while now. Seen each other change. Feels like we’ve been circling something."

"Yeah," I murmured. "Kinda does."

Our lips met—hot, messy, like we were trying to devour each other. I grabbed the back of his head, deepening the kiss, pushing my tongue into his mouth. He moaned and melted into me, hands roaming over my chest, my arms, squeezing my biceps like he couldn't believe they were real.

I pushed him back onto the couch and climbed on top, straddling his hips. My hands slid under the band of his shorts, fingertips tracing the line of his V. He was already hard, twitching against my thigh.

"Fuck," he whispered.

I kissed my way down his neck, biting just hard enough to make him gasp, then pulled his shorts down in one motion. I wrapped my hand around him, stroking slow and tight, watching his face contort with pleasure.

"You want more?" I growled.

"Please, Nico. Please."

I stood, stripped down, and stroked myself a few times while he watched, panting. Then I grabbed him by the hips and pulled him to the edge of the couch. His legs opened for me without a second thought. I spit in my hand, lined up, and pressed in.

He cried out—soft, desperate. I bottomed out slowly, feeling every inch of him clench around me.

"Oh god," he groaned. "You're so deep."

I started to move. Long, slow thrusts, letting the tension build. My hands pinned his hips in place while I drove into him. His body arched into me, eyes rolling back, hands digging into my arms.

"You feel that?" I muttered, grinding deep.

"Yes—yes—fuck, Nico!"

I picked up the pace. His skin was slick with sweat, his cock bouncing between us. I kissed him hard, then pulled back to watch his face while I fucked him. My pecs flexed with every thrust, and his fingers found my shoulders, clinging like he never wanted to let go.

He came first, shouting my name, hot and messy between us. I kept going, driven by the sight of him unraveling beneath me, and a few strokes later I followed, gasping into his mouth, spilling deep inside.

We collapsed into each other, sticky and breathless. My hand rested on his chest, feeling it rise and fall under my palm.

He chuckled weakly. "That was... unbelievable."

"Yeah," I said, catching my breath. "Yeah, it was."

We lay like that for a while, tangled and warm.

Then I reached for my phone.

"What’re you doing?"

"Downloading Grindr."

His smile fell apart. "Right now?"

"Yeah dude," I said, stretching like a cat. "I feel fuckin’ amazing. Can’t wait to see who else wants a taste."

Troy sat up a little. "I mean… we just–"

I laughed. "Aw, c’mon, Troy. You can’t expect me to be some, like, stay-at-home boyfriend. I’m a gay slut, remember?"

He opened his mouth to say something, but I kissed him again—soft, then pulled back and winked. "Love you, bro. But I need to get wrecked tonight. You get it."

I opened the app, uploaded a selfie, and started scrolling.

Let’s see who was hungry.

----------

My Grindr profile didn’t take long to blow up. The moment I uploaded a selfie – bare pecs, backwards cap tilted just right, my grin a little too cocky – I was getting hit up nonstop.

The first guy invited me over within the hour. College kid, maybe twenty-two. All muscle and swagger, wearing a tank that barely contained his inked-up delts. He lived in a crappy little apartment ten minutes away. As soon as I walked in, he bit his lip and gave me a look. He knew what he wanted.

We didn’t even make it past his doorway. I shoved him against the wall and kissed him like I owned him. He moaned when I grabbed his ass, mumbling something about how hot I was.

It was fast, dirty, and exactly what I needed. I didn’t ask his name until afterward, and I forgot it before I got back in my car.

When I walked in the door at home, Troy was on the couch. He tried to look chill but glanced up at me like he’d been waiting.

“You’re really leaning into it, huh?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

I grinned and shrugged. “You made me gay, remember? Might as well enjoy it.”

His laugh was tight. "Right."

The second night, same deal. I got a ping around nine, guy just a few blocks away. Older, maybe late twenties, buzzcut, thick thighs in gym shorts. He called me "daddy".

We went all night. I didn’t come home until close to three.

Troy was still up. He’d made dinner again—plates still on the table, cold and untouched.

“You missed dinner,” he said, eyes fixed on the table.

I pulled off my shirt and tossed it on a chair, stretching just a little, giving him a show. “You’ve got the apartment to yourself,” I said with a smirk. “Maybe order some cock? I hear they deliver.”

He didn’t laugh. Just stared at me, jaw tight.

“You gonna keep doing this?” he asked.

“Obviously,” I said, tapping my phone. “You didn’t make me a boyfriend, bro. You made me a slut.”

I sprawled on the couch and opened Grindr again. I wasn’t even pretending to care.

I fucking loved it.

----------

His name was Matt—blond, tan, wearing a tank that clung to his chest like it had been painted on. He answered the door with a cocky grin and a little bounce in his step, the kind of guy who probably spent as much time checking himself out in the mirror as he did at the gym. His eyes scanned me, lingering a little too long on my pecs.

"Damn," he said, stepping aside. "Photos don’t do you justice."

I stepped inside, already half-hard. His apartment smelled faintly of weed and cologne, the floor scattered with gym gear and empty energy drink cans. We didn’t talk much. Didn’t need to. The second the door clicked shut behind me, Matt pressed me against it, hands roaming, lips hot against mine. He ground his hips into mine, desperate and greedy.

"You’re, like, unreal," he breathed, yanking up my shirt to feel my abs.

I kissed him, deep and hungry. Grabbed his ass. He moaned.

And yet – there was a pull in my chest. A weight that didn’t belong.

I tried to focus. On his mouth, his body, the way he whispered “Fuck me”. But the harder I tried to let go, the more I thought about Troy. Not just the sex, but the connection. The way he made me laugh when I was being dumb. The way he looked at me like I was something precious.

The weight in my gut turned to a lump in my throat.

I pulled back, breath catching.

"Shit, I’m sorry," I muttered.

Matt blinked, flushed and confused. "You serious right now?"

"Yeah. I—I just can’t do this like this."

He threw his hands up and turned away. "Whatever, man."

I didn’t wait for more. I bolted.

When I got home, Troy was in the kitchen nursing a beer. He looked up as I stepped in, sweaty and rattled.

"Back early," he said.

"Yeah," I said. "I bailed. Felt... wrong."

“Yeah?”

"Troy," I said softly, stepping closer. "I... I don’t know what’s happening to me, but when I was with that guy—Matt—I just kept thinking about you. About how you make me feel safe. How you see me. I think... maybe I’m falling in love with you."

Troy set the beer down slowly, his brow softening.

"Yeah?" he said, a little breathless.

"Yeah," I nodded. "It's weird and fast and messed up, but... I feel this thing with you, deeper than anything I've felt before. Like you're not just changing my body... you're changing me."

He stepped in close and pulled off his shirt.

Scrawled across his chest, the ink almost entirely faded, were the words: "Nico’s Boyfriend."

“Whoa,” I spat. "Not cool. I left this hot dude with totally blue balls."

Troy grinned. "C’mere, babe."

I didn’t want to move—but my body melted toward him. I stood there, heart pounding.

He brought out a marker, hesitating just for a second before leaning in. "One more thing."

He wrote slowly, in neat letters just below my collarbone: "Loves threesomes, but only when Troy’s there."

"What do you say?" he asked, eyes gleaming. "Finish what you started?"

We drove back to Matt’s place. He answered the door with a raised eyebrow.

"Hey… sorry about earlier," I said, wrapping my arm around Troy’s waist. "You were so hot, I had to go get my boyfriend."

Matt blinked. Then his lips curved up”

"No shit. Come in."

Inside, the tension evaporated quick. Clothes hit the floor almost instantly. I pulled Matt’s tank top over his head while Troy pushed him down onto the couch, both of us taking control. The vibe shifted—playful, charged, collaborative.

I got on my knees first, making out with Matt as Troy teased him from behind. We traded off, teasing, taunting, building the pressure. Matt’s moans turned desperate, incoherent.

When I finally slid into him, Troy stroked his hair and licked his nipples like he was a good little toy we were sharing. Matt gasped, rocked his hips back into mine.

"Fuck –fuck, you’re both – shit, you’re perfect–"

Troy chuckled and leaned down to kiss me mid-thrust. My brain fuzzed out with pleasure. I never thought I’d be into something like this, but it felt incredible—not just the sex, but the way Troy and I worked together, moved together, were together.

We took our time. I went slow. Deep. Steady. Made Matt fall apart for us over and over until he was wrecked and limp and smiling.

When it was done, we lay tangled on Matt’s bed, sweaty and satisfied.

I never used the marker on myself again, or on Troy.  He didn’t either.

But we sure used it on other guys.