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wolfsclothing6 · 30 days ago

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Weight of Desire

2k special

Gabriel Sanchez had spent years living a life that felt perfectly adequate but deeply unremarkable. Middle management at a tech firm, a reliable boyfriend in Lucas, and a comfortable apartment in Manhattan. By all accounts, he should have been happy. But the truth was, Gabriel hadn’t felt alive in years. Even his relationship with Lucas, once fiery and passionate, had dulled into predictable rhythms—dinners, Netflix, the occasional half-hearted kiss before bed.

When the email arrived—Opportunity Awaits: A New Experience—he clicked on it out of nothing more than boredom. The promise of something new was enough to intrigue him.

Moments after filling out the form, Gabriel felt his body seize. A warmth spread through his limbs, but it wasn’t the kind of comfort he’d expected. It was heat, heavy and consuming. His vision blurred, and then everything went black.

Gabriel woke up gasping.

The first thing he noticed was the weight—his body was impossibly heavy, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. His skin felt foreign, rough against the fabric of the sweat-soaked sheets beneath him. When he reached up to run a hand through his hair, he stopped short, staring at the thick, dark fingers that weren’t his own.

His heart raced as he stumbled out of bed, the entire room unfamiliar. The walls were cracked, the air thick with the scent of frying oil and stale sweat. A cheap, warped mirror hung crookedly on the wall. Gabriel approached it, his legs unsteady beneath him, and froze when he saw his reflection.

The man staring back at him was large, with dark, ruddy skin and a heavy, rounded face. His body was immense, rolls of flesh spilling over his waistband. His arms, thick with muscle buried under fat, flexed as he clutched the edge of the mirror.

He wasn’t himself.

The ID card on the nightstand told him his name: Javier Castillo.

---

The city felt different in Javier’s body. The streets were harsher, the air colder. Gabriel’s movements were slower, deliberate, as if the weight of Javier’s life clung to him like a second skin.

That afternoon, Gabriel found himself standing in the back room of a greasy diner, staring at an enormous stack of dirty dishes. His arms ached, his back throbbed from the weight of the day.

Paul, his wiry manager with a perpetually sour expression, barked at him from the doorway. "Javier! I told you those tables need to be cleared now, not when you feel like it!"

Gabriel straightened, instinctively opening his mouth to respond. "I—I’m—" But the words stuck. Instead, what came out was, "Lo siento, jefe. Es que estoy—uh—trabajando, pero—"

Paul’s face twisted in irritation. "What the hell did you just say? Speak English, man!"

Gabriel’s cheeks burned. He tried again, forcing himself to speak slowly. "I... I work... too much," he said, but the words felt clumsy, wrong.

Paul rolled his eyes. "Just clear the damn tables, Castillo."

As the manager stormed off, Gabriel clenched his fists. He wanted to shout, to explain that he wasn’t Javier, that this wasn’t his life. But the weight of his reality—the weight of Javier’s life—pressed down on him.

Days turned into weeks, and Gabriel became more attuned to Javier’s life. The grind of menial jobs, the whispers of coworkers in Spanish he could barely follow, the way strangers looked through him on the subway.

But there were moments of connection. At a construction site, Miguel—a fellow worker—brushed against him while handing him a tool. The contact was fleeting, but Gabriel felt it like a spark. Later, Miguel invited him for drinks.

At the bar, the air was thick with the smell of beer and sweat. Miguel leaned in close, his hand resting on Gabriel’s thigh. "¿Cómo estás, güey?" Miguel asked, his voice low and teasing.

Gabriel tried to respond in English but stumbled. "I... uh... I’m tired... no sé cómo decirlo..."

Miguel chuckled softly. "No importa, hermano. You don’t gotta explain."

When Miguel’s lips brushed against his ear, Gabriel let out a low, shuddering breath. They didn’t make it back to the apartment. Instead, they found themselves pressed against a brick wall in an alley, Miguel’s hands gripping Gabriel’s waist, his mouth hot and demanding against his neck.

For the first time in years, Gabriel felt wanted—not for his polished appearance or polite charm, but for his body. For the raw, unpolished truth of it.

---

As Gabriel lay tangled in sweat-stained sheets the next morning, Miguel’s arm draped across his chest, he stared at the ceiling. This life, as exhausting and unforgiving as it was, had awakened something in him.

He didn’t know how or why this had happened—how he had ended up in Javier’s body, or what it all meant. But for the first time, he didn’t feel like a spectator in his own life.

Tell me if you want them to be Reaccurring characters I love to write more about Gabriel(Javier) and Miguel

#gay #male transformation #transformation #fat #age progression #bear tf #fat belly #male body swap #body swap #body switch #mexican tf #spanish #race change #gay bear #muscle bear #chubby bear

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sanzaibian · 10 months ago

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I'm loving the stories! I'm heading to Mexico in a few weeks with work, but hoping to immerse myself in the culture a bit. Can you help me out?

You find yourself in front of your local Spanish-language association. You thought that taking a few classes in Spanish would help you recover some of the long forgotten classes you took in high school… though in all honesty, it won’t likely do much. You’re quite old, now, so it means that your brain cannot learn new languages as easily as it used to...

As you enter, you see the Mexican flag front and center, along with flags of many other Latin American countries, as well as that of Spain. You walk up to the receptionist, and she tells you, directly in Spanish :

“¡Bienvenidos! ¿Cuál es el motivo de usted venida? (Welcome ! What is the reason you came here ?) - Er…” You try to conjure some of the very old memories, and only manage a “Hola !” Before going back to English. “I’m sorry, I don’t really know Spanish… I’m here to take classes, in fact.”

The receptionist nods, and thinks a bit before taking out a timetable.

“Okay, well, you see, I have a... beginner’s course of Spanish in a few hours… It’s not perfect because they already started in January, but I think you can still catch up if you work hard enough.” She says, with a perfect American accent. She is visibly bilingual. - Oh, in a few hours ?”

You are quite interested, considering that you did want some beginner-level courses, but in a few hours… That’s too short to just go back home and come back later, but that’s also too long to just stay here and wait without getting bored !

The receptionist notices your embarrassment.

“You know, we are also a place where Spanish learners and native speakers can hang out. If you want, you can go to the hangout room while waiting ?” She offers sympathetically. - Well yeah, I could do that.” You nod. It may be geared towards more hard-core learners, but you can always try to immerse yourself…

You go to the room she waves you to. It isn’t loud, but there’s quite a lot of people in it, all speaking Spanish. You go and find somewhere to sit, when, on your way, someone hails you.

“¡Hola! ¿Cómo te llamas? (Hello ! (...) ?)”

Your long-buried memories start churning, as you recognize the second sentence as meaning something like “What’s your name ?”. You think a while, and then, flash of brilliance.

“Me llamo Charlie.” You answer, giving out your name in the most American of accents.

Your conversation partner smiles, and speaks quite slowly to let you understand what he means.

“¿Cuántos años tiene?” You understand the sentence to mean ‘How old are you ?’ - Er… Soy… cuarenta y dos… años ?” You try, but he shakes his head. - No, ¡es ‘Tengo ventidós’ o ‘Tengo ventidós años’!”

You blush of embarrassment as he corrects you. Yes, you now remember that to mean “I am x years old” you say “Tengo x (años)”… you even remember the worksheets from way back when… Huh, it seems like it was less far of a memory than you thought.

“Lo siento…” You excuse yourself with sentence that came back strangely fast. - ¡Jajaja!” He laughs. “¡No te preocupes! ¡Hablar español es difícil! (Don’t worry ! Speaking Spanish is difficult !)”

You are surprised how easy it is to understand him. Visibly, you had more memories than you expected ! Then, that guy continues.

“¿De dónde es? (Where are you from ?) - Soy de… Mexico… Nuevo Mexico. (I’m from… Mexico… New Mexico.)”

You almost stumbled on yourself. There seems to be something wrong with that statement. You know you’re American, but something seems wrong…

“Ah, de... ¿Nuevo México? Pero tu acento no suena asi… (Ah, from… New Mexico ? But your accent doesn’t seem like it comes from there...) - Si, es verdad… (Yes, it’s true...)” You’re about to tell him that it’s because you’re American, but then you say : “La gente dice que tengo un acento de la Ciudad de Mexico. Sabes, Mexihco Hueyaltepetl. (People say that I have an accent from Mexico City. You know, Mexihco Hueyaltepetl (?).)”

Wait, why do people say that ? You never went to Mexico City ! Okay, yes, you did go there for the holidays, after all, your father lives there… Wait, your parents aren’t separated !

You get more and more confused as multiple versions of your history start competing with each other.

“¡Ah, tenía razón! Puedo verlo en tu cara que eres… eh… ¿mexiqueño? (Ah, I was right ! I can see by your face that you are… er… from Mexico City ?) - ¡Jajaja!” You laugh. “¡No se dice ‘mexiqueño’! ¡Se dice capitalino, o chilango si estás familiarizado! (You don’t say “Mexiqueño” ! You say “Capitalino”, or “Chilango” if you’re familiar !)” You don’t quite know where this knowledge comes from. It seems like something only locals would know… - Perdón, soy chileno, no lo sabía… (Sorry, I’m Chilean, I didn’t know...)”

You smile at him. Of course, he couldn’t know that, you’re familiar with these terms because you’re a Chilango through and through ! Born in the city, lived in the city ! Yet you furrow your brows, as something still feels off.

Somehow, you’re convinced that you’re American, even though it seems to be a more and more distant fact. Well, when you look down and see those tan arms, you know that you aren’t, like, a total gringo, you’re at least part Latino…

“¿Cómo es la vida allá? (How is life there ?)” The Chilean guy asks you, a torrent of memories coming back (?) to you. - ¡Es complicado de describir! Pero México es muy dinámico, ¡entonces siempre es interesante! (It’s difficult to describe ! But Mexico is very dynamic, so it’s always interesting !)” You think back to how frantic life is over there… and how much you love that. “Especialmente comparado con aquí, parece que esta citudad está muerta… ¡En México siempre hay un xochitzin con el que te puedes topar! (Especially when compared to here, this city seems dead… In Mexico, there’s always an xochitzin (?) you can run into !)”

As the Chilean nods, you keep getting quite confused. You know you’re from Mexico City, you know you’re American, yet somehow there is like… a piece of the puzzle missing. You keep on thinking strange words like “Mexihco Hueyaltepetl” or “ihni”, and you know it’s not Spanish, nor English – not that you would know too much of that language.

You continue thinking as your body starts feeling strange, as you feel it shifting. You put your hand on your forehead and sense your wrinkles relaxing. You feel quite queasy…

“¿Estás bien? (Are you alright ?) - Me siento un poco mareada… (I feel a bit dizzy…) - Sólo tienes que ir al baño. ¿Quieres que te ayude? (Just go to the toilets. You want me to help ?) - No, estará bien. Tlazohcamati. (No, it’s gonna be alright. (???)) - Okay… eh... ¿Eres indígenas? (Okay… er… Are you a Native American ?)”

You don’t answer the Chilean, only giving him a small wave to thank him. You find your way to the toilets, still queasy, and look at yourself.

You’ve got your usual short black hair, your nascent beard that doesn’t want to come along, your brownish tint, as well as your light muscles. Nothing looks out of place, yet something seems wrong.

Is it the fact that you are so youthful ? You know you’re quite twinky. Is it the fact that your skin looks weird ? You know that it’s clearer than the other’s because your mother is gringo.

You feel even more queasy, as you feel your entire body tensing. Memories come back of your time in the gym, but also of the time with all your xochitzmeh (bros)… Yes, you now remember how you’re the son of an American linguist and a Nahua man. How you grew up speaking Nahuatl along with the other kids from around Mexico City. How you started going to the gym to prove that gays aren’t cuiltemeh (sissies/fags). How you now cringe to that line of thought, yet continue doing it to attract guys.

As the pieces of your life go back together, your queasiness dissipates, and you feel better. You drink a bit of water, and then you go back to the hangout room. As you go in there, the Chilean hails you once again.

“¡Charlie! ¿Esta mejor? (Charlie ! Doing better ?)”

Laughable, “Charlie” is only the nickname your grandparents use when you’re at their house… Why does that guy even know it ?

“¡Mi nombre no es Charlie, es Carlos! ¡Carlos Zopiyactle! (My name isn’t Charlie, it’s Carlos ! Carlos Zopiyactle !)” You say in a very matter-of-fact fashion. - Lo siento, pensé que te llamabas Charlie… (Sorry, I thought that you were named Charlie...) - No es nada. (It’s nothing.)” You answer with a very Mexican accent, aspirating your ‘s’. “Pero, tengo que irme ahora. ¡Adiós! (However, I need to go now. Goodbye !) - ¡Adiós, Carlos! (Goodbye, Carlos !)”

You leave the room, go past the receptionist who smiles at you a bit weirdly, and make your way back to your grandparent’s home. You don’t really like going there, because you’re not very good in English, but eh. Pleasing your mom is a good enough reason.

Suddenly, you hear a very familiar-sounding sound from your phone. You open it, seeing a notification, smile, and answer it before calling your mother.

“¡Cualli teotlaltzintli! ¡Amo niyaz tlacualpan! (Good evening ! I’m not going to be there for dinner !) - Pff… ¡Aic timotlamahzehua nanmonahuac! (Pff… You never come eat with us !) - Nomati, pero tengo cosas que hacer. (I know, but I have things to do.)” You say, switching back a bit to Spanish. - ¿Zannima tihual mocuepaz? (You will come back soon ?) - Quema. Nantli, nimitz nequi. (Yes. Mom, I love you.) - Ohuihqui nimitz nequi. (I love you too.)”

You finish the call and smile. She doesn’t have to know that you’re missing the family dinners to be pounded. Those jocks on Grindr don’t know what your pseudonym “Moiztactlaca” means, but it sounds foreign, and they love it.

Soon, you’re going back home to Mexico City, but it doesn’t mean that you can’t take advantage of all the hot guys here in the meantime !

#male transformation #male tf #twink tf #twunk tf #twinkification #twunkification #age reduction #latino tf #mexican tf #nahua tf #mental change #reality change #transformation #tf story #ask

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