Pout Pop

 

It started as a favour. That's the cruellest part, really.

Your dad—sweet, soft, always-says-yes David—had been approached by some sleek marketing exec at the grocery store. She was all glossy lips and sharp cheekbones, clipboard in hand, offering fifty quid for a taste test. Some new energy drink. "We need a diverse panel," she'd purred. "All demographics."

He'd laughed about it at dinner that night, the six-pack of neon pink cans sitting on the kitchen counter like a garish joke. Pout Pop. The logo was a pair of inflated lips blowing a kiss, the tagline reading: "Sip. Shift. Slay."

"Looks like something you'd drink, sweetheart," he'd said, patting his soft belly with a self-deprecating chuckle. At forty-two, your father had the physique of a man who'd surrendered to comfort food and desk jobs decades ago. Thinning hair. Gentle eyes. The kind of dad who wore novelty Christmas jumpers unironically and still called you "pumpkin."

"They're paying me to drink six of these over the next week and fill out a survey. Easy money."

You'd rolled your eyes. "Enjoy your diabetes, Dad."

He'd cracked the first can open right there—the hiss sharp and almost... musical. The liquid inside was the colour of bubblegum, shimmering with an iridescent quality that caught the kitchen light strangely. He took a long sip.

"Huh." He blinked. "That's... actually really good. Like strawberry and... I don't know. Something else. Something sweet."

That night, you heard him pacing in his room. Unusual for a man who typically fell asleep watching history documentaries by nine. But you didn't think much of it.

---

Day Two.

You noticed his skin first.

You were both in the kitchen—you grabbing coffee, him halfway through his second can of Pout Pop—when the morning light hit his face and you actually looked at him.

The sallowness was gone. That grey undertone that had settled into his complexion over the years, the visible pores, the fine lines bracketing his mouth—smoothed. Softened. His skin looked... dewy. Almost luminous.

"Dad, are you wearing moisturiser?"

He laughed, but it came out higher than usual. "What? No. Why?"

"You look... different."

He touched his face absently, and his fingers—were they always that slender?—brushed over a jawline that seemed subtly sharper. "Probably just the hydration. This stuff's got electrolytes or something."

He took another sip. A small, almost involuntary sound escaped him: "Mmmh..."

His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and when they opened, there was something in them you didn't recognise. Something that flickered and vanished before you could name it.

---

Day Three.

He'd lost weight. Noticeably. Rapidly.

His old band t-shirts hung loose on a frame that had seemingly shed a decade's worth of softness overnight. When he reached for a mug on the top shelf, his shirt rode up, and you saw the faint lines of definition beginning to etch themselves into his stomach.

"Jesus, Dad. Are you on some kind of crash diet?"

He turned to you, and you felt your breath catch.

His face was... wrong. No—not wrong. Different. The bone structure was shifting, cheekbones rising, brow softening. His lips looked fuller. Pinker. His hair, once thin and grey-streaked, was thickening, the colour deepening to a honeyed blonde at the roots.

"I feel amazing," he said, and his voice cracked on the last word—cracked upward, like a boy hitting puberty in reverse. He cleared his throat, frowning. "That's weird. My voice is—"

"Dad, something's wrong. You need to stop drinking that stuff."

But he was already reaching for another can, his movements weirdly fluid, almost sensual. The crack and hiss of the tab seemed to echo in the quiet kitchen.

"I don't want to stop," he said, and there was a dreamy quality to his voice now. "I feel... God, I feel good. Like I'm waking up from a really long sleep."

He drank deep, his throat working, and you watched his Adam's apple shrink and vanish.

---

Day Four.

You woke to the sound of giggling.

High, bright, feminine giggling—coming from your father's bedroom.

You crept down the hall, heart hammering, and pushed the door open.

The creature standing in front of your father's full-length mirror was not your father. Couldn't be your father. She was young—mid-twenties at most—with a tight, toned body wrapped in one of your old crop tops and a pair of shorts that must have come from your closet. Long blonde hair cascaded down her back in beachy waves. Her waist nipped in dramatically above flared hips, and her ass—round, firm, perfect—strained against the thin fabric.

She was posing. Pouting at her reflection. Tilting her head this way and that, running her hands down her flat stomach, cupping the generous swell of breasts that definitely hadn't existed yesterday.

"Oh my God," she breathed, and her voice was pure honey—high, breathy, with a mocking lilt. "Look at me."

"Dad?"

She spun—and the motion was graceful, predatory, nothing like your father's lumbering movements. Her face was stunning. Symmetrical. Cruel. Full lips curved into a smirk, sharp cheekbones catching the light, bright blue eyes glittering with something that made your stomach drop.

"Ew. Don't call me that."

"What—what's happening to you?"

She rolled her eyes—rolled her eyes at you—and turned back to the mirror, adjusting the crop top to show more underboob. "What's happening is I'm finally becoming who I was supposed to be. Can you, like, leave? I'm busy."

"This isn't—you're not—Dad, you need to see a doctor—"

"I said don't call me that." She whirled on you, and the playfulness was gone, replaced by something cold and hard. "That pathetic, sad, fat little man is gone. Do you understand? He was a fucking loser. A nothing. A—a host. And I ate him."

She smiled, and it didn't reach her eyes.

"My name is Poppy. And you're going to learn to show me some respect."

---

Day Five.

Poppy was still shrinking. Getting younger.

By noon, she looked barely twenty. By evening, she could have passed for eighteen—all dewy skin and that particular glow of youth that can't be faked. Her body had tightened further, the gym-bunny aesthetic fully realised: toned arms, defined abs, thighs that could crush watermelons, and an ass that was frankly architectural.

She'd raided your entire wardrobe, stealing everything that was too small for you—the aspirational purchases you'd never fit into—and somehow making them look better than you ever could have.

She'd also stolen your phone.

You found her on your bed, scrolling through your messages with a look of predatory delight.

"Who's Ryan?"

Your blood went cold. "Give that back."

"Ohhh, Ryan." She drew out the name, sing-song and mocking. "Your boyfriend. He's cute. Kinda. In a 'hasn't figured out he can do better' sort of way."

"Poppy—"

"He texted you three times today. Wants to know if you're okay. Wants to come over." She looked up at you through long lashes, her smile razor-sharp. "I told him yes."

"You what?"

"Relax, babe. I'm just going to say hi. Get to know him a little." She swung her legs off the bed, rising with the fluid grace of a predator. "Unless you think you can stop me?"

You couldn't.

You'd tried to grab the phone, tried to block the door, tried to reason with the thing that used to be your father—and none of it worked. She was faster than you, stronger than you, and when she leaned in close and whispered, "Sit down and shut up, little girl," something in her voice made your body obey before your brain could catch up.

So you sat on the stairs, paralysed by a compliance you didn't understand, and you listened to the doorbell ring.

You listened to Ryan's confused, "Oh—hi? Is... is your sister home?"

You listened to Poppy's tinkling laugh. "Sister? Oh my God, that's so sweet. No, I'm just visiting. You must be Ryan! I've heard so much about you. Come in, come in..."

---

The sounds started twenty minutes later.

At first, it was just murmuring—low conversation, the occasional laugh. Then silence. Then a soft, wet sound that might have been kissing.

Then the moaning started.

You sat frozen on the stairs, tears streaming down your face, as the creature that had consumed your father fucked your boyfriend in your parents' bedroom. The walls weren't thick enough to hide it—the rhythmic creak of the bed, the sharp slap of skin against skin, Ryan's groans mingling with Poppy's high, theatrical cries of pleasure.

"Oh fuck yes—harder—fucking harder—"

"Jesus—you're so fucking tight—"

"You like this pussy, baby? You like how this pussy grips your cock?"

"Fuck—fuck—I've never—this is—"

"Better than her? Tell me. Say it."

"So much better—oh God—you're so much fucking better—"

Poppy's laughter rang out, bright and cruel and victorious.

You heard her cum—loud, shameless, the kind of orgasm that seemed to last forever. Then you heard Ryan finish with a strangled groan, and the bed creaked one final time.

Silence.

Then footsteps. The door opened. Poppy emerged, wearing nothing but one of your oversized t-shirts, her long legs bare, her hair mussed, her lips swollen.

She looked down at you on the stairs, and her smile was the most beautiful, terrible thing you'd ever seen.

"He's mine now," she said sweetly. "And honestly? You should thank me. You were never going to keep a guy like that. You're just... not built for it."

She padded past you, close enough that you could smell sex and strawberries, and paused at the top of the stairs.

"Oh, and from now on? You're going to call me 'Miss Poppy.' You're going to do my laundry, run my errands, and stay out of my way unless I need you." She tilted her head, that predatory smile widening. "Unless you want me to tell Ryan about all those embarrassing little secrets in your phone? The selfies you deleted? The drunk texts to your ex?"

Your stomach lurched. "How do you—"

"I know everything about you, sweetie. Everything your daddy knew, plus everything I've learned from watching you be a sad, jealous little mess." She blew you a kiss. "Now be a good girl and make me breakfast. Egg whites only. I'm watching my figure."

She disappeared down the hall, humming to herself.

In your parents' bedroom, Ryan was still catching his breath.

---

Day Seven.

The transformation was complete.

Poppy was eighteen now—not a day older, frozen at the apex of youth and beauty. Her body was a weapon: D cup tits that defied gravity, a waist you could span with your hands, an ass that looked photoshopped even in person. Her face was pure Instagram-filter perfection, all plump lips and sharp cheekbones and eyes that promised pleasure and delivered pain.

The Pout Pop executives arrived that morning—the same sleek woman from the grocery store, plus two men in expensive suits.

"The trial was a success," the woman announced, surveying Poppy with obvious satisfaction. "The formula is stable. The personality integration is complete. And you..." She smiled at Poppy like a proud mother. "You're perfect."

"Obviously," Poppy said, examining her manicure.

"We're prepared to offer you a full identity package. Birth certificate, passport, social security—everything you need to start your new life as Poppy Valentine, age eighteen, born and raised in Texas." The woman slid a folder across the table. "You'll be our poster girl. The face of Pout Pop's national launch. Six-figure salary, plus endorsements, plus... certain perks."

"Perks?"

"An unlimited supply of the product. For... recreational use."

Poppy's eyes lit up. "Oh, I like that. I know so many boring little men who could use a makeover."

You stood in the corner of the kitchen, invisible, forgotten—watching the creature that used to be your father sign away his old life with a flourish of pink pen.

"What about..." You forced the words out. "What about his—her—family? What about me?"

The executives exchanged glances. Poppy laughed.

"What about you?" She rose from her chair, sauntering toward you with that predatory grace. "You're nothing. You were nothing when you were his daughter, and you're less than nothing now that you're mine."

She reached out and gripped your chin, forcing you to meet her eyes.

"But don't worry, babe. I'm not going to abandon you. You're too useful. Someone needs to clean my apartment. Fetch my coffee. Hold my bags while I shop." She leaned in, her breath hot against your ear. "And honestly? I kind of love watching you squirm. Knowing that every time you look at me, you remember who I used to be. Knowing that this—" she gestured at her perfect body—"is what your daddy became. What he chose to become."

"He didn't choose this."

"No. But I did. The first sip, there was this little voice in his head—my voice—telling him how good it would feel to let go. To stop being weak. To stop being him." She smiled, slow and cruel. "And he listened. He wanted this, deep down. Every pathetic, self-loathing man does. They want to be us—young, hot, powerful, desired. They just don't have the guts to admit it."

She released your chin and stepped back, smoothing down her tiny skirt.

"Now. The movers will be here at three to collect my things. Ryan's picking me up at five—we have dinner reservations." She checked her reflection in the microwave door, adjusting a strand of hair. "You'll stay here and clean up this dump. I want it spotless by the time I get back."

"And if I refuse?"

Poppy's smile sharpened.

"Then I'll tell Ryan about those other photos. The ones with your ex. The ones you really, really don't want anyone to see." She patted your cheek condescendingly. "Good girl. I knew you'd see it my way."

---

Three Months Later.

Pout Pop launched nationally on a Tuesday.

The commercials were everywhere—billboards, TV spots, TikTok ads. And at the centre of every one: Poppy Valentine, eighteen years old, blonde and beautiful and bratty, holding a can of neon pink liquid and smirking at the camera.

"Sip. Shift. Slay."

The tagline had taken on new meaning. Online forums buzzed with rumours about the drink's "transformative properties." Some dismissed it as marketing hype. Others whispered about men who'd tried it and... changed.

Poppy posted daily on Instagram—gym selfies, shopping hauls, thirst traps with Ryan draped adoringly at her side. She'd moved into a penthouse apartment in the city, paid for by the company, and you visited every weekend to clean it.

She always made sure you saw them together. Made sure you heard them through the walls.

"Fuck, baby, you're so good—"

"Better than her?"

"So much better. You're the only one I want. You're the only one I've ever wanted—"

The lie didn't even sting anymore. You were numb to it. Numb to all of it.

One Sunday, you arrived to find a pink can sitting on the kitchen counter. A sticky note was attached, written in Poppy's loopy handwriting:

"Thought you might want to try it, babe. Then maybe you'd actually be worth something. 💋 -P"

You stared at the can for a long time.

The liquid inside shimmered, iridescent, almost hypnotic. You could almost hear it whispering to you. Promising. Sip. Shift. Slay.

You imagined it—the transformation. Becoming someone new. Someone powerful. Someone who didn't have to kneel anymore.

And then you thought about Poppy's smile. That cold, cruel, satisfied smile.

You poured the can down the drain and scrubbed the sink until your hands were raw.

Some monsters, you decided, didn't deserve to multiply.

---

But the world didn't agree.

Pout Pop sold out in its first week. Then its second. Then its third. The company couldn't manufacture it fast enough. Men were buying it in secret, hiding it in desk drawers and gym bags, taking tentative sips and waiting—hoping—for the change to begin.

Not everyone transformed. The company was careful about that; the active ingredient only triggered under certain conditions, certain psychological profiles. But enough did. Enough sad, soft, self-hating men found themselves shrinking, smoothing, becoming.

And the women they became—they were all the same. Young. Beautiful. Bratty. Cruel.

They formed a network. A sisterhood. They found each other on private forums, shared tips on stealing boyfriends and manipulating exes and climbing social ladders with their perfect new bodies. They called themselves the Poppies, and they were everywhere—in boardrooms and bedrooms, in clubs and gyms and corner offices.

The world was changing.

And at the centre of it all, sipping her signature pink drink and smiling her signature cruel smile, Poppy Valentine watched it happen.

She'd been nobody's father.

Now she was everybody's queen.

---

The last time you saw her in person, she was accepting an award at some influencer gala—"Breakout Star of the Year" or something equally vapid. You were there as her assistant, holding her clutch, invisible in your plain black dress while she sparkled in pink sequins.

Ryan was on her arm. He hadn't looked at you in months.

She took the stage to thunderous applause, all blonde hair and white teeth and perfect, practiced humility.

"I just want to thank everyone who believed in me," she cooed into the microphone. "And to all the girls out there who feel stuck, who feel less than—" her eyes found you in the crowd, and her smile sharpened—"just remember: it's never too late to become who you were always meant to be."

The crowd roared.

Poppy raised her glass—filled with shimmering pink liquid—and the cameras flashed, capturing the moment for eternity.

Sip. Shift. Slay.

Your father was gone. Your boyfriend was gone. Your life, as you'd known it, was gone.

And Poppy Valentine was just getting started.