This is but one ending in the SCUZZ collaborative adult CYOA project, which has a bunch of awesome stories by other tf authors! Check it out for free here -

https://ifeelodd.itch.io/scuzz

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You hold the shriveled little baggy of black and green plastic, swishing it around idly in one hand. Tiny little flakes of crystal sugar rattle around on the inside. The consistency you can feel from squeezing the outside of the package reminds you a little of hamster bedding. It’s a strangely familiar motion, shaking the little baggie around. Although… you don’t remember them making this candy in fun size packages, you only really remember seeing it in those big looking boxes in the store. Still, though, nostalgia's a hell of a drug, and you’re pretty sure the rest of the stuff in that bowl are all knock-offs anyway. You eagerly hold the bag in one hand, looking down at the logo. Lime green bubble letters proclaim these to be -

“BOG ROCKS”.

Ah.

Figures. Well, you’ve already taken it, haven’t you? Walked right off the porch and down the street and everything. You could go back, but - honestly what would the point of that even be? All the candies were weird, it’s not like you were gonna find a snickers bar in there or something. Hell, it probably tastes the same as the real deal anyway. What even are pop rocks? You peel the little ridged plastic top of the baggie open and shake a few onto your hand. What comes out are a few dark green flakes that smell like old poolwater. That’s… a bit disconcerting, but - hey, you’ve already gotten this far! You pinch up a few and carefully place them on your tongue. Then, you wait.

…No reaction so far. Can popping candy go bad? You can taste something like… matcha, maybe, which slowly dilutes into your spit as the candy dissolves. It honestly isn’t horrible, even though it feels a little more like eating fish flakes then a novelty candy snack. There’s a strangely savory aftertaste you aren’t sure how you feel about, almost a little fatty and strangely sour. You pour some more onto your hand and place them onto the swollen flat of your tongue, drool dripping down from the corners of your mouth in green little strands. You slide it back and swallow, a bit surprised at how much of it pushes against the roof of your mouth, but you find the taste more than makes up for the awkward means of entry. It’s the same as before but… now it’s… satisfying? Scratches some sort of itch. You like how it thickens the drool in the back of your throat, coats your tongue in a sticky film that feels good to scrape against the sides of your roundening cheeks. You swallow again, and feel how that slick texture travels down the inside of your throat, chased by the dangling tip of your tongue that lolls down backward into your throat. You take another handful, but then-

A tingling in your neck.

Urp!

You feel something spark somewhere in your neck, or maybe just really far back in the throat. A spasm, almost a popping but, but not. Your neck muscles tighten and you feel the slightest protrusion coming out from the inside, like your adams apple (or what you would imagine one to feel like) tried to lurch forward to press against your skin. The feeling settles as you
begin to think it over, and suddenly you're swallowing even more rocks down as the feeling comes again and-

Urrp!

That. What was that? Was that a burp? Might’ve been, but burps don’t usually feel like that coming out. You - You aren’t sure what that was. As you ponder this troubling development you look down at the bag, at your shaking, clammy hands. Your fingertips seem fatter and rounder then they should be, blobbing out some to create little nodules at the end. You wiggle your fingers experimentally and find them strangely hard to separate, drawn back together by some sort of invisible urge to keep them pressed tight. Something about that feeling of the skin between bubbling up, swelling between the gaps in a slimy film…

You don’t know. All you really care about right now is that you're hungry, and that you're hungrier than you've ever remembered being before. You take a few more in your slick, discolored palm, clumsily carrying them up to your wide flabby mouth as your lips dwindle away. You feel your tongue, but it’s not… bending right. Like it’s backwards, or there’s some sort of muscle holding it down there. As you fidget with it your cheeks push out and the ridges around your eyes begin to thicken. You decide this doesn't matter and toss the little flakes back in, tasting them on the way down, and once again that sensation begins building up.

You (urp) Aren’t sure (Urrrrp) what that (rrrrrpp) is, but each time it happens sends sparks of pleasure up through your hindbrain, vibrating out from that swelling little patch of skin on your neck.

Each pop, each little bulge, you’re absolutely taken by the growing flood of sensory data. But it’s fading too fast! Frantically you cram another handful of candy into your maw. The end of your tongue slides a little bit outside your mouth, and you absentmindedly tuck the tip back in with a fingertip. You angle yourself outward so your head faces the sky, feeling your nose sinking into your swelling face as you-

UrrRRRp.

As you-

RrRRrrrpppp.

You… wait, something clicks. You got it! You bring your head back, palm your throat pouch, and


uuurrRRRRIBBBIT!


Your tongue shoots free, whipping out from the inside of your maw like a slingshot. The tip splats against the ill fitting scraps of cloth riding up along your chest. You pat a clumsy webbed hand into the growing slosh of your green belly, watching speckled browns and greens overtake your dwindling human pigment as the sheen of mucus begins to grow. You can feel the constant weight of your tongue lolling out over your forearm, all but grazing the floor as you fruitlessly struggle to stuff it back in. Your cheeks bulge with the weight of your clumsy attempt. As you step back your ramping feet burst from their shoes, splayed and webbed, and you collapse to the floor with an audible splat.


GrrRrroak.

The sound comes unbidden. Though the taste of the candy is gone, something it was giving you remains as a permanent fixture in your mind. This urge to puff yourself up, to make noise, to show everyone what a big slimy warty thing you are. To feel your long tongue shhhlick against the membrane of your inner throat. Thoughts of spawning, rubbing slits, soaking in the water… You croak.

The membrane of your throat sack inflates like a balloon. Your shoulders pop as your limbs fatten and your posture forces your face toward the ground.. You open your budding snout as wide as it can go and crane your neck to try and locate the candy. Your neck is gone by the time you spot it but who cares about that shit - the candy, the candy yes, that’s what matters!! You rrrbbbt need more so you rRRRIBBBT can be bigger, so you GrrRROAK can RRRRIBBIT lay eggs neeed mate need wet need taste.

Your eyes bulge out while you dart your tongue to snap up the last few flakes from the floor. The taste has dulled some, but the sheer satisfaction of sending out your tongue and swallowing is just as potent a motivator. The bag vanishes into your gullet, as does what used to be your shoes. As you balloon in size and your belly pancakes against the street you blink sluggishly. One eye at a time closes and no human light remains when they open. You croak and croak and croak for a mate, hopping down the road to the horrified stares of passersby.

All of you wobbles when you move. Each lunge forward sends the great mass of your gut hitting the street, your fat webbed hands splaying out and leaving slime prints in your path. When a car bearing down on you screeches to a halt the noises coming out of the pink thing inside doesn’t even register anymore. You just heave yourself up onto the car, feel your weight force a dent into the painted metal, and leap off back down to the street. Not important. Don’t need it. Need mate, need croak for finding mate, need spawn need eggs need mate.

Rrribbit.

Grrribbit,

GrrRROAK.

Finally, you hear something that stirs a warmth through your chest. A tiny little chirp, returning your call, somewhere off in the far distance. A response rumbles out of your wet doughy mass as you dart off towards the nearest lake as fast as froggedly possible.