#undershirt transformation

[matsmi13]

Devoted to his club forever

I have always been a big fan of the Paris Saint Germain football club. So, when I won a contest for an exclusive behind-the-scenes tour of the Parc des Princes stadium, I was over the moon. A whole day to explore the secret nooks and crannies, meet the players, and maybe even get a first-hand look at the world of professional soccer.

The visit began in the classic way. I discover the dressing rooms, the press room, the benches where so many legends have sat. It's all fascinating, but it's at the end of the tour that things get really interesting.

“For the more passionate like you, we've prepared a never-before-seen immersive experience where you have the opportunity to “live in the skin of a player”. Would you like to try this experience ?” announced the guide with an enigmatic smile.

I accepted immediately, all excited. I thought it was a kind of virtual reality simulation, an interactive experience where I could feel what it's like to play for PSG.

I had no idea what was going on when I was taken to another part of the stadium, an area normally off-limits to the public.

Once inside an ultra-modern room, I was taken aback by the atmosphere. The room is filled with high-tech equipment, complex machinery, and scientists in white coats bustling around various devices.

“Before we start this experiment, we need you to sign a few waivers. It's standard procedure to make sure everything goes smoothly” said the guide. He handed me a stack of documents to sign. The sheets were dense, full of legal and scientific jargon I didn't really understand. But my excitement won out. I told myself it was probably just a formality.

I signed without hesitation, then was ushered into a small booth off to one side.

“ Please enter this cabin. We need you to undress and leave all your belongings here, including any digital devices”. I obeyed, thinking it was to put on some special equipment, maybe even real PSG match gear. But once undressed, one of the scientists took all my stuff and closed the cabin door behind you.

The cabin I was in was simple, with white walls and soft lights. I was starting to feel slightly nervous, but I pushed those thoughts aside. After all, I was here for a unique experience.

But something wasn't right. The cabin began to emit a dull hum, and the walls around you lit up in a strange way. Suddenly, a breath of fresh air escaped, followed by a strange tingling sensation on your skin. The buzzing intensified, and waves passed through your body, leaving you with a sensation of warmth, first slight, then increasingly intense.

I felt strange, as if my body were reacting to something invisible. My skin began to stretch, my limbs lengthened inexplicably. I wanted to move, but I felt frozen in place, unable to control my movements.

My heart was beating faster, but it seemed to be beating outside me, as if my body had become a mere shell. Sensations multiplied as I gradually lost the perception of myself as a human being. My muscles contracted, then relaxed, slowly breaking down, fiber by fiber.

My mind was in total confusion. I didn't understand what was happening to me, but I felt that something irreversible was happening. My thoughts scattered, your identity slowly faded away as your body was transformed into malleable matter.

Once the dissolution was complete, my remaining residues were transformed into fibers. I was stretched, twisted and reassembled into a continuous thread. During this process, I gradually lost my human consciousness, turning into a textile material. I became a material, a textile substance ready to be used and shaped for a new creation.

Once the thread was formed, the machine stopped and the cabin opened. The scientists reappeared, exchanging satisfied glances.

“Let's see the final result” says one of them. He runs his fingers along the wire I've become, while another scientist checks data on a screen. “The transformation is very conclusive. The texture is homogeneous, and the molecular structure is stable. The yarn is very strong, yet light. This is exactly what we needed for the rest of the process”. “We finally have the perfect organic material to make what sir has been waiting for. After several attempts, this person was the right one. And to think that this young supporter didn't even take the time to read the documents he signed. His blind enthusiasm and unthinking devotion have led him to a unique destiny: to become a piece of clothing for his club forever. Send the wire to the factory for assembly. We have to meet the deadline”

I was wound into spools, taken away and transported to a new destination.

I was shipped to a specialized textile mill, woven into a solid, uniform navy-blue fabric, cut into pieces according to a precise pattern and assembled to create the undershirt. The sewing process finalized my transformation into a ready-to-wear garment.

I was carefully packed and sent straight to the Parc des Princes stadium. I arrived in the dressing room, where the kitman in charge of the players' equipment unpacked me and placed me carefully folded in Kylian Mbappe's locker.

The locker room was quiet as we waited for the players to arrive. Not a sound. It took forever. Then the players arrived, including Kylian Mbappe. I felt his hand close over me and inspect me for a moment, his fingers gliding over your surface, before slipping me under his main jersey.

“Hmm, this feels really different” Kylian murmurs as he adjusts the sleeves, testing the sensation against his skin. “It's light, but it's like it's breathing with me” He makes a few movements to check my flexibility. “Not bad at all. It's exactly what I needed. The fabric is soft, but it has this... sturdy feel. I feel like I'm going to be able to move freely without it bothering me”. Kylian continues to test me, raising his arms, bending down, jumping slightly on the spot. “It keeps me dry. Even here, in the changing room, I can feel it regulating the temperature. I don't get that clammy feeling you sometimes get with other undershirts”.

On the pitch, the sensations run wild. Every time Kylian sprints, makes a technical move or changes direction, I'm subjected to compression and stretching forces. The constant pressure and friction are new sensations for me. Every impact has to be absorbed in such a way as to minimize disruption to Kylian.

My fabric, designed to wick away moisture, is in constant interaction with Kylian's sweat. This persistent absorption seems crucial to maintaining his comfort and performance. As an undershirt, my fabric body have to effectively manage this moisture, distributing it throughout my fabric to avoid accumulation that could cause discomfort.

As an undershirt, I have to provide constant support. The cut and seams are made to fit Kylian's body perfectly, offering both support and comfort. Every seam, every insertion must be impeccable to avoid chafing or distortion that could affect his game.

The match is over. Every fibre of my being is saturated with sweat, soaked in Kylian's warmth. I've been worn, I've been useful, I've been... his.

But the happiness was short-lived. In one swift movement, Kylian pulls me off and throws me in his locker, like a worthless object. The air is now freezing. I lay there in the corner of his locker, motionless and useless.

Time passes... or maybe not... because the notion of time is escaping me more and more.

Finally, a hand grabs me. It's that of the person in charge of the equipment. I'm handled and tossed into a dirty clothes bag. I find myself among other clothes, all soaked with sweat, all marked by the effort of the person wearing them. We're crammed together, pressed against each other.

The bag starts moving, carrying me towards the launderette. Each jolt reminds me of my new reality. I'm just another garment to be cleaned, stripped of all traces of life and human warmth.

I'm thrown into a machine without the slightest consideration. The cold water overwhelms me and cleanses me. Every fibre of my body is abused, turned inside out, wrung out. Kylian's sweat is washed away, his musk erased... and with them, that little feeling of belonging disappears. I have become a simple piece of cloth, washed and disinfected, with no soul, no memory.

The spinning compresses me, crushes me. I'm emptied, compressed, reduced to a state of pure fabric, without warmth, without life. Drying... the hot air passes through me, making me lighter, but also emptying me of any trace of what I once was. I'm nothing more than an undershirt, clean, dry... and empty.

Finally, I'm taken out of the machine. I'm folded, put away and placed in a dark closet with the other undershirts. I'm no longer struggling. I'm in the dark, motionless... but this immobility, this waiting, is no longer important. Waiting... that's all clothes do.

The closet is silent. I am among the other clothes, perfectly folded. Time no longer has any meaning for me.

Where am I ? Who am I ? What is my real nature ? I'm... what ? An undershirt ? Yes, an undershirt. But… where do I come from ? What have I become ? The questions float unanswered, in the void. Here in the dark, all I know... is wait. Wait…why ? Why wait ? My role... is... to be a piece of clothing.

My only thoughts are of serving, of being worm. I want the sweat. I need the musk... need to comfort and support my owner. I no longer have conscious thoughts, desires or dreams. My humanity is gone, replaced by the pure essence of a piece of clothing. I no longer feel the emotions and thoughts of a human being.

I am an undershirt, a simple fabric, entirely devoted to serving my master, Kylian Mbappé. When the time comes, when he wear me again, I will be ready. But until that day, I remain here, still, accepting my destiny as clothing.

Thanks to @inanimatetffantasies for his support and advice in writing this story

[anon-sect]

Note: every article of clothing is a former human.

Parker was hanging out with his friend Thomas at his house. Thomas and Parker had been best friends since their elementary years. The only time they weren't near each other was during their college years, but they always kept in touch with each other.

While at his best friend's place, Parker had noticed that there were several identifications on his bed. There were at least ten of them, all different persons. He was a little curious as to why Thomas had them. He only stumbled on them because he had to pass his bedroom to go to the bathroom.

After returning back to the den, Parker wanted to ask about all those identifications on his bed. It was just unusual. "I saw all those id's, I was wondering why you had them?" He asked Thomas.

Thomas was cleaning out his drawer and forgot to put them back up before Parker came over. He thought, should he tell a lie or tell the truth. But seeing how his dark secret was discovered, there was no way to fully hide it, even if he told a lie. Parker will have to learn the truth and also the danger of knowing the truth.

"Those are people who lost their humanity to me in one way or another." Thomas paused to wager Parker feelings on what he said. "Some were willing while others were reluctant to be my object. They all belong to me regardless and for the rest of their lives." He added. He knew Parker would have some questions after hearing that.

Parker was both confused and shocked at the same time. How could a person become an object, he pondered. And how could Thomas turn people into objects. "You are joking, right?" He asked, hoping his friend was joking. He saw Thomas shake his head. "How?" Was all he could think of to say next.

"I developed the ability to turn people into objects from a spell book I had bought online ten years ago. So, the first few victims were quite unwilling, but I saw it really worked." Thomas paused, feeling proud of himself. "Now I just randomly do it based on a whelp. Take, for example, my sweater top, undershirt, underwear, and sweat pants I am currently wearing are all former humans. They are quite comfortable and durable. Human material can last for a very long time, I have to say." He smiled, thinking about his human transformed clothes.

Parker didn't know whether to believe his friend or not. "Are they dead?" He asked back, being curious.

"Nope, still alive. In fact, all their senses are magnified by a factor of 1000. They taste all my sweat in a unique way. They smell they get is so strong for them. Honestly, it sucks for them, but I don't really care. I like having durable clothes." Thomas boasted about his objects.

Parker was still thinking he was lying about this whole thing. "Prove it, transform one of them back to human." He requested.

"Unfortunately, I am having found a reversal spell to learn that ability. I only know how to transform people into objects for now." Thomas responded and was, in fact, telling the full truth on that. He hasn't yet found the reversal spell. So anyone he turns into an object is permanent transformation for now.

Parker wasn't buying it. He would try his best friend one more time, but this time putting himself as the willing test subject. "Turn me into an object for your use then." He requested.

Thomas couldn't believe it, especially after hearing there was no way to reverse the change. "I really don't think you want me to do that. I won't be able to reverse what I do to you. You will be just like the current clothes I am wearing." He tried to persuade him from that course of action.

"Now I know you are lying because you really can't do it. So, how did you get all those identifications?" Parker questioned him.

Thomas was telling the truth. If his best friend wanted proof, he would give him the proof. But he knew Parker would regret asking for it afterward. "If you want proof, I will transform you into my socks. Beware, this will be permanent. You would be serving my feet for the rest of your life. And I tend to keep my property forever." He reluctantly agreed to do it.

"This I would like to see." Parker spoke, still skeptical about the whole thing.

Thomas looked directly at Parker. He focused his power and spoke, "nice comfortable black socks." He then waited for the magic to do its thing.

Parker was about to laugh when he noticed his mouth was sealed shut suddenly. His skin started to change black and become like cotton material. He was shrinking by the evidence that Thomas was getting larger. He tried to scream for help, but all that he could make was mumbling. Thomas was telling the truth after all. He didn't want to be stuck as socks forever.

Thomas was about to pity his best friend, but then the guy asked for this. If he had left it alone, he would not be turning into his permanent pair of socks right now. "I can't reverse it, dude. But I can't wait to try you on, though. I am sure you will be a comfortable pair of socks." He sort of laughed at the situation.

Parker was so confused how his best friend for years could find this humorous as he now saw his whole body was a ball of black cotton material. He reformed and spilt in two. He finally was a pair of black socks. He truly regretted forcing the issue.

Thomas picked up the socks that were his former best friend since elementary years. They felt good. He put them on his feet and loved the comfort of his new socks. "By the way, I treat my former humans as just objects now. So I won't be chatting with you after this moment. You are just socks now. But you are really comfortable. I think I should go to the gym to get you broken into your new life of keeping my feet comfortable. So I guess this is bye to your humanity and hello to just being nothing but socks." He spoke for the last time to his former best friend Parker. He got up and went to put on his favorite gym shoes. He sniffed them briefly. The thought of being trapped in their with 1000% senses upgrade was horrible to think about, but it would be Parker's prison for the next two hours.

Parker mentally was begging for death. First, being wrapped around his best friend's feet was horrible. His feet already had an odor to them. But to be trapped in such foul stench added more misery to his new situation. He then remembered that Thomas was about to go to the gym. He hated that he pressed the issue even more now. But this was his new life, a life that his best friend's feet would be torturing him without end.

[ddejavvu]

Hi, i hope youre doing well ☺️

Could i request another part to animagus cat reader where reader cuddles with Remus during winter instead of Sirius because its cold and he runs warmer?? Like he'll be in the common room reading in an arm chair while reader catnaps on his lap while being pet and Sirius tells him to stop stealing his gf and James is jealous/whiny that he doesnt get to have cat snuggles.

part 1 / part 2

--

Despite the two blankets layered in an inviting nest on Sirius's lap, Remus is the warmest person in the room. The fire crackes on its logs, offering scorching heat, but what you seek is gentle warmth, and you've found it between Remus's sweater and his undershirt. You're splayed over his chest much like a baby would be, your paws stretched out against his shoulders and your head pressed face-first into his chest. His sweater is tight enough that it holds you in place, and you don't have to worry about falling. It means that you're able to fully relax, and Sirius can hear your rampant purring from where he sits on the couch with a sour scowl on his face.

"If you just wore warmer clothes, you wouldn't be pissy right now," Remus muses, not bothering to grace the man with a glance away from his novel, "She only likes me 'cause my sweater is warm."

That's not entirely true. While Remus does tend to dress for comfort, and Sirius for style, Remus runs naturally hotter than your boyfriend. You don't have the heart to tell him that, though, so you mewl in agreement to Remus's statement.

"Sweaters are dumb," Sirius spits, and no one bothers to mention that he has a small collection of them for the snowy days on the grounds, "I look better in leather."

"Your loss," Remus shrugs, and to add insult to injury, reaches up to scratch a spot behind your ears that only makes your purring louder.

"This is bullshit," Sirius finally huffs, breaking his facade of gloomy indifference, "Prongs, get over here."

James, all too eager to help out his friend and soak up affection to boot, has no problem tipping over sideways to lay in Sirius's lap.

But the man lifts James's head out of his lap by his curls, "No, no, no, not James. Prongs."

"You want me to-?" James asks, but doesn't dare finish, because the prospect of transforming right in the common room sends a shiver of mischief down his spine that he'd be a fool to question, "On it."

"Yeah. Yeah, yeah," Sirius nods, sneering haughtily at Remus, "You're not the only one that's good for a cuddle, Moony. Look at this," He gushes, as James begins his transformation, skin giving way to tight, short fur and enormous antlers that nearly grate against the stone walls around you.

"Oh, he's a perfect fit." Remus nods resignedly, content to continue rubbing at your ears rather than chastise his friends for trying to fit a stag on a loveseat, "Yeah, that'll work nicely- ooh, careful Sirius, almost got stabbed there."

Sirius dodges a prong off of James's antlers, taking them in his hands and holding James's head steady as the oversized buck folds his knobbly knees into Sirius's lap. The back two can't make it, but James fits them clumsily onto the cushion, maintaining his balance out of dramatic willpower rather than the laws of physics.

You decide once they settle that they're no longer in need of your attention, so you turn your head back towards Remus and burrow your face back into his warm chest. You feel it shake with mirth beneath you, presumably at an overdramatized reaction from the two boys opposite you, but you can't bring yourself to care; sleep is at the forefront of your brain in this form.

"Yeah, get real cozy!" Sirius insists, calling so that you can hear him through Remus's thick sweater and beneath the weight of his hand on your ears, "Whatever! We're cozy over here, too, 'never been more comfortable- ah! Prongs, watch the hooves!"

[sleeplessdreamer14]

tell me I’m not the only one who’s bugged by this flaw in Charlie’s design…

with her jacket on, her undershirt looks long enough to pass her bottom like a miniskirt. but then she takes it off and we can see her suspenders and her sleeves are rolled up and they’ve transformed from dark red to black??

I cannot be the only one who’s peeved by this, right?

[accala]

I love how simplistic the clothing is in Advent Children compared to those in Rebirth. I know it's not what they intended (Rebirth is a fairly new game and AC Movie was back in the 2000's). But I like to think that characters had to improvise with their clothes because Shinra, who was the major supplier for everything, was gone after Meteorfall. Plus with Midgar down and in the middle of a wasteland, they had to scramble for resources, so any fabric had to be salvaged.

Here's some side-to-side references of Remake/Rebirth (RR) Clothing vs. Advent Children (AC) Clothing:

[Rufus Shinra]

The buttons. The details. The extra fabric. The belts. And then look how more simple AC is. Sure he has a coat on top of three shirts, but his RR suit looks so extra and customized to fit him whilst his AC suit looks like something he scrounged up in his remaining closet. He lost all of his extra belts. His undershirts look like they’re made out of cheap cotton too. His coat in particular looks short on the sleeves and too loose on his form.

[Turks: Rude, Reno, Tseng, & Elena]

(Top right photo from Advent Children)

Classic expensive suits for RR. Simple suits for AC. Look at those clean looks and small suit details for RR (ex. Rude has a patterned tie and Elena’s collar has a small button/pin on her collar). The difference is apparent with Reno, who has a fancy undershirt in Remake vs his simple cotton undershirt in AC. And if you zoom in on the AC photo, the coats have zippers!!! The AC coats also look loose compared to their form fitting coats in RR.

[Cloud Strife]

AC!Cloud has more fabric than in RR. But AC lacks the details that RR has. For example, RR has leather gloves with metal encased on the wrist and fingers. His shoulder pad looks forged with giant metal screws as well. But AC mostly has leather and little to no metal except for its strap buckles and wolf insignia (And it's likely that Cloud made those wolf symbols himself). Although, he does have major upgrades (read: his sword and motorcycle; both things he probably made himself/with help from scrap materials).

(Extra note: This is a common theme on other characters where they replace their utility pockets and metal armor with leather/denim. It makes sense for their equipment to be replaced due to wear and tear. Lack of metal armor could be due to lack of weapon/armor production. Plus Leather pauldrons/gauntlets are faster to make.)

[Tifa Lockhart]

Her outfit in AC looks more casual than in RR (ex. She got rid of her compression armbands; She switched out her red combat boots for look-alike converse sneaker boots; and put her utility pockets in front of her skirt/shorts combo). Notice how she doesn’t have gloves nor Materia slots in the movie (Although it’s weird that she DOES have gloves in other games/promos).

[Barret Wallace]

In AC, he has a sleeveless puffer jacket and a fishnet shirt. He also lost his leather utility pockets (for ammo possibly) from RR. And it’s probably because he doesn’t need it, now that he has a new advanced weapon (it can transform from a metal arm into a high tech machine gun and vice versa). As an oil baron, he probably has more access to materials and utilities compared to other characters, that’s why Barret’s clothes don’t look so simple/improvised.

[Marlene Wallace]

Obviously Marlene would have a different look when she got older. But look at her cute frilly pink dress vs. her white sleeveless collared shirt and floral patterned skirt (notice how her outfit looks like a mix of Cloud and Aerith’s outfits). The stitching for her AC outfit is way more simple. Also I’d like to think Barret gave her that floral patterned fabric for her skirt since it would have been difficult to get ahold of.

[Yuffie Kisaragi]

Zippers galore. Her outfit is changed to black with a floral patterned shirt with a denim ensemble (I think her outfit is a little extra because she's a WRO member). Her shuriken’s the same but her metal and leather armor are gone and replaced with a wristband and a black cloth that covers her forearm. She still has her utility pockets though but it’s in denim (I wonder, did she break her old armor?).

(Edit: She also has these green converse knee high boots?? Again, as a WRO member, she probs got them outside of Midgar)

[Vincent Valentine]

Nothing changed that much. He kept his coat. His AC leather straps and gauntlet are less detailed than the Rebirth one. The metal buckles look different in shape too. I think he changed those in AC. Makes sense if there were wear and tear during the years (I wonder how he does his laundry though lmao).

[Cid Highwind]

Cid changed to a cotton blue shirt. He doesn’t have his pilot scarf anymore nor his flight jacket. Instead, he has a brown bomber jacket tied around his waist with a dog tag around his neck. As much as I think his clothes are due to scarce resources, I also don’t think he cares that much regarding fashion.

[Reeve Tuesti]

The shoulder pads. The silver and yellow accents. The foot length blue coat. It's a major improvement on Reeve's outfit compared to his old businessman suit. As the WRO leader, he gets access to making his outfit a little fancy (more chances to trade with other towns/cities outside of Midgar). Although I do think someone made that coat for him, and he wanted to reject it because he considered it too much. But accepted either way 'cause it would be a waste.

[blueboybot]

Lovestruck!

Billy didn't mean to follow Danny...

That was a lie, he totally did mean to follow him BUT he didn't intentionally make himself show up all the other times. It was just that Danny had a habit of being in the area whenever disaster struck in Fawcett City and Billy has picked up the habit of having Danny in his arms more times than not.

......

The first time he met Danny it was a Captain Marvel. A building down town had caught on fire after some faulty wiring and he managed to get everyone in the building out safely with the help of a few firefighters. He thought he did until his super hearing caught the sound of a sudden heart beat, slower than a regular human but definitely still alive. He wasted no time flying back into the building and reaching the fifth floor with relative ease where he saw him.

Now Billy could admit that this was not the time or place but as soon as his eyes landed on him his heart felt as if it was struck by lightning. There in a room was one of the prettiest boys he's ever seen with dark locks and sky blue eyes rushing to grab papers before the flames of the ongoing fire could consume them. It took Billy and embarassing amount of time to snap out of it and grab the boy before flying out of the building.

As Billy floated in the air he couldn't help but to stare at the other.Travelling his eyes down from the other's face he noticed that the boy was wearing and all black outfit, the shirt being cropped and having the design of a purple seedling, his pants were a little baggy and adorned with chains and zips all while sporting black combat boots.

"Uhh you can put me down now," A voice said pulling him out his thoughts. The other boy looked at him with a raised eyebrow, still clutching the papers close to his chest.

Against his will his cheeks started to heat up "My bad."

He quickly descended and placed the boy next to the nearest firefighter before flying off once the fire was put out.

The second time he met Danny and got his name was as Billy Batson. Billy was doing a run in the park as part of his daily exercise, because Captain Marvel shouldn't be the only strong one with muscles, when he turned his face for a few seconds to enjoy the scenery and collided with another body, sending the person backwards and onto the ground.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't see where I was going and–" As he was reaching out his hand to help a pair of familiar blue eyes halted any further actions. This time he was dressed in a red bucket hat, a yellow vest with a white long sleeved undershirt and a long green pants with brown shoes.

"No worries you apologised so that counts for something," He held out his hand and Billy quickly took it, pulling him up onto his feet "The name's Danny."

"Billy."

Before another word could be said a loud explosion shook the earth followed by the terrified screams and frantic running of people around them. Billy opened his mouth to say something to Danny but when he looked all he saw was air in the place Danny was supposed to be standing. He had no time to dwell on that so sped off to more secretive place before transforming and flying off to where the trouble resided.

When he got there Billy was absolutely dumbfounded because in the villain's hands was none other Danny himself in all of his annoyed and squirming glory. The villain finally noticed him and started their monologue while holding Danny in the air, displaying him like the helpless and slightly angry captive he was.

It took a total of five minutes for Billy to knock the villain down and catch Danny before he hit the ground.

"Nice to catch you again Danny," He teased.

Danny narrowed his eyes at him "How do you know my name?"

"Uhh super hearing," He nervously replied.

"...Are you stalking me?"

"Nonono it was really super hearing, I promise."

.....

After a while it sort of became a routine for them but Danny only ever seemed to be willing to talk to him as Billy rather than Captain Marvel for some reason and he's not sure why. In all honesty Danny was much nicer to him as Billy, he would always be close and open to him as possible to the point where it leaves Billy's cheeks heated. While as Captain Marvel Danny is quick to shut down any conversation and leave as quickly as possible after thanking him for the rescue. Billy's not sure what he did as Captain Marvel to offend Danny but he hopes to figure it out soon.

Deviating from his regular patrol route to follow his crush was probably not the best option but he's working on it. As soon as Danny gets home safely he'll go back to his regular program.

Just as Danny turned the corner a nearby pillar from a building under construction started to crumble and just before the giant chunk of stone could harm Danny Billy swooped in and saved him from becoming one with the ground.

"I'm sensing a pattern here Captain." From within his arms he saw that Danny wore a teal headband, a black long sleeved shirt, teal pants and black shoes. Despite his scowl Danny really did look good in anything.

"Just doing my job," Billy smiled back.

......

This was supposed to be Danny's vacation from fighting ghost and he was not enjoying it to his fullest like he hoped. You would think that after a reveal gone extremely well with his parents and being given some promised time off by Clockwork he wouldn't find himself in no more trouble but here he is, constantly being saved by a man who refers to himself as 'The Big Red Cheese'.

On the plus side he got to meet a cute boy named Billy who he definitely is crushing hard on and will be in his thoughts for the rest of his stay here. Now back to Captain Marvel. Danny found the superhero to be weird in a creep kinda sense, sure the man is constantly saving him but that's because Danny is on strict vacation time and will not be using his powers while there is a well established hero in the area. What he means is he's caught the man multiple times staring at him and raking his eyes over his body and it makes the ecto-infused hair on his body stand up when he does it.

He hasn't done anything to him yet and despite Danny's best efforts to follow the man he can't. For someone who wears such bold colors he does manage to slip away from him very easily. If the man does try anything with him Danny will take pleasure in showing him why he picked the wrong one.

[marimayscarlett]

Apparently, yesterday marked the 31st anniversary of Rammstein's first concert under their proper band name (they had one gig in February 1994 under the moniker 'Templeprayers'). The concert took place on the 24th of March, 1995 in the naTo venue in Leipzig, and solely due to Flake's brother, who's band 'Golden Acker Rhythm Kings'/'Acker Selection' was the main act this evening, they were able to take on the role as support act and present themselves on stage. Not much is known about the concert, neither pictures nor set list.

Here's a quote of Flake about it:

"Our world premiere took place at naTo, Rammstein's first performance. Not even we knew how people would react to us, and the crew at naTo simply let us play without hesitation. It's wonderful that something like naTo exists."

Here's a little report of Flake about the first concert (taken from the book '30 Jahre naTo'):

Translation:

The NATO in Rammstein

A young band usually has insane self-confidence, but we had already gained experience in our previous bands, which led us to decide that our first concert should definitely not take place in Berlin, where family members or – even worse – musician colleagues could attend. My brother (Auge) was playing at the time, in 1994, with the Golden Acker Rhythm Kings and agreed to take us along as a support act.

Fortunately, I owned a huge American station wagon (an Oldsmobile Regency Sedan Station from 1976, in case anyone wants to see a picture of us sitting three across in the front seat). Moss was growing on the window seals, and the steering gear was broken. The journeys to the concerts were usually the most enjoyable part.

When we arrived in Leipzig, we were warmly welcomed and put on our undershirts, which were supposed to serve as our stage costumes. Little did we know that we would be taking them off after the fourth song. Till, to hide his nervousness, put on a welder’s mask and looked like a large, friendly insect.

Slowly, the hall filled with friendly, open-minded Leipzigers who were looking forward to a fun evening. So we took the stage as if it were the most natural thing in the world and started playing. Since we were so focused on our instruments, we didn’t move at all. I only looked into the audience after a few songs. The people stood there frozen. No one clapped or danced; they just stared at us in shock.We hadn’t been announced as the support act, and my brother’s band performed more humorous songs, where English lyrics were phonetically transformed into new German texts.

The funniest part must have been for those in the audience who didn’t realize that we weren’t actually the announced main act. For example, I once wanted to watch a TV show featuring the comedy duo Badesalz, who often disguise themselves as ordinary passersby to provoke funny reactions. I tuned in late and laughed out loud at a report about the residents of a house in Kreuzberg, trying to figure out which of them was from Badesalz—only to realize after the show that I had gotten the day wrong.

In any case, we played in front of a silent crowd who, at least, didn’t leave. By the end of the concert, they were still standing there exactly as before—but then even cautiously applauded. We were very relieved. Now we were a real band that had survived a concert. I then played with the Ackers as well and, as a result, fell behind in drinking. That’s why I was the one who got to drive the car back to Berlin with five sleeping stones in it.

So, dear NATO: Thanks for the asylum, and best regards from Flake.

It has been a wide spread myth that the first Rammstein concert took place on the 14th of April, 1994. Flake's brother drew comics based on notes about the concert on the 24th. So happy (belated) live concert anniversary to Rammstein 🤍

Sources: rammwiki | rammsteinontour

[thepenultimateword]

The Un-Gingerbread || Secret Santa 2024

I participated in the Secret Santa writing event again this year! This snippet is for @gingerly-writing! I hope you enjoy! I know you said I could choose just one topic buuuut I ended up kinda combining them all together!

magical girl powers (especially for villains)

something cute and Christmassy turned deadly/bad (Christmas card full of blackmail, evil snow powers, etc)

super niche/useless superpower saves the day

“They’re Christmas cookies,” Hero said blandly.

“They’re suspicious.” Villain tapped the edge of the platter with the tip of their snowflake wand. Little swirls of frost spread over the surface of the plastic wrap, clouding over the little gingerbread faces.

“Some caroler or neighbor or someone trying to be spread Christmas cheer casually left a plate on your doorstep. End of story.”

Hero had never been the imaginative type. It was a little annoying actually: the power of disbelief. One of the only things that had ever rendered Villain powerless. It didn’t always work, especially now that Hero had seen Villain’s work up close so often, but when Hero got thinking too much about the laws of gravity, the improbability of a transformation sequence, the energy mechanics of magic, Villain found themselves dropping like a stone. 

In those moment they just had to hope Hero was close enough to catch them–practically a guarantee–and empathetic enough not say a word to anyone else. …Less likely.

Villain tucked the wand into a reality pocket–Hero was nice enough not mess with that one today-and swished their capelet around them as they turned toward the fridge. The next thing they knew, they were pouring a glass of milk just so they could look away. The hero’s dry gaze already felt like a drain on their powers without this extra dose of exasperation. 

“Look at the clothes,” they said.

Hero raised an eyebrow, but began to peel up the first layer of plastic wrap.

“Don’t unwrap them!” Villain cried, then as Hero’s eyebrow did a higher, more quizzical leap into their hair, “We don’t know what’s in them.”

“I don’t think this shoddy wrap job is keeping in any dangerous toxins,” Hero said.

Villain stomped a heeled shoe. “Don’t say such dangerous things out loud!”

“For that to work the cookies would have to actually be toxic. Which they aren’t.” Hero’s eyes flicked up and down before returning to the cookie plate and the unwrapping process. “Did you seriously do a complete transformation over this?”

Villain warmed a little. They didn’t make a habit of inviting heroes to their apartment, but something about this had shaken them. Something about those sugar pearl eyes peering up at them had felt…wrong. Though they’d claimed, even internally, that Hero was simply the first name to pop into their head, maybe…maybe they’d chosen them on purpose. Maybe they’d wanted a bit of logic to asway their anxiety. To tell them everything was truly alright.

“I’m just being prepared,” Villain said, then nodded at the plate.

The gingerbreadpeople were dressed like them. Not the comfortable, baggy outfits they wore as a civilian but their magical version–silver pompadour shoes with a snowflake sprinkles for the buckles, long icy blue tailcoat and capelet with a carefully iced imitation of the frost pattern emroidery, and whipped ruffles—so many ruffles, in the cravat, in the white undershirt, in the peeking cuffs of the sleeves; the Ginger-Villains even held their wand, complete with silver edible glitter so the snowflake head sparkled in the light.

“Coincidence.”

“Coinci– Hero! That’s me!”

“Yes, and half the city is convinced you’re some sort of ice fairy.” Villain could hear the eyeroll in their tone. “This isn’t the first cookie I’ve seen with your face on it.”

“But they are the first to show up at my door.”

Hero let out an enormous sigh. “Ok, honestly? Yes, it’s weird. Yes, it’s creepy. But I just don’t believe anyone could have figured out who you are let alone where you live. You’re ok. Throw them away if you’re so worried.”

Villain folded their arms poutily. “I’m sure that’s exactly what the sender wants me to do. One moment I’m dumping cookies, the next I have giant radioactive rats breaking down my door.”

They swished their cape again, more dramatically this time, making the full breadth of their displeasure known. 

Hero sighed again. They did that so much it was a wonder they had any breath left.

“Do you want me to take them?”

Villain blinked. “Really?”

“You’re just going keep calling me otherwise, right? And I have no worries about throwing them away in my trash.”

Villain picked up the platter hesitantly. “I wouldn’t want you to get hurt on my behalf…”

“I know it’s Christmas but quit with the fluff. Hand them over.”

Hero thrust out their hand, waving their fingers impatiently. 

Well, if Hero really wanted the creepy cookies, who was Villain to stop them. They were a grown, capable adult who knew how to take care of themselves, and they were enemies anyways, so Villain didn’t need to feel guilty at all if–

Villain’s thoughts stopped short, plate half extended. The platter trembled a little in their fist.

“Are you really so freaked out that you’re shaking?” Hero said.

“I-I’m not.”

Something on the platter was moving. 

As the first Ginger-Villain rose to its feet, all Villain and Hero could do was stare. 

When the second one popped up, Villain threw the platter across the room.

The decorative plastic cracked against the wall, and about two dozen cookies scattered every direction.

The wall clock ticked a second of peace, and then the cookies were back up, faces smudges, bodies cracked, or a gory scene of cookie arms and legs and sugar pearl eyes littering the tile.

One cookie who was lucky enough to escape the throw with no more damage than a lost eye and a smeared tailcoat waddled determinedly forward while several others limped or dragged themselves behind.

Villain cursed. "What is happening?"

"It's not real. it's not real. it's not real," Hero muttered like a ritual beside them. But the cookies were real. And whatever disbelief Hero had been suspending was broken.

Fine. If Hero was going to be useless... Villain reached into the air and yanked their wand out of its pocket and back into reality.

They flicked the wand once, sending a pale coating of slick ice over the living cookies, stiffening their limbs and freezing them to the spot.

"There," Villain said, letting out a slow exhale. "Now I think we should burn--"

Crack.

Crick, crack.

Crick, crack, crackle, crack.

Steam wafted up from each cookie, and as they pressed forward, little fissures spread up the weakened ice-coating.

"Are they...getting hotter?" Villain said.

The embroidery detailing and facial features dripped down the cookie's bodies as they moved pooling in little sweet puddles at their feet. A few cookies picked up the nearby limbs and melded them into the now soft stumps.

"That shouldn't be as disturbing as it is," Hero muttered.

"Ok, I was going easy on you all because you're made of flour," Villain said, "but why don't you try escaping this?"

Villain swished their wand in a circle, this time encapuslating the cookies in a large, solid ball of ice.

Crack.

Villain conjured another layer.

Crick, crack.

Another.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

Another.

The ice ball grew and grew, but for every layer of ice Villain threw up, the cracking only seemed to quicken.

Great billowing clouds of steam filled the room, obscuring the ice prison from view and Villain backed warily toward the living room, grabbing Hero's arm as they went.

There was one final crack; ice shot around the room like shattered glass and a wave of chilly water washed across the floor, seeping through the seams of their shoes.

As the cookies had heated in their prison, they'd mushed together, replacing two dozen zombieish Ginger-Villains with one enormous, thoroughly burnt Ginger-Creature. One beady sugar pearl stared down at them from the gooey burnt icing face.

"Hero, do something!" Villain shouted, digging their nails into the hero's arm.

Hero paused their muttered chant long enough to roar, "I'm trying!"

"What, a walking cookie is too realistic for you?"

"It reminds me of a horror movie! It's hard to disbelieve in things that have that sort of hold in my mind!"

The Ginger-Creature stepped toward them.

Villain waved their wand toward the pool of water on the floor, freezing it into a slick sheet. Unfortunately, they hadn't thought about their own half-submerged feet. As they attempted another step back, they found their blocky heels frozen to the floor.

The creature slipped a little with its next step, but ultimately its heating power left indents in the ice wherever its giant feet moved.

Villain lurched back, but the attempt was fruitless.

"Take off your shoes!" Hero cried, already in their socks and crouching down at Villain's feet and fumbling with the intricate snowflake buckles.

"They're magic shoes," Villain choked. "They don't come off."

"Then detransform! Do something! It's coming!"

Villain grabbed Hero by either side of their face, forcing them to look up at them.

"Hero, I need you're annoying, unimaginative, logical brain to start asking the big questions right now."

Hero stared at them wide-eyed. "I...I..."

"Come on! You always think of something aggravating! Like...how can this cookie see us when its eye is just sugar? How does the light pass through? And even if it does, how is that light processed? Does it have a cookie brain? That doesn't make any sense."

"How can it heat itself?" Hero said, voice a little trembly. "Nothing in gingerbread can conduce its own heat."

"Yeah, and why did the cookies have heat powers anyway when they were supposed to be copies of me?"

"How did it know how to shape itself? It's messed up, but it's still sort of a person. Do all the cookies have a sense of humanity? Do they have separate thoughts? Or are they one cookie hivemind?"

The smell of burnt sugar and ginger was suffocating now. Villain could feel the heat wafting off it as it's burnt foot came into view a mere couple of feet away.

Hero spread their arms out in front of Villain and looked up into the towering cookie's face. “You're not real.”

The gingerbread froze in place. It's entire body shuddered, and then abruptly it crumbled into a pile of blackened cookie dust. The sugar pearl rolled across the floor and into Villain's knee.

They both stared in silence.

Then Villain laughed.

They couldn’t help it. Emotional response maybe. They just laughed and laughed and went weak against Hero's side, grasping for balance around their waist. Hero hugged them with one arm around the head. Villain wasn't sure if they even knew they were doing it, or if the simply needed as much support after that conclusion as Villain did.

"I did it," Hero gasped.

"You did it!" Villain said giddily. "You're so boring, you fantastic stick in the mud you!"

Villain picked up the sugar pearl, rolling it between their thumb and forefinger a couple times, before popping it triumphantly in their mouth. As soon, as the sweetness hit their tongue, words sprang across their mind unprompted.

Merry Christmas, Villain. I'm sorry you didn't like my treat. My next one will be better.

[cursedwithcaution]

[ID: Drawn in monochrome maroon, Hunter lies on his right side with his knees curled up to his chest; he wears a t-shirt and sweatpants; he looks forward with tears in his eyes and clutches a blanket with one hand. Mirrored beneath him in a cooler tone is a younger version of Hunter curled in the same position wearing boxers and an undershirt. His expression is more numb or neutral than the one above. Text centered in the lower half reads "Finding Palismen / 58: Let's Go Home" /End ID]

Title-free version of the art beneath the cut

[soldiersareyourprotectors]

Jack had spent the last two years meticulously planning his escape, each detail calculated with the precision. His athletic build and sharp mind have always been his greatest assets, and tonight, they were his ticket to freedom.

After scaling the prison walls under the cover of darkness, he ran through the forest with the agility of a panther, the distant lights of the city guiding his path. By the time he reached the outskirts of the airport, his muscles ached, and his lungs burned, but the adrenaline coursing through his veins kept him moving.

The airport was eerily quiet as he slipped through an unsecured entrance. Midnight was approaching, and the place was almost deserted. Jack made his way through the dimly lit corridors, his mind racing with the plan he had rehearsed a thousand times.

As he sneaked through the airport, he spotted a pilot sitting in a chair, working on his MacBook. The sight briefly made him nervous, but he kept his composure and continued walking, ensuring he didn't attract any unwanted attention.

Jack chose a restroom at the far end and slipped inside, his pulse quickening. He selected a stall and waited. The minutes ticked by slowly, each one feeling like an eternity. Finally, the door creaked open, and Jack's pulse quickened. He peered through the gap in the stall door and saw a man in a business suit walk in, his steps echoing in the empty restroom.

Jack sprang from the stall, his movements swift and silent. He grabbed the man from behind, slamming his head against the sink. The man collapsed to the floor, unconscious. Jack's heart pounded with a mix of fear and exhilaration as he looked down at the man's clothes. It was a pilot's uniform, complete with a neatly pressed jacket adorned with stripes on the sleeves.

As Jack examined the unconscious man, he realized with a jolt of recognition that it was the same pilot he had seen moments earlier, sitting in a chair and working on his MacBook. The serendipity of the situation sent a thrill of excitement through him. He and the pilot shared strikingly similar features, and now the perfect disguise was right at his feet.

Jack's eyes roved over the pilot's body, noticing a distinct tenting in the uniform pants. A wicked curiosity got the better of him, and he knelt down, feeling up the pilot's crotch. The hardness he felt beneath the fabric made him chuckle softly, a final indignity for the unconscious man. Jack quickly rifled through the pilot's bags and found a razor. With swift, practiced motions, Jack shaved trimmed his beard, leaving his face and unrecognizable.

Satisfied with his transformation, he turned his attention to the unconscious pilot.

Jack carefully unbuttoned the man's jacket, revealing a crisp white shirt underneath.

He slid the jacket off the pilot's shoulders, feeling the expensive fabric in his hands. Next, he loosened and removed the tie, setting it aside. Then, he unbuttoned the shirt, one button at a time, until he could peel it away, exposing the man's undershirt. Jack's fingers worked methodically, slipping the undershirt over the pilot's head and arms.

With the top half of the pilot undressed, Jack moved to the trousers. He unfastened the belt and unzipped the fly, easing the trousers down over the pilot's hips and legs.

The black dress socks and polished shoes came off last. As Jack pulled off the shoes, a distinct smell of sweat and leather filled the room, a testament to the pilot having worn these shoes for quite some time. The scent stirred something primal in Jack, making him hard.

Jack looked at the pilot's body, noting their similarities in build and size. He removed his own prison jumpsuit, the coarse fabric scratching against his skin one last time as he stripped down to nothing. He felt a momentary vulnerability standing there naked, but the sight of the pilot's uniform spurred him on.

He carefully pulled on the white briefs, the soft cotton a stark contrast to the rough prison garb he had worn for years. The briefs fit snugly, molding to his form. Jack chuckled softly as he noticed the pilot's dick was semi-hard, a final indignity for the unconscious man.

Next, Jack slipped on the black dress socks, feeling the smooth material slide over his feet and up his calves. He stepped into the trousers, pulling them up and fastening them securely. The fit was perfect, hugging his athletic frame in all the right places.

Jack picked up the pilot's undershirt and pulled it over his head, feeling the soft fabric settle comfortably against his skin. Then he picked up the crisp white shirt and slid his arms into the sleeves, buttoning it up meticulously. He tucked the shirt into the trousers, ensuring there were no wrinkles. He then donned the pilot's jacket, feeling the weight of the fabric and the authority it symbolized as he adjusted the stripes on the sleeves. He tied the tie with practiced precision, making sure it was perfectly centered.

Jack then reached for the black Oxford shoes. He slipped his foot into the first shoe, finding it a bit of a struggle as the shoe seemed slightly smaller than his feet. With determination, he pushed his foot further, feeling the leather stretch to accommodate him. When his foot finally slipped in completely, the shoe fit snugly, almost as if it were molded to his foot. He savored the feeling, wiggling his toes beneath the leather before tying the laces. He repeated the process with the other shoe, relishing the snug fit and the firm support around his feet.

As Jack stood there, fully dressed in the pilot's uniform, he couldn't help but admire his reflection. The sight of himself in the uniform, embodying a new identity, made him hard and horny. He felt an overwhelming surge of power and desire.

Driven by a primal urge, Jack moved back towards the unconscious pilot. He pressed his uniformed body against the pilot's prone form, grinding his hips and feeling the fabric of the uniform rub against his hardened member. The sensation was intoxicating, and he let out a low moan. The friction caused the unconscious pilot to moan softly in response, adding to the intensity of the moment.

After a few moments of indulgence, Jack forced himself to step back, breathing heavily. He dressed the unconscious pilot in his prison clothes and used the handcuffs he had worn during his escape to restrain him. He then dragged the pilot's limp body to an old, abandoned ventilation shaft in the corner of the restroom and hid him inside, ensuring he wouldn't be found for a while.

As Jack stepped out of the restroom, he felt a rush of exhilaration. The uniform fit like a second skin, and the shoes clicked authoritatively on the tiled floor. He was no longer Jack Evans, prisoner number 83729. He was Captain John Blake, a respected pilot ready to start a new life. And it helped that Jack had completed his pilot training and got his license before getting imprisoned for drug trafficking.

Everything had aligned perfectly. Jack walked through the empty terminal with confidence, the ID badge clipped to his jacket a symbol of his new identity. The night air felt great against his skin after a long time as he made his way to the gate, where a plane awaited its captain.

[swappetf11]

They used to call him Big G.

Gregor Dalton. 6’4”, 300 pounds of bad attitude and beer weight. A barrel of a man with a red-blonde beard so thick it practically had its own zip code, arms like hams, and a gut that hung over his duty belt like a second badge. His scalp was half-bald, ringed with tufts of sunburned orange hair slicked down with sweat and neglect. His eyes—cold, small, pale—hid under thick brows and a permanent scowl. His voice was a mix of gravel and bile, often used to bark orders or chew someone out, especially if they were brown and on the wrong side of the fence.

He wasn’t just a border patrol agent—he was the border patrol agent. A legend. Gruff. Abusive. Proud of it. Everyone on the force knew not to cross him, and no one wanted to ride with him on long shifts unless they liked hearing words that made their stomachs churn.

He didn’t just detain migrants—he broke them down.

“Get on the fuckin’ ground!”

“You think you can just sneak into my country?”

“You speak English? No? Then shut up!”

He’d slam their faces into the dirt, zip-tie them too tight, make them sit in the sun for hours. Sometimes he’d flick his cigarette ash at them. He didn’t care if they were women or kids. If they crossed the line, they were trespassers, criminals, filth.

“Don’t wanna get treated like animals?” he’d growl. “Then stay in your cage.”

And yet he believed he was doing good. He saw the job as sacred. Saw the border as a wall between order and chaos. He hated coyotes—those smug bastards who sold hope and death in equal measure. And he hated how the routes kept changing, how every time they cracked down on one tunnel or one trail, five more popped up like snakes from the dirt.

So when the higher-ups summoned him to the black site outside El Paso, he thought it was for commendation. Another medal. Another pat on the back.

Instead, they told him:

“You’re going under.”

Gregor blinked. “The hell does that mean?”

“You’re being placed in Rancho Silencio,” the man in the windbreaker said. “Durango. Rural town. The cartel’s established new smuggling paths through the region. People. Drugs. Coyotes are adapting. You’re going in to learn how they work. Blend in. Observe. Report.”

He laughed so hard he wheezed. “You want me to play fuckin’ dress-up as some beaner hillbilly and sniff out tunnels?”

“You’ll be transformed.”

Gregor’s face went dark.

“This is ‘cause I broke that Guatemalan’s jaw last month, huh?” he hissed. “Because I made that Honduran bitch piss herself when I yanked her kid?”

Silence.

“We’ve selected you because you’re effective,” the suit said flatly. “But to continue being effective, you must become the enemy.”

The rage boiled in him. Become the enemy. He clenched his fists, chest heaving under his sweat-stained undershirt.

“You’re gonna turn Big G into some taco-slinging campesino. This is humiliation.”

The female tech interrupted, calm and clinical. “This is necessary.”

They stripped him down. Watched him grumble and spit as he peeled off his uniform, revealing rolls of pale flesh, sunburnt and freckled. His arms looked like raw roast pork, glistening with sweat and red hair. His legs were thick and hairy, with thighs that chafed with every step. He stood there in a paper gown, his manhood hanging fat and pale between his legs, red bush tangled above.

Gregor had never felt more exposed.

“Drink this,” the tech said, handing him a glowing green vial.

He hesitated. Then, bitterly, he growled, “Fuck it.”

The potion burned like molten metal. It hit his gut like a hammer and exploded outward. He doubled over, gasping, clutching the table as his insides twisted like a snake was coiling in his belly.

“AHHH—fuck—what the fuck—!”

Then came the change.

His massive frame crumpled, bones cracking like firewood under an axe. His spine shrank. His gut melted, rolling away into nothing as his chest and shoulders collapsed inward, losing bulk and girth. His legs shortened, cracked, reshaped—his feet pulling back like a tape measure snapping shut.

“¡Madre… MADREEEEE!” he screamed, in Spanish, the voice pouring from his lips like it had always been there.

He tried to say What the hell? but what came out was:

“¿Qué… qué verga me está pasando, güey?”

His hands were different now—smaller, darker, callused in places they never were. His skin rippled with heat, peeling away layers of pink and freckle, shifting to a golden brown, then deeper. Dusty. Earth-worn. The skin of someone who’d worked under the Mexican sun their whole life.

His red beard began to itch—then fall out in clumps. He gasped, watching the wiry orange hairs drift down like autumn leaves. In their place, black stubble sprouted fast and thick. His scalp—once balding—tingled with pressure as black hair burst from it, dense and bristled, styled like it had just been clipped by a guy named Chuy who charged fifty pesos and used a straight razor.

Gregor’s lips swelled slightly, his cheekbones sharpened, and his nose broadened at the bridge. He stumbled forward, panting, sweat pouring off his body. His gut was gone. His back was lean, shoulders tight. His thighs were firm now, strong, compact. He stood maybe 5’6”, with the body of a man who carried bricks, not a badge.

And then—

His teeth began to fall out.

He howled. The sound was animal. He spat blood, watching his old crooked, yellow teeth hit the floor in a mess of gum tissue and drool.

“¡NO! ¡NOOO!”

New teeth grew in fast—pushing out sharp and white. A bit uneven. Real. Not American dental perfection. Teeth that had chewed tortillas, sunflower seeds, and weed stems.

His cock had changed, too. No longer pale and chubby, it was darker, narrower, but heavy and veiny, with thick, swinging balls that hung low between his thighs like they’d been there for decades. When he moved, they bounced with that familiar masculine sway—but they weren’t his. Not Gregor’s.

He panted. The stench of his new sweat filled the room—richer, muskier. A body that didn’t wear deodorant, that worked hard, that smelled like sex and dust and heat.

When he opened his mouth again, he didn’t speak English. He couldn’t.

“Yo… yo soy… Álvaro… ¿no?” he whispered.

The techs nodded. “Yes. Álvaro Medina. Born in Rancho Silencio. You’ve smoked weed since you were fifteen. You work odd jobs. You know how to listen. You don’t draw attention.”

They handed him jeans. A faded brown flannel. Cheap cowboy boots. A belt with a cracked leather buckle.

He dressed slowly. Every motion felt wrong—but familiar. He reached down and tugged the crotch of his jeans up. The denim hugged his thighs. His new bulge sat heavy between his legs. When he walked, it swung.

The mirror didn’t show Big G.

It showed a short Mexican man in his early 30s. Warm brown eyes, black hair in a clean fade, a dusting of stubble on his cheeks and upper lip. A mouth that naturally turned down at the corners. The face of a man who’d seen enough.

His new gait was quiet, nimble. No longer a stomping bully. His shoulders rolled differently. He looked… wary. He looked real.

They handed him a joint.

“You’re gonna need it,” the tech said. “You’re Álvaro now.”

He lit it without thinking. Held the smoke deep. Exhaled slow.

And as the high settled in his lungs, he heard the whisper of coyotes in the back of his head—names, faces, paths carved through dry creeks and abandoned tunnels. His mission pulsed behind his temples like a forgotten dream.

Gregor was still in there, buried, raging.

But Álvaro Medina took another drag and muttered in a voice thick with smoke and certainty:

“Vamos a ver cómo chingados se mueven esta vez.”

The first time Álvaro caught his reflection—really caught it—was when he stepped into the narrow metal washroom outside the facility, barefoot, the floor cold beneath his smaller, roughened soles. The joint still clung between his fingers, burning slow. The flannel shirt they gave him stuck to his damp back, a film of sweat caught between cloth and skin. His new jeans hugged his thighs, the denim still stiff, smelling faintly of old soap and dust. And underneath, tight against his hips, a pair of faded gray briefs that had clearly seen years of wash. They were a bit snug, the elastic curling slightly, pressing in around the base of his cock where his thick new shaft curved to the left, balls hanging low and pendulous in the cramped pouch.

His hand trembled as he pushed the door open. He wasn’t used to feeling small.

Everything felt too big now. The ceiling seemed higher. The sink farther. The stall too tall, too cold. His gait—once a wide lumbering stomp—had narrowed. His hips shifted differently, his knees bent more. He moved like a man built for maneuvering, for ducking under fences and sliding through brush, not for throwing weight around. The boots clicked on the tile with a sharper rhythm, his steps lighter, quieter.

The mirror above the sink wasn’t kind. But it was honest.

He stepped close.

A man stared back—rounder face, sun-warmed skin, eyes dark and rich with shadow. His lips were slightly chapped, the corners cracked. His stubble was thick, black, hugging his jawline tight. His ears sat closer to his head. His brow furrowed differently now—less harsh, more suspicious, like someone who’d spent years watching his back.

“I… I look like I sell oranges on the side of the road,” he muttered in Spanish.

And he hadn’t meant to say it that way.

He blinked, heart stuttering. The words weren’t English. They weren’t translated either. They were the only thing that came out. Pure reflex.

He dropped the joint, squashed it under his boot. The smoke lingered in the room, earthy and sweet. He grimaced.

“I hate this shit,” he said aloud, again in Spanish. “Smells like dead grass and cheap decisions.”

He was still aware of Big G—Gregor—in this moment. Could still feel the anger curling in his chest. Could still remember the way he used to glare down at migrants, sneer at addicts. He remembered slamming a kid into the hood of the truck for lighting a blunt during processing. He’d spat on the floor and called him trash.

And now he stood in a pair of borrowed briefs, smoke curling around his stubble, lungs filled with that same junk, a thick weight between his thighs that didn’t belong to him, in a stranger’s body that felt like home.

He stared at his hand. Callused in different places. Fingers longer. Nails different. He flexed.

Then reached up, running his fingers along his jaw, over the dark stubble. His beard used to be coarse, a wild fire of red. Now it was tightly packed and felt like velvet thorns. His scalp—he rubbed it, gritting his teeth—thick with hair. His bald patch was gone. He had a fade now. A damn fade.

He chuckled bitterly, still in Spanish.

“I used to mock guys with hair like this. Fuckin’ gang bangers. Now I look like I just stepped out of a cantina with two grams of coke in my sock.”

He ran water into the sink. Splashed his face. Watched the beads roll down his darker skin. It clung differently. Held heat longer. Smelled different too—earthy, like clay and sweat.

His hand slid instinctively down to the waistband of his briefs.

“Dios…” he muttered, palming the weight of his new package. “These balls are gonna kill my back.”

They were heavy. Long, meaty, pulled low by gravity and heat. His cock lay thick against his thigh, curved just enough that he had to adjust it in the jeans every time he moved. He shifted awkwardly, pressing a hand against his fly.

“I used to laugh at these guys walking around with their dicks swinging like they owned the world,” he muttered. “Now I walk like that.”

He pulled open the door and stepped back into the hallway. A mirror along the side wall reflected his full figure. He looked—young. Maybe early thirties. Hard years, but nothing like the red-faced monster he’d once been. He used to waddle when he walked. Now he moved. There was rhythm in his hips, a purposeful bounce in his step. His shoulders rolled with quiet confidence. His whole body said: “I’ve done time. I’ve worked hard. I know who I am.”

He didn’t.

But in about 12 hours, he would.

Because the memories were fading already.

The thoughts of Gregor—his face, his full name, his boots, the gravel of his voice—they were dissolving. Like smoke.

Already Álvaro couldn’t remember his old phone number. Or the name of his ex-wife. The memory of beating a teenager during an arrest? Blurry now. He remembered the blood. But not the name. Not the face.

He stepped outside, the air warmer now. The smell of diesel and dry grass filled his lungs

He lit another joint. Didn’t cough this time.

And then he said, in perfect, relaxed Spanish, staring out toward the hills:

“I wonder if Carlos is still working the arroyo. I bet the new path cuts north.”

He didn’t know where that thought came from.

But it felt right.

He didn’t dream.

When Álvaro woke up, his mouth was dry. A thick layer of sweat clung to his chest, his shirt twisted around his torso like he’d been rolling for hours. The fan overhead clicked rhythmically, slow, mechanical. It was early. Still dark outside the barred window. Somewhere, a rooster called in the distance, muffled by the heavy concrete walls.

He sat up, rubbing his face with both hands. His fingers felt… different. Thicker knuckles. Slight curve in the nails. His skin was darker. Dry. Familiar.

He blinked a few times and looked around. A twin mattress, a chipped sink, faded curtains with some cartoon lemons printed on them. The house was quiet, still. In the silence, there was no alarm. No sound of the city. Just birds and the faint buzz of insects warming up for the day.

His stomach growled.

He swung his legs off the bed, felt the smooth concrete under his bare soles. The fan ticked. The heat was already rising.

He scratched his chest absentmindedly—and paused.

His hand grazed over a new terrain. The skin was taut, the chest flatter, leaner than he expected. The hair there was short, sparse, wiry. Black.

He looked down, lifting his shirt. His skin was bronze, brown, sun-warmed. His abs—not ripped, but defined—tightened when he shifted. The line of black hair trailed down toward the waistband of the briefs he was wearing: grey, old, tight. They hugged his hips closely, the pouch heavy and full between his thighs. His cock rested to the left, long and relaxed, with his balls hanging like ripe fruit, already sweaty from the heat.

He breathed in slowly.

This was his body. It felt right. Familiar.

But something tugged in the back of his head. A name. A whisper.

G… Gre…

Gone. It evaporated.

He stood up, stretched, arms reaching overhead. He caught his reflection in the window glass.

Thicker neck. Buzzed black hair. Jaw square with a tight shadow of stubble that clung to his cheeks and upper lip. A small mole on his right cheekbone. Brown eyes, the kind people didn’t remember clearly but trusted anyway. His shoulders were broader now in proportion to his shorter frame—strong, solid. A man who worked with his hands.

He turned sideways. Looked at the shape of his body in the mirror on the wall. His ass had filled out, rounded and firm under the snug cotton briefs. His thighs were powerful, thighs that had carried weight and moved through tight places. His calves were muscular, legs shorter than he expected, but they moved fluidly.

He walked back and forth across the room.

Light steps. Quick. Not heavy.

His old gait—if it had existed—was gone.

He paused in front of the mirror.

“Soy… ¿Álvaro?” he asked, half-laughing, half-startled.

(“I’m… Álvaro?”)

It didn’t feel wrong. The name sat on his tongue like a worn pebble, smooth from years of use.

Then, memory struck.

A room. Cold and bright. White tiles. The hum of machines.

The transfer facility.

He saw it in flickers.

He’d been standing there in just that robe—white, thin, open at the chest. His old body had been taken from him. They’d given him clothes—used jeans, a flannel shirt rolled at the sleeves, a pair of boots dusty with wear. He’d felt it all shift, his body changing, bones cracking, voice dropping into a quick, northern accent.

There had been mirrors there, too.

He remembered standing with his arms at his sides, sweat still dripping down his back. A tech had told him, “Look natural.”

“What does that mean?” he’d asked, his voice already softer, more nasal.

“Be you. Be Álvaro,” the tech said, then lifted a camera.

He had stood, one boot forward, hand on his hip, and tilted his chin slightly. And the shutter snapped.

Flash.

Then they printed the ID.

Álvaro Medina Estrada

32 años

CURP: AEM920711HMCLSR09

Santiago Papasquiaro, Durango

The photo showed him exactly as he looked now—tired, weathered, but composed. The kind of face that had seen hard work, too much sun, and still managed to nod politely when addressed. A man who could disappear in a crowd. A man whose backstory didn’t need explanation.

He remembered walking the halls of the facility after that. His boots clicking. His shoulders naturally hunched, one hand resting on the beltline of his jeans like it had always been there. He’d spit to the side and muttered,

“Hace calor, cabrón.”

(“It’s hot as hell, man.”)

No one corrected him. It was right. His mannerisms had already changed. He scratched the back of his neck with his pinky extended slightly. He coughed after smoking and muttered a “pinche madre” like he’d been cursing that way for decades.

It wasn’t Gregor who walked out of the transfer facility. It was Álvaro.

Now, standing in the morning light of his small house, Álvaro poured water from the cracked jug into the kettle, placed it on the rusted burner, and yawned.

He didn’t miss the old voice. Or the old body.

But when he caught a flash of himself in the mirror again, he hesitated.

He touched his cheek. Rubbed his stubble.

His eyes narrowed.

“Te pareces a alguien,” he whispered to himself.

(“You look like someone…”)

But who, he couldn’t say.

He turned from the mirror. The kettle hissed.

He muttered, “Primero café… luego trabajo.”

(“First coffee… then work.”)

And Álvaro Medina got on with his day.

The morning sun pushed its way through the faded lemon-print curtains as Álvaro stood in front of the mirror, barefoot and bare-assed. The fan overhead ticked slow circles, casting lazy shadows across his chest. The heat had started already, clinging to his skin in a humid, earthy sheen. He’d just dried himself off with a threadbare towel, steam still lingering from the kettle on the stove and the quick splash-bath from the cracked basin.

His body—his body—felt loose and warm, like he’d worn it all his life. He scratched under his belly, fingers brushing over the thick black hair that fanned out from the base of his stomach and bloomed into a natural, unkempt bush. It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t trimmed. It was right. Coarse and sweaty and deeply him. His cock rested heavy against his thigh, limp and long, while his balls swung low, pendulous, their weight undeniable.

He turned, eyeing the way they hung—low and proud, sweating in the heat of the morning.

“Puta madre,” he muttered with a half-smile, lifting them in his palm. “Estos huevos cuelgan como campanas.”

(“Fucking hell. These balls hang like church bells.”)

He let them drop, and they swung, a slow, humid rhythm like two sacks of grain shifting beneath him.

He bent down to grab his briefs—gray, stretched at the waistband—and carefully stuffed himself in, adjusting his shaft so it didn’t bend awkwardly to the side. His balls took a second to settle, one dropping lower than the other, pressed against the soft cotton. He gave them one last tug before pulling on his jeans.

They were tight around the thighs, worn-in just right. When he pulled the zipper up, the bulge at his crotch was impossible to ignore. Not obscene, but present. Honest. Worked. He threw on a tank top, the armpits already stiff with yesterday’s sweat, and stepped into his boots.

No mirror check. No hesitation. This was Álvaro.

At the counter, he took out the tin. It used to be a cough drop container, now full of crumpled, sweet-smelling mota. He unrolled a small square of paper, licked his finger, and began rolling. The weed crumbled easily under his fingertips, sticking just enough to form a tight roll. His fingers worked fast—practice that didn’t make sense if you asked him to explain it. But they knew. His body knew.

He licked the paper, sealed the joint, and tapped it twice against the tin. Then he sparked it, taking a slow, full drag through pursed lips, his cheeks hollowing as the smoke filled his lungs.

The taste was earthy, sweet, mellow. It hit the back of his throat and settled in his chest like a heavy sigh.

He exhaled through his nose and muttered, “Así empieza un buen día.”

(“That’s how a good day starts.”)

Outside, the dirt kicked up as the truck pulled in. A beat-up Chevy with one door in primer gray. Inside: Manuel, a thick-necked man with a permanent scowl and three gold teeth. Álvaro flicked the joint into the ash dish by the door, grabbed his bag, and stepped out, the morning heat wrapping around him like a blanket.

“Listo, carnal?” Manuel grunted.

(“Ready, bro?”)

“Simón. Vamos por el canal viejo.”

(“Yeah. Let’s hit the old canal.”)

They drove past the dry canal beds, bouncing over unpaved paths, dust swallowing the tires. Álvaro leaned out the window, elbow resting on the frame, eyes sharp but relaxed.

He knew these roads. Not because someone told him. But because they were in his bones now.

They pulled into a shaded grove, where three men waited. Gaunt, sunburned, eyes hollow but hopeful. A woman cradled a toddler with cracked lips. No bags. No food. Just them.

“Cuatro esta vez,” Manuel said. “Van hasta la cueva, después los recoge el otro lado.”

(“Four this time. They go up to the cave. Someone picks them up past it.”)

Álvaro jumped down from the truck, cracking his neck.

“No hablen. No griten. Caminamos rápido,” he said to them calmly.

(“Don’t talk. Don’t yell. We walk fast.”)

He passed them each a small pouch of water, then checked his waistband for the knife. Not for fighting—but for cutting through fences if needed. His gait was light as he walked. His boots didn’t stomp. They slid over gravel and dry earth, careful not to kick up sound.

The group followed.

And Álvaro moved forward—not as a man pretending to be someone else.

But as Álvaro Medina, coyote. Smoker. Northern son of dust.

And the memory of Gregor Dalton?

Just a vapor in the wind behind him.

[bearforcecaptions]

Martin walked into the office, feeling refreshed and ready to dive back into work after his two-week vacation. As he crossed the threshold, he couldn’t help but notice something felt a little…different. The usual relaxed vibe seemed to be replaced with an odd energy, a sort of intensity that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. His coworkers, who were usually dressed casually, now looked like they’d stepped out of a corporate power fantasy: big, burly men in crisp shirts and ties, voices low and gravelly as they exchanged words in passing.

Martin gave a polite nod to a few familiar faces—at least, he thought they were familiar—and settled at his desk, glancing at his inbox. There was an email from the CEO with the subject line, “Important Announcement: ClearStream Acquisition by BullCorp.” As he clicked to open it, his shirt, a casual flannel he’d worn every Friday for as long as he could remember, began to subtly shift. The fabric thinned and tightened around his torso, the pattern melting away, replaced by a solid, rich gray that seemed to hug his chest and shoulders a little too snugly.

He barely noticed the change as he leaned back in his chair, engrossed in the announcement. As he read the email, which detailed the acquisition and spoke of a new “bullish” vision for the company, his shoulders started to broaden, stretching the fabric even more. His chest filled out, each breath causing his pecs to push against the now-fitted shirt, the buttons straining just slightly. The fabric around his biceps and forearms grew taut, hugging his arms as they swelled with dense, powerful muscle, veins becoming more prominent across his thickening forearms.

The flannel continued its transformation, morphing into a finely woven dress shirt. The material tightened around his collar as his neck thickened, muscle stacking on muscle until his collar felt restrictive against the growing width of his throat. His Adam’s apple pushed forward, making his voice sound deeper, though Martin didn’t notice the rich baritone that seemed to come naturally as he muttered under his breath, adjusting his seating.

As he shifted slightly, his thighs pressed firmly against his chair, feeling heavier, bulkier than before. His pants—originally a comfortable pair of khakis—started to darken, the fabric becoming finer and smoother as it transitioned into a pair of dark slacks. The legs grew tighter, stretched over his thickening quads and hamstrings, defining the powerful muscles that now filled them out. His calves swelled, creating a sense of grounded strength in his stance, though he remained oblivious.

With a distracted grunt, he reached up to adjust his collar, his fingers brushing against a tie that hadn’t been there moments before. Somehow, a thick, black tie had appeared around his neck, a narrow silver stripe running down its center. It felt just a bit too snug against the beefy bullneck that had developed beneath it, so he tugged at the knot, loosening it slightly without giving it a second thought. The fabric pulled free, allowing his thick neck to expand even more, a powerful pillar of muscle supporting his increasingly imposing frame.

Meanwhile, beneath his shirt, his undershirt seemed to tighten as his chest expanded even further, each deep breath causing the fabric to cling to the contours of his pecs. He shifted in his seat, feeling a new weight between his legs. His underwear, which had been a simple cotton brief, shifted subtly as the fabric stretched to accommodate his growing anatomy. His balls had begun to swell, filling the newly thickened, snug boxer briefs that materialized around his waist. Each passing minute, they seemed to grow heavier, pressing against his thighs as they settled into their new size.

Martin squirmed in his seat, feeling a slight discomfort as his underwear adjusted to the increased size of his package. He spread his legs unconsciously, making room for the hefty presence in his lap, his thighs stretching his slacks to accommodate both his larger legs and the growing fullness below his belt. He never questioned it, as if this kind of casual adjustment was something he’d always done, yet there was an undeniable sense of weight and power that radiated through his lower body.

As the email explained more about BullCorp’s acquisition, his posture adjusted naturally to the new bulk he carried. His shoulders rolled back, his chest puffed out, and his head tilted up with an air of command. He was oblivious to the feeling of his scalp growing smoother, as if each strand of hair retreated until his head was left completely bald, gleaming slightly under the office lights. When he glanced at his monitor, he didn’t even notice the faint reflection of his face, now ruggedly handsome, his jaw square and defined, with a thick, dark goatee framing his mouth in a way that seemed to convey natural authority.

He absently scratched his chin, feeling the rough texture of the goatee but thinking nothing of it, just as he didn’t notice how his brow had thickened, giving his expression an almost permanent look of determination. His whole face seemed to have morphed into something hypermasculine, each feature radiating a powerful, commanding presence.

“Hey, Moose!” a deep, rumbling voice called out from across the office. Martin—no, Moose—looked up instinctively, the name sounding as natural to him as his own. He nodded in response, feeling the collar of his dress shirt press against his broad, muscular neck as he did so. His coworker—a similarly burly, well-dressed man with a thick beard—gave him a respectful nod.

“Three o’clock meeting?” the man confirmed, his deep voice vibrating with respect.

“Yeah,” Moose replied, his own voice a rich, powerful baritone that commanded attention. He had no memory of setting up a meeting, but it didn’t matter. Leading meetings was what he did—it was who he was. His powerful hands, rough and calloused, adjusted his tie one more time as he stood up, his massive frame filling out every inch of his crisp, professional attire.

As he walked toward the conference room, his movements were smooth yet commanding, each step purposeful, each stride exuding the strength and confidence of a seasoned leader. His coworkers, all similarly burly and imposing, parted instinctively, giving him the respect his presence demanded.

By the time Moose reached the conference room, he felt completely at ease, in command of both himself and his team. He opened the door, stepping inside, and was greeted with silent nods from his subordinates—his team, his men. He adjusted his stance slightly to accommodate the weight between his legs, an unconscious gesture that only reinforced his air of dominance.

“Alright, gentlemen,” he began, his voice rolling through the room like a low rumble. “Let’s get down to business.”

And as Moose led his team, the transformation was complete. This was his world now, his reality. He was exactly where he belonged, a powerful, confident leader at BullCorp, ready to forge the future alongside his equally formidable colleagues.

[artificial-transmutations]

Hey I'm George. I am a 26 civil engineer working in a big company but it si not what i expected. It is so boring and I am only doing it since it ws what is expected of me. I wish you could transform me into a hot stripper or porn star cause that's has always been my secret dream. I don't wanna be transformed into an object.

Transformation Letters - The gay club

Even writing the letter to the unknown company has been an act of rebellion. All your life, you have been doing what was expected of you. You finished school with good grades and enrolled in an engineering degree program.

The first years were alright. It was still interesting, and you enjoyed the classes, but slowly you had to come to the realization that perhaps, engineering wasn't quite for you. The work was getting more and more monotonous, and the tasks were less and less creative. Regardless, you graduated with an acceptable degree and got a job in the field as a civil engineer.

Now, almost three years later, you are sitting in a small office cubicle, doing the same stuff that you did in the last few years.

"I hate it here.", you think and look at the blueprints on the wall. They are supposed to be "motivating", showing what your company builds. To you, however, they are nothing more than a reminder that the work is dull and unfulfilling.

As you get up and grab the coffee from the machine, you realize just how much of a rut your life has fallen into. Looking at the calendar on the wall, you recognize another thing: It's your birthday today. Yay. 26 wasted years, at least in your opinion. You don't have many friends or family, but for once, you decide to celebrate a bit on your own. You are going to visit a club tonight.

Some hours later, you find yourself in a gay nightclub. You are not out or anything, but your sexuality has been a matter of fact to you for some years now, so visiting a gay bar is on your bucket list anyway. The thumbing music surrounds you, making it near impossible to talk to anyone and even though it feels kind of exciting to be in such a location, you can't help but feeling kind of lonely and displaced here. Seeing all those hot guys dancing makes it terribly obvious for you that you are way too uptight to ever move your body to the music like that.

But... Perhaps you should just... try?

The thought is entirely alien to you, but... strangely appealing. So, you just try to dance to the music.

At first, it feels very awkward and a bit uncomfortable, but after a few moments, you relax. And, to your big surprise, you actually manage to move your body along with the beat. As your self-confidence grows, so does the speed and forcefulness of your movements. Before you know it, you have attracted the attention of a group of three men. Normally, being the center of attention would be something you despise, but right now it feels liberating and right. So right, in fact, that you do something crazy! The stage is empty right now, and, following these strange new impulses, you climb onto the stage and begin to dance to the music. You are still wearing your work attire and it is quickly becoming way too warm as you move your body. So, without thinking, you slowly begin to unbutton your shirt.

To your amazement, the crowd begins to cheer and applaud. It is like a wave of acceptance and approval washes over you, and the more buttons you undo, the more enthusiastic the cheering becomes. It is somehow getting easier and easier to follow the beat. Both your sense of rhythm as well as your physical fitness seem to increase and moving to the music quickly becomes a second nature for you. When you have finally unbuttoned your shirt, you slide out of it and spin it around your hand a few times before throwing it into the crowd. A bunch of hands shoot up, and the shirt quickly disappears. You keep moving to the music, now only wearing a white undershirt, which sticks to your skin and reveals your well-toned body. You have been working out once in a while, trying to keep yourself fit with mediocre success, but even you are a bit surprised how well your body looks right now. Your muscles are defined and bulging and when you pull the undershirt off as well, the cheers rise to an almost deafening level.

It feels like a wave of energy rushes through your body. You can barely think straight and the only thing you can focus on is the music and the movement. You have already gotten used to being the center of attention, but now, even more people join the crowd around you. They are staring at your body, and you can clearly make out their lust and admiration, making you smile. The next thing to go, is, of course, your pants, which you slowly peel off and, as with the shirt, throw them into the crowd, where they disappear as well.

Your movements are becoming faster and faster, and soon, you have almost completely shed your clothes, revealing your athletic and lean body, now shining with sweat. Your ample bulge is thinly veiled by your pair of bright blue briefs that do their best to set your assets, both your dick and your ass, into scene...

***

Hey, I’m Elias, a 22yo bartender with a French and Linguistics degree at University, though sometimes I wish I could trade smarts for sports and strength. I don’t think I’m unattractive, I never have much problem getting attention from guys at the club, but I feel like guys just look at me like I’m another pale twink with brown hair and hazel eyes. I don’t want to be an object, I like being a man: I just want to be more manly. Muscles and beard, I want to look powerful and have other guys be jealous of me.

It's a usual Friday evening for you, and you are tending bar in the towns gay club as usual. It's not too bad - your twinkish body usually gets you some tips, and today is no different. There are times, however, that you wish you were just a bit more... manly. Of course, everyone always wants to be what they are not. But seeing those sexy guys every day, made of beef and manliness makes you almost hate your thin and slender form. That is, after all, what made you write that letter some weeks ago, even though you already forgot about it by now.

All of a sudden, one of the club's visitors climbs onto the stage. Even though it's empty right now, people aren't supposed to go up there, for insurance reasons. Apparently, nobody else has noticed, so you decide to handle the situation yourself. You tell your colleague on the bar that you will be right back and then make your way to the stage.

The guy who has climbed up there seems to be some kind of office worker and is apparently completely focused on dancing. You just want to tell him to come down from the stage when he begins to unbutton his shirt in the rhythm of the music. Having forgotten what you meant to do for a moment, you stare, mesmerized at the guy on stage slowly getting out of his shirt. He looks quite attractive and moves his body like a pro. The crowd notices the show, and slowly, the whole scene becomes the focus of attention. The office guy has now spun his shirt around and thrown it into the crowd, which has now grown considerably. You have to admit, the whole show and the guy look kind of sexy. Not your usual type, he has more of a lean and athletic body that is revealed more and more with every move he takes. Still, he is good.

Next to you, directly in front of the stage, one of the red faux leather chairs has just become free, as the guy who sat in it went to get some drinks. The crowd is moving constantly and, without really thinking, you take a seat there. The office worker is still dancing, his sweaty body almost glowing, and his bulge looks impressively large, even in the low lighting of the club. You can feel yourself getting hard, and through your suit pants, you feel yourself up discreetly.

Actually.

Fuck discreetly. You rub your crotch through your pants while your eyes are still glued to the stripper on stage. Your mind is slowly going blank. You don't notice how the other bar patrons slowly stop moving to the music and gather around the stage instead, watching the office guy perform. You are completely entranced, unable to think, just staring at the spectacle in front of you, while your cock strains against the fabric of your pants.

Actually, your cock is not the only thing straining against your clothes. It is as if all your body is expanding, in every direction, all at once: Your shoulders, your arms, and your legs widen and grow thicker, while your ass and muscles swell. At the same time, the first hints of stubble and beard hairs break through your skin.

Your suit feels constricting, and you consider getting up to go to the bathroom to get out of them. But...

Actually.

Fuck modesty. With more raw strength than elegance, you remove your clothing while you still can. Your body continues to grow stronger and stronger and when your chest is bared, your nipples have hardened to the point where they seem like small pebbles.

It feels so fucking good to just get out of the clothes that are becoming more and more uncomfortable with every passing second. You watch with a superior smile as hair also grows on your chest and abs, as well as on your legs and arms, making your whole torso look furry.

When your pants are gone, your underwear is the only piece of clothing left on you.

And fuck, that's getting really tight!

But, as you watch, it is morphing into a different material. What was once a pair of cotton boxer briefs quickly becomes a pair of black shiny leather underwear, pronouncing the growing bulge of your hard cock. The bulge is, of course, not only growing because you're rock-hard: Also, inside the alien pair of leather underwear, your member is growing bigger and bigger with each throb, slowly becoming a true monster cock.

Other parts of you don't seem to be stopping growing larger as well: Your biceps are more than impressive right now, your forearms look like you can crush a watermelon with them and your thighs are as thick as tree trunks.

As the music keeps playing, the hair on your body grows denser and longer. You now have a manly full beard, and, as you cross your strong arms behind your head, a thick bush of hair emerges from each of your armpits, flooding the direct vicinity with your manly stench.

You grin as you look up to the stripper, who is just about to shed his pair of blue underwear and lick your lips. After the show, you're gonna take him home and breed him!

[autisticlalna]

ive been loving @loudn-mcyt's superhero au and was seized with a need to draw Wayfinder and Timekeeper because, as always, im predictable. i just think theyre neat!

i ran out of art stamina before i could do coloring, but im pretty happy with these. very long rambling about design choices under cut:

okay despite having them in the same order as the stats post to match i actually drew Timekeeper first so we're starting with her.

civilian Ruby is Ruby Corundum, and is basically just Ruby's default skin. i could've gone for Cherruby seeing as this is a SBK AU, but i felt like drawing your average rubert.

Timekeeper, meanwhile, is based heavily off tRuby (or, maybe more specifically, off Sapphire). was very much winging this and wanted something long and swooshy that wasnt a cape, so.. tRuby's coat! i was gonna have a completely new outfit under it, but nothing looked right so they get to keep the vest and pants. the undershirt is Cherruby's, though. i did fancy the coat up a bit with shoulder pads, a different.. lapel? ive forgotten the word for the folded bit. and while its not pictured in the cleaned-up sketch it has a crystal pattern and maybe some iridescence because i wanted to pull in Ruby's gemstone aesthetic

also Timekeeper has the crystal hair i normally draw Ruby with in a braid like tRuby / Sapphire. and pointy ears! Ruby's a normal human while civilian, but considering Ruby and Viking's... everything... i had fun with making them a little less that. this is helped by me picturing Ruby doing a whole-ass magical girl transformation into Timekeeper, lmao. ANYWAY. eyes change color because of time powers, and theyve got their clock as always

Wayfinder was designed after, so i was relying a lot on what i established for Timekeeper because i wanted them to match! Viking is just Summertime but with glasses because im still fiddling with the idea of drawing him with glasses anyway and its a fun tie to Ruby. he is also a normal human. no catboyism here.

visual similarities with Timekeeper: same undershirt, pants, gloves, and boots, core item on chain necklace, pointy ears, and the chevron design on his shoulders is similar to Timekeeper's shoulder pads and chain accents. and, although you cant see it because of his goggles, his eyes also change color to match his domain.

he was originally gonna be based more off Wanderer, but as much as i love the parka the aviator jacket is too iconic and the mask blended in with the goggles too much. he gets dViking's wispy bits though bc of his intangibility power and i wanted there to be some kind of change like Timekeeper's hair.

UH. YEAH. this was fun! i dont know if im gonna draw the rest, im just always Incredibly Normal abt spacetime siblings, but considering i havent drawn any superhero stuff before At All im really proud of this. ok bye

[hurriane23456]

Under the Wolf's Skin

Inside Zach Harper’s trailer, the small space buzzed with the sound of the movie set just beyond the walls. The stuntman sat on the edge of the narrow couch, fully suited in his werewolf costume. He rolled his ankle gingerly, testing the range of motion. The costume’s padded claws made it look like a menacing creature was flexing its paw, but behind the mask, Zach’s face was tense with discomfort.

Ethan stood by the door, watching his boss in silence. The costume was elaborate—dark grey fur streaked with black, muscles exaggerated by layers of foam padding, sharp claws extending from the gloves. The werewolf mask, with its snarling expression and glowing yellow eyes, completed the terrifying look. But Zach’s injury wasn’tsomething they’d planned for.

"I’m not gonna be able to do this, man," Zach finally said, breaking the silence. "I twisted my ankle coming out of the trailer. Not enough to sideline me, but enough that the flip off the building isn’t happening."

Ethan blinked, taking in the situation. "Wait, you mean…"

"You’re gonna have to wear it." Zach stood up, favoring his good ankle. "No one can know I’m hurt. We’ve got too much riding on this shot, and the crew’s already set. I need you to take my place. Now."

Ethan’s heart dropped. He had seen Zach putting on the gear earlier that day, piece by piece, transforming into the fierce werewolf. A part of Ethan had wondered then what it would feel like—what it would be like to step into that monstrous costume..

Zach looked at him steadily. "You’ve seen me do it enough times. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you could. But we’ve got to move fast. We’ll switch here, in the trailer."

Ethan exhaled deeply and nodded. There was no way out. He’d have to suit up. Ethan realized what this meant—he was about to slide into gear that Zach had been sweating in all day.

First, though, Ethan had to get out of his own clothes. As nonchalantly as possible, he pulled off his baseball cap, tossing it onto the counter. Then came his work polo, neatly tucked into his dress pants. Each item of clothing landed in a pile until he stood there in just his undershirt and boxers.

“Your turn,” Ethan said, his voice even.

Zach sighed as he removed the werewolf mask. The wet, sticky sound as it came off made Ethan cringe outwardly, but inside, he was wondering what it would feel like to wear. As Zach peeled off the costume next, Ethan's eyes flickered to the bodysuit—heavy with the day’s heat and effort. It was big, imposing, and everything about it screamed the physicality of the job.

Zach finally handed Ethan the first piece of gear, starting with the padded vest. It was still warm, slightly damp from Zach’s sweat, and though Ethan made a face as he pulled it over his shoulders, inside, he felt an odd thrill. The vest fit snugly, and with every strap he fastened, the reality of stepping into Zach’s shoes hit him—literally. The elbow and knee pads came next, and each one snapped into place with a satisfying click. Every layer made him feel more like the werewolf he was about to become, but he had to hide his excitement behind a mask of professionalism.

“How’s it feel?” Zach asked, watching Ethan as he fastened the gear.

“Warm,” Ethan muttered, keeping his tone light. “Definitely feels like a workout.”

In truth, he was buzzing with anticipation. The weight of the gear, the way it pressed into his body, made him feel more connected to the character than he expected. Finally, the costume itself came into play. Zach handed him the fur-covered suit, still slightly damp, and Ethan hesitated, trying to keep his enthusiasm in check.

Sliding into the werewolf costume, Ethan felt the weight settle on his shoulders, and it felt even better than he imagined. The bulk of it made him feel powerful, like a different person entirely. He zipped it up, hiding his expression behind the matted fur as he adjusted to the feel of it against his skin. The padding, the warmth, the heaviness—it all felt strangely satisfying.

Finally, Zach handed him the mask. It was drenched from earlier, but Ethan barely cared. He played it off with a groan, “Oh man, this thing’s soaked.”

But inside, he was buzzing. He slid it over his head, the foam padding clinging to his skin. The transformation was complete. Ethan flexed his fingers inside the massive clawed gloves and stood up straight, fully immersed in the role, even though he acted like he was doing a favor.

Meanwhile, Zach, left in just his boxers, sighed and glanced at Ethan’s clothes. “Guess I’m stuck with these.” He grabbed the polo and pants, grumbling as he put them on, though secretly, there was something amusing about it. The polo was snug, and the dress pants were a little too neat for his usual style, but as he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he didn’t mind as much as he pretended.

“Man, I look like such a dork,” Zach said, tugging at the collar. He couldn’t help but smirk slightly, secretly enjoying how the clothes felt. “I’m blaming you if I trip in these shoes.”

Ethan, now fully suited in the werewolf costume, just chuckled, trying to keep his cool. “You’ll survive.”

But inside, he was thrilled. He had always wondered what it would feel like to step into Zach’s world, and now, fully suited and padded up, he couldn’t wait to hit the set and live out his secret excitement.

With a final nod, Ethan followed Zach’s lead and stepped out of the trailer. The bustling set was just ahead, and no one gave a second glance to the werewolf figure walking toward the rooftop. In the eyes of the crew, it was just another day for Zach, ready to execute another flawless stunt.

But under the layers of fur and padding, Ethan could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him—literally and figuratively. The heat inside the suit was overwhelming, and the gear still radiated with Zach’s warmth. His breath echoed inside the mask as he approached the set, nerves jangling beneath the werewolf exterior.

The director shouted for action. Ethan took his place at the edge of the rooftop, the wire attached to his harness. His hands, hidden inside the massive clawed gloves, flexed involuntarily. He could feel the ground shift beneath him as he got into position, his body tensing for the leap.

"Action!" came the call.

Ethan ran forward, the heavy paws of the costume thudding against the roof. With each step, the protective padding reminded him he was safe. He reached the edge, flung his arms wide in a terrifying lunge, and leaped. For a moment, he was airborne, the wire pulling taut as it guided his body into a perfect backflip.

Time slowed as he twisted in mid-air, the weight of the suit helping him complete the flip. He tucked his knees in just as Zach had taught him, then unfurled his arms and legs, bracing for the landing. The thick, padded feet of the werewolf costume hit the ground solidly, absorbing the shock of the impact.

He staggered slightly, but recovered in time to let out a fierce growl, throwing his arms wide as the werewolf. The crew applauded, none the wiser that it wasn’t Zach beneath the mask.

As Ethan stepped off the set, his heart still racing, Zach was waiting nearby, a proud smile on his face. "You pulled it off," Zach said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Not a single person knew."

Ethan pulled off the mask, gulping fresh air as sweat dripped down his face. "Yeah, but next time, I’m getting my own gear."

[izzabela]

Ooo! Can you do the Lin Kuei trio with s/o who is a nine-tailed kitsune from Japanese folklore? Like they can transform into their fox form or when they get surprised, their fox ears and nine-tails appear.

Pretty Kitty - Lin Kuei x GN!kitsune!reader

in which your each brother has a favorite part of you when you're spooked

a/n: i am alive again (college sucks). forgive this being so short, i'm trying to write again and drabbles are all i got

ship[s]: kuai liang, bi han, tomas vrbada x GN!kitsune!reader (ALL TOGETHER NYOOOOW)

warning(s): you're a furry! (/j), teasing in the form of little scares

Despite not being your typical kitsune, the walking stereotype of sex and seduction, you found love with three of the most powerful humans in Earthrealm.

Despite such power, they love using it on such a reactive creature such as yourself. Skittish and meek, your reactions from their teasing. They know how well you react with your surroundings, so much so you sometimes transform.

With each spook and transformation your lovers experience, it seems they've grown fond over one certain part of your mythical form.

Tomas Vrbada - Ears

- Tomas learned his favorite part about your reactions is your ears- so reactive and twitchy

- the first time they popped out were during his first scare. it was rather juvenile: turn invisible, walk in front of you, become visible- easy

- he was expecting a simple shocked face and some laughter, but never did he expect the fluffy ears that matched your hair and skin to be part of the package

- something about the way your ears were down-turned, the way you were pouting as you were complaining about him scaring you, the way he saw your ears twitch a bit at you stroked them- almost like you were telling yourself to calm down

- he got in trouble that day as well, reaching out to pet them with two fingers, only to be met with a swatted hand and a light hiss

- ever since then (of course, after he was removed from your silent treatment), Tomas sought your ears out whenever you were scared

- now, he gets to pet them all he wants, especially after scaring you. the soft fur that coats the flesh, the way it reacts to when he pets your ears up and down, and how surprisingly warm it was

Kuai Liang - Tail(s)

- Kuai Liang's first experience with your tails came as a punishment from tickling your sides in surprise

- he didn't think your tails, all of them, would be so thick and semi-coarse, despite all the TLC you give yourself on bath days

- after getting swatted in the face with them, not only did they become his favorite parts of you- he made it his mission to help you out

- you got all the best secrets in taking care of your fur, and he got an excuse to pet your tails- a double win if you ask me

- also, it was nice to have someone take care of you instead of always taking care of yourself. now, you didn't have to bend backwards to brush your fur, or spin in circles around the mirror to get the best angle to check yourself out before fluffing your tails

- Kuai Liang loves massaging, brushing, fluffing, even shedding your tail fur. and just like his dear brother, he gets to see the reaction the tails give

- sometimes one of your tails sways side to side, others it wraps around his hand. either way, he loves feeling the love you give when you're well-taken care of

Bi Han - Kitten-form

- Bi Han didn't mean to scare you the way he did. it was an honest mistake, him walking around the corner the same time you did, causing you to freak and shift completely into your foxy form

- instead of looking at a fully grown fox body, he saw a trembling little morsel- a fidgety animal that skittered around him. it took him quite a bit to get you to trust him, but afterwards it was a secret that Bi Han kept for a long time (until Tomas caught him bathing you in fox form)

- in your fox form, he loves to carry you in his shirt. since it doesn't have pockets, he'll rest you in-between the undershirt of his uniform and his actual uniform. sometimes you nap in it

- when the other brothers are on a mission, and you're both free from clan-duties, you'll shift completely and just nap with him in the shared bed

- another thing you like to do is play chase with him. you have to do your best to run from him while he does everything in his power to catch you. not only does it double in agility-work, but it helps precision in projectile-weaponry Bi Han makes from time to time

- circling back to bath time, Bi Han (secretly) absolutely adores bath time with you in fox form. sometimes, if he's feeling more playful, he'll use his powers to create an ice float for you to sit on

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

one of the mass-posts in queue

in other breaking news, i got accepted to my choice school for transfer!

aight, see you all in the next fic!