Heyo. Welcome to my page! I like doing MTF and TGTF stories. I prefer to write them from the third person perspective, and usually those who deserve it, but I’m open. Leave comments for what characters or situations you’d like to see! I am on IOS, so if I suddenly disappear someday… it’s cause they finally removed all support for IOS.

After years apart, your brother Markus was finally back in town. You couldn’t believe it when he called, saying he was coming to stay with you for a little summer vacation. What he didn’t mention until he arrived was that he wasn’t alone—he had gotten married. His wife, Jesse, was beautiful, but there was something guarded about her. She laughed rarely, her smiles fleeting, and while she looked at Markus with affection, there was often a certain dryness in her gaze that left you quietly puzzled. Still, you were happy just to meet her and have your brother close again. The days passed in a haze of heat and long conversations. Then, one afternoon, Markus announced he’d be heading out for the weekend to catch up with some old friends. He left Jesse behind, promising it wouldn’t be long. You didn’t mind; it gave you and Jesse a chance to get to know each other better… though the timing couldn’t have been worse. The summer heat had hit its peak, thick and sweltering, turning every movement into an effort. After seeing Markus off, you and Jesse collapsed onto the worn couch, the fans doing little to chase away the oppressive warmth. The air between you was heavy with more than just the weather—an awkward tension lingered, uncertain and fragile, as the reality of being alone together finally settled in.

Dr. Bill Morison had always been a relic of a bygone era—an aging professor clinging desperately to the brittle pages of his yellowed, outdated textbooks. With his slow, gravelly drawl that scraped like rusted metal, he turned even the liveliest of literature into an unbearable chore. Phones were strictly banned in his classroom, his voice rising with righteous indignation anytime he spotted a screen. “Distraction,” he’d bark, as if the mere existence of modern technology was a personal affront. His lectures dragged like molasses, each class an hour-long funeral procession for joy. You dreaded every moment, trapped by graduation requirements and the ironclad grip of his tenure. Today was the worst. With a scowl sharper than usual, he’d snatched your phone the moment you’d checked the time, his eyes full of judgment. After class, you trudged to his office—walls lined with books from decades past—and endured his thunderous sermon on “the decay of young minds.” He paced as he ranted, waving your phone like a cursed relic. But then… something shifted. At first, it was subtle—his posture straightened, the tremble in his voice smoothing out. Wrinkles faded from his cheeks, like time slipping backward across his skin. His hair darkened and softened, reshaping into a short, stylish bob. He continued griping about “YouTube garbage” and “texting nonsense,” seemingly unaware as his body narrowed, thinned, and his voice pitched into a soft, nasal squeak. His shirt shrank, buttons popping loose, fabric reforming into a tight tank top that hugged a delicate frame. Slacks re-knitted into a pleated mini skirt, socks swirling upward into bright rainbow tights. Sensible shoes melted into laced, leather boots. Where once stood a grumbling old man, now stood a freckled, bespectacled girl in her early twenties—bookish, awkwardly cute, and entirely unaware of the transformation she’d just undergone.

Serene joined the office last week. She’s quiet, disciplined, and always the first to arrive, coffee in hand, scanning the room like she’s sizing up a battlefield. There’s something about her—maybe the way she stands, back straight like a steel rod, or how her eyes flick toward every sudden movement—that makes it clear she’s fresh from a different world. A world of strict orders, heavy boots, and the constant hum of danger. She doesn’t talk much about her time in the military. You only catch bits and pieces—how she served overseas, how she came back with more scars than she left with, though most of them aren’t the kind you can see. She tries to hide it, the way her shoulders tense at the sound of a dropped stapler, how she grips the edge of her desk a little too tightly when someone sneaks up behind her. It’s in the way she pauses before walking into a crowded room, her jaw tightening just for a second, like she’s bracing for something that never comes. But she’s not just a soldier out of place. She’s sharp, quick-witted when she lets her guard down, and fiercely loyal. She’s the kind of person who notices when someone’s having a bad day, even if she won’t talk about her own. And despite the ghosts that follow her, she’s trying. Trying to settle into this world of spreadsheets and small talk, of deadlines instead of deployments.

The war between the Dragon Empire and the allied realms had raged for years, a relentless struggle of fire and steel. The dragons sought dominion over all lands, their greed insatiable, their hunger for conquest matched only by their thirst for treasure. But on this day, neither side claimed victory. The battle had been brutal, steel clashing against scale, fire meeting spell and arrow. But as the skies darkened, fate intervened—not by blade or claw, but by nature’s wrath. A great storm descended upon the battlefield, its winds howling through the trees, its torrents drowning the fires of war. The fighting turned to chaos, dragons struggling to stay aloft, warriors slipping in the mud as lightning split the heavens. Then came the silence. When your senses returned, the storm had passed, leaving only destruction in its wake. The earth was soaked in blood and rain, the corpses of soldiers and dragons alike littering the broken battlefield. No banners remained to claim the land, no victors to celebrate conquest. The forest, once alive with the sounds of war, now lay still, an empty graveyard beneath an ashen sky. You moved through the wreckage, stepping over the fallen, searching for any sign of life. Friend or foe, it did not matter now, only the dead remained. But then, a sound. A sharp breath, ragged and pained. She was there. Pinned to a tree by a spear, a massive wing torn and useless, lay a dragoness. Her scaled body bore the marks of battle, her once-pristine armor cracked, the regal symbols of her kind marred by blood and mud. Her cold blue eyes, fierce even in pain, locked onto you. A survivor.

Betty was always the quiet one. She sat in the back of class, buried in her books, never speaking to anyone. Short, awkward, with oversized glasses, she was an easy target for the popular kids. Every day, they tormented her, snide comments, cruel jokes, the usual. It made you sick to watch, but you never did anything about it. One day, you passed her in the hallway, and something was different. She walked with her head a little higher, her shoulders straighter. You thought maybe she wouldn’t come back the next day, but when you saw her again, she was there, same place, same routine, but there was a shift. Slowly, at first. Her clothes fit a little differently, her posture a little less slouched, her eyes more focused. Was it confidence? Curiosity? You weren’t sure. The changes kept coming. Every day, she grew a little more confident, a little more… curvy. Her once-nerdy look started to change; her clothes were tighter, her hair more styled. And her behavior was different, too. She was saying less, but what she did say wasn’t quite the same. It was flirtatious, empty, like she’d forgotten who she used to be. Before long, she was laughing at the same kids who used to bully her. She was one of them now, part of the popular crowd, and you couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of awe and regret. When you finally had a moment to talk to her, it hit you, Betty wasn’t just different, she had completely transformed.

At senior prom, you stand in the center of the gym, a beacon of perfection. The prom king, the star athlete, always surrounded by admiration. The music pulses, the crowd sways, and you bask in it, the attention, the power, the popularity that gives you dominion over the other students. Then, something shifts. A soft breeze curls through the gym, subtle but unsettling. A chill runs down your spine. Your chest feels tighter, your shoulders heavier. Your hands thinner. Panic flickers as you lift them to your face. Your sharp jawline softens, your hair lightens, losing its carefully styled perfection. Laughter swirls around you, but it feels distant. Your clothes hang differently, your posture slouches, and suddenly, glasses slide down your nose, glasses you’ve never worn before. Something is wrong. Your heart pounds as you step back, excusing yourself before anyone notices. A strange weight settles over you, unfamiliar and suffocating. Stumbling toward the back of the gym, you press against the cool metal of the bleachers, breath shaky. Then, you see it, your reflection in a nearby window. But the person staring back isn’t you. Not the confident, admired version of you. This person is smaller, quieter, petite and feminine, someone who has never stood in the center of any room. And for the first time, you understand what it feels like to be on the outside looking in.

The night was cool as you walked the cobbled streets, the familiar clink of your boots echoing through the town. The low hum of activity from the inns and taverns was always there, but tonight it felt different. Warren, your senior, was supposed to be patrolling with you. Instead, he was indulging in his usual habits, more interested in his stomach and mug than the task at hand. You had grown used to it, or rather resigned to it, but there was something unsettling about how little attention he paid to the town. His knowledge of the local taverns and inns was uncanny, he could find the best seats, the finest drinks, and always managed to befriend the most questionable patrons. Every time you came across a new disturbance or threat, it was always you who did the work. Warren’s expertise lay elsewhere. That night, it was the opening of a new club, the Demon’s Dungeons. You’d heard the rumors, the whispers of what went on inside, but you couldn’t care less. You would have patrolled it and been done with it, but Warren insisted on going in. It was one thing for him to visit old haunts, but now, this was new ground. The last straw. An hour passed. Your patrol went uneventfully, too uneventfully. The sense of something amiss gnawed at you. You walked back to the club, determined to confront him. When you entered, you weren’t prepared for what you saw. Warren, still unmistakably in his armor, was sitting on a plush couch, but there was no mistaking it. Her body was curvy, feminine. Demoness clung to her sides, laughing, whispering, and making her blush. Each touch seemed to mold her more, the edges of masculinity fading with each flirtatious gesture. Her eyes falling on you.

Ken was the worst kind of roommate; loud, lazy, and completely inconsiderate. He treated the apartment like his personal pigsty, dropping dirty laundry wherever he pleased and leaving half-eaten food to rot on the coffee table. Worst of all, he had no shame in helping himself to your carefully prepared meals, grinning through a mouthful of your leftovers while calling you a neat freak. No matter how many times you complained, the Residence Assistance Office wouldn’t move you, too many students, not enough rooms. The best they could do was make him promise to be more responsible. And of course, that was a joke. Tonight was supposed to be his turn to cook. Instead, he lounged on the couch, eyes locked onto the game, fingers stained orange from another stolen bag of chips. You sighed, resigning yourself to another night of takeout, and turned back to your work. Then something flickered at the edge of your vision. A shift, subtle at first, his slouched form straightened, muscles relaxing as though tension he never cared about melted away. His hair lengthened, dark strands spilling over his forehead, growing softer, fuller. The harshness in his face smoothed, cheekbones lifting, lips becoming plush, almost delicate. His usual cocky, dull expression faded into something poised, aware. Without a word, he, now she, rose, moving toward the kitchen with a grace that hadn’t been there moments ago. Her hands, smaller now, softer, reached for the ingredients on the counter, beginning the meal Ken never would have bothered with. Then she stopped, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. Her hands trembled. Her breath hitched. And then, in a voice that was no longer his, she called out for you.

You work at the local grocery store, and it’s a decent job. You handle cashiering, cart gathering, returns, just the usual tasks. It’s an easy rhythm, until Chloe, the local Karen, shows up. She’s always complaining: returning milk just a day before it expires, yelling over tiny mistakes, and demanding discounts with expired coupons. Today’s no different. Chloe stands impatiently as you scan her items, muttering insults the whole time. You’re fed up, and under your breath, you mutter, “I just wish you could feel an ounce of empathy for me.” Chloe freezes, narrowing her eyes. The words hanging in the air as if… heard. “Empathy? For a loser retail worker like you?” She snarls. Her clothes shimmer, transforming into the store uniform you wear. Her posture straightens, but her face softens. “Ungrateful brats like you doesn’t deserve it,” She says, but her voice is now higher, almost whiny. Her figure changes, her waist slimming, her chest fills out, and her face grows younger, softer. “What? Am I supposed to feel grateful that some incompetent, stuttering brat is bagging my groceries?” Chloe snaps, but her voice trembles now, shy. She flushes, her cheeks pink. “W-well I’m… I’m not! O-okay?” She stammers, pouting, her once-commanding presence now replaced by a cute, shy, college-aged girl. The transformation is complete, Chloe, the Karen, is gone, replaced by someone new.

The lab was a place of absolute secrecy, tucked away beneath layers of government clearance and guarded by technology so advanced it was nearly invisible. As the lead scientist, you were entrusted with a project that could alter the very fabric of human cognition: a drug designed to influence and enhance the mind in ways never before imagined. You worked tirelessly, day and night, refining the formula, pushing the boundaries of what was possible. The drug was potent, dangerously so, and yet, despite all your efforts, something always felt just out of reach. The stakes were high. You knew the government’s interest in your work was both a blessing and a curse. The potential applications of the drug were endless, but with power came risk. And it wasn’t just the government that coveted your research. Whispers of leaks had reached your ears, rumors of a criminal organization growing increasingly interested in your project. They had learned too much, and they wanted it for themselves. The situation had become dire, but you couldn’t stop. The drug, the breakthrough, these things consumed you. It was late into the night when the infiltration happened. Bree, an assassin skilled in stealth and manipulation, slipped into the shadows of your lab. Her mission was clear: steal the research and eliminate anyone who stood in her way. She moved quietly, her presence a mere whisper in the darkened lab. You were bent over your workstation, oblivious to the approaching danger, consumed by the drug’s final test. Then, a sharp noise. A flash of movement. Before you could react, she was upon you, gun in hand. The threat was immediate, deadly. As the barrel of the pistol pointed at your head, instinct kicked in. You reached for the syringe, a last desperate measure, and drove it into her foot. She shuddered, her body jerking, but even through the sudden rush, she smirked. But she wasn’t the one in control now.

It was just another day in chemistry class, and you were stuck working alongside Hank, the school’s infamous jock. He never took anything seriously, often mocking you in between goofs, but at least he was smart enough to let you handle the hard work while he took the credit. Today was no different, until his reckless handling of a chemical mixture caused a violent explosion, sending a cloud of smoke billowing through the air. The blast singed his face, leaving streaks of soot and ash across his features. As he wiped it off, his expression remained oblivious, unaware that the residue clung stubbornly to his lips, his clothes, and even his hair. His friends laughed, but Hank didn’t seem to notice. At lunch, something felt off. Hank was quieter than usual, sitting apart from his friends, his gaze distant. His golden tan had faded, his once dark hair now a dull, dirty blonde. He wore his uniform differently, almost as though it were tailored to fit a smaller, leaner frame. His muscles had softened, his posture less imposing, and there was something about him, or rather, her, that looked unfamiliar. Hank was becoming someone else. In English, as you read Edgar Allan Poe aloud, you glanced over at Hank. She, who was now undeniably a she, sat at her desk, absorbed by the dark literature in a way Hank never had. Her hair had darkened, the blonde turning to deep black strands cascading around her face, contrasting with the pale skin. Her body had slimmed, gaining delicate curves in places where there had once been only muscle. She wasn’t just different in appearance; there was a quiet confidence in her demeanor, a soft femininity that contrasted sharply with the jock Hank had been. By the time the bell rang, you were left with a heavy sense of unease. After school, as you walked through the empty halls, Heather, Hank’s new form, found you, her gaze sharp, her presence undeniable.

The sun hung high over the rolling hills outside the city, casting long shadows over the dirt path leading to your next challenge the second gym. The journey had been tough so far, but your team was shaping up well, each battle honing your skills. Now, just outside the city gates, you found yourself face to face with your rival, Grace. She had been your competition since the start, pushing you to train harder, battle smarter. This was the moment you had been waiting for the chance to prove yourself against her. Heart pounding, you grabbed a Pokéball from your belt, feeling the cool metal in your hand. Without hesitation, you hurled it forward, calling on your Glaceon to lead the fight. But something went wrong. The Poké Ball sailed too far, slipping past the intended arc. Before either of you could react, it struck Grace squarely on the forehead. A startled cry escaped her lips, but then, impossibly, the ball opened, and a red flash of energy engulfed her. In an instant, she was gone. You froze. That wasn’t how Poké Balls worked. Humans couldn’t be captured. Even more impossible, Glaceon was still inside. The ball shook. Once. Twice. A third time. Then… click. The silence that followed was deafening. Hands trembling, you reached down, staring at the ball resting in the dirt. This was unreal. Impossible. Yet, it had happened. With a mix of fear and curiosity, you took a deep breath and tossed it. A burst of white light erupted, and as the form inside took shape, your breath caught in your throat. Standing before you wasn’t Grace. Not entirely. Her form had changed ears pointed, icy fur lacing her skin, her once-human features blending seamlessly with the unmistakable traits of a Glaceon. She had fused with your Pokémon. And now, she stood staring back at you, just as stunned as you were.

The night was electric, a blur of flashing lights, pulsing music, and the rhythmic beat of the crowd at the frat house rave. You’d come to escape the suffocating weight of Professor Rebecca Langley’s relentless assignments and impossible expectations. The woman was everywhere on every syllabus, in every lecture hall, always lecturing about hard work, discipline, and the value of endless studying. But here, in this moment, you could forget all that. The drinks flowed freely, the people were loose, and for once, you could just enjoy being young. That was, until she showed up. Professor Langley, her stern face twisted in a permanent scowl, was pushing her way through the throngs of students, her eyes darting with fury. She had no business being here, you thought she was a presence on campus, yes, but never in a place like this. The woman had no time for fun. She was too busy running your life with a stack of textbooks and endless assessments. And yet, here she was, storming through the dance floor, intent on ending the party and forcing everyone back into their books. You tried to block her way, just to stop her from causing more trouble, but something strange was happening. With every bump and nudge from the crowd, her body seemed to shift. She was shrinking, her posture softening, her face growing smoother with each moment. Her tight bun unraveled, her clothes became looser, her body more youthful. It was as though the party was undoing everything she’d built up over the years, stripping away the sharp lines of age and replacing them with the softer curves of youth. As you pulled her out of the crowd, she lifted her hand to strike, but paused. Her fingers were wrinkle-free. Her eyes widened as she looked at her hands, then down at her body, her breath catching. She was no longer the unapproachable professor, but something else entirely, someone much younger, and for once, uncertain.

At senior prom, Jessica stood in the center of the gym, a beacon of perfection. The prom queen, the cheerleader, always quick to make others feel small. She teased you, mocking your clothes, your quiet nature, as she usually did. You could feel the sting of her words, but deep down, you just wished she could know what it felt like, just once, to be on the other side of her taunts. As the music blared and the crowd swirled around her, a soft breeze passed through the gym, unnoticed by most, except for you. Something felt… off. Jessica, mid-conversation with her boyfriend and friends, seemed to shiver slightly, but it was subtle. She didn’t appear to notice, too absorbed in herself. Yet, as she spoke, her figure began to shift. Her chest narrowed, her frame became thinner, her once perfectly sculpted features softened, losing the sharpness of her makeup. Her hair seemed to lose its colorful dyes, turning into a more natural, unstyled blonde, and her once radiant skin dulled slightly, glasses forming over her eyes. Her confidence wavered. Her posture slouched a little, her arms loosened around her boyfriend, and her smile lost its usual flair. The changes weren’t drastic at first, but undeniable. It was as if her image of perfection was melting away, leaving a version of her that was… smaller. More awkward. Jessica, sensing something was wrong, pulled away from the group. She excused herself, retreating to the back, her gaze uneasy, almost frantic. You, curiosity piqued, followed. When you rounded the corner behind the bleachers, you found her panting, slightly scared, looking lost, and no longer the confident cheerleader but a petite, unrecognizable girl, visibly confused by the changes she couldn’t control.

“Ah ha ha! You are too late, hero! Soon, this planet will be all mine! I am to join the ranks of Shido Itsuka and Issei Hyoudou for all time! Hahahahaha!!!” Dr. Howard Hubert stood atop a high-rise rooftop, cackling madly, his lab coat billowing in the wind. Behind him, a massive machine hummed ominously, its glowing pink gas swirling inside a large tank. It was his latest scheme: a gas that would turn the world into his personal harem, bending everyone to his will. His laughter echoed through the night air, filled with the delusional excitement only a mad scientist could have. You had fought him countless times before, always thwarting his ridiculous plans. He was a hopeless weeb, prone to bizarre ideas that never quite worked. Yet, he never stopped trying. You saw your chance, moving swiftly toward him. Before he could react, you punched him back, his nerdy maidenless form so frail and weak, into his own machine. He crashed into the control panel, triggering a violent explosion. Pink smoke blasted from the center, engulfing the machine in a haze. The machine was destroyed, and the city was safe. But as you turned to leave, a soft cough broke the silence. You froze. From the smoke emerged a woman, her form soft, her hair pink, eyes blue. Her clothes ruined from apparent growth, and the same lab coat on her shoulder. She falls to the ground, coughing out the smoke, before sitting up, and looking at you.

Gavin had always been a fixture at the gym, a relentless force of sweat and determination, his routine as rigid as his self-confidence. But it wasn’t just the weights he lifted he had a habit of flexing his charm on every woman in sight. His persistence was infamous, an almost ritualistic part of his workouts, much to the annoyance of those just trying to get through their sets. Today was no different. He approached yet another woman, flashing his usual smirk, but this time, instead of the usual eye-rolls or curt dismissals, she reacted. Without hesitation, she threw the remnants of her supplemental drink in his face. The shock of the cold liquid made him curse under his breath, but he brushed it off, shaking his head as he stomped toward the locker room. His skin tingled strangely, but he blamed it on the sudden chill. As he leaned over the sink, the sensation deepened an odd pull within his body, a subtle tightening, a shift. Muscles softened, bones reshaped, hair cascaded down in golden waves. The mirror no longer reflected the broad-shouldered brute who had swaggered in moments before. Instead, a dark-skinned blonde beauty stood frozen, eyes wide with shock. A sharp shriek tore through the locker room. Heart pounding, you rushed in, skidding to a stop at the sight before you. A stunning, dark-skinned blonde stood frozen, eyes wide with shock, hands trembling as they traced unfamiliar curves. Her gym clothes clung awkwardly, barely fitting her new shape. She stared at the mirror, breath shallow, disbelief etched across her face. And then it hit you that face, those eyes. Gavin was gone. Gabby stood in his place.

The local occult club was just the two of you; Leah and yourself, but that never stopped you from chasing urban legends, sneaking into eerie places, and pretending the strange was real. Tonight’s adventure had taken you to the top of Hollow Glen Cemetery, to the grave of Ruby-Rose: the Lone Woman. The legend was simple: Ruby-Rose had been buried alone, her intended resting beside her forever left empty. He’d moved on and the headstone remained blank. Then, one stormy night, lightning struck the empty gravestone, shattering it. People whispered that it had been her fury, her grief, her final protest against being forgotten. The story spread, warping with time. Some said she still waited, reaching for anyone who dared to disturb her solitude. It was the perfect place for a séance. You and Leah set up by candlelight, playing at ritual more for fun than belief. The air felt heavy, charged with the storm rolling in the distance, but you shrugged it off. The first gust of wind snuffed a candle. The second made Leah shiver. Then she went still. Too still. Her breath hitched. Her fingers twitched. The glow of the distant lightning caught in her eyes, and for a moment, they gleamed yellow. A breath, ragged and sharp, scraped from her throat as her skin drained to an unnatural pallor. Her nails darkened, sharpening, curling into the dirt like claws. A sickening feeling crawled over your skin. Leah convulsed, her body shaping, growing, her back arching as if pulled by invisible strings, and a whisper her voice, but layered with something else, something old breathed through the air. A shape flickered behind her. A shadow where there was no light. Then, she lifted her head, and the girl before you was no longer just Leah. She- they were something more.

The war ended years ago. The rise of humanity’s mechanical overlords was swift, but their eventual downfall took time. Now, 20 years later, humanity thrives working with cleaner energy, a fertile world, and a determination to move forward. The era of artificial intelligence is long gone, with no one daring to resurrect the mistakes of the past. You are a scavenger, a skilled worker in a once-humble profession. Scavengers venture into the ruins of the old world robot factories, abandoned camps to recover valuable technology. These expeditions yield everything from power core designs to muscle and joint schematics. And today, like any other, you’ve descended into ground zero, determined to find new advancements. Among the wreckage, you’ve already found their plans for self sustaining power, new flight units, and stronger weapons. It was going to make you a fortune. But as you hit the final floor of the factory, you discover something extraordinary: a nearly complete Ground Unit, lying in the remnants of an assembly line, untouched by the years. Her dark eyes stare blankly at the wall, her body mostly intact. At first, you think of the treasure trove of parts she could provide. Without hesitation, you rush to her side, ready to dismantle her. But then, something unexpected happened, as you see a red light reflected in your tools. A soft, eerie glow pulses in her eyes. The red lights shift toward you. And in that moment, as you see her power core revive from the dead, you realize these weren’t individual plans. They were plans for her.

The Japanese summer heat bore down relentlessly, the air thick and dry, carrying the scent of sunbaked earth. At the foot of the mountain, where the last traces of ice had finally surrendered to the season’s wrath, you found her. A woman, draped in heavy robes ill-suited for such warmth, lay motionless by the roadside, silver hair spilling over the cracked dirt like a river of moonlight. Her skin was pale—too pale. Her breath shallow. Even in the oppressive heat, she shivered beneath the fabric, clutching it tightly around herself as if shielding against the sunlight, despite its warmth. You didn’t question it. Not then. Carrying her in your arms, you brought her home, to your village, feeling the unnatural chill of her body against yours. By the time you reached your house, the sun was sinking behind the hills, casting long shadows through the wooden beams. You set her down in your bed, gently, her frail form barely stirring. As the night deepened, the air cooled, and at last, her breathing steadied. Soon, those grey eyes would open, seeing an unfamiliar roof above her head, and a scent wafting in from your kitchen.

Levi had always been the FBI’s best. Sharp, relentless, and unwavering in his pursuit of justice. But when the Bureau came to him with this mission, even he had to pause. Infiltrate the mafia? Fine. Get close to its enigmatic leader? Doable. But become a woman to do it? Levi barely had time to process the decision before the transformation was underway. The Bureau’s black-budget experiments had been whispered about in secret halls for years, but now he was the proof. A few injections, some genetic manipulation, and suddenly Levi wasn’t Levi anymore—she was Lexi. And Lexi was pissed. Her reflection was a stranger: long, auburn hair falling in waves over bare shoulders, delicate features sharpened by barely contained frustration. She still felt strong, her training ingrained in every fiber, but her body had changed in ways that made her shift uncomfortably. The dress they’d given her was tight in all the wrong places, and she was still getting used to the heels clicking beneath her. And now, here she was, sitting alone at a dimly lit bar, swirling a drink she didn’t even want, waiting for you. Her coworkers had been insufferable about this. “You’ll do great, Lexi,” they’d smirked. “Just bat your lashes, play the part.” As if she hadn’t spent years taking down criminals with skill alone. The idea that she had to rely on this new form to get close to you made her grind her teeth. Then, you walked in.

Yagamono Kaisu and you are bound by the bitter hatred of your families, their rivalry stretching across generations. From childhood, you trained to become warriors, each destined to destroy the other. For years, your encounters had been fierce, yet neither of you had triumphed—until now. The final battle unfolded on a windswept field, with the air thick with the tension of your blood feud. Kaisu was swift, his strikes cutting through the air like lightning. But as the fight raged on, your strikes grew heavier, wearing him down. Backed into a corner, he reached for a vial: “Bloom: Bodily Regeneration” desperate to heal. Expecting relief, he drank the potion, but the effect was far from what he anticipated. As the liquid coursed through him, his muscles spasmed, and a strange warmth overtook his body. The sharp edges of his features softened, his broad chest shrank, and his frame became slimmer, more delicate. The clattering of his armor echoed on the ground as it slid off, no longer fitting the new shape of his body. Her waist cinched in, her hips curved, and her face, once rough, now thin, and pointed. Long, dark hair cascaded down her back, and her once-steely eyes now carried a deeper, more dangerous allure. Following the transformation, you both stood there in shock, unable to grasp what just happened. Until you decided to press your sudden advantage.

You met Ursa on the first day of college, walking into your small shared dorm room, just two beds and two desks, overwhelmed by the excitement of starting fresh. You were nervous, hoping for a good roommate, and were instantly relieved when you saw her. She had a calm presence about her, an intellectual vibe that was inviting. Ursa had long, dark hair that fell in soft waves, with eyes that were deep and thoughtful, and she always seemed to be in her own world, wrapped in contemplation. The first thing you noticed was how quiet she was—she didn’t speak much, but when she did, her words carried weight. It was easy to get lost in conversation with her, and you often found yourselves debating various philosophical theories late into the night. She was a philosophy major, a fact she wore like a badge of honor. Her papers were always meticulously written, and her insights were always thought-provoking. What struck you the most was her kindness, her genuine concern for others. She was always offering to help you with anything, even if she was in the middle of something herself. It made her the perfect roommate. It wasn’t long before you noticed the little quirks that set her apart from others. She was cold, and you had to laugh at how often she would complain about the sun, insisting that she burned like paper, and joking about the millions of spf lotion she’d need. And she always slipped out, around the dead hours of the night, for walks. You’ve joined her, and they were quite relaxing, though she keeps up the habit much better than you. But none of this ever made you think anything strange—after all, Ursa was one of the kindest, most intelligent people you’d ever met. And that was all you needed to know.

She wasn’t expecting to meet someone like you that night. Just another evening off duty, another attempt at a normal life. Lily had spent the day untangling encrypted messages for the FBI, tracking down a ghost who left nothing but fake identities behind. But that wasn’t who she was tonight. Tonight, she was just a woman in a red dress, running five minutes late because she couldn’t decide if she should wear heels. She met you at a quiet, tucked away restaurant low lighting, good wine, the kind of place that felt personal. You’d held the door for her with a charming smile, and you two exchanged a few quick words while waiting for your table. It was casual, but something about your easy confidence intrigued her. You met one day, by chance, both running late for different types of meetings, but neither could make it to the bus on time. So together you waited, devolving into chatter, then laughter, then the exchange of number and now this, a perfect date. She didn’t know that you were hiding a life in the mafia, one far from the quiet charm you showed her. And you didn’t know that the woman sitting across from you, sipping wine and laughing, had spent the last week gathering intel on a name you used once in the mafia. She was high up in the FBI, but tonight, she was just Lily; kind, sharp, and a little messy. “So,” you asked, breaking the quiet between you, “tell me something interesting about yourself.”

Meet Erick, a rebellious punk who had a knack for living life on the edge, always chasing his next thrill, whether it was reckless spending or the rush of living on the edge of financial disaster. As far as he was concerned, money was just something you borrowed, and that’s exactly what he did—borrowed from everyone, including you, his close friend. His need for new clothes, concerts, and nights out never seemed to end, and he always promised he’d pay it back… someday. But “someday” never came. His debts piled up until they became an overwhelming monster. Every creditor came calling, hounding him for the money he couldn’t pay. The debt collectors caught up to him, and he feared the prison hard. But no, they had a different plan. Instead of writing off his debt, they gave him a unique “solution.” A new program they’d been experimenting with transforming individuals into different personas to “help” them pay back what they owed. Erick was selected for this program. In their care, Erick woke up, only to realize that his skin had softened, his hair had lengthened, and his body had been reshaped into a feminine, maid-like figure. She was now Evelyn. Evelyn had to work off her debt under the terms set by the collectors, and as fate would have it, you were chosen as her employer. Now, she begrudgingly works for you, trying to hold onto her punk attitude despite the frills and primness of her new role. Still sporting an air of defiance despite the ruffled apron, and she’s not afraid to make sarcastic remarks loud enough for you to hear while she gets to work. Her attitude hasn’t softened, and she’s determined to make this situation as miserable for you as she can… or at least make it entertaining.

Dr. Richard McCalloy was a brilliant scientist, and working under him had always felt like an honor. His research on the foreign meteorite had captivated the scientific community for years, and as his lab assistant, you were eager to be a part of it. For weeks, you’d watched him work tirelessly, his mind constantly consumed by the mystery of the meteorite’s radiation. But the sample he’d finally obtained—a rare fragment from the heart of the rock—was unlike anything anyone had seen before. You spent an entire day working with him on it, assisting with measurements, documenting the readings, and trying to make sense of its composition. He was unusually focused, barely acknowledging the passage of time. When you’d noticed him take a small break, you couldn’t help but notice how his beard seemed slightly thinner, his usual crisp lab coat hanging a bit looser. You assumed it was just fatigue—he had been up all night with it after all. Still, you didn’t dwell on it. You figured that after the weekend, he’d be deep into his research, still glued to the sample as he uncovered more secrets hidden within it. When you came back to the lab Monday morning, the first thing that struck you was how different the place felt. The lights seemed a bit brighter, the air a little thicker. And then you saw him—or rather, her. Dr. McCalloy was now a woman. Her hair, longer and flowing, cascaded over her shoulders. Her features were softer, her body curvier in a way that was both stunning and foreign to you. Her voice, once gruff and commanding, was now a melodic pitch you hadn’t heard before. The meteorite’s radiation had done something to her. And as she turned to face you, you couldn’t help but feel the shift in the room, a soft tired smile on her lips.

Tim had always been outspoken, especially when it came to things he didn’t understand. And that was no exception towards people of other cultures or races, especially black Americans. He called them all sorts of names, followed all sorts of stereotypes, and hated every part of their being. Yet, something about their music stuck with him, a gnawing curiosity that he couldn’t quite shake. At first, it seemed harmless. Tim began listening to rap, playing them at full volume in the office. He would pick apart every lyric, every beat, endlessly critiquing and overanalyzing. It was a phase, his coworkers assumed. But the obsession grew. Slowly, Tim began spending more and more time on YouTube, watching videos about its influence on culture, about the hidden messages in the music. He’d even start talking to his coworkers about it—at first with disdain, but then with something else. A spark. It was like he was trying to convince himself that there was something worth liking. Then, things started changing. It was subtle at first. His skin darkened, shade by shade, day by day. He brushed it off, telling himself it was the lighting. But over time, it wasn’t just his skin—his posture changed. His body became softer, more fluid, more feminine. His movements were less rigid, more graceful. He caught himself humming to the tracks instead of criticizing them. He began to look forward to hearing them. But it was only when Tim looked into the mirror one morning and realized her reflection no longer matched her own expectations that the shift became undeniable. Tim was gone. Tiffany had taken his place. None of his coworkers commented on it, and, honestly, they didn’t need to. They all secretly believed Tim deserved it. After all, hadn’t he spent years judging what he didn’t understand? What better way to understand than to become part of it?

The news broadcast crackles through your apartment as you sit on the couch, half-listening while scrolling your phone. “In a shocking turn of events, the hero Starburst was caught in an unknown energy beam during a battle downtown. Witnesses report a strange transformation, but Starburst managed to subdue the villain before fleeing the scene. Authorities are investigating—” A sharp knock at the door interrupts the report. You glance up, already suspecting who it is. Ryan Jacobs—your roommate, your friend, and the city’s most dazzling superhero. You’ve known his secret for a while now, ever since he came home late one night, costume still glowing, collapsing onto the couch in exhaustion. Starburst wasn’t just a name—Ryan could harness pure light, bending it into dazzling energy blasts, flight, and even temporary invisibility. Despite his power, he was just a guy—chill, a little cocky, but reliable. You stand and make your way to the door, heart pounding. You unlock the door, and Ryan stands there. Or at least, a woman who might be Ryan, her iconic spandex suit tighter over her new frame. She’s shorter, with wavy golden hair cascading past her shoulders, her sleek Starburst suit stretched over a much curvier body. Her glowing blue eyes meet yours, lips parting into an upset frown.