Celebrity TF

Body-swap,Shapeshift, Body-suit stories about Celebrities|| NSFW||

[celebtf]

Don't you just love when you trade places with some B-list actor and take his place at some movie premier while he rotten in your old body?

[celebtf]

Change Of Style(s), Harry

Jacob had always been infatuated with Harry Styles. More than infatuated, really—obsessed. To him, Harry was perfection incarnate: the tousled curls, the effortlessly cool demeanor, the charm that made hearts swoon worldwide. Every time Jacob looked in the mirror, all he could see was a poor imitation, a shadow of the man he admired. Harry was, without a doubt, the sexiest man alive, and Jacob craved that allure for himself.

It was during one of Harry’s concerts, the pinnacle of his obsession, that Jacob’s plan began to take shape. He was just another face in the crowd, but inside, he was plotting something far darker than mere adoration. After the final encore, when the crowds had dispersed, Jacob found his way backstage. He had no plan for what he would do once he got there—he was acting on pure impulse, driven by a need he couldn’t fully comprehend.

He lingered in the shadows, watching as the crew cleaned up and as Harry finally retreated to his lodge. Jacob waited until the hallway was empty, until it was just him and the door that led to his idol. He could hear the faint hum of a song from the other side, Harry humming a melody to himself, completely unaware of what was coming.

Jacob’s heart pounded as he turned the doorknob. There was Harry, brushing his hair, lost in thought. For a moment, Jacob just stood there, mesmerized by the sight of him up close, like seeing a god in the flesh. Then, almost without thinking, he grabbed the hairbrush from Harry’s hand and bolted out of the room.

With the brush clutched tightly in his hand, Jacob raced home, his mind spinning with possibilities. He’d been working on something—a machine, something that had started as a mad idea but now seemed within reach. It was going to change everything. It was going to make him into Harry.

For the next several hours, Jacob worked feverishly, driven by an energy that bordered on madness. He tinkered with wires, adjusted circuits, and fed a few of Harry’s hairs into the machine. The technology was something he’d pieced together from a mix of online tutorials, scientific articles, and sheer obsession. It was crude, perhaps even dangerous, but Jacob was beyond caring.

Finally, as dawn broke, the machine was ready. But Jacob needed one last thing—the man himself.

The next evening, Harry had another concert. Jacob arrived early, lurking near the venue’s entrance, waiting for the right moment. When Harry stepped out of his car, Jacob acted. He swung a heavy object at Harry's head, just hard enough to knock him out. Adrenaline surged through Jacob as he dragged Harry to his car, praying no one had seen them.

Back at his apartment, Jacob tied Harry securely to a chair. The pop star groaned as he began to regain consciousness, his eyes widening in confusion and fear when he saw Jacob standing before him.

“W-What are you doing?” Harry’s voice was hoarse, panic seeping in as he tugged at the ropes.

Jacob didn’t answer. He simply walked over to his machine, now humming with power, and took a deep breath. He fed Harry’s hair into the machine and then brought it close to scan his face. The machine whirred and clicked, taking in every detail of Harry’s features.

Jacob felt a surge of exhilaration as he placed the machine against his own head. This was it—the moment he’d been waiting for. The machine hummed louder, its metallic surface heating up as it began the process. Then, with a sharp, almost unbearable jolt, the transformation began.

Jacob’s skin started to tingle, a sensation that quickly turned to searing heat. It felt as if his very cells were being pulled apart and reshaped. His bones cracked and shifted, his muscles rippling and tearing under the strain. He screamed—a high-pitched, agonized sound—but the machine held him in place, forcing him through the process.

He could feel his face contorting, his jawline sharpening, his cheeks hollowing out. His eyes burned as they changed shape, his vision blurring and then refocusing with startling clarity. The pain was beyond anything he had ever imagined, yet underneath it all, there was a thrill—a twisted sense of triumph.

The agony seemed to go on forever, but finally, the machine fell silent. Jacob collapsed to the floor, his body trembling, drenched in sweat. For a moment, he couldn’t move, couldn’t think. But then, slowly, he pushed himself up and stumbled toward the mirror.

What he saw took his breath away.

Staring back at him was Harry Styles—or rather, a perfect replica. The features, the hair, the eyes—it was all there. Jacob’s heart raced as he reached up to touch his new face, his fingers tracing the sharp contours of Harry’s jaw, the soft fullness of his lips. It felt surreal, like a dream, but the skin beneath his fingers was real, warm, and alive.

A grin spread across Jacob’s—no, Harry’s—face as he ran his hands over his new body. He could feel the lean muscle under the skin, the way his clothes now hung perfectly on his frame. His hand drifted lower, over the flat plane of his stomach, to the waistband of his jeans. He hesitated for just a moment, then allowed his fingers to slide inside, feeling the firmness, the heat of Harry’s flesh now his own.

A shiver ran through him as he squeezed, the sensation sending a thrill through his entire body. It was all his—every inch, every muscle, every intimate detail. His grin widened, a mixture of disbelief and sheer joy. He was no longer Jacob, the ordinary, overlooked man. He was Harry Styles, the most desired man on the planet.

Behind him, the real Harry struggled, his eyes wide with horror as he watched his doppelgänger. Jacob—now fully Harry—turned around slowly, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Well, how do I look?” Jacob asked, his voice an exact mimicry of Harry’s smooth, melodic tone. He sauntered over to the bound man, crouching down to meet his eyes. “It’s uncanny, isn’t it?”

Harry could only stare, his mind reeling with shock and terror. Jacob leaned in closer, his breath warm against Harry’s ear.

“Listen to this,” Jacob whispered, before breaking into one of Harry’s signature songs, his voice capturing every inflection, every note with perfect precision. It was as if Harry himself was singing, only it wasn’t. The real Harry felt his blood run cold.

“See?” Jacob said, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “I’m you now. Better than you, really. Because I want it more.”

With that, Jacob stood up, leaving the real Harry to struggle helplessly against the ropes. He couldn’t resist glancing back at his reflection, unable to get enough of his new face, his new body. It was everything he had ever dreamed of, and more.

Jacob’s heart raced with excitement as he prepared for the next part of his plan. He drove back to the stadium, his new face greeted by the security team with respectful nods. No one questioned him as he entered Harry’s private dressing room.

The room was a treasure trove of everything Harry Styles—luxurious clothes hung neatly in the closet, a variety of accessories displayed on the dresser, and on a separate vanity, a collection of hair products. Jacob smiled as he ran his fingers through his new curls, then picked up the bottles one by one. He recognized the names—Bumble and Bumble Surf Spray, Kevin Murphy’s Anti-Gravity lotion, and Oribe Dry Texturizing Spray. These were the secret weapons behind Harry’s iconic look, and now, they were his.

Jacob took his time, savoring every moment. He sprayed his hair with the Surf Spray, scrunching it with his fingers to create that perfect, effortless wave. Then came the Anti-Gravity lotion, adding volume and a subtle shine. Finally, he finished with the Oribe spray, feeling his hair lift and hold just like Harry’s did on stage.

He stepped back to admire his handiwork. The clothes, the hair, the face—it was all flawless. Jacob—Harry—felt a surge of pride as he slipped into one of Harry’s custom-made suits, the fabric hugging his body in all the right places. He looked every bit the superstar, and it felt like he was finally stepping into his rightful place.

That night, Jacob—now Harry—took to the stage. The lights, the cheers, the adoration of thousands washed over him, filling him with a sense of euphoria he had never known. This was his life now, his world. As the concert went on, he felt more and more like the man he had always dreamed of being.

But even as the cheers of the crowd echoed in his ears, Jacob couldn’t ignore the nagging thought at the back of his mind. There was still something he needed to do—something to make this transformation truly complete.

After the concert, Jacob returned to his apartment, where the real Harry still sat tied to the chair, his struggles having weakened him. Jacob could see the fear and exhaustion in Harry’s eyes, but he felt nothing but cold satisfaction. He had what he wanted, but there was more to be done.

Jacob set to work, building another device. This one wasn’t for physical transformation, but for mental control. He had come too far to risk Harry breaking free and ruining everything. The new machine was designed to hypnotize, to lull the mind into a deep, inescapable sleep, and perhaps—if used correctly—to plant suggestions that would make Harry more... cooperative. Jacob knew he couldn’t keep Harry tied up forever, but if he could control his mind, he wouldn’t need to. Harry would do whatever Jacob told him to, believe whatever Jacob wanted him to believe.

Once the device was complete, Jacob approached the bound Harry with a cold determination. Harry flinched as Jacob set the machine in front of him, his eyes widening in terror.

“Don’t worry,” Jacob said, his voice now eerily calm. “This won’t hurt. In fact, it’ll help you. Help you accept things.”

Harry struggled weakly against his bonds, but he was too drained to resist. Jacob switched on the machine, and a soft, rhythmic hum filled the room. Lights flickered, casting a hypnotic glow across Harry’s face. His eyes glazed over as the machine took hold of his mind, pulling him into a trance.

Jacob watched as Harry’s body relaxed, his breathing slowing. Once he was sure Harry was fully under, Jacob began to speak softly, his words dripping with intent.

“You’re safe, Harry,” Jacob murmured. “You’re with someone who cares about you, who understands you. You don’t need to fight. Just let go… let go and sleep.”

He repeated the commands over and over, reinforcing the suggestion until Harry’s head lolled to one side, deep in a hypnotic sleep. Jacob smiled, satisfied that Harry was now under his control. But he wasn’t done yet.

Jacob had always admired more than just Harry Styles. There were others, men who were just as iconic, just as desirable in different ways. As he looked down at the sleeping Harry, an idea formed—a way to make this twisted fantasy even more complete.

Jacob retrieved the shape-shifting machine and began to prepare it for another transformation. This time, it wasn’t for himself, but for the helpless man before him. He programmed the machine with a new set of instructions, feeding in data he had collected on another of his obsessions: Zayn Malik.

He carefully scanned Harry’s face one last time, then flipped the machine’s settings. Slowly, almost methodically, Jacob began the transformation. The machine hummed and whirred as it worked, Harry’s body jerking slightly as his features began to shift.

Jacob watched, utterly fascinated, as Harry’s hair darkened, shifting from its chestnut curls to the inky blackness that defined Zayn. The texture altered too, from soft waves to Zayn’s signature slicked-back style. Jacob’s breath quickened as he saw Harry’s face slowly reshape—his jawline becoming more angular, his lips slightly fuller. The transformation was seamless, as if the very essence of Harry was being rewritten, erased, and replaced by someone entirely new.

The change didn’t stop at Harry’s face. His skin tone warmed, deepening to match Zayn’s, while his body subtly adjusted—leaner in some places, more defined in others. His tattoos morphed, shifting patterns and styles until they matched those famously inked on Zayn’s body.

Jacob was in awe of his creation, unable to tear his eyes away from the spectacle. He felt a rush of power, a dizzying sense of control. First, he had become Harry Styles—stepped into the skin of the man he idolized. And now, he had reshaped Harry into his other obsession, Zayn Malik. It was intoxicating.

When the transformation was complete, Jacob stood back, a smirk forming on his lips. The man before him was no longer Harry Styles—he was Zayn Malik, right down to the smallest detail. The real Zayn would never suspect a thing, and the world would believe the man tied to the chair was Zayn.

With a surge of confidence, Jacob stepped closer to his new creation. He couldn’t resist taunting him, seeing his own handiwork up close. “Look at you,” Jacob murmured, his voice filled with twisted admiration. “You’re perfect.”

Harry—now Zayn—was still unconscious, but Jacob couldn’t help but revel in his success. He had done the impossible, and the power of it sent a thrill down his spine. He crouched down, brushing a strand of black hair away from Zayn’s face. “Do you know what you are now? You’re exactly what I wanted you to be.”

Jacob couldn’t resist touching Zayn’s face, tracing the new contours with his fingertips. The thrill of control, of shaping someone so completely, filled him with a sense of invincibility. He had taken Harry’s life, his face, and now, he had reshaped Harry into Zayn, the man he had always admired from afar.

Jacob stood up, his confidence skyrocketing. He felt untouchable, like a god who could mold and manipulate reality itself. He had become the man of his dreams, and he had turned his idol into another of his obsessions. What could possibly stop him now?

But there was one more thing to do, one more step to take to cement his victory. He returned to his new hypnotic machine, preparing to plant the final set of commands in Zayn’s mind.

He adjusted the settings, then turned the machine back on. The hum returned, and Jacob leaned in close, his voice soft but firm. “Zayn,” he whispered, watching the man’s eyelids flutter at the sound of his new name. “You’ve always felt something for Harry, haven’t you? A connection, something more than friendship. It’s okay to feel that way. You’ve always wanted to be with him, haven’t you?”

Zayn’s—Harry’s—brow furrowed slightly as the new thoughts began to take root.

“You love Harry,” Jacob continued, his voice soothing, persuasive. “You’ve always loved him. You want to be with him. You want to make him happy, to be together forever. And now, you can. Now, you’re together, and nothing else matters.”

Jacob repeated these suggestions over and over, reinforcing them until he was sure they were deeply embedded in Zayn’s subconscious. When he finally turned off the machine, Zayn remained asleep, but his expression had changed. There was a softness there, a contentedness that hadn’t been present before.

Jacob stood back, admiring his work. The transformation was complete, both physically and mentally. The real Harry Styles was gone, replaced by a man who now believed he was Zayn Malik—and more importantly, a man who believed he was in love with Jacob, who he saw as the real Harry Styles.

With a satisfied smile, Jacob leaned down and gently untied Zayn’s hands. He stroked the man’s cheek, watching as he slowly woke from his induced sleep. Zayn blinked up at Jacob, confusion briefly crossing his face before a warm, loving smile spread across his lips.

“Harry…” Zayn murmured, his voice filled with affection. “I… I love you.”

Jacob’s heart swelled with twisted pride and satisfaction. Everything had fallen into place perfectly. He now had everything he had ever wanted: Harry Styles’ life, his looks, and now, even a devoted partner who believed they were meant to be together.

As Zayn reached up to touch Jacob’s—Harry’s—face, Jacob couldn’t help but think that this was just the beginning of his new, perfect life. And as far as he was concerned, the real Harry Styles was nothing more than a forgotten memory, replaced by something far better.

[celebtf]

What's some hot Celebrities ot characters you guys want stories about? Comment or send in a request

[celebtf]

I'm not trying to be shady or anything but when I get inspired but somebody I credit them and I thought maybe that's what we do, apperentlly not, if I credit you and you rip off my content and has a bigger following?!

[celebtf]

PEETA AND THE BERRIES ( PART 2 ) ( SCRAPPED)

Peeta—no, Finnick—stood still as the thick wooden doors to President Snow’s office creaked open. The grand, lavish room smelled of blood and roses. The real Finnick, now trapped in Peeta’s body, trailed hesitantly behind, his steps slow and uncertain.

Snow sat comfortably behind his ornate desk, a wine glass in hand, his lips curling into a twisted smile. He gestured lazily for them to step forward.

“Ah, my favorite tributes,” he mused, his voice sickly sweet. “I must say, that was quite the performance in the arena. I thoroughly enjoyed it.”

Finnick—now Peeta—swallowed hard. “Sir, I had nothing to do with this. It wasn’t my choice.” His voice carried a slight tremor, but he masked it well.

Snow let out a quiet chuckle, standing up and strolling toward Finnick, his boots clicking against the polished floor. His presence was suffocating.

“Oh, I know you didn’t,” Snow whispered, leaning in close, his breath warm against Finnick-Peeta’s ear. “That’s what makes it even more delightful.”

Finnick-Peeta’s body stiffened. He could feel his pulse hammering against his ribs. Snow pulled back and, with a flick of his wrist, his guards entered, armed and ready.

The real Peeta—now Finnick—was grabbed by two men, his wrists yanked behind his back. He struggled, but he was no match for them.

“What’s wrong, Peeta?” Snow drawled mockingly. “Not enjoying your new look?” He pulled something from his pocket. Two berries. The same ones.

The real Finnick's eyes widened in fear. “No,” he choked out, thrashing against the guards. “Please, don’t do this.”

Snow smirked. “But I insist.” He force-fed the berries into Finnick’s mouth, holding his jaw shut. Finnick gagged, his body jerking as the effects took hold.

It started in his chest. A horrible, sinking feeling, like his lungs were being crushed from the inside. His breath came in short, ragged gasps as his spine twisted, compressing. His broad shoulders shrank, his powerful arms turning frail.

His muscles melted away, the years of strength vanishing in seconds. His once sun-kissed, golden skin paled, veins surfacing beneath the thinning flesh.

Then came his face.

His strong jawline softened, his cheekbones hollowing out, skin stretching over sharp bones. Deep wrinkles began carving themselves into his forehead, around his mouth, etching a lifetime of cruelty onto his once-handsome features.

His hair—long, messy, sun-bleached—turned stark white, thinning as it aged rapidly. His once sharp, ocean-blue eyes turned colder, duller, more calculating.

His breath came out in a rattled, unfamiliar voice.

Snow tilted his head, satisfied. “Open your eyes.”

Peeta-Finnick obeyed. A mirror was thrust in front of him. He barely recognized himself.

His face was withered. His hair was wispy and gray. Deep lines creased his face.

He wasn’t Finnick anymore.

He wasn’t Peeta anymore.

He was President Snow.

A ragged breath left his lips. This couldn’t be real.

The real Finnick—now trapped as Snow—trembled, his old legs weak beneath him. His own voice came out, but it sounded wrong. Ancient. Powerless.

Snow turned to the guards. “Hand them over.”

One of the guards stepped forward, presenting him with two more berries. Snowtook them between his fingers, examining them with interest. Then, without hesitation, he popped them into his mouth.

The change was instant.

His frail, aging body bulked up. His spine straightened, his posture shifting from old and frail to young and strong. His once weak arms and legs swelled with power, muscle sculpting beneath his uniform.

His white hair darkened, shortening into soft, messy blond locks. His face rearranged, his eyes sharpening, his skin growing taut and youthful once more.

With one final breath, he exhaled.

President Snow was gone.

Standing in his place, was Peeta Mellark.

But this was no longer Peeta.

The real Peeta - Now Finnick had been standing frozen, watching the entire transformation unfold. His breath was caught in his throat, his body stiff with shock, fear… and something else.

Something thrilling

Snow—now Peeta—turned toward him. “Well?” he asked, his new voice smooth, deep, charming. His lips curled into a slow, knowing smile.

Peeta-Finnick’s heart pounded.

His old admiration for Finnick Odair had been childish—a boy envying a man’s strength, charm, confidence.

But this?

This was something else.

Snow stepped closer, brushing a hand along his new, sculpted arm, as if admiring the body he now possessed. “I think this suits me quite well, don’t you?”

Peeta licked his lips. “Better than I ever imagined.” His voice was quieter now, almost in awe

Snow let out a soft chuckle. He knew. He could see it in Peeta eyes—the way he was looking at him. The realization hit like a wave.

Peeta didn’t hate what had happened.

He loved it.

Snow smiled, pressing a hand to Peeta chest, feeling the heartbeat there. “You understand now, don’t you?”

Peeta-Finnick nodded.

Yes. He did.

The Games had always been rigged. The odds were never in their favor. But this?

They were no longer tributes. No longer players.

They were the Game Masters.

Snow turned toward the guards. “Take him away,” he ordered, gesturing to the real Finnick—now trapped as Snow.

The old man struggled, his own voice screaming out in protest as he was dragged away.

Neither of them cared.

Peeta-Finnick stepped closer to Snow-Peeta, the rush of power surging through them both.

“We have big plans,” Snow murmured, running a hand through his new blond hair.

Peeta smirked. “And nobody can stop us now.”

STAR FACTORY PART 3 IS OUT NOW!!

STAR FACTORY ( PART 3 ) | CelebTF

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[celebtf]

Scapped Story Pull 2

Alex and The Mission Part 3 ( Alec x Jace x Magnus )

Peeta and The Berries Part 2

The True Alpha Part 2

Twins 2 Twins

The Arrow

The New Detective ( Charles x Cat King )

The New Shadowhunter ( Simon x Jace )

Voting ended onFeb 3, 2025

[celebtf]

Just wanted to check in and say Part 2 of Star Factory ( Free on Patreon ) is out now... I will get back to writing the next stories now..

STAR FACTORY ( PART 2 ) | CelebTF

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[celebtf]

THE NEW CAPTAIN

The battle for New York was chaos. Smoke and fire filled the streets as Hydra forces waged their assault against the city. The Avengers fought back fiercely—Iron Man blasting enemy aircraft from the sky, Thor calling down lightning to shatter Hydra tanks, and Black Widow weaving through the battlefield, taking down Hydra agents with precision.

At the center of it all stood Captain America, shield raised, leading the charge.

But amidst the battle, Red Skull had other plans.

A missile streaked through the air and crashed into a nearby house, igniting an explosion that sent thick clouds of smoke rolling through the battlefield. Vision was lost in the haze.

That was when it happened.

Steve Rogers barely had time to react before he felt the sudden, blinding pain at the back of his head.

His world went black.

When Steve woke up, he was bound to a steel chair in a dimly lit room. His arms were tied down, his shield nowhere in sight.

A slow, deliberate clap echoed through the room.

“Ah, Captain,” came the thick German accent. “I was beginning to think you’d never wake up.”

Steve’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. Standing before him, illuminated by the flickering light, was Johann Schmidt—Red Skull.

“What do you want, Skull?” Steve growled, pulling at his restraints.

A sharp, amused chuckle escaped Red Skull’s lips. “What do I want? No, Captain.” He leaned in, his grotesque red face inches from Steve’s. “What I have already won.”

At his signal, the steel door creaked open. A Hydra soldier stepped in, holding a strange, futuristic-looking gun.

Steve tensed. But something was wrong.

The gun wasn’t aimed at him.

It was aimed at Red Skull.

His mind raced. What the hell was happening?

The Hydra soldier pulled the trigger.

A pulse of crackling blue energy erupted from the weapon, striking Red Skull square in the chest. For a split second, Steve thought the blast had killed him.

Then, he saw the change.

Red Skull’s body stiffened as if electrified. His grotesque, scarlet skin began to shift, rippling like liquid.

And then, it peeled away.

First, his sharp cheekbones softened, rounding into a more familiar shape. The deep crevices in his face smoothed out, the monstrous contours of his skull reshaping, reforming. His muscles bulged, stretching and reshaping beneath his Hydra uniform.

His bald head sprouted hair—golden-blond strands, identical to Steve’s own.

Steve’s stomach twisted in horror.

“No…” he whispered.

Red Skull let out a deep, guttural groan as his transformation finalized. His grotesque red features had been replaced with Steve Rogers’ own face.

It wasn’t just a disguise. It was perfect.

Red Skull slowly raised his hands, admiring them. He flexed his fingers, testing his new, stolen body. A wicked grin spread across his now-familiar lips.

He laughed—a deep, Steve Rogers laugh.

Steve struggled against his restraints, panic setting in. “What did you do?!”

Red Skull turned to him, his expression morphing into a mocking mirror image of Steve’s own determined glare.

“Oh, Captain, don’t tell me you don’t recognize yourself?”

He ran a hand through his new blond hair, enjoying the sensation. “Ah, soft… and golden. "

Steve clenched his jaw. “You won’t get away with this.”

Red Skull threw his head back and laughed.

“Oh, but I already have.”

He turned to a nearby table, where a neatly folded Captain America suit rested. With deliberate slowness, he began to change.

First, he peeled off his Hydra uniform, discarding his black gloves like they were beneath him. He slipped on the iconic blue suit, fastening the star-emblazoned chest plate as if it belonged to him.

Then, the boots. The belt. Every detail, perfectly replicated.

Finally, he reached for the shield.

Steve’s shield.

Red Skull gripped it in his hand, testing its weight before slinging it onto his back. He turned to Steve, now completely transformed, and struck a heroic pose.

He mused, adjusting his gloves. “How does it feel to be the imposter for once?”

Steve glared at him, his heart pounding.

“The Avengers will see through you.”

Red Skull smirked.

“Oh, will they?” He leaned in close, his voice a mocking whisper. “Do you think your dear Natasha will notice? Will Stark? Will that fool Thor?” He tilted his head. “Or will they welcome me, their fearless leader, with open arms?”

Steve’s throat tightened.

Red Skull took a step back and gave an exaggerated salute—one Steve himself had done countless times.

“Goodbye, Captain.”

Then, without another word, he turned and strode out the door, leaving Steve alone, bound, and helpless.

The Avengers would never see it coming.

And by the time they did…

It would be too late.

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Body-Swaps/Shapeshift/ Transformation-stories about Celebrities

[celebtf]

THE STAR FACTORY ( FREE )

Hi

I have started a new series over on my Patreon that´s called " Star Factory " and it´s a free story so " all FREE and paid members will be able to view ".

I wanted to create a story for everyone to enjoy, the first part is about Jonah Hauer-king and his audition for The Little Mermaid.

i hope you will enjoy it, and if anybody has any problems, feel free to DM me.

xoxo

CT

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Body-Swaps/Shapeshift/ Transformation-stories about Celebrities

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GLEN AND THE MAGIC-TRICK

--

Zac had never been satisfied with his life. Mediocrity dripped from every corner of his existence like a slow poison. Yet, the moment he saw Glen Powell on the big screen, something inside him snapped.

Glen wasn’t just successful—he was everything. The perfect face, the perfect voice, the perfect life. Every magazine cover, every glowing interview, every post on social media felt like a personal insult to Zac. He wanted it all. No, he needed it.

And if Glen had to lose everything for Zac to take it? So be it.

Late one night, Zac called his only friend, Jordan, his voice a mix of desperation and rage.

“I can’t keep living like this, man. Every time I see that smug face, it’s like he’s mocking me. Like he knows he has everything I’ll never have.”

Jordan didn’t try to comfort him. He didn’t tell him to calm down or suggest therapy. Instead, he chuckled darkly. “So, take it from him.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Take it. If you hate him so much, why not become him?”

Zac was silent. The idea slithered into his mind, coiling around his thoughts. “How?”

“I’ve got a plan,” Jordan said. “But you need to be all in. No second-guessing, no whining. This isn’t just some prank. We’re taking his life, Zac.”

Zac’s lips curled into a grin. “I’m all in.”

Jordan worked quickly, calling in favors and pulling strings. Within days, he had secured them a spot as “magicians” at the Twister premiere.

“Magicians?” Zac asked when Jordan explained the plan.

“It’s perfect,” Jordan said. “No one will suspect a thing. We’ll make Glen disappear, and you’ll take his place. Simple.”

The day of the premiere arrived, and Zac felt a twisted thrill coursing through him as he donned his magician’s costume. Jordan, ever the mastermind, went over the plan one last time.

“When Glen steps into the box, I’ll distract the crowd. You take care of him, and... well, let’s just say the box has a few special features.”

Zac smirked. “You’ve thought of everything.”

Jordan grinned. “Of course I have. Now let’s make some magic.”

The premiere was a dazzling spectacle of lights, cameras, and celebrities. Glen Powell was the star of the evening, his every move followed by adoring fans and flashing cameras.

When Jordan approached him with the invitation to participate in their act, Glen laughed and agreed without hesitation.

“Why not? Let’s give the people a show!”

Jordan led Glen onto the small stage, where the crowd eagerly gathered to watch. Zac, hidden inside the box, felt his heart race—not with fear, but with anticipation.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Jordan announced, “prepare to witness the impossible! The incredible Glen Powell is about to vanish before your very eyes!”

Glen stepped into the box, his trademark grin in place. Jordan closed the door with a flourish, and the crowd erupted in applause.

Inside the box, Zac moved quickly. A hidden panel slid open, and he lunged at Glen, pressing a cloth soaked in chloroform over his face.

Glen struggled, his eyes wide with shock, but the chloroform worked fast. As Glen’s body went limp, Zac lowered him to the floor and began the transformation.

He stripped Glen of his clothes, every piece feeling like a trophy. Once he was dressed, the real change began.

It started with his hands, his fingers elongating, the skin smoothing into Glen’s perfect complexion. His arms stretched, muscles rippling beneath his flesh. He felt his legs grow longer, his spine cracking as his posture shifted.

Then came his face.

It started as a searing heat, like his skin was melting. Zac bit down on a scream as his cheekbones sharpened, his jawline reshaped, and his nose slimmed. His hair lightened, strand by strand, until it matched Glen’s golden locks.

He stared at his hands, now Glen’s hands, and a laugh bubbled up from his throat. It wasn’t his laugh anymore—it was Glen’s.

The transformation was complete.

Jordan spun the box three times, then stopped, his voice booming. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, behold the incredible Glen Powell!”

The door swung open, and Zac stepped out, every inch of him now Glen Powell. The crowd erupted into cheers, none the wiser that the man before them was an imposter.

Zac bowed, his movements fluid and confident. “Thank you! Thank you!” he called, mimicking Glen’s voice perfectly.

Jordan grinned, knowing they had pulled it off.

As Zac walked off the stage and onto the red carpet, cameras flashed, and fans screamed his—no, Glen’s—name. He soaked it all in, relishing the adoration.

Backstage, Jordan packed up the props, including the box with the real Glen tied up inside. He whistled as he loaded it into a van and drove off to their prearranged hiding place.

Hours later, in a dimly lit warehouse on the outskirts of town, Zac and Jordan stood over Glen, who was tied to a chair, still groggy from the chloroform.

“Wakey, wakey,” Zac said, his voice dripping with mockery. His new voice—Glen’s voice—sent a chill down the actor’s spine.

Glen’s eyes widened as he took in the sight before him. He was looking at... himself.

“What... what is this?” Glen croaked.

Glen struggled against the ropes, but

Jordan stepped forward, his knife glinting in the dim light.

“I wouldn’t try that if I were you,” he said with a smirk.

Zac turned to Jordan. “You know, this feels... right. Like I was always meant to be him.” He paused, studying Jordan. “But you... you could use an upgrade too.”

Jordan raised an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

“Why settle for being the guy behind the scenes?” Zac said, his voice silky. “Find someone. An actor, a musician, anyone. Take their life, just like I took Glen’s. We could rule Hollywood together.”

Jordan’s smirk widened. “You might be onto something.”

Zac leaned in close to Glen, his stolen face inches away. “This is just the beginning,” he whispered.

The warehouse echoed with their laughter as Glen sat helpless, his screams drowned out by the sound of their victory.

To be continued...

[celebtf]

EDDIE, THE NEW FIREFIGHTER

Tommy sat alone in his dimly lit apartment, the faint hum of the city outside providing a backdrop to his spiraling thoughts. It had been weeks since Buck had walked out of his life. Weeks of replaying every moment, every touch, every word. But no matter how hard Tommy had tried, Buck’s heart had always been elsewhere—always with Eddie.

Even the mention of Eddie’s name had been enough to set Tommy off during their arguments. Buck had called him paranoid, jealous. But Tommy wasn’t stupid. He’d seen the way Buck’s eyes lit up when Eddie walked into a room, the unspoken feelings simmering between them.

Now, as he sat nursing his resentment, his mind wandered to revenge. If Eddie was the reason Buck had left, then Eddie needed to suffer.

Tommy’s lips curled into a cold smile as a plan began to take shape.

He reached for his phone, scrolling through his old contacts. As a former firefighter, Tommy had Eddie’s number saved for emergencies. Tonight, he’d make use of it.

He dialed the number, forcing his voice into a panicked tone. “Eddie! It’s Tommy. I—I need your help. Please.”

Eddie’s voice came through, calm but concerned. “Tommy? What’s going on?”

“I’m trapped,” Tommy said, injecting desperation into his words. “The bathroom door—it’s jammed. I can’t get out, and my phone’s about to die. Please, I don’t know who else to call.”

There was a pause. Then Eddie sighed. “Alright. I’m on my way. Hang tight.”

Tommy hung up, a twisted grin spreading across his face. The trap was set

.

When Eddie arrived at Tommy’s apartment, he knocked on the door, his brow furrowed with concern. “Tommy? You okay?”

Tommy’s muffled voice came from inside. “In here! Bathroom! Hurry!”

Eddie stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him. He made his way toward the bathroom, his firefighter instincts kicking in.

“You’re alright,” he called, moving quickly. “Just stay calm.”

As Eddie reached the bathroom door and pushed it open, Tommy sprang into action. He swung a heavy object—an iron candlestick—connecting with the side of Eddie’s head. Eddie crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

Tommy stood over him, his chest heaving. “Sorry, Eddie,” he muttered, tossing the candlestick aside. “But you’ve had this coming for a long time.”

He dragged Eddie into the living room, tying him to a chair with thick ropes he’d prepared earlier.

Once Eddie was secure, Tommy stripped him of his uniform, leaving him vulnerable and exposed. He folded the uniform neatly, almost ceremoniously, before stepping into the pants and pulling the spandex shirt over his shoulders.

The bathroom mirror reflected a grotesque spectacle. Tommy stood there, dressed in Eddie’s uniform, his chest rising and falling with exhilaration. The transformation had already begun, though he didn’t know how or why. His muscles bulged as though they were being inflated from within, his veins pulsing under his tightening skin.

He gripped the edge of the sink, watching in awe as his hands grew broader and calloused, fingers thickening with the strength of a firefighter who’d spent years saving lives. “Oh, Eddie,” Tommy muttered, his voice trembling with malicious glee. “You’ve always had everything. But now…”

His legs lengthened, the fabric of Eddie’s uniform pants stretching taut against his thighs. His chest expanded, filling out the spandex shirt until it clung perfectly to his newly sculpted physique. He turned, catching sight of his growing reflection as his hair darkened and reshaped into Eddie’s signature look. When his face began to burn, he gasped, gripping his jaw as it shifted under his hands.

When it was over, Tommy stared at the mirror, his breath hitching. He touched his new face, ran his fingers over his mustache, and smiled. “Perfect,” he whispered, his voice a flawless imitation of Eddie’s. The realization of his transformation filled him with a twisted sense of power.

He flexed his arms, rolling his shoulders as he admired his reflection. “You were always the hero, weren’t you? The golden boy. Everyone loves Eddie. But not tonight.” His grin widened into something cruel. “Tonight, I’m Eddie.”

Tommy stood in front of the mirror, admiring his new form. He ran his hands over his chest, his biceps, his face. “Damn,” he whispered, his voice now Eddie’s. “I look good.” He smirked, flexing in the mirror. “No wonder Buck couldn’t stop dreaming about you.”

He turned to the real Eddie, who was beginning to stir. “Wake up, hero,” Tommy said, his tone mocking.

Eddie blinked, his vision swimming. When he finally focused on the man standing before him, his heart dropped. “What… what the hell?”

Tommy grinned, spreading his arms. “Surprise! Like the new me?”

Eddie’s voice was hoarse with disbelief.

“What did you do?”

“I leveled the playing field,” Tommy said, leaning in close. “You’ve had everything for too long, Eddie. The job. The respect. And now Buck. Well, guess what? I’m taking it all.”

“You’re insane,” Eddie spat, tugging at the ropes.

“Maybe,” Tommy replied, standing tall. “But tonight, Buck won’t know the difference. He’ll think I’m you. And I’ll make sure he never wants the real thing again.”

Eddie’s eyes burned with anger. “You won’t get away with this.”

Tommy laughed, cruel and confident. “Oh, Eddie. I already have.”

He grabbed Eddie’s phone and dialed Buck.

“Hey, Buck,” Tommy said in Eddie’s voice, his tone warm and familiar. “You free tonight?”

“Yeah, of course!” Buck replied, his voice lighting up. “Come over whenever.”

Tommy hung up, smirking at the real Eddie. “See? Easy. Now sit tight. I’ve got a date.”

When Buck opened the door later that evening, his eyes lit up. “Eddie! Come in.”

Tommy stepped inside, playing the part perfectly. Every gesture, every smile was calculated, designed to mimic Eddie’s easy charm.

“Hey, Buck,” he said, his tone low and affectionate.

“Everything okay?” Buck asked, studying him.

“Just needed to see you,” Tommy replied, brushing his hand against Buck’s arm.

Buck blushed, his unease fading under Tommy’s convincing performance. As the evening unfolded, Tommy continued to play the perfect Eddie—laughing at Buck’s jokes, offering soft touches, and looking at him with just the right amount of longing.

By the time Tommy leaned in for a kiss, Buck was completely disarmed, his suspicions forgotten.

Miles away, the real Eddie sat tied to a chair, his heart sinking as he imagined the betrayal unfolding. He knew Tommy was playing a dangerous game, but he also knew the man’s twisted mind wouldn’t stop until he’d taken everything Eddie held dear.

Tommy, meanwhile, reveled in his victory. Buck was his now—or at least, Buck thought he was. And as he deepened the kiss, Tommy smirked inwardly.

In this game, Eddie had already lost.

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Body-Swaps/Shapeshift/ Transformation-stories about Celebrities

[celebtf]

KIT CONNOR, THE DREAM ROLE

Sebastian Croft clutched the rejection letter in his hands, the words burning in his mind like acid. The producers had written off his role, cutting him from Heartstopper entirely. His breakout chance, stolen. Meanwhile, Kit Connor’s star rose higher, his face plastered across billboards, adored by fans worldwide.

Sebastian seethed in his dimly lit apartment, replaying interviews of Kit’s effortless charm and perfect smiles.

“They all love him,” Sebastian spat. “But soon, they’ll love me more.” His lips curled into a dangerous grin. “I’ll take everything from him.”

Sebastian boarded the train to the West Market, a crooked plan forming in his mind. Beneath the market’s neon glow, he found himself drawn to a shadowy stall where a man with a sinister smile sold strange wares.

“Looking for something to solve a problem?” the vendor asked, his voice low and tempting.

Sebastian's gaze landed on two shimmering vials.

“What do these do?”

The vendor leaned in, his grin widening. “These? They’ll let you become someone else. Swap your face, your body, even your voice. The ultimate disguise.”

Sebastian handed over the money without hesitation, clutching the vials like treasure.

The Heartstopper set was buzzing with activity, the cast and crew busy under the midday sun. Disguised in a crew jacket and hat, Sebastian slipped unnoticed into Kit Connor’s trailer.

He scanned the space, his eyes landing on a water bottle sitting on the counter. Quietly, he unscrewed the cap, poured in one vial’s contents, and gave it a shake. The liquid dissolved instantly.

Sebastian smirked as he hid in the shadows of the trailer. “Let’s see what happens when the golden boy takes a fall.”

Kit entered moments later, humming to himself. Oblivious, he grabbed the water bottle and took a long sip.

“Ah,” Kit sighed, setting the bottle down. But then, his expression shifted. His brows furrowed as his breathing quickened. He clutched his chest, his eyes darting around in confusion.

“What… what’s happening?” he gasped, stumbling back.

Sebastian stepped out, his grin wide and cruel. “Oh, don’t worry, Kit. You’re just… changing.”

Kit’s body convulsed as the transformation began. His broad shoulders shuddered and shrank, his strong arms slimming down as his muscles softened. His chest caved inward, his once-powerful frame growing smaller and scrawnier.

His ginger hair darkened, strands turning a dull brown as it grew slightly unruly. His jawline softened, his cheeks hollowing out as his features reshaped. His hands trembled, fingers growing thinner and more delicate.

Kit stumbled toward the mirror, only to freeze in horror. Staring back at him was Sebastian Croft. His own voice, weak and unfamiliar, escaped in a panicked scream. “No! This isn’t… this can’t be real!”

Sebastian laughed, a cold, biting sound. “Oh, it’s very real. Look at you—no fans, no charm, no anything. You’re just me now. And I?” He pulled out the second vial, twirling it between his fingers.

Sebastian uncorked the second vial and downed it in one go. Heat surged through his veins, his body trembling as the transformation took hold.

His shoulders broadened, his chest expanding as muscle rippled across his frame. His biceps swelled, veins snaking under his skin as his arms grew powerful and toned. His torso stretched, his abs sharpening into a defined six-pack.

His hair lightened, the dull brown strands shifting into a radiant ginger blonde. His jawline sharpened, his cheekbones rising as his face molded into Kit Connor’s perfect features. His voice deepened, resonating with Kit’s familiar charm.

Sebastian turned to the mirror, running his hands over his new body. “Well, well,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery. “Don’t I look like the picture of success?”

He turned to Kit, now trembling and pale in Sebastian’s body. “What’s wrong, Kit? Don’t recognize yourself? Oh wait—you’re not yourself anymore. You’re just me. Pathetic.”

Kit stumbled back. “Please, stop this. You can’t do this!”

Sebastian leaned in close, his new face twisted with a cruel grin. “I already have. And you know what? I think I like being Kit Connor”

Sebastian—now Kit—threw open the trailer door and called out to a nearby guard. “Hey! There’s a trespasser in my trailer. He’s pretending to be me!”

The guard hurried inside, grabbing the desperate Kit—now trapped in Sebastian’s body.

“Wait! No! I’m Kit Connor! He’s lying!” Kit shouted, his voice cracking with panic.

Sebastian leaned casually against the doorframe, smirking. “I don’t know what this guy’s deal is, but he’s clearly unhinged. Please, get him off the set.”

The guard hauled Kit away as he shouted and struggled, his cries falling on deaf ears.

Sebastian—now fully embodying Kit—smiled as the crew swarmed him, asking if he was okay. He soaked in their concern, relishing every moment.

He wasn’t just Kit Connor. He was better than Kit Connor.

And no one would ever know the truth.

[celebtf]

Happy 1 year

Today is offically 1 year since I posted my First story on here. If you just started following or if you have been here since day 1, I really appreciate all of you. I would've linked to my favorite-stories from this year.. but I don't know how you do that :).

See you again soon with a new story.

Xoxo/ Celebtf

[celebtf]

TOM, THE LOOK-ALIKE AND THE SPIDER-SUIT

Jordan Johnson had built a small but loyal following online. His TikTok account had hundreds of thousands of followers, all captivated by one thing: his uncanny resemblance to Tom Holland.

From lip-syncing iconic Spider-Man lines to recreating Tom’s interviews, Jordan’s content thrived on the illusion. Fans bombarded his comment sections with excitement.

“OMG, you look EXACTLY like him!”

“Are you SURE you’re not his twin?”

“Better than the real thing!”

At first, the attention was exhilarating. Jordan leaned into the role, perfecting Tom’s mannerisms, studying his accent, and even buying clothes that matched Tom’s public appearances.

But as time went on, the praise began to sting.

“You’re just a look-alike,” one comment read. “Cool, but… you’re not him.”

Jordan’s content, once fun, became a bitter reminder of his second-place position in life. People loved him, but only because he reminded them of someone else. He wasn’t Jordan Johnson. He was “Fake Tom.”

The tipping point came when someone stopped him on the street.

“Oh my God, it’s you!” the stranger squealed, pulling out their phone. “I love your Spider-Man movies!”

Jordan opened his mouth to correct them but stopped. What was the point?

The fan took a selfie, thanked him, and walked away without a second glance.

Jordan stood there, seething.

“I’m done being second best,” he muttered under his breath.

That night, staring at the ceiling of his tiny apartment, Jordan came to a decision. He didn’t just want to look like Tom Holland. He wanted to be Tom Holland. And he would do whatever it took to make that happen.

For weeks, Jordan meticulously researched Tom Holland’s life. Social media posts, interviews, paparazzi photos—he gathered every scrap of information he could find. He learned Tom’s routines, his favorite coffee shop, even the layout of his home.

A plumbing issue Tom had mentioned in a recent interview gave Jordan the perfect in. He forged a work order, bought a janitor’s uniform, and prepared a special sedative designed to weaken Tom—just enough to make him vulnerable.

Jordan didn’t just want to meet Tom. He wanted to take everything from him—his fame, his fortune, his

Jordan’s hands trembled as he knocked on the door of Tom’s London home.

The door opened, and there he was. The real Tom Holland.

“Hello? Can I help you?” Tom asked, his voice warm and polite.

Jordan forced a smile. “I’m here to fix the pipes. Routine maintenance.”

Tom hesitated, then nodded. “Alright. Come in.”

Jordan followed him inside, clutching his toolbox tightly. Tom led him to the bathroom, chatting casually about the plumbing issue. Jordan nodded along, barely listening, his focus on the small vial hidden in his toolbox.

After a few minutes of fake tinkering, he made his move.

“Hey, before I go, do you mind if we take a photo? Big fan,” Jordan asked, feigning nervousness.

Tom chuckled. “Sure! Let me grab my phone.”

“No need,” Jordan said, pulling out his own. They posed for the photo, and Jordan snapped it, his smirk barely concealed.

“Thanks, mate,” he said, slipping the sedative into the faucet’s filter. He turned the water on, letting it run clear before leaving the room.

But he didn’t leave the house. Instead, he waited just outside the bathroom door, listening.

It didn’t take long. Jordan heard a sharp gasp, followed by the sound of something heavy hitting the floor. He pushed the door open slightly and peered inside.

Tom was on his knees, clutching the sink, his face pale and drenched in sweat. His veins glowed faintly blue and red, spider-like patterns spreading across his skin.

“What’s… happening?” Tom choked, his voice trembling.

His muscles tensed and convulsed as the transformation took hold. The glow intensified, and the veins began to shift, forming the outlines of a Spider-Man suit. Tom’s skin seemed to liquefy, merging with the red and blue fabric that now covered his body.

Jordan watched, mesmerized, as Tom’s features softened. His face disappeared beneath the mask, his body shrinking slightly, losing its humanity.

Within moments, Tom was gone. Where he had been stood a perfect Spider-Man suit, limp and lifeless on the floor.

Jordan stepped inside, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

“Incredible,” he whispered, crouching beside the suit. He ran his fingers over the fabric, feeling its strange, almost organic texture.

“This is it,” he murmured, standing up and beginning to undress.

Jordan slid one leg into the suit, gasping as a surge of energy shot through him. His muscles tensed, growing stronger and more defined.

He pulled the suit over his thighs and waist, shivering as his body began to change. His stomach hardened into chiseled abs, his chest broadened, and his arms thickened with new strength.

“Unreal,” he whispered, flexing his hands as they grew larger, the veins more prominent.

He zipped up the suit, feeling it mold perfectly to his body. Finally, he pulled the mask over his face.

A warmth spread through him, and he felt his face shift. His cheekbones sharpened, his jawline squared, and his voice deepened into Tom’s unmistakable accent.

Jordan pulled off the mask and stared into the mirror.

“Holy…” He touched his face, his heart racing. The reflection was perfect. He was no longer Jordan Johnson.

He was Tom Holland.

Jordan turned to the empty space on the floor where the suit had been.

“Look at you now,” he sneered. “The great Tom Holland, reduced to nothing but fabric. You’re part of me now.”

He flexed his new muscles, admiring his reflection in the mirror.

“I’ll take your roles, your fans, your fame,” he said, his voice dripping with malice. “I’ll live your life better than you ever could. And no one will ever know.”

He adjusted the mask, slipping it back over his face.

“Thanks for the life, mate,” he said, his tone cruel. “I think I’ll enjoy it.”

With that, he walked out of the bathroom, now the star the world adored, leaving the real Tom behind—trapped forever as the suit Jordan now wore.

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Body-Swaps/Shapeshift/ Transformation-stories about Celebrities

[celebtf]

NICK JONAS AND THE VOICE ( SCRAPPED )

Nick Jonas had faced his share of challenges as a coach on The Voice, but nothing could prepare him for the bizarre twist his life was about to take. It all started with Cole—a contestant with raw talent but a fiery temper. Nick had eliminated Cole in the latest round, choosing to advance another singer. For Nick, it was just part of the job. For Cole, it was personal.

Angry and feeling cheated, Cole spent days brooding. His bitterness led him to the dark web, where he stumbled upon something peculiar: a supposed spellbook. Skeptical but desperate for revenge, he ordered it. When the book arrived, its ancient, weathered pages exuded an eerie energy. As Cole flipped through its contents, one spell caught his eye—a transformation spell.

The idea brewed in his mind like a storm. If he couldn’t shine on The Voice, neither would Nick Jonas.

The following week, Cole disguised himself as a stagehand, blending into the bustling crew unnoticed. He had one goal: to get close to Nick. Dressed in a utility vest and cap, he approached Nick with feigned urgency.

"Mr. Jonas, we need you to check a stage prop for tonight's rehearsal. It’s acting up," Cole said, his voice steady despite his racing heart.

Nick nodded, following Cole backstage to a dimly lit storage area. Cole closed the door behind them, pulling out the spellbook.

“What's this about?” Nick asked, raising an eyebrow as he noticed the strange book in Cole's hands.

But before Nick could protest further, Cole began chanting. The words were guttural and otherworldly, filling the room with a low hum that made the air feel thick.

Nick’s voice faltered. “What are you—” His ability to speak vanished mid-sentence. Panic set in as a tingling sensation spread across his skin.

His body stiffened unnaturally, his joints locking in place. His skin turned a deep crimson hue, the texture shifting to a smooth, leathery finish. His arms flattened, merging seamlessly into his torso, while his legs folded and shrank away entirely. His spine elongated and arched unnaturally, forming the backrest of a chair. His face, frozen in silent horror, was pulled back and absorbed into the material, leaving only the outline of his jaw as the seat’s subtle curve.

He tried to scream, but no sound escaped. His mind remained intact, trapped within his new form. He was now a red swivel chair, complete with his name emblazoned on the backrest.

Cole burst into laughter, his plan having taken an unexpected but amusing turn. “I was aiming for a jacket,” he muttered, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “But this works!”

He wheeled the chair into the elevator and transported it to the stage, setting it up in its usual spot. No one suspected anything amiss. After all, it was just a chair.

But Cole wasn’t done. In the privacy of a restroom, he opened the book again. This time, he chanted a spell meant to transform himself.

The air around him shimmered as his body began to change. His face shifted, his cheekbones sharpening and his jawline becoming more defined. His hair darkened to a rich black, the texture softening and falling perfectly into place. His body slimmed and toned, his shoulders broadening slightly while his waist narrowed.

His clothes began to change as well. The stolen worker uniform dissolved into a pristine white T-shirt that clung to his chest, paired with tight black pants that hugged his thighs and legs perfectly. A sleek leather jacket materialized over the T-shirt, completing the look.

Cole stared at his reflection in the mirror, a grin spreading across his now-Nick-like face. He ran a hand through his newly darkened hair, marveling at how authentic it all felt. Even his voice had transformed, the rich, melodic tone unmistakably Nick Jonas.

“Not bad,” Cole said, smirking. He struck a pose, flexing his arms and testing out his new vocal cords. “This is going to be fun.”

Cole—now Nick—strolled out to the stage, testing the “new chair” with an exaggerated flourish. He ran his hands over the smooth red leather, smirking as he felt the faint tremor beneath his touch.

“Well, look at you,” he murmured, lowering himself slowly onto the seat. “You always were supportive, Nick.”

He leaned back, shifting his weight purposefully. “Comfortable, aren’t you? No wonder you love this chair so much—it’s practically made for you.”

Cole laughed, rubbing his hands against the armrests. “Feels weird, doesn’t it? Knowing I’m the one sitting here now while you’re the one being sat on. Get used to it, buddy.”

He leaned closer to the backrest, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Oh, and don’t worry—I’ll take good care of your life. Your fans, your fame... even your brothers. They’ll never know the difference.”

The real Nick could only sit silently, trapped in his new form, unable to protest as Cole took over his life.

From that day forward, Cole lived as Nick Jonas, basking in the fame, fortune, and adoration that came with the role. And as for the real Nick? He remained in plain sight, unnoticed and unheard—a silent witness to the life that was once his.

Hii I'm back with a new story, Nick jonas was the most voted on the pull i did before the end of the year, so here's my probably weirdest story I wrote end Scrapped.

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[celebtf]

Wow, you replaced Justin Bieber, Shawn Mendes and Alex Sampson - great! But what's about athletes like Nico Hischier? He's a star in the NHL and the no. 1 draft from 2017. Any chance to read something about him?

THE NHL SECRET

The locker room was silent, save for the faint hum of the flickering fluorescent lights. Adam Keefe sat slouched in a chair across from his brother Sheldon, his face a twisted mask of frustration.

“I can’t take it anymore,” Adam growled, his voice thick with bitterness. “Sitting on the sidelines, watching other men live the life I was meant for. I’m nothing now. A washed-up coach in Belfast.”

Sheldon’s lips curled into a slow, malevolent smile. “You’re more than that, Adam,” he said, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “You’re my brother. And I don’t leave my family behind.”

Adam looked up, his eyes narrowing. “What are you saying?”

Sheldon leaned forward, his face inches from Adam’s. “I can give you your life back. Youth. Strength. Everything you’ve lost. But it comes at a price.”

Adam hesitated. “What kind of price?”

Sheldon’s smile widened, revealing teeth that seemed sharper than before. “We’ll need someone to take your place. Someone who’ll disappear without anyone suspecting a thing.”

Adam stared at him, suspicion flickering in his eyes. But Sheldon’s gaze was unwavering, cold, and calculating.

“Who?” Adam asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Sheldon leaned back, his smile turning into a smirk. “I’ve got someone in mind.”

Nico Hischier was dragging himself to his locker after practice, his body screaming in protest. Coach Keefe had worked him harder than ever, pushing him to the brink.

“Captain,” Sheldon’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding. “Locker room. Now.”

Nico frowned but obeyed, trudging into the dimly lit room. A single chair sat in the center, the overhead light casting an eerie glow.

“What’s this about, Coach?” Nico asked, his voice tinged with unease.

Sheldon didn’t answer. Instead, the door slammed shut behind him, and the lights snapped off.

Nico felt hands grab him, rough and unrelenting. He thrashed, but he was no match for the strength holding him down. His wrists and ankles were bound to the chair, and a filthy sock was shoved into his mouth, muffling his cries.

The lights flickered back on, revealing Sheldon standing beside another man—Adam Keefe.

Sheldon stepped forward, his shadow looming over Nico. “You’ve been such a good captain, Nico,” he said, his tone mocking. “But every leader has to make sacrifices.”

Nico’s eyes widened in terror, his muffled screams filling the room. Sheldon grabbed his face roughly, forcing Nico to look at him.

“Do you know how long I’ve been planning this?” Sheldon hissed, his voice dripping with malice. “You’ve got everything—youth, strength, skill. You don’t deserve it.”

Adam chuckled darkly. “And I do.”

Sheldon released Nico and turned to Adam. “Put on his gear. It’s time.”

Adam hesitated for a moment, then began stripping Nico’s equipment piece by piece. Nico squirmed and thrashed, but the ropes held firm. Sheldon watched with a gleeful smirk as Adam pulled on the gear, each piece fitting him perfectly.

Then the chanting began.

The words were harsh and guttural, slicing through the air like knives. The temperature in the room plummeted, and a dark energy seemed to envelop them.

Adam’s body began to change. His muscles bulged, veins throbbing beneath his skin as his frame expanded. His shoulders widened, his posture straightened, and his skin took on a youthful glow. His face contorted, reshaping itself into Nico’s. His hair darkened, growing out to match Nico’s perfectly.

Adam groaned, his voice deepening and shifting until it was identical to Nico’s. When the transformation was complete, he stood before the real Nico—a flawless copy.

Adam-Nico turned to the mirror, his lips curling into a wicked smile. He flexed his arms, admiring the raw power coursing through his new body.

“This... this is incredible,” Adam-Nico said, running his hands over his chest and arms. He turned back to Nico, who was trembling in the chair.

“How does it feel?” Adam-Nico taunted, stepping closer. “To see someone better living your life?”

Sheldon laughed, clapping his brother on the back. “Go on, Captain. Rest up. Big game tomorrow.”

Adam-Nico grabbed his bag and strode out, his laughter echoing in the hall.

Sheldon turned back to Nico, his eyes gleaming with sadistic delight.

“You didn’t think we were done, did you?” he sneered.

Nico’s muffled screams intensified as Sheldon began chanting again, his voice lower, more menacing. The air in the room seemed to vibrate with dark energy.

Nico’s body convulsed, his muscles withering and shrinking. His skin sagged, wrinkles carving deep lines into his face. His hair turned gray, then white, before thinning to nearly nothing. His hands trembled as they aged, veins standing out like brittle roots.

The pain was excruciating, his body burning as it transformed into someone decades older—someone he didn’t recognize.

By the time Sheldon finished, Nico was no longer Nico. He was Adam Keefe.

The new Adam looked down at his gnarled hands, his voice a hoarse whisper. “What... what did you do to me?”

Sheldon crouched in front of him, his grin predatory. “You’re nothing now. Just an old has-been.”

The door swung open, and Adam-Nico strolled back in, smirking. “Forgot my jock,” he said, then froze, his gaze landing on the new Adam.

“Well, well,” Adam-Nico said, his tone mocking. “Looks like the mighty captain’s fallen.”

The brothers laughed, their cruelty palpable.

“You’ll get used to it,” Sheldon said coldly. “Or not. We don’t really care.”

The two grabbed the real Nico—now Adam—and dragged him out.

As they threw him into the car, Sheldon whispered, “You were never going to win. This was always our game.”

The brothers’ laughter echoed as they drove off, leaving Nico broken and defeated.

The brothers had won, reveling in their twisted triumph.

And Nico? He had lost everything.

[celebtf]

RED,WHITE AND THE ROYAL TWIST ( Scrapped)

Miguel’s obsession had twisted into something dark, unrecognizable even to himself. It wasn’t just about Alex anymore. It was about power, dominance, and erasing anyone who dared stand in his way. Henry was perfect—too perfect. His charm, his poise, his unshakable connection with Alex. All of it had to go.

Miguel’s search for a solution led him to the shadowy market five blocks down from West Boulevard. The air there felt heavier, suffocating, as though the place itself knew it housed things that shouldn’t exist. A man emerged from the gloom, his grin sharp and predatory.

“You seem... desperate,” the man said, his voice like nails scraping glass.

Miguel nodded, his eyes gleaming with a frenzied determination.

The man handed him a book, its leather cover cracked and ancient. “This will give you power beyond imagination, but it will cost you.”

Miguel didn’t care about the cost. He paid and fled back to his apartment, the book clutched tightly to his chest. He pored over its pages, his eyes devouring each word with growing excitement. The incantation he found—The Mirage of Identity—was perfect. It promised not just transformation but utter domination.

The night of the Peace Banquet arrived. Miguel slipped into the grand hotel, his stolen staff uniform granting him anonymity. He moved with cold precision, every step calculated, every breath steady. Finding Henry’s room was laughably easy. People trusted a man in a uniform.

Inside the room, Miguel hid, the spellbook clenched in his hands. His lips curled into a twisted smile as he rehearsed the incantation. He could feel the power thrumming in the air, the promise of something dark and irreversible.

The lock clicked, and Henry entered, humming softly to himself.

Miguel stepped out from the shadows, his eyes alight with malice.

“Miguel?” Henry said, startled. “What are you—”

“Quiet,” Miguel hissed, his voice dripping with venom. He locked the door with a click that sounded final.

Henry took a step back, his confusion turning to unease. “What’s going on?”

Miguel opened the book and began chanting, the words guttural and alien. The air in the room grew thick, oppressive, as though the walls themselves were closing in.

Henry’s hand flew to his throat as he tried to scream, but his voice cracked and failed. He stumbled, his body convulsing as if it were being wrenched apart from the inside.

His golden hair darkened, each strand twisting into Miguel’s deep brown. His sharp, regal features softened, reshaping into Miguel’s rugged visage. Stubble sprouted along his jaw, thickening into a coarse beard. His body shrank, his royal attire shifting into the simple, worn clothes Miguel wore.

“No!” Henry croaked, his voice now Miguel’s. “What—what are you doing to me?”

Miguel’s laughter filled the room, cold and jagged. “Oh, Henry, you’ll see soon enough. I’m taking everything you have. Everything you are.”

Henry clutched at his face, his hands trembling as he felt the unfamiliar contours of his new identity. “You... you’re insane!”

Miguel’s smirk widened. “Insane? No, Henry. I’m brilliant.”

As Henry’s transformation completed, Miguel felt the spell turn inward. Pain shot through his body, sharp and glorious. His bones cracked and stretched, his muscles shifting and contorting. His dark hair lightened to a golden blond, falling in perfect waves. His face smoothed and sharpened, taking on Henry’s regal features.

He let out a low, guttural laugh as his Spanish accent melted into Henry’s crisp British tones. His clothes shimmered, morphing into royal attire that fit him like a second skin. When he looked in the mirror, the Prince of Wales stared back at him.

Miguel ran a hand through his newly golden hair, his lips curling into a demented grin. “Perfection,” he whispered, his voice rich with delight. “I’m better than you ever were, Henry.”

Henry, now trapped in Miguel’s body, lunged at him. “You won’t get away with this!”

Miguel sidestepped easily, his laughter echoing through the room. “Oh, but I already have.”

He picked up the room phone and called the guards. “This man broke into my room,” he said, his voice calm and commanding. “Get rid of him.”

The guards burst in moments later, grabbing the real Henry—now Miguel.

“No!” Henry shouted, his voice filled with desperation. “I’m the real—”

Miguel interrupted with a mocking wave. “Take him away. I’ll deal with this... imposter later.”

The guards dragged Henry out, ignoring his protests.

Miguel turned back to the mirror, adjusting his royal attire. “Now, Alex won’t know the difference. And soon, I’ll have him wrapped around my finger. The crown will follow.”

He let out a low, chilling chuckle as he left the room. The world was his now, and nothing would stop him.

Hii I'm here with the first of the Christmas-pull stories... I also created a Discord-server if anyone likes that.

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Body-Swaps/Shapeshift/ Transformation-stories about Celebrities

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