Honestly this Is pretty embarrasing, but I'm torn between wanting to be forcemasc'd into either a stupid arrogant gamer boy (think Berdly Deltarune) or an unapologetic punk (Spider punk Is my main inspiration).
Like, oh no! Please dont make indulge in my love for videogames and science while forcing me to be confident in my knowledge and my cringe! Get that "Eat Game Sleep REPEAT" shirt away from me NoOoOoO!!
And also, oh no! Please dont make me learn how to Let out my frustration against the world and it's social injustice musically! Agresivelly take up space but not just for you, for your entre community! Yeah, I know I look good in crust pants AND a leather jacket but I'm NOT shaving half my hair off to style it into a Mohawk!!!!
🌅 anon
por que no los dos youd be surprised how many punks are complete and total nerds imagine berdly deltarune with a mohawk a sleeveless band tee and crust pants and thats honestly a good 70% of the diy scene fr
honestly punk look on a nerd frame is actually super cute too in a hes a bad boy but in a unapologetically will spend 90 minutes explaining magic the gathering to you and or the importance of ear plugs at a diy show sort of way
staples of the community as well theyre the dorks you can always rely on to bring monsters to the show to share and the best most genuinely revolutionary punk advocates are nerds obsessed with political theory and ideology
(Disclaimer: All images were generated with the help of AI tools)
The air in the mall felt sterile and a little too stuffy, making my palms sweat. Or maybe that was just my nerves. Ryan held my hand, his grip firm and reassuring. “Hey, it’s just earrings, alright? You’ll be fine. And if you hate it, you can just take them out.”
Just earrings. The words sounded so simple, yet my stomach was doing gymnastics. Needles. Holes. My brain kept conjuring scenarios I’d seen online – infections, lopsided holes, the sheer pain of forcing metal through flesh. My fear of piercings was legendary among my friends, a quirky phobia I’d nursed since I was a kid and saw another girl cry hysterically when getting her ears done at a Claire’s kiosk. Now, at twenty-six, here I was, standing outside a place called ‘The Gilded Needle,’ trying to breathe normally.
Ryan’s thumb brushed over my knuckles. He seemed so calm, handsome in that effortless way he had, his hair falling just right over his eyes. “Ready?”
I took a shaky breath. If anyone could make me feel brave, it was him. He’d helped me prep for every single work presentation, helped calm my nerves after confronting a genuinely terrifying spider in the shower, and now, he was committed to helping me face one of my oldest fears. “Okay,” I managed, my voice a little wobbly. “Okay, let’s… let’s do this.”
The shop was surprisingly clean and bright, lots of polished wood and glass display cases filled with glittering jewelry. Not the dingy, skulls-on-the-wall place I usually imagined when I pictured a piercing studio. A friendly-looking woman with bright, kind eyes, a tiny stud in her nostril, and a few tasteful silver piercings in her ears smiled at us from behind the counter. The nametag at her immaculate work station read Vivienne. “Welcome to The Gilded Needle! First time?”
I nodded, feeling my cheeks flush. “Just… just my ears,” I mumbled.
“Wonderful!” she chirped. “I’m Vivienne, I’ll be taking care of you today. Trust me, you’re in good hands. Right this way.”
She led us to a case overflowing with options. I was instantly overwhelmed. Tiny studs, delicate hoops, clusters of gems. My eyes darted nervously over them. Ryan pointed to a few simple silver balls. “Those look pretty classic. Or maybe something small and subtle, with just a little sparkle?”
I tried to focus, my heart still thudding against my ribs. I wanted something subtle, something that wouldn’t draw too much attention, something that felt safe. After what felt like an eternity, I pointed to a pair of tiny, almost invisible silver studs. “These. Just… just these.”
Vivienne smiled warmly. “Excellent choice. Come have a seat right here.”
She motioned to a comfortable-looking chair in a private alcove. Ryan sat beside me, still holding my hand. The artist prepped my earlobes with an antiseptic wipe, explaining the process gently. It all seemed straightforward, professional. Yet, as she picked up the piercing tool, a sterile-looking gun, my fear spiked. My breath hitched.
Just before she brought the gun to my ear, my pulse started to race and the words tumbled out, raw and honest. “Oh god, I wish I didn’t find this so scary.”
For a split second, the air around us seemed to hum in the background, the bright lights in the shop seeming to flicker like an old fluorescent tube. The world seemed to warp, a brief, disorienting shiver running through the very fabric of reality.
Then, the sharp, startling click of the piercing gun. A brief sting.
“Alright, one done!” the artist said cheerfully. “Just one more.”
Wait, one done? But… but I hadn’t felt… had I?
She moved around to the other ear. Another quick click.
“All done!” she said, beaming. “You did great! See? Nothing to be afraid of.”
I touched my earlobe, feeling the tiny, smooth ball of the stud. It wasn’t throbbing with pain, just a mild warmth. Ryan squeezed my hand. “See? Piece of cake. Told you you could do it.”
I looked at him, relief washing over me. He was smiling, his eyes full of affection. My steady, handsome Ryan. It felt like seconds had passed since I’d blurted out my fear. Had the tool even touched my ear before the wish? It was all a blur. But I had them. My first earrings. And I hadn’t completely panicked. Only slightly.
“Yeah,” I said, a genuine smile finally spreading across my face. “Yeah, I guess I did okay.”
The background humming that I'd been barely noticing since my panicky wish suddenly increased, the odd flickering of the lights resumed, and out of nowhere a feeling of reality itself warping and flexing jarringly descended all around me. Then the collection of strange sensations vanished as quickly as it arrived, and we both found ourselves standing in front of the jeweler again, as if nothing had happened. Nothing at all.
“Ready?” Ryan asked, his voice a warm murmur against my ear. He leaned closer, kissed my forehead, and ran his finger gently along my ear then resting lightly on the pair of small silver studs glinting at the base of my earlobe.
I shivered, but not entirely from nerves this time. His touch always did that. We were back outside The Gilded Needle, but something about it felt… different. A little less polished, maybe? The display cases seemed to hold an increased variety of options, with more interesting, less conventional pieces too – tiny skulls, intricate filigree, spikes. My heart flickered with a thrill of excitement.
My earlobes felt… different. A little weighted, somehow. Interesting. I reached up, touching the small silver studs I’d gotten… when? Last time, I guess. Funny, I thought this was my first piercing appointment ever for some reason, but that's impossible. The proof was right there, two studs on each ear. They couldn't be new, they weren’t sore at all. Weird. I could have sworn they were fresh. Had I just forgotten?
“Yeah,” I replied, a different kind of excitement bubbling in my chest. “Ready. Let’s get that helix done.”
This time, the fear wasn’t overwhelming. It was a nervous flutter, a thrill. I’d gotten my earlobes pierced before, I reminded myself – twice each, apparently, based on how comfortable they felt now. That wasn’t so bad. Maybe I was braver than I thought.
The artist, Vivian, was still friendly, but she had a cool silver ring in her nostril and a delicate chain connecting her earlobe to her own helix piercing. I felt a strange pull towards her look.
Looking at the jewelry selection, my eyes were drawn to bolder pieces. Those tiny studs from before? Forget them. I wanted something that was a tad more noticeable. I picked out a delicate silver hoop for the helix and, on impulse, pointed to another small stud for my lobe.
“Just one lobe, or the pair?” the artist asked.
“Oh, just one for today I think,” I said, then changed my mind on a whim. “No, both! Why not?” I already had two pairs, another two wouldn’t hurt.
I sat down, feeling a rush of anticipation mixed with the familiar nerves. Ryan squeezed my hand. The artist prepped my ear. As she brought the needle – needle this time, no gun – towards my helix, I felt a tremor of fear, but it was quickly replaced by a surge of defiance.
“I wish I didn’t find this so scary when I was younger,” I muttered, more to myself than anyone, the words and the sudden sensation that came with them feeling strangely familiar.
Again, that brief, impossible shimmer in the air, a borderline unpleasant humming, and an almost imperceptible flickering of the lights in the ceiling. Reality itself seemed to be stuttering, like the world holding its breath.
Then, the sharp prick of the needle. It smarted, definitely more than the gun had felt… last time? Or was it just because it was a different spot?
“Helix is done,” Vivian said smoothly. “Moving to the lobe.”
Another prick, then another.
“All done!” she smiled. “Looking good!”
I looked in the mirror. The shiny silver hoop curved elegantly around my upper ear, catching the light. And in my lobe, another two small studs, perfectly spaced in sequence with the original two studs. Wait. Four studs? On each ear? Was that what I…? My reflection showed four delicate points of silver on each lobe, plus the new helix piercing up above. That didn't seem right. I’d only meant to get two new pairs total, not three. How had they multiplied?
But before I could dwell on the bizarre math going on with my earlobes, Ryan was there by my side, admiration in his eyes. He touched the new helix hoop gently. “Damn, that looks hot on you.”
My heart did a different kind of flutter this time. It wasn’t fear at all. It was… pleasure. Seeing the new jewelry there, on my ear, felt right. It felt like a little act of rebellion, a tiny declaration of independence.
“Thanks,” I said, feeling a surge of confidence I hadn’t expected. I ran a finger over the multiple studs on my lobe. Four on each side. Okay. Weird, but… okay. They looked kinda cool, actually. Edgy.
Another hum, another flicker, another warp, and Ryan and I found ourselves standing outside, on a busy shopping street. Things felt vaguely different, but I couldn’t put my finger on how or why…
The shop before us wasn’t The Gilded Needle anymore. The sign outside said ‘Crimson Canvas & Steel.’ The windows were plastered with posters of heavily modified people. I glanced over the models in the posters with envy. Inside, the lighting was dimmer, moodier, the air smelling faintly of incense and disinfectant. Ryan was wearing a band T-shirt I didn’t recognize, his arm around my waist. He had a new tattoo on his forearm, an intricate blackwork design, and a small silver ring glinting in his nostril.
My reflection in the glass case showed my own multiple piercings in my ears – hoops, studs, even a small chain connecting two points. And a delicate silver hoop through my own nostril, mirroring Ryan’s. I didn’t recognize or remember that, but then new memories drifted in. Right, we did those on our anniversary. Sexy. Okay, so I definitely had a nose ring now. And more ear piercings than I could count. How long had I been accumulating these? It was like I woke up this morning with more hardware, but they were all fully healed, so I knew my collection (obsession?) must have been going for a while. Something inside of me whispered that it should have been terrifying, but honestly? I felt… good. Adorned.
Today, I wasn’t here for my ears or nose. My confidence with piercing cartilage was well known among my friends, but I’d shied away from more adventurous piercings so far. For some reason the idea gave me anxiety, even though I’d gone under the needle so many times now. My gaze lingered over the body jewelry displays. Navel rings, eyebrow rings, tongue barbells. Today, with Ryan by my side, I’d conquer my fear.
“So,” Ryan said, his voice low in a way I suddenly found incredibly sexy, “what’s calling to you today?”
I swallowed, a thrill shooting through me. The idea of a navel piercing had been floating in my mind all week. It felt daring, and more intimate. “I’m thinking my belly button needs some attention,” I said, a grin spreading across my face.
The artist, Viv, looked like a walking art piece – arms sleeved in tattoos, multiple facial piercings, stretched lobes. But her eyes were always calm and professional. She showed me the different styles of navel jewelry. I bypassed the simple gems for something more detailed and eye-catching, a small silver crescent moon dangling from a curved bar.
Sitting on the bench, pulling my shirt up, I felt my heart pound with that familiar mix of nerves and excitement. It was less fear of the pain now, more anticipation of the result. Ryan sat beside me, his gaze warm and approving.
The artist prepped the area around my navel, the smell of disinfectant wafting up to my nose. In the mirror across from me I could see the multiple glints of silver and gold already studding my ears and nose. It was a lot. More than I would have ever thought I’d get. But looking at myself, seeing all that metal against my skin… it felt right somehow. It felt like me, a version of me I hadn’t known existed, but one I definitely liked.
As Viv brought the needle towards my navel, I took a deep breath. This wasn’t scary anymore. This was more like… an addiction. A delicious plunge into something thrilling.
“I wish I was braver about more unusual piercings,” I whispered, the words feeling like a truth I’d just discovered.
The world around me experienced another subtle wobble, like a ripple in a pond.
I felt a sharp, deep tug. Pain, yes, but a clean, quick pain. Then the weight of the jewelry sinking into place.
“All done,” the artist said, applying a bandage. “You’re a natural. You barely flinched! See you again soon?”
“Most likely!” I smirked as I adjusted my shirt just enough to peek. The bandage hid my newest addition, but I could already imagine that glinting silver moon hanging perfectly, catching the dim light. It was beautiful. It felt… perfect.
Ryan leaned in, kissing my shoulder. “Hot. So damn hot.”
I grinned, feeling a blush creep up my neck. Yeah. It was hot. I was hot. A part of me wondered, who was this person, covered in metal, craving more? I didn’t know for sure, but I liked her.
As I stood up to leave, reality lurched yet again and Ryan and I were standing on a more rundown street in a different part of town.
The shop was now a dive bar that also did piercings in the back room. The air was thick with the smell of stale beer, damp concrete, and cigarettes. Music, loud and heavy, vibrated through the walls. Ryan had full sleeves and a partial neck tattoo now, his face decorated with several piercings including a septum ring. He looked edgy, like he belonged in a punk rock band, all raw energy and sex appeal.
My own appearance was… extensive. My ears were a constellation of metal. My nose ring was a bold hoop. I had a delicate chain dangling from an eyebrow ring, connecting to a stud on my ear. My double navel piercing gleamed. I smiled and looked at myself in the grimy mirror on the wall, and suddenly I noticed the undeniable tang of a barbell through my tongue. That must’ve been from my last visit to Vixen’s back room piercing studio. It felt strange, this body that was somehow both mine and a stranger’s, constantly evolving without my conscious effort, yet feeling more like me with each new addition.
Today, I was here for something I’d seen on the Vixen’s display board and couldn’t get out of my head. Something that felt incredibly bold, incredibly sexy, and intensely personal.
The artist herself was covered head to toe in ink and metal. But her hands were steady, her demeanor always calm amidst the chaos of the bar.
“Hey girl. Welcome back again. You ready?” she beamed, her voice surprisingly gentle for how tough her personal style came across.
I nodded, a knot of pure excitement tightening in my chest. Fear was a distant memory now. This was about self-expression. This was about claiming my body, decorating it like a sacred canvas.
I pulled up my top, exposing my chest. Small silver hoops already graced my nipples, a piercing I only knew I had because I’d caught sight of them in the mirror that morning and felt a jolt of surprise, then desire. Now, I wanted to add more. Small, discreet dermal anchors just below my collarbones, like tiny hidden gems.
Ryan watched, his eyes dark with desire. He didn’t need to say anything. His look was everything. Approval, obsession, lust.
Vixen, my regular artist, worked efficiently, like always, marking the spots, explaining the procedure. It was different from a standard piercing, placing the anchor under the skin. More intrusive. Permanent. I loved the everything about the idea.
As the artist prepped the first spot, I felt a surge of exhilaration so strong it made me lightheaded. This wasn’t just about proving my bravery anymore. This was an all out craving. Needing this metal to feel complete.
“I wish I could get every piercing I want to get,” I breathed, the words once again setting off a deep, resonant hum in my chest and all around me.
The bass from the music distorted for a split second, like the Doppler effect of a blaring car horn passing by, the air in the room almost shimmering like heat haze off of asphalt.
Then, the quick sting and pressure as the first dermal was inserted. Another, and another, and another. Four tiny points of silver nestled against my skin, mirrored just below the curve of my collarbones.
I looked down, touching them gently, gingerly. They felt integrated, part of me. Combined with the nipple rings I’d acquired who knows when, my chest felt… electric.
Ryan leaned down, his voice quiet but rough. “You are a fucking piece of art.”
I tilted my head back, letting him see the hunger in my eyes. He was artwork too. We were transforming together, becoming something wilder, something truly fierce.
As I looked down at my newly glistening chest, the shimmering of the air seemed to increase and suddenly the two of us were standing on a different dingy street corner, again ready for my latest piercing appointment.
My go-to piercing artist Vixx had recently set up shop in a room in the back of a smoke shop downtown, smelling of weed, flavored vape smoke, and stale cigars. The walls of the building were covered in graffiti, the floor inside perpetually sticky. Outside, the seedy noise of the city hummed along. Ryan’s tattoos now covered his hands, even creeping onto the sides of his head and parts of his face. His piercings were numerous and heavy-gauge. He rarely smiled, instead radiating a raw, almost dangerous magnetism. Like me, he had so much metal now he was probably actually magnetic.
My own body felt like a map of metal. Ears heavy with rings and tunnels. Multiple facial piercings – eyebrows, nose, septum, lips. A dozen strategically placed dermals scattered across my chest and abdomen. Nipple rings that made their presence known from beneath my clothes. The barbell under my tongue was thick and heavy. Every time I looked in the mirror, I noticed more metal, more modifications, a gradual process I could never quite remember initiating but always embraced when I saw it. It wasn’t scary anymore. Not in the slightest. It was exhilarating. It was so me.
Today was the culmination of my compulsion. The final frontier. At least until I decided I want more, which let's be honest was inevitable. The piercing I’d only dreamed of in the darkest corners of my mind, the one that felt like the ultimate act of self-possession.
Vixx had been my favorite piercing artist now for years. She was a legend in the underground piercing scene, whispered about with reverence. She herself was like a living sculpture of modifications, her face a mosaic of implants, tattoos, and heavy jewelry. Her hands were a roadmap of fine lines and ink, but when they moved, they moved with deliberate, focused skill.
We walked in through the smoke shop, each of us giving a curt nod to the bearded man at the register. He knew what we were here for. Vixx was already prepping what passed for a work station in the dingy back room. She smirked knowingly when she saw me. There was no facade of smalltalk, no nervous chatter. There was no need. I'd been punctured by her needles more often than I could even remember. I knew her and she knew me. No point in fucking around. Ryan stood by me, his presence a solid, comforting weight at my side. There was never any fear or anxiety in me now, not after so many appointments, only intense anticipation. This wasn’t about facing my fears. I had no trouble being brave in any situation. This was about desire. That powerful, aching desire to show my wild side. It was practically second nature. Routine.
I lay back on the worn leather chair in the quasi-privacy of Vixx’s makeshift workspace, pulling down my jeans, then my panties, my body already a landscape of gleaming metal. Ryan sat casually in a cheap folding chair next to me. He was always here for me in my appointments, not that I needed the moral support, but I think he mainly just liked watching. Gets him going. Gets me going too to be honest. The air felt charged with electricity. This felt like the final thrashing chord in an epic death metal song, the last drag on a particularly satisfying blunt.
Vixx finally finished prepping the work area, her movements precise and professional. The back room may have been seedy as hell, but she was still a fucking boss at what she does. I focused on breathing, on the warmth of Ryan’s tattooed hand finding mine. My body felt open, ready.
As Vixx brought the thin needle closer, I closed my eyes for a second, a satisfied smile playing on my lips. I always enjoyed the quivering anticipation of this moment. I didn’t need to make a wish this time. The desire was already a roaring fire inside me. I had no recollection of exactly what had changed, but my wishes had already been granted, over and over, bringing me to this exact visceral experience, the climax I’d been longing for, at least as long as I could recall.
The words of my past inadvertent wishes were echoing not just in my mind, but feeling like they resonated through the very air, manifesting their energy through every prick of metal already embedded in my skin. I didn't notice, but the humming was gone. The only flickering was from the dingy light fixtures of Vixx's studio.
A wave of sensual heat passed through me, coursing within me. Then, a sharp, intense sensation. Fucking hell. I'd been pierced more times than I can count, but never like this before. A momentary flash of pure feeling, pain and pleasure intertwining, a white-hot pinpoint of sensation that grounded me completely in my body, and simultaneously sent my mind blissfully spinning into oblivion. The pain centers of my brain and the pleasure centers of my most intimate area linked inextricably for one searing second.
It was done.
I opened my eyes. The artist was cleaning the area, her expression unreadable.
I carefully reached down, touching my thighs. My new small curved barbell was there in between, perfectly nestled exactly where it belonged, ready to enhance pleasure through pressure. It felt like the most natural thing in the world. It felt like power and release, all at the same time.
I looked at myself, feeling the cumulative weight of the metal, the intricate map of piercings covering me practically from head to toe. My ears, my face, my chest, my abdomen, my tongue, my most… intimate self. It wasn’t scary. It wasn’t overwhelming. It was perfect. This was who I was meant to be.
I grinned, a huge, wild grin that felt strangely foreign and utterly right. I twisted my hips back and forth, triggering wave after wave of magnificent new sensations. “Oh my god,” I breathed. “It’s… it’s amazing. Vixx, as usual you are a fucking genius.”
I looked over at Ryan. He was magnificent, too. Strong, serious, covered in ink and metal of his own, his eyes burning with an intensity that mirrored mine. He was my perfect counterpart, transformed alongside me, just as modified, just as unapologetically himself.
“Fuckin' filthy,” he said, his voice reverent and husky as he looked over my exposed pussy with obvious lust. He didn’t touch me, not yet, but I felt the heat of his gaze on every single piercing on my body.
I stood up, feeling the new piercing settle, a constant, delightful reminder of its presence. I shimmied my panties and my jeans back up. I felt confident, sexy, powerful. I was experiencing a heightened, exhilarating version of reality. This body, this dragon’s hoard of metal, was mine.
“You know,” I said, leaning towards him, my hips squirming with a bold urgency I’d never possessed before, “now that I've snagged my latest hole…” I reached my hand out to him, confidently tracing the line of his jaw with my spike ring-adorned fingers, feeling the slight roughness of his stubble, and the cool smoothness of his piercings. “I feel like we should head home right away.”
Ryan’s gaze dropped to my mouth, where my tongue piercing glinted as I spoke, then lower, to my chest, my abdomen, and finally, to the place that pulsed with new sensation. His eyes darkened.
“Oh?” he murmured, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down my spine.
“Yeah,” I purred deviously, toying with the spiked choker around my neck. “According to Vixx, I can’t have sex for two weeks, but there are some other ways I can think of that we can still have fun. I’ve got plenty of… other holes I want to play with. And I know just the person I want to join me.”
"Jesus, Danny I don't know what the fuck to do about it, okay? He just fuckin' got me out of no where." Click, clack. Click, clack. The tapping of his fingers on the mouse and keyboard were the only sounds echoing in the dark room aside from his shouts. "Well, I how the fuck should I know? I told you I wasn't good at this game! You're the one who kept begging me to play it, and it's bullshit dude!" For a game that was supposed to be this fun phenomenon, 'Precursor' was proving to be quite a bit lesser than Greg anticipated. Danny had begged him for weeks to join the game and do a couple of rounds with him, if only to get him hooked. For Greg, a video game was like Civilization or Cities Skylines... building something great with strategy and creativity. To him, this was a boring shoot 'em up that had a steep learning curve, and it was grating on his nerves. "Well, dude I told you I didn't know how to play this stupid game but you wouldn't take no for an answer!"
Another red screen and the words 'Exterminated' were sprawled across the screen. Greg slammed his fists down onto the desk, spilling his Red Bull all over his lap. He threw his head back in yet another defeat, his seventh in the span of an hour. Looking down at his phone, the late hour had all but caused him even further grief.
"You know what, dude? This game fucking sucks. I don't know why you wanted me to play with you." Danny, surely kicking ass on the battlefront from somewhere behind his screen in Oklahoma hundreds of miles away, was less than enthused. "Ya know what, fine. I will do the fucking noob lobby, okay? I swear to God, though, if this shit doesn't get fun in ten minutes I'm loggin' off." Greg disconnected from his online pal and reentered back into the main menu. He sighed, how the fuck could anyone without a trigger-happy index finger and a desire to think about their options for more than a split second find this game fun? To him, it was all reflexes and no brain power. Clicking through the main menu, he searched for the "Noob" lobby in the available servers. He scrolled for an agonizing ten seconds of full lobbies before he gave up.
"Man, fuck this." He was a single moment away from clicking that exit button before his elbow slipped on some of the Red Bull that had spilled onto the desktop. His wrist banged onto the keys, leaving a string of gibberish into the searchbar. He grabbed one of his clean socks from the floor and sopped up the syrupy water and tossed it behind him over his shoulder. Whatever. Turning back to his screen, to his utter astonishment, the search for 'pjdkluyoikms' had come up with a single hit: 3/9 players in the lobby. Greg looked down at his phone again, 3:30 in the morning grimaced back at him. He'd have to be up in 4 hours if he'd kept the job he quit a few days prior, but with unemployment looming over his head the hours didn't seem so important to him. The game was known for being a time void, sucking in every available minute it's players had to use.
"Fuck it." He clicked join, and waited as the lobby began to load. For a second, his monitor became severely pixelated, but quickly returned to normal. Before long, he was met with the game mode selection and a couple of voices chatting amongst the static. Bruiser, Scout, Sniper, Runner, Bomber... He didn't know how to use a single one of these characters and in the back of his mind, he wasn't keen on being embarrassed yet again for another hour of failures.
"Who's this?" One of the voices from the ether bellowed out from his headphones, and for whatever reason his skin flushed with goosebumps. "Yo, new guy, did you mean to come here? It's a private server."
"Ahh, shit. I'm sorry, my friend made me buy this game and I don't know what I'm doing. I'll find another, my bad!" Greg scampered to try and just choose a character so he could exit out of the menu, but a second voice gave him immediate pause. It was unlike the other players he'd met so far, in that he wasn't a complete dick right off the bat.
"Nahh, it's cool! We could use a runner this round if you're down? We can take it easy, right boys?" His voice was smooth, chill, if not a bit high pitched in a tenor timbre. The guy could have a career in anime protagonist voice acting if he'd put his mind to it, Greg was quickly put at ease with just a single word.
"You think he can keep up?" the third voice, husky and deep questioned.
"We've played with worse, bro. Remember Clive before Mick got to him? We lost four rounds before Mick got it to stick! He won't fuck up, will ya new guy?" Greg nervously chuckled, knowing full well he'd be terrible in the beginning either way.
"Uhhhh, give me a round or two to get the hang of it... I'm sure I can do it. Nothing better to do anyway."
"That's the spirit! See? He's gonna be great. I'll get him up to snuff." A fall of silence came over the server, Greg shifted in his seat. "Alright, newbie. Just choose runner and I got your back. I used to main runner, so I can show you the ropes." Taking a deep breath, Greg clicked on the avatar for Runner, and hit accept. He entered the lobby, seeing the three players had already chosen their avatars. 1: lostdestiny (scout), 2: EdgeRunner (bruiser), 3: ironclad (bomber), and now 4: Greg (runner).
ironclad: I take it you're Greg, then?
Greg: What gave it away?
The three others chuckled, and the loadbar began to fill. Greg could feel the anxiety and anticipation grow within him. He was about to faceplant AGAIN, and in front of these strangers. At least it wouldn't be long until he'd be kicked anyway.
EdgeRunner: Aight, listen up man. I can't be a babysitter, but I'll be following you. Just do what I tell you to do and you'll be fine. You got this, man. Yeah?
Greg: Uh, yeah man. I'll do my best.
lostdestiny: Don't worry guys, he's gonna do his best.
EdgeRunner: Pipe down, will ya, Des? Fuck. Alright, here we go. Lay low and let them come out on their own.
The four of them were dumped onto the map, this one seemed to be some dirty Cyberpunk city in the rain. Sooner rather than later, it'd be a warzone. Greg sat gobsmacked, frozen in place as the others ran for cover.
ironclad: Yo, get to cover, they'll be here any fuckin' second!
Greg: Whuh.... What do I do, where do I go?
EdgeRunner: Turn to your left, there's a hidden door in the bodega. Hold shift and run. Go!
Greg did as he was told, holding down the shift bar and going toward the store on the corner of the street. He was unprepared for just how quickly he would get there, running straight into the wall to the left of the door. Runner indeed. Rounding the doorway, he snuck down the aisles, and up to the door. He burst in, plowing through stacked boxes and into the racks of the storeroom.
EdgeRunner: Aight, you can let go of the shift, bud.
lostdestiny: Fuck, we're so screwed. We lose out on this one it's on you Edge, and I'm not coughin' up a single coin.
EdgeRunner: Des, hit your fuckin' vape and keep your eyes peeled. I'll worry about the new kid. Greg, hang tight. Wait for me to give you a signal, then you run to the hotel down the street. Got it?
Greg chuckled to himself, he'd stumbled into quite the little gang. These guys were far from noobs, they were good if not professionals. From behind the closed door, he sat idly, waiting with bated breath for Edge to give him the unmentioned word. Over his headphones, he could hear the trio plotting as if they were soldiers planning their attack.
EdgeRunner: Iron, be position. They're gonna come barreling down that alley like a fuckin' stampede, so nuke 'em until I can get there. Des, they in sight yet?
lostdestiny: Just like you said, boss man. Comin' in hot.
EdgeRunner: Perfect. Greg. There's a glowing purple crate in the corner. Open it and pick up whatever is in it, and do it quick.
Greg fumbled over the keys, searching the dark room until he saw the glowing purple box hidden beneath a pile of trash. Clicking on it, the box opened, shucking all the garbage atop it onto the floor. Inside sat a strange green vial.
Greg: Its... It's a glass syringe? Glowing green stuff inside.
EdgeRunner: That's what you're looking for. Bag it and get ready to run.
Greg slipped it into his bag. The syringe showed up as 'upgrade' in the inventory, but no other information was provided. Usually, at least, there was some sort of witty description for the items in-game. Might be modded, he thought to himself, not that he would know anyway. He positioned himself by the door, holding his breath.
ironclad: Fireworks.
EdgeRunner: Now, Greg. Go!
His left pinky firmly planted on the shift key, Greg burst out of the door, through the store and into the street. Outside, a barrage of AI cop grunts were surrounding the building across the way. Pillars of smoke and fire erupted from bombs being dropped from the roof, a massive lug of muscle being the culprit with Ironclad's red tag hovering above him. From within the crowd, an explosion of grunts flew through the air, and dead in the center of the action was EdgeRunner, a maxxed out avatar oozing athleticism and strength with a nearly full level bar floating above him. Fuck, who were these guys?
EdgeRunner: Don't fuckin' freeze on us, Greg. Run!
Taking the hint, Greg bolted down the street, weaving past smoke bombs and gunfire until he made it to the hotel's revolving door, shattering the glass as he crashed through. Inside, three grunts stood behind the front desk, quickly pulling out absurdly massive guns.
Greg: Edge, there's guys in here, they got big ass motherfucking guns too.
EdgeRunner: Fuck, okay. Hold control, shift, and Y. Then run to the elevator. Do it before they peg ya!
Greg: Fuck!
EdgeRunner: Iron, toss a few into the hotel. Help the kid out.
ironclad: On it.
Greg could hear the whistling in the air of the incoming bombs flying toward the lobby. He held down the keys and ran toward the elevators as instructed. Though, as he did, waves of colors surrounded his avatar, deflecting the bullets as they flew before the explosions behind him came bursting in. As the elevator doors closed in front of him, he saw the XP points flowing into his bar from the dead grunts. The elevator began to climb.
EdgeRunner: Woooooooooo baby! That's what I call a bait n switch! Kid, you're a natural.
lostdestiny: Beginner's luck.
EdgeRunner: It's gonna be a second before that elevator gets to the top level. Regroup at the hotel, they'll be swarming him. Des, you're on the 99th floor, right?
lostdestiny: Best view in the city.
EdgeRunner: Keep watch, we'll be there in a second. New guy will be on your floor in a couple of minutes. Greg, let's do a one-on-one, yeah?
On the screen, a side window popped up in the bottom corner. Incoming call: EdgeRunner 1 on 1. Fuck, was this guy trying to video chat?
Greg: Uhhhh, I didn't know you could cam...
EdgeRunner: What, you ain't jackin' off are ya? C'mon lemme see.
Greg waited for a moment, nervous beyond words. Watch it be some 60 year old gaming in his mom's basement, was this really the kind of guy he'd want to game with anyway? The curiosity had only crept up since he stumbled into the server, it's not as if they were meeting in real life or anything. It's a screen. He nodded to himself, as if to give himself permission, and clicked on the accept button. In the corner box, EdgeRunner himself popped into focus.
Not what he expected whatsoever. He wasn't much older than Greg, maybe late twenties, early thirties. That was a relief. His room was shrouded in a blue hue, pairing nicely with his ID tag color in game. He was covered in ink from the forehead down, with white hair and a nice pair of pecs cropped just out of view. Again, far from what he expected to see.
"What's up, Greggo?" He smirked, as if studying Greg from behind his lens.
"Yeah... In an elevator. On my computer." Edge laughed, taking his eye contact away to refocus on his game.
"Playin' pretty fuckin' well so far. You sure you never played before now?" Greg found himself blushing a tad bit at this hunk of a man, alarmingly similar to the stud avatar he portrayed online. "Might have to keep you around if you keep up at this rate." The ping of the elevator reaching the 99th floor brought him right back into the world, as the doors opened to a tall, lanky guy with his back to him.
"Des, I presume?"
lostdestiny: Who the fuck else would it be? Mommie? Get to the loot at the end of the hall, fifth door on the right.
"Des isn't the sweetest fruit in the basket. Don't mind him. But get to the room as quick as you can, bud." Holding down the shift key yet again, though now as if it were second nature to him, he bolted down the hall, dodging the mines which littered the floor. "Yeah, don't be up in your feelings about it, but the upgrade is for you, kid. If I were you, I'd take it now while you can. Get you on our level quicker, if ya catch my drift." Greg didn't think twice. He opened the inventory, clicked on the vial, and hit use. His avatar quickly pulled out the syringe from off screen, jamming it into his wrist. The liquid quickly flowed into his avatar, but changes were slow. He arrived at the door, opening them to a boardroom overlooking the whole city, bathed in a purple hue.
Greg: What am I looking for exactly?
ironclad: You'll know it when you see it. Find it quick, they're coming up.
As Greg began to search through the shelves and drawers lining the walls, he was too preoccupied to notice the veins of black starting to flow from his fingertips up his limber arms. While he may have been too focused to see, Edge was watching eagerly in the bottom corner with a giant grin forming on his face. His little window closed, leaving Greg in his search.
lostdestiny: Incoming. Edge, would be a really fuckin' great time for you to pull some fuckshit about now!
Explosions rung out in the hallway, and an eruption of bullets soon followed. Greg felt the pressure bearing down on him, he felt heavier, as if the weight of the situation were sitting atop him like boulders. But hidden in the darkness of his room, the black veins crawled higher and higher, across his shoulders and back, creeping up the back of his neck, until he felt a pinch right at the base of his skull. Instant headrush.
The world got blurry in a mere second, his ears started to ring and his muscles began to pulse. Though, in that moment, he felt something else swelling within him: confidence. Control, Shift, C. The boardroom went blue, a glowing yellow aura radiated from behind one of the walls. Greg smiled, bolting to the wall. Alt, D, F7. The shelves shuddered, then slowly retracted into a dark void. The payload sat at the end of a long, dark hallway on a spotlit pedestal. Some crazy mechanical contraption, it seemed. Though he didn't know what it was, he knew inherently that this is what he was looking for. Just as Iron said.
Greg: Bingo.
EdgeRunner: Careful, newbie. Watch the walls.
A single step forward, and red lasers began to shoot left and right. An hour earlier, he'd be pissing himself on an 'exterminated' screen, raging to no one but himself. Though now, as he felt the energy coursing through his body, the corner of his lip shifted upward, his brows furrowed, and he leaned forward. Showtime.
Alt, Shift, F2, Q, L... the keys flew by beneath his fingers as he dodged, rolled, and lept past every sensor. The keyboard could barely keep up as his hands danced across it. It was an invigoration he'd never experienced before, an expertise he'd never felt, a self he'd never known. Every new trap before him was a piece of cake, avoiding them before they'd even triggered. In the span of fifteen seconds, he'd arrived at the pedestal. The Carpe Diem. A major upgrade, far above his current standing, but it would fetch a pretty price for the right punk. The massive implant somehow fit in his inventory, he was thankful he wasn't on a real job, lugging this around would have been a task in and of itself.
Greg: Payload in hand. Ready to get the fuck out of here.
EdgeRunner: Gonna be a messy exit, kid. You up for it?
Greg: Don't have to flirt that nasty with me, Edge. Treat me tender.
He spun around, leaping down the entire hallway in one go. Thank you Shift, T, S. The crew stood at the door to the boardroom, perhaps a hundred grunts firing everything they had not far behind. Greg looked at every corner, and realized quickly what Edge meant. He turned around, looking at the massive glass wall overlooking Sunset City. His massive feet tapped against the wooden floor beneath his desk, itching for the run he was about to embark upon, his body begging for the rush... his muscles aching for the wind on his skin. He smirked. No second thoughts, he burst through the window.
ironclad: Fuck kid! That's one way out I guess!
EdgeRunner: Bail, boys! Let's fly.
Freefalling, Greg felt the cool breeze of his plummet on the lids of his closed eyes. Soon, but not yet. He had a job to finish. Control, Shift, C. His fall became a sprint, every footfall landing softly on the glass below, looking 99 floors straight down to the pavement.
GreWind: WOOOOOOOOOHOOOOOOO!
Exhiliration. Excitement. Freedom. He was free. Coasting on the diagonal glass, he surfed down the building until he came painlessly onto the sidewalk below, followed not too far behind by Des landing in a bush, Iron on his face, and Edge on his own two feet. The quartet sped toward the four bikes parked along the street, making their swift getaway. As Wind wiped the sweat from his brow, leaning back in his chair, letting the ripe waft of pits beam from his arms. Incoming 1 on 1 from EdgeRunner. He of course had to reem in the accolades, smiling as he hit accept. Edge popped up in the corner of the screen, beaming from ear to ear.
"Now that's what the fuck I'm talkin' about! That upgrade did ya good, new kid." Wind smirked, puckering his lips and blowing a kiss to his studly boss man.
"You can show me your appreciation later, babe. Worked up a storm for ya." Wind flexed his arms, licking the sweat from his bicep and running his hand through his bright green hair.
"Heh, yeah, you're gonna fit in just fine. This'll fetch a nice penny from the middleman. Now, whaddya say, Greg? Ready for the real work?" Edge winked and his window closed.
EdgeRunner: Rendezvous at Checkpoint's. Your cuts will be waiting for you.
Stormwind: Aye, aye Captain.
lostdestiny: Shit, you two get a room already.
EdgeRunner: Nah, you're gonna sit and watch me fuck him raw and nasty, Des.
Stormwind: Won't be the last if you're nice, Des.
ironclad: I swear, if newbie is gonna be cumdump, I'm gonna be on whatever job he's on.
Stormwind: Plenty to go around, boys. Better be ready to clean this dick and worship these feet. They run real fast for y'all and they could use a tongue bath, won't even need any poppers. Freebase, baby.
EdgeRunner: See you at Checkpoint's, Wind. Welcome to the team.
The miracle that happens at the street of Jakarta. There's a college student name Ryan from a neighboring country who's been to Indonesia for the third time figurwthis is the first time where he thinks he absolutely lost. While Ryan seems to be having a mild panic attack, there's a pair of eyes watching him struggle. Then Ryan startled by the figure that suddenly appeared from the back and asking if he having any health issues, and is there's anything he can help, And he also introduced himself by telling Ryan people on the street been calling him Rik Chaos... Not long after introducing one another sitting under the big tree then out of nowhere without any sign, it started raining a bit. But as each second passing the rain also keep pouring heavily where a car just splashed onto Ryan and he's soaking wet. Rik then invite Ryan to his place to get dry and clean himself.. As Ryan finished his shower, Rik telling him there's few of his clothes that might fit him scattered all over in Rik's room. All that he can see is something very opposite from what he normally wear. Rik asked him why he still not wearing any clothes yet, he just said it's not his style.. Rik get a bit frustrated with Ryan behavior, suddenly being so snobbish. Rik honestly telling Ryan to just be thankful that there's someone a stranger who gladly to help, invite to his place, lending his clothes for Ryan to wear till his clothes is dry... Rik ask Ryan if he wanna join hangout or just stay indoor. Surprisingly Ryan want to join Rik hangout, of course he's not just using a towel. Rik picks few clothes and hand it over to Ryan and said "just wear it, there's no other choices". Rik said that the clothes fits him perfectly except for 1 minor thing that need change ASAP, Rik telling Ryan just be topless and go sit on the toilet bowl while Rik ready with clipper and less than 5 minutes Ryan looking much better with his first time mohawk. Ryan apologize to Rik sbout what he thinks of the outfits and once he puts it on himself he knew he's wrong, absolutely wrong by judging others.. Rik eventually became Ryan's older brother and they both live together as a pair of punk brother.
My gf and I wanna become punk rocker boys to be the coolest guys.
You watch as your girl trans forms first, you hear her bones crack as her body grows taller, she looses the curves you loved about her, her chest becomes flat as her clothes disappear, as her body becomes boyish you notice her hair growing into her now signature mohawk, piercings sprout all over her face and body, her eyes are the only thing that stays the same, they stare at you as her new leather outfit sprouts onto her new body,
You notice quite the large bulge straining her leather pants. She tilts her head while flipping you off, she's bad ass and ready to rock. You change next.
While your girl became the more classic punk you transformed into a more modern version, your body covered in what you called art, your nose, ears and dick pierced, but that wasn't all that changed, you were now a college drop out while your old girl and new best friend Sid never went to school, in fact you two only met a few years back when you moved to London. Sid had grown up more of a scally Punk, with a rough British tongue while you a Cali boy longed to be as carefree as him and though you had become fast friends, Sid was 100 percent straight and loved Pussy while you longed for dick and ass, in fact you longed to be his little bitch, but he rejected you at every turn, calling you his little Faggot, he did love whoring you out to his other friends who you impressed with your skills. But even given that you had become tight as thieves, even starting your own band that usually got kicked out of the worst clubs, most nights you found yourself passed out on a couch somewhere covered in some random guys cum, but selling your ass was what kept you two in business to continue your failed punk band. Maybe you should be careful what you wish for then. Enjoy your new punk life, not as romantic as you thought?
Throughout recorded history, humans have been terrified of the dark. They created stories of sordid creatures of the night that would creep out from beneath your bed and drag you to some subterranean lair to languish in your final moments; or slither out of your mirror if you left it uncovered when your lights were extinguished to steal your soul from your snoring lips. The tales and cryptids across all cultures were all effective in terrifying their communities once the sun set on the horizon. Though that is not necessarily to say that every tale was crafted from pure imagination.
When technology bloomed, humans believed that the horrifying superstitions of yore were long behind them. They had evolved past the primitive fears of what lurks in the shadows, where in reality they had become complacent, arrogant, and lulled. Certainly some of the eldritch creatures had subsided, as all creatures do eventually. Though for every dead legend, a new myth sprouts, and each of those grew and evolved right there along with us. Which, of course, brings us to Asher.
Asher West was, by all accounts, a fairly normal guy. Graduated from high school, going straight into college on a modest academic scholarship. He played frisbee golf with his friends on the weekends, studied hard from 9 to 5, and was seldom seen without a cup of Starbucks in the mornings. He had a sizeable social media following, as was expected for someone with a traditionally handsome visage and adequately charismatic personality. Every day he'd happily post a quick selfie, posting for his thousands of admirers a run of the mill shirtless pic, often without so much as a filter. It'd almost become muscle memory for him: tap the camera icon, snap the pic, post with some benign emojis as the caption, and boom. 900 likes as the day meandered on. Did it provide him with a momentary burst of endorphins? Yes. Was it satisfying? Somewhat, at least he thought so. Years of his staggeringly average life had been all but usurped by this second life online, where he was glamorous, exciting, and adored.
It was so much easier to live in that fantasyland than to truly be present in the real world around him. He, as many of us are, was living his life as someone else- and a life that spectacled easily caught attention. It was easy to come across him in the sea of countless names and faces. It was easy to stumble upon that pretty face. It was easy find, attracting more than just starry eyed fans. Skulking in the void between lines of 1 and 0, buried deep in the infinite cosmic vacuum of the world electric and technological, another pair of eyes would befall him.
It had slinked into his vast sphere rather quickly, and it had begun to watch. Watching each and every 'tasteful' selfie, every vapid thought that he'd post, and every like and pin he'd make, it watched him with empty, expressionless black eyes from within a fragment of his phone's memory. It studied him, curious at first. Things of its nature were always curious, always inclined to watch and analyze and replicate. Even as he slept, his phone siphoning it's charge from it's cable, it would read. The more it saw, the more it had learned about Asher. In fact, it knew more of Asher than perhaps he himself was aware of, if not able to admit.
It had seen those intimate moments he'd taken careful measure to hide from the vast majority of those watching eyes. Second accounts under pseudonyms, gave way to countless of hidden alternate lives he lived: Tumblr blogs dedicated to bad-boy thrist traps and queer erotica, Twitter accounts cataloguing pictures and videos of his closest kept kinks, a well used and well loved Chaturbate account with his face tastefully cropped out of frame... all these lives immortalized in the endless archives of the internet. And after all it's patient watching, all the hours of analyzing, all the months of consuming his information, it had grown an attachment.
Asher had come home late one night. Not unusual for him, as the occasional party wouldn't derail his real life ambitions. After a few libations, and no small amount of cannabis, he'd made his way back home to his small apartment above the corner store. Just as he'd done numerous times before, he stripped himself of his shirt, pulling his camera from his jeans pocket, and snapped a slightly inebriated picture of himself. It'd be enough to boost his ego the next morning, enough to power through the long haul of his draining daily agenda.
SNAP. The flash of the camera went off, and his beloved face was shared for all to see. Though, that night, he mis stepped. Perhaps it was the booze, perhaps it was the toke, perhaps he was simply too tired to notice that he'd left the screen on. By the time he'd hit the bed he was out like a rock, collapsed onto the bed and quietly drifting to sleep. There on the brightly lit screen, in the darkness of the unlit bedroom, it saw its opportunity.
From it's perch on the nightstand, the phone began to spark. Small sparks at first, a quick fizzle and quiet pop. Then more: louder, brighter, faster. It began to rumble against the wooden tabletop, sizzling and sparkling as it danced before the screen went black and dead. Slowly, electric crackling gave way to a bubbling sludge. The glass subtly started wave and bellow, as if it were liquified, not taking long to begin to spill over the edges of it's metal frame. The black sludge fell like oil onto the hardwood floors, collecting in a growing, bubbling pool.
From the primordial ooze burst forth a long, slender arm; it's taloned fingers scraping as it braced itself on the ground. A second arm clawed it's way out, and with an echoing slosh, it had begun to pull itself out of the sludge. It's long, emaciated torso and thick muscled legs had slithered out, landing on two massive, clawed feet. It towered above Asher's bed as he slumbered, bent over so as not to hit it's back onto the eight foot ceiling. It stood there, looking at the person it'd observed and studied for so long. The image presented in the world it'd pried himself out of was nothing of what lay before it. From what it had gathered from his more clandestine dealings, it had noted that he was far from the archetypes he'd collected on Asher's behalf.
He did not have the tattoos like those he'd pinned on Pinterest. He was not wearing the dark, heavy clothes like those he'd saved on Instagram. He wasn't well endowed like the video's he'd favorited on X-Tube. He didn't give off the aura of some rebellious casanova like the stories he'd reblogged on Tumblr. To a creature of symmetry and consistency, this was an error to be corrected; a dichotomy requiring integration.
It crouched down above his drooling maw, gently caressing his head to face it's clenching claw. The talons pressed ever so tenderly past his lips and over his tongue, becoming the very black ooze it had crawled out of once more. It flooded down his throat as it's second arm made it's way into his mouth, as if it were being sucked into Asher. He was drinking it's essence, it's aqueous body slurping down into his core. It's torso compressed as it wriggled down his gullet, ringing out splashing squelches as Asher gargled it down.
As quickly as it had entered, it's long legs slithered into his mouth, leaving only its large feet thrashing about in the air. Asher's stomach was bubbling and undulating under the sheer pressure from this invasion, growing to a large gut spilling over the waistband of his jeans. One loud slurp and a crisp pop, and the feet slipped into him, leaving his writhing body squirming on the bed. It expanded within him, incorporating itself into every fibre of his being. Pressing into his arms, his legs, pushing up his throat until it met the top of his palate. The pressure began to mount, black goo dribbling down the corners of his mouth, until a wet crack sounded in his cavernous head, and it flowed into his skull.
It took mere seconds for it to reach his brain, which it flowed freely into throughout the grooves and nooks. Entirely coated, imbued and inoculated with it, the deed was done. Asher opened his eyes, tiredly sitting up in his bed. He looked over at his phone, tapping it with his finger: 3 AM.
At first it seemed like a nightmare. He could recall moments here and there, though the majority of his 'dream' was a blur. From what he could remember, it was nothing visual he could recollect... but it he could recollect the sensations. Wet, slimy, invasive, and cold- much like he felt drunkenly sleeping in his cold sweat. He brought himself to his feet, dragging his feet on the slippery floorboards to his bathroom.
Flipping the switch, the harsh fluorescent light flickered to life above him, as he turned the nozzle on his shower. Immediately, his jaw nearly dropped to the floor. In the mirror, Asher finally caught a glimpse of himself: strange black bruises and undulating bumps were scattered across his body. That pristine, smooth skin was now covered in sprawling web-like lesions from head to toe. He had mere moments to process the horror reflected in front of him before an immediate pain in the gut had him doubled over the counter.
His stomach started to bubble and groan, and through the foggy haze of his blurred vision he saw his feet begin to ripple and swell. He could feel the slick sweaty soles slide across the tile floor as they expanded and grew. As they reached a substantial size 13, the swelling crept it's way up his calves and into his thighs. Asher wobbled on his feet, as if they were filled with gelatin beneath his slippery skin while his knees began to buckle. He collapsed into a crouch, the fumes of sweaty footmusk bellowing up to his nostrils as his legs cracked and stretched above. He'd never truly experienced scentplay as he'd so dearly fantasized about throughout countless hours of edging to such content, nor had this funk ever emanated from his own soles. In the moment, he felt something within him prod into his brain. As if poking the individual folds of his cerebrum with thousands of tiny needles, causing cascades of thoughts to enter his mind- all of which telling him to embrace. In his mind's eye, he could see himself burying his face into his sweaty sole, between his long toes, lapping up every droplet of sweat that was spewing from his pores. The thought was buried deep in his subconscious, pried out with expert measure, by something now within him.
Grasping for anything to steady himself on, Asher gripped the edge of the sink, pulling himself upright once again and now towering above the countertop. He hung his aching head low, watching with strange newfound fervor as his cock began to feel heavier and heavier. Drool started to drip from the bottom of his lip, landing square onto the lengthening shaft. Like a sandbag, his balls dropped and swelled while he got harder and harder. Another onslaught of pinpricks in his head brought forth another command: stroke.
Steam started build in the bathroom as the hot water continued to fall from the shower, intensifying the scent wafting from now both his feet and his pendulous sac. Each breath of hot, wet musk hit like ecstasy, and with bated breath, he softly grasped ahold of his python and began to pump. Each knead of his engorged member was accompanied by a change. His fingers grew long and sinewy, smooth and slick with precum. His arms remained thin but toned, growing longer and packed with lean muscle. His torso lengthened, topped off with a firm pair of pecs above his sinewy abdomen.
As pressure began to build in his balls, his mind began to feel the needles one last time, imbuing his brain with one last injection of a single trait: pride. He didn't need the approval of anyone else, he was aware of how fucking hot he was. He didn't need to heed the rules that society had straddled him with, he always forged his own path. He had no fears of recompense for his attitude, his ego, his spirit- the world would either stand with him, or he would step on top of them. Either way, what bliss. As the last of his inhibitions and fears had gathered in his groin, he cried out in elation as he erupted. Rope after rope of black sludge shot from his cannon, washing him with a sense of relief he'd never before known. He released his grip on his softening cock, hanging at an obscene eleven inches. He smirked at the sludge coating his mirror and pooling beneath his toes. A sight like that would have shocked and terrified the old Asher, though as he stood before his reflection, devoid of any tension, he relented to the entity within him. It had delivered onto him a new self, a new image, a new viewpoint. As tattoos both vulgar and delicate began to sprawl across his skin, he happily admired his new likeness.
The entity had bestowed a gift to him; throughout the horror, throughout the fear, he was becoming the true Asher that had only ever peeked out from the abyss of his psyche. He leered, bringing his thumb and middle finger together before snapping loudly. From his pores, the black sludge began to spill across his body until he was nearly covered from the neck down in what appeared to be a rubber suit before it began to become a bit more defined. A plain white tee shirt, classically fashioned with a black and white varsity jacket from his college. Skinny, weathered black jeans barely containing his sizeable commando bulge beneath it's thin fabric. On his feet, a pair of white socks and tightly tied high top Chucks, quelling the ripe stink of his soles within the sneaker for some sub to pry off and enjoy.
He grinned, posing and modeling for himself, before he finally turned off the steaming water. After the long, arduous, painful process, the entity had incorporated itself entirely within him- now completely indistinguishable from parasitic to symbiotic. It had rewritten him, completely remade him in the likeness of who he had shown the vast virtual world. There was no cognitive dissonance, there were no lies, there was no deception. All that remained was the Asher he had created in his fantasy, now ready to fuck the real world and all within it.
Thus, as our creature feature comes to an end, I leave you with a modicum of friendly advice. Don't leave your phone on as you slumber, for those that are watching, those that are waiting, those that have been learning are a mere sheet of glass away from finding their way inside. Take my counsel, or ignore it. But do so knowing the outcome, and whether or not you are prepared to weather such a storm.
"Alright, my Musical Mentees, welcome back to my Channel! I am your friendly neighborhood musical critic, Kyle Donaghue, and today we're going to be reviewing something a little bit out of our typical wheelhouse!" Kyle sat with feigned excitement in front of his webcam. Though on the outside he eagerly drew out his intro for the 250th episode of his "Musique Critique" web series, internally he was livid. The young YouTuber had dreamed of becoming the go-to modern music critic on the platform but after almost two years of barely breaking a thousand views, he recognized he needed to do some market research on what his 347 subscribers wanted to see.
Thus, after asking his audience for requests, the music of some newer wannabe rockstar gained traction to be reviewed. To the music conservatory graduate, such low-brow "music" was beneath him; yet reality dictated that the business of content creation was based upon supply and demand. His audience demanded it, and if he wanted to gain any traction whatsoever, he needed to pivot. So, when the band in question, Catalyst, announced a new single drop, Kyle decided he was going to be the very first reviewer to tear it a new one.
"So you guys have been requesting I listen to this band called 'Catalyst' for a long time now, and today is finally the day. Apparently, the lead singer of Catalyst announced a few days ago that a new single was going to be released. I haven't heard much about them, so I did a bit of digging." Kyle clicked around on his computer, dredging up whatever he found in his five minutes of "research" the night before. "So, this band literally came out of nowhere. They're independent and are in talks with some record company about a deal, but nothing has come of it yet, so I'm going into this completely blind. They're out of Austin, Texas, and it's four guys who started the band out of this lead singer's parent's garage. The guy's name is Jaxon Black."
Kyle was literally reading off of some Tumblr fan blog about all this, but his audience certainly didn't need to know that. Why would he put in any effort for a band of this low caliber? "Black is 27 years old and started the band in 2013 when the four of them were in high school. They haven't really found any success, which is one of the reasons I'm surprised you wanted me to review them in the first place. They play in dive bars and some small venues, but nothing really outside of that." Scrolling through the blog, a picture of Jaxon Black actually appeared on the feed. He looked like any run-of-the-mill traditionally hot bad boy that you could find on the cover of GQ. What was so special about him?
"So, it's interesting too. This guy looks completely different than he did back when the band was formed. I totally get he was a kid when he started it, and there's puberty and whatever. But I mean, can you say plastic surgery? C'mon, guys. This guy is a 'serious musician' to you all?" Kyle sighed and wiped his face clear of the disgust he felt inside, putting on the eager façade he felt he needed to emulate. "But for you guys, I will make an exception, I'll give Jaxon Black and Catalyst a chance. I'm doing this for you! Just know that!" With that, he began to screen share, and the handsome visage of Jaxon Black was plastered on his screen as it would be for the whole review. The single didn't have any album art or anything, it was just a Soundcloud link; so in hopes that his audience would see right through this charade, he let would make them look at the face of the man who wrote whatever terrible song he was preparing to hear.
"See what I mean, guys? Ugh. I'm sorry, anyways. Here it is. The link that's posted on this fan blog brings me to Soundcloud, and there's no title or anything. It's just called 'Untitled', so we're off to a great start. But like I said, let's give the guy a chance. So without further ado, here is Catalyst's 'Untitled.'" With the press of the space bar, the sound of a slower ballad began to play through his earbuds.
The song began with a slow and heavy bassline in A flat Locrian, immediately an odd choice to start with. Contrarian, in Kyle's opinion. In terms of influence, it was an odd mixture of stereotypical hard rock like Guns n' Roses or Aerosmith, prog rock like Yes and Pink Floyd, with a random hint of Santana? Kyle did his best to stifle the cringe which trickled down his spine, but his face could do nothing to hide it. He felt the corners of his lip tense up and purse, his left nostril tweaking in pure annoyance.
"Starting off in Locrian... that's an interesting choice." He muttered under his breath. Looking at the progress bar, he saw the song was a full seven minutes and thirty-six seconds long. Lovely. "I feel like this is gonna be 'Hotel California' but bad, not gonna lie to you guys." Though, as the electric guitar faded in, quiet and subtle, it took Kyle by surprise. The technique that Black employed in his riffs, with precision he'd rarely heard outside of a classical guitarist, was nothing short of impressive. "Okay, the guy's got some skill. I'll give him that."
The music felt lugubrious, giving the sensation of swimming through a vat of molasses, pushing and pulling at great tension. It was near impossible for him to put into words, but the gravelly tenor timbre of Black's voice deftly began to soar atop the dredging music below. Evoking Eddie Vetter or perhaps even Jon Bon Jovi, the words were not exactly easy to decipher. Frankly, the song was almost trancelike, as if he'd taken a handful of mushrooms before embarking on his musical journey.
"Guys, I don't know how to explain it, this shouldn't work but it... it kind of does? I don't... I don't know." Kyle leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. The song had actually piqued his interest and intrigue, it was unlike anything he'd ever really heard before. Yet, it felt so familiar in ways far outside his comprehension. Waves of goosebumps washed across his body, barrage after barrage. The music became a full-body experience, and he was rendered speechless for the first time in his life. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Kyle tried his best to analyze the theory engrained into the song but found his mind to be a mere void that was seemingly being filled with viscous liquid. The longer the song went on, the more his mind felt entirely numb.
"I'm... I'm impressed, guys..." Words began to falter, his tongue feeling swollen and heavy. Behind his closed eyes, ribbons of bright colors danced against the black backdrop, bursts of red and purple illuminating the periphery like clouds of heat lightning. He could feel the notes meandering through the air and landing on his body, pressing down with the force of a boulder each time. "He's... he's really good, guys..." A thick dribble of saliva oozed through the gap in his open lips.
It was as if he was being drained of all his energy, all of his willpower, every last ounce of strength which propelled him to live. And yet, despite the darkness he could feel creeping over his body, he was oddly at peace. As if moving of their own accord, Kyle felt himself shuck his shirt from his body, now covered in a sprinkling of sweat across his limber torso and head. The music pulsated from within him as if he were the amp himself, seemingly making the muscles in his arms expand and contract. "I can... I can feel him in there..." Kyle couldn't even fathom how he'd gotten here. He was in his room, sitting in his chair and yet, he was somehow with Black, inside the music. With every heavy pick of the bass, his biceps began to swell and firm; veins distinctly snaked down his strong forearms and into his callousing fingers. His body temperature was now sweltering, shedding every ounce of water and liquid within him into the beadlets of sweat which cascaded down from his thickening pecs and cobbling abs.
The drums and synthesizer came in, further enriching the already complicated chords which tickled his ear like a soft, warm breath. The bass line was an ebb and flow, weaving and bobbing as the song soared through the chorus, a melody that sent a ripple of lust across his body. It was as if he were on a ship in a storm, one which was luring him deeper into the dark waters as his thighs began to balloon out of the sweat-stained shorts he wore. The power of the music seeped into his veins, imbuing him with a foreign energy from a distant shore beyond his corporeal being. His calves spasmed and inflated, while his feet stretched out wider and stronger in his quickly ripening socks.
Black's voice was now all that Kyle could hear in his head, every indecipherable word rang as some existential truth. Kyle's thoughts were no longer his own, he was just along for the ride, a passenger in his own mind. He was no longer in control of his actions, nor his thoughts. His breathing had become heavier, slower... The music had invaded his very being and taken control. Spatterings of black ink began to sprawl across his glistening smooth skin, each with some sort of esoteric reference which he would not yet understand. Grim Reapers, skulls, geometric designs of unhuman origin now proudly displayed across his strong body.
"Fuuuck, man. This shit is amazing..." His voice gradually grew scratchy and smoky from years of singing for crowds of headbanging punks in cramped, smelly bars. He reached to his left, eyes still closed in euphoric bliss, snatching the small joint which now sat on the edge of his desk. Kicking his sweaty, buttery feet up onto the wooden surface, he brought the smoking j to his lips, dragging a heavy dose of creative vapor into his powerful lungs. "Fuckin' hell, you guys... I mean... shit." He blew out a heavy, grey plume of smoke from his wide nostrils. "This song is fuckin' incredible."
He pulled down his shorts and briefs, letting his lean but long dripping cock slap against his navel. Strings of pre seeped out of his pulsating cockhead, making winding rivers flowing down toward his sagging sac. A large prince albert ring now adorned the top of his uncut shaft, with three frenum piercings towing down his urethra in succession. The slightest touch from his calloused fingers wreaked immeasurable pleasure, radiating from the groin all across every inch of his body. Thus, as he wrapped his hand tightly around the limber shaft, gently caressing the prince albert with the tip of his index finger, he could barely breathe without a quiet moan escaping his throat. Quickly, the fondling turned into a measured, intentional pump with each beat of the music.
The drums and bass were now coming together in a thunderous crescendo, Kyle could feel his very blood bubbling beneath his skin as it made his way up his strong neck and toward his skull as he hastened his pace. The room around him began to blur and distort. Bookshelves formerly lined with music theory textbooks and repertoires of classical mainstays were warped into racks of well loved guitars: Fender, Gibson, Sqiuer, & Ibanez. The pristine white duvet-covered bed was now clad with sleek black satin sheets and a shiny vinyl comforter. The portraits of famous composers which once adorned the wall were now a collage of posters: Black Sabbath, Def Leppard, Motley Crue, Metallica, AC/DC, The Ramones, Aerosmith, Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Led Zeppelin, Iron Maiden. Piles of ripped up, weathered clothes, marinating in the sweat of shows past now littered the dingy red carpet.
The blood had finally arrived at the precipice of his brain, and like a tidal wave crashing against the rocks, it overtook him. His hair darkened to a deep black, his brows furrowed, his lips now plump and curled into a permanent cocky smirk. This was his kind of music. This was his genre. This was the message he was born to bring to the masses. It was a message of rebellion, of raging against the corporate machine of whitewashed mass-marketed culture. A flash of bright red and teal illuminated the room from behind Kyle's closed eyes as rope after rope of his spunk shot from his cock onto the laptop and camera. He roared in climax, louder than he'd intended, but nothing his neighbors were unfamiliar with in regards to the activities the apartment notoriously beheld.
The music had stopped, the final note hung in the air for a moment before retreating back into the abyss as his shorts melted into a dense magenta slime, moving down his muscular legs until they covered his entire lower half before hardening into slick gator skin pleather pants and a pair of beat up black combat boots wafting the scent of his musky feet. Axel opened his now black eyes, letting out a sigh of complete satisfaction.
"Now that's what I call fuckin' music, man! See why I wanted ya to experience it? It's like a requiem for corporate machine, man. That's why Catalyst is my fuckin' muse. Their music is gonna take over the whole fuckin' world." A loud pinging signaled Axel to check his phone, where his bandmates, performing as Hammerthrow, were confirming their next gig in L.A. "Fuck yeah, guys. Just landed the Cali gig. I'm thinking we cover this masterpiece and mind fuck them into oblivion. Catch us in Azuza next week, kids. You don't wanna miss it." With that, he ended his recording, smirking mischievously as he uploaded it to his channel. The song certainly was going to change the world, even if the world itself wasn't ready.
Diego was just a normal college jock going to school on a football scholarship, who was looking for a way to make extra cash, when he heard about a program that allowed you to rent your body out to anyone for a minimum of 72 hours
being impatient Diego disregarded the fine print which allowed the occupier to do whatever they wish in that period of time.
He immediately signed up unaware his life would change so much in the next few days
With $5000 in his pocket he went to the place where he'd surrender himself to the new temporary owner. As per the agreement, the renter would take control of the body while Diego would spend the next 72 hours in the renter's body. Both had free reign over the others life with the caveat that the body possessor would feel any differences between the two bodies.
Enter Marcus , a tatoo artist by day and a sex crazed only fans performer by night. He loved shiny clothes and ink as well as piercings. But lately he wanted to see how the other half lived, wanting to spend time in a hetero male with a great body, a body maybe he could help mold. When Marcus became Diego he could feel the power and inside. a rush hit he could feel the muscles form, as if Marcus had done all the work to gain his body.
Diego had a similar experience but what he felt was the burning of his skin as every tattoo and piercing was experienced by him all at once.
Both immediately became aroused, as much as Marcus wanted to fuck his own body, Diego was straight so Marcus thought, so there was no attraction for now. Diego felt the latex become strained by Marcus monster dick, he reached down to touch it, impressed that such a small looking dude was so well endowed.
they'd go their separate ways for the next 72 hours, neither knowing what would happen till then. Diego headed to his temporary home as was part of the contract where he found a house full of leathers, latex and cameras all lined up for him to film. Marcus knew his body could not resist no matter who was in charge. He changed into another outfit. and the body seemed to take over, grabbing a pack of smokes, something Diego never touched in his old life.
He became a leather master, rock hard, his balls begging for release as the door bell range and a parade of young men came through for the next few days as he filmed sex scene after sex scene, the usually straight guy seemed to take to gay sexy quite easily, perhaps he was bi after all.. He wondered what Marcus was up to in his body?
As Diego's time flew by he became more of a dominate alpha and he was coming to embrace and enjoy his new body and life.
Before he knew it he felt something tugging at him, you see when the time was up each party reverted to their own body, no matter were they werr, special things needed to happen. Suddenly Diego was thrusted back into his old body, he was facing a mirror, the reflection showing what was to come for him. The pain, he felt the same pain as when he became Marcus. all over his body, but why? It soon became clear.
What the hell? He said aloud as he saw his neck and face tattooed and his ears and nose pierced. He stumbled back to reveal more changes had happened to himself.
His ripped body was inked up and his wardrobe had been replacde by harnesses and tight leather pants. His dick rock hard and on display under the leather. He found a letter:
Dear Diego, welcome to your new life, you can thank me later, I got you off that damn scholarship and made your body more of a work of art, you now work at the Black Cycle bar downtown where when you're not tending bar or dancing naked for crowds your a cum slut for all the Leather Daddies. Your welcome, your friend Marcus, PS: Thanks for the canvas.
In away Diego now had a very similar life to Marcus, except he'd no longer be the dominant Alpha, instead he was destined to live life as a lonely Bitch Boy. Diego would be able to Thank himself during his Next Shift.
