“Screw it!” Jon screamed through clenched teeth. “I don’t want to die!”
Haphazardly—hard to make strong choices when falling to your death—Jon lunged for the closest comic.
CRASH. CLANG. THUMP.
“Ow.”
The good, first. Jon was not dead. In fact, looking down at himself, everything was still moving and attached to where it was supposed to be. Fantastic. We love that.
He slumped up, stretching through the soreness in his back, neck, and arms, and registered his surroundings. An… office, of all places, small and cozy to contrast the grand openness that overwhelmed him moments ago. It was cluttered, similar to what his room had been, but with parchments and antiques instead of his too-many board and video games.
A small stone cat statue. A pair of rusted embroidery scissors. A collection of large, awkward keys. A stack of bowls made of emerald. Candles. A blank portrait. Textbooks. Lots and lots of textbooks.
Textbooks were more familiar, at least. Jon liked his textbooks. The smell of old paper always had a calming effect on him. The diplomas on the walls, however… Those were a little more confusing.
Harvard University. Junko Yamashita, Bachelors in Occult Study
University of Cambridge. Junko Yamashita, PhD in Supernatural Archaeology
Jon blanched. That was a Japanese woman’s name, if memory served correctly. Meaning either Jon found himself tossed into some random woman’s space, or—
The sensation of silky hair spilling along Jon’s back answered that question. He grabbed a fistful; long and inky black, softer than any hair he’d touched in his life. And it kept growing, growing, growing, until the fistful became two fistfuls and until two fistfuls weren’t enough to hold it all. Jon let go, and the beautifully dark mass tumbled down and reached all the way to his hips.
“Uh-oh.”
Then, everything else happened all at once. Jon let out a horrified gasp as his whole body either shrank or grew; hips exploded outwards as his height dropped several inches, only to jerk back up when his legs stretched out into long, toned pillars of gentle muscle and silky skin. Same with his chest area. Jon heaved out a pained breath as his lungs and torso squeezed down, buckling under the pressure of—
Boomph.
Boomph.
Too massive, pillowy, perfect breasts erupted from his chest and through his shirt. Frantic embarrassment washed over Jon. He moved to cover them just as his arms shrunk into slender little things. Delicate wrists, delicate fingers, smooth and hairless like the rest of his shifting form.
The worst was his face, however. A numbness had washed over when his body changed, but his face came alive with a frantic tingling of micro-adjustment after micro-adjustment. Bones grinding against bone was one thing, muscles swelling or shrinking was another. But how did you process the singular feelings of lips swelling out and your teeth realigning and your eyes changing shapes and your cheekbones tapering into dagger-sharp points and your light beard shrinking back and your nose waning into an adorable little arch—
Jon let out a series of pained coughs, his vocal cords betraying him next. When they were finished, he was left with a voice quiet and smooth like honey dripping from a spoon.
“What the… Why do I…?” The tone was slow and methodical, but carried… It had the bones of an accent. Someone who’d spoken English longer than Jon had been alive, but whose English was not their first language.
Slowly, fearfully, Jon turned to a rustic mirror in the corner. In it, there was the most beautiful Japanese woman he’d ever seen. Mid-30s, shaped like a goddess, and drowning in all his misshapen boy-clothes.
He gagged. The clothes smelled awful, suddenly, like sweat and deodorant. How did he not notice before?
Another surge of sensation, and that issue resolved itself quickly. Jon’s clothes whipped apart (leaving him gloriously naked for a good second or two) and whipped back together into what could best be described as “academic chic.” A fluffy turtleneck, an adorable flower-patterned pencil skirt, stockings, and modest pumps.
Finally, the glasses. They were a dignified, chained gold-rim pair. Jon had never worn glasses before, but something about them felt bizarrely… Important. As if, despite everything else that happened to him, the glasses were the centerpiece to the whole aesthetic.
“I look like a horny, gender-swapped Clark Kent,” Jon announced to no one in particular, flatly, with the pretty new voice that left him blushing only slightly. He stepped closer to the mirror. “Just… What kind of stupid AU is this?”
The figure staring back, wide-eyed and shocked, truly was gorgeous. Impossibly so, in that way you could only expect comic book characters to be. Walking a fine line between awe and fear, Jon eased even closer, and pulled off his glasses for a better look…
The second transformation slammed into Jon like a freight train.
Fine, black hair erupted into a bright, wavy, flame-colored mane, quite nearly glowing under the morning sun, followed by a pair of pointy, fluffy ears resting atop his head.
What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck.
Jon stumbled back. Then he stumbled again, because—
Pop.
Pop. Pop.
Two, no, three, unbelievably soft, giant, red, explosively fluffy tails erupted from his—
Pop. Pop.
Pop.
—wait, not three tails, six—
Pop. Pop.
—Eight?
Pop.
Nine. Nine giant fox tails growing from the base of his spine. Each massive, swaying to-and-fro against Jon’s will, and taking up so much space it begged the question how Junko got anything done.
Jon’s clothes exploded, again. He shrieked, again.
When the fabrics pulled back together, Jon was clad in luxurious, heavyweight silk that might as well have been poured over him, the way it clung to his body and pooled at his feet. A kimono, kinda. If kimonos were allowed to be ravishingly form-fitting, with necklines that plunged dangerously low and leg slits that climbed daringly high.
Holy Cow. The way it hoisted Junko’s giga-boobs was downright hypnotic.
The fabric cut a sharp negotiation between glamorous and indulgent. A deep blue tone to contrast his hair and tails, swirled with sharp, geometric designs. And his hair? It was woven into a stunning, intricate half-bun. Makeup? Flawless. Nails? Also flawless. He even had zori sandals on, sleek in design and arching much higher than what was typical, encouraging an extremely… Distinct sway to Jon’s movements.
It took a minute for the young man-turned-pretty-fox-lady to remember how to close his mouth. When he finally did (only took a few tries), he took a deep breath, and let out a singular:
“What.”
