The walk back to Ash’s apartment felt longer than usual. Lace felt like a walking biohazard; every time a breeze caught his hair, he caught a lingering whiff of Professor Winters’ "therapy." It wasn't just the smell—it was the phantom weight of her sitting on him, a heavy reminder that in the eyes of the law and the experts, he was rapidly transitioning from a "who" to a "what."
When he let himself into the apartment, the smell of stale beer and cheap incense hit him—a welcome relief compared to the clinical musk of the professor’s office. Ash was sprawled on the couch, her bass guitar resting against her hip as she mindlessly picked at a low E-string.
"You look like shit," she said without looking up. "Did the shrink tell you you're crazy, or just a pervert?"
Lace didn't answer immediately. He dropped the two envelopes on the coffee table. "She gave me these. One for me, one for you."
Ash finally looked up, her eyes landing on the thick, official-looking stationary. She sat up, the bass neck clattering against the coffee table. "Legal stuff? I thought you told the cops everything was fine."
"It is. Mostly," Lace said, heading for the bathroom. "I need a shower. I’ll explain when I’m not covered in... education."
The Terms of Engagement
By the time Lace emerged, scrubbed raw and wearing a borrowed pair of Ash’s oversized gym shorts, she had already opened her envelope. She was holding a single yellow sheet of paper—the Custodial Intent Form.
"Lace," she said, her voice unusually quiet. "Do you know what this says? This isn't just a 'get out of jail free' card for the missing person thing. This is a transfer of agency."
"She said it was an option," Lace muttered, sitting on the far end of the couch. "If my R.T.F.S. gets worse. Look at my wrist, Ash."
He held it out. The lavender discoloration was darker now, and the little yellow music notes seemed more defined, almost pulsing with his heartbeat.
> R.T.F.S. Risk Assessment Table
> | Transformation Type | Risk Level | Primary Symptoms |
> | --- | --- | --- |
> | Racial/Gender/Age | Negligible | None; high stability. |
> | Animal/Plant | Low | Minor physical traits (ears, tail), cravings. |
> | Inanimate (Tools/Furniture) | Medium | Psychological dependency, loss of agency. |
> | Inanimate (Clothing/Food) | High | Rapid personality erasure, physical branding. |
>
>
"You're branding," Ash whispered, reaching out to touch the purple skin. Lace flinched, not from pain, but from a sudden, sharp spike of need that shot through him at her touch. It felt like a static shock to his soul. "The professor thinks it’s inevitable. She thinks I... I have the 'disposition' for it."
"She sounds like a bitch," Ash snapped, though she didn't pull her hand away. "But she's not wrong about one thing. You're changing. Even when you're human, you're starting to act like... well, like my lucky panties."
The "Full Experience"
Lace looked her in the eye. "Then keep your promise. No more blackouts. If I'm going to lose myself to this, I want to actually be there for it. I want to know what it feels like when you wear me to the show tonight."
Ash bit her lip. The bravado she usually wore like a leather jacket seemed to fray at the edges. "It’s not going to be like the movies, Lace. It’s loud, it’s sweaty, and it’s boring. You’re just... fabric. You’re there to soak things up and stay out of the way."
"I don't care," Lace insisted. "Turn my mind on, Ash. Please."
She sighed, reaching for her phone on the charger. The TFRM App icon glowed on the screen—a stylized silhouette of a person shifting into a cube.
"Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you. Once I hit 'Sync Sensory Feed,' you’re going to feel everything I feel, plus everything you feel as the garment. It’s a lot for a first-timer."
She tapped a few commands. Lace’s phone, sitting on the table, chimed in response.
[NOTIFICATION: Incoming Form Request - "Lavender Lace Cheeky" | Duration: 6 Hours | Mental State: ACTIVE]
"Ready?" Ash asked, her thumb hovering over the 'Confirm' button.
Lace took a deep breath, his heart hammering against his ribs—a heart that, in a few seconds, would be replaced by a delicate nylon bow. "Ready."
The world didn't fade to black this time. Instead, it stretched.
Lace felt his bones soften into cotton fibers. His skin didn't tear; it wove itself into a intricate, breathable mesh. His vision didn't disappear—it expanded, becoming a 360-degree awareness of the room, though everything was filtered through the "texture" of his new body.
He was no longer a man on a couch. He was a light, airy weight in Ash's hands. He could feel her calloused bassist's fingers stroking his waistband, and for the first time, he could hear her—not through ears, but through the vibrations in his very threading.
"Holy shit," Ash whispered, looking down at the lavender panties in her lap. "You're still in there, aren't you? I can feel you shivering."
Lace couldn't speak, but he could pulse. He tightened his lace trim slightly, a rhythmic squeeze against her palms.
"Alright, 'Lucky,'" Ash smirked, her confidence returning as she stood up and began to unbutton her jeans. "Let's see how you handle a soundcheck."
