Corruption TF Lover

There is a prejudice that werewolfs are savage and dirty. And this werewolf named Shige sometimes suffer damage from that. But he’s not really botherd. He doesn’t take large actions to fight for that.

The bulk begins. Fifteen months of planning, sacrifice, and precision have led to this moment, and now the climb resumes. The air feels thinner already. The ritual begins the same way it always has — breath, focus, silence — but beneath that stillness runs something wilder.

It’s a current, deep and electric, humming through the bones. It knows where to go. It remembers the path from the first ascent, the first time he reached beyond his limits and felt something notice him back.

This time, there is no hesitation. The body obeys. The mind follows. The Mass calls.

I. The Hunger

At first it’s small — a tremor, a whisper, a flicker behind the ribs. Then it grows. It wants more air, more motion, more space. He feels it moving under the surface of his skin, drawing heat, pulling matter inward as if the body itself has become a forge.

Sleep is shallow now. Dreams come heavy. In them, he sees the outline of a colossal figure — shifting, formless, but somehow familiar. Its voice is not a voice at all but a pressure in the chest, a deep vibration that fills the lungs and bones.

“You have fed me well,” The Voice speaks. “But you are not yet full.”

He wakes drenched in breath and light, heart hammering, that vibration still lingering behind his eyes.

II. The Shape of Becoming

Discipline holds, but barely. Each repetition, each meal, each effort bends the body closer to the pattern of something older. The mirror no longer reflects a man — it reflects the process.

What he once called progress now feels like possession. Every breath is both a gift and a cost. His muscles, his frame, his will — all are tools for the same sculptor.

And yet, beneath the strain, there is a terrible joy. A euphoria that is not quite pleasure but something beyond it — a resonance between devotion and decay. He begins to understand why the ancients worshipped transformation as both miracle and curse.

The Mass does not simply grow. It consumes.

But to be consumed by the divine — what greater privilege is there?

III. The Mind Splits

There comes a point in every ascent when the self begins to fracture.

The old voice — the one that counted macros, that feared failure, that spoke in moderation — is fading. In its place is something larger, speaking through instinct and impulse. It says, Keep going. There is no end. You are becoming what you were meant to be.

He feels himself thinning — not in flesh, but in separation. The “I” is dissolving into the “We.” Every motion now belongs to the Mass; every breath is a hymn.

He catches his reflection one evening, and for a moment, he doesn’t recognize the face. It’s him — but stretched across some deeper meaning, the features taut with devotion, the eyes shining with a faith that no god demanded but one that he offered freely.

IV. The Threshold

The final stage is quiet. Always quiet. The body stops fighting. The mind stops asking questions.

In that stillness, the truth of the ritual becomes clear: he was never building the Mass. The Mass was building him.

The strength, the hunger, the obsession — they were scaffolding around a single idea: transcendence. And now, standing in the silent glow of what he has become, he feels no fear. Only the pulse. Only the warmth. Only the gravity of his own becoming.

He bows his head and whispers,

“I give myself to the Work.”

“Pin-ata”

pop

The first pin bends, the steel groaning against the swell of my side. I take a deep breath through my nose, savoring the taste of salt and starch still sitting on my tongue, and press another into the fabric over my chest.

I’m 400 pounds now. Not soft — never soft — but all meat and density, a body built to frighten architects and tailors alike. Shirts don’t fit. They don’t last. So I’ve learned to pin them into place. Rows of silver teeth holding the seams together like a zipper stitched into my own skin.

pop pop

Two more give way, snapping free and shooting to the floor. I grunt and wedge new ones in with trembling fingers. Each pin is another second earned, another inch claimed, another moment to sit and eat and grow.

The chair beneath me shrieks like it’s alive. My lats spill over the armrests, my traps grind against the sides of my skull, my thighs spread until the wood underneath bows. I know I should stop. I know I should stand, let the pins fail, let the fabric split. But the pressure is intoxicating.

pin pin pin

I keep driving them in, faster now, breath ragged, shirt stretched so tight it shines. I want to feel the point of collapse, to live in that edge where body, fabric, and steel all scream together.

The waiter comes again, eyes wide, pitcher shaking in his hand. He watches me force another pin shut across my belly, the metal groaning, the flesh beneath swelling still. His lips part like he wants to say something, but I only smile, teeth bared, sweat shining.

“More,” I rasp, lifting the empty glass. My hand shakes, not from weakness but from hunger. Always hunger.

pop pop pop POP

The last pins launch free like bullets, ricocheting into the ceiling. The shirt peels back in strips, nothing left to bind me. For a second the air is cool against my skin, and I laugh — loud, wet, broken.

The pins failed, but not me. Never me.

The bulk begins. Fifteen months of planning, sacrifice, and precision have led to this moment, and now the climb resumes. The air feels thinner already. The ritual begins the same way it always has — breath, focus, silence — but beneath that stillness runs something wilder.

It’s a current, deep and electric, humming through the bones. It knows where to go. It remembers the path from the first ascent, the first time he reached beyond his limits and felt something notice him back.

This time, there is no hesitation. The body obeys. The mind follows. The Mass calls.

I. The Hunger

At first it’s small — a tremor, a whisper, a flicker behind the ribs. Then it grows. It wants more air, more motion, more space. He feels it moving under the surface of his skin, drawing heat, pulling matter inward as if the body itself has become a forge.

Sleep is shallow now. Dreams come heavy. In them, he sees the outline of a colossal figure — shifting, formless, but somehow familiar. Its voice is not a voice at all but a pressure in the chest, a deep vibration that fills the lungs and bones.

“You have fed me well,” The Voice speaks. “But you are not yet full.”

He wakes drenched in breath and light, heart hammering, that vibration still lingering behind his eyes.

II. The Shape of Becoming

Discipline holds, but barely. Each repetition, each meal, each effort bends the body closer to the pattern of something older. The mirror no longer reflects a man — it reflects the process.

What he once called progress now feels like possession. Every breath is both a gift and a cost. His muscles, his frame, his will — all are tools for the same sculptor.

And yet, beneath the strain, there is a terrible joy. A euphoria that is not quite pleasure but something beyond it — a resonance between devotion and decay. He begins to understand why the ancients worshipped transformation as both miracle and curse.

The Mass does not simply grow. It consumes.

But to be consumed by the divine — what greater privilege is there?

III. The Mind Splits

There comes a point in every ascent when the self begins to fracture.

The old voice — the one that counted macros, that feared failure, that spoke in moderation — is fading. In its place is something larger, speaking through instinct and impulse. It says, Keep going. There is no end. You are becoming what you were meant to be.

He feels himself thinning — not in flesh, but in separation. The “I” is dissolving into the “We.” Every motion now belongs to the Mass; every breath is a hymn.

He catches his reflection one evening, and for a moment, he doesn’t recognize the face. It’s him — but stretched across some deeper meaning, the features taut with devotion, the eyes shining with a faith that no god demanded but one that he offered freely.

IV. The Threshold

The final stage is quiet. Always quiet. The body stops fighting. The mind stops asking questions.

In that stillness, the truth of the ritual becomes clear: he was never building the Mass. The Mass was building him.

The strength, the hunger, the obsession — they were scaffolding around a single idea: transcendence. And now, standing in the silent glow of what he has become, he feels no fear. Only the pulse. Only the warmth. Only the gravity of his own becoming.

He bows his head and whispers,

“I give myself to the Work.”