Zac finished his shift at the front desk, heart pounding as the text from his friends confirmed everything had gone according to plan. He grabbed the keycard and headed upstairs, slipping into the suite where Connor Storrie sat bound to a chair, eyes wide with confusion and fury.

One of the " Members " of Connor's team , actually Zac’s friend handed him the leather-bound book. Zac opened it, found the page, and began reciting the ancient words. Connor’s body convulsed, shrinking rapidly until he was nothing but a pair of white Calvin Klein briefs crumpled on the floor. At the same moment, Zac’s frame stretched upward, muscles swelling, skin stretching over new bulk. His black hair lightened to Connor’s signature curly blond, and intricate tattoos bloomed across his left leg. When the transformation finished, Zac stood as the exact duplicate of the famous actor...tall, jacked, and inked.

He picked up the briefs that now contained the real Connor, brought them to his face, and dragged his tongue slowly across the soft cotton, tasting the faint salt of the actor’s skin. He sniffed deeply, inhaling Connor’s scent, then stepped into the briefs and pulled them up. The fabric molded perfectly to his new cock, the trapped actor pressed tight against his shaft. Zac gave his bulge a firm squeeze, feeling the warmth and resistance of the living underwear.

"Look at you, big shot," he mocked, palming himself through the briefs. "Reduced to my cock sock." He stroked slowly, grinding his palm over the trapped form until the fabric grew damp with precum.

Zac dressed in Connor’s tailored suit for the premiere, the tight briefs still containing the real actor. As he walked the red carpet, flashes popping around him, he kept one hand in his pocket, subtly rubbing and teasing his cock. The friction built quickly. He came hard, flooding the briefs with thick ropes of cum that soaked through the cotton and began to trickle down his thigh inside the suit pants. The warm mess clung to his skin, running in sticky rivulets while photographers captured his confident smile.

Throughout the night he continued to mock the trapped actor, whispering under his breath between interviews. "You’re just my cum rag now, Connor. Feel that load soaking into you? That’s what you are. My personal underwear, dripping with my seed while I live your life."

By the time the after-party wound down, the cum had cooled and dried against his leg, a constant reminder of his complete domination over the real Connor Storrie.

Derek was bored. His body was clearly neglected, with a sharp collarbone, slumped shoulders from decades at this point of poor posture, a patchy ginger beard clinging to a weak chin. His wardrobe was nothing but faded polos and khakis that swallowed his narrow frame. His escape was films, mostly fantasy or sci fi, an escape from the monotony of the real world. Currently? Thor: Ragnarok on loop. Chris Hemsworth’s thunderous laugh, divine shoulders, and sexy charisma were practically Derek’s oxygen. He’d trace Hemsworth’s jawline on his monitor, a hollow ache spreading beneath his ribs. He didn’t just want to look like Thor - he wanted to be that golden-skinned, effortlessly confident force of nature. At night, he’d read stories online, fanfictions of guys transforming into Chris Hemsworth, chubbing up while reading them in a horned up craze.

He saw it online one night, an ad on tumblr between story posts. “UNLEASH YOUR INNER GOD: NEW PREMIUM BUNDLE FROM MJÖLNIR MEN’S WELLNESS”, with a picture of Chris Hemsworth shirtless plastered all over the packaging. Barely thinking, he immediately clicked on the ad, and bought the product from the website.

The battered box felt suspiciously heavy. Inside, nestled in faux-straw, was a single, ominous bottle. THOR THUNDER SOLUTION. The glass was thick, cobalt blue, etched with lightning bolts. No ingredients list, just a stark warning: “DO NOT INGEST.” The liquid inside sloshed - viscous, iridescent gold, like molten amber swirling with microscopic bolts of electricity.

His cramped bathroom steamed from the overflowing tub. He held the bottle under the flickering light. As he opened the container, he gave it a sniff growing aroused again as he smelled the mixture of leather, wet rain, sweat, seawater, and a deep vanilla. It bypassed his thoughts, vibrating in his molars. His anxiety dissolved, replaced by a low thrumming in his mind. Surrender.

He poured, relishing in the scent hanging in the air. The bath water seemed to glow gold, before fading back to normal. The air felt charged with electricity. He stripped eagerly, shivering. His reflection in the fogged mirror was a ghost: narrow shoulders, concave chest, ribs visible. He stepped in.

The bathwater practically burned his skin, but not from warmth, more a weird kind of… energy? It pulsed through him, coursing through his veins like lightning, as he shuddered and melted into its warm embrace, sinking deeper into the bath. Wherever it touched, his pale skin sizzled with energy, tanning and roughening up as he sunk more, the solution rising to his chin, then his nose, then his head was fully submerged. He didn’t even realise, and gasped as another shudder went through him, the mixture sliding into his pores, his nostrils, his mouth -

It tasted of metal, a coppery tang that made him moan as he tasted it, the very taste causing a pulse of energy to surge through him as his dick hardened. Every nerve ending fired at once as his head lolled back, and he was pulled deeper and deeper under. The hum in his skull became a roar, the battle cry of berserkers, the howling wind of ice ridden fields. The sound of a booming, sexy laugh. Chris’ laugh.

His body expanded, cracking as it grew with muscle, his bones and skeleton reforging to match his new shape. His jaw squared, thickening, as his neck grew thicker, stronger, better. His shoulders exploded outwards, broadening into the foundation of a demigod. His hips flared, tightening into a warrior’s V-taper. His hair shortened, sideburns pushing down to connect with perfect stubble, befitting a god. His forehead broadened, temples filling out, as his height surged, inches added, his head rising out above the water as he grew more and more. His legs expanded further, becoming two solid tree trunks perfect for carrying his newfound strong body, the huge weight. His skin tanned, darkening into a typical Aussie’s gorgeous tone. A voice in his head moaned, a new twang, the accent, the deep, gruff voice that was definitely not his own. 

A whimper escaped him: "The... the server migration script..." The words were thin, alien. Then, a shift. His vocal cords thickened, lengthened. His Adam's apple became a prominent knot beneath the beard. The sound that emerged was a rich, warm baritone, laced with Hemsworth’s unmistakable Aussie cadence and effortless charm: "Nah, mate. Sounds boring as batshit." It resonated in his chest cavity, powerful and easy. He tried again, the accent settling deeper: "Gotta feel the sun, eh? Catch a wave?" Complex syntax dissolved. Code? Forgotten. Boring nerd shit? Obliterated. Replaced by the simple, radiant joy of existence, the anticipation of adventure, the rhythm of surf and wind. A wide, dazzling, slightly lopsided grin spread across his face - Hemsworth’s smile, radiating sunshine and confidence. Intelligence didn’t decrease - it simplified. Nuance evaporated. Bliss was uncomplicated. Bliss was strength, charm, and the open horizon.

His nose subtly reshaped - straighter, more defined, with that distinctive, confident bridge. Lips filled out, curving naturally into an easy smile. Eyes deepened in color, the pupils radiating Hemsworth’s playful, magnetic intensity. Cheekbones lifted and defined themselves. Even his ears seemed to lie flatter, more sculpted against his now-thick hair.

The bathtub groaned. Water sloshed violently over the sides as Derek’s colossal frame displaced volumes it wasn’t designed for. Glowing, golden liquid streamed over sculpted pectorals, thick deltoids, a torso wide enough to shield a village. The air vibrated with his new presence, thick with the scent of godhood and ozone.

The euphoria was all-consuming - an electric tingle radiating from his reforged bones, the delicious ache of cosmic muscle settling into place, the rasp of thick beard against his collarbone, the resonant power humming in his new, golden voice. It washed over the last shards of his old self.

The solution itself was sacred. Its smell was his smell. It was the smell of power, charm, and endless stormy nights. He looked down at his hands - massive, capable, tanned, knuckles prominent. He touched his face - the thick, glorious beard, the strong jaw. He ran a palm over the dense pelt covering his godly chest. He WAS vitality. He WAS charm. He WAS Chris Hemsworth. A laugh erupted from his core, Thor’s full-throated, room-shaking boom. "HA! Now THIS is living, brother!"

The transformation was absolute. The trembling data analyst was annihilated. Rising from the depleted, now-clear water stood Chris Hemsworth - not an impersonator, but the actual thing. Dense, sun-gold muscle packed his frame. Thick, tousled golden-brown hair dripped onto broad shoulders. The iconic beard framed a face radiating playful, powerful confidence. His eyes, a piercing blue, sparkled with magnetic charm. His world was simple, radiant, physical: the flex of muscle under golden skin, the rumble of his own laughter, the scent of salt air and ozone, the sheer joy of BEING.

He stepped out of the tub, water cascading off a physique carved by gods. The cramped bathroom seemed to shrink around his monumental presence. He caught his reflection in the steam-streaked mirror - Hemsworth’s reflection winked back. A grin split his face. "Righto. Time to find a bigger beach." He moved with easy, powerful grace, his steps heavy but fluid, radiating casual dominance. He didn’t bother with a towel. The remaining droplets glistened on sculpted muscle like liquid diamonds. He inhaled deeply, the scent of his own body filling his lungs. Bliss wasn’t complex. Bliss was strength, sunshine, and the beautiful, dumb certainty that every door would open, every head would turn, and every wave was meant to be ridden. The Thunder Solution bottle lay empty, its purpose fulfilled, and only Chris Hemsworth remained, humming a tune, ready to conquer the world with nothing but a grin and godly deltoids. His voice echoed, rich and warm, through the tiny bathroom, a sound of pure, golden, uncomplicated joy.

(I only knew Andrew Scott before this ask so my apologies lol)

So I personally wouldn't possess Andrew simply because he is very close to myself in personality. I want to change it up completely...So I chose to possess Jonathan Bailey.

He has such a sharp and sophisticated look to himself. Clean cut as well and a tight body I could enjoy.

I would hypnotize Paul Mescal because he seems like he would be a good servant to me and would put his mouth to good use.

And for Andrew...

The gym was nearly empty when Alex spotted his idol walking in. François looked exactly like he did in Heated Riverly...tall, lean, dark-haired, with that confident stride. The fan’s heart pounded as he watched François head straight for the free weights.

François grabbed a heavy barbell and started curling. With each rep, something strange happened. His skin took on a strange sheen, his muscles flattening, his body shrinking. By the tenth curl his arms had thinned into sleeves, his torso compressed into smooth white fabric. Another rep and his head disappeared completely, leaving only a crisp white compression shirt draped over the bench.

Alex stared, stunned, then stepped forward. He picked up the same barbell. The first lift sent heat through his chest. His shoulders broadened. His face shifted, cheekbones sharpening, stubble darkening his jaw. With every rep the change accelerated—his hair lengthened and darkened, his voice dropped an octave, his body filled out exactly like François’s. By the final set he was no longer himself; he was François Arnaud, standing shirtless in the gym, the real François now reduced to a limp white compression shirt on the bench.

Grinning, the new François snatched the shirt and pulled it over his head. The fabric stretched tight across his new chest and abs. He flexed, feeling the trapped actor’s consciousness pressed against his skin.

"Look at you," he said, voice rich with mockery. "Big movie star, reduced to gym wear. You feel that? That’s my sweat soaking into you. Every rep I do, every breath I take—you’re just along for the ride now." He ran his hands over the shirt, pressing it flat against his muscles. "Bet you never thought you’d end up clinging to a fan’s body, huh?"

He struck a pose in the mirror, admiring how perfectly the shirt hugged his transformed physique. "You’re mine now, François. My favorite new compression shirt. And I’m going to wear you every single workout."

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

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

“OMG, you look EXACTLY like him!”

“Are you SURE you’re not his twin?”

“Better than the real thing!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jordan stood there, seething.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jordan stepped inside, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jordan pulled off the mask and stared into the mirror.

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

He was Tom Holland.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What he saw took his breath away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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