#demon tf

I’d say I am.

I really like the idea of a post-tf stats sheet/monster collection game kind of style ^^ it’s awesome and also means you can power scale your pre and post transformation self

Otherworlds 6: Fire and Steel

You never know where a gateway to another world might pop up, but you'll know when you go through one. It had started to happen a few years ago. People just vanished suddenly; they leapt into a lake and never came out, a doorway no one could remembered suddenly appeared in the basement and vanished once someone walked through it, things like that.

Many people never came back when they vanished, but some of them did. Some of them came back changed. One of the earliest examples was two office workers who vanished in a boiler room. Four months later they re-emerged from the same boiler room looking completely different.

They had gone in a paunchy balding middle manager and an overweight mother of four. What had returned where two muscular strong people, both noticeable taller than when they had entered. The man was a mountain of muscle with a chiseled jawline. The woman had returned a tall athletic woman with high cheekbones and wild black hair that flowed down to her lower back. The irises of them both had remained an unnatural red ever since they returned.

Those two were one of the first recorded disappearances associated with an Otherworld. Unlike a mysterious disappearance, they had actually come back and explained, more or less, what happened. They had even brought two artifacts back with them.

The first recorded object brought back from an Otherworld were two metal discs, about 12 cm in diameter, inscribed with pentagrams inside a circle and some decorative markings. The returned travelers said the discs had allowed them to return home. They were vague on the details, but the plates also had something to do with their changed appearance.

The two cross-world travelers were eager to leave the publicity behind them, and also had no interest in retaining ownership of the metal pentagram plates. So, as their tale became a footnote to the larger Otherworlds phenomenon, the plates were passed around to various researchers. At first, very carefully, but then more casually as they were determined to be simply steel and brass. There was no longer anything measurably supernatural about these worked bits of metal, if there ever had been.

That is how the two pentagram plates ended up in the possession of a nascent Department of Otherworlds research at a small university. They hadn't yet developed a formal program of study, but some interested students did have the opportunity to assist the researchers.

Andrew was one such student. He was a graduate student currently pursuing his master's degree in anthropology, and he was working on a project about the impact of Otherworlds on society and culture. Andrew had been working very closely with the professors and other researchers who called Otherworld Studies their own.

Andrew had been delighted to be trusted with the responsibility of the storage room for Otherworlds artefacts and materials. He later realized this honor mostly consisted of labelling and dusting. It was a fairly limited collection. Most of the "artifacts" were not even from an Otherworld, and the rest were mostly things like articles of clothing or samples of dirt brought back in the tread of a shoe.

Andrew was still occasionally fascinated to be able to see these unusual objects up close and read about the context in which they had been collected, even if most of them seemed mundane. The most interesting object was a plain wooden door sealed in a wooden crate with warnings all over it. Apparently the door had appeared in some wall and a person had vanished to it to some different reality. As typical, the portal closed once someone had passed through. Unusually, the door had just remained there. It only opened up to the inside of the wall, as if someone had installed a door for inspecting the internal installation and joists within the walls. The door had been removed, carefully packaged, and after study had determined that, indeed, it was a door, it had been left to sit in this dingy storage room. Too potentially valuable to destroy, but too creepy to be left in its original location.

Andrew had managed this collection carefully, maintaining the files related to each item, making sure nothing was showing signs of decay, but recently something exciting had come in. A sealed crate containing the two pentagram discs from one of the first documented returns from an Otheworld! Andrew had seen these objects on television as a child, and now they were stored at the university.

Of course, it wasn't actually that impressive an item as far as the public was concerned. The publicity around them had happened well over 20 years ago. They had passed from the police, to government scientists, to non-government scientists, made a lengthy tour in various museums, and eventually packed off to storage. They were forgotten enough that the latest museum to display them no longer wanted to have to dig them out of storage for the occasional inquiry or photograph. So, now the pentagram plates had passed to the Department of Otherworld Studies.

Andrew hadn't been able to resist having a look when they'd first arrived. He'd looked on while Dr. Lyell had examined that plates for damage and assigned them a catalogue number. The 50 year old Indian-American woman was behaving like it was any sample or artefact, but Andrew could see the glint in her eye. Just like him, she was excited to be in the presence of such a famous and well-known piece of Otherworlds history.

Andrew, of course wanted a closer look. After a week of the pentagram plates sitting in storage, he decided it was time to have a peek. Of course, he needed someone to share this experience with, that's why his undergraduate friend Daveed was joining him.

Daveed was a finance major, but had a serious interest in Otherworlds research. He had been hoping the school would open up a minor program for it, but he'd had to settle for a minor in history. Andrew and Daveed had been friends for a good while and had a lot in common. Andrew knew he could trust Daveed to be discrete, but also to understand the significance to the experience.

This is why Andrew had used his keys to enter the Otherworlds Artifacts storage room after-hours. This in itself was not unusual; Andrew was a graduate student with a busy schedule, and sometimes the only time he had available for his curator work were odd hours at the end of the day. The atypical part of this evening, was that he had brought Daveed with him.

As they entered the dimly lit store room, Andrew made a bit of a show about waving Daveed in before softly closing the door behind them. It was unlikely anyone would see them, and there was no chance anyone would think much of it even if they did, but a bit of showmanship was in order, considering the occasion.

In another act of showmanship, Andrew had placed the crate in the middle of the room instead of on its normal shelf. He wanted to emphasize its importance and digging the box off a shelf did not feel appropriate. Andrew slowly removed the lid, revealing the two round discs of worked metal to Daveed.

"Wow" Daveed said, "it's really them, just like in the videos. They look very shiny in person".

Andrew wished he could reply that they had some kind of supernatural shine to them, but it was just because he'd polished them with a fine cloth when they'd first arrived. The discs could get dusty and tarnished like any other metal.

Instead, Andrew simply said "That's them. Right out of the story opened up knowledge of the Otherworlds to humanity.".

The two men gazed at the objects. Even though they had arrived on Earth less than 30 years ago, these things were a part of history. Daveed was bent down examining them.

"It's interesting that they're different colors. I wonder if there are more like it back in the Otherworld they came from?" Daveed said, stroking his chin to show he was in thought.

Andrew replied "We don't know. The two who came back with them didn't explain exactly what they are. They apparently hate all the publicity, which is funny based on how some other people who have returned from Otherworlds who came after them act."

Daveed nodded and said "Do you think it would be ok if I picked one up to look at it? I've never seen what the back looks like."

Andrew thought for a moment. It wasn't against any rule to bring Daveed back here, but he definitely wasn't supposed to let people just handle these artifacts. He could already imagine the dressing-down Dr. Lyell would give him about wear and tear on artifacts if they would get in the hands of the public. Still, Daveed seemed very impressed and he was reluctant to admit anything that dispel that image, so Andrew gave into temptation.

"Oh, I think I can allow that, since you know the significance of these items. Let's have a look."

Andrew and Daveed simultaneous reached down and picked up one of the pentagram plates. Strangely, as Andrew picked it up he heard the sound of metal on metal, like he was picking up a chain. The discs had no moving parts, so he turned the disc to reveal the back, trying to determine what had made that sound. At the same time, Daveed was looking at the back of his own disc with curiosity.

Suddenly chains shot out from the discs. It should have been impossible for chains of this size to emerge from such a small disc. It was not clear where they were coming from, but each disc extended chains that wrapped around the torso of the person holding it.

The chains pulled taught, as if retracting into some impossible space inside the discs, pulling the disc against the chest of the person who was holding it.

Suddenly everything was spinning. It was so fast, but Andrew knew what must be happening. They were being pulled to an Otherworld. Strangely it felt less like a mystical experience and more like riding a tilt-a-whirl ride at an amusement park.

Suddenly the two of them were thrown back onto their feet. They stood atop a dusty rock cliff under a sunless sky. The light seemed to come from fires and what appeared to be lava dotting the landscape below. An acrid smell of smoke was in the air, but not so heavy as to be asphyxiating.

Andrew, still dizzy, looked over to Daveed and was shocked to see what looked like a demonic version of his friend. His fingernails had extended into black claws, and the same had happened to the toenails on his bare feet. His shirt was gone, but the pentagram plate was still held tight against his chest with chains. The sigils of the plate now glowed with a strange red light.

Daveed head sported a pair of large goatlike horns, and the eyes that looked back at Andrew contained glowing red irises. Daveed looked at Andrew with a start, and Andrew felt a sinking feeling and looked down at his own body.

Andrew's fingers also ended in black claws. He was shirtless and could see the pentagram disc pressed into his chest, like it was a part of him. His chest and stomach seemed much more trim and muscular than it had been before. Andrew almost spoke to comment on this when he noticed that as he ran his tongue over his teeth, he encountered the unfamiliar feeling of what felt like oddly sharp incisors and elongated canines.

As Andrew moved his head he felt the weight of his own horns, and as he began to examine himself he realized he and Daveed also had tails, not some costume piece, but a real part of his body that he could feel and move.

Andrew could tell that Daveed's stunned shock was about to abate. He couldn't tell if the demonic man was about to scream at him or to cry, but something was about to come.

In the moments before being on the receiving end of a well-deserved freakout, Andrew tried to think of what had happened. Why had these discs, inert for nearly 30 years, suddenly sprung to life? What were the odds that he would not only experience an Otherworld, but be in one of the rare scenarios where multiple people were pulled into an Otherworld together?

They had one advantage. Andrew was steeped in Otherworld lore. There were few people on the planet who knew as much about going to and returning from an Otherworld. He didn't know exactly how those two had returned all those years ago, but he knew the discs had something to do with it.

Vander had been sent down to the library’s restricted vault to fetch something for a professor when he spotted an ancient leather-bound tome sitting in the middle of the floor. The book had no title and was written in a language he couldn’t read, yet as his eyes ran across the ancient script, the words seemed to invade his mind, overwhelming him with a growing feeling of dread. This was no ordinary book…

The bartender had called him "Zig" for so long that he’d almost forgotten his real name. It wasn’t even a nickname he’d chosen—some drunk years ago had slurred "Hey, Ziggy Stardust!" at him, and the name stuck, whittled down to just "Zig" over time. Tonight, like most nights, he nursed his whiskey with the slow, deliberate focus of a man who didn’t want to go home. His fingers traced the sticky grain of the bar, the dim light catching the faint sheen of sweat on his knuckles.

"You good?" The bartender, a broad-shouldered woman with a tattoo of a snake coiling up her forearm, eyed him as she wiped down a glass.

"Peachy," Zig lied, flashing her a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. He was three drinks in, just enough to blur the edges of the room but not enough to drown out the itch under his skin—the one that had been there for weeks, restless and insistent, like a splinter he couldn’t dig out.

Outside, the air was thick with the smell of rain that hadn’t quite fallen yet. Zig stumbled slightly as he hit the sidewalk, the whiskey warm in his veins. His apartment was only six blocks away, but the walk felt longer tonight. The streetlights flickered like they were winking at him, and he chuckled at nothing, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. His fingers brushed against something—a crumpled receipt, maybe, or a loose cigarette.

A laugh bubbled up from somewhere behind him, high and bright. Zig turned, squinting into the dark. The street was empty. His pulse jumped, sudden and sharp, and he exhaled through his nose. Just drunk. He kept walking. But the itch was worse now, crawling up his spine like fingers. He scratched at his wrist absently, then froze. The skin there was rough. Raised.

Zig blinked at his wrist, the dim streetlight catching on something wrong—not just rough skin, but tiny, jagged ridges pushing up through the flesh like broken glass. He rubbed at it hard, expecting the sensation to fade with the friction. Instead, a sharp pain lanced up his arm, and he hissed, jerking his hand back. Blood welled in thin lines where his nails had dug in. "What the fuck—?"

The laugh came again, closer this time, right behind his ear. Zig whipped around, heart hammering, but the sidewalk was still empty. The air smelled suddenly of sulfur and burnt sugar. His breath hitched. Okay. Definitely not just drunk. His skin prickled, not just on his wrist now but everywhere, like a thousand ants marching under his flesh. He tore open the top buttons of his shirt, panic rising—his chest was splotched with patches of dark, iridescent scales, shimmering faintly under the streetlight.

A voice purred from nowhere and everywhere at once: "Oh, you’re perfect."

Zig staggered back, colliding with a brick wall. His vision swam, the world tilting sideways as heat surged through him—not feverish, but deeper, like his blood had been replaced with molten metal. Desire coiled low in his gut, sudden and overwhelming, so intense it made his knees buckle. He groaned, fingers clawing at the wall as images flooded his mind: tangled limbs, teeth on skin, hunger that had nothing to do with food.

The scales spread faster now, creeping up his neck. He could feel his teeth lengthening, pressing against his lips. Zig tried to scream, but it came out a ragged growl, his voice already warping into something guttural, inhuman. His pants strained against his hips, his body reacting violently to the transformation—and to the need burning through him.

The brick wall scraped against Zig’s back as he slumped lower, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The scales weren’t just spreading—they were pulsing, each one slick with a thin, iridescent film that shimmered under the flickering streetlight. His fingers twitched, claws now where nails had been, and he stared at them with a detached horror. This isn’t happening. But the ache in his jaw, the way his tongue flicked over newly pointed teeth, told him otherwise.

The voice came again, a whisper slithering through his skull: "Don’t fight it. You’ve always wanted this." Zig’s head snapped up, his vision sharpening unnaturally—the darkness of the alley wasn’t just shadows now, but layers of heat and movement, the distant scuttle of a rat, the slow drip of condensation on a fire escape. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out everything but the hunger, the need to take, to claim.

A garbage can clattered to his left. Zig spun, his body moving faster than thought, and pinned the source of the noise against the wall—a homeless man, wiry and wide-eyed, reeking of stale beer and fear. The man’s breath hitched as Zig’s claws dug into his shoulders, not deep enough to bleed but close. "P-please," the man stammered. Zig’s nostrils flared. The smell of terror was intoxicating, thick and metallic, and something in his chest purred at it. His tongue flicked out, tasting the air, and the man whimpered.

Zig’s grip tightened—then released. He recoiled, stumbling back, his breath ragged. What the hell am I doing? The man bolted, shoes slapping against wet pavement. Zig’s body screamed at him to chase, to take, but he clenched his fists until his claws bit into his own palms. The pain grounded him, just for a second. The voice in his head hissed, disappointed.

A streetlight buzzed above him, flickering erratically. Zig’s reflection in a shattered store window made him freeze. His eyes glowed, slit-pupiled and amber, his face half-covered in those shimmering scales. His shirt hung in tatters where his shoulders had broadened, muscles taut under the alien skin. He looked like a nightmare. He looked hungry.

A car horn blared in the distance, and Zig flinched, his new senses dialed to eleven. The sound was a physical thing, scraping against his skull. He needed to move, to hide—but where? His apartment was blocks away, and he couldn’t walk through the city like this. The voice cooed, "Let me show you." A jolt of heat, of knowing, shot through him. There was a place. Close. Safe.

Zig lurched forward, his movements jerky, uncoordinated. Every step sent fresh waves of need crashing through him. The alley narrowed, then opened into a dead-end courtyard littered with broken bottles and graffiti. A rusted metal door, half off its hinges, led to a basement. The scent of mildew and old blood hit him, and his stomach twisted—not with disgust, with anticipation.

Zig's knees hit the cracked pavement of the courtyard as another wave of heat tore through him—this time concentrated low, too low, his jeans straining impossibly tight. A strangled gasp escaped him as the fabric ripped with a sound like tearing paper, and suddenly the cold air hit skin that shouldn't exist, that hadn't existed minutes ago. His hands flew to his groin, claws scraping against something hot and throbbing—thick, veined, and growing, pulsing with each heartbeat as if inflated by some unseen force.

The pain was a white-hot brand, but beneath it thrummed a pleasure so intense it blurred his vision. Zig's back arched, a guttural moan ripping from his throat as the transformation continued, his new flesh glistening with the same iridescent film that coated his scales. Every inch of growth sent sparks up his spine, his body caught between agony and ecstasy. His claws dug into his thighs just to feel something else, anything else, but the sensation only fed the hunger, the need coiling tighter in his gut.

The voice in his head sighed, pleased. "Look at you. Perfect." Zig barely heard it over the rush of blood in his ears, his entire focus narrowed to the obscene stretch of his own body, the way his hips jerked involuntarily, seeking friction against nothing. His tongue lolled out, panting, saliva dripping onto the pavement. Rational thought dissolved under the tidal wave of sensation—his claws scraped concrete as he braced himself, his tailbone grinding against the ground as his spine realigned with a series of sickening pops.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, the growth stopped. Zig shuddered, his entire body trembling with aftershocks. The courtyard was silent except for his ragged breathing and the distant drip of a leaky pipe. Slowly, he forced himself to look down. His stomach twisted—not with horror, but with a dizzying rush of pride. The voice purred approval.

Zig's breath hitched as he stared down at the obscene length now jutting from his hips—thick as a wrist, pulsing with veins that glowed faintly orange beneath the skin like embers in a furnace. The head flared wide, dripping a viscous fluid that sizzled where it hit the pavement, sending up tiny curls of sulfur-scented smoke. He reached out, claws trembling, and wrapped his fingers around it—then gasped as pleasure crackled up his spine, his entire body jerking like he'd grabbed a live wire. The heat radiating from his own flesh was unbearable, intoxicating, and he couldn't stop his hips from bucking into his grip, desperate for more.

His balls tightened next, swelling rapidly beneath his shaft until they hung heavy and taut, the skin stretched so thin he could see the churn of fluid inside—molten gold streaked with black, swirling like a storm. A groan tore from Zig's throat as they dropped, the weight of them pulling his hips forward with an almost audible thud. The pressure built instantly, coiling at the base of his spine, and he knew with terrifying certainty that when he came, it wouldn't be a spurt—it would be a flood. The voice in his head laughed, low and hungry. "Wait until you see what you can do with that."

A breeze stirred the alley's detritus, and Zig shuddered as the air brushed against his hyper-sensitive flesh. Every nerve was alight, every inch of his new anatomy throbbing with a need that threatened to unravel him. He tried to stand, but his legs buckled—not from weakness, but from the sheer overwhelming fullness between them. His claws scraped concrete as he caught himself, panting, his reflection in a puddle of oily water showing a face twisted between agony and rapture. The scales had spread to his cheekbones now, iridescent in the dim light, and his tongue flicked out to catch a droplet of precum from his own chin. The taste exploded on his tongue: burnt honey and salt, so rich it made his eyes roll back.

Then—movement. A shudder rolled through Zig's skull like a cracking egg, his jaw unhinging with a wet pop as his cheekbones split outward, elongating into a reptilian muzzle. His teeth lengthened into jagged rows, dripping saliva that sizzled on the pavement. His scalp burned as bone ridges erupted through his skin, forming a crown of curved horns that gleamed like obsidian. His ears stretched upward, tapering to sharp points, and he gasped as his vision doubled—then tripled—his pupils splitting into vertical slits that drank in the darkness like a cat's.

The voice in his head crooned, "There you are."

Zig's spine arched violently, vertebrae popping like firecrackers as his tailbone sprouted, unfurling into a thick, muscular tail that lashed the air behind him. The force of it sent him sprawling forward onto all fours, his fingers fusing together as his hands twisted into scaled talons, tipped with black claws that scraped sparks from the concrete. His shoulders bulged, muscles writhing beneath his skin like live snakes, and he let out a guttural snarl as his ribs expanded, his chest cavity deepening to accommodate lungs that burned with every sulfur-laced breath.

His hips jerked sideways with a sickening crunch as his pelvis reshaped itself, tilting forward to balance the new weight of his tail. The denim of his ruined jeans split further as his thighs thickened with corded muscle, veins pulsing beneath iridescent scales. Then—agony. His feet contorted, bones splintering and reforming as his toes fused into two thick digits, each capped with a curved, cloven hoof that clacked against the pavement.

Zig's claws scraped along the base of his newly formed horns—curved, obsidian ridges that pulsed with heat beneath his touch. The sensation sent an electric jolt straight down his spine, and his cock twitched, violently, as if stroked by an invisible hand. A choked gasp escaped his muzzle as the first orgasm ripped through him without warning, his hips bucking wildly as thick, molten ropes of cum splattered against the alley wall. The fluid sizzled where it landed, eating through the brick like acid.

His muscles bulged in response, shoulders rippling as new power flooded his limbs. The scales along his biceps tightened, then split as fresh muscle surged beneath them. Zig groaned, his tail lashing against the pavement in rhythm with each spurt. The pleasure was unbearable—not just from his cock, but from the growth, the transformation, every inch of his body alight with raw, primal satisfaction. His claws dug into his horns again, dragging down their length, and another orgasm seized him instantly. This time, his balls churned, visibly pumping more of that glowing fluid up his shaft. His thighs flexed, scales straining over quadriceps that swelled like overfilled water balloons.

The voice in his skull laughed, delighted. "Oh, you like that, don't you?" Zig couldn’t deny it—his body was addicted to the feedback loop of pleasure and power. He panted, drool dripping from his fanged maw, and experimentally squeezed his horns again. The response was immediate: his cock jerked, another torrent of cum painting the alley floor, and his pecs expanded, tearing through the remnants of his shirt. His nipples burned as they darkened into obsidian nubs, sensitive enough that the brush of his own forearm against them made his toes—hooves—curl.

Zig's reflection in a shattered storefront window wavered as his pupils elongated into vertical slits—then split again, fractalizing like shattered glass until his irises pulsed with an eerie, lupine glow. The transformation burned through his optic nerves, rewriting his vision in ultraviolet and heat signatures. He blinked rapidly, watching as his own breath curled in the air not as vapor but as shimmering thermal waves. His claws fumbled for the crumpled pack in his jacket pocket, the paper disintegrating under his touch until he managed to pinch a cigarette between two talons.

The flame from his lighter danced blue before settling into an unnatural violet. Zig inhaled deeply, the smoke curling around his fangs like a living thing before he exhaled through his nostrils—twin plumes of sulfur-tinged vapor that hung suspended in the humid air. His new eyes tracked each particulate with unnatural precision, the nicotine hitting his altered nervous system like a lightning strike. Every drag sent prickling awareness cascading down his spine, hypercharging senses already dialed to eleven.

The cigarette burned down to the filter between Zig's claws, its final ember flaring brighter than any human-made flame. He flicked it away with a hiss, watching as it arced through the air like a tiny comet before fizzling out in a puddle. Every nerve in his body thrummed with restless energy—his cock still dripped lazily onto the pavement, twitching whenever a breeze ghosted over its hypersensitive surface. The transformation had settled into his bones, but the hunger hadn't. If anything, it had sharpened.

Zig's nostrils flared as he caught a new scent threading through the alley's stench of garbage and wet brick: sweat, adrenaline, and the unmistakable tang of want. His head snapped toward the mouth of the alley, his pupils dilating until the irises were thin amber rings. There—a figure lingering under the flickering neon of a dive bar across the street. Tall, lean, with a leather jacket clinging to shoulders that rolled with every exaggerated exhale. Their fingers drummed against their thigh in a rhythm that made Zig's pulse stutter in response.

The voice in his skull purred, "Go on. They're begging for it." Zig didn't question how he knew—the way their hips canted slightly toward the shadows, the way their teeth worried at their lower lip. His claws flexed against the pavement as he rose to his full height, his tail curling around his thigh in anticipation. The figure's breath hitched when he stepped into the dim glow of the streetlight, their gaze dragging down his scaled torso before locking onto the obscene jut of his cock.

Dominic and his friends sat around the campfire, but the flames failed to push back the unusual chill growing in the air. Then the sounds of the night vanished—no crickets, no wind—just a heavy silence that pressed in against them. They shared an uneasy feeling that something unseen, something predatory, was watching them from the shadows.