#demon tf

I like to imagine the poor superheroine just barely having thought she’d defeated her nemesis through bared teeth and bloodied knuckles; only for her to rise back up in front of her overflowing with power.

Finally she has an opportunity to unrestrain herself, someone who can handle her real power. She embodies the dark and demonic forces of her powers, allowing them to fuel and embrace her entire body; soaking her bones, muscles and skin in burning energy~ The kind that washes over you, that should hurt but feels so good to embrace and channel that it wraps back around to pleasure.

The power warps the Supervillainess to a form more suiting, more capable and powerful to channel it. Sprouting fangs, growing tusks and sharp spikes; muscles and tendons stretch and grow to enormous powerful form~ Eyes and arms suddenly multiply her costume is shredded by the rapid growth, skin shedding to demonic hardened scales. A lashing tongue, gargantuan wings and a beastly tail whipping behind her. Claws and talons reach out, a monsterous smile and satisfied laugh as this muscular, hulking were-woman bathes in the glorious ecstasy of her new body and real power~

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…

Jenny arranged the flickering candles, their soft glow illuminating the silk sheets draped across the bed. The scent of jasmine and sandalwood mingled in the air, a sensual invitation. She slipped into a sheer, lace negligee, its delicate fabric caressing her skin. A bottle of chilled champagne sat nestled in a bucket of ice, two flutes waiting beside it. The evening awaited Sören’s return. She heard the familiar jingle of keys, the thud of the front door closing, and her heart quickened. Sören, her Sören, home from his shift with the mounted police. He would be tired, perhaps, but the evening she had planned would melt away any fatigue. Sören entered, his police uniform still crisp, a faint scent of horse and leather clinging to him.

His gaze swept past the flickering candles, the scattered petals, the silk-clad Jenny, and landed squarely on his sports bag by the door. He moved with purpose, a man on a mission. “Rough day?” Jenny’s voice, a soft invitation, hung in the air. “Standard,” Sören grunted, already unlacing his boots. “Another protest, another few hours trying to keep order.” He peeled off his uniform shirt, revealing the taut muscles of his torso, a testament to his dedication to physical fitness. “I thought we could unwind,” Jenny murmured, rising, her silk robe whispering against her legs. She approached him, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. Sören’s lips brushed her forehead, a perfunctory gesture. “Can’t, Jen. Gotta hit the gym.”

He pulled a fresh t-shirt from his bag. “The gym?” Her voice rose, a sharp edge cutting through the inviting atmosphere. “Now?” Sören turned, his brow furrowed. “Gotta stay in shape, Jen. You want me to end up looking like Elias?” He gestured vaguely towards the wall separating their apartment from their neighbor’s. “The kid’s practically dissolving.” Jenny scoffed, a short, sharp sound. She knew his true motivation. It wasn’t about Elias, the scrawny, bespectacled teenager who spent his days lost in fantasy novels. It was about his patrol partners, the two hulking officers from the riot police who perpetually competed for the title of "most masculine." “Right,” she drawled, her arms crossing over her chest. “Because a few more reps will really put Klaus in his place.” A sarcastic laugh escaped her. “You know, the wise women say if you want to be truly strong, truly *manly*, you should try a bit of stallion semen.” Sören paused, his hand on the doorknob. He rolled his eyes, a familiar exasperation creasing his brow. "Stallion's semen. Right. Jenny, I love you, but sometimes your… esoteric suggestions… they really grate." He opened the door. "I'll be back in a couple of hours. Don't wait up." The door clicked shut, leaving Jenny amidst the wilting jasmine and cooling champagne.

The air in the stable hung thick with the scent of hay, leather, and the musky warmth of the massive brown stallion Sören groomed. He worked the curry comb over the horse’s flank, the rhythmic scrape a familiar comfort after a long patrol. Sören led the powerful animal out of the stall, his boots crunching on the packed earth outside the yellow stucco building.

He carefully cleaned the stallion’s sheath, the thick, waxy buildup of smegma yielding to his practiced hands. A slick, pearlescent bead, a single drop of clear fluid, beaded at the urethral opening of the extended penis.  Jennys absurd pronouncements echoed in his head. *Try the stallion’s seed, Sören, like the wise women describe.* A wave of nausea mixed with a strange, electric curiosity washed over him. Muscle, raw power, the very essence of this magnificent beast, distilled into a single drop. He glanced around. No one. Just him and the powerful, silent horse. He leaned in, the coarse hair of the horse's flank brushing his cheek, and with a swift, almost involuntary movement, he sucked the sticky drop from the head of the penis. A sudden, undeniable jolt shot through him, a wave of pure, animalistic arousal that bypassed thought entirely. Before logic could reassert itself, he found himself kneeling, his mouth closing around the warm length of the stallion. He began to pull, a slow, deep suction building until he was working the horse’s cock with practiced intensity, the heavy, rhythmic *thwack* of his head against the horse’s belly echoing softly in the stillness. The stallion shifted, a low groan rumbling in his chest, and then Sören felt the hot, thick rush flood his mouth. He swallowed it all, gagging slightly on the sheer volume, the primal taste clinging to his tongue. A deep, throbbing ache bloomed in his groin, spreading heat outward. His own cock, usually responsive only to Jenny's specific touch, began to swell with an alarming speed, hardening against the heavy fabric of his police trousers. “What the hell,” he muttered clutching his rapidly swelling cock through the material. He staggered back, pushing away from the horse, which only stamped a large hoof, unconcerned. The heat intensified, not just sexual, but cellular. His skin felt tight, stretched across muscle that suddenly felt too small for his frame. A searing itch spread across his forehead. He pressed his palms to his temples, feeling hard knobs of bone push through his skin, stretching the flesh until two obsidian horns, curved and sharp, pierced the surface. A searing pain shot from his tailbone, a new weight pushing outward, a thick, serpentine tail segment forcing its way through the tough fabric of his pants. A low, resonant hum vibrated in his chest, a sound that felt ancient and powerful. The transformation accelerated, the air around him growing cold and heavy. With a tearing sound that ripped through his blue uniform shirt and vest, vast, leathery wings—the color of dried blood and midnight shadow—unfurled from his shoulder blades, spanning the width of the stable entrance.

He stood, no longer Sören the police officer, but something vast, muscular, and utterly demonic. He did not understand the power coursing through him, only the overwhelming, intoxicating lust.

He needed Jenny. He needed understanding. With a powerful beat of his new wings, Sören blasted through the stable roof, splintering wood flying into the afternoon air. He flew toward their apartment, a demon of raw, burgeoning power.

Jenny stood frozen in their living room, a book of arcane diagrams open before her, her eyes wide, not with fear, but pure, ecstatic validation. “It worked! Sören, you magnificent fool, it actually worked!” Jenny shrieked, clapping her hands together, a high, ringing sound. “The old texts! Magic is real!” Sören, still reeling from the internal chaos of his metamorphosis, stared down at his new form, the sheer alienness of his horns and wings overwhelming. “What… what happened to me? I feel… too much.”

Jenny stepped forward, circling him slowly, her gaze lingering on the newly defined ridges of his abdomen. “You are magnificent. A creature of shadow. My boring boyfriend is gone.” She laughed, a cruel, bright sound. “Don’t look so shocked. You think I waited for you to get big enough? I found someone else weeks ago.” The revelation struck Sören harder than the transformation. Betrayal cut through the demonic haze of his lust. He roared, a sound that was not human, and blasted backward out of the apartment, shattering the window, propelled by instinct and rage toward the only person he thought might understand impossible change: Elias. The boy obsessed with fantasy worlds might have context.

He flew toward Elias’s apartment and spotted Elias through the bedroom window, bathed in the flickering, artificial glow of a laptop screen. Sören peered through the glass, catching Elias hunched over his desk, hands moving rapidly, eyes fixed on the glowing screen displaying a muscular man, whose cock looked impossibly thick, dominating a voluptuous brunette.

A strange, potent aroma—the very essence of Elias’s rising arousal—drifted upward, an unexpectedly savory, sweet musk that Sören’s new senses greedily inhaled. Sören tasted it— the pure, concentrated and unadulterated desire emanating from the skinny 19 years old teenager. "What in the abyss is this taste?" Sören grumbled.

With a powerful downbeat of his colossal wings, Sören burst through the open window, the rush of air knocking over a stack of role-playing books. Elias’s hand froze mid-stroke, his eyes wide, fixed on the terrifying, magnificent figure now occupying his small room. He could only stammer, pointing a trembling finger at Sören’s horns and the thick, scaled tail whipping behind him. "Y-you—you’re huge! What happened to your uniform? And those—those *things*!" Sören settled his weight, his boots barely touching the worn carpet. “Do you want a piece like that, Elias?” Sören’s voice resonated with a subtle, velvety menace, that vibrated in the small room. He gestured vaguely toward the screen where the porn star’s magnificent erection gleamed. Elias, habitually burdened by the taunts of his classmates regarding his slender frame and what they called his ‘lust wart,’ swallowed hard, the shame resurfaced in a hot flush across his neck. “I… I don’t know what you mean,” he whispered, the admission laced with desperation. “That sculpted perfection on the screen? That weapon?” Sören stepped closer, his fingertips brushing the thin cotton of Elias’s pajama bottoms. Elias’s Shyness melted into a complex-laden longing. “Th-that… the size… they always tease me. I... I wish I had something substantial. Something that wouldn’t make me the butt of every joke." A slow, wicked smile stretched Sören’s lips, "Then let us fix that inadequacy."

Sören hooked his thumbs into the waistband and pulled the thin fabric down, exposing Elias’s flaccid member. Sören’s touch became transformative; he cupped Elias’s small cock, his thumb rubbing the sensitive head, shaping the soft flesh, squeezing the base until the blood rushed forward, hardening the shaft into a surprisingly firm length, the balls swelling taut and heavy beneath his palm and the sparse, pale hair vanished. Elias stood, blinking, then stumbled toward the full-length mirror on the closet door, staring at the magnificent, hairless cock that now jutted proudly from his body. Sören stepped with predatory grace, a wall of muscle and midnight wings, blocking the reflection entirely. He seized Elias’s chin, tilting it sharply upward. “Look at me,” Sören commanded. His lips descended, hot and demanding, and Sören’s tongue, surprisingly smooth yet tipped with a slight, insistent roughness, plunged deep, tasting, sucking the soft palate.  Elias gasped, shoving against the sudden, overwhelming desire the kiss ignited. He recognized the predatory hunger, the draining sensation starting at his core. “No! Stop! You’re an Incubus! You feed on desire. I know the legends!” Sören stepped back, a satisfied smile forming on his lips as he finally understood what he had become. "Delicious, isn't it? You taste like sweet, untapped potential," Elias swallowed hard. "You’re going to drain me!" Sören leaned back, a slow, sinister smirk spreading across his face. "And what if I am?” Elias's voice was tight with desperation before he finally choked out, "I'm too weak to fight it. It'd kill me!" Shaking uncontrollably, he gathered his last ounce of courage and offered a bargain to save himself. Yet, even in the most hopeles moments, he sought to extract a personal advantage. "Here’s a thought: change me entirely. Turn me into someone captivating, utterly alluring. Let me become irresistible in every way. You can draw energy from the desire and passion of the women I conquer, but mine remain untouched. An endless stream of supply for you, Sören." A low, pleased chuckle escaped Sören. “A connoisseur already. I like it.” His thick, scaled tail slid between his muscular thighs, brushing Elias’s newly formed scrotum, and then Sören guided the tail against Elias’s tight, unsuspecting ass “I accept your terms, Elias!” Elias gasped as the tip of the tail pressed against his asshole, a shocking intrusion that stretched him wide. Sören pushed deeper, filling the vacant space. Elias choked on a moan, the shock dissolving into a desperate, consuming need. Sören enclosed them both within the massive, shadowy canopy of his wings. The air inside the dark enclosure grew thick, electric. Elias felt the energy surge, Sören’s demonic power pouring into him, shaping, refining. “Enjoy the process, Elias,” Sören whispered, his voice dark velvet. “You’re about to become everything you ever envied.” The air around Elias grew thick, shimmering with nascent magic. Elias felt his own body rearrange itself under the demonic pressure, bones shifting, skin tightening. His weak parts dissolved, replaced by burgeoning muscle and a heavy, throbbing hardness between his legs. He felt the transformation—the sudden, immense surge of masculine arrogance—and found himself groaning not in fear, but in pure, animalistic delight.

“Yes,” Sören whispered against his ear. “Take it, become the weapon I need you to be.” Elias’s own cock sprang out, thick, corded, and utterly magnificent. He was now a handsome brute, brimming with ravenous desire, ready to hunt.

Elias moved through the city like a predator, sleek and impossibly attractive, his new physique drawing attention everywhere. The bargain held: he took the lovers, he unleashed their desire, and the resulting surge of raw, ecstatic lust flowed back to Sören, a hot, thick nectar that kept the former cop sated and his demonic form stable. The parade of women was endless, each encounter a feast for Sören. But the constant rotation of hollow bodies ended the moment Tiffany walked into his life. She was warmth, not fuel; a slow, steady burn that demanded protection. “I can’t bring her here,” Elias stated, his voice tight. Sören hovered near the ceiling, his massive, black wings rustling like dry leather sheets. “Why not? She smells delicious,” Sören replied, a low purr in his chest. “A full meal, Elias. Stop starving me.” “No. I love her. You feed on her, she wastes away. I won’t do that to Tiffany.” Elias’s fists clenched, knuckles white against the dark skin of his forearms. Sören dropped to the floor, landing silently. He rolled his eyes, the gesture utterly human despite the demonic physiology. “The simplest solution remains the best,” Sören drawled, trailing a clawed finger along Elias’s cheek. “Just find more women. Plenty of lust in this city. Keep the reserves high, and I won't need to sip from your special little cup.” “You want me to cheat on the one person I actually care about?” Elias recoiled from the touch. “You always know what you *won't* do, Elias,” Sören sighed, his impatience evident. “Never a constructive idea. Just feed me.” Elias left the frustrated Incubus and sought out Jenny.

The expensive silk suit strained across Elias’s shoulders as he paced Jenny’s living room. "I can’t keep doing this, Jenny. Tiffany is different." Elias’s newly sculpted jaw tightened, the worry lines stark against the smooth skin Sören had gifted him. "I love her. I won't let him drain her."

Jenny, perched on the edge of the sofa, adjusted the amethyst pendant hanging between her breasts. "A woman can be immunized against an Incubus, but it requires an Incubus to plant his seed without tasting her pleasure. Only true, absolute love provides that iron will." "And how does that help me? I’m not an Incubus," Elias replied, running a hand over the impossibly sculpted planes of his chest. "You can be, temporarily. The wise women say if you only take the pre-cum—the very first drop—from the stallion, you’ll transform until sunrise. You gain the power without the life-long curse." Jenny looked him dead in the eye, her expression serious beneath the usual mystical sheen. "But you have to be fast. Once you turn, the hunger builds exponentially. You must spill your seed into a human without draining them, or you will lose control." Elias nodded, the gravity of the plan settling like a stone in his gut.

He slipped into the cool, dark air of the police stable. The heavy scent of hay, leather, and horse musk filled his lungs. He found the massive stallion, its bulk a warm shadow in the stall. There, on the tip of the semi-hard, heavy cock, glistening in the faint light filtering from the high window, was the single, iridescent bead. He reached out, his tongue darting, scraping the viscous fluid from the sleek magenta head. The taste was metallic, sweet, and searing. A fire exploded in his gut, not just heat, but *power*. His skin stretched. Bone cracked and reformed. Sharp, black horns spiraled from his temples. A heavy, scaly tail whipped behind him, knocking against the stall wall. Then the vast, leathery membranes of his wings unfurled, scraping the low ceiling. He was an Incubus, strong and magnificent.

*Shhh-thump.* The sound of heavy boots echoed from the entryway. Two figures strode into the stable aisle, clad head-to-toe in black, immaculate leather uniforms—jackets stiff, boots polished like obsidian mirrors. They were not patrol officers; they moved with the silent, lethal efficiency of a specialized unit. "There he is," the taller officer, his cap pulled low over cold eyes, clipped out. "The life-drainer." "Wait! You have the wrong person! I—" They didn't listen, "Silence, creature!" They slammed him against the rough wood, the leather squeaking, the cold steel of cuffs snapping tight around his wrists.

They dragged the newly formed demon into a cold, concrete cell. "No! Please! I need to get out! Tiffany!" he screamed, his voice cracking into a raw, desperate moan. The door slammed shut with a deafening *CLANG*. He was alone, stripped of his ability to reach Tiffany. The hunger, promised by Jenny, was no longer a theoretical threat; it was a physical agony, a deep, clawing emptiness in his core demanding to be filled by the vibrant, sweet energy of human desire. He paced the small cell, his new instincts screaming at him. He needed release. He needed flesh. He needed to *feed*. "No," he hissed, fighting the urge to claw at the concrete. "I have to wait. Tiffany..." But the Incubus nature cared nothing for love. It only craved the rush, the high, the sustenance. He dropped to his knees, sweat slicking his brow, the powerful, muscular body he now possessed trembling under the weight of enforced celibacy and starvation. A low, guttural moan tore from his throat, transforming into a desperate, animalistic **AAAAARRRGH!** that bounced off the stone walls. The sun was still hours from rising, and the desire threatened to consume him whole.

The first orange rays of dawn sliced across the dew-dampened paddock, illuminating the breakfast room of the mounted police unit. Sören sat beside Jenny, overlooking the stalls, the chill air thick with the scent of hay and strong coffee. On the table between them, Jenny’s vast, leather-bound *Book of Demons* lay open. A faint, acrid smell of sulfur suddenly stung the air. A tiny, azure flame suddenly flickered from the book’s parchment, pulsed briefly, and rather than consuming itself, solidified into a new page where only blank paper had been moments before. On the left side, a sharp drawing of Elias stood out, with his slightly bewildered yet intense dark eyes. To the right, a full-page illustration: Elias, but not the gangly teenager; this was an Incubus with massive, bat-like wings, curved horns, and impressive musculature. Below the image, the name ‘Elias’ appeared in flowing script.

In that exact moment, as the image stabilized, Sören felt a strange tingling sensation. His reflection in the window glass changed instantly. The heavy, ridged horns that crowned his head dissolved into his scalp, leaving smooth skin. The vast, black membranes of his wings vanished, sucking the shadows from the corners of the room. The thick, muscular tail that had coiled beneath the table retracted, leaving only the familiar ridge of his spine. He stood, not in the rugged tactical gear of a police officer, nor the minimal leather of the demon, but in a three-piece suit of midnight-black satin. The white silk shirt beneath was unbuttoned low, exposing the newly defined musculature of his chest—a physique the old, gym-obsessed Sören had only dreamed of. The outfit was pure, unadulterated sensuality, a garment screaming of confidence and dark success. The old Sören, the dutiful police rider, would never have dared wear such audacious fabric, but this man radiated a dangerous, effortless sexuality and merely adjusted the cuff.

“How do you feel, darling?” Jenny sipped her coffee, her eyes gleaming with triumphant satisfaction. “Fantastic.” He smiled, and this smile was no longer the slightly strained expression of a man always lead by duty, but broad, confident, and hungry. “I want you. Here. Now.” Jenny laughed, a bright, clear sound. She saw her boring, predictable boyfriend successfully optimized. “My little experiment worked,” she murmured, gently closing the book. “The loyalty of the old Sören, the raw, demanding libido of the Incubus. Perfect boyfriend material.” The last lover she had, that constant womanizer, hadn't lasted long anyway -his wandering eyes proving tiresome.

They rose, their footsteps briefly echoing down the hallway that led to the cell. Just a few feet away from the comforting sounds of the horses in the paddock, Elias sat. He sprang up as the door was unlocked, his eyes wide, his face etched with desperation. His skin stretched tight over the Incubus muscles he had developed overnight. “This is a mistake! The men in leather, they’re coming back! What are they going to do?” Elias’s words choked in his throat as he stared at Sören. His eyes darted over Sören’s immaculate, human face, the elegant suit, the missing horns, the absence of the tail. “You’re not an Incubus anymore,” he remarked, his voice a startled croak. Jenny stepped into the cell, her expression taking on a fleeting look of pity before vanishing. “Love, my dear, and the fact that you only licked the pre-cum, made you a weak Incubus.” Sören stepped beside her, his presence filling the small space. He looked at Elias like a breeder inspecting a particularly stubborn foal. “I know exactly what you’re thinking, Jen,” Sören purred, running a hand over the smooth, expensive satin of his lapel. “If I can train police horses, I suppose I can handle a young, inexperienced Incubus.” He stepped closer to Elias, his new presence radiating authority, far more potent than his old uniform ever had. “Jen, you always wanted a pet, didn’t you, my love?” He pulled Jenny close and kissed her deeply, the kiss possessive and demanding, the kind she had only dreamed of from the old Sören. “Thank you for tricking Elias, just as we agreed. Now he takes my place. And thank you,” he pulled back, his eyes sparkling with wicked satisfaction, “for strengthening my libido through my time as the Incubus and turning me into perfect boyfriend material. It feels wonderful.” Jenny chuckled inwardly, her eyes narrowing into satisfied slits. She found it amusing that he labeled himself ‘perfect boyfriend material’ and was even thanking her for fundamentally altering his personality. Elias let out a sound of disbelief. They planned to make him their pet? He wanted to protest, his Incubus instincts screaming for freedom, for dominance. “Sit.” Sören issued the command in a deep, authoritative voice that brooked no contradiction. It was the voice of a man accustomed to demanding obedience. Elias’s body reacted before his mind could process it. The power in Sören’s tone, the transference of dominance, was irresistible.

His knees buckled; he sank to the cold concrete floor. “Yes, Master.” The word escaped him as an almost inaudible whisper. Elias knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that the single word of obedience had sealed his transformation from man to pet. Jenny stepped closer, looking down at the kneeling Elias. “Sören is proud now that I turned him into a perfect boyfriend. And you, Elias, you will soon be just as proud to be our pet.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a seductive murmur. “You will be just as wonderfully obedient and utterly willful as Sören is now,” Jenny finished, a victorious glint in her eyes. Elias stared at the floor, his mind screaming rejection, but to his own horror, a wave of arousal began to rise within him, triggered by the thought of being completely dominated. The rising wave of lust confirmed his deepest, most terrifying fear: he was getting addicted to his own degradation. The idea of becoming their trained, mindless pet was terrifying—and irrevocably, thrillingly *hot*.

Paladin -> Demon

The powers of Good are such a fickle thing. You have to truly believe in them with all your heart...

But what happens when a demon has entered your heart and soul? Poor Paladin. Nothing to draw strength from. Now just a warrior like any other, and to a Demon, as open as any other.

But worry not. The Demon will protect and smother him with pleasures and delights mortals cannot comprehend... until the end of time.

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.