Heya, i see you're running out of cotsumes. Is the college republican blazer still available? I'm a new teacher and I'd like a costume to relive my college days haha. If not, I'll take a surprise.
You only meant to find something stupid.
It was supposed to be harmless—just a costume shop, just a joke.
You’d stayed late at school grading essays, and on the walk home you noticed the Enigma Emporium: Halloween Express squatting between two boarded-up storefronts. It hadn’t been there yesterday. Its windows were blackened, the neon sign sputtering in sickly orange, buzzing like an insect’s wings. A crooked cardboard pumpkin in the window leered with its teeth caved inward.
Inside, it smelled of dust, cheap latex, and something older—like a church attic that hadn’t been opened in decades. The floorboards groaned as you walked past racks of polyester costumes: pirate hats, vampire cloaks, inflatable sumo suits. It all looked cheap, disposable. But the mannequins—god, the mannequins—stood too close together, their plastic arms bent at unnatural angles, their painted eyes scratched off as if someone had tried to claw them out.
You muttered under your breath, “Jesus. Creepy as hell.”
Still, you were here for something silly. Maybe a toga, something to relive college Greek Week. You weren’t expecting… fabric. Real fabric. Tucked behind a row of devil capes, you found a blazer.
It was wrong. Out of place. Navy wool, heavy as if soaked in some other century. The buttons gleamed like brass teeth, and the lining was a deep, bloody red. It smelled faintly of cigar smoke and something acidic—like sweat dried into cloth and never washed out.
Without thinking, you slid your arms into the sleeves.
The instant the fabric touched your skin, the air left your lungs.
The weight hit first. Shoulders forced wider, as if someone had jammed iron rods beneath your collarbones and was cranking them apart. You gasped, heard the muffled crack of cartilage stretching, bones scraping against themselves. The blazer seemed to shrink, pulling tight, locking around you like a second skin.
Your biceps twitched violently. Muscle fibers swelled and thickened beneath your shirt, veins rising like cords. You staggered forward into the cracked mirror, bracing yourself on the dusty frame.
You expected your reflection. You didn’t get it.
The face in the glass grinned back at you with a jaw sharper than yours, eyes too bright, too smug. Blond hair that wasn’t yours fell in effortless waves, styled like some frat boy’s recruitment poster.
You wheezed. “No… that’s not me.”
The blazer clung tighter. You could feel it crawling. Not fabric anymore—something alive, writhing across your chest, sliding beneath your ribs. Your pecs surged outward, heavy mounds of muscle that strained your shirt buttons until they nearly snapped. Your abs convulsed as if worms wriggled inside, tightening into hard, square bricks. Each contraction was agony, like your own flesh was being carved into blocks by invisible chisels.
You slapped your own stomach. It was rigid, alien. Not your body. Not your shape.
A sound whispered in your ear. Not a voice exactly, but a hiss stitched into your skull like thread pulling through fabric:
Stronger.
Broader.
Not you anymore.
Your throat clenched. You tried to cry out—tell it no, rip the jacket off—but your jaw clicked into a new shape, cheekbones jutting forward, teeth grinding together. When you finally opened your mouth, the voice wasn’t your own.
“Fucking libs… ruining this country…”
You froze. The words had come out without permission. Hot bile rose in your throat.
The blazer pulsed against your chest, warm, wet, almost like it was feeding on you. Each throb carried another word you’d never say, trying to drag itself from your tongue:
Snowflakes.
Beta.
Woke trash.
You clawed at the sleeves, nails scratching until they bled, but the fabric only tightened, threading deeper into your arms. Your biceps bulged higher, triceps pressing outward, grotesque, swollen. Every time the mirror flickered, the stranger inside grinned wider—like he already owned your body, your voice, your future.
The blazer whispered again, louder this time, almost a laugh:
You staggered back from the mirror, your chest heaving. The blazer wasn’t just clothing anymore—it was feeding. Each pulse against your ribs felt like a parasite burrowing deeper, rooting itself into your veins.
You tried to scream, but the sound that came out wasn’t yours.
It was deeper. Heavier. A smug, entitled drawl.
“Bruh… look at these gains…”
Your hand flew to your mouth. You hadn’t meant to say it. The words had been dragged out of you.
Then came the voice inside—clearer now, not whispers but sharp, barking orders that shoved aside your own thoughts:
Speak louder. Everyone needs to hear you.
Shut down the fags, the freaks, the libs.
You’re the man now. Say it. Say it.
Your lips trembled. “No. I’m a teacher. I care about my students, about truth—”
The blazer constricted, ribs creaking under the pressure. Your breath hitched. The mirror rippled, showing you standing at a podium, microphone shoved in your face, shouting about “campus indoctrination.” Your throat swelled with heat. When you tried again to speak, your voice broke down into syllables, reshaping one by one:
“L… li… lib…” you stammered.
“Libtards, man. Fuckin’ pathetic.”
The word shot from your mouth before you could stop it. You clapped your hands over your lips, horrified, but the damage was done. Your reflection flexed, pecs bouncing on command, grin plastered wide across his perfect frat-boy jaw.
And then came the body shocks.
Your bones cracked like knuckles being popped—loud, hideous snaps echoing in the empty shop. You shrank. Inch by inch, your spine compressed, vertebrae grinding together until you buckled to your knees. Your shoes scuffed against the rotten floorboards. You gasped, realizing with a lurch of sickness that you were shrinking.
“Wh-what—what the fuck—” you choked, but the words were drowned out by the sound of fabric ripping.
The blazer didn’t shrink with you. It stayed broad, swollen, so your frame crunched smaller inside it. Five-nine, five-six, five-three—until you settled at a squat, brutish five-foot-two, body packed into muscle that looked grotesque on your short frame. A cartoon of “alpha male,” absurd and horrifying.
You stumbled forward. Between your thighs, another change began.
At first it was pressure, then heat, then a searing pain like flesh being cauterized. You screamed, clutching yourself—only to feel your cock withering. Inch after inch sucked back into your groin like a dying worm.
“No! No, please, oh god—”
But the blazer pulsed, cruel, triumphant. The voice laughed in your skull:
Don’t need size, bro. You’re a short king now. A fucking weapon. Loud. Arrogant. Pussy don’t care about inches, they care about attitude.
You sobbed, pressing your palms between your thighs, but when the burning stopped you were left with nothing but a nub—pathetic, shrunken, barely four inches when hard. The humiliation seared through you, twisting your gut.
The mirror showed the stranger again—short, jacked, smirking, cocky, his hands on his hips. His voice bellowed over yours, hijacking your throat:
“Size don’t matter, bro! Fuckin’ kings don’t measure, they conquer! God, I’d rail that woke little slut in my poli-sci class. Bet she’s dying for this dick.”
You gagged. Tears blurred your eyes. Inside your skull, your own thoughts screamed, desperate: I’m gay, I’m liberal, I’m decent, I’m not this, I’m not—
But the infection crawled deeper. Every liberal conviction was pulled out by the root and replaced with static. Gay rights became fag agenda. Feminism became bitches need discipline. Diversity became illegals stealing jobs.
You tried to remember the faces of your friends, your old self, your students. But the voice roared louder, until memory itself began to splinter.
The blazer throbbed one final command, a hiss so loud it drowned the shop:
Get louder. Get seen. Be the voice. Be the alpha. Take. Take. Take.
Your reflection laughed, flexing in grotesque triumph. And your mouth laughed too, even as your mind screamed in silence.
The mirror swam in front of you, your face a twitching battleground. Your lips trembled, trying to speak some kind of prayer, some tether to who you were.
The word faltered, caught in your throat. You pushed harder. “Gay. I’m gay.”
But the sound warped halfway out. The syllable cracked in two, reshaped by the voice squatting in your chest.
You slapped both hands over your mouth. The word vibrated through your palms anyway. Hot, vulgar, alien. But the worst part? It had felt natural saying it. Like your tongue was designed for it.
The blazer pulsed. The voice sneered in your ear:
Say it again. Say it louder.
You shook your head violently. “No! I’m… gay!”
Your reflection’s lips moved in perfect sync with yours, except it was his word that came out clear, ringing, final.
Your chest rattled with a dry cough that broke into laughter—not yours, but spilling from your throat all the same.
“I’m a lib…” you tried to declare, desperate, your whole body quivering. “I’m a libe—”
“Libtard.” The syllables snapped like a rubber band across your tongue.
You convulsed, spitting the word into the dusty shop air. It stank on your breath. Your reflection beamed with teeth so straight, so smug, as your own stomach turned.
“No,” you whimpered. “Liberal. I’m a lib-er-al.”
The syllables came out broken, halting, as if chewed on their way up:
“Lib… lib… lib… tard.”
The blazer constricted again, and something inside you snapped. The word “tard” rang loud in your skull, ringing until it carved out a place where “er-al” used to be. Your thoughts scrambled, searching for the clean, correct word. It was gone.
You swallowed, trembling. The memory of “liberal” felt foreign now. Like a term you’d once read in a dusty textbook. Like a word you’d mocked, sneering at how soft and weak it sounded.
You doubled over. More words came. The voice dragged them out of you one by one, each syllable stripped and nailed down in its vulgar new form.
“I believe in equ…” you began, desperate.
“Di-ver—fuckin’ illegals.”
“Pro-lif—killing babies.”
Your own voice betrayed you, syllables sliding and snapping into sneers before you could choke them back. You clutched your head, nails digging into your scalp as if you could hold the words in. But the blazer only pulsed harder, each throb syncing with a new corruption.
The word community became clique of freaks.
The word compassion became weakness.
The word justice became bullshit.
You sobbed openly now, body twitching as your tongue spat filth you didn’t believe but couldn’t stop:
“F-fag—libtard—illegals—weak-ass snowflakes—”
Every time you said them, a piece of you went duller. The memories behind the old words blurred. “Gay” had once meant love, meant pride, meant your boyfriends, your exes, your friends at Pride marches. Now it was just a punchline, a jeer in the locker room.
You tried one last time, voice cracking. “I believe in—”
But the sentence cut short. Your throat seized. Then the voice inside you bellowed through your mouth, triumphant and crude:
“I believe in ME, bro. Alpha. King. Fuck everyone else.”
The sound filled the shop like a war horn. Your reflection roared with laughter, pounding his short, thick chest. And despite yourself, you laughed too.
The infection had rooted deeper.
The laughter bellowing out of you was no longer nervous or horrified. It was steady. Resonant. Confident. The kind of laugh that filled a room and dared anyone else to challenge it.
You staggered forward, clutching the mirror’s edge, staring at the figure grinning back. Your reflection’s shoulders were massive, capped with meat, tapering down into arms so thick they looked more like steel beams than flesh. Veins crawled down from rounded biceps into heavy forearms, cords of power coiling and flexing whenever you clenched your fists.
Your chest swelled next. The blazer squeezed to contain it, fabric groaning, as your pecs pushed out broad and square, striations splitting across the thick slabs of muscle. They jutted like armor plates, proud and heavy. Below, your stomach seized, muscles crunching tight as if carved from stone. Each ab block rose sharp, obliques etching in at the sides, funneling into the V of a waist so narrow it made your upper body look titanic by comparison.
You flexed — not because you wanted to, but because your body demanded to be admired. Every movement threw shadows over the ridges of your frame. Every angle was power.
Your jaw cracked forward, widening, sharpening, until it cut clean lines across your reflection. Cheekbones rose high, hard enough to catch the dim shoplight. Your lips pulled into an easy smirk, your eyes narrowing with calm, unshakable confidence. The kind that didn’t need to shout to prove itself — though you would shout, when it got you what you wanted.
Your hair spilled into loose waves, every strand falling into place without effort, styled like nature itself worshipped you. A face built for propaganda posters. A face built to sneer down at the weak.
You didn’t look like a victim anymore. You looked like a sculpted powerhouse.
Inside, your thoughts reeled, old words clinging like scraps. Teacher. Gay. Liberal. Compassion. Equality.
But every attempt to say them cracked apart, twisted syllable by syllable until nothing soft survived.
“Te… te…” you tried. “Teach—”
“Leader.” the voice snapped, filling the gap.
“Man. Straight as steel.”
The blazer pulsed, and you felt the old self burning away, leaving only a hard, white-hot core of pride. You tried to picture your friends, your past, but the faces blurred into faceless shadows. Replaced by bonfires, flags, the roar of crowds chanting in unison as you stood before them, chest bared, arms raised, veins popping with power.
Your lips moved on their own, sealing it in:
“My name’s… Blake. Blake Stanton. Always been.”
The name hit like a branding iron. Your skin flushed with heat. The mirror smiled — your smile — white, perfect teeth gleaming beneath the sharp lines of your jaw.
Blake Stanton. Wide shouldered. Musclebound. White. Proud. A man who didn’t apologize, didn’t bend, didn’t waste time with “tolerance.” A sculpted powerhouse built to dominate.
The blazer’s grip loosened at last. Not because it was giving you back your freedom, but because it didn’t need to hold you anymore. You were Blake. And Blake didn’t resist. Blake flexed, calm and sure, admiring the perfection that had replaced the weakling who’d walked in.
You belonged to the mirror now.
The red camera light blinked in your face, and you leaned into it like it belonged to you. Your shoulders stretched the seams of your white polo, pecs pressing so hard against the fabric that your nipples left faint outlines. Your arms folded across your chest, veins bulging thick down your forearms, your smirk daring anyone to look away.
“You’re done, bro,” you bark, voice loud, deep, cocky. “Whole country’s sick of your woke shit. You’re a fuckin’ cuck. A loser. Cry harder about your pronouns while real men build this nation.”
Your fist slammed against the desk. The interviewer flinched like a whipped dog, stammering as he gathered his papers. You leaned forward just enough to watch him scurry.
“Interview over. Get the fuck outta my face.”
The door shut behind him and you burst out laughing, that deep rolling bark that always gets your bros hyped. You sit back in your chair, legs spread wide, grabbing the thick bulge in your sweats and squeezing with a lazy grin.
“Fuckin’ cuck,” you mutter again, savoring the word. Feels good now. Feels right.
Your dorm room smells like sweat and victory — iron tang of weights, musky cologne clinging to clothes in a pile on the floor, stale beer. Flags drape the walls: stars, stripes, and the black-and-white iron cross. The place screams you.
Your phone buzzes, screen lighting with texts from your boys:
King shit bro, crushed that lib.
Blake bruh, shots tonight??
Got girls pullin up, you bringin that Stanton cock??
A grin spreads across your face. These are your people. Your blood.
Memories surge up like they’ve always been there — your dad clapping your shoulder at eighteen, barking pride into your ear at the rally. Your mom smiling from the porch, telling you you’re the spitting image of your grandfather. The bonfires, cheap beer, blonde girls leaning into your arms, their perfume mixing with smoke as you wrapped your thick hands around their waists.
That’s your life. Always has been. Always will be.
Your cock throbs in your sweats. You grab your phone, thumbing through Tindr, swiping fast. Blonde after blonde flashes by — filters, pouts, tits pressed together in bathroom mirrors. Trashy. Perfect. Exactly what you want.
“C’mon baby…” you mutter, abs tightening as your cock stiffens against the fabric. “Daddy Blake’s ready to fuck you raw.”
Ding. Match. You laugh, sharp and cocky, fingers flying.
yo u free rn? got this thick fuckin cock waiting.
Reply, almost instant: omg ur hot lol, where u at?
Your grin stretches wider. You stand, tugging your sweats down just enough to admire the heavy bulge tenting forward, then flex in the mirror. Wide shoulders. Broad chest. Abs carved sharp like stone. Hair perfect without trying. A white king.
The guy who used to stare into this mirror? Dead. Forgotten.
You’re Blake Stanton now. Loud. Proud. Strong.
And tonight? You’re gonna fuck.
