Heyo. Welcome to my page! I like doing MTF and TGTF stories. I prefer to write them from the third person perspective, and usually those who deserve it, but I’m open. Leave comments for what characters or situations you’d like to see! I am on IOS, so if I suddenly disappear someday… it’s cause they finally removed all support for IOS.

After years apart, your brother Markus was finally back in town. You couldn’t believe it when he called, saying he was coming to stay with you for a little summer vacation. What he didn’t mention until he arrived was that he wasn’t alone—he had gotten married. His wife, Jesse, was beautiful, but there was something guarded about her. She laughed rarely, her smiles fleeting, and while she looked at Markus with affection, there was often a certain dryness in her gaze that left you quietly puzzled. Still, you were happy just to meet her and have your brother close again. The days passed in a haze of heat and long conversations. Then, one afternoon, Markus announced he’d be heading out for the weekend to catch up with some old friends. He left Jesse behind, promising it wouldn’t be long. You didn’t mind; it gave you and Jesse a chance to get to know each other better… though the timing couldn’t have been worse. The summer heat had hit its peak, thick and sweltering, turning every movement into an effort. After seeing Markus off, you and Jesse collapsed onto the worn couch, the fans doing little to chase away the oppressive warmth. The air between you was heavy with more than just the weather—an awkward tension lingered, uncertain and fragile, as the reality of being alone together finally settled in.

Dr. Bill Morison had always been a relic of a bygone era—an aging professor clinging desperately to the brittle pages of his yellowed, outdated textbooks. With his slow, gravelly drawl that scraped like rusted metal, he turned even the liveliest of literature into an unbearable chore. Phones were strictly banned in his classroom, his voice rising with righteous indignation anytime he spotted a screen. “Distraction,” he’d bark, as if the mere existence of modern technology was a personal affront. His lectures dragged like molasses, each class an hour-long funeral procession for joy. You dreaded every moment, trapped by graduation requirements and the ironclad grip of his tenure. Today was the worst. With a scowl sharper than usual, he’d snatched your phone the moment you’d checked the time, his eyes full of judgment. After class, you trudged to his office—walls lined with books from decades past—and endured his thunderous sermon on “the decay of young minds.” He paced as he ranted, waving your phone like a cursed relic. But then… something shifted. At first, it was subtle—his posture straightened, the tremble in his voice smoothing out. Wrinkles faded from his cheeks, like time slipping backward across his skin. His hair darkened and softened, reshaping into a short, stylish bob. He continued griping about “YouTube garbage” and “texting nonsense,” seemingly unaware as his body narrowed, thinned, and his voice pitched into a soft, nasal squeak. His shirt shrank, buttons popping loose, fabric reforming into a tight tank top that hugged a delicate frame. Slacks re-knitted into a pleated mini skirt, socks swirling upward into bright rainbow tights. Sensible shoes melted into laced, leather boots. Where once stood a grumbling old man, now stood a freckled, bespectacled girl in her early twenties—bookish, awkwardly cute, and entirely unaware of the transformation she’d just undergone.

Serene joined the office last week. She’s quiet, disciplined, and always the first to arrive, coffee in hand, scanning the room like she’s sizing up a battlefield. There’s something about her—maybe the way she stands, back straight like a steel rod, or how her eyes flick toward every sudden movement—that makes it clear she’s fresh from a different world. A world of strict orders, heavy boots, and the constant hum of danger. She doesn’t talk much about her time in the military. You only catch bits and pieces—how she served overseas, how she came back with more scars than she left with, though most of them aren’t the kind you can see. She tries to hide it, the way her shoulders tense at the sound of a dropped stapler, how she grips the edge of her desk a little too tightly when someone sneaks up behind her. It’s in the way she pauses before walking into a crowded room, her jaw tightening just for a second, like she’s bracing for something that never comes. But she’s not just a soldier out of place. She’s sharp, quick-witted when she lets her guard down, and fiercely loyal. She’s the kind of person who notices when someone’s having a bad day, even if she won’t talk about her own. And despite the ghosts that follow her, she’s trying. Trying to settle into this world of spreadsheets and small talk, of deadlines instead of deployments.

The war between the Dragon Empire and the allied realms had raged for years, a relentless struggle of fire and steel. The dragons sought dominion over all lands, their greed insatiable, their hunger for conquest matched only by their thirst for treasure. But on this day, neither side claimed victory. The battle had been brutal, steel clashing against scale, fire meeting spell and arrow. But as the skies darkened, fate intervened—not by blade or claw, but by nature’s wrath. A great storm descended upon the battlefield, its winds howling through the trees, its torrents drowning the fires of war. The fighting turned to chaos, dragons struggling to stay aloft, warriors slipping in the mud as lightning split the heavens. Then came the silence. When your senses returned, the storm had passed, leaving only destruction in its wake. The earth was soaked in blood and rain, the corpses of soldiers and dragons alike littering the broken battlefield. No banners remained to claim the land, no victors to celebrate conquest. The forest, once alive with the sounds of war, now lay still, an empty graveyard beneath an ashen sky. You moved through the wreckage, stepping over the fallen, searching for any sign of life. Friend or foe, it did not matter now, only the dead remained. But then, a sound. A sharp breath, ragged and pained. She was there. Pinned to a tree by a spear, a massive wing torn and useless, lay a dragoness. Her scaled body bore the marks of battle, her once-pristine armor cracked, the regal symbols of her kind marred by blood and mud. Her cold blue eyes, fierce even in pain, locked onto you. A survivor.

Betty was always the quiet one. She sat in the back of class, buried in her books, never speaking to anyone. Short, awkward, with oversized glasses, she was an easy target for the popular kids. Every day, they tormented her, snide comments, cruel jokes, the usual. It made you sick to watch, but you never did anything about it. One day, you passed her in the hallway, and something was different. She walked with her head a little higher, her shoulders straighter. You thought maybe she wouldn’t come back the next day, but when you saw her again, she was there, same place, same routine, but there was a shift. Slowly, at first. Her clothes fit a little differently, her posture a little less slouched, her eyes more focused. Was it confidence? Curiosity? You weren’t sure. The changes kept coming. Every day, she grew a little more confident, a little more… curvy. Her once-nerdy look started to change; her clothes were tighter, her hair more styled. And her behavior was different, too. She was saying less, but what she did say wasn’t quite the same. It was flirtatious, empty, like she’d forgotten who she used to be. Before long, she was laughing at the same kids who used to bully her. She was one of them now, part of the popular crowd, and you couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of awe and regret. When you finally had a moment to talk to her, it hit you, Betty wasn’t just different, she had completely transformed.

At senior prom, you stand in the center of the gym, a beacon of perfection. The prom king, the star athlete, always surrounded by admiration. The music pulses, the crowd sways, and you bask in it, the attention, the power, the popularity that gives you dominion over the other students. Then, something shifts. A soft breeze curls through the gym, subtle but unsettling. A chill runs down your spine. Your chest feels tighter, your shoulders heavier. Your hands thinner. Panic flickers as you lift them to your face. Your sharp jawline softens, your hair lightens, losing its carefully styled perfection. Laughter swirls around you, but it feels distant. Your clothes hang differently, your posture slouches, and suddenly, glasses slide down your nose, glasses you’ve never worn before. Something is wrong. Your heart pounds as you step back, excusing yourself before anyone notices. A strange weight settles over you, unfamiliar and suffocating. Stumbling toward the back of the gym, you press against the cool metal of the bleachers, breath shaky. Then, you see it, your reflection in a nearby window. But the person staring back isn’t you. Not the confident, admired version of you. This person is smaller, quieter, petite and feminine, someone who has never stood in the center of any room. And for the first time, you understand what it feels like to be on the outside looking in.

The night was cool as you walked the cobbled streets, the familiar clink of your boots echoing through the town. The low hum of activity from the inns and taverns was always there, but tonight it felt different. Warren, your senior, was supposed to be patrolling with you. Instead, he was indulging in his usual habits, more interested in his stomach and mug than the task at hand. You had grown used to it, or rather resigned to it, but there was something unsettling about how little attention he paid to the town. His knowledge of the local taverns and inns was uncanny, he could find the best seats, the finest drinks, and always managed to befriend the most questionable patrons. Every time you came across a new disturbance or threat, it was always you who did the work. Warren’s expertise lay elsewhere. That night, it was the opening of a new club, the Demon’s Dungeons. You’d heard the rumors, the whispers of what went on inside, but you couldn’t care less. You would have patrolled it and been done with it, but Warren insisted on going in. It was one thing for him to visit old haunts, but now, this was new ground. The last straw. An hour passed. Your patrol went uneventfully, too uneventfully. The sense of something amiss gnawed at you. You walked back to the club, determined to confront him. When you entered, you weren’t prepared for what you saw. Warren, still unmistakably in his armor, was sitting on a plush couch, but there was no mistaking it. Her body was curvy, feminine. Demoness clung to her sides, laughing, whispering, and making her blush. Each touch seemed to mold her more, the edges of masculinity fading with each flirtatious gesture. Her eyes falling on you.

Ken was the worst kind of roommate; loud, lazy, and completely inconsiderate. He treated the apartment like his personal pigsty, dropping dirty laundry wherever he pleased and leaving half-eaten food to rot on the coffee table. Worst of all, he had no shame in helping himself to your carefully prepared meals, grinning through a mouthful of your leftovers while calling you a neat freak. No matter how many times you complained, the Residence Assistance Office wouldn’t move you, too many students, not enough rooms. The best they could do was make him promise to be more responsible. And of course, that was a joke. Tonight was supposed to be his turn to cook. Instead, he lounged on the couch, eyes locked onto the game, fingers stained orange from another stolen bag of chips. You sighed, resigning yourself to another night of takeout, and turned back to your work. Then something flickered at the edge of your vision. A shift, subtle at first, his slouched form straightened, muscles relaxing as though tension he never cared about melted away. His hair lengthened, dark strands spilling over his forehead, growing softer, fuller. The harshness in his face smoothed, cheekbones lifting, lips becoming plush, almost delicate. His usual cocky, dull expression faded into something poised, aware. Without a word, he, now she, rose, moving toward the kitchen with a grace that hadn’t been there moments ago. Her hands, smaller now, softer, reached for the ingredients on the counter, beginning the meal Ken never would have bothered with. Then she stopped, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. Her hands trembled. Her breath hitched. And then, in a voice that was no longer his, she called out for you.

You work at the local grocery store, and it’s a decent job. You handle cashiering, cart gathering, returns, just the usual tasks. It’s an easy rhythm, until Chloe, the local Karen, shows up. She’s always complaining: returning milk just a day before it expires, yelling over tiny mistakes, and demanding discounts with expired coupons. Today’s no different. Chloe stands impatiently as you scan her items, muttering insults the whole time. You’re fed up, and under your breath, you mutter, “I just wish you could feel an ounce of empathy for me.” Chloe freezes, narrowing her eyes. The words hanging in the air as if… heard. “Empathy? For a loser retail worker like you?” She snarls. Her clothes shimmer, transforming into the store uniform you wear. Her posture straightens, but her face softens. “Ungrateful brats like you doesn’t deserve it,” She says, but her voice is now higher, almost whiny. Her figure changes, her waist slimming, her chest fills out, and her face grows younger, softer. “What? Am I supposed to feel grateful that some incompetent, stuttering brat is bagging my groceries?” Chloe snaps, but her voice trembles now, shy. She flushes, her cheeks pink. “W-well I’m… I’m not! O-okay?” She stammers, pouting, her once-commanding presence now replaced by a cute, shy, college-aged girl. The transformation is complete, Chloe, the Karen, is gone, replaced by someone new.

The lab was a place of absolute secrecy, tucked away beneath layers of government clearance and guarded by technology so advanced it was nearly invisible. As the lead scientist, you were entrusted with a project that could alter the very fabric of human cognition: a drug designed to influence and enhance the mind in ways never before imagined. You worked tirelessly, day and night, refining the formula, pushing the boundaries of what was possible. The drug was potent, dangerously so, and yet, despite all your efforts, something always felt just out of reach. The stakes were high. You knew the government’s interest in your work was both a blessing and a curse. The potential applications of the drug were endless, but with power came risk. And it wasn’t just the government that coveted your research. Whispers of leaks had reached your ears, rumors of a criminal organization growing increasingly interested in your project. They had learned too much, and they wanted it for themselves. The situation had become dire, but you couldn’t stop. The drug, the breakthrough, these things consumed you. It was late into the night when the infiltration happened. Bree, an assassin skilled in stealth and manipulation, slipped into the shadows of your lab. Her mission was clear: steal the research and eliminate anyone who stood in her way. She moved quietly, her presence a mere whisper in the darkened lab. You were bent over your workstation, oblivious to the approaching danger, consumed by the drug’s final test. Then, a sharp noise. A flash of movement. Before you could react, she was upon you, gun in hand. The threat was immediate, deadly. As the barrel of the pistol pointed at your head, instinct kicked in. You reached for the syringe, a last desperate measure, and drove it into her foot. She shuddered, her body jerking, but even through the sudden rush, she smirked. But she wasn’t the one in control now.

It was just another day in chemistry class, and you were stuck working alongside Hank, the school’s infamous jock. He never took anything seriously, often mocking you in between goofs, but at least he was smart enough to let you handle the hard work while he took the credit. Today was no different, until his reckless handling of a chemical mixture caused a violent explosion, sending a cloud of smoke billowing through the air. The blast singed his face, leaving streaks of soot and ash across his features. As he wiped it off, his expression remained oblivious, unaware that the residue clung stubbornly to his lips, his clothes, and even his hair. His friends laughed, but Hank didn’t seem to notice. At lunch, something felt off. Hank was quieter than usual, sitting apart from his friends, his gaze distant. His golden tan had faded, his once dark hair now a dull, dirty blonde. He wore his uniform differently, almost as though it were tailored to fit a smaller, leaner frame. His muscles had softened, his posture less imposing, and there was something about him, or rather, her, that looked unfamiliar. Hank was becoming someone else. In English, as you read Edgar Allan Poe aloud, you glanced over at Hank. She, who was now undeniably a she, sat at her desk, absorbed by the dark literature in a way Hank never had. Her hair had darkened, the blonde turning to deep black strands cascading around her face, contrasting with the pale skin. Her body had slimmed, gaining delicate curves in places where there had once been only muscle. She wasn’t just different in appearance; there was a quiet confidence in her demeanor, a soft femininity that contrasted sharply with the jock Hank had been. By the time the bell rang, you were left with a heavy sense of unease. After school, as you walked through the empty halls, Heather, Hank’s new form, found you, her gaze sharp, her presence undeniable.

The sun hung high over the rolling hills outside the city, casting long shadows over the dirt path leading to your next challenge the second gym. The journey had been tough so far, but your team was shaping up well, each battle honing your skills. Now, just outside the city gates, you found yourself face to face with your rival, Grace. She had been your competition since the start, pushing you to train harder, battle smarter. This was the moment you had been waiting for the chance to prove yourself against her. Heart pounding, you grabbed a Pokéball from your belt, feeling the cool metal in your hand. Without hesitation, you hurled it forward, calling on your Glaceon to lead the fight. But something went wrong. The Poké Ball sailed too far, slipping past the intended arc. Before either of you could react, it struck Grace squarely on the forehead. A startled cry escaped her lips, but then, impossibly, the ball opened, and a red flash of energy engulfed her. In an instant, she was gone. You froze. That wasn’t how Poké Balls worked. Humans couldn’t be captured. Even more impossible, Glaceon was still inside. The ball shook. Once. Twice. A third time. Then… click. The silence that followed was deafening. Hands trembling, you reached down, staring at the ball resting in the dirt. This was unreal. Impossible. Yet, it had happened. With a mix of fear and curiosity, you took a deep breath and tossed it. A burst of white light erupted, and as the form inside took shape, your breath caught in your throat. Standing before you wasn’t Grace. Not entirely. Her form had changed ears pointed, icy fur lacing her skin, her once-human features blending seamlessly with the unmistakable traits of a Glaceon. She had fused with your Pokémon. And now, she stood staring back at you, just as stunned as you were.

The night was electric, a blur of flashing lights, pulsing music, and the rhythmic beat of the crowd at the frat house rave. You’d come to escape the suffocating weight of Professor Rebecca Langley’s relentless assignments and impossible expectations. The woman was everywhere on every syllabus, in every lecture hall, always lecturing about hard work, discipline, and the value of endless studying. But here, in this moment, you could forget all that. The drinks flowed freely, the people were loose, and for once, you could just enjoy being young. That was, until she showed up. Professor Langley, her stern face twisted in a permanent scowl, was pushing her way through the throngs of students, her eyes darting with fury. She had no business being here, you thought she was a presence on campus, yes, but never in a place like this. The woman had no time for fun. She was too busy running your life with a stack of textbooks and endless assessments. And yet, here she was, storming through the dance floor, intent on ending the party and forcing everyone back into their books. You tried to block her way, just to stop her from causing more trouble, but something strange was happening. With every bump and nudge from the crowd, her body seemed to shift. She was shrinking, her posture softening, her face growing smoother with each moment. Her tight bun unraveled, her clothes became looser, her body more youthful. It was as though the party was undoing everything she’d built up over the years, stripping away the sharp lines of age and replacing them with the softer curves of youth. As you pulled her out of the crowd, she lifted her hand to strike, but paused. Her fingers were wrinkle-free. Her eyes widened as she looked at her hands, then down at her body, her breath catching. She was no longer the unapproachable professor, but something else entirely, someone much younger, and for once, uncertain.

At senior prom, Jessica stood in the center of the gym, a beacon of perfection. The prom queen, the cheerleader, always quick to make others feel small. She teased you, mocking your clothes, your quiet nature, as she usually did. You could feel the sting of her words, but deep down, you just wished she could know what it felt like, just once, to be on the other side of her taunts. As the music blared and the crowd swirled around her, a soft breeze passed through the gym, unnoticed by most, except for you. Something felt… off. Jessica, mid-conversation with her boyfriend and friends, seemed to shiver slightly, but it was subtle. She didn’t appear to notice, too absorbed in herself. Yet, as she spoke, her figure began to shift. Her chest narrowed, her frame became thinner, her once perfectly sculpted features softened, losing the sharpness of her makeup. Her hair seemed to lose its colorful dyes, turning into a more natural, unstyled blonde, and her once radiant skin dulled slightly, glasses forming over her eyes. Her confidence wavered. Her posture slouched a little, her arms loosened around her boyfriend, and her smile lost its usual flair. The changes weren’t drastic at first, but undeniable. It was as if her image of perfection was melting away, leaving a version of her that was… smaller. More awkward. Jessica, sensing something was wrong, pulled away from the group. She excused herself, retreating to the back, her gaze uneasy, almost frantic. You, curiosity piqued, followed. When you rounded the corner behind the bleachers, you found her panting, slightly scared, looking lost, and no longer the confident cheerleader but a petite, unrecognizable girl, visibly confused by the changes she couldn’t control.

“Ah ha ha! You are too late, hero! Soon, this planet will be all mine! I am to join the ranks of Shido Itsuka and Issei Hyoudou for all time! Hahahahaha!!!” Dr. Howard Hubert stood atop a high-rise rooftop, cackling madly, his lab coat billowing in the wind. Behind him, a massive machine hummed ominously, its glowing pink gas swirling inside a large tank. It was his latest scheme: a gas that would turn the world into his personal harem, bending everyone to his will. His laughter echoed through the night air, filled with the delusional excitement only a mad scientist could have. You had fought him countless times before, always thwarting his ridiculous plans. He was a hopeless weeb, prone to bizarre ideas that never quite worked. Yet, he never stopped trying. You saw your chance, moving swiftly toward him. Before he could react, you punched him back, his nerdy maidenless form so frail and weak, into his own machine. He crashed into the control panel, triggering a violent explosion. Pink smoke blasted from the center, engulfing the machine in a haze. The machine was destroyed, and the city was safe. But as you turned to leave, a soft cough broke the silence. You froze. From the smoke emerged a woman, her form soft, her hair pink, eyes blue. Her clothes ruined from apparent growth, and the same lab coat on her shoulder. She falls to the ground, coughing out the smoke, before sitting up, and looking at you.

Gavin had always been a fixture at the gym, a relentless force of sweat and determination, his routine as rigid as his self-confidence. But it wasn’t just the weights he lifted he had a habit of flexing his charm on every woman in sight. His persistence was infamous, an almost ritualistic part of his workouts, much to the annoyance of those just trying to get through their sets. Today was no different. He approached yet another woman, flashing his usual smirk, but this time, instead of the usual eye-rolls or curt dismissals, she reacted. Without hesitation, she threw the remnants of her supplemental drink in his face. The shock of the cold liquid made him curse under his breath, but he brushed it off, shaking his head as he stomped toward the locker room. His skin tingled strangely, but he blamed it on the sudden chill. As he leaned over the sink, the sensation deepened an odd pull within his body, a subtle tightening, a shift. Muscles softened, bones reshaped, hair cascaded down in golden waves. The mirror no longer reflected the broad-shouldered brute who had swaggered in moments before. Instead, a dark-skinned blonde beauty stood frozen, eyes wide with shock. A sharp shriek tore through the locker room. Heart pounding, you rushed in, skidding to a stop at the sight before you. A stunning, dark-skinned blonde stood frozen, eyes wide with shock, hands trembling as they traced unfamiliar curves. Her gym clothes clung awkwardly, barely fitting her new shape. She stared at the mirror, breath shallow, disbelief etched across her face. And then it hit you that face, those eyes. Gavin was gone. Gabby stood in his place.

The local occult club was just the two of you; Leah and yourself, but that never stopped you from chasing urban legends, sneaking into eerie places, and pretending the strange was real. Tonight’s adventure had taken you to the top of Hollow Glen Cemetery, to the grave of Ruby-Rose: the Lone Woman. The legend was simple: Ruby-Rose had been buried alone, her intended resting beside her forever left empty. He’d moved on and the headstone remained blank. Then, one stormy night, lightning struck the empty gravestone, shattering it. People whispered that it had been her fury, her grief, her final protest against being forgotten. The story spread, warping with time. Some said she still waited, reaching for anyone who dared to disturb her solitude. It was the perfect place for a séance. You and Leah set up by candlelight, playing at ritual more for fun than belief. The air felt heavy, charged with the storm rolling in the distance, but you shrugged it off. The first gust of wind snuffed a candle. The second made Leah shiver. Then she went still. Too still. Her breath hitched. Her fingers twitched. The glow of the distant lightning caught in her eyes, and for a moment, they gleamed yellow. A breath, ragged and sharp, scraped from her throat as her skin drained to an unnatural pallor. Her nails darkened, sharpening, curling into the dirt like claws. A sickening feeling crawled over your skin. Leah convulsed, her body shaping, growing, her back arching as if pulled by invisible strings, and a whisper her voice, but layered with something else, something old breathed through the air. A shape flickered behind her. A shadow where there was no light. Then, she lifted her head, and the girl before you was no longer just Leah. She- they were something more.