You migrate to the bar, hoping to hide your humiliation behind a cold drink. As you do, you spot something shiny on the floor next to you. Careful not to shove into too many guy’s asses, you reach down to pick it up.
It’s a badge. Shiny and heavy, clearly not a toy from a costume shop. You look around to see if anyone dropped it, but the damn thing is so big, you doubt anyone could fit it in their skimpy pockets.
Well, you think, it’s better than nothing. You pin the badge onto your t-shirt, immediately feeling an electric rush of energy from your chest down to your toes. It stops, than continues to pulse. You shake as the badge sends wave after wave of heat through your arms, your back and shoulders, up to your head.
You reach for a drink, hoping to calm your nerves, and that’s when you notice your forearm expanding. The skin hardens, rough from years of work on the force, and your biceps tear at the edge of your t-shirt as they solidify into two solid slabs of muscle.
What the…? but before you know it, your chest shoots out. You knock over some guy’s drink. He spins around to tell you off, but stops when he sees how big your body is becoming.
“Damn man,” the guy says with a wink, “great costume.”
“What costume?” you ask, as the words become deep and authoritative in your throat. Just then, your t-shirt repairs itself, the fabric becoming hard and dark as a utility belt appears around your waist. You look down just in time to see your jeans become grey pants, three sizes larger to accommodate your massive legs. Finally, a pair of cop boots plant themselves on top of your sneakers. By now, you don’t need to convince anybody that you’re a cop; you already are.
As you patrol the party, checking for drugs and outbreaks of drunken violence, you start to take notice of some of the guys checking you out. Eyeing your hard bubble ass through your tight fitting pants. You crack a grin, imagining what it would be like to throw them down in the back of your patrol car, tear off those flimsy costumes, and tear their asses apart.
Just as an erection starts to form in your pants, several guys in superhero outfits rush past you. “Hold this,” one of them says, throwing something into your hand. You spin around to yell, when you notice the object now heavy in your right fist.
Thor’s hammer. It seems to gain in weight with every second you hold onto it, as if transforming from a shitty costume prop into the actual Norse weapon.
As the hammer grows heavier you feel your body shifting and changing to accommodate the new weight. Your muscles grow thicker but leaner, your skin finer and finer until it seems to shine in the dancing lights all around you. You watch as your clothes begin to vanish, the badge and the shirt disappearing to reveal a shelf of pecs worthy of the gods, and a pack of abs that would take a normal bodybuilder years to obtain. But you don’t need to worry about working out anymore, because you’re Thor, the god of thunder.
Wait, you think to yourself, I’m not… OH! At that moment, you feel your height jump by three inches. In your pants (though it wouldn’t be fair to call them “pants” at this point), you feel your dick continue to grow, aroused by the mere sight and feeling of your own adonis body. You lift a mighty hand to brush the long blonde hair falling in front of your perfect face, and run it across your newfound nordic scruff.
By now, everybody is looking at you. Every eye in the club is staring at your shining pack of abs as they shimmer out onto the dance floor, your clambering feet awkwardly lumbering around to avoid stomping on the toes of every twink too distracted to watch where they’re stepping.
Turns out dancing isn’t really your forte. Conquering all of the seven realms, maybe. But not dancing. And it doesn’t help that the raging boner in your pants is growling larger and larger, rendering all kinds of movement impossible.
Frantically, you look around for some way out. But the guys have formed a wall around every corner of the floor, eager to catch of glimpse of that muscle body in action. What that action is going to be, however, you don’t know.
But that’s when you see it: a red hat, lazily perched atop some dude’s head. Something inside of you tells you to grab it, to put it on, and start dancing.
“Hey!” the guy protests as you remove his hat and put it onto your own head. But his voice falls silent the second he sees you begin to dance, the movements gyrating from the top of your head like trickling water.
Everything comes so naturally after that. Your hips swinging and your chest rolling with astonishing ease as the crowd around your grows larger and larger and larger. By now, there’s no hiding that dick, but you don’t care. You were born to show off this package, your body was made to pop and lock. You don’t even notice the hair recede up into your head, or the muscles thin out as they become drenched with sweat.
Before you know it, you’re Magic fucking Mike, and before the night is over, you’ll have your choice of every guy at the party to bring home. But then again, why would you need to? You seem pretty happy right here.
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