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#1: Weight Gain, Age Progression, Downgrade, Humiliation, Body Hair, Footplay

Jasmine, princess of Agrabah, had once lived a sheltered existence - relegated to her palace; and only able to slip out and into the city around it. Yet, in recent years, she's had time to see the world beyond the city walls - to see the wonders it held; to see the magic that lay hidden within it. This magic, she knew, was as wondrous as it was dangerous - never to be taken lightly. The princess was confident in her judgment; secure in the belief that she knew what she could safely use to benefit her kingdom... And what would be better left hidden, never to be found.

Her confidence, however, came into question when she came into possession of the Urn of Mahija. Having liberated it from an unearthed tomb, legend spoke of it as the resting place of a powerful spirit - not a genie, and certainly not a living soul. Vague as its origin may be, Mahija was described as a beneficent creature with vast magical powers - moreover, it was commonly associated with royalty. Great leaders were said to have sought the spirit out for their power and counsel alike; usings its boons to build powerful kingdoms - though none still stand to this day.

Jasmine looked over the urn; composed of clay inlaid with intricate carvings and coated with paint - having faded and begin to peel with age. Keeping it sealed was a lid inlaid with the face of a smiling woman - one that seemed to stare expectantly at the princess. Tentatively - Jasmine grasped the lid firmly and unsealed it... Only to find the urn empty.

Staring down into the urn, she saw nothing but darkness - unnaturally thick; so much so that she couldn't even see the bottom of the container. She was tempted to reseal the thing when she saw a glint of gold within the darkness - soon growing; surging upward into a brilliant blast of energy, knocking the princess back as the urn hovered in midair. Spewing forth from it was a cloud of gold dust - slowly assembling into the shape of a woman... A woman, Jasmine came to realize, that had little in the way of modesty.

The woman now holding the urn was nothing short of statuesque; standing high above the princess. The torchlight within the tomb highlighted a glittery texture upon her rich, dusky skin and within her long, dark hair. She didn't appear to wear any form of clothing - rather, an intricate harness of gold chains - for the most part, hanging upon her body loosely; but some were connected to other piercings upon her form - starting with a ring in one of her nostrils, passing through a pair adorning her nipples, and terminating upon a ring on her navel.

"I bid thee greetings and salutations," she begins, her voice low and sultry; oozing out from gold-painted lips. "and offer thee my sincerest thanks, for releasing me from mine prison. I am Mahija - to whom is it that I am indebted?"

The princess stood up shakily, dusting stand from her dress. "I am Jasmine of Agrabah," she begins earnestly. "and I seek your counsel, as a leader of my people."

Their introduction was brief - but in such a short time, Jasmine found herself trusting of Mahija. The spirit spoke loftily of her power; of the kingdoms she'd served... And more grimly, of how they had fallen when they disregarded her counsel. Yet, as proud as she was to speak of her own deeds - she was eager to see Jasmine's work. With neither the spirit nor the princess eager to spend any more time within the tomb, they departed for Agrabah aboard the princess' magic carpet. Night fell soon after - and once they arrived at the palace, the princess fell asleep quickly, eager to give Mahija a tour of her beloved city.

When the princess awoke, she found the spirit just as eager to see her kingdom. They spent hours within the palace - and soon departed for the city at large. Jasmine spoke honestly of her love for her people; how she sought to make their lives better... As Mahija continued to adore the palace, even as it got further and further away. She spirit mercifully adorned herself with a white silken dress - so as to not draw too many eyes.

As the sun slowly began to set on Agrabah, the princess and the spirit retired to the palace once more. Mahija was quiet for a time - seemingly digesting all she'd seen throughout the day.

The spirit followed Jasmine to her chambers as she prepared to retire for the night - humming softly. "So kind are thee to those beneath thineself," she begins. "but hast thou ever shared their experience?" Jasmine was disarmed. "How can thou know of what will improve their lives, when thou merely observe them from thine loft?"

The princess wanted to argue - but she saw truth in the spirit's words. As much as she tried to participate in the lives of the commonfolk, she could never truly divorce herself from her noble roots. Even living a day in the life of one of her people still bore the promise of returning to the palace when the day was through.

"I see your point." she admits. "But what can I do?"

Mahija beamed; chuckling softly. "It is within my power to impose upon thee a trial." She raises her hands; golden energy sparking from her fingertips. "For three moons thou shall find thyself awakening further from thine life of luxury; becoming a woman most unassuming. Be vigilant and take heed in this new life - for if thou cannot learn from thy people in ten moons, forever shall this life be yours."

Mahija's words seemed... Damning. And yet - the opportunity this provided was indispensable. It was an experience she couldn't simply simulate - and invaluable to how she can provide for her people.

"I'll do it." she responds boldly - evoking a soft chuckle from Mahija.

"Then rest, princess..." she begins, slinking away from Jasmine's chambers. "For where thou shalt wake will be most surprising."

---

Jasmine awoke the next morning in a different room; a smaller room. She recognized it as the quarters of one of her personal servants. Her rest, she supposed, must have been fitful - as when she awoke, she felt fatigued. As she prepared for her day - she found that her wardrobe hadn't changed much. More respected servants were afforded rather nice dresses, after all.

The princess found herself falling easily in her new role - she was used to pretending to be a commoner, after all; but to do so before people who would know better was just a little strange.

One of the biggest mysteries on her mind was that of who had... Filled her role, she supposed. Though she tried to gain access to her former chambers - but she found guards posted at the door.

"The princess is ailing." they claimed. "She is being attended to."

Unsure of how else to busy herself, Jasmine made her way to the kitchens - helping prepare food for the denizens of the palace. It was tiring work - doubly so with how tired she actually felt - but... A little fun, she had to admit. By the time night fell, the princess was rather satisfied with her decision to undergo this trial - perhaps she hadn't learned anything just yet, but... She supposed she had ample time to do so.

---

Jasmine awoke the next day feeling worse than she had when she'd fallen asleep. Rising from bed with a harsh groan, she found herself in a much larger room than before - but she wasn't in her royal chambers. She found herself in one bed among many; most occupied by other servant girls. She'd only been to this room once or twice - and had never envied the servants that had to bunk together.

Looking upon herself - the princess noticed something was wrong. Her body was... Not as she remembered it. Her lithe frame was now padded with a bit of extra weight - giving her a huskier build. One, as she slipped on a simple red dress, filled out her clothes a bit more than she was used to. In this new life of hers, as well, she apparently didn't have the benefit of royal... Grooming; feeling particularly ashamed of the hair she found growing beneath her arms and over her crotch. On the note of her hair - it seemed to be losing its luster. She didn't have the benefit of a mirror just yet; but she could tell that it was coarser and duller.

The fatigue from yesterday persisted as she made her way into the palace; and so too did a lingering soreness in her back and legs. Such pain only grew worse as she found herself tasked with housekeeping - sweeping dust from the floors, beating it out of rugs, watering the plants in the courtyards... It was much more arduous than the day prior. Coupled with the soreness she already felt - she came to understand how taxing work could be for her servants and handmaidens.

As she finally and eagerly returned to the servants' quarters, she hoped this was the lesson she was supposed to learn.

---

Jasmine knew she was wrong when she awoke, the next day. She gave a low, husky grumble as she sat up in bed - or what she now treated as one. Gone was the firm structure of a bedframe and mattress upon it - the princess now found herself resting on a series of blankets layered upon each-other; set on the floor beneath her.

She held a hand against her aching back as she sat up - lingering pain nagging at it. When she brushed a blanket off of herself - she was aghast at what she saw.

While she seemed huskier before; the princess was now... Fat. There was no other word for it. Her stomach formed a flabby gut, resting over her crotch, but unable to hide the dense thatch of hair growing all the way up to her navel. Her thighs had become thick and chunky - beneath them, even her legs had a noticeable coating of hair upon them. Her arms fared little better - but perhaps most horrid to the formerly-youthful princess was her breasts. They seemed no larger or smaller - but their prior perkiness had given way to an utter collapse of the flesh, leaving them unflatteringly saggy.

Shakily standing up, she found herself in a rather... Simple home - the likes of which she understood wasn't even near the palace. Set beside her was a bowl of water - looking into its still surface, she found a pale shadow of her former self staring back at her. Her luxurious raven locks had devolved into a coarse mass of varying shades of grey. Her face was decidedly more haggard and aged - emphasized by thick bags under her eyes.

She found a rough-hewn dress to adorn herself with; and as she searches through her battered wardrobe - she finds a sign of guidance in this new life. Sitting at the bottom of the wardrobe was a wooden sign, with a crudely-painted message upon it. Jasmine squints - the well-read princess having trouble working her way through the four simple words.

"Wash... Foot... For money?" she muses. The princess felt baffled by the idea - but... There was a strange sensation within her; deep in her gut... She wasn't sure what it was, but it affirmed what the sign suggested. She wasn't a servant in the palace anymore - she was just... A woman that washed others' feet.

Jasmine was inclined to feel... Demoralized by this revelation, but... As hard as it was for her to accept, she realized this was part of her trial. She set about scrounging for supplies for this... Endeavor of hers - if this was her life, she'd live it...

And she'd immediately hate it.

Jasmine found a spot close to a well, so she could refill her basin. She wasn't too far from the bazaar either - which made her visible to a decent amount of travellers. Propping up her sign and settling down in the dirt, she awaited her first customer. It took an hour of sitting in the hot sun - but eventually, a merchant woman stopped by to purchase her services. She offered her a stool, and removed her footwear. She wore rather nice sandals - the type Jasmine recognized as something out of her royal wardrobe. She looked them over for a moment or two, bringing them closer - just enough to catch the scent of the woman's feet-

Before she snaps herself away, getting a headstart on servicing the woman. Jasmine rubbed dirt off of her tired soles; the water doing little to hide the pungent scent of her sweaty feet. Jasmine expected to be nauseated, but... Truthfully it was rather bearable for her. When she was all said and done, the woman tossed her a pair of gold coins - something Jasmine knew just barely covered the price of bread. But, well... The day was young. She had an opportunity to make more money, didn't she?

Opportunity came and went, as the day marched on. She felt busy - she could hardly recall a period where she didn't have somebody else's foot in her sore, wrinkled hands... But each one tossed her a pittance. One even refused to pay her outright - claiming "Ya can't get cheaper than free!"

Jasmine was too tired at the time to argue. The water in her basin was now brackish and murky - fragrant in its own right; with her rags having grown brownish with the dirt she'd been working into them.

Her back and knees were sore from bending over all day; and her hands were sore from her labors. She was prepared to head home...

Until she saw princess Jasmine.

The woman walking toward her was... Well, her. Her as she was supposed to be; bearing the same youth, the same dress, the same face... But a different look in her eyes. Jasmine could never recall a time when she looked so... Malicious.

"I bid thee greetings and salutations," she begins, a venomous tone working its way into the familiar sound of her voice. "and offer thee my sincerest thanks, for so generously offering me thine position."

"Mahija!" Jasmine balks. "What're you doing?"

The spirit in her skin strides over to Jasmine's stool, plopping herself down upon it. "Enjoying the fruits of mine efforts. It's been so long since I've had any semblance of authority."

The haggard woman leers up at Mahija. "Authority? It... Hmph. Don't get used to it. I'm well on my way to completing this trial of yours-"

Mahija laughs as she reaches down to her feet, removing her slippers and placing them delicately on the ground. "Trial? My, how gullible. There was never any trial."

Jasmine's blood goes cold.

"Thou shalt have all the time in the world to learn the plight of thine people - for thus is thine life."

"But- but what about... Ten days...?" Jasmine stammers out, her heart hammering in her chest.

Mahija snickers. "More akin to seven, now..." she chuckles out. "Seven moons to retain thine memory. After then - mine curse is sealed. Thine new life will be cast eternal; and thou shalt never know it's been any different. New name. New memories. New life."

Jasmine looks down at her hands - paralyzed. What had she done...?

Mahija snaps her fingers, bringing the former princess' attention up to her - and to a coinpurse in her hands. "Seems as though thou hast earned a paltry sum. Mayhap the munificent princess can offer the peasant a substantial fee..." She lifts her bare feet up; wiggling her toes. "For services rendered?"

Jasmine gulps dryly. The bold young princess within her wants to protest - wants to rebel... But, the tired old peasant woman she'd become leans forward, taking the new princess' foot in one hand, and a rag in the other.

With the young princess within her fading into memory, she gets to work.

#2: MtF Feminization, Latex, Body Control

Among the many benefits of royalty, perhaps one of the most known and expected is the presence of servants. Butlers, handmaids, gofers and the like - standing ready and at the beck and call of their lord or lady, prepared to do any matter of menial task while their master or mistress attends to more important duties... Or, is simply spared the drudgery.

This concept was not lost among the Mewni - but to prince regent Jupiter Moon, it was something he found himself deprived of.

His mothers; Queen Star and Jackie, typically pampered the boy - something they, perhaps, had become aware of in recent weeks. The effeminate prince had been... Eager to enjoy the perks of royalty - seen to by a cadre of maids who have seen to taking care of his every whim. While not wholly spoiled, the queens saw such behavior as a slippery slope; as something they wished to steer the boy away from. It was no shock to him when he was called into the grand hall of their castle; flanked by his maids - but Jupiter was disarmed when Queen Jackie ordered them to disperse; leaving only the prince before the two queens.

Star treated what followed as a royal decree - entrusting her son with a grand quest; the likes of which may change the fiber of his being for the better.

Jackie treated it exactly as it was: they were giving their son chores.

At first, Jupiter accepted his tasks passively - the list of things they wanted him to do seemed... Simple. It was typically things he had his maids take care of; which in his mind, wasn't overwhelming. They all seemed like easy tasks; just things he didn't want to bother with. For a week, the queens had him run a gauntlet of simple chores - cleaning his room, cleaning up in the royal kitchen, doing laundry alongside their handmaids, helping weed the royal gardens... Throughout which the prince became progressively more chuffed. He felt as though he wasn't gaining anything from the experience; that all it was doing was wasting his time.

As much as Jupiter wanted to complain - he also saw himself moving further down the mercifully-finite list of tasks his mothers had entrusted him with. As he'd come to expect, the last tasks on the list were among the most demanding of his time and energy - finally culminating in his most rigorous task yet: organizing one of the royal storerooms.

Dozens of storerooms existed in the castle; each one packed to the brim with old furniture, paintings, trinkets, and artifacts of regents ten generations passed. Whereas before he was taking care of tasks his servants would typically perform...

This was something the queens wouldn't even bother the servants with.

Of course, Jupiter presumed that was deliberate - a final test of his mettle. While he still wasn't convinced this experience had taught him anything... If finishing this task meant he was done with all of this, he was eager to see it completed.

Upon selecting his storeroom, Jupiter's eagerness quickly faded. He'd spent the better part of an hour peeking into different rooms - but each one seemed just as impossibly packed as the others. He tried setting certain criteria for which would be easier to organize - ones that were less dense, or had lighter stuff filling it, or were less dusty... But slowly the bar fell until the one he chose met the meager criteria of being able to open the door fully.

The prince coughed as he stepped in - in lieu of a wand, he carried a feather duster, which he waved in a circle to conjure a sphere of light to illuminate the room. He shut the door behind him; resigning himself to a long day of work.

By the time the first hour had passed, Jupiter was a wreck. He wasn't exhausted - he resolved to take care of the dust coating everything before he started moving anything, but that proved a little more... Challenging than he anticipated. Thick patches of grey now copiously covered the front of the frilly apron he'd... Borrowed to protect his clothes; and a dusty smear sat plainly on one of his cheeks. It didn't feel like he'd made any headway either - whatever dust he knocked off of one box seemed to settle on others, and even his attempts to blast it away with magic just kicked more of the stuff up.

Unenthused and tired - Jupiter made his way over to the wall of boxes set before him. He had to push a crate closer to stand on just to start picking boxes off of the stack - trying to at least pick apart the massive stack before sorting through all of it. It was as he began to clear the boxes that he came to realize that the room wasn't packed as tight as he'd thought - in fact, the wall before him was... Pretty much just that - a wall, dividing the first half of the room from the other. Sitting behind the stack was another assortment of clutter and artifacts - he could make out a few things with clothes draped over them, and in the center of the room, Jupiter saw a... Wardrobe.

Curiously, he climbs through the hole he'd made in the stack - dropping gracefully into the walled-off portion of the room. The wardrobe before him seemed... Dusty; much like everything else, but fairly new. The wood was still glossy; not a blemish on it, but curiously... There was a chain wrapped around its handles, with a bulky padlock securing it.

The prince couldn't help but reach for the lock - and as soon as his fingers made contact, a spark leapt from his fingertip and into the metal. Soft, green light emanated from it - illuminating a set of finely-detailed runes along its edges - and after a moment, the lock disengaged, its weight dragging the chain it'd been securing onto the floor with a loud clatter.

While curious about what may lay inside - Jupiter hadn't meant to open the lock. He wasn't sure why it was released at his touch... But his curiosity for the wardrobe overpowered his care for such a mystery. Quickly, he threw the doors open - and with a rush of stale air, he found himself beholding...

A dress.

Immediately, the prince felt a little disappointed.

Being locked up, Jupiter expected something a little more... Peculiar. Something dangerous, something fantastic, something scandalous- but all he saw before him was a pretty typical dress... Even if it had an odd texture. In the brilliant illumination of his hovering ball of light, there was a clear glossiness - even a reflective quality to the material. It was an odd choice; even if the garment itself seemed fairly... Typical of a noble gown. It was mostly black; with a white breast and sleeves. It seemed to be a rather grand sort of garment - with puffy shoulders and thick, overlapping skirts made of that odd glossy material. Pinching one of the ruffles, the prince pulled at it - surprised that it continued to stretch for quite a while before snapping back into position.

Clicking his tongue, he shut the wardrobe again. Like this entire endeavor, he thought - it was just a waste of his time. Turning away, he prepares to climb back through the gap he'd made...

"Star? Is that you, dearie?"

Jupiter freezes in place - who said that? An ominous creak echoed out from behind him - turning his attention back to the wardrobe. One of the doors was opening again - and reaching through the gap was one of the dress' glossy sleeves.

"Ooooh, yes, it must be. I've missed you ever so much." The dress seems to hover out of the wardrobe; its skirt sliding across the dusty ground. Even without a head sticking out of its neck - Jupiter could feel its gaze resting squarely upon him. It didn't take long for him to realize that he'd made a mistake - one he was eager to get as far away from as he possibly could.

The prince leaps up and tries to squirm through the boxes, but soon he feels something twisting around his ankle.

"Ohoho, no you don't~ We haven't seen each-other in years- I'm not letting you get away this time~" the lofty voice of the dress chimes. With its sleeve coiled around him, the dress pulls him back towards itself each movement it makes prompting a rubbery squeal. The dress looms over the prince as he finds himself resting at its feet, or... Eh, skirt. As much as he kicks and squirms - he can't avoid it as it seems to glide over him - swallowing his body up in the darkness within it.

One he's inside, he feels the dress release his ankle - and he tries to stand up - only to feel himself surrounded on all sides by the rubbery material. Looking upward, he can see his ball of light still shining through the open neck hole of the dress - he reaches up with both hands - trying to squirm up and out... But he quickly feels his arms diverted; grasped and swallowed up by the dress even as he continues to rise, higher and higher... Until his head pops cleanly out of the neck of the dress.

"My my, I didn't expect you to be this eager! I can't say I'm disappointed, but..." Jupiter winces as he feels the dress constrict around him - tightening around his chest, arms, and legs. "You've changed, dear! Don't you worry - my sole purpose is to make sure you're always beautiful. Why don't we get started...?"

The dress extends its sleeves forward - peeling back until his hands are revealed. At first, he balls them fists, trying to struggle out of it, but a tingling sensation pervades his fingers; forcing them out of their clenched posture. Jupiter yelps as he watches the color drain from his hands; turning a powdery white, even as his fingernails darken. He can feel them just fine, and yet... As the dress puppets glides away from the wardrobe, he feels his movements... Puppeted by the dress around him. Sluggishly, his hands reach out for a cloth draped over one of the other objects, pulling it away - with a shower of dust - to reveal a mirror. The sight of his head peeking out against the glossy dress seemed surreal, but...

Eerily, his hands looked a little more fitting for it.

"Let's start with your figure - I can't do much about it, but I can give you some help..." The dress forces his hands against his chest - and he can feel it tighten again. This time, he can feel the cool, slick material of the rubber pressing against his clothes - the prince shudders as he feels it touching his skin directly... Through his shirt? No - it was getting rid of his shirt; it was eating away at all of his clothes, until it hugged every inch of his bare flesh. There's a wet sensation across his chest as he feels something adhere to it - growing; inflating and pushing the dress out until the defined curvature of two breasts stretched the rubber dress out.

"Much better!" it chimes. "But we've still got work to do!" Reaching around to his rear, the sensation returns - a heavy weight building across his backside as the rubber frills of the dress are pushed out by an artificial plumpness hanging off of him. Jupiter wants to protest - but he feels choked by the frilly collar of the dress. Feeling the dress mess with him is one thing - but watching it bury his body beneath itself in the mirror was another thing entirely.

The dress gives a posh scoff, chiding "Oh, and your face. We'll just have to fix that as well, shall we?" His face? Wait- no, it can't-!

His hands - feeling as cold as the dress puppeting them - poke his cheeks. Radiating out from the point of contact, he can see a white, powdery texture spread across his face - hiding his fair tone; his freckles, his... Everything, under a plain, snowy field of white. His fingers pull away again - then more forcefully jab his cheeks; leaving two black spots. Slowly, they spread and deform, becoming a pair of hearts. They trek over to his lips; one finger running across the upper, the other across the lower; painting them black as well.

He grits his teeth as they release him... But against his will, his lips curl into a smile. "Looking good, dearie." The dress' voice blurts out from his own lips - causing him to balk. "Now, for the finishing touch..." His hands rise up to his hair; running through his pampered locks; the mere touch causing them to darken. As he runs them over the top of his head and around the back; his hair seems to lengthen - carrying a torrent jet black first across his short, boyish cut; and then prompting new, curlier locks to fall from his head, over his shoulders.

"We'll have to see a proper stylist to do something with it," the dress explains through his mouth. "But don't worry. For all the time you've had me locked away, I've had plenty of time to think about the perfect style for you." The dress squeezes around Jupiter's body - pinching against his waist and rubbing against his trapped crotch in some sort of perverse, full-body hug. "Now that we're together again... We have all the time in the world."

Even as his mouth curls into a proud grin, his eyes betray a look of fear as he looks over himself in the mirror - an... Exaggerated, gothic caricature of his own mother. As he wondered how much worse it could get - the dress forces him to lick his dark lips.

"I do hope you've been keeping up on your etiquette, dear. If not... I'll gladly get you back up to standard."

#3: Second-Person, Leech TF, Slime,

You awaken so slowly from your troubled sleep that you can hardly tell that you've awoken at all. Dipping in and out of blackened slumber and your darkened room, your mind floats in an aether of half-consciousness. Your senses form tethers to the waking world upon which you anchor yourself - registering where your body lies upon your bed. One arm hanging draped over your mattress, the other up and over your head. Despite the even surface of your bed, your back is arched; your legs bowed, with one ankle resting over the opposite shin.

You draw one leg over the other like a bowstring over a violin, throwing it over the edge of your bed lazily - your toes splaying as they feel for the ground, gauging your distance from it. Even with the knowledge, you linger in bed as though adhered. You make the slightest motion to rise - but as you feel the sheets beneath you follow you upward, you ease yourself back down. It, and the blanket upon you, are stuck fast to your body - nocturnal sweat forming a film upon you thicker than you've ever recalled having before.

The heat of the room around you is oppressive - bearing down upon you, evoking more sweat, which seems to seep into the mattress beneath you. Distantly, you're aware of how gross it is - but you aren't discomforted; quite the opposite. Your mind still hazy, you linger - until you find the appropriate inspiration to finally rise.

Hunger. You feel from your gullet all the way up to your mouth - an emptiness; a yearning - you can even feel yourself drooling. Peeling your face from your pillow, you roll over on the bed; caring not for the blanket in your way, which clings to your legs as you finally ease them down onto the ground. For the first few steps you take, you can feel the blanket pulling away from you - tethered to your flesh by the moisture upon it before finally being shed. Each step is labored - asserting more weight upon your legs with every footfall. It's only as you reach your door that you realize you aren't standing upright - more at a hunch.

And yet, your hunger suppresses your curiosity. You push open the door to your room just a crack - the light outside, however minimal, causes you to wince. Your sight, much like your mind, is a haze. Of course - this is your home. Navigating it has become more passive than active - and so you let your body guide you to your kitchen. You don't open the door any more - but instead, duck your head through the crack, and ease yourself through the crack; slinking through. Your skin glides against the wooden surfaces of the threshold and the door itself - moving smoothly until it reaches your hip. You feel the door bump against it - but rather than impact the bone, simply presses in upon flesh - dimpling in for just a moment before being forced outward.

You pause for a moment once you've pushed yourself through - as though to gather yourself. You shut your eyes, and before you open them, your body is on its way to the kitchen - through the hall, one step at a time. You feel as though you're descending - each step guiding you lower. Rounding a corner, you reflexively brace your hand upon it - and as you pull away, you can feel your sweat clinging to it; bridging your limb and the surface of the wall by slimy ropes. When you've rounded the corner, your hand falls limply and lazily to your side.

Your trip - and your descent - comes to a close as you find yourself on your knees before your refrigerator. Reaching upward, you pull the handle - and from it spills a cascade of cold air and bright light. You wince, recoiling backward - so much that your back begins to arch... And even bend backward. You register, as you recoil, an odd texture about your body.

Your form has become even and uneven alike. Your chest seems more recessed - but that isn't to say flat. Across your flesh, you can see it rippling and bulging at even intervals; ridges having formed. As you return to your prior position, you can see your slim torso bulging as your body collapses into itself; compressing as your attention is once more hijacked by your instincts.

Your arm, as you reach for a head of lettuce on a lower shelf, seems not only to have succumbed to the same fate as your core, but so too has it developed an odd tone; far removed from that which you bore prior. Its surface seems encompassed by a shade of greyish-black, desaturated and unhealthy for a human tone; interrupted by a shade of bright orange too vibrant to be natural. The color spreads like tendrils arching their way across your flesh - something you're a captive witness to as you bring the lettuce closer to your face.

You peel your lips back to take a bite, but as your teeth sink into it, you feel your lips fall upon it - adhering as you reflexively move to slurp at your heal. As soon as you swallow; you feel your body tense; condensing further as though in revulsion. You feel your face wince - your brow furrowing and nose scrunching; compressing down into nothingness. After a moment, you relax - your teeth release the lettuce, which slams against the ground with a hollow crunch. Your lips hang open - and your teeth remain bared. The sensation is surreal; the latter extending far beyond that which you're familiar. Spittle; thick and viscous, drools down the slimming surface of your chin, and your eyes - already growing indiscernible among your ridged hide - roam your fridge...

Until you find it.

Luminous from its position underneath a light, mounted on the side of the fridge, is a pitcher without a top. Inside - a bounty of brilliant red. Your muddled mind slogs through your memories as for what it may be - but it grows outpaced by your reflexive connotations with such a color; such a texture - you slaver over it and lean closer. Your arms try to reach out - but are pulled back by a membrane adhering them to your core. You try to lean forward on your knees - but so too are they fixed together; compounded into your thick, soon-to-be-even body.

You stretch out - your neck itself expanding; writhing as your wide, disklike lips yawn open, and-

Knock over the pitcher, spilling it across your body and across the floor.

You aren't angry. You aren't frustrated.

You're just hungry.

Your teeth - having compressed down to a simple, sharp triad, are hidden as your lips fold shut, and you slink away from the fridge.

There isn't anything inside of it. It's just cold and bright. Your hunger burns a pit in your gut - an instinct you know not how to sate-

Until you hear a noise.

You twist around, dragging yourself across the tiled floor and leaving a slimy trail through the red liquid covering it. Moving further, you find yourself moving closer to another door. Further from the cold - closer to the noise. A human mind might register it as conversation-

But you register it as food.