Unnamed RT Anon Green


                                            >Ah, spring. Personally, you were always a spring and early summer kind of guy. A good mix of warm and cool weather, the feeling that it was the end of a year.

                                            >Well, college year, at least. You still had classes until early June, then it was over.

                                            >Two years down, two to go.

                                            >Playing for the Mt. Montane 'Checkers' has been pretty smooth, the college's soccer team.

                                            >Honestly, you're not sure what 'Checkers' is supposed to mean.

                                            >You think that it's just because they had to scramble to get a flag and only got a checkered one.

                                            >But, hey, it works, right? Besides, you're not exactly here for soccer.

                                            >You were just blessed, gene-wise, with a near 6-foot build, long legs and the ability to get toned fast. Lean speed.

                                            >Sometimes, you wonder if one of those CYOAs you filled out on 4rychan blessed you.

                                            >Plus, the school cut you a good cheque to stay on the team and play for them. AKA a scholarship. Contingent on some things.

                                            >It's the only way you could barely afford college and a dorm room without...the debt pit.

                                            >Anyhow, if you get your CS degree, that's where the dream is.

                                            >Sitting back at a remote job, programming and not pushing your body for hours a day.


                                            >But now? You're celebrating after the end of a big game at the college's in-house bar, The Nest.

                                            >You're just hanging around by the bar and were never the most social guy, but able to banter when it was called for. An introvert, mostly.

                                            >Also, the spicy wings were pretty damn good, they had this special house sauce with jalapenos and cajun spice.

                                            >But your thoughts of chicken bites were cut off by several players spotting you.

                                            >"There's the man himself!" "Hey, Anon, you did it, you oaf!" "Come on, don't stand off in the corner."

                                            >Here comes your teammates. Here to...yoink you off your feet and carry you like a rockstar, dressed in your post-game t-shirt and khakis.

                                            >It was a warm night, after all. Soon enough, your legs are wiggling mid-air, as you try to adjust to the sea of hands below you.

                                            >"...Woah, woah, jeez, guys! Come on..."

                                            >Nothing could stop your team from picking you up and giving you a few small chucks in the air.

                                            >"For he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellooooow..."

                                            >RIP to your cocktail, though, you hardly had enough time to put it down, but fiiine, you'll live in the moment for just a little, diverting your attention.

                                            >It was a pretty good win, all things considered. You didn't even think that your team'd make it this far.

                                            >"Killer goal, Anon! Where was that pep in the first half?" one of your teammates called out to you.

                                            >Up we go again... "Woot woot!" Another teammate, Curtis, a leopard guy, is sloshing his beer around.

                                            >Still, you look around for your roommate, Lance, where is he? He's got to be somewhere around here after the game...not like he can hide his bushy tail well.

                                            >Right, context. Booting up Exposition.exe...nope, brain, you're not dumb enough to run an EXE file unprotected. How about Exposition.mp4…


                                            >be anon, two hours ago

                                            >somehow, you have made it to the quarterfinals

                                            >be playing against 'st. richard's college for students who smell like oud and pretentiousness'

                                            >yes, this is actually their name. the school name on their uniforms would need a microscope to read

                                            >down 2-1 at the end of the first half, they're singing their song 'we are the champions and you are the losers'

                                            >way to beat the point home, guys

                                            >in the break room, drinking water, listening to the coach

                                            >"LET'S SEE SOME ACTIIIIIIONNNN!! COMMEEEE OOOOOOOOONNNN!!!"

                                            >my man is actually jumping. jackhammer action. how is this going to help anyone

                                            >the ground is shaking

                                            >coach has been on the field for 0 seconds this whole game

                                            >"THESE TRUST FUND KIDS HAVE NOTHING ON YOU! AND LOSING IS FOR LOSERS!"

                                            >the tautology club picked up a new member today

                                            >at least you take some comfort in your teammates. and the coach does get a plan going

                                            >game plan's to go hard on defense. when they get close, you all drop back. use their ego against them

                                            >rinse and repeat, then go hard on them, full offense when they get cocky

                                            >eh, why not?


                                            >game resumes, 75 minutes in

                                            >defense plan is actually working

                                            >execute speed.png, full on rush at the other team when they think you're on the defense

                                            >number 9 passes ball to a bluebird guy, arlo, passes it to Curtis

                                            >st. yada yada pulls a defense together barely, blocks Curtis from the front

                                            >he has to make a hard cut to the left and eats dirt-CURTIS YOU FOOL

                                            >you make a hard left to intercept, then kick the ball high in the air, st. dick's tries to get the ball

                                            >lol nope

                                            >arlo, the bluebird, kicks it in with a long shot, 2-2


                                            >now it's 88 minutes in

                                            >de final

                                            >chance of overtime but your legs are aching, even after being pulled off for a short break

                                            >balls to the wall now, you barely have any energy left

                                            >at least they pulled your roomie, lance, out to play, guy's speed.exe, but has poor stamina

                                            >other team's on full defense alert, they want an overtime, knows your team is gassed

                                            >lance got the ball, spots me open at the edge of the box

                                            >gives me a little smirk, tail swishing like he's got a plan

                                            >wants to make a longshot pass to me, two players get in the way

                                            >veers to the right HARD, uses his tail to pivot his legs, ball goes flying

                                            >lands right by my feet, coach is going nuclear and pounding his fists

                                            >kaiji s2.exe

                                            >PUT THAT BALL IN THE HOLE

                                            >GO IN GO IN GO IN

                                            >goalie's in full panic mode, dives to the right

                                            >foot meets ball, and it sails

                                            >but not into the bottom right pocket, but higher

                                            >higher, higher...goalie tries to spring for it, almost flaps his wings

                                            >ball hits edge of net, bounces in anyways

                                            >GOAAAAAAAAAAAAAL


                                            >"ABOUT DAMMMMNNNN TIIIIIIIIIME! LEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEETSSSS GOOOOOOO-"

                                            >the ground is shaking again, coach is bouncing like a pogo stick

                                            >with the red jersey he's wearing, he's looking like mario

                                            >lance nearly knocks you off your feet with his bushy tail hi-five

                                            >5.2 richter earthquake as the team swarms you and the others

                                            >fireworks go off, girls get your number, st. pretentiousburg's dean is shot out of a cannon…


                                            >...And that's the tale of the St. Wiener Pounder. Close enough.

                                            >Back in the present, "For he's a jolly good fellooooww, which nobody can deny!"

                                            >The others awkwardly set you down, though, there are pats on the back, all around.

                                            >"Now, let's go pick up that guy..." you hear one of your teammates say as they trundle off. He's not even on your team. Phew.

                                            >You *could* get used to this, you think, getting back to your half-full cocktail of rum punch. Sip, sip.

                                            >But one thing that your teammates don't realize? Your legs freaking ACHE! LIKE DAMN! They hurt.

                                            >"Hey, Lance, I'm heading back," you say, eating three spicy (boneless) wings in one go, down the hatch. "You wanna come with me?"

                                            >He gives you a thumbs up, "Heck yeah, sure thing, bro. Gotta keep watch over the MVP, right?"

                                            >Lance was always pretty energetic, he picked up a similar scholarship to yours. Heck, he's about as good of a player as you are. Kind of dudebro-y, but more chill.

                                            >That wasn't to say that he didn't have his berserk buttons, though. The guy could FLIP if someone made things personal, which was probably why he offered to 'protect' you.

                                            >Also, because you sometimes gamed with him at night.

                                            >Honestly, though, walking home? You could handle things yourself.

                                            >"You know..." Lance started, "I bet that we could take the championship, go all the way. We'd just need, what? Two more wins?"

                                            >Ah, the bliss of being a first year student. Two more wins, sure. Only up against some of the best teams in the country.

                                            >"I bet..." he continues. "We'll really prove ourselves this time! Show the team of last year how far we've come, huh, Anon? C'mon..." He noogies your elbow.

                                            >Right, last year. You don't want to think about it. Just the thought of it is making your head ache.

                                            >Last year…


                                            >"Hey, you alright?" he asks you. Were you showing it? Had you spaced out?

                                            >"Eh, yeah, I'm fine. Probably just the music from back there, it was loud," you make up an excuse, waving your hand, before continuing on. "Hey, nice footwork back there, though. Wouldn't have done it without you."

                                            >"Well, uh..." Lance looks out at the stars, then back to you, "You let me know if something's up, alright? I got your back, bro, no matter what."


                                            >Back in your dorm room, your energy is deathly low. Usually, you'd chug an energy drink or something to have some free time gaming, but somehow?

                                            >Your energy meter is deathly low. The little guy in your head piloting your body is asleep at the wheel, body shutting down...guh.

                                            >"Hey, I just don't have the energy for gaming or TV tonight. Maybe some other time?" you give a weary look at Lance and yawn, before he thumbs up at you.

                                            >You usually played with Lance, he was just a pretty good sport. Heck, a little competitive, but who wasn't?

                                            >"Sure thing, bro, I'll keep the volume down. Don't collapse on me, alright?" he gives you a clap on the back, a little harder than your humie form can take.

                                            >Torso...failing...you stumble, but recover before you plastered yourself to the hardwood floor. God, was the game really taking this much out of you?

                                            >"Yeah, yeah. See you tomorrow."

                                            >Ten minutes later, you're in bed, teeth brushed, jammies on, just a simple tee and boxers.

                                            >At least it's Friday tomorrow. One more day until the weekend...is what you'd say if not for a project in C on pointers. Those were annoying.

                                            >But hey, it'll just be another day tomorrow, right? Maybe this headache of yours will finally quit.

                                            >So, you tuck yourself in and get under the covers, sleeping on your side and closing your eyes, unaware that something was already doing its' work.

                                            >That tomorrow wouldn't just be any other day.

                                            >That the semifinals would mean way more than just another game.

                                            >That you were becoming something...or someone, new.


                                            >You woke up, not at the comfortable time of 8 AM, but at about 7, with the first traces of sunlight peeking over the hills.

                                            >Even with the blinds drawn, you barely felt sleepy, almost alert.

                                            >But why did you feel...so hot? So uncomfortable? Almost itchy.

                                            >Working off what little grogginess was left, you looked down and felt...soft. What the...?

                                            >Startled, panic swirling, you reach for the lamp next to your bed, only to feel that your arm was similarly soft-feeling.

                                            >Your fingers feel strangely more...nimble.

                                            >A furred finger presses against the light switch, before you're greeted with a sight that nearly makes you jump out of your bed.

                                            >Brown fur covering a slimmer arm, leading up to a hand that looked like yours, just softer, less toned.

                                            >You involuntarily flex your fingers out of habit, feeling them move independently.

                                            >An arm covered in fine, brown hairs, soft and gentle to the touch, more so than your own skin ever was.

                                            >You still feel your own lips, though, cupping that hand to your cheek, it feels softer, more rounded.

                                            >"What the fuck...?" you say, only to realize you hadn't sounded like this in years.

                                            >It's youthful, like your voice hasn't cracked from puberty yet.

                                            >Curious, you test its' pitch. "Aaaahh..." Yup. Definitely higher pitched. You're reminded of choir class and many unfortunate voice cracks.

                                            >You never liked choir class.


                                            >”Is this a dream? Am I awake? What’s HAPPENING to me?” your mind swirls.

                                            >And why does it feel like your voice is being picked up from somewhere else?

                                            >Now that you're awake, you can now feel this strange pulsing sensation all over your body.

                                            >It's like everything's pressing in a little, except around your head.

                                            >Out of curiosity, you touch where the pulsing is coming from, only to jolt when you feel some little nubs pushing out. And they're growing.

                                            >Bit by bit, you can feel them push through your slender fingers, they almost feel wooden, but strangely, painless. Antlers?

                                            >The thought makes your ears twitch. But not where you’re used to feeling them.

                                            >Gingerly reaching to the side, your smaller hand feels something soft.

                                            >The soft thing twitches in response.

                                            >Two soft things, actually.

                                            >Your dear ears. You have some weird fluffy ears. Oooooh God this is weird.

                                            >"OK, just chill out...you’re not dreaming…" you ponder.

                                            >At least you still think in your old voice.

                                            >You need *some* kind of control over this, sitting up sounds like a good start.

                                            >But as you try to sit up, your legs don't seem to cooperate.

                                            >"Urgh..." you groan, before using your arms to push yourself up against the headboard.

                                            >Why did your head not reach as high up on the headboard?

                                            >Though, sitting up causes some hair to brush against your cheek, looking down, it was never this long...or soft.

                                            >Or blonde.

                                            >The hair, your voice...oh, shit.


                                            >You're turning into a femboy deer.


                                            >Pulling the blue starry sheets off of your form, you looked down to spot your underwear.

                                            >Good old blue boxers, just seeing them there, wrapped around your hips and legs, calms you.

                                            >Frumpier than you remembered, though, the fit around your gently widened hips remained.

                                            >Kind of like mini-shorts with their length.

                                            >Deep breaths, Anon...

                                            >INVESTIGATE MODE: ON

                                            >Your thighs were looking a little more curved, more supple.

                                            >Just a little thicker, covered in that same tan brown, lighter around your inner thighs.

                                            >With them squished together from discomfort, your dick was practically nestled between them.

                                            >Morning wood already squished against those legs.

                                            >Squeeeezing it, holding it, not letting it escape from what was to come.

                                            >Shit, why did that feel good? You haven't felt this aroused waking up in weeks.

                                            >So, you squeeze just a little tighter and are rewarded with a wave of arousal.

                                            >Another boyish groan.

                                            >Your gaze drops again, though, spotting your lower legs. Or, your newfound hooves.

                                            >Hard keratin at the front, supporting digitigrade feet, the heel tucked enticingly upwards.

                                            >Good thing you didn't stumble out of bed, otherwise you would have collapsed. Hard.

                                            >OK, inventory check. Hooves, dick’s hard, likely incoming muzzle...chest...kind of warm?

                                            >Kinda tingly, too.


                                            >Placing your hand there, you don't feel anything special.

                                            >A typical flat chest, with a dusting of thin, pale hazelnut, fur. Just warm. Less toned.

                                            >And then that same pang of arousal returns and *something* puffs out, enough to make you bite your lip.

                                            >As if recoiling, your head tilts backwards, only for those still-developing nubs (antlers, now?) to bonk on the headboard.

                                            >A second *puff*, on the other side of your chest…

                                            >Shiiiit, that was sensitive. Kinda sensual.

                                            >You don't remember taking any shots to the chest last night.

                                            >You carefully prod the other side of your chest, drawing out another huff of arousal.

                                            >You push in and the erect nipple gives, enough to form the smallest, most tantalizing *squish*.

                                            >Enough for your fingertip to sink in.

                                            >Just as you groan, voice hitching upwards, it hits you.

                                            >Oh, no...ooooooh, no.

                                            >The little guy running your brain is shocked into silence by the realization.

                                            >Girls have puffed up nipples raised up by little bumps.

                                            >Your chest has puffed up nipples raised up by little bumps.

                                            >Breasts. You're growing breasts. With puffy nipples. W-which means...

                                            >"I'm becoming aauuuh gguuuuuhhr..."


                                            >Your realization is cut off with your nose and mouth pushing out, like your body was adapting to its' new exterior. Correcting itself.

                                            >The fur around your nose lightening in color, before your nose begins to darken into a soft, dark red, dab of a nose. Just like a deer. A reindeer's.

                                            >Enough to draw out a cough from you, only to reach for your throat that's just a little longer now, more slender...no Adam's Apple.

                                            >You brace yourself...Test #2.

                                            >You better be getting paid for this.

                                            >"Aaaaahhh..." Your voice. It's like it was drawn out, refined a little, definitely higher-pitched...maybe a low contralto? A high alto?

                                            >But you sound more like a girl.

                                            >Or at least, some girl who'd been raised as a guy for her whole life.

                                            >Distinctly your voice, with all of the mannerisms intact, just in a new, not that high, pitch.

                                            >Your dick twitches within your boxers at the sound...screw it.

                                            >If your dick's going, and with all of the arousal cooped up in your body, why not?

                                            >Reaching into your boxers with a free hand, you begin to stroke, thumb pressing against the head and rubbing it.

                                            >With the lighter fingers, wrapping, coiling around your erection…

                                            >It's almost like a girl's giving you a handjob...no, no, no, NO.

                                            >Don’t think about that any more, brain. Bad brain. Baaad.

                                            >To make matters more 'interesting', your t-shirt moves with your hand, your forearm pressed against your shirt.

                                            >Every now and then, the fabric there rubs against your hardened nipples, those little swells...you hope that they won't grow.

                                            >You don't want cleavage, you never even asked for this! A brief thought flickers through your mind, asking you how this even happened.

                                            >"Why the hell am I turning into some reindeer...?" Was this some kind of disease?

                                            >Was St. Cockswill trying to get you from beyond the quarterfinal grave?

                                            >You try to get your brain to concentrate on ANY rational thought.

                                            >Which is kinda hard when you're jacking off.


                                            >As if listening to your chesticle plea, your breasts stop growing.

                                            >Only lightly tenting your shirt, barely. Phew.

                                            >...But you wish that it was perfectly flat. This prayer, unfortunately, goes unanswered.

                                            >You're forced out of that thought as you feel something pull inwards from below…

                                            >Your balls were being pulled upwards with an almost pleasurable tug.

                                            >Mmph…stroke, stroke, stroke…

                                            >Each pull making your chest and thighs feel inexplicably warmer.

                                            >Strokestrokestroke...

                                            >"Mmmffffrggh..." You're only able to sputter out. You wish that this whole change would just *stop*, but why did it have to feel so good?

                                            >A little puff of a tail begins to squirm free, right from above your boxers.

                                            >Stuck between a pillow and your butt, which fills out a little in response.

                                            >Urgh, it's coming...you feel your hot, furred body press into the mattress, hard.

                                            >And then the dam bursts.

                                            >You pull your hand out of your boxers as your body buckles, a "Hffff..." escaping your throat as your little guy gets his last climax.

                                            >Before finally receding up into your body, for good.

                                            >Damn. Farewell, brave soldier.

                                            >Out of all of the feelings, even growing little breasts, that was, by far, the *weirdest*.

                                            >You feel something...opening down below, thighs squirming just as much from the discomfort.

                                            >Enough to stifle out a final, long, heated and involuntary groan…

                                            >Your voice STILL sounds weird and high and...

                                            >And it's over.

                                            >Deep Breath #1...Deep Breath #2...

                                            >Valve won't let you take a third deep breath.

                                            >Then the post nut clarity hits in.


                                            >You have the body of some reindeer chick. You have classes today.

                                            >The semifinal game is in two weeks. And everything feels *off*.

                                            >Ooooooohhhh fuck.

                                            >There's no way you're letting Lance, or anyone, find out you've changed into a chick.

                                            >You like dressing the way you do!

                                            >Olaying video games, reading comics, being, at your core, a guy.

                                            >...maybe it took losing that body to figure out how much you cared about it.

                                            >How much it’s a part of you.

                                            >The idea of being a girl discomforts you, with how fundamental that piece of you is.

                                            >Despite everything, it's still you.

                                            >If there's one thing that you're confident in, you're still a man. Just with…reindeer parts.

                                            >And girl parts. Boobs.

                                            >You've read enough stories like this to know what happens if you're found out.

                                            >Being a reindeer? Not a huge deal. But being found out as a girl?

                                            >That meant being looked at differently, gaming sessions becoming more awkward…

                                            >Maybe even having to switch dorm rooms. Losing your bro, your squirrel roomie.

                                            >In a way, waking up early was a blessing.

                                            >You slap your cheeks, snapping yourself out of your lewd-induced stupor.

                                            >Alright. You want to survive today, Anon? You can't screw around. No mistakes.

                                            >You're a trooper and you're gonna find a way through.

                                            >You're a soccer player, right? Still are?

                                            >Even if you don’t know the first thing about kicking a ball in this body? Let alone walking?

                                            >Then go make a game plan, champ.


                                            >Steeling yourself, you prepare to roll over in bed, only to stop dead in your tracks.

                                            >Juuuust as your newly furred side was about to tip over.

                                            >Right. Your chest. And what’s on your chest.

                                            >That is…weird to think of. You have little sensitive reindeer tits. Urk.

                                            >Hoh hoh hoh. Is Santa laughing at your misfortune? Real funny.

                                            >...You don’t want to be conscious of them.

                                            >But if you roll over, you’ll squish them…sigh.

                                            >Begrudgingly, you shuffle over in bed, staying stomach-up until you’re at the edge of it.

                                            >Using your hands, you grip onto the sheets to hoist your body over.

                                            >Fur rubbing against the sheets all comfy-like.

                                            >You’re a determined Anon…there’ll be better ways to show that off later.

                                            >Placing yourself at the edge of the bed, you swing yourself over.

                                            >Hard hooves nearly bumping into a side table.

                                            >Without being able to control them, they feel like two mini-wrecking balls.

                                            >Welp. Practice makes perfect, right?

                                            >You brace yourself, then stand up, holding onto the bed as long as you can.

                                            >Up we go…

                                            >You faintly hear the sound of wiggling Jello.

                                            >Followed by your legs buckling as you try to force them to go plantigrade.

                                            >Ayooo, damn, a new friend request. Who’s this?

                                            >Ah, floor. Accept floor’s friend request?

                                            >No? Welp. Too bad.

                                            >The next thing you feel is your stomach hitting the ground, followed by your knees.

                                            >Fortunately, the lightest of all, your chest.

                                            >But it STILL feels like someone gave them a good squeeze.

                                            >Worse still, it still feels vaguely *good*, like through the sprains, there’s this hint of pleasure.

                                            >”Aaaaarrrrrguuhhh…”

                                            >But it mostly hurts.


                                            >...Shit. You can’t even get out of bed right?

                                            >”Grrrruuuughh…fffaaaurrgh…”

                                            >Unfortunately, your newfound muzzle wasn’t making talking easy, being face down on the carpet.

                                            >You know what? The floor’s tasty. You can lay here for a little.

                                            >Walking can come later. Just try to get your first name out. Anyone can do that.

                                            >”Aaaaarrrrrrhhh…nnawwwwwnnnn…”

                                            >It was like speaking with your tongue stuck to your mouth’s roof. Clumsy and slow.

                                            >”Aaahhh…nooowwwn…”

                                            >But you could learn.

                                            >With each repetition, your muzzle’s movements become a little more refined, until…

                                            >”Aawwnonn.”

                                            >You know what, you painted within the lines. As your art teacher once said, close enough.

                                            >The floor’s not tasting so good now. Standing up is now on the menu.

                                            >You manage to clumsily press one of your digitigrade’s toes against the ground.

                                            >Your efforts are then…rewarded with the leg collapsing. Again.

                                            >Stomach down, you’re reminded of your human instincts. What would you do, normally?

                                            >Using your palms, you pull yourself up like a pushup, something you’ve done a thousand times.

                                            >Thankfully your hands aren’t digitigrade or unguligrade or whatever.

                                            >Then, you swing your legs over in front, one at a time.

                                            >Arms acting like a sort of tripod to balance out each leg, before you use the bed to stand up.

                                            >Very…very shaky, you stand still until you gain some balance.

                                            >Raised heels shaking a little, until you let go of the headboard entirely.

                                            >”Fawwwk, I deod it.”

                                            >Ladies and gentlemen, Anon Armstrong. Put that quote in the history books.

                                            >Now what were you trying to do again?


                                            >Right. It’s mirror time.

                                            >You look at the reflective surface out of the corner of your eye, before glancing away.

                                            >Do you really want to look at who’s in there? Sigh. You don’t have a choice, do you?

                                            >What can you do, avoid mirrors for your whole life? The…the answer is No.

                                            >You win the $100 question, Anon! Congratulations.

                                            >The $200 question is if you were ready to look.

                                            >Focusing on your legs, you move forward, one step at a time, in no rush.

                                            >At least your boys’ clothes aren’t falling off. Not to say they don’t feel awkward, though.

                                            >The shoulders of your comfy tee (blessed) are hanging a bit down your upper arms.

                                            >While the hem of your tee’s hanging an inch or two down your thighs.

                                            >Meanwhile, your boxers reach further down your thighs. Probably from being shorter.

                                            >At least they’re comfortably hooked onto your hips.

                                            >They’re not a bad fit. And not falling off your form. They just fit…different.

                                            >How will you look? Boyish enough to hide? Like a steamroller hit you in the face?

                                            >The thoughts of what you could look like are only contextualized by the blonde hair you can feel and the fur of your muzzle.

                                            >Before you know it, your clumsy walking has brought you in front of the mirror.

                                            >Many backwards t-shirts have been saved by this lost artifact. All you can do now…

                                            >Is look up.


                                            >You’re greeted with a stranger, a reindeer girl in your boxers and black t-shirt.

                                            >About 3 inches shorter than you were? If you aren’t counting the antlers, at least.

                                            >They’re dark brown, poking and prodding out of your hand in a Y shape.

                                            >Clear, green eyes that blinked back at you, surrounded with warm, tan, fur.

                                            >Large, doe-shaped and a little lonely-looking. You felt the urge to hug her.

                                            >Sporting longer, brown eyelashes that poke out of them.

                                            >And helping to shape a soft, rounded, muzzle, that seemed to bear no trace of aggression.

                                            >Yet, there didn’t seem to be a real trace of girlishness to her posture or body language.

                                            >What a strange contradiction.

                                            >Blonde hair that ran past her neck, strands loosely resting on her shoulders.

                                            >Skittish, you place one of those newly softened hands on a rounded hip.

                                            >The reindeer girl nervously does the same, cheeks tinted red, squinting her eyes and cutely looking away.

                                            >A hint of curves visible through the tee, yet, tomboyish and androgynous, breasts almost tucked away under that dark fabric.

                                            >H-hey there.

                                            >...If this girl wasn’t you, you’d probably find the whole look pretty hot.

                                            >Maybe even cutely approachable, like she wouldn’t judge you.

                                            >But you haven’t seen a girl in your life who wears boxers and boys’ stuff casually.

                                            >Outside of copious reverse trap manga that you’d consumed.

                                            >So, finding that hot in real life is probably just a (you) thing. Probably. Maybe.

                                            >...Hoooooly shit. Does this mean this is a:

                                            >be me

                                            >be the reverse trap

                                            >Kind of situation? Damn.

                                            >At least you aren’t going to make any amateur mistakes.

                                            >This is your chance to prove that you’re more than ‘draw a girl, call it a boy’.

                                            >Especially when you have a pretty decent base to assert who you are on.

                                            >No dumbass situations where you’re walked in at the local onsen.

                                            >Or accidentally trip on top of another dude. Pfft…who the heck does that?

                                            >Fugg it, time to get to work.


                                            >Though your legs are still slippery and your walking wobbly, you make your way over to your oak drawers.

                                            >Each step made with a bit more confidence, a little more poise and steadiness.

                                            >Maybe there’s something you can do to hide this hair. Rummage…

                                            >Slipping a brown beanie out of the top drawer, you try to wiggle it over your hair.

                                            >If you could slip your blonde hair under it, it’s worth a shot.

                                            >”Stuhbuurn horns…” you grumble, trying to stretch the fabric over them, but it’s no use.

                                            >Also, ouch. Those horns were attached to your head. Horn no like bendy.

                                            >And you really don’t wanna blow a perfectly good beanie. Hey, it’s cool. You did your best, beanie.

                                            >Fine. First chance you get, you’re getting a haircut for this hair. For now, it’s a…rugged look.

                                            >Folding it up, you decide to toss on some comfy clothes, instead.

                                            >Popping out a fresh black t-shirt and chucking it on your bed, you throw in an olive green jacket for when you’re heading out; bonus curve covering points. Every bit counts.

                                            >It said it’d be cool out, so, eh, it’ll do. A pair of grey, frumpy sweatpants soon join the lineup.

                                            >You look at a pair of grey socks reluctantly…eh, nah, that’s not going to count for anything, putting them back.

                                            >Hands reaching up, using the drawer to support your back, you manage to shuffle off your shirt.

                                            >Though it nearly catches on your antlers, you manage to avert it, eyes off your…breasts.

                                            >At least there’s no jiggling, a good sign they’re smol.

                                            >Stubbornly, on comes the tee over your antlers, notably frumpy.

                                            >Soon followed by the sweatpants, though, you sit down to pull them up.

                                            >Pulling the strings hard so they’ll stay up on your now girlified legs.

                                            >The legs of the pants are kinda long and loose, but you get them to stick.

                                            >And when you look back?


                                            >Sure, there’s still that hair, the way your shirt catches loosely on your shoulders, but…

                                            >You can only just make out the inkling of those girls’ hips, thighs tucked away neatly through the sweatpants.

                                            >With a haircut, maybe the right posturing, yeah, you could really make this work.

                                            >For the first time, the boyish-looking reindeer in the mirror lets loose a little smile.

                                            >”Heh, looking guhd.”

                                            >That’s when it hits you. Right, your voice.

                                            >Like some teen trying to impersonate their dad, you tighten up your throat and speak.

                                            >”I’d like to buuhh a new car.”

                                            >Way too low and that strains you a little, so, you loosen your voice just enough for it to work.

                                            >A few minutes later, some push and pull, you have a believable enough ‘guy’ voice.

                                            >Still a tenor, but it’ll do. You figure you can refine it with time.

                                            >Now, where the heck is Lance…

                                            >Wait, hang on.

                                            >Like slipping into a HEV suit, your body is starting to…work anew.

                                            >New functions starting to slip into place, nerves connecting to work with a new form.

                                            >And all of a sudden, you could smell. Hear. And what a world you unlock.

                                            >The fact that he’s just chopped a banana and is opening a pack of strawberries for his Greek yogurt?

                                            >Like a THX intro to your nose.

                                            >Maybe not that loud. But you get the picture.

                                            >Heck, you can even hear some faint mumbling under his breath. Guess the ears have limits.

                                            >Clearing your throat, you prep your ‘guy’ voice again. Just gotta get the pitch down.

                                            >*Click.*

                                            >Legs steadier than ever, you make your way to the kitchen, keeping a hand close to the wall.

                                            >Hardwood flooring clicking under your hooves as you inhale, hard.

                                            >Remember, Anon. You can be a little freaked out. Relax.

                                            >”Hey, Lance. Uh, you might wanna see this.”

                                            >Lance sets down his bowl of granola-addled yogurt, treating this like any other Friday morning, squirrely tail tucked over the chair.

                                            >”Yo, what’s up, bro? Got your yogurt right…”

                                            >And then he goes all strangely silent.


                                            >For the first few moments, Lance was quiet. He didn’t say a word.

                                            >Save for being a little jittery, his eyes flexed over your form quickly.

                                            >Given this whole thing was some litmus test to see if you ‘passed’, it was tense.

                                            >”Anon, if this is some prank and you’re in a suit…”

                                            >Lance starts, but you raise a hand to stop him.

                                            >”I swear on my Philippe Mouskés scholarship this is 100% real, Lance. Deadass.”

                                            >The name of the holy scholarship had been uttered.

                                            >Only now did Lance stand up to take a closer look, leaving his meal behind.

                                            >The t-shirt slash jersey he had on emblazoned with the Raptors’ logo (a local basketball team) creased as he did.

                                            >Before he started peering and squinting at you, maybe closer than you liked. Eyes on your face, then up at your antlers.

                                            >Was it wrong to feel kind of…exposed, being observed so closely?

                                            >Now he was crouching down, peering at who knows what.

                                            >”Uh, Lance, you alright?” you follow up, shuffling a quarter-step back.

                                            >”...Unless some specter’s pulling my leg, hot damn. Y-you’re really a deer?” Lance asks.

                                            >”No, I’m a ghost! I’m spooky, I’m from the future…” You wave a hand in front of your face.

                                            >Before blinking at how it was small, less defined, guh, that was going to take a little time to adjust to.

                                            >Some of your nervousness from being watched so closely returns.

                                            >”Yeah, I turned into some kind of deer last night and still don’t know what happened. You OK with this, Lance?”

                                            >”Hey, what kinda question is that, bro? It’s if you’re cool with this. I mean, damn, I’m kinda impressed you’re not stumbling as much as I thought.”

                                            >”Chill, it’s gonna be cool. I…just, I dunno. There’s going to be some adjusting? As much as I don’t want to?” you admit.

                                            >”But hey, I’m a trooper. Just gotta…” You’re interrupted by your stomach panging. Gah. Transforming took a chunk out of you.

                                            >”Can I eat, first?”


                                            >The clink of spoons could be heard as you chowed down on some yogurt, two slices of bread nearby, spread with raspberry jam. A tall glass of OJ nearby.

                                            >You’d usually just take the yogurt, fruit and sprinkled nuts, but your stomach was killing you. You *need* carbs.

                                            >You see Lance’s hands fidget, even crawl forward a little, like he was pondering doing something. Before he sighed.

                                            >”So…how the heck did this even happen to you?” Lance asks, ever-curious.

                                            >His squirrely tail hadn’t stopped wagging about, even subtly, ever since you said you were alright.

                                            >”I felt kinda weird on my way to bed last night, maybe it was at the soccer game?” you suggest.

                                            >”Mm. And I don’t know what could cause this, bro. Heck, why go after you? No offense,” Lance followed up, biting right into another banana to peel it.

                                            >Vague thoughts of experimental drugs, wild curses and witches’ spells run through your mind.

                                            >”None taken, I get it. Your guess is as good as mine.”

                                            >Taking some comfort that Lance hadn’t clocked you the other way, you feel a little more chill.

                                            >Just don’t screw up and say you miss your penis or something.

                                            >Yogurt still tastes like yogurt, just…stronger? Must be the new sense of smell.

                                            >”So, how does it feel?” Lance asks after a moment’s pause. “You know, having antlers?”

                                            >Asking the question like he was trying to be casual, but had been bottling it up in him for hours.

                                            >Eh, alright. No harm in indulging him, as long as he isn’t too touchy.

                                            >”They don’t feel too weird?” you posit, touching one. “Guh…” Were antlers supposed to feel sensitive, almost velvety?

                                            >Kinda fuzzy, too? You wonder if it’s worth checking them out later. Maybe it’s a reindeer thing.


                                            >Lance leans in closer, making you freeze up a little. “You can feel them? I always thought they were like…tough bone.”

                                            >You aren’t thinking about what he’s saying much, feeling the crook where the antlers split. “Eh, maybe? Didn’t really take any courses in deer-ology.”

                                            >Lance’s tail swishing seemed to speed up at that. “Heh, uh…” His legs cross nervously.

                                            >”Can I touch them?”


                                            >By now, Lance’s tail, which is poking out of his gym shorts, has reached maximum velocity.

                                            >It’s like some incredibly eager grandfather clock.

                                            >Weighing your options, it wouldn’t be the worst to let Lance touch them, as much as you don’t want to focus on the antlers.

                                            >But you still feel uncomfortable being reminded of them.

                                            >”Maybe another time, dude? Just not now,” you brush the topic aside, nodding. “‘Sides, not like they’re anything special. Just some horn-like things I got going on.”

                                            >Urk, it hurt to say that. Lance was a little innocent, after all.

                                            >”Aw. Heh, it’s all cool, bro.” Despite you turning him down, he still seemed all bro-y.

                                            >Like you thought, it’s tough to make him upset, as long as things didn’t get personal.

                                            >”But I gotta say…” His eyes squint, until he’s practically leaning over the table…

                                            >”Wonder what gave you blonde hair. And you sound all funny. Kind of…more boyish? Younger?”

                                            >Ah, shit, here we go again. Stay cool, Anon. DEFCON 4…relax.

                                            >Leaning in, you match Lance’s confidence. Gotta put your money where your mouth is.

                                            >”What, feeling all *funny* for a guy just ‘cus I have long hair now, Lance?”

                                            >You waggle your eyebrows jokingly, before raucously laughing and slapping your hand on the table.

                                            >”Besides…” And you swish your head. ”I just have one of those lumberjack haircuts now.”

                                            >Your eyes are promptly assaulted by a mound of blonde, but you swipe it away.


                                            >Wait, wait, hold up.

                                            >From the few fem deer you know, none of them have antlers, even if the mens’ are usually way bigger.

                                            >Sucks to be them, though, always bumping on walls and getting caught on shirts.

                                            >Then, why do *you* have antlers? Is this some wild exception?

                                            >Not willing to look a gift horse in the mouth, you stay quiet. Maybe you can use this to your advantage if someone questions you.


                                            >Back to reality, though, Lance chuckles back. “Must be the reindeer genes, making you all soft? I’m just kidding, bro.”

                                            >”You look good, honest.”

                                            >...You’ll take that as a compliment, smirking before you pull back in your seat.

                                            >”So, do you wanna take the day off?” Lance asks, spreading his legs as he reaches for a nearby protein bar, his plate now cleared. Chomp…

                                            >You *could*, no one would judge you for wanting to relax, even for a day.

                                            >But knowing you, you’d be stuck here for the day *trying* to forget.

                                            >Beer? You just got a 6 pack of Schell’s with some deer emblazoned on the front.

                                            >TV? Would probably have a nature documentary playing.

                                            >”Let’s just peel the bandaid off,” you decide, pushing your now-empty bowl and plate away.

                                            >Taking a deep breath, you close your green, eyelash-tipped eyes.

                                            >”There’s no way I can relax with what’s up ahead, Lance. And practice is tomorrow, right?”

                                            >Can’t really draw from the ‘Reverse Trap Playbook of Errors’ here, but…

                                            >”They’re gonna find me out sooner or later. I gotta admit that I’m a deer. Or at least, some human in a deer shell.”

                                            >”Woah, wait, you sure, bro?” Lance asked. “We don’t gotta rush it-”

                                            >”Nah, nah, it’s fine. The scholarship depends on it, ey?” you point out, forcing yourself a little, gesturing to him with a dainty hand.

                                            >”Not like I have a choice.” It's a hefty sum, and…you doubt that the school’d make an exception for you.


                                            >”So, we’re gonna have to go to the dean. I’ll throw on my jacket and head up there.”

                                            >Waitwaitwait…alone? To the dean? Eck, that’s not gonna cut it. Might as well have another guy to stand up for you.

                                            >Your eyes flicker back up to Lance, having focused more on the table.

                                            >”Aaaaand if you keep me company, I’ll let you touch the antlers now?”

                                            >Your heart’s still kinda aching from turning the guy down. Plus, they’re just antlers.

                                            >Maybe there’s something a little more to them, given how you can point to them and go, “I’m a dude.”.

                                            >Heh, it sounds cheesy, but it’s true.

                                            >”You’re on, bro. I’d join ya even if you didn’t let me touch ‘em,” Lance gives this doofy smile.

                                            >Hopping out of his chair like some eager rabbit, his furred hands find their way to those fuzzy pokers.

                                            >Rub, rub… “Guuuuh.” The feeling’s strangely good? You’re reminded of a dog being pet on the head.

                                            >Hearing your groan, Lance almost becomes more eager, feeling about the velvet.

                                            >You yawn, just letting Lance have his fill. Because why not?

                                            >Just more proof that you're the total guy you're passing as.

                                            >Biting your lip; not wanting to give Lance *more* of a reason to keep touching.

                                            >”Heh, that feel good, bro? Guess it’s not all bad, being a deer. But…” He stops, reconsidering those words.

                                            >”We’re still gonna try to get you changed back, yeah? You ready to head up to the dean’s?”

                                            >Soon following that’s a light punch to one of your slim arms, tenting the fabric.

                                            >Pulling yourself from the chair with a mighty grunt, giving Lance a thumbs up.

                                            >Just have to snag your jacket and pull that on, first.

                                            >You'll feel a little more safe that way.

                                            >”Yeah, I’m ready. Let’s go, dude.”