Had the idea for 2nd person TF stories that were pure wish fulfillment - for the otherkin/therian friends out there perhaps. This is a sort of test of that idea. Took a while to write too, next story definitely needs to be something more fun.

PDF is the best way to read!

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You trudge down the lonely road, trying to ignore the stabbing pains across your body. The training swords you’re carrying are heavy in your hands, while the echoes of your master’s furious admonishments ring in your ears.

The training to learn proper swordsmanship had promised to be difficult – but you had not been ready for how awful it was going to be. The yelling. The hits across the head for the slightest slip-up. Today was not the first time you were going home bruised with tears in your eyes.

But it would have been worth it. You were happy to put up with all of that just for the chance to follow your dreams! Today you did your best to please your master, obediently following the way he wanted you to fight, fighting in the stances he instructed, gripping your blade so tightly your hands were red and sore. And somehow it was still too little for him.

Idiot, disgrace, failure, all those insults you had been able to shoulder before now repeated in your mind. Because it was over now. You’d been thrown out of his dojo – quite literally – and expelled from his training. And so, the one barricade protecting you from all that pain was gone, tears flowing down your face in earnest.

This was your dream. Your calling! Deep down, you had always known you wanted to learn how to fight, but why were you so terrible at it? Why did the sword feel so wrong in your hands? Why did the proper techniques feel so awkward to you! Perhaps he was right…you were a disgrace…it was like your master was still there, whispering cruel criticisms in your ear.

“Hello young warrior!”

Snapping out of your self-hating haze, you turned to the voice. An older gentleman, with a face wreathed in a glorious greying beard, regarding you with a wrinkled and warm gaze.

“You…you mean me?” You asked, bewildered.

“Of course, why else would a young thing like you be heaving around those wooden blades hmm?” The man responded. His voice raspy yet still full of energy that seemed to ease your spirit slightly just from hearing it. “In training, are we?”

Your expression collapsed again, gaze turning to the floor in shame.

“No…I…I just got expelled from the dojo. I w-wasn’t good enough…” You answered, tears already returning with a vengeance. The old man tutted to himself.

“Nonsense!” He exclaimed. “What kind of teacher expels a learner because they are not already masters of the craft?” You sniffled, the voice in your head blotting out the kind words. Noticing this, the man regarded you carefully before trying again. “Tell me this…did you like what he was teaching you?”

That got your attention. You’d…never thought about it that way… You scoured your memories of your training sessions, remembering the awkward stances, the discomfort of the weapon in your hand, the little knot in your stomach screaming about how wrong it all seemed. And so, you answered.

“No…no I didn’t. It all just felt so wrong! These wooden swords felt too small, the stances were uncomfortable, I felt awful whenever I did anything he liked!” The floodgates burst open as you realised how much you’d loathed it, your voice quivering as you spilt your frustrations out to this stranger. “A-a-and I just felt so stupid that I couldn’t do the things correctly. And all the correct things just felt wrong!”
The man held a palm up gently to silence you.

“As I suspected. Another question then, do you still wish to complete your training?” He gestured behind him, directing your gaze. Now that you were paying attention, you realised the building the old man was standing in front of was a wooden dojo much like your old master’s. Which must mean…

“Yes…Yes please!” You answer to this old master. With a flick of his hands, he beckons you to follow him inside the dojo. At his direction you leave your wooden swords in the entryway and follow him into the main hall, a large thin training mat covering the floor, with a training dummy already stood in the center. “I never realised this dojo was here…have you been teaching a long time?”

“Well…to tell you the truth my friend…I haven’t taught a student in some time, there are few students willing to learn the ways of the seamitar nowadays.” The smile that has been a permanent fixture of his face so far falters as he speaks. “This style requires a very particular breed of warrior, one that I’m afraid is all too uncommon in this world…but I can see you have the makings of one such warrior, if you’ll forgive my forwardness.”

He turns and walks toward an armour rack off the side, leaving you in the center of the room. Your mind mulling over his words. A “particular breed” of warrior? The hell does that mean? If you’re honest…the idea that you could be some special martial artist is SO exciting…but then the echoes of your old master’s abuse reverberate in your mind.

“Are you sure…? I don’t think I’m what you’re looking for…” Already you’re losing confidence. Why did you follow this random man in there? You open your mouth – to thank this man for his time and apologise for wasting it – but he again silences you with a raised hand.

“Please. Let me give you the first – and most important – lesson of this style. Whether you are what I think you could be, will be revealed by the time we are done. Will you allow me that?” You shuffle in place nervously, caught between opposing forces. The doubt drilled into you repeatedly urging you to give up and leave, and that dream of yours begging you to take this chance. The door is right behind you, you should just leave and stop wasting this man’s time. But no, you want to be trained, you NEED to be trained! And so you speak up.

“Ok…let’s do it!”

“Most excellent! In that case, I must ask that you put these on.” It’s at this point you notice the armour pieces he has brought from the armour rack. Two pairs of bracers, one for the arms and one for the legs, and a large, rounded helmet tipped with a sharp horn. The entire set has a hard, shell-like appearance to it, and when you take the items from him the heft of the set only confirms it. Putting the armour on, it fits awkwardly on your frame. The bracers are a touch too big for your limbs, and the helmet is a tight fit, to say the least. Despite that, you turn your arms back and forth, admiring how the shell bracers look on your arms, something about the way they look on you feels right. You notice there’s an opening in the top of the arm bracers, like a slot of some sort.

As you question what could fit in those slots, your new master approaches again with the answer. In his hands are two strange looking swords. Matching the pale colour of the armour, they appear to have a shell-like texture to them. The designs are simple, even primitive! Made of thick, simple, triangular shapes, while the grips are remarkably featureless – thin triangles that don’t look like any sword grip you’re familiar with. Their primitive shapes match the bracers, the blades clearly designed to fit into the arm bracers. The harsh texture makes the weapons look uncomfortable to carry, but when you take the offered blades, they slot into your grip smoothly. You can’t resist swinging the blades back and forth lightly, enjoying how natural it feels to control these blades.

“Hmmmm…yes I can see you fit these weapons very nicely!” The master says, regarding with eyes narrowly assessing you. You feel a bit embarrassed to have been just childishly swinging the weapons around in front of him…but he doesn’t seem mad. “Now, take stance in front of the training dummy, and we shall begin.”

The dummy stands stoic in the middle of the training mat as you approach it, a blade in each hand. Recalling what you can of your previous training, you take up a traditional stance, arms raised and standing tall.

“Not like that my friend. You must unlearn these ways of fighting you have been taught, they will do you no good here. Besides, remember how you hated them?” You frown. He’s right. The aches from the bruises still present on your arms are a stark reminder of your previous training’s failings. You turn to him to ask what stance you should take, but he again cuts you off. “Focus on that feeling, find the stance that feels truly natural to you now, no matter how strange it may seem.”

The stance that feels “natural”? You rack your brains, struggling to figure out what to do. But then an idea comes to you. Or to be more specific, it returns to you. Before you had trained with your old Master, you had practiced – playing really – with toy swords by yourself. And as ridiculous it was…there was one way of wielding those toy blades you always enjoyed…

Trying not to blush from embarrassment, you bend down and insert one sword into its slot – or scabbard, you suppose – in your arm bracer, then place the newly free hand on the floor. Your spare hand remains lifted as you stand on three limbs, blade at the ready. It takes a few seconds to get the balance right with your fourth limb not on the floor but eventually you steady yourself, now looking slightly up at the dummy. What…what are you doing? Crawling on the floor like an animal, and why are you sort of OK with this?

“Excellent!” Your master says. Your heart jumps up your chest at the praise, doubts obliterated in an instance at his pleased tone. You’re doing something right! “Just a few small corrections to make.” He says as he approaches, correcting the spacing of your arms and legs on the floor. Focusing intently on staying still as he does so, you’re not paying attention as your arms and hands crack and morph at his touch, increasingly resembling paws. All you notice is that this stance feels increasingly comfortable as your master’s gentle nudges shift you into a more quadruped stance, as if you body is desperate to match what he is instructing of it. He steps back again, regarding you sharply for a moment then nodding, pleased with what he sees. “Now, give that dummy a few slashes, get a feel for fighting in this stance.”

Your grip tightens on the seamitar as you attack. Swinging wide you slice the blade, the tip cutting into the belly of the dummy. Pivoting on your altered hands, you use the momentum to slice back the other way, cutting again into the dummy’s chest with enough force to send it wobbling on its stand. Each cut is so deeply satisfying, endorphins flooding through you with how effortless it all feel, filling you up so much that your body begins to swell in response. Your limbs in particular bulk up, arms and legs bulking up with each strike till you’re now a snug fit for your bracers.

What was to be a few slashes becomes an orgy of attacks, you improvise as you turn from long, broad slashes to a flurry of stabs and overhead slices as you lose yourself in your art. Your entire body swells, your torso barrelling out with muscle and blubber as your entire uniform gives up and tears apart from your larger body to fall as scraps on the floor.
“Halt!”
You pause immediately. As your combat high dies down, you become aware of how hard you’re panting, breathes coming out hot and steamy from your face. Your body aches from the exertion, but the lingering afterglow of those endorphins makes it so worth it, it’s like a little tingle spreading throughout your body.

“Remember to sheathe your weapon!” The master instructs, looking pleased at you. You turn down and sheathe your blade back into the remaining bracer with a satisfying clink. Dimly, you note that your bruises must have cleared up. Your entire skin has turned an ocean blue colour, but not a single purple bruise to be seen, yet this doesn’t strike you as odd, nor does the fact that you’re technically completely naked. Your body does ache though from your rigorous training, and you massage your dominant arm that’s borne the brunt of the exercise. Your fingers touch your skin, finding it firm and tough to the touch, yet it squishes slightly under pressure like blubber.

“Wait…this…this isn’t right…” You murmur, barely audible. Some distant voice is screaming that this is wrong, you shouldn’t have blubbery skin, and didn’t you have 5 thin digits on your hands, rather than the 3 thick black claws you see rubbing your foreleg now? The distant voice gets louder, sounding increasingly like your old master, and you can’t help but let out a distinctly inhuman whine of distress that summons your new master to your side.

“Whatever is the matter, young Samurott?” He asks, kneeling slightly to look you in the eye. Samurott…what’s that…is that you? You don’t recognise the name, yet it rings a bell. You feel so confused. Tears well up again as you look at your master’s concerned face, begging for answers. “I see, I was afraid of this…this world has done too much damage to you, student of mine.”

His words sting like a wasp. You’re not good enough. Again, there is something wrong with you that will stop you from achieving your dreams. The tears come out strong now, clear waterfalls flowing down a face tinged with blue blubbery skin. But then your master cups your cheeks in his hands, his fingers brushing past the beginnings of white whiskery hairs as he looks you dead in the eyes.
“Young warrior, look at me.” He commands. You sniffle and snort as you can barely make out his face through the tears. “From the skill you just showed, you are clearly already a master of the blade…but you have been trapped for so long that you cannot see it…so I will send you somewhere where you can.”

He tilts your face up so he can get closer, ducking under the horn of the helmet which now fits snugly on your head. “I apologise our time together will be brief, but will you join me in one final meditation exercise? I promise all will be clear once we are done.” You open your mouth to answer, but the word fails to come to you…how do you agree? Racking your brains, you settle on a coarse and rough bark.

“Thank you, my friend…now…close your eyes, and do as I say one more time.” You obey, eyes drifting closed, your body still quivering with emotion.

“Now, take deep breaths, focus on each part of your body and feel it relax.” It’s hard, but you begin to breathe slowly, quick shuddering breaths turning into slow and measured ones. You focus on your four legs, all now planted on the floor. As you take in air, they bulk up one last time with muscle and blubbery fat. Another, bigger breath swells your chest as if being inflated by the intake of air, your stance widening a bit to accommodate your added weight. But it’s not all blubbery fat, you’re muscled and strong, a creature in the prime of its life.

Your focus moves backwards towards your rear, which is still aching from your training. Your face scrunches up as the ache intensifies with each breath, the pressure building until finally it relents as you breath out. A finned tail finally breaks free from your rear, crested with blue and yellow, it flaps up and down in time with your breathing.

Peace still eludes you however, as your face starts to ache next, like your face is being stretched apart. Because it is. Your face stretches forward into a seal-like muzzle, your nose turning red, your mouth filling with sharper animalistic fangs befitting of the mighty Pokemon you are becoming. Now with more room to grow, the faint white hairs that have been slowly sprouting from your face surge outward. The pressure and ache in your face is replaced with a lovely faint background warmth as long white whiskers take shape, two small ones sticking out from your upper lip like a moustache. At the same time, larger whiskers sprout from the bottom of your muzzle as if in imitation of your master’s beard.

As the last aches ebb away from your body like the tide, your master begins to stroke and pet the side of your muzzle, running a thumb along your whiskers. New instincts fire in your altered brain, and you can’t help yourself from growling happily from the contact. This…this feels right…and why shouldn’t it? When were you not this sturdy, powerful creature? For the first time in ages, you feel pride fill your barrelled chest, even with your eyes closed you can see your animalistic, strong body in your mind’s eye. And with that beautiful mental image, peace finally claims you.

“Well done, you have truly earnt the title of Master Samurott…I wish you luck with your dojo, mighty creature, and with the life you always wanted.” Your master says, his voice fading out as if moving away, his touch leaving your whiskers, causing you to finally open your eyes.

The human-styled dojo is gone. Where once stood a basic man-shaped dummy now stands a wooden effigy of a Machoke, outside the window you can hear the chirps, barks and whines of other Pokemon, instead of the bustle of a city. The kanji scrolls you vaguely recall being hung before are now replaced with scrolls adorned in footprint writing that you already recognise as if you’d read them a hundred times before. Because of course you have, right? This is your dojo. Inherited from your master before you, as he inherited it from his master before him.

Yet still some unease remains…did you forget something? A clamour from behind you, in the entryway, seems to answer you. Of course! Your students! Heading back into the entrance, the little Oshawotts arguing in the entrance don’t notice you right away. They’re too busy comparing the size and sharpness of their scalchops, despite how small they all look compared with your proper seamitars. Their tiny rotund bodies almost a joke compared with your strong, sturdy Samurott self. But…these are still students, like you vaguely recall being before. With a sharp, short bark, you command their attention, the group scrambling to get in line. You could berate them for their squabbling but…no. You will follow the teachings of your master and give these young warriors the same support and training that you received. And someday these young ones with be mighty Samurotts!

Just like you’ve always been.