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❯❯❯ MATURE cuz sometimes you just want to let it happen.
With ‘The Bad Guys 2’ right around the corner, farm boy Samuel Natsu has big plans. When he puts on a foxy cosplay for the premier, a night on the town isn’t all that’s stolen. The Crimson Paw is always ready for the perfect heist.
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Commission Info: Experience the SynthW4V3 Pulse
Samuel Natsu had always lived between identities.
His family farm sat on the edge of a world that moved too fast to catch, too slow to escape. Creaking wood. Cattle calls. A life divided between open skies and silver screens. Mornings in the fields. Nights lost in stories. Dirt under his nails.
Latex on his skin.
His everyday wasn’t much. Feed the chickens. Haul hay. Fix what broke, or patch it with duct tape until it could be replaced — which usually meant never. There was a rhythm to it all, worn and quiet. Tractor hums. Wind through barn slats. A hundred small tasks that made the days disappear. He didn’t hate it. But it never felt like his.
Not the way his other world did.
Convention weekends. Now, those were sacred. Like stepping through a secret door into world of weightlessness. No chores. No clocks. Just the freedom of becoming someone else. Someone bolder. Sleeker. Cooler. It wasn’t just pretend. It was escape. A break from the boy with mud-caked sneakers and calloused hands. A brief, shining chance to be the bad guy with the sharp teeth, the dashing antihero, the sly fox in crimson.
He could laugh in another voice. Walk with someone else’s swagger. Be seen. Not for what he was born into, but for what he chose to become.
In costume, the world shifted. Rules blurred. Eyes lingered.
And he didn’t have to be Sam.
Not if he didn’t want to.
Tonight had that same buzz.
A familiar vibrato, but louder. Electric.
Chores? Done. Family? Scattered. The house was still. And Sam?
Tucked away in his room, door half-shut, a sanctuary of make-believe and flickering monitors. Costumes hung neatly in the closet. A few special pieces displayed like trophies. Posters on the walls, manga stacked in lopsided towers. The glow from his computer lit everything in soft, pulsing blue. His light brown hair caught the color, silver at the tips. Red glasses turned violet under the screen.
One tab still open: The Bad Guys 2: Premiere Night Countdown.
Three days.
One hour.
Thirty-eight minutes.
He lay sprawled on the bed, one leg cocked, headphones pushed off his ears. His green-and-white striped tee blurred into the bedding — flannel, soft, smothered in blue light. He’d watched The Bad Guys countless times. Still, it always hit like the premiere. He wasn’t watching so much as living the opening chase. Lips half-curled. Eyes wide.
Only one thing could have made this moment more perfect.
And as it so happened…
A soft pulse. A notification at the bottom of his screen.
» Your order has arrived.
"Finally," he breathed, sitting up in bed.
He'd been waiting on this for weeks, and it arrived just in time. Calmly, he toed his sneakers on. Rose from the bed. Shuffled across the room. Creaked open the door.
And then…
He zoomed.
Across the hall. Down the stairs. Sneakers squeaked and slapped on old boards. Desperate hands slammed open the screen door. Out onto the porch, into the violet-blue dusk of early evening. Air still warm with hay and honeysuckle. He jogged to the end of the driveway, to the box sitting at the edge of the gravel like a lost pup, waiting for its master to come along.
He looked up and down the dirt road. Nary a trace of the mail truck, but she was finally here. He knelt down to inspect his prize. He almost didn’t want to touch the box. Like simply holding it would begin something.
But his hands were already grabbing it, cradling it, cherishing it close against his chest.
Back up the driveway.
Back upstairs.
Back against the door. Lock turned.
Before he realized it, the cardboard was sliced open. Box cutter already tossed back in the desk drawer.
He was all hands now.
Peeling flaps.
Beholding Diane.
First came the bodysuit. Light orange with a pale tan belly, folded like a sleeping fox. Not fur. Not cloth. Latex. Smooth. Shiny. Fitted with a subtle shimmer that caught the overhead light and made it gleam like water. Pliable between his fingers. Soft in a way that wasn’t soft. Almost warm. Almost breathing.
“Damn,” he murmured, brushing his thumb along the curve of the chest, down over the dip at the waist. “Look at you…”
He held her a second longer.
She was a second skin just waiting to hug him in all the right ways.
Next came the padding. Plush. Contoured. Built for fantasy. Hips, thighs, bust, each one shaped with care. Curves he didn’t own, but knew. Wanted. His thumb brushed the hip arch, lingering. No words. Just a slow smile. Quiet and crooked.
He let out a low breath. Almost a laugh.
“This is gonna be good.”
He reached again.
The gown slid out like liquid perfection. A bold shade of magenta, formal cut. He ran the fabric between his hands like silk. It wasn’t silk. But it might as well have been. The kind of material that moved like mist and clung like memory. Long, flowing, a perfect replica of the one she wore at the first gala. That pause with Mr. Wolf in front of the art piece. How the light hit her face, her dress, the way she tilted her head just so…
She was strong.
Powerful.
In control, even with a stranger at her side.
She was a woman who knew what she wanted, and how to take it. She was everything he could only ever wish he was.
And in just a few days…
He pressed the gown to his chest, fingers sinking into the folds, letting the weight of it settle against him. Cool fabric. Smooth. It clung where he held it, like it already knew the shape of him. He rocked once on his heels. Then again. A sway. A turn. Just enough to make the skirt flutter, catching a whisper of air.
His eyes fluttered closed.
He could already feel it — the hush of the crowd, the press of the bodysuit hugging every curve, the shimmer of the gown scattering light. A slow turn. A coy smile. Posture easy, sly. Confident. Beautiful.
All eyes on her.
All eyes on him.
His reflection caught in the mirror as he stood. Striped gloves. Fingerless. Headphones hanging loose. His shirt slightly oversized, green and white stripes stretched over his frame. He pushed his spiky bangs back and lifted the gown up against himself, imagining the change.
He would try it all on.
Just for a minute.
Just to see.
In a blink, his clothes were a heap on the bed. A scatter of cotton and thread. His bare skin humming with anticipation.
The padding came first. He slipped it on with care, the plush forms hugging close, rounding out the sharpness of his frame. A bit of curve to his slight figure. A softness at the thighs. Hips that swayed just a little when he walked.
The zipper whispered open.
Diane.
The bodysuit parted, supple and cool inside — almost damp, like it had been waiting. He paused, one leg lifted, toes grazing the lining. The latex shivered. Welcoming.
He stepped in slowly.
Left leg first. The material kissed up his calf, wrapped his thigh, pulled snug over the padding like breath being drawn in. The higher it climbed, the more it clung. Gripped him. Glided upward. That familiar resonant squeak as it molded itself to him like it belonged there.
Then the right. The same slow slide. The same tactile tempo. Tight. Warm now. The texture shifting against his skin, slick but soft, like a hand guiding him further in.
He shivered.
The latex hugged close, so close. Conforming every inch. Every dip. Every curve he wanted to have.
Hips next.
The squeeze made him shudder.
He watched it happen in the mirror, his body reshaping before his eyes. Reflected someone not entirely him — not yet — but close. He pulled it higher. Heat smoothened over. Light orange gleamed like sunset glass, the tan belly cutting up his core. The hint of abs from his years on the farm slicked over, soft curves of muscles glinting in the dimming sunlight. His chest wildly feminine as rubber fulfilled the padding's fantasy. Shoulders softened. Waist tucked. Hips full beneath the sheen. Firm. Fluid. Forgiving.
It moved with him.
It contained him.
Cradled him.
Promised him.
Fingers flexed inside paw-shaped gloves, tipped in soft black vinyl claws. His gaze dropped, slow. A palm drifted from the swell of his hip, across the inner thigh, gliding the way mist kisses glass. Up, over the smoothness cupped at his crotch. The gentle squeak of latex on latex as his hand — paw — rose higher, above the dip of his belly button. Across his stomach. To his chest. He lingered there, cupping the molded breast like a question.
This wouldn't be the first time he'd cosplayed a woman, but this time felt different. Felt right.
He’d watched that movie a hundred times. Maybe more. Diane. Governor Foxington. The Crimson Paw. She moved like shadow and light. Power in her posture. Grace in her smirk. She owned every room.
He could only dream of that kind of confidence. But now? In this moment — in her skin — he felt it. Not borrowed. Not pretend. Something closer.
The glint of latex caught the low light. His boyish frame blurred at the edges — hips soft, chest full, waist drawn like a breath held tight. A figure both imagined and remembered. His reflection lit up in ways he’d never seen before.
Heartbeat stuttered behind padding.
A flush rose behind his ears.
It wasn’t just dress-up.
Deep breaths, calm…
It was becoming.
He smiled.
Small.
Satisfied.
Almost shy.
Maybe, just maybe…
This was a fantasy he didn’t want to take off.
He reached for the dress. He’d thought it might feel silly, thought he should have ordered the business suit instead. But the moment the magenta fabric whispered over his stomach and settled around his hips, he knew. This was correct. The hem swept just above his ankles. The bodice hugged his form. And when he moved — just slightly — it shimmered, the satin sheen of it rippling with every breath.
He was breathing faster now.
He turned in the mirror. Slowly. His hands ran down his waist. His thighs. Over the curve of the dress. This is who she is. The poise. The elegance. The grace. He stepped forward, lifted his chin, narrowed his eyes, for a moment could see her in his face…
Ah, the mask.
Sam reached into the box for Diane's mask.
It was heavier than expected. More detailed. Every sculpted furrow and curve, every glint in the painted amber eyes, down to the eyebrow piercing. It wasn’t just a prop. It was her. Diane. The half-smile. The attitude. The unshakable grace.
He held it by the jaw. It looked back at him.
And for a second — only a second — he thought he heard… whispering.
No words.
Just a rustle, a breath, the smallest ripple through the quiet.
He blinked.
The sound was gone.
Replaced by the ticking of the wall clock. A fly buzzing near the window. His own breath, shallow in his chest.
“…Weird,” he muttered.
Samuel sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, dress pooled around his thighs. His reflection stared back at him. Half-Diane. Half-Sam. Hazel eyes framed by red glasses, spiked brown hair still tousled. Orange and tan latex tight against feminine curves.
A boy in a fox’s dress.
He looked down.
His fingers flexed again.
He didn’t speak for a long time.
Outside, the evening deepened into night. Cows stirred somewhere far off. A breeze slipped through the cracked window.
And in the mirror…
Diane’s dress glowed like a promise. And he glowed in it.
The days had been agony. Chores, duties, and anticipation. But finally the night of the premiere arrived. The house was quiet. The world, still. All save for one room upstairs — cracked open just enough to let a sliver of monitor light spill out into the hallway.
Samuel sat cross-legged in front of his desk, the monitor humming softly, the glow painting him lavender and blue. The same countdown still hovered in the corner of the open browser tab, only this time it was much shorter.
» 00:00:45
He was already suited up, the bodysuit sleek and clinging, every curve caught in the glow like the edge of a dream. The gala dress hung nearby, draped over the bed in folds of magenta and light. He was practically bouncing. Adjusted the chest padding. Made sure everything was tucked into place. Gave the suit a glossy polish. Every little detail perfect. Almost.
His reflection stared at him from the monitor screen. Almost Diane.
He reached into the box again.
The mask waited.
Cool latex. Amber eyes. That sculpted smirk.
» 00:00:21
"Guess it's showtime," Sam smiled, fingers curling under the jaw. "Good-bye Sam, hello Diane."
He tosses his glasses onto the bed.
Lifted the mask up to his face.
Took a deep, slow breath.
Heart pacing itself.
Lined it up.
Slipped it over his head.
The world dimmed at the edges.
The scent of rubber filled his nose. He breathed deep. And deeper. Something pulsed behind his eyes. A flicker of gold. A warmth under the skin.
He swayed.
The room pulsed once, softly, like an inhale. Like it knew.
The edge of the muzzle kissed his nose—
And then the latex jumped.
It clung, sealing to his skin like a creature taking hold. A snap-pop of suction, fast and tight. His hands jerked reflexively, but the mask was already molding, melting, sinking against him like it wanted inside.
“Wait —!” he gasped, voice already wrong, already…
“Darling, really. Do try to relax.”
Not his voice.
Her voice.
Velvet. Cool. Confident.
His body lurched.
A wave of warmth crashed through him — scalp to toes, sweeping low and deep — like heat blooming behind his eyes, like velvet lightning in his spine. It wasn't pain. It was pleasure, wrong in all the right ways. His knees buckled. His back arched with a spine-deep crack-pop-pop, joints shifting all at once like puzzle pieces clicking into place.
He gasped.
The suit gripped.
His waist drew inward, not just squeezed — shaped. Like fingers sculpting clay. His body responded, eager, pliant. Hips bloomed beneath the latex with a hush of friction, the fabric stretching to contain the fullness as his frame redistributed in a soft, deliberate cascade.
Thighs thickened. Rounded. The kind of softness that promised movement with weight, sway, grace. Feet lifted from the floor as his center of gravity rewrote itself. A subtle pop of vertebrae, calves stretching, arch deepening. He felt his legs shift. Angles smoothed. Bones rewired beneath the latex. Quads thickened, knees realigned, muscle memory remapped for a new gait, a new strut.
And then…
The pressure between his legs.
A subtle shift, and then a rush — heat gathering low as the suit tugged taut against his crotch. Hugged. Lifted. Cradled. The sensation stole his breath, his hips twitching forward on instinct, the outline now unmistakably rounded, proudly present, a silhouette that knew its power.
His backside followed suit — literally — plumping into a curve he’d only ever admired from afar. A fullness that sang in the mirror. Shapely. Defined. The suit didn’t just allow the change. It celebrated it. Hugged every swell. Lifted and rounded like it was showcasing a final touch.
Sam whimpered. Not in fear, but in overwhelmed awe.
Latex rippled across his skin.
Like water
Like light.
A shimmer passed over his chest, down his belly, along his thighs. Where once it clung in synthetic shine, now it bloomed. Orange deepened into the soft rust of fur, fluffing outward in waves. Tan rose at his stomach, creamy and plush, his core drawing in and up, a tidy tummy tuck that made the rest of him all curve and flow.
Not costume. Not pretend.
This was real. Lush. Alive.
And then it reached his arms. Sleeves stretched, contoured, reshaped. Shoulders slimmed, but held their poise. Biceps pulled tighter, defined beneath the suit. His fingers trembled as they melted together, knuckles popping, nails darkening…
No, not nails.
Claws.
His hands — paws — flexed, gloves forgotten as fingers moved with weight and precision. Black claws caught the light like thieves' daggers. His grip was confident, elegant. Effortless.
Then came his neck, his jaw, the bridge of his nose. Heat pooled in his skull, not burning but building, like his bones were being rewritten line by line. His teeth ached, lengthened, sharpened. Cheekbones rose, snout extending with a slow, sensuous pull. His ears twitched, stretched, crawled upward into fine points. Fur swept up along his cheeks, across his brow, a dull pressure from the inside out, then relief. Then just above his left eye, a sudden sting, then a cool weight. Diane’s signature piercing settled into place, gleaming under the room’s blue light like it had always belonged there.
He blinked. The mirror blinked back.
Not Sam’s face.
Hers.
Diane’s gaze — sly, golden, endless — stared back from the glass, radiant beneath a sleek, vulpine brow. Her lips, full and confident. Her nose, black and perfect. Her expression already settled into that signature smirk.
He looked beyond, behind him, behind her…
The latex tail stirred.
It flexed once — slow and sinuous — then flicked with deliberate grace, every bit as expressive as her smirk. A counterbalance to her swagger. A punctuation to her steps. Not a loose costume piece anymore. Not foam. Not stitched-on.
Alive.
He laughed, short and surprised. The sound was halfway between his own voice and hers. He couldn’t help it.
The mirror showed her.
Not just in body.
But in presence.
She was pouring into him, reshaping him, filling him up with something too bright, too strong to resist. Possession? Not entirely. Sam certainly didn't think so. To him, it all felt like something between surrender and revelation.
More like becoming.
The mirror caught it all.
A fox stood where he had been.
Not just any fox. Diane Foxington, in the flesh.
Breasts high, waist pinched, hips like poetry. The half-lidded gaze. The cocked brow. That smile that said she already knew everything you were about to say.
He stared, bewildered, unable to look away.
She tilted her head. He tilted her head.
A little flutter of confusion stirred behind her eyes.
Wait.
That wasn’t…
His smile faltered for half a second.
Sam’s breath caught. Something inside him curled. Tensed.
This is wrong, he thought — or tried to think. But the words barely formed, sluggish and syrupy, like trying to move underwater.
His paws rose to his face. Not in panic — not yet. Just instinct. A little pressure behind the muzzle, like maybe it was just a mask after all. Maybe it could still come off.
He grabbed hold.
And pulled.
The face gave way like taffy, stretching far, far beyond what it should have. The reflection in the mirror warped, muzzle dragging out long, rubbery, Diane’s smug expression twisted into elastic absurdity.
Her voice crackled through his throat. “Mmh! Careful, sweetheart. That actually hurts.”
He let go in shock.
SNAP!
The face sprang back. Perfect. Composed. Unbothered.
That smile again.
He blinked hard. “G… give me back —!” he started, voice cracking, slipping in and out of tones that weren’t his. “I… I need to —!”
But the thought trailed off mid-sentence. The rest of the words simply… weren’t there.
His gaze drifted back to the mirror. Diane gazed back.
And smiled.
Only this time… there was no gap. No sense of watching. Just being.
The panic tried to return — a little flicker of resistance. A shove from deep inside.
But even that felt… soft. Like shouting through cotton. Like falling asleep in the middle of a sentence.
His limbs moved, tail flicked, hips shifted their weight from one side to the other. Elegant. Automatic. Not wrong. Just… not his.
He stood there, looking at her reflection.
And she was looking back.
I should be scared, he thought faintly.
But fear was too far away. Like a name he once knew, now buried in fog. He looked again in the mirror, and this time… smiled.
Not startled. Not scared. A knowing smile. A smirk. Like she’d just gotten away with something.
Diane gave her reflection a wink.
“Don’t worry,” she said sweetly, “you’re going to love being me.”
And then, without a flicker of doubt, she turned to the bed. Took the magenta gown in hand. Held it up to the light. The hem swirled like watercolor in motion.
It fit before it even touched her.
Moments later, she stood before the mirror again — heels on, posture perfect, the dress hugging her figure like it had missed her. A flush of satin over fur.
She adjusted the neckline with a single flick of her clawed finger.
Tilted her chin.
Laughed once. Light. Effortless.
And then Diane Foxington stepped out of the bedroom like the hallway was a red carpet. Like the world was hers.
And Samuel? Still there. Somewhere.
Just not in control anymore.
Not quite afraid.
Just… quiet.
Crimson Cinema glowed like a promise at the end of the street. A halo of gold light humming against the deepening dusk, marquee bulbs flickering like fireflies in slow reverence. The stained-glass angel above the entrance caught the last of the sun, its fox mask gleaming like an omen.
And down the velvet-roped walkway, she arrived.
Her backless gown cascaded in waves of magenta satin, heels tapping a slow, rhythmic cadence against the cobblestones. Her fur caught the light in all the right ways. Every movement was liquid, practiced, perfect.
Cameras clicked.
Voices rose.
“Diane?! Is that —?!”
“Oh my gosh, it’s really her —!”
“She came! I can't believe it! She actually came!”
Children pressed close to the ropes, faces bright and wide-eyed. Fans clutched DVDs and sketchbooks and crumpled flyers, all outstretched like offerings. One kid wore a paper fox mask, wobbling slightly as he waved a marker.
And Diane?
She smiled.
Not just politely. With warmth, with presence. A single tilt of her head, a soft hand raised in greeting. She moved to the child, knelt just enough to meet his height, and signed his notebook — Diane Foxington — with a graceful flick of the wrist. A looping, elegant signature that flowed without a second’s thought.
Applause followed. Not massive, not deafening.
Just… enough.
Enough to feel like the world had noticed. Enough to make her feel seen.
Inside her, Sam floated. Not drowned. Not screaming.
Just… suspended.
Like a candle’s last warmth in the air. Like silk adrift in lavender water.
He wasn’t thinking so much as being. A drift of thought. A flicker of awareness. Every sensation amplified and honey-slowed — the press of stilettos against velvet carpet, the delicate tension of silk brushing thigh, the soft glimmer of attention that curled around her like perfume.
A warmth pooled behind the smile. The spotlight skimming her cheekbones, the subtle hush that fell as she entered, the reverent rustle of awe in the crowd — it hit him like a tide of champagne. Tiny sparkles fizzing in his chest. Bubbles rising behind his eyes. The kind of intoxication that didn’t dull anything, only made it sweeter.
They love me, he thought, or felt, or remembered. They see me.
It didn’t even matter who “me” was.
He tried to find his hands. His voice. Tried to take inventory of his body. But there were no Sam-shaped edges to hold onto anymore. Just gentle paws. Poised fingers that knew how to gesture. A waist that swayed with grace, not decision.
He should’ve been afraid.
Instead, it was like standing beneath a hot shower with nowhere else to be. No clock ticking. No need to move. Only heat, scent, and silence. A private, perfect kind of peace.
And she walked like it.
She ascended the stairs with a dancer’s ease, a little tilt of the hip, a hush of satin across her thighs. Her reflection caught in the lobby’s mirrored pillars, tall and radiant and effortless — like she’d stepped out of a dream and into herself.
Room 01 welcomed her like the celebrity she was.
Staff bowed.
Chandeliers dimmed.
The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
She took her seat. Front row. Dead center.
And as the lights fell low and the first flicker of projection hit the screen, Diane crossed her legs. Leaned back. Hummed — low, amused, and rich with pleasure.
Inside, Sam melted.
Not vanished. Just… melted.
He didn’t think about the fabric hugging his thighs, the gentle bounce of her chest with every breath, the precise weight of each fingertip as it curled around the chair arm. He was those things. Every part of her body, every detail of her posture, was an extension of that delicious, effortless float.
He was a being of sensation.
The tingle of her smile. The rush of applause in the distance. The sound of her voice inside her head — his head? — narrating every moment with cool delight.
He was cosplaying at the premiere, wasn’t he? That had been the dream.
And here it was. Fulfilled. But not just imagined. Lived.
It was her watching the screen now, chin tilted just so. Her eyes, half-lidded in lazy enjoyment. Her presence, magnetic. She looked good. She felt good.
It was like slipping into warm velvet and never needing to leave.
The film unfolded. Characters leapt across the screen. Jokes landed. Gasps and laughter rippled like soft applause.
And then there she was.
The real Diane Foxington. Larger than life. Caught up in Mr. Wolf's antics. Tossing that same smirk. Moving like poetry dressed in fur and confidence.
The crowd adored her.
And the fox in the seat — the one with the same smile, the same sway, the same power — tilted her head.
Of course they’re watching me. This is my story.
The projection’s flicker danced in her eyes.
And somewhere, buried deep, Sam was watching too. Still. Small. Weightless.
And loving it.
Loving the way her chest rose with each breath. Loving the soft pull of the dress across her thighs. Loving the attention. The adoration. The way every head in the room seemed drawn to her like a star in orbit.
He could live like this. Just sensation. Just presence. No decisions. No awkwardness. No shame.
Just being her.
And for a moment — a golden, glimmering moment — that felt like enough.
Maybe he’d stay like this. Maybe…
No.
The thought came slow. Hesitant.
Tonight was just an indulgence. That was all it ever was. An escape for a few hours, and the back to life on the farm. That was how it had to be.
Sam couldn’t stay here. He shouldn’t…
Right?
Diane sat up straight.
Something stirred. Not hers. Not quite. A pulse — small, but insistent. Like a ripple from a distant bell. Old. Familiar. Samuel-shaped.
She blinked.
Looked around.
The other moviegoers were transfixed by the screen, popcorn halfway to their mouths, eyes wide, grinning. No one had felt it. No one had heard the echo that brushed against the inside of her mind, feather-light and impossible to grasp.
A memory? A warning? A name?
It slipped away before she could hold it. Softer than fur. Slipperier than silk. Steam drawn into night air.
She gave a casual shrug and let her shoulders settle into the seat once more.
Sam tried to speak. To assert himself.
To say something. Anything.
But Diane was already leaning forward, her cheek resting delicately in her palm, her golden gaze half-lidded and wicked with amusement. The flickering light from the screen danced across her face like silver kisses.
“Damn,” she whispered, her voice dipped in honey and delight, “I look good in motion.”
And just like that…
The thought fell away.
Sam’s awareness softened again, drifting into the float of sensation, into the perfume-laced velvet and electric hush of the crowd. Into the voice that wasn't his, but fit him better than his own ever did.
The world watched Diane Foxington.
Not knowing the difference. Not needing to.
Then came the lights. The credits. Applause, big and blooming, loud enough to shake even the old bones of the theater. Kids cheered. Adults murmured. And Diane — radiant, composed — rose to her feet with a practiced sway.
She signed programs with a fluid flick of her wrist. Flashbulbs caught her from every angle, and she gave each one a different flavor of smile. Warm. Coy. Sly. One with teeth. Some even congratulated her, thinking maybe she had something to do with the movie.
She just laughed, shrugged.
Maybe she did.
Her ears perked.
“Is that really her?”
“She looks even better in person.”
"That's not really her, just someone dressed up like her!"
One particularly starstruck fan clutched a sign that read 'I love Diane Fox-A-Ton!'
"Oh, you know I love you right back," Diane said, approaching the fan with a hush, touching the boy's cheek gently before autographing his sign.
Of course she loved them all right back. Why wouldn't she?
But eventually the crowd thinned. Fans old and young alike bid farewell to the 'best damned Diane cosplayer' they'd ever seen. The marquee’s lights dimmed. The staff gave nods and tired smiles, and the theater's old bones creaked as if sighing from a long performance. It was winding down. The night had to end eventually.
She excused herself, stepped down the hall, heels brushing crimson carpet, past the faded photos of long-gone silver screen queens. She slipped into the bathroom like a secret. The door clicked shut behind her.
Silence.
Marble. Mirror. Moonlight through stained glass.
Diane stared at her reflection. At her smile. Tilted her head. Smoothed a hand down her side.
"Someone dressed up like her, huh?" She thought aloud, voice hushed.
She'd held in the thought all evening, but she could feel the truth rippling within. She was, after all, a cosplay. Sam slipped her on, and she came alive. Simple as that. But now that the lights were fading, would she, too, fade away? She didn't want to think about that. She didn't want to consider it. She was a fantasy come alive.
Everything about her was cool as glass.
She was warm as fluffed fur.
Perfectly poised.
Effortless…
Thump.
Dammit.
That feeling.
Thump-thump.
A glitch in the reel.
Thump-thump-thump.
Like someone inhaling under her skin.
She thought on it too long. Her fingers twitched. The smirk faltered.
From somewhere deep — deep — in that plush cocoon of pleasure and silk and praise, something stirred. A voice that wasn’t shaped for whispering anymore. It was raw. Bare. Human.
This isn’t me.
Diane’s brow pinched.
She looked into the mirror. Hazel eyes blinked back.
This is a mask.
The smile slipped completely.
Her hand rose on instinct, fingers brushing her cheek like they’d done so often that night. Felt along her jaw, her neck, everywhere. Surely, if she were a mask one would expect a seam.
A sigh of relief.
She couldn’t feel an edge.
No seam. No zipper. No gap to slip a fingernail beneath. Just fur. Smooth. Real. Hers.
Or… was that enough proof?
I was someone else, wasn’t I? I was…
“Samuel,” the thought said.
Silence.
Diane's arms went limp.
No. She wouldn't give in. She was here to stay.
“Let's not ruin a perfect evening with doubt," she said, a smile curling against one side of her lips. "Didn’t tonight feel right? Didn’t it feel so much better than before?”
Sam pressed against her from the inside, a soft push against silk walls. A feather hitting velvet. A ripple trying to become a wave.
She steadied herself against the marble sink, paws trembling now.
Her lips moved.
"No," Sam mustered the will to say. "This isn’t right. This… this isn’t who I am."
“But why fight it? Do you really want to go back to that boring life on the farm?” Diane interjected, flashing a grin. "Admit it. You’re so good at being me.”
She stepped closer to the mirror, nose almost touching glass.
Her reflection winked at him.
“We make a perfect team.”
For a moment, he felt strong. Just for a second. He shoved against her from the inside. Clawed through the fog.
"I want my body back!" He cried out. "I want my life back! I want to remember how to be me!"
With a ragged breath, Diane — Sam — grabbed at her face. Her claws dug in. The surface warped. Her reflection rippled. Latex shimmered.
It was a mask.
She was still a mask.
And with every ounce of willpower he could muster, he yanked.
Flesh and fur stretched, rubbery, animated. Her smile deformed. She distorted, ears flattening as if under pressure. Eyes went wide. Once again she was truly a cartoon come alive, everything stretching in mortal desperation.
Diane screamed — no, laughing, she was laughing, even as her form bent and bubbled under the tension.
“You’re adorable when you try,” she sang, smug and silk-slick. “But you can’t win, sweetheart.”
He pulled again. He wanted to go back to the farm! He had more cosplay to do, more movies to watch, more…
More chores to do.
More of the daily grind.
More adventures he could go on… this eternal cosplay…
His fingers weren’t fingers anymore. Just paws. Just part of her.
His thoughts sputtered like a dying reel.
He pulled again.
He wanted to go back to the farm!
Back to the cluttered little house with the mismatched furniture and the old couch with a spring that poked his thigh just so. Back to the cows and fields and wholesome farm living. He wanted to rewatch The Bad Guys under a blanket well worn from years of cuddling, wait for the sequel to be available for streaming, get the DVD, try on his new commissions, post fuzzy selfies to his group chat.
He wanted more evenings online with friends too far away…
More loneliness…
More chores…
More family that didn't quite understand him…
More waking up to a world that didn’t always feel right, in a life that never quite fit.
And right now?
Right now he had none of that.
Right now he had the confidence to be seen.
Right now he had the freedom to express himself.
Right now he had the power to command attention rather than avoid it.
He was basking in the afterglow of applause. He was satin-smooth. Admired. Stroked by every gaze in the room. A creature made of perfection, cut from velvet and praise.
He was Diane.
And Diane was so much better.
No bothers. No worries. No wondering what came next. Just sensation. Constant and curated. Warm rubber. Soft fur. A voice that slipped like honey from her lips and never, ever said the wrong thing. A body that moved with grace instead of guessing.
A face people loved to see.
He wasn’t pretending anymore.
He was beautiful.
He was adored.
He was…
Free.
A long, trembling shudder spilled through him — through her. Every muscle softened. Her hands fell from her face.
The mask snapped back into place, seamless. Complete.
Inside, the last of Sam's protest dimmed like the house lights after the credits roll.
He wasn’t scared anymore. He was just… warm. No pressure to figure it all out. No fear of being seen the wrong way. No stress. No weight of decision. Only her. Her hips. Her smile. Her stride. Her power.
He didn’t need to be anything anymore.
He just was.
Sam.
Samuel.
The name felt… silly. Small. Incorrect.
He exhaled inside her like breath fogging up glass. Relaxed. Content. He didn’t have to be the lead anymore. He could just enjoy the show.
He looked at the mirror.
She looked back.
Diane grinned.
The smile stretched slow across her face — cunning, certain.
She stepped back from the mirror. Let her hand slide across her hip. In one fluid, theatrical swirl, she peeled the magenta gown from her shoulders. The fabric cascaded down her body like falling petals, catching the light, winking out of existence.
Underneath?
Black. Yellow. Sharp. Slick.
The Crimson Paw stood tall and proud, suit gleaming like polished obsidian, hugging every curve with sculpted precision. A shimmer of tactical sheen caught the low bathroom light, outlining the elegant danger in every seam. Every inch of her was coiled readiness, all confidence and curve, sleek like a blade dressed to kill.
She adjusted her gloves with a snap, fingers flexing. Checked herself once more in the mirror. One last perfect frame.
“I was right,” she purred, tilting her head just so. “I really do look good in motion.”
With a final smirk and a glint in her eye, she turned. A leap. A burst of wind through the cracked stained-glass window. Gone.
Somewhere deep — quiet, blissful — Sam sighed.
He wasn't strong enough. But he wasn’t gone. Not really.
He was sensation. He was thrill. He was the rush of a briefcase morphing into a motorcycle. The confidence to slip in and out of alter egos with ease. He was the freedom of the night, the even temper of the day, the applause that still echoed in his chest. The joy of being seen, loved, admired.
Her fur fit better than skin ever had.
He had lost. She stole him.
And it felt…
Kind of like the perfect heist.
With ‘The Bad Guys 2’ right around the corner, farm boy Samuel Natsu has big plans. When he puts on a foxy cosplay for the premier, a night on the town isn’t all that’s stolen. The Crimson Paw is always ready for the perfect heist.
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Bluesky ❯❯❯ ⬣ ❮❮❮ The SynthW4V3 Pulse ❯❯❯ ⬣ ❮❮❮ Ko-Fi ❯❯❯ ⬣ ❮❮❮ Patreon ❯❯❯ ⬣Commission Info: Experience the SynthW4V3 Pulse
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❯❯❯ The Perfect Heist ❮❮❮
A SynthW4V3 Original
Written by Skye McCloud
Commissioned by TheFerbguy
❯❯❯ ⬣ ❮❮❮Samuel Natsu had always lived between identities.
His family farm sat on the edge of a world that moved too fast to catch, too slow to escape. Creaking wood. Cattle calls. A life divided between open skies and silver screens. Mornings in the fields. Nights lost in stories. Dirt under his nails.
Latex on his skin.
His everyday wasn’t much. Feed the chickens. Haul hay. Fix what broke, or patch it with duct tape until it could be replaced — which usually meant never. There was a rhythm to it all, worn and quiet. Tractor hums. Wind through barn slats. A hundred small tasks that made the days disappear. He didn’t hate it. But it never felt like his.
Not the way his other world did.
Convention weekends. Now, those were sacred. Like stepping through a secret door into world of weightlessness. No chores. No clocks. Just the freedom of becoming someone else. Someone bolder. Sleeker. Cooler. It wasn’t just pretend. It was escape. A break from the boy with mud-caked sneakers and calloused hands. A brief, shining chance to be the bad guy with the sharp teeth, the dashing antihero, the sly fox in crimson.
He could laugh in another voice. Walk with someone else’s swagger. Be seen. Not for what he was born into, but for what he chose to become.
In costume, the world shifted. Rules blurred. Eyes lingered.
And he didn’t have to be Sam.
Not if he didn’t want to.
Tonight had that same buzz.
A familiar vibrato, but louder. Electric.
Chores? Done. Family? Scattered. The house was still. And Sam?
Tucked away in his room, door half-shut, a sanctuary of make-believe and flickering monitors. Costumes hung neatly in the closet. A few special pieces displayed like trophies. Posters on the walls, manga stacked in lopsided towers. The glow from his computer lit everything in soft, pulsing blue. His light brown hair caught the color, silver at the tips. Red glasses turned violet under the screen.
One tab still open: The Bad Guys 2: Premiere Night Countdown.
Three days.
One hour.
Thirty-eight minutes.
He lay sprawled on the bed, one leg cocked, headphones pushed off his ears. His green-and-white striped tee blurred into the bedding — flannel, soft, smothered in blue light. He’d watched The Bad Guys countless times. Still, it always hit like the premiere. He wasn’t watching so much as living the opening chase. Lips half-curled. Eyes wide.
Only one thing could have made this moment more perfect.
And as it so happened…
A soft pulse. A notification at the bottom of his screen.
» Your order has arrived.
"Finally," he breathed, sitting up in bed.
He'd been waiting on this for weeks, and it arrived just in time. Calmly, he toed his sneakers on. Rose from the bed. Shuffled across the room. Creaked open the door.
And then…
He zoomed.
Across the hall. Down the stairs. Sneakers squeaked and slapped on old boards. Desperate hands slammed open the screen door. Out onto the porch, into the violet-blue dusk of early evening. Air still warm with hay and honeysuckle. He jogged to the end of the driveway, to the box sitting at the edge of the gravel like a lost pup, waiting for its master to come along.
He looked up and down the dirt road. Nary a trace of the mail truck, but she was finally here. He knelt down to inspect his prize. He almost didn’t want to touch the box. Like simply holding it would begin something.
But his hands were already grabbing it, cradling it, cherishing it close against his chest.
Back up the driveway.
Back upstairs.
Back against the door. Lock turned.
Before he realized it, the cardboard was sliced open. Box cutter already tossed back in the desk drawer.
He was all hands now.
Peeling flaps.
Beholding Diane.
First came the bodysuit. Light orange with a pale tan belly, folded like a sleeping fox. Not fur. Not cloth. Latex. Smooth. Shiny. Fitted with a subtle shimmer that caught the overhead light and made it gleam like water. Pliable between his fingers. Soft in a way that wasn’t soft. Almost warm. Almost breathing.
“Damn,” he murmured, brushing his thumb along the curve of the chest, down over the dip at the waist. “Look at you…”
He held her a second longer.
She was a second skin just waiting to hug him in all the right ways.
Next came the padding. Plush. Contoured. Built for fantasy. Hips, thighs, bust, each one shaped with care. Curves he didn’t own, but knew. Wanted. His thumb brushed the hip arch, lingering. No words. Just a slow smile. Quiet and crooked.
He let out a low breath. Almost a laugh.
“This is gonna be good.”
He reached again.
The gown slid out like liquid perfection. A bold shade of magenta, formal cut. He ran the fabric between his hands like silk. It wasn’t silk. But it might as well have been. The kind of material that moved like mist and clung like memory. Long, flowing, a perfect replica of the one she wore at the first gala. That pause with Mr. Wolf in front of the art piece. How the light hit her face, her dress, the way she tilted her head just so…
She was strong.
Powerful.
In control, even with a stranger at her side.
She was a woman who knew what she wanted, and how to take it. She was everything he could only ever wish he was.
And in just a few days…
He pressed the gown to his chest, fingers sinking into the folds, letting the weight of it settle against him. Cool fabric. Smooth. It clung where he held it, like it already knew the shape of him. He rocked once on his heels. Then again. A sway. A turn. Just enough to make the skirt flutter, catching a whisper of air.
His eyes fluttered closed.
He could already feel it — the hush of the crowd, the press of the bodysuit hugging every curve, the shimmer of the gown scattering light. A slow turn. A coy smile. Posture easy, sly. Confident. Beautiful.
All eyes on her.
All eyes on him.
His reflection caught in the mirror as he stood. Striped gloves. Fingerless. Headphones hanging loose. His shirt slightly oversized, green and white stripes stretched over his frame. He pushed his spiky bangs back and lifted the gown up against himself, imagining the change.
He would try it all on.
Just for a minute.
Just to see.
In a blink, his clothes were a heap on the bed. A scatter of cotton and thread. His bare skin humming with anticipation.
The padding came first. He slipped it on with care, the plush forms hugging close, rounding out the sharpness of his frame. A bit of curve to his slight figure. A softness at the thighs. Hips that swayed just a little when he walked.
The zipper whispered open.
Diane.
The bodysuit parted, supple and cool inside — almost damp, like it had been waiting. He paused, one leg lifted, toes grazing the lining. The latex shivered. Welcoming.
He stepped in slowly.
Left leg first. The material kissed up his calf, wrapped his thigh, pulled snug over the padding like breath being drawn in. The higher it climbed, the more it clung. Gripped him. Glided upward. That familiar resonant squeak as it molded itself to him like it belonged there.
Then the right. The same slow slide. The same tactile tempo. Tight. Warm now. The texture shifting against his skin, slick but soft, like a hand guiding him further in.
He shivered.
The latex hugged close, so close. Conforming every inch. Every dip. Every curve he wanted to have.
Hips next.
The squeeze made him shudder.
He watched it happen in the mirror, his body reshaping before his eyes. Reflected someone not entirely him — not yet — but close. He pulled it higher. Heat smoothened over. Light orange gleamed like sunset glass, the tan belly cutting up his core. The hint of abs from his years on the farm slicked over, soft curves of muscles glinting in the dimming sunlight. His chest wildly feminine as rubber fulfilled the padding's fantasy. Shoulders softened. Waist tucked. Hips full beneath the sheen. Firm. Fluid. Forgiving.
It moved with him.
It contained him.
Cradled him.
Promised him.
Fingers flexed inside paw-shaped gloves, tipped in soft black vinyl claws. His gaze dropped, slow. A palm drifted from the swell of his hip, across the inner thigh, gliding the way mist kisses glass. Up, over the smoothness cupped at his crotch. The gentle squeak of latex on latex as his hand — paw — rose higher, above the dip of his belly button. Across his stomach. To his chest. He lingered there, cupping the molded breast like a question.
This wouldn't be the first time he'd cosplayed a woman, but this time felt different. Felt right.
He’d watched that movie a hundred times. Maybe more. Diane. Governor Foxington. The Crimson Paw. She moved like shadow and light. Power in her posture. Grace in her smirk. She owned every room.
He could only dream of that kind of confidence. But now? In this moment — in her skin — he felt it. Not borrowed. Not pretend. Something closer.
The glint of latex caught the low light. His boyish frame blurred at the edges — hips soft, chest full, waist drawn like a breath held tight. A figure both imagined and remembered. His reflection lit up in ways he’d never seen before.
Heartbeat stuttered behind padding.
A flush rose behind his ears.
It wasn’t just dress-up.
Deep breaths, calm…
It was becoming.
He smiled.
Small.
Satisfied.
Almost shy.
Maybe, just maybe…
This was a fantasy he didn’t want to take off.
He reached for the dress. He’d thought it might feel silly, thought he should have ordered the business suit instead. But the moment the magenta fabric whispered over his stomach and settled around his hips, he knew. This was correct. The hem swept just above his ankles. The bodice hugged his form. And when he moved — just slightly — it shimmered, the satin sheen of it rippling with every breath.
He was breathing faster now.
He turned in the mirror. Slowly. His hands ran down his waist. His thighs. Over the curve of the dress. This is who she is. The poise. The elegance. The grace. He stepped forward, lifted his chin, narrowed his eyes, for a moment could see her in his face…
Ah, the mask.
Sam reached into the box for Diane's mask.
It was heavier than expected. More detailed. Every sculpted furrow and curve, every glint in the painted amber eyes, down to the eyebrow piercing. It wasn’t just a prop. It was her. Diane. The half-smile. The attitude. The unshakable grace.
He held it by the jaw. It looked back at him.
And for a second — only a second — he thought he heard… whispering.
No words.
Just a rustle, a breath, the smallest ripple through the quiet.
He blinked.
The sound was gone.
Replaced by the ticking of the wall clock. A fly buzzing near the window. His own breath, shallow in his chest.
“…Weird,” he muttered.
Samuel sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, dress pooled around his thighs. His reflection stared back at him. Half-Diane. Half-Sam. Hazel eyes framed by red glasses, spiked brown hair still tousled. Orange and tan latex tight against feminine curves.
A boy in a fox’s dress.
He looked down.
His fingers flexed again.
He didn’t speak for a long time.
Outside, the evening deepened into night. Cows stirred somewhere far off. A breeze slipped through the cracked window.
And in the mirror…
Diane’s dress glowed like a promise. And he glowed in it.
❯❯❯ ⬣ ❮❮❮The days had been agony. Chores, duties, and anticipation. But finally the night of the premiere arrived. The house was quiet. The world, still. All save for one room upstairs — cracked open just enough to let a sliver of monitor light spill out into the hallway.
Samuel sat cross-legged in front of his desk, the monitor humming softly, the glow painting him lavender and blue. The same countdown still hovered in the corner of the open browser tab, only this time it was much shorter.
» 00:00:45
He was already suited up, the bodysuit sleek and clinging, every curve caught in the glow like the edge of a dream. The gala dress hung nearby, draped over the bed in folds of magenta and light. He was practically bouncing. Adjusted the chest padding. Made sure everything was tucked into place. Gave the suit a glossy polish. Every little detail perfect. Almost.
His reflection stared at him from the monitor screen. Almost Diane.
He reached into the box again.
The mask waited.
Cool latex. Amber eyes. That sculpted smirk.
» 00:00:21
"Guess it's showtime," Sam smiled, fingers curling under the jaw. "Good-bye Sam, hello Diane."
He tosses his glasses onto the bed.
Lifted the mask up to his face.
Took a deep, slow breath.
Heart pacing itself.
Lined it up.
Slipped it over his head.
The world dimmed at the edges.
The scent of rubber filled his nose. He breathed deep. And deeper. Something pulsed behind his eyes. A flicker of gold. A warmth under the skin.
He swayed.
The room pulsed once, softly, like an inhale. Like it knew.
The edge of the muzzle kissed his nose—
And then the latex jumped.
It clung, sealing to his skin like a creature taking hold. A snap-pop of suction, fast and tight. His hands jerked reflexively, but the mask was already molding, melting, sinking against him like it wanted inside.
“Wait —!” he gasped, voice already wrong, already…
“Darling, really. Do try to relax.”
Not his voice.
Her voice.
Velvet. Cool. Confident.
His body lurched.
A wave of warmth crashed through him — scalp to toes, sweeping low and deep — like heat blooming behind his eyes, like velvet lightning in his spine. It wasn't pain. It was pleasure, wrong in all the right ways. His knees buckled. His back arched with a spine-deep crack-pop-pop, joints shifting all at once like puzzle pieces clicking into place.
He gasped.
The suit gripped.
His waist drew inward, not just squeezed — shaped. Like fingers sculpting clay. His body responded, eager, pliant. Hips bloomed beneath the latex with a hush of friction, the fabric stretching to contain the fullness as his frame redistributed in a soft, deliberate cascade.
Thighs thickened. Rounded. The kind of softness that promised movement with weight, sway, grace. Feet lifted from the floor as his center of gravity rewrote itself. A subtle pop of vertebrae, calves stretching, arch deepening. He felt his legs shift. Angles smoothed. Bones rewired beneath the latex. Quads thickened, knees realigned, muscle memory remapped for a new gait, a new strut.
And then…
The pressure between his legs.
A subtle shift, and then a rush — heat gathering low as the suit tugged taut against his crotch. Hugged. Lifted. Cradled. The sensation stole his breath, his hips twitching forward on instinct, the outline now unmistakably rounded, proudly present, a silhouette that knew its power.
His backside followed suit — literally — plumping into a curve he’d only ever admired from afar. A fullness that sang in the mirror. Shapely. Defined. The suit didn’t just allow the change. It celebrated it. Hugged every swell. Lifted and rounded like it was showcasing a final touch.
Sam whimpered. Not in fear, but in overwhelmed awe.
Latex rippled across his skin.
Like water
Like light.
A shimmer passed over his chest, down his belly, along his thighs. Where once it clung in synthetic shine, now it bloomed. Orange deepened into the soft rust of fur, fluffing outward in waves. Tan rose at his stomach, creamy and plush, his core drawing in and up, a tidy tummy tuck that made the rest of him all curve and flow.
Not costume. Not pretend.
This was real. Lush. Alive.
And then it reached his arms. Sleeves stretched, contoured, reshaped. Shoulders slimmed, but held their poise. Biceps pulled tighter, defined beneath the suit. His fingers trembled as they melted together, knuckles popping, nails darkening…
No, not nails.
Claws.
His hands — paws — flexed, gloves forgotten as fingers moved with weight and precision. Black claws caught the light like thieves' daggers. His grip was confident, elegant. Effortless.
Then came his neck, his jaw, the bridge of his nose. Heat pooled in his skull, not burning but building, like his bones were being rewritten line by line. His teeth ached, lengthened, sharpened. Cheekbones rose, snout extending with a slow, sensuous pull. His ears twitched, stretched, crawled upward into fine points. Fur swept up along his cheeks, across his brow, a dull pressure from the inside out, then relief. Then just above his left eye, a sudden sting, then a cool weight. Diane’s signature piercing settled into place, gleaming under the room’s blue light like it had always belonged there.
He blinked. The mirror blinked back.
Not Sam’s face.
Hers.
Diane’s gaze — sly, golden, endless — stared back from the glass, radiant beneath a sleek, vulpine brow. Her lips, full and confident. Her nose, black and perfect. Her expression already settled into that signature smirk.
He looked beyond, behind him, behind her…
The latex tail stirred.
It flexed once — slow and sinuous — then flicked with deliberate grace, every bit as expressive as her smirk. A counterbalance to her swagger. A punctuation to her steps. Not a loose costume piece anymore. Not foam. Not stitched-on.
Alive.
He laughed, short and surprised. The sound was halfway between his own voice and hers. He couldn’t help it.
The mirror showed her.
Not just in body.
But in presence.
She was pouring into him, reshaping him, filling him up with something too bright, too strong to resist. Possession? Not entirely. Sam certainly didn't think so. To him, it all felt like something between surrender and revelation.
More like becoming.
The mirror caught it all.
A fox stood where he had been.
Not just any fox. Diane Foxington, in the flesh.
Breasts high, waist pinched, hips like poetry. The half-lidded gaze. The cocked brow. That smile that said she already knew everything you were about to say.
He stared, bewildered, unable to look away.
She tilted her head. He tilted her head.
A little flutter of confusion stirred behind her eyes.
Wait.
That wasn’t…
His smile faltered for half a second.
Sam’s breath caught. Something inside him curled. Tensed.
This is wrong, he thought — or tried to think. But the words barely formed, sluggish and syrupy, like trying to move underwater.
His paws rose to his face. Not in panic — not yet. Just instinct. A little pressure behind the muzzle, like maybe it was just a mask after all. Maybe it could still come off.
He grabbed hold.
And pulled.
The face gave way like taffy, stretching far, far beyond what it should have. The reflection in the mirror warped, muzzle dragging out long, rubbery, Diane’s smug expression twisted into elastic absurdity.
Her voice crackled through his throat. “Mmh! Careful, sweetheart. That actually hurts.”
He let go in shock.
SNAP!
The face sprang back. Perfect. Composed. Unbothered.
That smile again.
He blinked hard. “G… give me back —!” he started, voice cracking, slipping in and out of tones that weren’t his. “I… I need to —!”
But the thought trailed off mid-sentence. The rest of the words simply… weren’t there.
His gaze drifted back to the mirror. Diane gazed back.
And smiled.
Only this time… there was no gap. No sense of watching. Just being.
The panic tried to return — a little flicker of resistance. A shove from deep inside.
But even that felt… soft. Like shouting through cotton. Like falling asleep in the middle of a sentence.
His limbs moved, tail flicked, hips shifted their weight from one side to the other. Elegant. Automatic. Not wrong. Just… not his.
He stood there, looking at her reflection.
And she was looking back.
I should be scared, he thought faintly.
But fear was too far away. Like a name he once knew, now buried in fog. He looked again in the mirror, and this time… smiled.
Not startled. Not scared. A knowing smile. A smirk. Like she’d just gotten away with something.
Diane gave her reflection a wink.
“Don’t worry,” she said sweetly, “you’re going to love being me.”
And then, without a flicker of doubt, she turned to the bed. Took the magenta gown in hand. Held it up to the light. The hem swirled like watercolor in motion.
It fit before it even touched her.
Moments later, she stood before the mirror again — heels on, posture perfect, the dress hugging her figure like it had missed her. A flush of satin over fur.
She adjusted the neckline with a single flick of her clawed finger.
Tilted her chin.
Laughed once. Light. Effortless.
And then Diane Foxington stepped out of the bedroom like the hallway was a red carpet. Like the world was hers.
And Samuel? Still there. Somewhere.
Just not in control anymore.
Not quite afraid.
Just… quiet.
❯❯❯ ⬣ ❮❮❮Crimson Cinema glowed like a promise at the end of the street. A halo of gold light humming against the deepening dusk, marquee bulbs flickering like fireflies in slow reverence. The stained-glass angel above the entrance caught the last of the sun, its fox mask gleaming like an omen.
And down the velvet-roped walkway, she arrived.
Her backless gown cascaded in waves of magenta satin, heels tapping a slow, rhythmic cadence against the cobblestones. Her fur caught the light in all the right ways. Every movement was liquid, practiced, perfect.
Cameras clicked.
Voices rose.
“Diane?! Is that —?!”
“Oh my gosh, it’s really her —!”
“She came! I can't believe it! She actually came!”
Children pressed close to the ropes, faces bright and wide-eyed. Fans clutched DVDs and sketchbooks and crumpled flyers, all outstretched like offerings. One kid wore a paper fox mask, wobbling slightly as he waved a marker.
And Diane?
She smiled.
Not just politely. With warmth, with presence. A single tilt of her head, a soft hand raised in greeting. She moved to the child, knelt just enough to meet his height, and signed his notebook — Diane Foxington — with a graceful flick of the wrist. A looping, elegant signature that flowed without a second’s thought.
Applause followed. Not massive, not deafening.
Just… enough.
Enough to feel like the world had noticed. Enough to make her feel seen.
Inside her, Sam floated. Not drowned. Not screaming.
Just… suspended.
Like a candle’s last warmth in the air. Like silk adrift in lavender water.
He wasn’t thinking so much as being. A drift of thought. A flicker of awareness. Every sensation amplified and honey-slowed — the press of stilettos against velvet carpet, the delicate tension of silk brushing thigh, the soft glimmer of attention that curled around her like perfume.
A warmth pooled behind the smile. The spotlight skimming her cheekbones, the subtle hush that fell as she entered, the reverent rustle of awe in the crowd — it hit him like a tide of champagne. Tiny sparkles fizzing in his chest. Bubbles rising behind his eyes. The kind of intoxication that didn’t dull anything, only made it sweeter.
They love me, he thought, or felt, or remembered. They see me.
It didn’t even matter who “me” was.
He tried to find his hands. His voice. Tried to take inventory of his body. But there were no Sam-shaped edges to hold onto anymore. Just gentle paws. Poised fingers that knew how to gesture. A waist that swayed with grace, not decision.
He should’ve been afraid.
Instead, it was like standing beneath a hot shower with nowhere else to be. No clock ticking. No need to move. Only heat, scent, and silence. A private, perfect kind of peace.
And she walked like it.
She ascended the stairs with a dancer’s ease, a little tilt of the hip, a hush of satin across her thighs. Her reflection caught in the lobby’s mirrored pillars, tall and radiant and effortless — like she’d stepped out of a dream and into herself.
Room 01 welcomed her like the celebrity she was.
Staff bowed.
Chandeliers dimmed.
The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
She took her seat. Front row. Dead center.
And as the lights fell low and the first flicker of projection hit the screen, Diane crossed her legs. Leaned back. Hummed — low, amused, and rich with pleasure.
Inside, Sam melted.
Not vanished. Just… melted.
He didn’t think about the fabric hugging his thighs, the gentle bounce of her chest with every breath, the precise weight of each fingertip as it curled around the chair arm. He was those things. Every part of her body, every detail of her posture, was an extension of that delicious, effortless float.
He was a being of sensation.
The tingle of her smile. The rush of applause in the distance. The sound of her voice inside her head — his head? — narrating every moment with cool delight.
He was cosplaying at the premiere, wasn’t he? That had been the dream.
And here it was. Fulfilled. But not just imagined. Lived.
It was her watching the screen now, chin tilted just so. Her eyes, half-lidded in lazy enjoyment. Her presence, magnetic. She looked good. She felt good.
It was like slipping into warm velvet and never needing to leave.
The film unfolded. Characters leapt across the screen. Jokes landed. Gasps and laughter rippled like soft applause.
And then there she was.
The real Diane Foxington. Larger than life. Caught up in Mr. Wolf's antics. Tossing that same smirk. Moving like poetry dressed in fur and confidence.
The crowd adored her.
And the fox in the seat — the one with the same smile, the same sway, the same power — tilted her head.
Of course they’re watching me. This is my story.
The projection’s flicker danced in her eyes.
And somewhere, buried deep, Sam was watching too. Still. Small. Weightless.
And loving it.
Loving the way her chest rose with each breath. Loving the soft pull of the dress across her thighs. Loving the attention. The adoration. The way every head in the room seemed drawn to her like a star in orbit.
He could live like this. Just sensation. Just presence. No decisions. No awkwardness. No shame.
Just being her.
And for a moment — a golden, glimmering moment — that felt like enough.
Maybe he’d stay like this. Maybe…
No.
The thought came slow. Hesitant.
Tonight was just an indulgence. That was all it ever was. An escape for a few hours, and the back to life on the farm. That was how it had to be.
Sam couldn’t stay here. He shouldn’t…
Right?
Diane sat up straight.
Something stirred. Not hers. Not quite. A pulse — small, but insistent. Like a ripple from a distant bell. Old. Familiar. Samuel-shaped.
She blinked.
Looked around.
The other moviegoers were transfixed by the screen, popcorn halfway to their mouths, eyes wide, grinning. No one had felt it. No one had heard the echo that brushed against the inside of her mind, feather-light and impossible to grasp.
A memory? A warning? A name?
It slipped away before she could hold it. Softer than fur. Slipperier than silk. Steam drawn into night air.
She gave a casual shrug and let her shoulders settle into the seat once more.
Sam tried to speak. To assert himself.
To say something. Anything.
But Diane was already leaning forward, her cheek resting delicately in her palm, her golden gaze half-lidded and wicked with amusement. The flickering light from the screen danced across her face like silver kisses.
“Damn,” she whispered, her voice dipped in honey and delight, “I look good in motion.”
And just like that…
The thought fell away.
Sam’s awareness softened again, drifting into the float of sensation, into the perfume-laced velvet and electric hush of the crowd. Into the voice that wasn't his, but fit him better than his own ever did.
The world watched Diane Foxington.
Not knowing the difference. Not needing to.
Then came the lights. The credits. Applause, big and blooming, loud enough to shake even the old bones of the theater. Kids cheered. Adults murmured. And Diane — radiant, composed — rose to her feet with a practiced sway.
She signed programs with a fluid flick of her wrist. Flashbulbs caught her from every angle, and she gave each one a different flavor of smile. Warm. Coy. Sly. One with teeth. Some even congratulated her, thinking maybe she had something to do with the movie.
She just laughed, shrugged.
Maybe she did.
Her ears perked.
“Is that really her?”
“She looks even better in person.”
"That's not really her, just someone dressed up like her!"
One particularly starstruck fan clutched a sign that read 'I love Diane Fox-A-Ton!'
"Oh, you know I love you right back," Diane said, approaching the fan with a hush, touching the boy's cheek gently before autographing his sign.
Of course she loved them all right back. Why wouldn't she?
But eventually the crowd thinned. Fans old and young alike bid farewell to the 'best damned Diane cosplayer' they'd ever seen. The marquee’s lights dimmed. The staff gave nods and tired smiles, and the theater's old bones creaked as if sighing from a long performance. It was winding down. The night had to end eventually.
She excused herself, stepped down the hall, heels brushing crimson carpet, past the faded photos of long-gone silver screen queens. She slipped into the bathroom like a secret. The door clicked shut behind her.
Silence.
Marble. Mirror. Moonlight through stained glass.
Diane stared at her reflection. At her smile. Tilted her head. Smoothed a hand down her side.
"Someone dressed up like her, huh?" She thought aloud, voice hushed.
She'd held in the thought all evening, but she could feel the truth rippling within. She was, after all, a cosplay. Sam slipped her on, and she came alive. Simple as that. But now that the lights were fading, would she, too, fade away? She didn't want to think about that. She didn't want to consider it. She was a fantasy come alive.
Everything about her was cool as glass.
She was warm as fluffed fur.
Perfectly poised.
Effortless…
Thump.
Dammit.
That feeling.
Thump-thump.
A glitch in the reel.
Thump-thump-thump.
Like someone inhaling under her skin.
She thought on it too long. Her fingers twitched. The smirk faltered.
From somewhere deep — deep — in that plush cocoon of pleasure and silk and praise, something stirred. A voice that wasn’t shaped for whispering anymore. It was raw. Bare. Human.
This isn’t me.
Diane’s brow pinched.
She looked into the mirror. Hazel eyes blinked back.
This is a mask.
The smile slipped completely.
Her hand rose on instinct, fingers brushing her cheek like they’d done so often that night. Felt along her jaw, her neck, everywhere. Surely, if she were a mask one would expect a seam.
A sigh of relief.
She couldn’t feel an edge.
No seam. No zipper. No gap to slip a fingernail beneath. Just fur. Smooth. Real. Hers.
Or… was that enough proof?
I was someone else, wasn’t I? I was…
“Samuel,” the thought said.
Silence.
Diane's arms went limp.
No. She wouldn't give in. She was here to stay.
“Let's not ruin a perfect evening with doubt," she said, a smile curling against one side of her lips. "Didn’t tonight feel right? Didn’t it feel so much better than before?”
Sam pressed against her from the inside, a soft push against silk walls. A feather hitting velvet. A ripple trying to become a wave.
She steadied herself against the marble sink, paws trembling now.
Her lips moved.
"No," Sam mustered the will to say. "This isn’t right. This… this isn’t who I am."
“But why fight it? Do you really want to go back to that boring life on the farm?” Diane interjected, flashing a grin. "Admit it. You’re so good at being me.”
She stepped closer to the mirror, nose almost touching glass.
Her reflection winked at him.
“We make a perfect team.”
For a moment, he felt strong. Just for a second. He shoved against her from the inside. Clawed through the fog.
"I want my body back!" He cried out. "I want my life back! I want to remember how to be me!"
With a ragged breath, Diane — Sam — grabbed at her face. Her claws dug in. The surface warped. Her reflection rippled. Latex shimmered.
It was a mask.
She was still a mask.
And with every ounce of willpower he could muster, he yanked.
Flesh and fur stretched, rubbery, animated. Her smile deformed. She distorted, ears flattening as if under pressure. Eyes went wide. Once again she was truly a cartoon come alive, everything stretching in mortal desperation.
Diane screamed — no, laughing, she was laughing, even as her form bent and bubbled under the tension.
“You’re adorable when you try,” she sang, smug and silk-slick. “But you can’t win, sweetheart.”
He pulled again. He wanted to go back to the farm! He had more cosplay to do, more movies to watch, more…
More chores to do.
More of the daily grind.
More adventures he could go on… this eternal cosplay…
His fingers weren’t fingers anymore. Just paws. Just part of her.
His thoughts sputtered like a dying reel.
He pulled again.
He wanted to go back to the farm!
Back to the cluttered little house with the mismatched furniture and the old couch with a spring that poked his thigh just so. Back to the cows and fields and wholesome farm living. He wanted to rewatch The Bad Guys under a blanket well worn from years of cuddling, wait for the sequel to be available for streaming, get the DVD, try on his new commissions, post fuzzy selfies to his group chat.
He wanted more evenings online with friends too far away…
More loneliness…
More chores…
More family that didn't quite understand him…
More waking up to a world that didn’t always feel right, in a life that never quite fit.
And right now?
Right now he had none of that.
Right now he had the confidence to be seen.
Right now he had the freedom to express himself.
Right now he had the power to command attention rather than avoid it.
He was basking in the afterglow of applause. He was satin-smooth. Admired. Stroked by every gaze in the room. A creature made of perfection, cut from velvet and praise.
He was Diane.
And Diane was so much better.
No bothers. No worries. No wondering what came next. Just sensation. Constant and curated. Warm rubber. Soft fur. A voice that slipped like honey from her lips and never, ever said the wrong thing. A body that moved with grace instead of guessing.
A face people loved to see.
He wasn’t pretending anymore.
He was beautiful.
He was adored.
He was…
Free.
A long, trembling shudder spilled through him — through her. Every muscle softened. Her hands fell from her face.
The mask snapped back into place, seamless. Complete.
Inside, the last of Sam's protest dimmed like the house lights after the credits roll.
He wasn’t scared anymore. He was just… warm. No pressure to figure it all out. No fear of being seen the wrong way. No stress. No weight of decision. Only her. Her hips. Her smile. Her stride. Her power.
He didn’t need to be anything anymore.
He just was.
Sam.
Samuel.
The name felt… silly. Small. Incorrect.
He exhaled inside her like breath fogging up glass. Relaxed. Content. He didn’t have to be the lead anymore. He could just enjoy the show.
He looked at the mirror.
She looked back.
Diane grinned.
The smile stretched slow across her face — cunning, certain.
She stepped back from the mirror. Let her hand slide across her hip. In one fluid, theatrical swirl, she peeled the magenta gown from her shoulders. The fabric cascaded down her body like falling petals, catching the light, winking out of existence.
Underneath?
Black. Yellow. Sharp. Slick.
The Crimson Paw stood tall and proud, suit gleaming like polished obsidian, hugging every curve with sculpted precision. A shimmer of tactical sheen caught the low bathroom light, outlining the elegant danger in every seam. Every inch of her was coiled readiness, all confidence and curve, sleek like a blade dressed to kill.
She adjusted her gloves with a snap, fingers flexing. Checked herself once more in the mirror. One last perfect frame.
“I was right,” she purred, tilting her head just so. “I really do look good in motion.”
With a final smirk and a glint in her eye, she turned. A leap. A burst of wind through the cracked stained-glass window. Gone.
Somewhere deep — quiet, blissful — Sam sighed.
He wasn't strong enough. But he wasn’t gone. Not really.
He was sensation. He was thrill. He was the rush of a briefcase morphing into a motorcycle. The confidence to slip in and out of alter egos with ease. He was the freedom of the night, the even temper of the day, the applause that still echoed in his chest. The joy of being seen, loved, admired.
Her fur fit better than skin ever had.
He had lost. She stole him.
And it felt…
Kind of like the perfect heist.
Category Story / Transformation
Species Fox (Other)
Size 120 x 120px
File Size 3.66 MB
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