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fredwkong · 1 year

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Lotto Ticket Wish

You had been on a bit of a dry spell when I appeared before you. Your small town didn’t have a lot of dating options for a pretty average young gay guy like you—basic white boys are a dime a dozen. You had gone out with every guy you liked on Tinder, been catcalled more than you could count on Grindr, and Scruff wasn’t even in the cards as long as you couldn’t grow a beard. You were bumming around the bowling alley—it was the only place in town open after 8—when you spotted me.

For you, I took the form of an arcade lotto machine. Insert a coin, receive a random ticket with a prize printed on it. You were confused, since you’d never seen me before, but you were bored and horny and nothing interested was happening. You inserted your coin, and I printed out your prize:

FAME. GLORY. PLEASURE. SPEAK YOUR WISH NOW AND SEE IT GRANTED. SATISFACTION GUARANTEED.

You chuckled. Typical arcade shit, you thought. “I wish I was a hunk!” you said aloud, and laughed to yourself again. Well, maybe it was worth the coin for the laugh. You pocketed your ticket and headed home.

That night, while you slept, your wish came true. First, a dark spot appeared on your fingertip where you had held your wish ticket. The darkened skin raced over your hand, leaving your small pale hand larger, thicker, and dark, a rich brown shade. Thick, black hairs grew on the back of your hand and fingers. The change continued up your arm, which began to bulge with muscle and veins. You flexed your hand in your sleep, and new strong tendons shifted under brown, hairy skin as your bicep peaked into a mound like a baseball.

Your shoulder rounded out into a thick, capped delt, and a forest of thick hair grew in your armpit. You wrinkled your nose at the musky, spicy scent that started to emerge, but your sleep quickly calmed into a sexy dream of sniffing a musky, dark-skinned armpit. Meanwhile, your chest thickened into a set of huge, rounded pecs with dark, pert nipples. Dark, curly hairs grew in and immediately became soaked with sweat, adding to the spicy stench in the air. The transformation proceeded down your other arm, until it was the perfect match. You shifted in your sleep, sending your nose into your other rank armpit.

As the skin of your belly darkened, fat evaporated away and six thick abs swelled out of your midsection. Your whole torso thickened with sturdy back muscles. All this extra mass made you sweat even more in your sleep.

A thick treasure trail grew from your belly down to your pubes, which darkened and thickened, as the skin tautened and turned black. Your balls swelled, causing you to shift your legs in your sleep and let your new bulging sac rest lower. Your cock thickened and grew, quickly slipping out of your boxers to reach down toward your knee. As your cockflesh darkened, you grew a thick, well-stretched foreskin, which released a cheesy smell into the air as you dreamed of tongue-washing an Indian hunk’s balls.

Your ass grew as well, rounding out as a thick, muscular cushion rather than a flat pad. Your boxers became so tight they might as well be briefs, the fabric stretched thin enough that the thick hairs swirling over your ass became visible. As the transformation continued down your legs, quads, hamstrings and calves grew, darkened, and became covered in sweaty hair. Your feet stretched and the soles thickened.

Finally, the transformation proceeded up your neck. Your neck and Adam’s apple thickened, causing you to release a deep grunt in your sleep. Your hair darkened to shiny black and became wavy, falling perfectly into a slick, masculine style. Your skin cleared and became brown, and your brows thickened and lowered, giving your now dark eyes a hooded, mysterious look. Finally, your nose widened slightly as your jawline sharpened, becoming coated in dark stubble that would grow back in minutes if you ever shaved.

The musky smell of your new Indian body swirled around your bedroom, subtly changing the space. In place of your desk appeared a set of adjustable weights. Your bookshelf became a full length mirror. A Hindi self-help poster appeared over your now-simple, masculine bed. Your closet filled with gym gear, with some formal kurta for when you visited your family in Chandigarh.

You woke at sunrise and wrinkled your nose at the smell permeating your nose. “Bro, what the fuck,” you muttered, in a deep, Hindi-accented voice. You made to hop out of bed, but as soon as your thick legs moved apart, your overstretched boxers tore at the groin, letting your oversized cock and balls spill out.

For a moment, you gaped at your thick new uncut cock and swollen, churning balls, then you jumped to your feet. Using your new strong hands you ripped the tattered boxers off and caught a glimpse of your magnificent body in the mirror.

You had certainly become a hunk! The sight of your bulging muscles and Indian good looks brought your cock to full attention, and you instinctively started to jerk off. The smell of your unwashed, weeping cock mixed with the spicy musk your body gave off, and before long you were close. You watched in the mirror as you bounced your sweaty, hirsute muscles and licked your musky armpit. Finally, you exploded, coating the mirror with a huge load.

In an instant, you felt a burst of knowledge flood into your head. You suddenly began to think in Hindi, and translating your thoughts into English became more difficult. You realised that you were the hottest stud in town, especially with your hunky Indian looks and deep, Hindi-accented voice. You knew how to make a perfect homemade Indian meal, and also how to totally dominate any white boy you wanted. You were about to be king of the town.

You grabbed some of the clothes scattered on the floor. A jock, gym shorts, and yesterday’s tank top should be fine. You gave yourself a quick sniff test: the perfect level of unadulterated sweaty musk for a morning gym session. After all, there would probably be some jockboy there who couldn’t wait to get a taste of Raj, the musky Indian stud, and the hottest commodity in town.

Just as you were about to leave your room, you noticed your wish ticket lying on the floor. You picked it up, and wondered if the wish-granting lotto machine was still at the bowling alley…

Idea with assistance from the genie-bot by @mystrangetfs.

#wish #race change #muscle tf #musk tf #indian tf #male transformation #male tf #djinni's gym #all fwkong #reality change #mental change

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musicforastylesrestaurant · 2 months

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By Order Of The Crimson Brotherhood.

(peaky blinder!harry)

masterlist || ask me anything

in which, the year is 1921, and the city of manchester is under the control of the ruthless gang the crimson brotherhood, so when there leaders wife gets mobbed in the streets on her way home from the farmers market, the styles brothers make sure they know she is one of there own.

word count - 2.6k

authors note - ik this isn’t everyone’s cup of tea but i have 100% been in my peaky blinders era as of the beginning of the month, im already on season four ��🙈 and thought it would be kind of cute to join the two worlds together, don’t know if this will turn out any good but who knows?? anywho enjoy angels 💗💞

January, 1921.

Harry Edward Styles, a man born and raised in the city of Manchester, a man known for his ruthlessness, his strong will and his dangerous antics.

Him aswell as his brothers roamed the streets of Holmes Chapel, with razor blades down into the flat caps which ultimately led to fear seeping into the bones of there enemies.

Which they had a lot of.

The Styles Brothers were well renown around those ends, the family always had been, there father wasn’t present and there mother died when the youngest brother was barely a year old.

Harry met you, his gorgeous girl at the age of nineteen, the two of you were childhood sweethearts, destined to be together no matter the circumstances.

You were wandering around the streets, when you bumped into him and his elder brothers Charlie and George. You were about to fall to the floor but your wrist was captured in the hands of the leader, who caught you and raised you back to your feet carefully.

You asked how you could return the favour and he muttered something along the lines of ‘you could let me take you out for a night on the town’

And the rest was history.

When the war broke out, Harry knew for a fact that he would be getting called up to represent his country, and at the point the two of you were already engaged, but he demanded that the two of you be husband and wife before he was shipped off, explaining that if he was to die, he wanted to die as your husband.

So, the two of you had a small ceremony and you officially became Mr and Mrs. Styles.

When he returned home from war, he demeanour was slightly colder due to everything that he had seen and been through, he was colder to everyone around him, except for you.

He could never be angry, harsh, callous or aggravated around you.

People feared him before he went to war, but when he returned it was like he was a ticking time bomb, one wrong move and heads would be blown.

He ruled Manchester.

And that would never, ever change.

In the heart of Manchester, you move with the grace of a queen, your every step echoing the legacy of the Crimson Brotherhood, the notorious gang led by your husband, Harry Styles.

Despite the weight of your marital ties, you refuse to be confined by the expectations placed upon you.

Alone at the market, you weave through the stalls with purpose, selecting the finest ingredients for the dinner you plan to prepare for your husband, and his brothers.

Determination fuels your steps as you pick out fresh produce, savory meats, and delicate spices, each item chosen with care to create a meal worthy of the Crimson Brotherhood.

You approach the butcher's stall with a slightly sense of innocence, the scent of freshly cut meat mingling with the bustling atmosphere of the market. As you exchange pleasantries with the butcher, you can't help but admire the array of cuts on display, each one a testament to the skill and expertise of the person behind the counter.

"Good afternoon, love. What can I get for you today?"

Returning the smile, you reply, "I'm looking for four round beef steaks, please."

One for you, one for Harry, one for Charlie and one for George.

The butcher nods, already reaching for the desired cuts. "Ah, excellent choice. Coming right up."

As they expertly select the steaks, you engage in friendly banter. "Busy day at the market?"

The butcher chuckles, their hands deftly working the meat. "Always is, especially with the sun shining like this. But I can't complain, keeps me on my toes."

You nod in agreement, admiring their skill. "I can imagine. Thank you for always providing such quality cuts."

With a satisfied grin, the butcher presents the four round beef steaks, neatly packaged and ready for you. "There you go, love. These should do the trick."

"Thank you so much," you reply gratefully, accepting the package. "I really appreciate it."

"It's my pleasure," the butcher says warmly. "Enjoy your meal."

With the package of steaks safely tucked into your basket, you bid farewell to the lively atmosphere of the farmers market. The sun's warm rays still linger, casting a golden glow over the bustling streets of Manchester.

As you walk, you can't help but feel a sense of satisfaction at having secured the ingredients for tonight's dinner.

Reaching into your basket, you retrieve a pair of gloves, slipping them onto your hands with practiced ease.

Just as you're about to slip the second glove onto your hand, a sudden grip tightens around your arm, pulling you forcefully backward.

Startled, you gasp as you're dragged into the dimly lit entrance of a secluded alleyway, the bustling sounds of the market fading into the distance behind you.

Heart pounding, you struggle against your assailant, your fingers instinctively tightening around the basket's handle, the package of steaks forgotten in your grip.

Panic surges through you as you're dragged deeper into the darkness, your mind racing with fear and uncertainty.

As the man's grip tightens around your arm, you're suddenly face to face with a stranger whose features are etched with menace. His blonde hair falls haphazardly across his scarred face, the jagged line drawing your attention to the intensity in his eyes.

The overpowering stench of rotten egg fills your nostrils, sending a shiver down your spine as he speaks.

"Just the girl I've been looking for," he growls, his words sending a chill through your trembling body. Tears blur your vision as you stare back at him, unable to comprehend the terror unfolding before you.

He was Irish.

In a voice thick with malice, he continues, his words slicing through the air like a blade. "Your husband and his brothers owe me, and I aim to collect. And what better way to send a message than through his darling wife?"

You try to speak, to plead for mercy, but fear has stolen your voice. Before you can utter a word, his fist connects with your jaw, sending you sprawling to the ground.

Gasping for breath, you curl into yourself, the pain radiating through your body like fire.

The man's laughter echoes off the walls, cold and cruel. "They crossed me, and now it's time to pay the price. And you, my dear, are the perfect pawn in this little game of ours."

As he delivers blow after brutal blow, each impact driving the air from your lungs, you cling to the faint hope that someone will come to your rescue.

But as the darkness closes in around you, you realize that you are utterly alone, at the mercy of a man whose cruelty knows no bounds.

With aching limbs, you muster the strength to push yourself upright, the world spinning around you as you struggle to focus through the haze of pain and fear.

Casting a wary glance over your shoulder, you retrieve the basket of food that had fallen to the ground during the attack.

With trembling hands, you wipe the dried blood from the corner of your mouth, the metallic taste lingering on your tongue as a grim reminder of the violence you've endured.

Summoning every ounce of willpower, you force yourself to take a step forward, the basket clutched tightly to your chest. Your movements are slow and unsteady, each step sending waves of agony rippling through your battered body.

As you reach the end of the alleyway, you pause, casting a furtive glance around to ensure that no one is watching. The last thing you need is for someone to see you in this state, vulnerable and exposed.

With a silent prayer for strength, you begin the agonizing journey home, every step a testament to your resilience in the face of unspeakable cruelty. Tears threaten to spill from your waterline, but you refuse to let them fall, determined to maintain a facade of strength until you reach the safety of your own four walls.

With each agonizing step, you inch closer to the familiar sight of 24 Spring Lane, your sanctuary from the horrors of the outside world.

The journey that once felt like a mere stroll now stretches out before you like an eternity, every movement a testament to the relentless ache that pulses through your battered body.

Finally, you reach the doorstep, the key trembling in your hand as you struggle to insert it into the lock. Your fingers fumble with the familiar motion, the simple act of unlocking the door now a monumental task in your weakened state.

As you push open the door and step inside, relief washes over you, tempered only by the searing pain that courses through your body with each labored breath.

The injuries inflicted upon you by your assailant are beginning to take their toll, the dull throb in your ribs now accompanied by a sharp sting at the top of your eyebrow.

Unaware of your husband's presence, you stagger into the living room, your focus consumed by the overwhelming need to seek refuge from the torment of the outside world. But as you drop the basket to the floor and collapse onto the ground, a cry of pain escapes your lips, the weight of your injuries too much to bear alone.

In the dim light of the room, you catch a glimpse of Harry sitting in the corner, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

His expression is unreadable, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond your line of sight.

As you collapse onto the floor, your body wracked with pain, Harry's instinct kicks in, propelling him across the room in a blur of motion. With a sense of urgency, he drops his cigarette and rushes to your side, his hands reaching out to catch you before your skull can meet the unforgiving wooden floor.

His eyes widen in shock and concern as he takes in the extent of your injuries, his heart clenching at the sight of blood staining your face and clothes. Gently, he cradles the back of your head, his touch both tender and urgent as he ensures your safety in the midst of the chaos.

"M’Love, what happened?" Harry's voice is thick with worry, his usually steady demeanor shaken by the sight of you in such distress.

He carefully brushes the hair from your face, his touch feather-light against your bruised skin.

You struggle to find the words to answer him, the pain making it difficult to form coherent thoughts, let alone speak. But as you meet his gaze, the unspoken understanding that passes between you is enough to convey the depths of your suffering.

Without hesitation, Harry gathers you into his arms, cradling you against his chest with a fierce protectiveness that belies the tenderness in his touch. As he holds you close, you feel a sense of safety wash over you, a comforting reminder that no matter the trials you may face, you will always find refuge in his embrace.

As Harry holds you close, his voice filled with concern, he gently urges you to tell him who is responsible for your injuries. But fear grips you tightly, paralyzing your voice as you shake your head vehemently, unable to form the words to convey the terror that still grips your heart.

"Please, love," Harry implores, his eyes searching yours for any sign of reassurance. "Y’need to tell me who did this. I won't let ‘em hurt you again, I promise."

But the memory of the man's cruel laughter and the violence he inflicted upon you looms large in your mind, filling you with a sense of dread at the thought of facing him again. How can you trust that Harry's promise will hold against such ruthless brutality?

Tears stream down your face as you cling to Harry, your body trembling with the weight of your fear and pain. You long to confide in him, to share the burden of your suffering, but the words remain trapped within you, a silent scream of anguish and despair.

In response to your silent plea, Harry's grip tightens around you, his arms a shield against the darkness that threatens to consume you.

"I swear to you, (Y/N)," he murmurs, his voice a soothing balm against the turmoil raging within you. "Whoever did this won't ever be able to hurt you again. I'll make sure of it."

"I... I don't know his name," you manage to say, your voice trembling with fear and pain. "But he... he had blonde hair and... and a scar."

Harry's expression darkens as he processes your words. "Patrick McDonald," he mutters, his voice laced with anger and recognition. "Bloody hell."

Another wave of pain radiates from your ribs, causing you to instinctively turn your head into your husband's chest, seeking comfort in his embrace.

As you lean against him, Harry's arms tighten around you, a silent vow of protection against the threat that looms on the horizon.

"I'll deal with him," he promises, his voice a low growl. "No one hurts my wife and gets away with it."

“George, Charlie!”

You hadn't even realized they were in the house, lost in the chaos of your own pain and fear, but now they appear, their presence a welcome relief amidst the turmoil.

With wide eyes, George and Charlie rush into the room, their expressions shifting from confusion to concern as they take in the sight of you battered and bruised on the floor.

"What happened to ‘er?" George demands, his voice edged with worry as he kneels beside you, his hands hovering over your injuries.

Harry's jaw clenches with barely contained fury as he speaks the name that has haunted your nightmares since the attack.

"Patrick McDonald," he growls, his voice thick with anger and determination.

Charley lets out a harsh breath, his expression darkening with recognition.

"Bloody hell," he mutters, his fists clenching at his sides.

As the gravity of the situation sinks in, George's gaze flickers between you and his brothers, his features set in a steely resolve.

"We need to find him," he declares, his voice firm with determination.

Harry nods in agreement, his eyes burning with a fierce determination.

"And when we do, he'll wish he'd never laid a hand on her," he vows, his voice a low growl.

With trembling hands, you grip tight onto your husband's waistcoat, your eyes pleading with him not to leave your side.

"Please, H," you beg, your voice wavering with fear and desperation. "Don't leave me."

Harry's gaze softens as he looks down at you, his heart aching at the sight of your pain.

"I have to, m’love," he murmurs, his voice laced with regret. "That bastard deserves hell f’what he did to you, and he's going to get what's coming to him."

You shake your head frantically, tears streaming down your bruised cheeks.

"But I need you here," you plead, your voice barely a whisper amidst the chaos of the room. "I'm scared, H. Please don't leave me alone."

For a moment, Harry's resolve wavers, his love for you outweighing the thirst for vengeance burning within him. But then, with a heavy heart, he gently extricates himself from your grasp, his eyes filled with determination as he rises to his feet.

"I promise, (Y/N)," he says, his voice firm with resolve. "When we find him, he's going to hurt just like he hurt you, s’a promise, and I never, ever break promises. He’ll get what’s coming to him one way or another.”

“By order of the Crimson Brotherhood."

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