Chapter Text
Another morning hungover, bones aching from sleeping on someone's futon rather than a real fucking mattress. All he knows is he needs to piss, drink something strong, and smoke to get his bearings back together. He limps to the restroom, zipper flying open, where his dick should be… Isn't there? "What the fuck?" He wipes his eyes with one hand, forcing his vision to refocus on his dick-less crotch, peering down at just a thatch of wiry pubes. Not bothering to zip up his jeans, he looks at himself in the mirror; chest fuller, goatee gone, hair curlier.
Nearly an inch away from the bathroom mirror, he continues to scrutinize his new appearance, groping his tits and hissing in response. He's… a woman? What the fuck happened last night? Still needing to piss, he shoves his pants down to the floor and sits on the toilet, relieving his bladder from the previous night's outing. Finding a half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray on the sink, Magnus fishes out a lighter from one of his jean pockets and, for the first time in his life, fumbles to light his cigarette properly.
Shaky hands bring the tobacco to his lips; he inhales deeply, letting the chemicals coat the interior of his lungs long enough for him to cough and curse. Head in hands, he tries to recollect the blurry memories from yesterday. Did he piss off a witch? Did someone chop off his dick and give him tit implants in the middle of the night? He heads to the bedroom where his host is still sleeping, looking over himself closely in the floor-length mirror. He lifts both his arms, checking for scarred flesh beneath his breasts, pants still unzipped, he inches closer to the mirror, searching for blood, scabs, any sign that this could be a cruel prank instead of some fuck-ass transformation.
Zipping up his pants, he fishes out a shirt from the stranger's drawers to cover his tits. He never was one to care for shirts, but he supposes now, with these new changes, he has to have a molecule of modesty. Magnus sighs heavily and saunters towards the kitchen, cigarette burnt down to the filter, and he tosses it into the sink. He opens the fridge, looking for anything decent; he grabs a jar labeled "cold brew" and lets the door shut by itself. The dining table has a collection of matches from various bars in the area. He nabs one before entering the patio, sliding the door shut with a firm thud.
Magnus settles himself down on one of the patio chairs, the metal groaning with the sudden weight of his new form. He yawns, scratching his chin, lighting up another cigarette with the cancer stick dangling from his lips while he screws off the lid to the cold brew. Caffeine and nicotine should help clear the lingering fog from his mind. It's afternoon now, the sun high in the sky, buses and cars honking and weaving through traffic. His host's apartment has a decent view of the city, downtown not too far, the looming buildings seemingly within grasp.
He takes a swig of the coffee, letting the bitter brew slide down his gullet. Staring out at the neighborhood until the blues, grays, and greens blur into an impressionist painting. "Guess I'm a bitch, now, huh?" He laughs to himself. He doesn't know how he'll deal with these new changes or how he'll tell his host that he became an even hotter silver fox overnight. "Day by day, I guess." He mumbles to himself, inhaling deeply once more on the cigarette. As the smoke plumes around him, he hears his host stirring. He sighs and stubs out the cigarette, taking the jar of coffee with him inside.
"Who are you!? How did you get into my house!?"