Kevin stood in his bedroom, contemplating the open drawer full of his socks and underwear.
He had driven home as fast as legally possible, trying not to stare at the silver claw on his steering wheel; his amazement giving way to anger, backed by the nagging fear of what was going to happen to him. Watching that beefcake turn into a beautiful chick had been... nice, but to Kevin the experience had been a net bust.
He had lost all the change and junk he'd managed to scrounge, together with his clothes; and he had God knew what kind of weird alien shit spreading through his system. He was half-afraid, half-hoping that that booming voice would speak to him again, and explain what the fuck was going on.
But nothing had happened. He had sat hunkered down in his seat in his driveway for a bit (his garage being a cluttered storehouse for unprocessed junk), worried that one of his neighbours would see him and report him for streaking. But then he made up his mind, got out of the car, and dashed up the steps to his door.
He went straight to his room. But... now that he was here, he felt strangely reluctant to put on fresh clothes. It wasn't that he was afraid of destroying them with further weirdness; he owned few garments that he cared about. It just... didn't sit right with him, somehow. Plucking a pair of tighty whities from the drawer, he held it up and looked at it; a weird feeling of disgust crawling through him at the thought of veiling his body in the extraneous material. Which... made no sense, he'd never felt like this before and wasn't especially proud of his manhood.
But he just couldn't bring himself to put them on. With a huff he dropped the briefs back in the drawer and shoved it closed. Damn thing is messing with my head. He rubbed at his chest, wincing as his fingers passed from hairy flesh to smooth metal.
"Fucking hell..."
He wandered from his room into the living room, sprawling onto the couch and grabbing the remote. He flipped through channel after channel, trying to distract himself. But the longer he laid there, the more restless he became. He felt like he had to do something. Pressure was building in him, radiating out from his chest; tensing his muscles, making his cock twitch in idle excitement.
Finally he could take it no more, jumping to his feet and throwing the remote down with a "damn it!" There was a flash, the remote exploding into fleeting sparkles; and his shabby old couch morphed into a luxury sofa covered in royal blue cloth with a gold lily pattern over it. From there a wave of light spread across the floor, turning the thread-bare carpet into a plush, Persianesque affair of yellows, purples and blues. Polished white stone with blue veins devoured his splintery wooden floor, until the wave hit the walls and continued up, transmuting them into a lovely blue-grey that seemed to shimmer in the light. The doorways all became arches framed in silver, and flanked by silver lamp fixtures; the windows morphed to matching high arches filled with latticed panes in between lacy sky-blue curtains and heavier white drapes.
Kevin stared, slack-jawed. Hearing the sound of the TV cut out, he spun around to see that it had vanished; the set replaced by a large mirror hanging on the wall behind the now-empty end-table he'd used as a stand.
"Holy. Fuck."
He had no more to say. He was so struck with amazement he was hardly even angry. He didn't even notice that his entire middle finger was now made of living platinum, and that the tendrils had spread to his fore and ring fingers, giving them claws as well. In fact, he was kind of scared.
He wanted to collapse back on his couch -- which admittedly looked much more comfortable now. But he still felt close to bursting with energy. So instead he began pacing. Trying to work out the energy, or at least settle his thoughts. But the rest of his drab, aging house made a surreal contrast to his transformed living room; scattering his thoughts whenever he walked in or out of it.
USE THE POWER.
The thunderclap of silent words in his head jolted him out of his reverie with a violent oath.
"Use it?" he muttered. "For what?" However, as he stared from his mundane kitchen into his fantastic living room, he could no longer deny the obvious. He was "the gate". The "lost world of Krysalon" would be "reborn"... through him.
"Oh God..."
He ran a hand through his thinning hair. This is messed up. Why him, of all fucking people? Like he didn't have enough problems. He couldn't deal with some fucking fantasy world trying to... recreate itself through him!
But he had to do something. It was no good just standing around -- or pacing around. He felt so full, so pent-up. It was a feeling not unlike arousal -- and indeed his cock kept flagging in and out of half-mast. He had to... find a release for this pressure. Figure out some way to channel this "power" before he accidentally caused something even crazier to happen. At least get my dick sucked or something...