Loki halted at the edge of the stage with the measured poise of a seasoned actor, his cloak gliding behind him like a shadow unwilling to fade. With a theatrical gesture, he raised one hand, his finger pointing seemingly at random into the crowd, as if choosing a victim on a whim. Two figures were marked. A forgettable couple, blended into the mass.
The boy was discreet, slender, shoulders slightly hunched. Neither ugly nor handsome—simply indistinct. The girl was gentle, nearly invisible, her face well-balanced, without flaw or brilliance. Two transparent bodies in a sea of waiting silence. And yet now, they became the centre.
"You two. Step forward."
The silence thickened. The boy hesitated, the girl gripped his arm tighter, but already their legs obeyed a command not their own. The steps received them in heavy silence, and soon, the spotlights surrounded them. Loki watched them like a sculptor discovering a fresh block of marble.
He summoned his black velvet sack. The fabric seemed to breathe, swollen with gently stirring rolled papers. He held it out to the girl, wordless. She understood.
Her fingers slid into the sack’s mouth, brushing across several scrolls, then plucked one. She handed it over without opening it. Loki unfurled it with a sharp snap.
He frowned—then let out a raspier laugh. “Bull and heifer. Far more... grounded. And for our young male here… double testosterone. It’ll be loud. And magnificent.”
He snapped his fingers.
The boy stumbled. His breath caught—a guttural rasp. His spine arched violently, shoulder blades straining outward as though his very muscles sought to burst free. His arms stiffened, fingers clawing inward, nails darkening, thickening into opaque crescents.
His pale skin darkened to a warm brown, then was overtaken by short, smooth, dense fur spreading like a burning tide over forearms, chest, flanks. His neck broadened, tendons thickening, each breath lifting him like a forge being stoked. His feet cracked, heels rising, toes slowly fusing into rough, gleaming hooves.
His skull reshaped—jaws expanding, teeth widening, his tongue growing thicker, rougher. His nose broadened into a damp, black muzzle. From either side of his brow, two lumps swelled. Horns erupted, at first small, then pushing outward in a slow surge, curling thick and black, tips glinting—a pair of powerful arcs.
His gaze lifted, utterly transformed. His eyes had darkened to deep obsidian, streaked with copper glimmers. His pupils, now wide and beast-like, locked with a frozen intensity.
Then the hormonal wave struck him—an explosion under his skin.
His breathing quickened. He growled, a deep vibration pulsing from his chest. His pectorals swelled violently, tearing through fabric, stretching skin and seam alike. His arms ballooned with power, veins surfacing across his biceps, triceps, down to his forearms. His abs clenched—six, then eight defined segments tensed like carved stone. His thighs tightened, thickened, hips broadening while his waist remained tight—an aggressive, bestial V. His scent transformed—heavier, musky, intoxicating, the odour of a body drenched in raw sexual force.
He growled again—this time a warning, a low roar of animal pride.
His clothes erupted at last—or rather, were torn and reborn. A crisp white shirt formed, fitted tightly, with a short, stiff collar and a cream lace jabot flaring over his massive chest. Over it, a chaqueta corta emerged—bright red, cropped and rigid, broad in the shoulders, embroidered with gold thread, stitched to fit his new mass. A wide black sash cinched his waist, and snug black velvet trousers coiled around his bestial legs, shimmering slightly. His hooves were encased in glossy black boots, open at the back. A black cape with deep crimson lining anchored at his left shoulder.
He was no longer man nor beast. He was both torero and bull—living sacrifice and executioner at once.
Then it was her turn.
Her back arched with elegant grace, the movement almost choreographed. Her arms opened as if to welcome the fever. Her feet lifted onto points, shoes melting away. Her toes rounded into small, glossy black hooves. Her calves reshaped, the skin darkening, covered in a soft, lighter brown down, satin-smooth.
Her form changed subtly—hips widened, waist deepened, her chest grew fuller, natural, firm. A fine, twitching tail sprouted at her spine’s base, curling gently, swaying. Her ears slipped up along her head, pointed, covered in silky fur. Her nose flared slightly, her philtrum more defined. Her eyes widened, now deep chocolate flecked with gold.
Her breath quickened, but her gestures remained slow, sultry.
Her dress transformed with her. Black fabric became a saturated, intense red. The skirt flared into layers of tulle and silk, split to the thigh on one side. The bodice stiffened, black, embroidered with silver and garnet thread, laced at the back with tight, crisscrossed ribbons. Her arms were sheathed in black mesh sleeves, her shoulders bare. A crimson rose blossomed behind her left ear, rooted in her hair now raven-black, braided into a tight bun.
Golden hoops gleamed at her ears. A black velvet choker settled at her throat, adorned with a blood-red pendant. Around her right wrist, a polished, engraved bull’s tooth swung gently.
She looked up.
He was already facing her.
Two bodies stood under the lights, blazing with heat and instinct. He, brute force clad in sacred torero garb. She, fierce grace clad in fire. They stared at each other. A deep, vibrating tension encircled the stage like a wire straining to snap. Their breath was the only rhythm left in the room.
Loki stood motionless behind them, hands clasped behind his back, watching.
"Ah… yes. Now that’s alive."