Ravyn's Mixtape Track 4
I had a dream last night.
Well, maybe not a dream. More like a prophetic vision from the gods of heavy metal, and by that, I mean I passed out drunk on my couch with my noise-canceling headphones blasting an 80s rock playlist into my skull at full volume.
And when I woke up, everything was wrong.
First, my hands were too small.
Then, my hair was too long.
Then, my shirt was far too tight in places that had never been tight before.
And let me tell you, nothing sobers a person up faster than realizing they are suddenly a she.
But let’s rewind a bit.
My name was Nolan Carter. Software engineer. Obsessive gamer.
Chronic bad-decision-maker. Not exactly a paragon of fitness, charm, or social skills, but I had a certain rugged, unshaven charisma that probably wasn’t just a reflection from my computer monitor.
Thursday night started like any other: I got off work late, barely surviving a brutal coding sprint that left me questioning both my career and my will to live. So naturally, I did what any self-respecting nerd does after a week of digital masochism—I went drinking with my best friend, Shane.
Shane was an asshole, but he was my asshole. A fellow developer with an ego the size of a triple-A game studio budget, he had a special talent for finding amusement in my misery.
We met up at Rick’s Underground Arcade and Bar—a place so drenched in neon that stepping inside felt like entering the Tron universe. The air smelled like stale beer, nachos, and the faint ozone tang of overheated arcade machines.
Shane greeted me with his usual smirk. “Yo, you look like death. This means we drink.”
“Shane, we always drink.”
“Exactly.”
That was when she walked in.
And the moment she did, the entire vibe of the room changed.
She didn’t belong there.
Not in a “she was too attractive for this dump” kind of way (though, yeah, absolutely), but in the way that your brain glitches out trying to process something that shouldn’t exist.
She looked human. But the way she moved? Too smooth. Too deliberate. Like a cat pretending to be a person.
Tall. Dangerously tall. Six feet, easy. Broad shoulders, long legs, leather jacket over a tight tank top. Torn jeans that somehow looked cool instead of tragic.
Her hair was platinum blonde, messy in that perfect way that takes hours to achieve. And her eyes.
Deep, glowing red. Not contacts. Not reflections. Glowing.
And because I have a terminal case of poor judgment, I decided to hit on her.
I sauntered (stumbled) up to her at the bar and leaned in like I had a chance.
“Hey,” I said, trying for smooth and landing somewhere between cocky and inebriated. “You look like someone who enjoys making bad choices.”
She turned, slow and deliberate, and looked me up and down in a way that made me feel like prey.
“Oh,” she purred, voice low and dangerous. “I love making bad choices.”
Shane, that absolute bastard, nearly spit out his drink laughing. “Nolan, please. I’m begging you. Keep talking. This is the funniest thing I’ve seen all year.”
And because I refuse to let Shane win anything, I doubled down.
“You, me. Shots. Let’s see who survives.”
Her lips curved into a smirk. “Careful, sugar. You might not be ready for what happens if you lose.”
I should have backed out. I should have realized something was off.
But I was drunk, arrogant, and a certified dumbass.
So naturally, I said: “Bring it on.”
The shots hit like napalm to my soul.
One.
Two.
Three.
Somewhere between four and oblivion, I remember her hand on my chin.
“You’re cute,” she murmured, too close now. “Wanna play a real game?”
My brain, still processing her everything, short-circuited. “Uh. Y-yeah?”
And then she kissed me.
It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a shockwave.
Then she kissed me twice.
A pulse of heat spread from my lips, igniting every nerve in my body like a live wire. The world blurred, distorted, twisted—
And then,
Darkness.
I came to slowly, my brain wrapped in thick, syrupy fog. My skull throbbed like I’d been in a bar fight with a man made of steel chairs and bad decisions. My mouth was a desert—dry, raw, and carrying the faint, unmistakable aftertaste of cheap whiskey and regret.
The familiar scent of my apartment—stale energy drinks, unwashed laundry, and something that might have once been pizza but had evolved into a new lifeform—settled over me. My couch, my very messy couch, cradled my aching form.
Everything should have been normal. But it wasn’t.
Something felt off.
No, not just off—wrong.
My entire body was giving off the sensation of an out-of-sync video game character, like my limbs weren’t mapped correctly. I sat up, blinking, and immediately knew something was very, very bad.
For one thing, I felt tiny.
Too small. Too compact. My center of gravity was all wrong, my balance thrown into some other dimension.
I lifted my hands—and froze.
They were delicate.
Slender fingers. Small palms. Soft skin. Too soft. Like I’d never known a day of roughness in my life.
My breath caught.
What.
The.
Hell.
I whipped my head around and immediately gasped, because a mass of thick, wavy black curls flopped into my face, tickling my cheeks. Way too long. Way too not my hair.
Panic flared in my chest.
My shirt—an old, ratty band tee—was wrong too. The fabric stretched tight against my chest, hugging in ways it had never, ever hugged before.
I swallowed, hard.
I needed a mirror.
Now.
I stumbled toward the bathroom, nearly tripping over my own damn legs because they were shorter.
I wasn’t used to my own dimensions. My balance was wrong—like my entire skeletal structure had been resized in a way that shouldn’t even be possible.
I reached the door, slammed it open, and stared into the mirror.
And what stared back at me wasn’t me.
Not Nolan Carter.
The person in the mirror was something else.
Something unfairly hot.
Big, dark eyes. Wild, too-long black curls. Skin like soft caramel, smooth, blemish-free.
And then—the body.
Oh, God.
Curves. Everywhere.
Not just a little bit. Not just a mild adjustment. This was full-blown, sci-fi-pulp-cover levels of exaggerated.
My waist was tiny, barely there, sloping into insanely wide hips.
And the boobs.
Holy. Hell.
I grabbed my chest, half in horror, half in awe.
They were huge. Heavy. Soft.
My breath came shaky.
I ran my hands down my stomach—flat. Toned. Definitely not the soft, slightly-out-of-shape nerd belly I was used to.
Lower.
My hips flared out dramatically, like I was designed by a horny fantasy artist who had never met a real woman but had really strong opinions on proportions.
I twisted to the side, and my butt—
My ass was absurd.
Round, perky, shapely in ways that defied reason.
I turned further, panic rising, and oh, God, my legs.
Long (at least for my new smaller body), slender, toned.
And then I realized—
I was short.
Really short.
I practically lunged back to the mirror, pressing both hands against the sink, breathing hard.
My entire being had been downsized.
I was petite. Delicate.
I barely hit five feet tall.
My voice cracked when I whispered, "What the fuck?"
And even that was wrong.
Soft. Sultry. A little husky, with that smoky, femme-fatale rasp that belonged in neon-lit bars and whispered promises.
I whimpered.
What. The. Hell.
I started poking, prodding, and generally testing if this was some horrible fever dream.
Nope.
Everything felt real.
The boobs? Definitely real. Definitely attached.
The hips? Not detachable.
The butt? …Yeah, still there.
I turned side to side, trying to adjust to my new reality.
I lifted my arms—slim. Toned. Absolutely zero of the half-assed gym gains I’d worked on.
I stretched a leg. Ridiculously smooth. Like I’d never known body hair in my life.
I reached up, tugging at my too-thick, too-long hair.
And then, finally, I had to check one more thing.
Slowly. Terrified.
I slid my hands down, past my obscenely small waist, past my curvy hips, until I reached—
Oh.
UHHHHHH.....
I yanked my hands back like I’d been burned.
YUP. THAT WAS GONE.
My knees buckled.
I sat on the floor, staring blankly at nothing, brain short-circuiting.
Okay.
Okay, okay, breathe.
I needed clothes.
Something that fit.
Because right now, my oversized t-shirt was barely covering the ridiculous amount of body I now had.
I scrambled back into my room, ripping through my closet.
Most of my old clothes? Comically huge.
Like, “12-year-old-raiding-dad’s-closet” huge.
Except—
I spotted something.
An old stash of band t-shirts from when I was a scrawny teenager.
Back when I thought a medium was too tight because I was a dumbass who thought “baggy meant cool.”
Now?
They were perfect.
I yanked one on—an old Metallica tee, once loose, now clinging like it was custom-tailored for a petite, curvy rock chick.
Holy shit.
I looked good.
Way too good. Unreasonably good.
I grabbed a pair of old gym shorts, tying them tight at the waist. Loose. A little big, but manageable.
Okay. Okay. This was fine.
Everything was not fine.
I collapsed onto my bed, burying my face in my hands.
How.
HOW.
One night.
ONE NIGHT.
One bad decision, and now I was—this.
Petite. Sexy. Unrealistically curvy.
And still no idea what the hell had happened.
I groaned into my pillow.
This was going to be a long-ass day.
Naturally, I called Shane.
“SHANE,” I shrieked the moment he picked up. “SOMETHING TERRIBLE HAPPENED.”
“Dude, it’s too early for this. What did you do?”
“I woke up a girl.”
Silence.
Then:
“Huh.”
“HUH? THAT’S ALL YOU HAVE TO SAY?”
“Are you, like…hot?”
I groaned. “I AM INSANELY HOT, BUT THAT’S NOT THE POINT.”
“It kinda is,” Shane said. “You barely had a face before, and now you’re—”
“I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU SAY UPGRADE—”
“—an upgrade.”
I screamed into a pillow.
Before I could even begin to process the existential crisis that was my new, completely absurd body, the doorbell rang.
The sudden chime jolted me upright like I’d been electrocuted.
I froze. Heart pounding.
No one ever just showed up at my apartment. My friends knew better. Hell, my landlord never even bothered to check on anything unless the place was actively on fire.
Which meant—
I swallowed hard and crept to the window.
Pulled back the curtain.
And there she was.
Leaning against a sleek black motorcycle, the kind that looked illegal in most states, like it belonged to someone who didn’t just break the law—she seduced it, whispered sweet nothings to it, and made it beg to be broken.
She wasn’t just standing there.
She was waiting.
Smirking like a hunter admiring her catch.
Like she knew I’d be answering that door.
Like she knew I had nowhere else to go.
I hesitated.
Then, fueled by a toxic combination of anger and sheer panic, I flung open the door.
“You!” I accused, pointing dramatically. “You did this!”
Her lips curved higher. A smirk so dangerously confident it sent something strange curling through my stomach.
“And?” she said, like I’d just accused her of making a particularly good cup of coffee.
“And—FIX IT!”
She tilted her head. Studied me.
Then—she laughed.
Low. Husky. Dangerous.
“Nah.”
“NAH?!”
She casually flicked a cigarette into the street, exhaling smoke like some effortlessly cool noir villain.
“I like you like this,” she murmured.
I froze.
I felt the words in my bones.
You… like me like this?
That shouldn’t have mattered.
It shouldn’t have sent a pulse of warmth straight through my traitorous brand-new nervous system.
It shouldn’t have made me hyper-aware of how soft my skin was, or how my oversized gym shorts weren’t actually hiding much.
But it did.
She took a step closer.
And I felt tiny.
Not just short—but small.
Like she could pick me up and carry me off and I wouldn’t even struggle.
I hated that it made my knees feel weak.
“Oh, babe,” she murmured, voice like liquid smoke as she reached for my chin, lifting it with one gloved finger.
The contact was barely anything—just a simple touch, her thumb grazing my jaw.
But it might as well have been a live wire.
She was so close.
So overwhelming.
I could feel the heat of her body. The sheer gravity of her presence.
And when she spoke, it was in a whisper that curled through my entire body.
“I think you do too.”
I swallowed.
Because damn it all, my traitorous heart skipped a beat.
I took a shaky step back, trying to clear my head.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “No, I don’t—I don’t want this, I—”
She reached into her pocket and pulled out something small.
A gizmo.
I barely had time to process it before—
A pulse of light engulfed me.
Warm. Soft. Like being wrapped in a cocoon of static energy.
When it faded, I knew something had changed.
I looked down.
And gasped.
The gym shorts? Gone.
The old Metallica t-shirt? Replaced.
I was in an entirely different outfit.
And not just any outfit.
It was clothing that screamed I belong to her.
Not skimpy. Not vulgar.
But devastatingly revealing in a way that shouldn’t have been possible.
A form-fitting black bodysuit, smooth as silk, high-collared, long-sleeved—but somehow leaving me feeling practically naked.
A sheer, ultra-light jacket settled over my shoulders, its iridescent material shifting between black and deep blue as I moved.
My legs? Encased in tight, seamless pants that accentuated every new curve I was trying not to acknowledge.
And then—
I felt it.
Something cool. Delicate.
Around my throat.
I reached up frantically and my fingers met smooth, futuristic crystal.
A choker.
My stomach dropped.
I ran to the mirror by the door, ignoring her watching me with smug satisfaction.
The choker was black metal infused with glowing blue crystalline letters.
And they spelled something.
NOVA.
I touched it, breathing hard.
“This—” I turned to her, shaking. “You—you just—”
She smiled.
“That’s your name now.”
And God help me, something in my chest thrummed in agreement.
I swallowed.
Tried to deny it.
But my resolve was crumbling.
I was still trying to process my new outfit, my new name, when she took one more step forward.
I barely had time to react before her fingers lifted my chin again.
This time, she traced my jawline, then my cheek.
I shuddered.
Not out of fear.
Out of something else entirely.
She pulled something else from her pocket—a sleek, metallic tube.
A makeup wand.
Before I could object, she pressed it to my lips.
A warm, silky texture spread over them—deep red, velvety.
I let out a tiny gasp.
She smirked.
“There,” she murmured, brushing her thumb over my lower lip. “Perfect.”
I blinked up at her, flustered beyond belief.
“You—” I cleared my throat. “You’re doing all this because—”
She leaned in.
Close enough that I felt her breath when she spoke.
“Because you were always meant to be mine.”
My breath hitched.
Her fingers trailed down my arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
“Now,” she purred. “Come on, pretty baby.”
She lifted a single brow, the corner of her lips tilting into something wickedly inviting.
“Kiss me deadly.”
I stood there, every last ounce of willpower draining out of me.
I should have said no.
I should have resisted.
But when she offered her hand, waiting for me to step into her world—
I took it.
And just like that—
Nova was born.
Six months later?
I still don’t regret it.
Turns out, being a sizzling hot sci-fi babe with a ridiculously attractive immortal space-girlfriend isn’t the worst thing to happen.
She calls me Nova.
I call her Trouble. Yeah that's her actual name
And every night, she kisses me like she’s daring me to run.
Like I ever would.
THE END. 😏🔥