Magic? (Slow burn? Anyways, no porn here anytime soon, just plot/story for now)

Then he paused. Then he blinked. Then he blinked some more. John stared at a stranger in the mirror. But that was him. But that couldn't be him.

What the hell?

John was average at most, an obvious shut-in at least. The type of dude you'd walk past on the street and not remember the details of a minute later and completely forget a day later, or was the type of dude you might remark looked like he still lived with his parents and dropped out of highschool. He was... on a scale a 4/10 due to a lifestyle of freeloading in his dad's house.

A bit of a gut, or a bit more, a patchy 5 o' clock shadow that only grew on his neck, black jaw-length hair, and greasy described his most apparent features whilst the others could just be glanced over.

John didn't work out. He didn't eat very healthily. Yet he was looking at a leaner, sharper version of his own face placed on a fucking beast of a body that indicated a heritage of legendary warriors and had followed the footsteps of its ancestors by honing its raw strength with the practices of modern day knowledge.

It was a mountain of muscle sculpted out of fine marble with a decent amount of vascularity accenting the blocks of power that made up his body. It looked ready to hold up the world for the rest of eternity and look good doing it.

John was an average dude, so he of course marvelled at how his new musculature shifted under his skin as he raised a hand, at how veins slightly bulged at every movement emphasizing it and obviously indicating a great deal of power that could potentially be used if he so chose. A top-level strongman turned body-builder.

He smiled. It was insane to think that this all happened because he woke up with a voice telling him he could change anyone he wanted. He snorted, and then snorted again when his voice didn't fit his beastly body.

So if this is a lucid dream, lets go through the checklist.

An eyebrow was quirked when he realized he could do math. The other as well when he realized he could read the brand name lining the rim of his boxers, which had been **** into barely functioning as the sides were extremely torn due to the sudden increase in size. A furrowing of the eyebrows when he could read the clock, deeper furrowing when he stepped closer to his mirror and realized he could see the individual pores on his face.

More and more checks, and every single one of them failed.

A hand rose to his face, and he began to pinch. It hurt. His eyes were wide open. It hurt. It didn't make sense. He pinched harder, and it hurt more, the skin of his fingertips and the pinched skin paling as he pinched harder and harder. His forearm was trembling, the veins bulging, and it still hurt.

It hurt so much he was tearing up.

But he was also tearing up because either he had gone insane, or this was actually real. He opted for the latter.

This was real. His pinching relented, and his hand fell to his side. It didn't make sense, but fantasy was merging with reality, and he realized he wouldn't have to die alone because of his own toxic choices. He could could control himself now, he could change himself now, for the better, and or at the least stop being a complete failure.

It... this was a moment of happiness he hadn't had for a long time, not since his earliest birthday when he was still naive and unknowing of how cruel people could be, how cruel the world could be.

He began to laugh, and he wiped away the wetness of his eyes. He stared at himself. He began snapping his fingers.

Dark brown eyes became emerald, a hooked nose became roman, a weak chin began to jut outwards, a hidden jawline became sharply squared, and more features of his, subtle or not, changed. He cycled through whatever he could think of, even taking features from celebrities he could remember and mixing them with others, experimenting.

Sometimes they were good mixes, sometimes they weren't. Exotic, average, flashy, rough, pretty, handsome, he saw many different faces as he snapped his fingers repeatedly before he finally settled.

High cheek bones, sharp chin, angled jawline, greek nose, hard angled eyebrows, thin lips, and ice blue eyes that meshed well with his black newly silky smooth hair and naturally tan skin. Though, now that he looked at it he realized that with this new beastly body his skin had gained an almost golden sheen.

He smiled, and a snap later he had perfectly white teeth. He was statuesque, like a sculpture that came to life. He probably could be a top-level, maybe even international level model, though he didn't know much about that industry so he wasn't sure. He absentmindedly performed poses he could remember from boredom fueled late-night searches. They were wonky, an indication of poor execution, but his body more than made up for that.

He snorted, and then a deep voice rumbled in his chest amusedly. One of the snaps he made resulting in a satisfactorily baritone smooth voice. "I could totally rename myself to Chad or something now." Even if he was practically completely different, if not for skin color, hair length and color, John's mind, personality, was the same, though now at the least a bit more confident, and still deeply influenced by the internet.

But, even when a dream comes true time will always trudge on. His eyes lowered to his almost completely ruined boxers. "Mmm..." He hummed as he gently tugged on one of the strings of few that barely kept his boxers from completely tearing apart. His eyes drifted over to his dresser and a seed of worry in his chest began to grow.

"Can I just magic this into fitting me?" He mumbled his question to no one but himself, and no one but himself was able to give him the unfortunate answer that became apparent when he snapped his fingers. No. No, he could not snap his boxers into fixing themselves, no matter what way he imagined them, willed them, to do so and snapped.

"Looks like good ol' money will have to do." He muttered while walking back and sitting on his bed, lightly grimacing at the slight creaking his new weight **** on it. He began to open up drawers, and for a moment considered buying clothing to increase the variety of what he could choose from as well when only long-sleeved shirts that occasionally bore turtle-necks, sweat-pants or joggers, and long socks greeted him in a drab color palette of monochrome and if not black or grey then very dark shades.

But he waved the idea off, deciding that he was most comfortable in unassuming non-attention-grabbing clothing so he'd just get the same clothing but in bigger sets while he was out for clothes and maybe a tape-measure to see how tall he was now.

...

His expression became more and more blank as he went through his clothing. Long-sleeves, sometimes with turtle-necks, the one t-shirt he did have, pairs of sweat-pants and joggers, pairs of long socks that were either black or white, he went through all of them. He even looked a bit through his dirty clothes bin which he was going to wash later.

But he found only one pair of sweat-pants and socks that barely fit him. The pants were bordering skin-tight and the socks threatened to tear if he flexed his toes. He found no shirts that fit. This was pretty inconvenient, and it would be smarter to shrink himself, but he didn't want to in case his power ran out for some reason and he was stuck for the rest of his life average and dull.

He also just really liked this new him, and he didn't want to give it up. He could be stubborn sometimes, and he knew he was being stubborn right there, but he had one more choice before he either acted suspisciously, by asking his dad to buy clothing at the least double his original size while hiding, or he rode outside on his bike either shirtless or with his bed-sheets wrapped around him.

John eyed his hoodie, hope sparking in his heart. It was baggy, pretty baggy, in his original form he could sit down and drag the bottom over his legs if he bunched them together and cocooned up, which is what he did whenever the air conditioner was too cold for him and he didn't feel like wrapping himself up in his blankets while on his PC.

Gingerly he stepped over to his door, short strides so as to not accidentally rip his pants. Pulling his hoodie off the hook, he took a deep breath in, the hope growing as he realized he was able to stretch the sides outward enough to fit his shoulders, unlike the rest of his shirts. Carefully, gingerly, he slowly tugged it over his torso, and he could already tell that it was going to probably be as form-fitting as his pants, but better something than nothing.

He smiled widely, and gingerly stepped in front of his mirror. A sheepish grin on his face as he gave himself a thumbs-up. It was most definitely as form-fitting as his pants, but it wouldn't draw as much attention as the alternatives, and he didn't want to explain why he was suddenly a handsome as hell war god to his dad...

Wait, didn't the voice say he could alter anyone? Could he mind-control his dad or something? That very much sounded like a villainous thing to do, but while he knew he wasn't a very morally good person, say using the internet as reference he was at the least neutral if anything, he'd do if he needed to.

He raised his hand, and with an idea in mind he snapped his fingers. Then he blinked as he knew something was wrong. There was no blinding flash, no shifting sensation, no nothing to indicate that his power worked. Did it only work on him now? Was it target based? Or did he have to be face-face with his dad to use his power?