Traumdeuter: a dream interpreter: assigning meaning to and finding patterns in the chaos of a person's subconscious thoughts.
Raumdeuter: a space interpreter: creating goals and finding patterns in the chaos of an ever-changing space, usually but not always on a football pitch. See: Thomas Müller
Thomas is giving Manuel a very particular look while on the lunch line; just a glance, while Manu reaches for one of the bananas. Such a simple thing, yet it's a look that makes him very concerned.
The last time Manuel saw that look on Thomas' face, the recipient received a "gift" later that day, well, if you can claim a locker filled with so much glitter and streamers that the carnage filled up an entire vaccuum bag a "gift". Though on the bright side, Javi seemed much more relaxed and happy to be part of the team ever since. so maybe it wasn't as bad as it had looked on the surface.
The look bothers Manu all afternoon. Usually, practice is relaxing to him, the calm he feels as repetitive motions push his body to its limits being the whole reason he chose to pursue football for a living in the first place. But the implied promise of a prank haunts him.
Later that day, Manuel opens up his locker, and thankfully there is a distinct lack of party supplies. There is one thing he doesn't recognize.
It's a small, pitch black object, similar to a key fob for a very sleek car with two buttons. The button on the top has a generic symbol of a person, like on the sign for a bathroom. The button on the bottom has a compass rose. There is a note next to it, written in Thomas Müller's nearly unreadable handwriting, on what is clearly a page ripped out of the handbooks they're given to take notes on during opponent tape study sessions.
"This seemed like it should exist, so it does now.
Manuel is very glad that he waits until he is home alone to push the top button for the first time.
And yes, Thomas is right - this is a thing, that should exist. Why would Thomas know that though, let alone make this happen?
"This", of course, being what was staring back in his bedroom mirror after pressing the button, the sight of it enough to make Manu drop the...control?...on the bed in shock.
She was gorgeous, the kind of woman he'd expect to see on a television show or movie. Flowing brown hair, elegant features, bright eyes, curves in all the right places. His clothes had transformed to fit her immediately, with a sexy edge - jeans were slimmer and more form-fitting, plain t-shirt now a plunging v-neck, though in the same forest green. She even already had makeup on, he realized as he blinked - that odd sensation must be mascara, and there was lipstick too, and even her nails were painted, a delicate pink.
Well, why question a good thing?
She runs her hands up through her hair - oh.
More sensitive now. That's...pleasantly unexpected. And the hair is really silky, too. Hm.
She spends a few minutes just focusing on the pleasant sensation of hands through her hair, combing and tugging with her fingers. She can feel her muscles unwinding after a long day of training. Her hands still felt strong, though perhaps the callouses from years of keeper training had softened just a little and her palms were not quite as wide.
She sits on the edge of her bed, still looking in wonder at the mirror. "Wow." Her voice is softer now, silkier; not that much higher than his, but still significantly different. She starts mugging at her own reflection, admiring it, getting used to it, making silly faces at herself.
I'm fucking cute. Good job, Thomas. Still not sure how you did it, but when is that ever not true with you?
Her hands trail downwards, massaging the nape of her neck, then further.
Her breasts are heavy in her hands, and warm even through her shirt and bra - apparently she's wearing one now? She hooks a finger in the collar and peeks down - yup, she's wearing one. Looks like cotton, lined but not padded, in dark gray. He had been wearing dark gray cotton briefs before. Did that influence things, somehow? She'd have to check her panties, but not just yet.
She tries running her hands down her sides, but that's actually fairly ticklish, and she laughs and squirms, reflexively. She doesn't recognize her laugh, and the sound of it surprises her.
Well, here goes…
She reaches for the hem of her shirt then pulls it off, shuddering a bit as the cold air hits her warm skin. She's still athletically built - some things never change, perhaps - but still clearly has all the curves that Manuel never had.
She reaches back, and fumbles a bit to find the hooks on the bra, hands sliding up and down her back ineffectively. Damnit, how do other girls do this so easily? Must be practice, I guess… It takes her a minute, but she does finally get the three hooks undone and shrugs it off.
Her nipples are smaller than his, but her breasts are pleasant and full yet perky. A sigh involuntarily escapes her lips when she gives them a squeeze; then another, louder one when she experimentally pinches a nipple between thumb and forefinger.
She flops back onto the bed, feet hanging off. The sensation is strange yet familiar, being aroused in female form; the warmth, the responsiveness, they haven't changed.
She runs her hands down her stomach, feeling the ghost of abdominal muscles, though they aren't obvious to see (hey, even he never quite had them visible, it makes sense they elude her too). She takes a deep breath and undoes the button and zipper of her jeans, then slips a hand inside.
Cotton too. Okay, now she's curious. She lifts her hips off the bed just enough to shimmy the jeans off - this is a lot harder than it is in male form! No wonder women struggle so much with these things. She cranes her neck up to peek, and yup, a matching dark gray, and a fairly modest cut - hiphuggers, she thinks they're called. Interesting, how that works. She wonders what the rules are - how would it have been different if he had been wearing something else?
She lowers her hips and reaches her hand in, slipping fingers delicately past the waistband. She can feel the thatch of hair, a bit coarse but not unpleasantly so, then dips further.
The first thing she notices is the texture of the fluid itself - not necessarily sticky, but definitely with a thickness of its own. He'd been with women, plenty of times, so navigating the general anatomy wasn't completely foreign to her. Nevertheless, there was a strange novelty to it all, having it be hers, both giving and receiving this way. It's a little odd to not quite be able to see things, too -something to get used to.
Stop overthinking and enjoy yourself, and she realizes that particular bit of internal monologue is in his voice. Something his - their? - therapist might say, though she doubts the good counselor would even believe this happened.
But he's right, of course.
She drags two fingers of her right hand slowly up her hips, getting used to the particulars of the topography, feeling out the folds, noting how her fingers feel cool against them. She nudges at her clit with one finger and gasps at the intensity of its sensitivity.
Her mind wanders as she continues exploring and slips into a more primal, lustful state, this time away from her own internal sensations. Who would be most excited to see me like this? What could I do now?
She dreams up someone. Not someone famous, he doesn't have to be, sweet though, and handsome enough. Maybe he doesn't even know who she is and isn't, or maybe he does and just doesn't care.
She imagines this mystery man between her legs, lapping her up, showing her first hand the difference between her own fingers and his lips and tongue. Her thighs tremble, and she imagines how that would feel against his cheeks.
She slides her fingers in and imagines him doing the same, feels the tightness and heat, and at the same time the unique sensation of fullness. Before she knows it she's stopped thinking entirely, her hands running on pure instinct, fingers curling inside to discover every nook and cranny, her brain a haze of new fantasies and unfamiliar, delicious sensation.
The desire knots in the pit of her stomach, and before she really knows what's happening, her body quivers, beyond her control. She can feel herself clamping down on her fingers, drenching her wrist.
She pants as she comes down from the high, slowly extracting her fingers out from inside her. After catching her breath, she raises her fingers to her lips, and gives a small lick. She tastes tangy and sweet, and the flavor fills her mind with all sorts of possibilities.
She'll have to get Manuel to thank Thomas later. And she'll need to figure out how to find someone willing to help her experiment. Later.
For now, she's going to wash the bedsheets, put clothes back on, and find out what that other button does.