#adidas samba

[tf-kinky]

The faint hum of Ninja’s streaming setup filled the air, a symphony of RGB lights and cooling fans casting an eerie glow across his room. It was late—too late for his usual audience—but this wasn’t a typical night. His chat buzzed with the usual fervor, though tonight, their hero wasn’t clutching a Victory Royale. He was clutching something far darker: a secret he’d kept buried behind his trademark grin.

Ninja leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming against the desk as he stared at his phone. The app glowed on the screen, its icon a swirling vortex of black and purple. He’d stumbled across it weeks ago on some sketchy deep-web forum—a transformation tool, they called it. No one believed it was real, just another troll thread. But Ninja had tested it. A stray sock had become a mouse. A water bottle had morphed into a flickering candle. Small stuff. Harmless. Until tonight.

“Clix has been talking smack again,” Ninja muttered to himself, his voice low, almost drowned by the whir of his PC. The kid had been relentless—dissing Ninja’s skills, his age, his relevance. It wasn’t just banter anymore. It was personal. And Ninja had a plan to shut him up for good.

He tapped the app, its interface cold and minimalistic. A single input field appeared: Target. Ninja grinned, typing “Clix” with a deliberate slowness, savoring the moment. A second field popped up: Form. His fingers hesitated, then danced across the screen: Adidas Samba OG White Sneakers. Clean. Classic. Permanent.

The app pulsed once, twice, then a prompt appeared: Enhancements? Ninja’s grin widened. He wanted Clix to feel this. He typed: Heightened senses—extreme sensitivity. Full awareness. A final tap, and the screen flashed red. Somewhere, miles away, Clix’s world was about to unravel.

Clix had been mid-stream, trash-talking his chat with that cocky smirk plastered across his face, when it hit. A jolt—like electricity surging through his spine. His vision blurred, his limbs locked up, and a scream caught in his throat as the room warped around him. His body folded inward, shrinking, twisting, reshaping. Skin hardened into leather. Bones melted into rubber soles. His senses didn’t fade—they sharpened, excruciatingly so. The faint hum of his monitor became a deafening roar. The stale air of his gaming den stung like acid. And then—nothing. Darkness. Stillness. But he was awake. Aware.

He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, but he could feel. Every fiber of his being screamed in silent horror as he realized what he’d become: a pair of pristine white Adidas Sambas, laces neatly tied, sitting in a sleek black box. The smell hit him next—packaging foam, faint rubber, and something distant, musky. Feet. Oh God, no. Clix’s mind recoiled. He’d always hated feet—sweaty, grimy, repulsive things. The thought alone made him gag, back when he could gag. Now, it was worse. He could sense everything.

A delivery drone dropped the box at Ninja’s doorstep within hours. No questions asked. The app had its ways.

Ninja peeled open the package, his eyes glinting as he lifted the sneakers out. “Well, well, Clix. Look at you now.” His voice was a mocking purr. He turned them over in his hands, admiring the craftsmanship. They were perfect—crisp white leather, black stripes, a faint sheen under the studio lights. He could almost feel the rage radiating off them. Good.

“Chat, check these out,” he said, holding them up to the camera. “Fresh kicks for the stream. Limited edition.” The comments exploded—Dope shoes, Ninja! Where’d you get those? He chuckled, slipping them onto his feet. The moment his socks brushed against the insole, Clix’s silent scream echoed in his own mind. Ninja’s feet—warm, slightly damp from hours in his gaming chair—pressed down, and Clix’s heightened senses erupted. Every crease of skin, every bead of sweat, every shift of weight was unbearable. He wanted to shrivel up, to die, but he couldn’t. He was trapped, forced to endure the stench, the pressure, the feet.

Ninja flexed his toes, smirking as he stood. “Comfy as hell. Might keep these on permanently.” He paced the room, each step a fresh torment for Clix. The kid’s disgust fueled Ninja’s glee—he could almost imagine Clix’s voice, whining about how gross it was. “Should’ve kept your mouth shut, man,” Ninja whispered under his breath, too quiet for the mic to catch.

Days turned into weeks. Ninja wore the Sambas everywhere—streams, workouts, even casual strolls outside. Clix’s awareness never dulled. The dirt from the pavement, the sweat from long gaming sessions, the occasional spill of energy drink soaking into the fabric—it was a nightmare without end. His hatred for feet, once just a quirky gripe, became his eternal prison. And Ninja? He never took them off. Why would he? They were his trophy, his silent victory.

One night, mid-stream, Ninja leaned down, brushing a speck of dust off the toe. “Still holding up,” he said to no one in particular. “Guess you’re built to last, huh, Clix?” The chat laughed, oblivious. But deep within the sneakers, a consciousness raged, helpless, drowning in the repulsive reality of its new existence. And Ninja kept winning.

Months dragged on, and the once-pristine Adidas Sambas began to fray. The white leather yellowed, the soles thinned, and a faint stench clung to them despite Ninja’s relentless wear. Clix’s heightened senses had cataloged every degrading moment—the scuffs, the sweat, the slow unraveling of his prison. Ninja barely noticed at first, too caught up in his streams, but one night, mid-rant, he glanced down and grimaced.

“These kicks are trashed,” he muttered, peeling them off with a flick of disgust. The chat spammed RIP shoes, oblivious to the weight of his words. He stood, holding the worn-out Sambas by the laces, their tattered form dangling like a defeated foe. “Time to retire you,” he said with a smirk, striding to the kitchen.

Clix’s mind raced—relief, dread, fury—as Ninja swung open the trash bin. The sneakers hit the pile with a dull thud, sinking into a mess of soda cans and takeout wrappers. The lid slammed shut, plunging Clix into darkness. The rancid stench of garbage replaced the torment of feet, but the reprieve was fleeting. His senses, still razor-sharp, drowned in the rot. Ninja walked away, already scrolling for a new pair, while Clix lay buried, abandoned, his silent screams lost to the heap—forever aware, forever trapped.

[unstablefragments2]

Adidas Samba OG IH4882⁠

[vanessa-rafesgirl]

me. (i just made this) 🎀

[oxfords---notbrogues]

Adidas

[themancorialist]

Stevenson Square, Manchester.

[louisupdates]

Louis Tomlinson is wearing Adidas Rekive Half-Zip Sweatshirt in Grey, Sprt Lightning Tracksuit Bottoms, and Samba OG shoes in the trailer for Under The Tongue. [5.12.2024]. Sweatshirt was gifted from fans at FITFWT23: TURIN.

[clvn81]

[cafe-solo]

[soft4sungho]

˖⋆࿐໋ hold me, console me, and then I'll leave without a trace~

🫧⋆｡˚°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ 🍵⋆｡°🍡°⋆. ࿔*:･🫧⋆｡˚°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

♪soft4sungho

[toyastales]

adidas samba x comme des garçons

[onlyhaileybieber]

[unstablefragments2]

via packer

adidas Samba OG Leopard Print

[pairs-studio]

[oxfords---notbrogues]

Adidas Samba

[muzzlesandboots]

Adidas Samba and Socks

[lostclippedwings]