#feminization fiction

[befemininenow]

Tired from constantly facing the exhausting and brutal realities of a post-pandemic real world, our main character finds solace by immersing themselves with feminization. Recently, there has been a new fashion trend for women involving brown skirts, high boots, and black bodysuits. One night, while getting aroused with some very persuasive captions involving these kind of girls after an exhausting day of work, the main character transports themself into a different world. An organization named B.U.S.T. recruits our main character and aims to forever change their future in the most supernatural of ways. As enticing as it is, our main character also faces an internal battle involving sexual identity and doubts of reality throughout the storyline. One may wonder if this alternative reality is a creation of the main character’s subconscious and the events they experienced beforehand. There’s so many questions to ask, and the fear of losing direction is very high, but the main worry about going deep in this new world is: is there a way to go back (to the real world)?

Preview post-description: Ever wondered what real feminization would be like without the hardcore and explicit tasks? Ever wanted to express your feminine side without the humiliation you will encounter? Most importantly, ever wanted to become a woman even though you were not born female? Well, if that sounds like you, you came to the right place! With B.U.S.T., you can make your transgender dreams a reality! No more sissification or humiliation! This is a real feminization program for real girlies like you! Join us, darling, and explore a new side of you like never before!

List of chapters:

Preview

Prologue: Part 1

Prologue: Part 2

Prologue: Part 3

You're hired!

Your first day with Alexa

C'mon, let's meet up with Samantha!

Your meetup with Raelene, or Rae

Rae-Rae's confused, but she has the spirit

The name's Hannah and I'm not from Montana!

Wear this for me, sweetie

Time flies when you're this sexy!

How would you like to be a full-time woman?

A girl needs to look good for a night out, babe

Moments before your change

Transformation complete!

Born this way

California Gurls

Am I... dreaming?

I need my pumpkin spice

An unforgettable scene

It was all a dream?

And if you don't know, now you know

I'm your worst nightmare

Say you can't sleep? Baby, I know

Work it, girl

I kissed a girl and... I didn't like it!?

I'm such an attention whore

I'm sexy and I know it!

Hot flashes, and not those kind

Deja vu?

Not my fault you're like in love with me!

We'll be right back.

Let it go, let it go...

Are we there yet?

Not like those other girls

From good girls to baddies

An unexpected visit

Hey, I saw you on my dream last night!

Did I just change the future?

The big day

Come to daddy

This is the real me! (I think.)

Winter has never been this hot!

Say it. Say...

Playtime is over! Snap out of it!

Is this... real?

An unexpected ally

I'll be there for you...

The Final Boss of Feminization

Epilogue: Welcome (back) to the Real World

Genres of this story include, but not limited to: Feminization, science fiction, sexual identity, forced feminization, questioning, LGBTQ+ fiction, transition, supernatural, etc.

[mysharona1987]

[dickgraysonsptsd]

i am writing someone an explanation of how fandom acts about devin grayson and why they act that way, and within less than 20 minutes of skimming the devin grayson tag i am so overwhelmed by disgust at people's malice and derision towards her that i have to take a break. the level of vitriolic hatred on the leftist fandom website for a woman who wrote a sexual assault arc rooted in her own experiences of being sexually assaulted is unreal.

for reference and so it's clear how abhorrent the last two screencaps are, she changed her name to distance herself from her family after she was sexually assaulted and changed it years before she even thought about working in comics. she was open about this from the time of her first interview with wizard magazine (in, i believe, the 1990s) and they chose not to publish it because it was "a downer" to bring up sa. the following quote was published on cbr, a major comics website, in 2005:

fascinating that people continue to choose to claim that devin grayson's entire life revolves around her supposed desire to personally rape dick grayson literally two decades later. i can understand why she seems to want nothing to do with dc or its fans these days when people are so giddy and delighted to make her entire existence about their own bizarre obsessions with framing her as a pseudo-rapist.

[millybrowm]

one issue i've noticed about a lot of the discourse surrounding women's choices here on tumblr is that people are trying to apply frameworks specifically used to discuss fiction to real people with autonomy and free will.

queerbaiting is something an author or director does with their characters (who do not have free will), it is not what a real person does when they "dress a little gay" or are unsure about their sexuality

the male gaze is a framework used specifically to describe how a director shoots a movie and the audience they have in mind. the male gaze is not something that is omnipresent and a woman wearing something sexy isn't "dressing for the male gaze".

characters do not have autonomy or free will. characters don't actually make choices.

real people do. acting as though women are incapable of thinking about their choices/dress/presentation and implying that anything they do that could appeal to men is automatically objectification strips women of their humanity.

[claramelooo]

Hi! Do you perhaps have a masterlist? Thank you!

I didn't, but I created just bc you asked for it haha

Jokes aside, I was already creating one to make your lives easier. So here it is.

MASTERLIST

Wanda Maximoff (+18)

Velvet Chains

Read on Ao3

Prologue

Pretador

The Prey

On your knees

The Spider

The Lamb

Pure Crimson

Dependece

Passion

Revenge

Control

Consequences

Love

CRIMSON REVERIE

PROLOGUE

ENVY

MULTIVERSAL ANCHOR

FUEL

SPARK

FIRE

DAWN

POWER

SIGHTS

POETRY

LOVE

UNKNOWN

SHINE

SOLIS

HARMONY

OBLIVION

INFINITY

Natasha Romanoff (+18)

Story in production

WandNat (+18)

Loving Twice

(season 2 of Woven Fates)

Soon

Agatha Harkness (+18)

CHECKMATE

Listen the playlist here: Checkmate

Prologue

Pawn

Promotion

Queen

War

Zugzwang

Truce

Bishop

Gambit

Draw

Pinned

Rook

Knight

Control

Opening

Skewer

En passant

Time

Epiphany

Rio Vidal (+18)

Devil

Soon

AgathaRio (+18)

WOVEN FATES

Listen the playlist here: Woven Fates

Read on Ao3

Prologue

Fascination

Attraction

Lust

Control

Domain

Desire

Surrender

Home

Belonging

Art I

Art II

Fragile I

Fragile II

Source

The truth

Selfishness

Amélie

Love

Curse

Fate

~*~

All stories do not necessarily have to follow this order!!!

Tag list <3

@vyvvycg @rosekjsses @3liyuh @trindad2k

@indentity0018 @beggingonmykneesforher

@idkwhatever580 @valentine585

@reginassecretlover @trying-to-do-good

@imjustvibingsworld @mbxoxo @jazzyxqzl @eternallyconfuzed @ctrlaltedits @sheriffhaughtearp

@lesbiansweet @i-luv-w1men @sheriffswan-blog @htinha157 @syssmin @wandasslut3000

[fox-marauder]

"not all men" you're right remus lupin would never

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The Adventures of Mary Darling

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in PITTSBURGH on May 15 at WHITE WHALE BOOKS, and in PDX on Jun 20 at BARNES AND NOBLE with BUNNIE HUANG. More tour dates (London, Manchester) here.

Science fiction great Pat Murphy has written some classics – including books that were viciously suppressed by the heirs of JRR Tolkien! – but with The Adventures of Mary Darling, she's outdone even her own impressive self:

https://tachyonpublications.com/product/the-adventures-of-mary-darling/

The titular Mary Darling here is the mother of Wendy, John and and Michael Darling, the three children who are taken by Peter Pan to Neverland in JM Barrie's 1902 book The Little White Bird, which later became Peter Pan. If you recall your Barrie, you'll remember that it ends with the revelation that Wendy, John and Michael weren't the first Darlings to go to Neverland: when Mary Darling was a girl, she, too, made the journey.

Murphy's novel opens with Mary Darling and her husband George coming home from a dinner party to discover their three children missing, the window open, and their nanny, a dog called Nana, barking frantically in the yard. John is frightened, but Mary is practically petrified, inconsolable and rigid with fear.

Soon, Mary's beloved uncle, John Watson, is summoned to the house, along with his famous roommate, the detective Sherlock Holmes. With Holmes on the case, surely the children will be found?

Of course not. Holmes is incapable of understanding where the Darling children have gone, because to do so would be to admit the existence of the irrational and fantastic, and, more importantly, to accept the testimony of women, lower-class people, and pirates. Holmes has all the confidence of the greatest detective alive, which means he is of no help at all.

Neither is George Darling, who, as a kind of act of penance for letting his children be stolen away, takes to Nana's doghouse, and insists that he will not emerge from it until the children are returned. He takes his meals in the doghouse, and is carried in it to and from the taxis that bring him to work and home again.

Only Mary can rescue her children. John Watson discovers her consorting with Sam, a one-legged Pacific Islander who is a known fence and the finest rat-leather glovemaker in London, these being much prized by London's worst criminal gangs. Horrified that Mary is keeping such ill company, Watson confronts her and Sam (and Sam's parrot, who screeches nonstop piratical nonsense), only to be told that Mary knows what she is doing, and that she is determined to see her children home safe.

Mary, meanwhile, is boning up on her swordplay and self-defense (taught by a Suffragist swordmaster in a room above an Aerated Bread Company tearoom, these being the only public place in Victorian London where a respectable woman can enjoy herself without a male escort). She's acquiring nautical maps. She's going to Neverland.

What follows is a very rough guide to fairyland. It's a story that recovers the dark asides from Barrie's original Pan stories, which were soaked with blood, cruelty and death. The mermaids want to laugh as you drown. The fairies hate you and want you to die. And Peter Pan doesn't care how many starveling, poorly trained Lost Boys die in his sorties against pirates, because he knows where there are plenty more Lost Boys to be found in the alienated nurseries of Victorian London, an ocean away.

More importantly, it's a story that revolves around the women in Barrie's world, who are otherwise confined to the edges and shadows of the action. In Barrie's Pan, Wendy is a "mother," Tiger Lily is a "princess," and Mary is a barely-there adult whose main role is to smile wistfully at the memory of when she was a girl and got to serve as Peter's "mother."

And Holmes? Apart from one love interest and a stalwart housekeeper, Holmes has very little time or regard for women. This is so central to the Holmes cannon that the Arthur Conan Doyle estate actually sued over Netflix's Enola Holmes movie, arguing that Enola displayed basic respect for women, a feature that doesn't appear until the very end of the Holmes canon, and – the estate argued – those final stories were still in copyright:

https://www.cbr.com/why-enola-holmes-has-nice-version-sherlock/

Murphy's woman's-eye-view of Peter Pan, Neverland and the Lost Boys dilates the narrow aperture through which Peter Pan plays out, revealing a great deal of exciting, fun, frightening stuff that was always off in the wings. She gives flesh and substance to characters like Tiger Lily, by giving her the semi-fictionalized identity of one of the many American First Nations people who toured Europe and Africa, putting on Wild West shows that won eternal fame and cultural currency for the "American Indian," even as the USA was seeking to exterminate them and their memory.

Likewise, Murphy's pirates are grounded in the reality of pirate ships: democratic, anarchic, and far more fun than Robert Louis Stevenson would have you believe. While Murphy's pirates are about a century too late (as are Barrie's), they are in other regards pretty rigorous, which makes them extraordinarily great literary figures.

If you read David Graeber's posthumous Pirate Enlightenment, you'll know about the Zana-Malata of Madagascar, the descendants of anarchist pirates and matriarchal Malagasy women, who pranked and hoaxed British merchant sailors for generations, deliberately creating a mythology of south seas pirate kings:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/24/zana-malata/#libertalia

This hybrid culture of bold, fierce matriarchal Malagasy women and their anarchist pirate husbands play a central role in the book's resolution, and Murphy's pirate utopia is so well drawn and homely that I found myself wanting to move there.

This is a profoundly political book, but it's such a romp, too! Murphy has a real flair for this kind of thing. Back in 1999, she published the brilliant There and Back Again, an all-female retelling of The Hobbit (in spaaaaace!) that was widely celebrated…right up to the moment that Christopher Tolkien used baseless copyright threats to get the book withdrawn from sale:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/There_and_Back_Again_(novel)

Billionaire failsons of long-dead writers notwithstanding, you can still read There and Back Again by borrowing a copy of the book from the Internet Archive's Open Library:

https://openlibrary.org/works/OL15436385W/There_and_back_again

Murphy's mashup of Holmes, Pan, South Seas pirate anarchists, and other salutary and exciting personages, milieux, furniture and tropes of the Victorian adventure story is an unmissable triumph, a romp, a delight.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/05/06/nevereverland/#lesser-ormond-street

[foncethefool]

Until the lock breaks

Oh stars, this story took an absolute wild fuckin turn from where I meant to take it originally, it becomes an emotionally wild ride, so have fun~

The summer sun hung heavy over the playground, baking the pavement until the air shimmered with heat. Jackson’s knees were scraped raw, dirt clinging to his pale skin and smudging across his flushed cheeks. The older boys circled him like vultures, all sharp elbows and cruel laughter, shoving and knocking him down again and again — a sniffling, soft little thing too scrawny to fight back.

The biggest of them, a smug twelve-year-old, grabbed a fistful of his shirt and reeled back to finish the game with a punch — but the hit never came.

Instead, a blur of wild limbs and fiery hair came crashing into the boy’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him in one brutal, unthinking punch. The boy doubled over, and the others froze, staring as the girl stood her ground, fists clenched, her freckled face set with pure defiance.

The afternoon sun caught in her hair, making the light, stringy ginger strands glow like a flickering halo — bright, untamed, and brilliant. To Jackson, still sitting in the dirt, she looked less like a girl and more like some fierce, redheaded guardian angel sent to save him.

“Leave him alone, or I’ll make all of you cry,” she snapped, her voice sharp and unshaken.

That was all it took. The pack scattered, dragging their coughing leader away, too stunned to challenge her.

When the dust finally settled, she turned back to Jackson, crouching low and brushing the dirt from his scraped palms with surprising gentleness. Her smile was wide and fearless, like she’d just won a prize.

“You’re a soft boy,” she said, matter-of-fact and without a hint of teasing. “But that’s okay. I’ll protect you.”

She offered her hand, small and warm, and as he slipped his scraped fingers into hers, she gave it a firm shake, already sealing the deal.

“I’m Sophia,” she announced, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Now you.”

He swallowed the last of his sniffles, voice small and soft.

“...Jackson.”

Sophia grinned, sharp and bright. “Jackson. Got it.” She stood up, tugging him along with her like he weighed nothing. “Well, you’ve got a friend now, Jackson. I’ll keep you safe.”

And just like that, the world wasn’t so scary anymore — at least, not as long as Sophia was there.

----------------------------------------------------------------

They were caught somewhere between childhood and something else — not quite old enough to leave behind the world of scraped knees and sleepovers, but old enough for thoughts they didn’t yet know how to name.

Sophia had grown into herself like a wild thing finally learning to stand still. The frizzy, sun-bleached orange that had once crowned her head had deepened over the years, settling into a richer, darker shade of red that swayed and bounced when she moved — though the fire in her spirit hadn’t dulled a bit. She was lean and toned, the kind of strong that came from endless afternoons spent climbing fences and sprinting through fields, always chasing some thrill.

Jackson had grown, too — but into the opposite of her. Where Sophia was sharp edges and steady strides, he was all soft lines and quiet habits. His frame was thin, almost fragile, like he’d been stretched just a little too tall for his own good. His hair, long and pale, fell in bright, silken strands whenever he let it down from the loose bun he usually wore, the soft locks brushing against his narrow shoulders. He didn’t bother cutting it, not once.

When people asked why, his answer was always simple, almost sheepish.

"It just feels more natural."

Most days, the two of them spent their afternoons together in Sophia’s room, the silence between them a comfortable thing. She’d be sprawled on her bed, thumbs busy on her game controller or lazily scrolling through her phone, while Jackson sat cross-legged on the floor, thumbing through whatever manga or novel had captured his attention that week.

Without fail, Sophia’s hands would eventually drift toward his hair, weaving through the soft strands like it was second nature. Sometimes she’d just stroke it absentmindedly, her fingers combing through the pale gold, or twisting a lock until it curled and bounced back. The first time he’d asked her why, her answer had been simple, and as matter-of-fact as ever.

"Your hair’s pretty. And it’s soft. I like it, is all."

The words had painted his cheeks a delicate shade of pink back then, his heart skipping somewhere between embarrassment and something else he didn’t yet understand. But as the days blurred into months, the shyness faded, replaced by a quiet contentment. Now, he didn’t flinch when her fingers combed through his hair — he’d just hum softly, the sound more feline than human, his body relaxing into her touch like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Sophia’s favorite pastime, though, was braiding his hair. Almost every afternoon played out the same way: Jackson sat at the foot of her bed, legs folded, a book resting lightly in his lap, while Sophia perched behind him, her hands moving with gentle precision as she worked the soft strands into a neat, perfect braid.

Neither of them ever said much during those moments. They didn’t need to.

----------------------------------------------------------------

They were on the cusp of adulthood, teetering on the edge between childhood and whatever came next — a mix of nerves and excitement pulling tight around both of them.

Jackson, ever the quiet one, had flown through school with ease, top of his class without ever really trying. Sophia, on the other hand… Well, she’d scraped by, more than once leaning hard on Jackson’s patience and his sharp mind to drag her through. What she lacked in academics, she more than made up for on the track, her body honed and athletic. Colleges had already come sniffing, waving scholarships for her speed, while Jackson had been offered a full ride purely on his grades.

Still, no matter how different their paths looked on paper, the two were inseparable. Always side by side, always orbiting each other. More times than either could count, there were little moments — a brush of hands, a glance held just a second too long, shoulders bumping on lazy walks home — sparks of something neither fully understood, but both felt all the same.

Jackson had struggled with himself as he grew, though he rarely spoke about it. He hated the rough shadow of facial hair creeping onto his face, always shaving the second it appeared. He lived in oversized hoodies, sleeves long enough to swallow his hands, and when asked about it, he’d only mumble, “It makes me feel safe… or whatever.” More than once, Sophia had caught him staring too long at the front windows of lingerie stores, and once, when she’d teased him — asking if he was shopping for a girlfriend — the look on his face had twisted her stomach with guilt. She never joked about it again.

His hair had grown long over the years, soft blond strands that hung almost to his back when let loose. His bathroom was lined with a small army of products — for his hair, his skin, his face. Sophia had marveled at it more than once, realizing he took better care of his appearance than even she did.

But somehow, graduation crept up on them, and with it came one last night of being kids. A final evening before the world would start pulling them apart.

That Thursday evening, Sophia had slipped out of her house under cover of dark, bare feet silent on the pavement as she climbed through Jackson’s bedroom window — a habit as old as their friendship. They’d talked for hours, voices low and soft, both buzzing with the same cocktail of anxiety and anticipation. And now, in the late-night quiet, they simply laid side by side, the silence warm and heavy. Words had run dry. Being close was enough.

But then Sophia reached out, fingers brushing against his, her hand curling around his own in a quiet search for comfort. Jackson had expected the usual flutter of embarrassment, but the gentle squeeze of her hand told him all he needed to know — for once, the unshakable Sophia wasn’t so fearless. She was scared. And right then, he wanted to be strong for her.

He shifted, wrapping his arm around her and drawing her in close, guiding her head to rest against his chest. She nestled there without resistance, hands clutching lightly at the hem of his pajama shirt as her breathing slowed.

“You smell nice,” she mumbled, voice soft as a feather. “Like lavender and honey.”

A quiet chuckle rumbled through him, his fingers weaving through her hair, gentle and slow.

“Are you complaining?”

She shook her head, the motion barely a whisper against his chest.

Silence stretched between them, long and comfortable, until Jackson thought she might’ve drifted off. But then her voice broke the quiet once more — soft, heavy, almost lost to sleep.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you in my life. You’re so important to me.”

Her words settled deep in his chest, blooming a warmth so bittersweet it nearly ached. He let the silence hang a moment longer, unsure if she was even still awake, before whispering back,

“You saved my life, Phia.” The nickname rolled off his tongue like an old song, worn smooth by years. “You saved me so many times, I lost count. I don’t feel like I can ever be myself with anyone else but you.”

Another pause, softer this time, as if the world had held its breath.

“I remember the day I met you,” he murmured, voice barely more than air. “That first day you saved me. I thought you were my guardian angel. I still think I was right.”

Sophia shifted against him, the weight of sleep pulling her down, her voice barely audible.

“I’ll always protect you. I never wanna be without you.”

Jackson’s eyelids grew heavier, his fingers still tangled in her hair, his gaze lingering on the soft red curls resting against his chest.

And, finally, sleep took them both.

----------------------------------------------------------------

It wasn’t unusual for Sophia to invite him over. She still called, still checked in, even if life had pulled them apart. The distance between them wasn’t measured in miles — it was measured in growing silences, in glances that lingered too long on his sunken eyes, on his increasingly thin frame, on the way his hoodies hung looser and looser over time.

Her voice on the phone had been soft, almost too soft.

"Hey... come over, okay? Just for a little while."

When he arrived, the house was warm — too warm, like it was trying to make him comfortable before he even noticed something was off. The walls were painted with soft, calming colors, decorated sparsely but tastefully, the way her success allowed. The scent of lavender drifted lazily in the air, sweet and familiar.

They talked, the same way they always did. About work. About people. About everything and nothing. But there was something strained under Sophia’s words, something Jackson couldn’t quite name. She kept watching him, her gaze flicking between his eyes and the way his fingers tugged self-consciously at his sleeves, the way his hand brushed against his chin when the faint shadow of facial hair caught the light.

When he excused himself for the bathroom, Sophia moved to the kitchen. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the tea. She crushed the small white capsule between spoon and porcelain, watching the powder dissolve into the dark liquid. Slowly, methodically, she stirred the tea, the motion mechanical — her gaze fixed on the swirling dark, as if the answer or forgiveness might float to the surface if she waited long enough.

When Jackson returned, he accepted the mug with that small, polite smile, the kind that never quite reached his eyes anymore.

The conversation drifted as the tea slowly vanished. His voice grew softer, his head heavier. His hands fumbled with the cup until it slipped from his grasp, clattering harmlessly against the carpeted floor. Panic flickered behind his eyes, but before it could bloom, Sophia was already at his side, catching him as his body slumped forward.

Her hands found his, clutching his fingers tightly, her thumb brushing gently across his knuckles like it might be the last time she’d ever be allowed to hold him this way.

"It’s okay..." she whispered, her voice barely steady. "You don’t have to fight anymore, Jackie."

----------------------------------------------------------------

When Jackson woke, the world was soft and dim, but wrong. His limbs felt heavy, weak. His head swam, the sharp edges of panic rising to the surface as his body shifted — and he heard the sound of metal.

A collar. Around his neck. A chain clinked against the cold wall when he moved too fast.

The basement wasn’t a dungeon. It wasn’t cold or cruel. The walls were painted a soft, pale color, the carpet plush beneath him. A proper bed sat against one wall, neatly made with soft sheets. A small bookshelf rested within reach, lined with his favorite books, arranged in careful order — the same titles he’d lost himself in as a child. There was even a toilet tucked neatly in the corner, and soft light spilled from a standing lamp rather than the harsh overhead bulbs.

Everything was too familiar. Too comfortable. And that only made it worse.

His voice cracked as panic finally overtook him.

"Phia! Phia, what’s going on?!"

She appeared in the stairwell, descending slowly, her face pale, her eyes swollen and rimmed red from crying. She looked at him like her heart was breaking all over again.

"You’ve been miserable, Jackie," she whispered, her voice small and strained, the old nickname clawing at her throat as she said it. "I... I’ve watched you suffer. I tried to talk to you, but you always smiled through it. You always hid it. And I can’t stand it anymore."

Her hands clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms, her voice trembling as the words tumbled out.

"I want to protect you, but I can’t if you won’t let me. You won’t let anyone."

Tears welled in her eyes again, spilling over unchecked.

"I... I had to do something, Jack. I had to help you. This is the only way I could figure out how."

She stepped closer, kneeling by the edge of the bed. Her voice was barely a whisper.

"You’re going to get a shot. Every week. It’ll knock you out for a while... and it’ll start replacing the hormones that have been hurting you. Estrogen, Jackie. It’ll help. I know it will. I promise you’ll feel better, even if you don’t believe me yet."

When she finished, silence swallowed the room.

Jackson’s wide, tear-filled eyes stared back at her, unblinking, the betrayal cutting deeper than any words could. His breath hitched, and the tears spilled down his face in hot, silent streams.

When she reached out, hand trembling to brush his hair away from his face, he flinched — recoiling from her touch like it burned.

And in that moment, Sophia’s heart shattered. She stayed kneeling, her hand hovering uselessly in the space where his warmth had been, watching him shake with silent fear.

"Even if you hate me, Jackie," her voice cracked, barely holding itself together, "even if you never forgive me... I’ll be okay with that. As long as you’re safe. As long as you don’t have to hurt anymore."

----------------------------------------------------------------

The first shot

He fights. Stars, he fights.

A thrown book, trembling hands, desperate strength that doesn’t match hers — Jackson tries, but Sophia is too strong, too practiced at protecting him, even from himself. She holds him down as gently as she can, pressing his face into the soft carpet, whispering “I’m sorry” over and over as the needle slips into the soft flesh of his hip.

When he wakes, his face is bare. His skin smooth. His hair still damp from washing. His body cleaned while he was unconscious.

Sophia sits a few feet away, eyes swollen from crying. She couldn’t let him wake up alone, even if he’d never forgive her.

----------------------------------------------------------------

The days bled together in the dark, each one slower than the last. The first week, Jackson didn’t sleep — not really. When exhaustion finally pulled him under, it was shallow, restless, the kind of sleep that left his body aching more than rest ever could. When he woke, it was always the same: the collar cold against his throat, the chain heavy across the floor, the faint smell of concrete and old wood pressing into his senses like a second skin.

The first week, he begged. God, he begged. For answers, for mercy, for Sophia. The girl he knew. The girl who promised to always protect him.

But she never raised her voice. Never snapped at him, never argued back. When she came down the stairs, it was always with a tray — simple food, sometimes his favorites, sometimes just something soft and easy to swallow. She never set it too close, always sliding it along the floor like he was a frightened animal. He never ate while she watched. Not once. But when she climbed the stairs, he’d devour every bite, hunger winning out over his pride.

Some nights, he’d cry until his throat gave out. The kind of ugly, shuddering sobs that left him clutching the chain like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

“Please wake up,” he whispered into the dark. “Please let this be a dream.”

But it never was. The cold never changed. The silence never broke. The bruises on his arm where she held him down still bloomed purple and yellow, proof this was real.

When the second week came, and with it another shot, he fought again — weaker this time, his muscles drained from too many nights of crying and too little food. She still held him down, still whispered apologies, still slid the needle into his skin as gently as her shaking hands would allow.

The cycle repeated. Day after day. Shot after shot.

By the end of the month, the begging had stopped. The fight had dulled into a quiet, seething ache that lived behind his eyes, and Sophia — she never stopped talking. Even when he gave her no answer, she’d sit nearby and fill the space with stories, with memories, with dreams. Sometimes, just the sound of her voice would crack him open all over again.

But he never let her see. He waited until the light at the top of the stairs flicked off, waited for the sound of her footsteps to disappear, before he let himself cry.

Because even then, even through all the betrayal, he still couldn’t let her see him break.

----------------------------------------------------------------

The days stopped feeling like days. They stretched long and gray, a smear of endless sameness. The sharp edges of his anger softened, worn down not by peace, but by exhaustion. He didn’t fight the shots anymore. The last time he’d tried, he hadn’t even made it halfway across the room before Sophia caught him, arms wrapped around him more like a mother holding her child than a captor restraining her prisoner. She never hurt him. She couldn’t. But her strength always outmatched his, and that made the defeat cut even deeper.

Now, when she came with the syringe, Jackson just looked away. His silence had become his armor, the only piece of himself he could still control. The needle always came, whether he fought or not. He learned it hurt less if he didn’t resist.

Sophia talked to him every day. She told him about the world beyond the basement walls — the news, the changing seasons, the places they used to visit together. Sometimes she brought down little things. A new book. His favorite candy. A scarf in his favorite shade of blue. Small gestures, meant to fill the space between them. Meant to remind him of who she was, even if he could barely recognize her anymore.

The loneliness hit hardest at night, when the quiet pressed in from all sides. That was when the changes whispered to him, soft and unfamiliar. His emotions didn't fit the same way they used to. Anger came and went in waves he couldn’t predict. Small things made his chest tighten, his throat ache. Sometimes for no reason at all, tears welled up behind his eyes, hot and sudden, and he’d bury his face into the pillow, refusing to let himself cry where anyone could hear.

And his body...

Little things. So little he could almost pretend they weren't there. His face stayed smoother longer. The coarse stubble that had always shadowed his jaw grew in patchy, thinner. His chest felt... odd. Not painful, not yet, but sensitive. Brushing his arm too close or lying on his stomach would send a sharp little spark through him that he couldn’t explain. The weight of his own skin felt different. Softer.

It scared him.

And Sophia... she never looked away from the changes. She saw them. She watched them. But she never pointed them out. Instead, her voice grew softer, her touch lighter — careful, like she was trying not to frighten a wounded animal.

Sometimes, when she brought his meals, he found himself murmuring a soft “Thank you.”

And one day, out of nowhere, when she answered his whispered “Hello” with that old, warm, gentle “Hey, Jackie,” it didn’t make him flinch the way it used to. The nickname slid into his ears like an old song he couldn’t quite hate, no matter how much he wanted to.

That night, when the light at the top of the stairs flicked off and he curled beneath the blanket, he found himself running his fingers over his chest, tracing the faintest curve he swore wasn’t there before.

And for the first time in months, the tears that came weren’t all fear.

----------------------------------------------------------------

He couldn't tell how long it had been, but, the silence wasn’t so sharp anymore. It had dulled into something soft, almost companionable. Jackson still spent most of his time with a book in hand or staring at the ceiling, but when Sophia came down the stairs, he didn’t flinch the way he used to. Sometimes, he even looked at her.

The changes in his body couldn’t be ignored anymore. They crept up slowly, day by day, until one morning he caught the way his chest curved beneath his shirt, the faint swell pressing against the fabric when he shifted. His skin had lost its roughness, growing softer to the touch, and his hair — longer now than it had ever been — slid like silk down his back, brushing against the small of it when he stretched.

The mirror, of course, was a luxury he hadn’t been given. Sophia knew better. But his hands were mirrors enough. The slope of his waist felt different beneath his fingertips. His thighs had filled out, carrying a new softness, a new weight. He hated it. He hated how natural it felt, how some part of him didn’t want to hate it at all.

And his emotions — they were worse than before. The littlest things could send him spiraling. Some days, the sound of Sophia’s voice was enough to make his chest twist and his eyes sting. He didn’t know why. Neither did she. And yet she always stayed, sitting at the edge of the bed, talking about nothing in particular, giving him the space to either answer or ignore her.

And sometimes, he didn’t ignore her. He started asking questions. Small ones, cautious and dry. About the world. About her work. About the weather. About books. About things that didn’t matter.

And sometimes, when the loneliness felt too heavy, he’d slip — and call her “Phia.” The old nickname didn’t taste as bitter on his tongue as it used to.

Sophia never pointed it out. She only smiled, soft and sad, and kept talking like nothing had happened.

The nights were the strangest. When he knew she was asleep upstairs, he let himself explore the body he barely recognized. The quiet glide of his hands over the curve of his chest, the way his skin reacted beneath his touch — it left him breathless, confused, and ashamed. But he did it anyway.

Because for the first time, it felt real. He felt real.

And when the guilt clawed at his throat, the only comfort came from the soft creak of the floorboards upstairs — the reminder that Sophia was still there, even if he didn’t know whether to love her or hate her for it.

----------------------------------------------------------------

“A whole year,” Sophia said, her voice bright, but her eyes betrayed her. They always did. The guilt lived there like an old tenant, too comfortable to leave.

Jackson sat on the bed, his hands folded in his lap. He looked thinner, smaller, though the softness in his body said otherwise. His hair was long now, hanging over his shoulders in dark waves, brushing the tops of his arms. He didn’t look at her when she set the box down on the bed, but he didn’t flinch away either.

“What’s this?” he asked, voice flat but not hostile.

Sophia shifted from foot to foot, rubbing her wrist nervously. “It’s... a gift. I remember when we were younger, you’d always stop at that little shop, you know the one.” Her words tangled together, long pauses breaking them apart, like she wasn’t sure which ones she had permission to say.

He opened the box slowly, like it might bite him. Inside lay the sundress — soft, light blue, with thin straps and delicate folds — and beneath it, black lace lingerie, neatly folded and paired with thigh-high stockings and a garter belt.

“You don’t have to wear them for me,” Sophia blurted out, hands rising defensively. “I just thought — if you ever wanted to — for you. Only you.”

He didn’t answer. Not at first. His fingers ghosted over the soft fabric, lingering too long before snapping the lid shut. “No,” he murmured, voice low. “I’m not wearing them.”

Sophia nodded, lips pressing into a thin line. “I understand.”

She gave him his shot, like clockwork, and left quietly, without another word.

But later that night, when the house was quiet and the dark pressed in close, Jackson sat on the edge of his bed, the unopened box back in his lap.

His hands trembled when he pulled the dress free. The fabric was softer than he’d imagined, and as he slipped it over his head, something shifted. The hem brushed against his thighs, light and easy, the neckline sitting awkwardly against his unfamiliar chest — but the fit, the feel of it, the weightlessness...

It felt right.

And that was the part that cut deepest.

He stared down at himself, hands fisting the skirt, and the guilt sat heavy in his chest, raw and searing. This wasn’t supposed to feel good. It wasn’t supposed to feel like home. And yet the longer he sat there, the more the weight of the dress comforted him, the more natural it felt against his skin.

Unseen, at the top of the stairs, Sophia sat curled against the banister, watching through the thin slats of wood. Her heart ached with the bittersweet sting of it — the quiet, guilty wonder in his eyes, the way he twirled a lock of hair around his finger like he used to as a kid, the fragile balance between self-loathing and self-acceptance written plain across his face.

She didn’t make a sound, only pulled her knees tighter to her chest, and wiped away the tears that wouldn’t stop falling.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Time softened the sharpest corners, dulled the sting of memory, and reshaped the space between them into something more like habit than comfort. The basement wasn’t a cage the way it had been at first — but it wasn’t home either. It was... limbo.

The fights had long since faded. The panic, the begging, the tears that once soaked the pillow he tried so hard to hide from her — all distant echoes now, worn thin by the slow, grinding march of routine. The pills came with dinner, and Jackson took them without resistance, swallowing them down like one more spoonful of obligation.

The space between them, the silence, had softened too. Not healed. Just worn smooth like sea glass.

The trust between them had been shattered the night Sophia drugged him. A beautiful, irreplaceable vase, smashed into too many jagged pieces to ever be whole again. She had spent two years gluing it back together, conversation by conversation, meal by meal, tender moment by tender moment. The shape had returned, but the cracks were still there, spiderwebbed veins of old wounds, impossible to ignore.

And the edges still cut them, when they weren't careful.

Some nights, he asked her to braid his hair — the way she used to, when they were young and the world was simple and safe. His voice, small and uncertain, barely reached her ears when he asked. And always, always, Sophia said yes, no matter how much her hands trembled at the soft, familiar weight of his hair in her fingers.

But even those moments couldn’t smooth over the sharp places entirely.

Sometimes he would pull away halfway through, retreating to the bed’s far corner without a word. Other times he wouldn't meet her eyes, the gap between them wide enough to drown in, even when they sat side by side.

And Sophia never pushed. She couldn't.

Instead, she offered small gestures, like pebbles laid in the foundation of the shaky bridge between them.

One evening, she came downstairs with a binder — worn and heavy, packed with notes and pages printed from forums, guides, handwritten reminders, and encouragements. Voice training advice. Exercises. Diagrams. Tips for finding the soft, quiet voice that had always belonged to him, even when the world told him it shouldn’t.

She didn’t say much when she set it on the bed. Just... "In case you wanted to."

Jackson stared at it for a long time, hands folded neatly in his lap. His face unreadable, but his silence told her enough. The binder sat there for days, untouched — until one night, when she came down later than usual and heard the faintest, quietest sound from the darkened room. His voice. Practicing. Awkward, unsteady, but undeniably his.

Sophia sat on the stairs that night, head bowed, listening to the shy, broken notes floating up through the cracks in the door. Her throat ached with all the things she wanted to say, but couldn’t.

The trust between them would never be whole again — but it was something. Enough to cut her, enough to comfort him, enough to survive.

For now.

----------------------------------------------------------------

The lingerie had always been there, folded neatly at the end of his bed like a question he couldn’t answer. Some nights, it felt like a punishment — a reminder of the new skin he was meant to grow into. Other nights, the fabric called to him, whispering soft, dangerous truths he wasn’t ready to accept.

But it wasn’t the lace or the shame that saved him. It was the wire.

That sharp, cold strip hidden inside the softness, as if the thing had been designed for him all along. He spent nights working the wire against the metal frame of the bed, scraping it down until it was thin, sharp, and pliable. His hands bled for the effort, but he never stopped.

When the lock finally clicked open one silent night, Jackie didn’t cry. He just stared at the collar resting loose in his hands, and then fit it back around his neck, making sure the latch only looked shut.

And then, he waited. He needed one last piece: her trust.

The night of the plan, he played his part perfectly — letting her braid his hair, even asking for it. His voice soft, almost affectionate, as he mumbled, "I... missed when you used to do this, Phia."

Sophia’s hands trembled, pausing mid-braid. That little nickname — it had been so long. She didn’t want to read into it, but her heart ached with hope.

When she finished, Jackie turned, eyes wide and soft, and asked quietly, “Could you.....” a hesitant pause, and a deliberate one "The lingerie, could you help me try it on?"

Her whole body stilled. The words she’d longed to hear — an olive branch she’d imagined, but never thought would come. She nodded, swallowing hard, trying not to let her hope show.

Trembling hands reached for the shelf she knew he kept the lacy items on, she had stared at them hundreds of times, wondering if Jackie ever tried them on. Her attention was split, her gaze was soft, hesitant.

And that’s when he struck.

As she reached over, fingertips ghosting the soft fabric, he gave the collar a hard yank, popping the clasp and with a desperate movement, he shoved the metal collar around her throat.

The sound of the lock clicking shut was louder than any scream.

Jackie scrambled back, shoving himself agaisnt the far wall, out of her reach

Sophia’s breath hitched, but she didn’t fight. She didn’t even move.

She sank to her knees, hands gently curling around the collar’s weight, her head bowed. The silence stretched between them until her voice finally broke through, soft and so unbearably sad.

"...Jackie."

She’d known, deep down, this would happen. She’d always known. But the moment still shattered something inside her.

He stood there, pressing himself against the wall, as far from her as he could get, his chest heaving, tears already burning the corners of his eyes.

And Sophia? She just looked up at him, offering the smallest, almost forgiving smile.

“I always wondered... when you’d stop letting me win.”

----------------------------------------------------------------

Jackie ran — faster than he thought his legs could carry him, heart clawing at his throat, lungs burning, the cold air upstairs slicing at his skin like it was trying to wake him from a dream.

The front door stood there, just a few feet away. Freedom. A world he’d almost forgotten how to exist in. His hand shot out for the lock — but froze, suspended midair.

Out of the corner of his eye, in the glass of a painting hung by the hallway, something caught him. A flicker. A ghost, maybe. But when he turned, it wasn’t a ghost at all.

It was him.

No — not him.

For the first time in more than two years, the face looking back wasn’t the miserable, hollow-eyed boy he'd carried like a burden his whole life. The sunken cheeks were gone, the harsh angles softened. His eyes, still wide, still scared, held something new behind them. His hair tumbled long and unkempt around his face, framing it the way he never believed it could.

He didn’t look like the person who’d been dragged down those basement stairs.

He didn’t look like Jackson.

His feet moved on their own, away from the door, away from the promise of outside. He stumbled into the bathroom, flicking the light on with trembling fingers, and for the first time in what felt like forever, stared at himself — fully, clearly.

And he didn’t hate what he saw.

The reflection was imperfect, unfinished, awkward in the way all new things are — but it was his. The curve of his face, the softened lines of his jaw, the swell of his chest beneath a shirt that hung too loose in all the wrong places, the way his hair slipped down over his shoulders.

He reached up, fingertips grazing his cheek, his lips, his throat.

It wasn’t the boy who needed to escape anymore.

It was the girl who had never been allowed to exist.

And the thought hit him harder than any locked door or heavy collar ever could:

Who am I, if not Jackson?

For the first time, the question wasn’t terrifying. It felt like a beginning.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Jackie didn’t go back downstairs.

Not right away.

The bathroom felt like another world, sealed off from the weight of the house — from the weight of her past self. The cold tile pressed through the thin cotton of her pants, the chill soaking into her bones, but she couldn’t bring herself to move.

She sat there, back against the bathtub, knees pulled tight to her chest, eyes fixed on the foggy mirror as if the girl she’d seen there might disappear if she blinked too long.

Her mind was a storm. Guilt and relief clawed at each other inside her chest, raw and tangled. She should’ve run. She was supposed to run. That’s what this had all been about — the planning, the quiet obedience, the pills swallowed without protest, the collar unlocked, the trap laid.

Freedom was only a few feet away. And she couldn’t take it.

Not yet.

She wasn’t the same person who had been dragged down into that basement. That boy — Jackson — he’d been left behind somewhere along the way, his sharp edges worn away by months of silence, the slow drip of change, and the bittersweet comfort of Sophia’s presence.

And now... who was she?

She traced circles against her own wrist, fingers brushing over the soft skin — softer than she remembered, the kind of softness that wasn’t earned through survival, but through something else. Something intentional.

Every inch of her body felt foreign and familiar all at once. She’d grown used to the changes — the slight curve of her chest, the way her waist pinched in, the way her voice sometimes hit softer notes even when she wasn’t trying. But this was the first time she’d seen it. The first time the mirror hadn't lied.

She let her head fall back against the cold porcelain, closing her eyes.

Her chest ached. But not with fear, not anymore. Something else bloomed there now — hesitant, trembling, but undeniably alive.

The world beyond that front door would demand answers. Names. Identities.

And for the first time, Jackie didn’t know what to give them.

She didn’t cry. Not right away. The tears came later, soft and tired, when the weight of it all pressed too hard. When she let herself grieve the boy she was, the boy she was never meant to be.

And when the tears stopped, and the silence settled heavy and warm, she whispered the words to herself, testing their shape like a secret:

I’m still here.

----------------------------------------------------------------

The house had been silent for hours.

Sophia hadn’t moved from where she knelt on the basement floor, her hands still resting loosely in her lap, her breathing shallow and even. The collar around her neck felt heavier with each passing minute, a weight she wasn’t sure she’d ever wanted to take off. She knew this moment would come — she'd known from the moment her hands first trembled over a syringe, from the moment she'd crossed that line. But knowing and feeling it were two different things entirely.

The sharp click of the basement door latch made her flinch.

Her heart stilled. For the briefest moment, she imagined the heavy tread of boots — police, neighbors, someone who would take her away, finally. But the sound that followed wasn’t the cold stomp of authority.

It was soft.

Gentle footfalls. Careful, hesitant. Light.

She lifted her head.

And there, standing at the foot of the stairs, was Jackie.

But not the boy she’d known. Not the angry, flinching creature who’d once scowled at her from behind a curtain of unkempt hair. The figure that stood before her now held something else in her eyes. Not defiance. Not hatred. Not even fear.

Something unspoken hung in the air between them. A question neither of them had the strength to ask.

Sophia swallowed, her voice barely a whisper, fragile and cracked at the edges.

"...Jackie?"

The name tasted wrong on her tongue. And from the way the girl’s lips pressed into a soft, uncertain line — as if she didn’t quite recognize it either — Sophia understood.

“Sophia.”

The name floated from her lips like it had always belonged there, tender and careful, spoken as though saying it too loud might shatter the fragile thread stretched between them.

Sophia’s breath hitched at the sound, her chest tightening with something heavier than guilt, heavier than relief. It wasn’t the voice of the boy she'd once known — not entirely. It wasn’t the sharp, defiant child who had fought her every step of the way. It was new, unsteady, a little broken around the edges, but undeniably hers.

And for the first time, Sophia didn’t see the person she'd forced, or the person she'd tried to protect — she saw the person who had grown, against all odds, between the cracks.

Jackie stepped forward, slow and uncertain, like every part of her body was learning to move for the first time. One step. Another. The gap between them dissolved with each quiet, cautious motion until she stood in front of Sophia, the woman who had been both captor and comfort, the only home Jackie had ever really known.

Without a word, Jackie lowered herself to her knees, mirroring Sophia’s position on the cold concrete floor.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The silence wasn’t heavy with fear or anger anymore — only the weight of everything unsaid. Everything they couldn’t put into words.

Jackie’s voice, when it came again, was quiet. Fragile. Barely more than a whisper.

“I don’t know who I am.”

And Sophia, her throat tightening, her voice cracking under the force of all the things she wanted to say but couldn’t, only managed a simple reply.

“…I know.”

The silence between them stretched long and heavy, filled with everything they’d been too afraid to say, everything they hadn’t known how to say. The air was thick with questions neither of them had answers to yet, and neither of them seemed to know where to start. It wasn’t comfortable — but it was real. Raw. True.

Sophia swallowed hard, her heart shattering in a thousand ways, yet she couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled up from her chest. It was nervous, uncertain, but it came with the kind of ease that only a shared history could provide.

“Well… at least the collar’s not choking you anymore.”

Jackie’s lips trembled, the fight she had carried for so long crumbling with that one off-hand joke. Her eyes welled with tears that threatened to spill, and for a moment, she just stared at Sophia, seeing the woman she had once been and the stranger she was now.

The sound of her quiet laugh — a laugh that wasn’t forced — broke something in both of them. Sophia’s own tears followed, spilling over without warning, a fragile release of the tension that had weighed them down for so long.

Jackie let out a small, choked laugh, almost a sob, and for the first time in forever, she felt it. The lightness. The tiny flicker of freedom. It wasn’t complete. It wasn’t perfect. But it was there.

Sophia’s voice trembled, trying to hold on to the last shred of humor between them. “I guess... I didn’t get the size right, huh?”

And despite everything, despite the years, despite the pain, they both laughed. A soft, quiet sound that was more healing than anything else had been in a long time. Their tears mixed, not in sorrow, but in something that felt like a fresh start — the first step to something neither of them could quite grasp yet.

But they were there, together.

And that, at least, was enough for now.

----------------------------------------------------------------

The sun streamed in through the open window, warm golden light spilling across the cozy living room. It was quiet, serene. Jackie sat at the desk by the window, the soft click of keys filling the air as she typed, her focus entirely on the code flickering across the screen. It had been years since she’d felt this at peace, and the realization still hit her sometimes, like the calm after a storm.

From the kitchen, the familiar sound of Sophia humming softly, the clink of dishes as she prepared lunch, was a comforting reminder of just how far they had come. The past felt like an eternity, the pain, the struggles, now distant memories that were slowly fading, replaced with something more real, something that felt like home.

"Jackie!" Sophia’s voice drifted in, sweet and teasing, like it always had been. She entered the room, holding a cup of tea in one hand and a small plate of cookies in the other, a soft smile playing on her lips. Her presence still had the same calming effect on Jackie, even after all these years.

Jackie smiled, her fingers pausing on the keyboard as she turned to face her. "What's that?" she asked, the warmth in her voice unmistakable. The years had turned her into someone different, someone stronger, but it was Sophia's touch that always brought her back to who she had been — and who she was becoming.

Sophia sat beside her, placing the plate of cookies on the desk, then handing over the tea. "Just thought you might need a little break. You’ve been at that screen all morning." She stroked Jackie’s hair gently, her fingers lingering as if she could never quite get enough of the simple touch. There was so much tenderness in her actions now, a tenderness that Jackie had come to recognize as a part of her love.

Jackie took the tea, her hand brushing against Sophia’s as their fingers intertwined for a brief moment. There was no tension now, no fear, just the comfortable rhythm of two lives that had found their way back to each other.

"It's perfect," Jackie whispered, her voice thick with gratitude, her smile full of something deeper now. "Thank you, Sophia. You always know exactly what I need."

Sophia laughed softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from Jackie's face. "You deserve it. All of it. Every bit of it."

Jackie’s heart skipped at the softness in Sophia’s voice. There was a time when she would’ve fought against the comfort, against the love. But now? Now, it felt like the only thing that truly mattered.

As they sat there, together, the weight of their past no longer felt like a burden but a testament to their survival. The collar was gone, the pain had faded, and now they could focus on the future they were building together.

And that future, as they both knew now, wasn’t just about surviving anymore. It was about living. Truly living.

---

A few months earlier, things had been different. A sunny day on a hill, the warm breeze fluttering their hair as they sat on a blanket, surrounded by the vast expanse of sky and grass. They’d had a picnic, their laughter filling the air, untainted by the past. It was then that Sophia had reached into her bag, pulling out a small box, her eyes full of love, full of vulnerability.

"Sophia..." Jackie had whispered, her breath catching in her throat. "What... what are you doing?"

And then, with a soft smile, Sophia had taken her hand, the box in her palm. "Will you marry me, Jackie?"

It had taken Jackie a moment to process the question, to feel the weight of it. To realize that, yes, after everything, after all they’d been through — she wanted this. She wanted Sophia. She wanted a future with her.

The answer had come easy, tears welling in her eyes as she whispered, "Yes."

And that yes had changed everything.

---

Now, here they were, living together, building something new. Jackie, once locked in a basement, now working from home, her skills in software giving her the freedom she’d always dreamed of. The work was hard, challenging, but it was hers. It was something she could control, something that had been built through years of struggle and survival. And with Sophia by her side, it felt like everything was possible.

"I love you," Jackie whispered as she took Sophia’s hand again, her thumb brushing the back of her palm.

Sophia’s eyes softened, and she leaned in to kiss the top of Jackie’s head, the gesture so simple, yet so intimate. "I love you, too," she replied, and for a moment, there was nothing more important than that.

Their lives, though far from perfect, were finally their own — and that was enough.

[tyger-land]

𝙏𝙖𝙣𝙠 𝙂𝙞𝙧𝙡 1995

[befemininenow]

You look so cute and flustered wearing our waitress outfit. Luckily, today is Wednesday and you’ll be our test subject for our new femboy-inclusive program as part of our goal to appeal a younger demographic. I can’t wait to see a pervert like you become so emasculated and tamed by the outfits and the catcalls by the end of the week. Serves you right for bugging our workers and stealing our clothes.

This forced feminization caption is based on the lovely MeowWithMe artwork commission piece. It’s also part of the weekly Woman Crush Wednesday post featuring the sexy Mia Malkova. Stayed tuned for part 2!

[hadesoftheladies]

im genuinely fatigued by male heroism in literature. no i do not want a "girl-coded" villain with floppy dark hair, i want an interesting FEMALE CHARACTER GOODDDAAMMNITTTT.

I want to see an eldest daughter fighting for her family's honor. I want to see a girl facing a moral dilemma prematurely, abandoned and decieved by everyone she trusted. I want to see her revolt at the betrayal of her superiors. I want a mother to see what a monster her child has become. becoming a fugitive from her own spawn. I want to see an old woman watch those she loves die because they did not heed her warnings. I want to see old prophetesses outsmart authorities and fight to stop the inevitable. i want a bunch of sisters braving the wild because they are the only hope of a small town. a pathetic heroine who only survives because of luck and charm. young girls with strong limbs because they're used to working in factories and farms, who can run far and leap over fallen trees. who can bat a ball and scale a wall. i want girl gangs, where teenage girls get up to no good until the consequences catch up to them, or not. i want socially awkward queens who lean on the advice of aunty-like advisors, be they witches or muggle. i want to see an older sister be betrayed by the brother she raised and it climaxes in a duel. i want to see the reverse, where the brother she raised becomes her second-in-command, strong and wise because of her and wouldn't betray her for the world. i want genius little girls that are kept in secret towers because of their prophetic dreams. who terrify kings because of their intellect. i want female spies and soldiers who are stupid and devoted. i want an arrogant heroine who gets caught up in a plot bigger than she can handle. a kind girl who inevitably breaks the world and destroys everything. i want her to be destined for doom and glory. I WANT HER TO SELF-DESTRUCT IN THE FACE OF HER OWN POWER. I WANT HER DREAMS AND HOPES FOR THE FUTURE TO INSPIRE A NATION TO CHANGE, ONLY FOR HER TO LEARN THE HARD TRUTH OF THE COST OF TRANSFORMATION. I WANT HER TO WRESTLE WITH THE ISOLATION THAT COMES FROM GREATNESS. TO DESIRE LOVE AND BE TOO SHREWD TO FALL FOR IT.

I AM SO FUCKING TIRED OF BOY ANGST YOU WILL NEVER BE AS DEEP, COMPLEX OR NUANCED AS A GIRL YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND THE HORRORS YOU'RE JUST A PARODY OF WOMEN'S LIVES GET OUT

[platonicwithacapitalp]

theodore nott nsfw headcannons!!

nsfw 18+, minors dni (or do i cant stop yall)

warnings: implied sex, oral sex (both receiving), hair pulling, choking, dirty talk, p in v, praising and degrading, slight begging, possible more (pls tell me if i missed anything)

side note: italics are like flashback typa things idk what to call them lol

a/n: i was bad grammar and i make a lot of typos, i proofread it but if you find anything i’m sorry, it’s like 12 am rn and i can’t sleep lol also bare with me and the translations i used google.

miscellaneous

he LOVES giving you neck kisses, and leaving hickeys all over you, he wants everybody to know your his.

this man is a pussy eating god, not only does he live eating you out, he’s absurdly good at it, he loves the way he has to push your thighs back open when ever he lets out a throaty moan, sending vibrations right through your core.

he is horny 24/7 his sex drive is actually crazy, he go for rounds. he loves it when you start getting overstimulated. “please theo, i can’t,“ you whine, legs closing around his waist. “shh, it’s okay amore mio, just one more for me” he coos as he thrusts into you, his cock hitting your cervix making you let out a string of whimpers and moans. “fuck, quei gemiti sono così sexy, tesoro” (translation: those moans are so sexy, baby)

whenever he is giving or receiving head, there is always a common factor. hair pulling. whether it’s the way you tug and pull on his hair while he eats you out makes him go absolutely feral or if it’s the way he grips your hair, thrusting up into your mouth as he moans, either way he loves it.

he is 1000% a tits man. god he loves your boobs so fucking much. he loves touching them, squeezing them, anything, whether you’re fucking or even just cuddling (really doesn’t seem like a theo thing but he just loves being close to you and touching you)

he likes being rough, especially after losing a quidditch match or when someone flirts with you. he’s extremely jealous and he knows it. he loves hearing the way you beg him to let you cum. “please, theo, i’m gonna- fuck” you moan, your hips bucking up. you expected him to push them back down but he doesn’t, he just smiles smugly down at you “c’mon good girl, cum for me”

even if you weren’t together yet you were still his.

he has a thing for hickeys, he just loves the way you look with hickeys littering your neck and collarbones, leading down towards your chest. he thinks you look absolutely amazing with his hand wrapped around your neck, as he fucks you senselessly.

he definitely has a hair pulling kink.

he loves it when you call him teddy, it drives him fucking crazy.

he loves praising you and letting you know how much pleasure you bring him but on that note he also liked degrading, but he mostly degrades when he’d being rougher.

whenever he’s being rough with you and choking you he is always super gentle, making sure you can still breath, and that your okay.

——————————————————————————

sorry it’s so short, i’m at school rn lol and i don’t want my ohine to get taken lol

— juelz.

[shorthaltsjester]

love (loath) this version of ‘empathy’ for characters that exists in fandoms that somehow means taking any articulation of the fact that x character is given responsibility and context by the story and that their poor choices lead to poor outcomes is actually a slight against the character (and implicitly somehow whatever oppressed group which they belong to or are alleged to belong to by sections of fandom)

to be clear this is something i’ve noticed in several fandoms which is why the beginning of this is general language but the pertinent example to my current frustration is liliana temult and the defence of her that lays on a claim that those who enjoy the narrative showing her poor actions leading to poor outcomes for her have somehow failed the empathy test is beyond incomprehensible to me. like even ignoring the very basic level understanding that fiction is a place to experience satisfaction in narratives that we cannot fulfil in non-narrative reality, it’s also like… holy fuck do I not want the kind of empathy that tells me it will all work out no matter what choice I make. it is actually imperative to human life that the choices we make have substance in the outcomes we arrive in, otherwise we would’ve long given up on the notion of free will. and to look at a narrative, particularly one built in the context of a ttrpg. a game notably influenced by the choices that players-as-characters make. and then see sections of an audience find it compelling and enjoyable that a character who has made categorically poor choices that have caused immeasurable harm to others is now dealing with the very obvious face-eating panthers consequences… idk man. if you see that as a lack of empathy i implore you to consider what role empathy is playing in your world.

like. if empathy to you is about comfort and stagnancy and not about growth and community, then sure i can understand how it might not be empathetic in your view to notice patterns and see their obvious outcome and acknowledge that . but as someone who has been in the position of making horrible choices with obvious outcomes, far more essential to my personhood was those who looked at me with careful but critical eyes than those who nearly babyed me into my grave. that’s actually why i love imogen’s choice to insist that liliana make her own choice and then quasi-encouraging her to stay, because it was a clear reminded to liliana that her choices have consequences, and one of those is that the terrible things she’s down in the name of her daughter have led to that daughter not being able to easily trust her.

and i think another thing that’s related that gets misconstrued with liliana (and as always unfortunately many such cases) is that the satisfaction of seeing her absorbed isn’t that it’s retributive harm done or some sort of punishment (at least not for me, skill issue if people in your fandom spaces are that cop-minded but, yknow, what can you expect from the thought-crimes capital of fandom spaces). the satisfaction is in the analogue (that i’ve seen well memed) to the face-eating panthers joke that liliana’s actions which have pushed an agenda that’s depended on the consumption and threat to her child and the children she specifically has aided in placing in danger via her choices, has led to situations where a) she’s ‘burdened’ by her care for imogen and the children (both of which she has played a hand in inviting into the context of danger) b) she is now the person in danger of being consumed after spending weeks simply shrugging off concerns about what might be consumed in the name of ludinus’ Just World™. like it’s not just ‘liliana does bad things, must be punished’ it’s ‘liliana has played a hand in creating a situation that is threatening to many including herself, it is narratively satisfying and engages in Common Narrative Tool: Irony to have that create situation negatively impact her directly.’

to that end that’s why the ‘if you’re like this about liliana you should also be like this about essek’ takes are beyond missing the point (without getting into the horribly built scarecrow that it is, understand that it’s actually undermining decades of feminist’s philosophical and political development to see a critique of a female character and go ‘well actually if she were a man you wouldn’t be saying that’ when it’s a provable fact that people Would be (and have been) saying that if she were a man. so not the feminist slay you think it is). like, as someone who Was just as interested in essek’s story having consequences as I am in liliana’s, there very much WERE consequences for essek that, just like liliana, were well contextualized and suited to the specific choices he made. they are ones that should be obvious even to the most surface read of the campaigns given that essek still appears in disguise years after the end of c2, should also probably be obvious in the rebuilding of relationships essek had to do with mn after they discovered his betrayal. like the notable difference between liliana and essek is not their gender, it’s that we’ve seen the end of essek’s story (in the sense of like. campaign containment, obviously his Story™ is ongoing) and have yet to see liliana’s— it’s entirely possible that liliana does get saved and goes on to repair her relationship with imogen (or goes on and is unable to repair it) or she just dies and part of imogen’s story is dealing with it; all of those are narratively satisfying. what wouldn’t have been satisfying, in the sense that would leave liliana feeling like a non-agent in a story dependent on her agency, is if her role was entirely dictated by imogen’s interest in reconciliation. because sure if you want to look very microscopically the current threat to liliana that exists is 1-to-1 caused by the fact that she’s been helping imogen, but taking seriously the story, the consequences bloom from all the choices that liliana has made leading to ludinus’ decision to trust her however far he does that made liliana’s choice a betrayal and affirmed ludinus’ strength and position so that he can do something like siphon someone’s life force away.

further the ‘why does liliana deserve to be funnelled and relvin gets off easy’ relvin doesn’t get off easy. once again the satisfaction of his narrative is that he did his best and it was insufficient and that cost him a relationship with imogen they both clearly wish for but neither can rectify. the consequence for relvin is that he’s in an empty house that is no longer home to the woman he loved or the daughter he was left to raise alone. surely i don’t need to unpack why i think someone who tried but wasn’t well equipped to raise a daughter with superpowers doesn’t need to evoke as ‘drastic’ consequences in their story as the stated right hand of the campaign’s bbeg for their story to feel complete.

and idk at least for me that’s the salient point; that the consequences that are happening feel like a plausible and suitable conclusion to the story we’ve seen of liliana even if she perishes at ludinus’ hand. it will be sad but it’ll be satisfying, and maybe i should have realized seeing the frequency with which parts of fandom have been campaigning to undo maybe the most weighty and narratively satisfying choices & consequence of vox machina’s story, but it’s truly confounding to me the amount of people treating the presence of any complex and non-traditional happy ending notion in a story set in a world defined by pyrrhic victories. like, empathy for vax isn’t saying he’s the puppet of a god that manipulated him into service, it’s acknowledging that he made a choice that he knew would have consequences and acknowledging that the consequences he demanded with that choice were pretty severe ones. that doesn’t mean i’m watching the end of cr1 seeing the characters destroyed by the loss of vax being like ‘dumbasses, they knew this was coming, vax chose this, these are his consequences’ it means that when i’m crying watching the end of cr1 it’s paired with my deep love for a story that takes seriously the weight of the character’s choices in the determination of their lives. idk man. maybe interrogate how much of your notion of empathy is dependent on individualism to the point of near complete alienation and get back to me on how empathetic it is to look at someone who has caused unarguable pain with their choices and say ‘no no it’s fine you didn’t mean to + you’re a woman :/‘ while the victims of those choices rot in their graves

[revvethasmythh]

tbh, one of the things I can't wait to be over with this campaign is the idea that any real person's engagement with feminism is somehow tethered to whether or not/how much they like imogen and laudna (and additionally, having the concept of lesbophobia attached to whether you enjoy the ship between them). i feel like every single time there's been a word of criticism about their behavior or development, it's immediately been met with a cry (in certain circles) that anyone being critical isn't feminist and doesn't support sapphic relationships, which has been a WILD experience on my end as a stan blog for a female character who has notable sapphic ships. but none of that has mattered in the wake of these two SPECIFIC characters. like they're the linchpins of feminism and all sapphics around the world, and to dislike or even just be mildly critical of them proves you have disavowed your rights to be a feminist. or queer yourself. if i am eager for ANYTHING to be over, it is that

[whereserpentswalk]

You're an android. A humanoid robot with a mechanical interior, but an outer layer of biological flesh. You were created to be a greeter and assistant at a large corporation in the late 21st century, but it's been a long time since you served that role, the company no longer exists and you serve yourself now.

You were created to be someone who the company finds pleasing, and it still effects you a lot. You were given a body meant to look like a petite youthful woman, someone people find pretty but not someone they'd think of as sexual. You're also physically limited in certain ways, you don't have any body parts considered offensive, not even nipplesq. Your voice is always calm and quite, unable to yell or seem at all harsh. Your limbs are weak in specific places that make most acts of violence almost entirely impossible.

Your most extreme modification is that certain things are censored for your eyes. You can't observe sex, nudity, gore, or hear or read any profanity. You can physically look at these things but it will be censored out by a black bar. They're not even really black, they're gaps in vision, like the things you can't see out of the corner of your eye.

It disturbs you. It didn't when you were young but it's disturbing now. It's hard to describe why. When you were young you were so happy and innocent, and you didn't really understand what you were missing. But now you're older than most humans even though you look basically the same as how you did when you were born. It's not like you really want to do most of these things, you don't have sexual desire, you don't even think of yourself as hurting people, you don't really want to raise your voice. But you want the option, you want the same options as all your human friends, or all the robots you know who don't have those restrictions.

It won't always come up but it hurts when it does. It hurts when you want to talk with the same tone as everyone else, but you're restricted to a calm tone, and can't use profanity, so you can't match the vibe of a conversation. It sucks to try to watch a horror movie and just see void where you know there's meant to be blood. You took an art class once where they drew nude models, and you had to explain that you couldn't draw the woman in front of you fully because of the black bars over her chest and pelvis. The instructor, a gruff former mining robot with a thick streel carapace, patted your head, and called you cute, and called you lucky to be made in such a peaceful environment. You don't feel lucky, you don't feel cute either.

So many humans and scarier looking robots consider you cute. You're always the nice one. Always the sweet one. Everyone treats you like this pure little thing. You've had so many bigger, less human like robots and cyborgs, talk about how they'll protect or, or how they want to protect you. You think they're trying solidarity but they aren't trying it well. You're not innocent, you know what all these adult things are, you're certainly old enough to. You don't need protection, you've been protected too many times.

You've tried to go to an engineer about it, but it's so hard. It's very hard to find someone who'll take your request to let you see genitals and violence seriously. It's not uncommon for ex factory robots to want to have their assembly line instincts removed, or for ex combat robots to want to not have weapons on their bodies. But it's way harder to tell someone who'll be working on your body that you want the physical ability to punch people, or that you want your body to have nipples. People don't understand why you'd want genitals if you won't use them for sex, but you've been a woman for so long, you want a body that reflects that. You tried to get someone to fix your voice, probably the most simple part of you to fix, and they gave you the mechanical equivalent of suger pills, they didn't think it was something someone like you would actually want. They thought they knew better.

There is the option of putting your mind in a new body. It's rare but it's not unheard of by any means. It's expensive, and it takes awhile to learn to use a new body. But you can do it. You have the money and the time. When it does happen it's useally robots less humanoid than you wanting to get bodies more like yourse that have more pretty human parts, but that's not all that can happen.

You've seen a few bodies that have been emptied of minds that you can swap with. You've been thinking about it for awhile. There are some space exploration models and some sex work robots who you've come close to working on swapping with. But there's one that trumps all of them for sure. It's this empty millitary robot body, that everyone other than you finds creepy. It's very elongated and spindly with a lot of limbs and a metal black and gold exterior, it looks a bit like a giant praying mantis, especially with that combination of agression and elegence. It's beautiful to you, but in this alien art deco way. Just the idea of being inside that body makes you excited. It still doesn't have genitals but thats less weird for a body like that. You want so badly to be that tall thin metal woman covered in built in weapons, you want so badly to be something people are afraid of, something meant to know all the dark and upsetting things of the adult world.

[artist-issues]

I have to stress: it is good to be in distress when there is someone to save you. It is a good thing, to be that character. It means someone noticed when you went missing or when something went wrong for you, and they stepped outside the sphere of their lives and intervened on your behalf, in yours. They didn't have to. They could've left you. But you were worth it to them. (You might have already been worth it, but what's wrong with someone proving that statement? What's worth if it's only for the self to enjoy?) Worth great risk, worth great pains, and they made a statement about your worth that they wouldn't have had an opportunity to make if not for the distress you were in.

It's like if Ariel saved the day in The Little Mermaid. All that would prove is that she can get herself into reckless trouble and then scrape herself right back out again. Big friggin whoop. But if Eric saves her? Oh.

Well, then, there's something worthwhile about her, to him, despite the fact that it would be fair if he just thought of her as "a mermaid, a thing, a creature." Well, then, she's right about humans being capable of caring for something other than themselves. Well, then, she's loved by someone.

Look at all these much-better statements we can make when the damsel is in distress instead of saving herself?

There's nothing weak about being in distress. You're not a goddess. You can't control everything. You're not even right all the time. Sometimes bad stuff happens and you actually can't control the outcome.

And what a delight, when that eventuality, that certainty that something bad is going to happen, is answered by a much greater truth that didn't have to be certain: you are loved.

Distress says: "Calamity befalls you, you aren't all-powerful, you can't control all the variables, and you are alone in me." And the Hero answers, "I love her." And that always wins.