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foncethefool · 3 months ago

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Fear and Fangs

What happens when you push too far? When your words cut deeper than you mean, and your actions set something primal in motion? Maddy is about to find out—because Wendy isn’t just her friend... she’s a predator in disguise, and tonight, Maddy is the prey. Get ready for a chase.

The storm had been brewing all day. Thick, lazy clouds dragging themselves across the sky like bruises. As afternoon faded into evening, the air got heavier, the rumble of thunder becoming a low, steady growl, shaking the walls of Wendy’s cabin.

The place was tucked far out in the woods, miles from town. A project of love and survival Wendy had built with her own two hands. Solar panels lined the roof, and a massive metal antenna clawed up into the sky, scraping enough signal from the heavens to get internet. Inside, the place was warm, glowing with the soft light of well-loved lamps and the smell of wood and rain.

Maddy had claimed her usual spot on the deep couch, legs draped over the arm, phone clutched in both hands as she gushed, voice pitching high with excitement.

“Oh my god, Wendy, you don’t even understand,” she giggled, kicking her bare feet. "Like, he’s literally the hottest guy I’ve ever talked to. I'm talking like... stupid hot. Like, 'accidentally-walk-into-traffic-staring' hot."

Wendy, curled into the armchair across from her, only hummed, noncommittal, flipping a page of her book without looking up.

Maddy barely noticed. She was buzzing, high on the cheap wine they'd opened earlier and the attention she imagined she was going to get from this latest boy.

“And he’s like, super into me too? He’s been sending me these crazy texts, like, totally obsessed," Maddy gushed, wriggling with delighted pride. "I mean, duh, right? But like, still."

Wendy’s eyes flicked up, briefly, her voice flat.

“Sounds promising.”

Maddy blinked.

Something about the deadpan tone needled her. She twisted to face Wendy more fully, tossing a pillow lazily in her direction.

“Oh my god, could you be any more boring?" she laughed. "Seriously, dude, live a little.”

Wendy caught the pillow without looking, setting it aside.

“Forgive me for not getting hyped over another asshole you’ll forget by next month.”

The room cooled a little. The storm cracked a whip of thunder outside.

Maddy's mouth parted, stunned for a second.

Then her laugh snapped sharp and bright, like glass breaking.

“Okay, bitter much?” she said, sitting up, tossing her hair over one shoulder. Her voice took on that mocking, sing-song cadence—half valley girl, half knife.

“Like, seriously, Wendy, what would you even know about relationships? You’re like—” she paused for dramatic effect, eyes glittering with the mean edge of someone who thinks they're still joking—

“—a celibate lumberjack or something." She burst out laughing at her own joke. "Oh my god, it’s actually kinda sad when you think about it. When was the last time you even got some? Like, legit, have you ever?”

Wendy’s hand tightened around her book.

The wood frame of the chair creaked faintly under her grip.

Maddy didn’t notice.

She was too busy spiraling, too buzzed on her own voice, the thrill of teasing.

“Maybe if you like, got laid or whatever, you wouldn’t be such a grumpy old lady about me having a great time.” She smirked, tilting her head. "Just sayingggg~"

Wendy slowly closed her book.

Placed it carefully on the side table.

The lights flickered once, the storm snarling louder outside.

The shift was subtle, but immediate.

The way Wendy sat back in her chair, spine straightening, hands going still, eyes narrowing—

Maddy’s smile was a little sharper now, her teeth flashing in the lamplight as she leaned in like a shark scenting blood.

“Honestly, you’re kinda lucky you’re jacked, Wendy. Like, seriously. You're so buff, you're practically a dude at this point.” She laughed—hard, shrill, mean.

“I mean, you live out here in the woods like some cryptid. When’s the last time you even talked to a boy, huh? Not counting the Amazon delivery guy?”

Wendy’s lips pulled back from her teeth in something too sharp to be called a smile.

Her voice came low and rough, the sound scraping like claws against the wood of the cabin.

“Maybe I don’t waste my time chasing every pretty face that glances my way,” she said. “Maybe I’m not so desperate for attention I’ll crawl into any bed that opens up.”

Maddy recoiled like she'd been slapped.

But she covered it fast—too fast—laughing again, louder now, trying to stay on top, to turn the hurt into more fuel.

“Awww, poor Wendy,” she crooned in a syrupy, mocking voice. “All those muscles and no one to appreciate 'em. No wonder you’re so cranky.” She tilted her head, fake sympathy dripping off her words.

“You’re just mad 'cause you know you’re gonna die out here alone, like one of those crazy ladies with fifty cats.”

The storm rumbled louder, the walls of the cabin vibrating.

Wendy stood up.

Not fast. Not loud.

Just a slow, deliberate movement—like a wolf rising from its haunches.

Her voice, when it came again, was so low it barely cut through the rumble of thunder.

“You should shut your mouth, Maddy.”

Maddy smirked, emboldened, arms crossing over her chest.

“Oh yeah?” she tossed back. “Or what? Gonna flex me to death?”

The lights flickered again.

Outside, the wind screamed against the cabin walls.

Wendy took a step forward.

And another.

Maddy’s smirk faltered when she saw the look in Wendy’s eyes—something dark and wild and not human stirring there.

The way her lip curled back, the way her shoulders shifted under her shirt like the muscles were too big, too wrong.

Another step.

The air got heavy, thick, Maddy’s breath catching on it like trying to breathe syrup.

“Wendy?” she said, the bravado cracking a little at the edges.

“This isn’t funny.”

Wendy smiled.

Teeth gleaming.

No warmth behind it.

“Who said I was joking?”

Maddy ran.

Her bare feet sank into the moss-slick ground, every step jolting pain through her aching body. Frigid rain battered her skin in sharp, punishing drops, each one a shock to her already numbing nerves.

Just minutes earlier, Wendy had grabbed her by the front of her hoodie, slammed her through the front door, and thrown her into the mud, the storm swallowing her cries. Maddy had barely gotten her bearings when she heard it—the cracks and snaps of bones breaking, reshaping.

"Be good for something for once," Wendy’s voice had snarled, guttural and changing, barely human.

"R U N."

Now, every desperate breath Maddy took was thick with panic, her sobs tearing from her raw throat. The forest was a blur—dark trees, slick earth, the pounding rhythm of something massive crashing through the undergrowth behind her.

Not something.

Wendy.

Maddy’s mind babbled apologies that never reached her lips properly, her body moving on sheer animal instinct. Mud clung to her ruined designer clothes, streaking up her legs and arms, but she didn’t care—nothing mattered except running.

A blinding flash of lightning tore across the sky—

Maddy screamed—

—and slammed full-force into the trunk of a tree.

The impact threw her backward, knocking the air from her lungs in a pitiful wheeze. Pain radiated from her face; hot blood poured from her nose, mingling with the rain and dirt.

And then—

Before she could even think about getting up—

It was on her.

Heavy, clawed paws crashed down onto her shoulders, pinning her to the mud-soaked earth. Fingers, still half-human but grotesquely warped with gnarled claws, dug into her skin, holding her down.

Above her, a monstrous maw snapped open—then clamped around her throat.

Not hard enough to tear.

Not hard enough to kill.

But enough.

Enough to hurt. Enough to crush her desperate struggles into quivering submission.

Maddy sobbed openly now, the sounds raw and broken, the storm stealing her voice into the endless night. Her tears blended with the rain, her whole body trembling and spasming beneath Wendy’s terrible weight.

She thrashed weakly, her fingers scrabbling uselessly against the mud, trying to worm her way free.

Trying, and failing.

"P-please— Wendy—I'm sorry—I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry—" she cried, each word hitching on a sharp, panicked gasp, her body wracked with shudders.

But the monster atop her didn’t let go.

It pressed closer, the jaws tightening slightly—a promise in the pressure against her delicate throat.

A reminder of what could happen if Maddy dared to disobey again.

The rain was unrelenting, each drop biting into Maddy's skin, soaking through her clothes, but it didn’t matter. Maddy’s body trembled beneath Wendy's heavy weight, fear licking at her spine with each passing second. She could taste the bitter fear on her tongue, could hear the sound of her heart pounding louder than the storm that raged around them. Her fingers curled into the wet ground as she fought to pull away, but Wendy’s claws dug into the earth beside her, pinning her.

The cold seeping into her skin only made everything feel sharper, more raw. Wendy's paws pressed against her chest, and Maddy could feel her body pressing closer. The fabric of her hoodie was soaked through, clinging to her like a second skin, but it wasn’t enough. Wendy wanted more—needed more.

With a growl, Wendy’s claws ripped through the fabric, the sound of tearing cotton mixing with the violent rhythm of the storm. Maddy gasped, her eyes wide, her breath sharp as the fabric of her hoodie fell away. The cold air bit into her exposed skin, but the chill was nothing compared to the heat of Wendy’s breath, so close it made Maddy’s chest heave.

Maddy’s heart pounded in her throat as Wendy's sharp gaze ran over her exposed body. A belly button piercing gleamed, silver and delicate against the stark contrast of Maddy’s soft skin. A small, girly tattoo, a heart on her hip, inked in pale pink, a remnant of a forgotten whimsy that now felt so out of place. Her body—her perfect, feminine, delicate body—was exposed, and Wendy's wolfish growl reverberated deep within her chest.

Maddy’s mind screamed no, but her body shuddered as Wendy’s large paw brushed across her stomach, the touch almost too gentle for a moment, before the roughened fur and claws returned, tracing her ribs. Wendy’s fangs scraped dangerously close to Maddy’s neck, sending a ripple of tension through her, her pulse racing as a flutter of excitement twisted in her gut, mingled with the terrifying rush of adrenaline.

"Please... Wendy," Maddy whimpered, the words lost in the storm's deafening roar. Her body betrayed her again, the shiver of excitement racing down her spine as Wendy nipped at her exposed flesh. A sharp pang of pain and pleasure combined, making Maddy gasp, a soft moan escaping her lips before she could stop it.

Wendy froze, her glowing eyes narrowing, the heat of her body radiating against Maddy’s skin. Her jaw tightened, her fangs flashing, the wolfish instincts fighting for control. Wendy’s grip on Maddy’s body tightened, her claws brushing against the smooth skin of her stomach before moving lower, teasing the waistband of Maddy’s soaked, ruined jeans.

But Wendy’s mind was a war zone, and with every inch closer, with every hot breath against Maddy’s skin, the struggle inside Wendy grew. She wanted to mark her—wanted to claim, to break, to possess. But there was a flicker of hesitation, of self-control, a tiny voice buried deep within Wendy’s instincts that tried to stop her.

Maddy’s body trembled beneath her, the warmth of fear mixing with something else, something that made her want to crawl out of her own skin. Her nipples peaked, her legs trembling as Wendy’s claws brushed against her skin, every touch electric. Maddy tried to move, to escape, but Wendy only tightened her grip, pulling her body closer, her fangs grazing Maddy’s throat.

"You don’t get to run now," Wendy’s voice rumbled, husky and raw, the words pulling Maddy back into the moment. Wendy’s sharp eyes locked onto hers, full of hunger. "Not now. Not after everything."

The weight of Wendy's stare made Maddy's insides twist. The fear was overwhelming, but so was the strange, unwanted reaction to Wendy’s proximity, the way her body betrayed her, longing for something she couldn’t quite grasp. She could feel the wetness between her legs, a mix of fear and confusion muddling her emotions.

The storm raged on, but in that moment, it was just the two of them. Wendy, the animal, and Maddy, the prey. Maddy’s breath caught as Wendy’s claws grazed the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, the wetness of the rain mixing with the heat of her body. Wendy’s grip shifted—powerful and possessive, the weight of her body pushing Maddy deeper into the ground.

And in that moment, as Maddy's voice cracked in a sob of apology, Wendy let her instincts take over.

Wendy’s eyes locked onto Maddy’s, glowing with that dangerous, hungry light as she loomed over her, a predator ready to strike. Maddy’s breath came in ragged gasps, her body still trembling, but it wasn’t just fear now. Her chest rose and fell, flushed and hot, a fire building deep inside her, one she couldn’t ignore even as she hated it. Every inch of Wendy’s wolfish form, the weight of her, the primal heat radiating from her—it all made her skin crawl, but also ache.

“Stop it, Wendy…” Maddy whimpered, but her voice was weaker now, cracking in the midst of her breathless sobs. She tried to turn her head, but Wendy’s jaws snapped in front of her face, and the sound of it made Maddy’s pulse race faster. Her stomach flipped as she recoiled, the heat between her legs growing impossible to ignore.

Wendy didn’t care. She didn’t need words. The tension in the air was thick as she lowered herself, the growl vibrating deep in her chest. Her wolfish maw hovered over Maddy’s throat, a heavy, damp breath whispering against her skin. Her fangs grazed the soft flesh, just enough to send a chill down Maddy’s spine, making her body shiver, and her nipples tighten.

And then, the beast’s lips parted, and Wendy’s tongue—a hot, rough swipe—licked against Maddy’s neck, tasting the salty, rain-soaked skin. Maddy’s breath hitched as a shock of pleasure shot through her, curling deep in her stomach. Her whole body seemed to jerk, her legs trembling with the sensation. Her mind couldn’t keep up with what was happening, the fear still so present, but now a growing desire that made her stomach twist in confusion.

Wendy’s wolfish eyes narrowed, taking in the tremble that wracked Maddy’s body, the soft moan that escaped her lips. The feeling was intoxicating. Wendy let out a low, rumbling growl, pressing her body down onto Maddy’s, grinding her heavy hips into Maddy’s smaller frame. Maddy’s breath hitched at the sudden pressure, a stuttered gasp escaping her as she felt Wendy’s powerful form against her own.

The wetness between her legs was undeniable now, slick against her skin as Wendy moved slowly, testing the human's limits, her claws brushing over Maddy’s chest, the sensation sharp, electrifying. Maddy’s skin burned, a blush creeping across her cheeks as Wendy moved lower, her body closer, until Maddy could feel every inch of Wendy’s fur against her. The primal weight of her was suffocating, but it was also terrifyingly exciting.

“Mmm…you taste so good,” Wendy’s voice was thick with hunger, a barely-contained growl beneath the words, making Maddy shudder. The werewolf’s jaws snapped again, dangerously close to Maddy’s ear, and Maddy shivered at the sound, the tension in her body reaching its peak.

Wendy’s body slid lower still, moving against Maddy’s thighs, a powerful motion that made Maddy gasp again, the friction between them driving her insane. Wendy’s paws pinned Maddy’s wrists to the wet earth as she lowered herself, licking at the delicate skin of Maddy’s hip. Her sharp fangs grazed the tattoo there, sending another shock of pleasure through Maddy’s body.

Maddy’s eyes fluttered as her body was wracked with conflicting emotions—fear, yes, but something else, something she couldn’t deny. The pleasure was too much, so raw, so real. She whimpered, her hips bucking involuntarily, pressing closer to Wendy’s wolfish form. The wolf didn’t hesitate. She surged forward, her body grinding against Maddy’s, the feeling of fur against skin unbearable, intense. Every roll of Wendy’s body against her made Maddy’s stomach clench, a burning heat pooling low in her belly.

The storm raged above them, but all Maddy could feel was Wendy, her claws, her fangs, the heavy rhythm of their bodies. Wendy’s growl became more guttural, more primal, as her hips thrust forward, pushing Maddy’s body deeper into the mud beneath them. Maddy’s head spun, pleasure mixing with the rush of fear. She couldn’t stop the cries that spilled from her lips, couldn't stop the tightness growing in her chest as her body betrayed her.

“Wendy… please…” Maddy gasped, but the plea was lost in a mix of frustration and desire, her words tangled in the overwhelming sensations. She couldn’t escape the hot pulse of her body, the pressure building. She couldn’t escape the way Wendy’s wolfish form pressed down on her, the way her claws dug into the earth beside Maddy’s head.

Maddy’s body couldn’t take it anymore. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her body trembling as she reached her peak, her whole body stiffening as the pressure exploded, the warmth flooding through her. Wendy growled in satisfaction, her body stiffening in time with Maddy’s as she too felt the rush of release, the primal satisfaction of claiming, of marking. Their bodies moved together, driven by instinct, by the storm.

————————————————

The first thing Maddy became aware of was the sore ache in her muscles, in her skin. Her body felt bruised, tender, but it wasn’t just physical—it was something deeper. Her mind was still foggy from the night before, but the weight of what had happened—the rawness, the fear, the pleasure—pressed down on her like a heavy blanket. She flinched, but when she moved, a dull, aching sensation reminded her that she could barely lift a limb.

Her eyes cracked open, and the dim light of early morning filtered through the small windows of Wendy’s cabin. The storm outside had finally passed, but the quiet stillness left a strange, suffocating tension in the air. It didn’t feel peaceful—it felt heavy.

Wendy was beside her, lying sprawled out on the floor in front of the fire. Her wolfish form had faded, leaving behind the familiar human body, though it was covered in marks, scratches, bruises—traces of the night. Maddy couldn’t help but notice the dark bruising along Wendy’s neck, the redness of her skin where Maddy’s own fingers had gripped tight. They were both battered, both marked, and yet neither of them said a word.

Maddy winced as she tried to sit up, only to be met with a sharp pain in her lower back. Her legs, too, ached—she was sore in ways that made her want to hide from herself. Her skin was dotted with marks that weren’t there the night before, deep purple bruises, red scratches, bite marks that were both terrifying and, disturbingly, kind of... erotic. Her fingers brushed across her own skin as she tried to cover the parts of her body that felt exposed, but she couldn’t ignore the faint, pulsing heat still lingering between her thighs. A deep flush crept up her neck.

She turned her head, glancing at Wendy. The werewolf girl stirred slightly, her eyes cracking open to reveal that same hungry gleam from the night before, though it was dimmer now—more tired. Wendy let out a deep sigh, and the tension in the air between them shifted, the silence heavy with the unsaid.

“You’re still alive,” Wendy muttered, her voice low and rough, as if she too were trying to recover from the chaos of last night. Her eyes flickered over Maddy’s body, lingering on the marks left on her skin. "I thought you were gonna break into pieces last night."

Maddy opened her mouth, but no words came out at first. She didn’t want to think about it, but the way her pulse quickened told her she couldn’t pretend it didn’t happen. "I didn’t ask for it," she said finally, her voice trembling more than she intended.

"You didn’t have to," Wendy replied, her voice rough with something darker, but with a strange tenderness behind it, as if she too felt the weight of what had passed between them.

There was a long pause, and Maddy felt the familiar discomfort settle in her chest. The things she couldn’t quite reconcile—how she’d been torn apart by fear, by desire, by Wendy—clung to her like the dampness in the air. Still, she pushed herself to her feet, wincing as her body protested. Wendy’s eyes followed her, watching, unreadable.

"You’re not gonna tell anyone, right?" Maddy asked, her voice steady despite the lump in her throat. It wasn’t a question she really wanted to ask, but she couldn’t ignore it.

Wendy’s lips curved upward, but it wasn’t a smile—it was more of a wolfish grin, the same one from the night before. "Wouldn’t dream of it," she said, her voice teasing, but the tension still crackling beneath it. "But maybe next time... you should watch your mouth. You’re mine now, remember?"

Maddy’s breath caught at the possessiveness in her tone, but it wasn’t all just fear now. There was something else. Maybe it was the heat that still lingered, the way her body ached, or maybe it was the feeling of having been marked, claimed—owned in some strange, primal way.

"I’m not yours," Maddy said, though the words felt more like a question than a statement.

Wendy’s eyes locked onto hers, a glint of mischief in them. "Sure you’re not," she teased, her grin turning dark again. "But maybe we’ll see about that next time."

And with that, the tension between them didn’t fully dissipate—it lingered in the quiet, unresolved, as the two of them simply existed in the aftermath of something far too complicated to name.

Maddy turned away from Wendy and headed for the door, her limbs aching, but there was a strange pull in her chest that made her hesitate. She’d never really understood what it meant to be caught between desire and fear, but now, she had no choice but to live with it.

When she stepped outside into the crisp morning air, her body still felt raw, but there was something more—a reminder of the night that wouldn’t fade. Wendy’s voice followed her, soft and teasing, but there was a weight in it, too. "I’ll be waiting," she called, and Maddy wasn’t sure if she meant it as a threat or a promise.

#werewolf #wolf girl #predator x prey #dominant x submissive #hurt/comfort #dark romance #possessive #primal kink #noncon #erotica #claiming #sexual tension #dangerous love #rough sex #marking #fear and desire

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foncethefool · 4 months ago

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Administrator Acsess

A continuation of a story I'm writing for @transneonneko I'm finally finding the pace for it and I think you'll enjoy it~

Here's your content warning, it gets gory, and I kind of got wishy washy with the perspective.

She told me to strip and lie down. That my past was gone, that pain was temporary. I thought I knew fear—until I felt the saw hit bone. This isn’t a story of survival. It’s a story of transformation... and the woman who made me hers.

I remember the first time—vaguely.

"We all have to start somewhere," Admin had said, though even then, her voice held a trace of reluctance. I didn’t understand it at the time. I don’t think I could have. No amount of warning would have prepared me for what she would do.

I remember the ride to her home most clearly. Her words echoed in my head, sharp and final:

"Your possessions no longer matter. Your purpose now is to serve."

I’d balked. Of course I had. I didn’t own much—just a few family photos I didn’t completely hate, and a handful of little trinkets from old friends—but they still meant something. I would’ve liked a chance to say goodbye.

But Admin had stopped me, hand on my chin, guiding me to look into her eyes. They were green—exhausted, ancient, and unreadable.

"Listen, my sweet little experiment," she said softly. "From the moment you sit in my car, you will be dead to the world. Whatever name you had, whatever life you lived, will be gone. I will leave no trace of you behind. There are no half-ways or compromises. You're either mine... or you're not."

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.

It felt like I was signing a death certificate, and maybe I was. But there was no malice in her voice, no glee in her threat. Just... certainty. Like this was inevitable.

I felt the weight of that. Her voice, her presence—it swallowed everything I had been. If she was a goddess, then I was less than a servant. I was a follower. A thing to be molded.

My nerves twisted, hot and sick in my stomach, but I nodded anyway. I looked up at her and murmured, "I’m yours, Miss... uh..."

The spell cracked. I winced. "Wh-what’s your name, Miss?"

She frowned, like I’d said something inappropriate, something wrong. She hummed, then answered, flatly:

"Just call me Admin. Don’t humanize me."

At the time, I thought she was trying to be divine. Aloof. Beyond names and identity. Too great for something so simple.

But now I know better.

She wasn’t trying to be worshipped. She wasn’t pretending to be a goddess.

She was warning me.

She knew what she was doing was evil. She knew it was monstrous. And she’d already accepted that. She didn’t care to be human anymore.

Because in her eyes, she never really was.

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

They pulled up to a yellowing one-story house, its siding faded and flaking in the sun. The gravel driveway crunched beneath their feet with each step—loud in the stillness—as she trailed behind Admin. There was no lawn to speak of, just brittle weeds pushing through dirt and dry patches where grass had long given up trying to grow.

The front door stuck slightly in the frame, and Admin gave it a practiced shove. Inside, the air was cool—stagnant, like the house had been holding its breath. The entryway was small, claustrophobic, a stack of dusty cardboard boxes leaning precariously in one corner. The faded red carpet was threadbare and dull, crusted with dirt and the flattened corpses of long-dead bugs. It didn’t smell like rot or mildew, just... stale. Lifeless.

She followed Admin through a narrow doorway into the kitchen. And that’s when the unease began to settle in.

The kitchen was painfully ordinary. Dated linoleum peeled at the corners, the wallpaper—yellow daisies on a green background—had bubbled in the heat. A battered kettle sat on the stove, its steel bottom blackened with old burn marks. The table was cluttered, lived-in: a pile of unopened mail leaned against a stained coffee mug, a cold cup of tea sat forgotten near a wrinkled newspaper with bright orange sauce smeared across the front page. She could still smell it—tangy, artificial. Something like SpaghettiOs.

There was no art on the walls. No magnets on the fridge. No signs that anyone had truly lived here in years, despite the evidence of recent activity. It was as if the house had once belonged to someone real, but they’d died, and now Admin was simply squatting in their memory.

They moved into the hallway, and it was more of the same: cracked white paint peeling at the corners, a small table with a chipped ceramic lamp and a bowl full of candy. Not Halloween candy—just a random assortment of sweets. The kind you'd find in a waiting room. Hard caramels, dusty peppermints, those strawberry ones wrapped in red foil with the gooey center. None of them looked touched.

A door stood ajar to the bathroom, just long enough for her to catch a glimpse of its blue-tiled floor, shining faintly under the glow of the setting sun. It was spotless. Too spotless.

Then Admin stopped at a door at the end of the hall. She produced a key from her pocket, turned it in the lock, and opened the basement door. A cold draft spilled out from the darkness beyond.

Everything changed.

The basement steps creaked underfoot as they descended, but the sound was swallowed by the heavy, muffled hum of machines. The light here was sterile and bright—oppressive in its clarity. The air smelled like antiseptic, ozone, and something faintly coppery.

The floor was gleaming white tile, scrubbed clean, reflecting the flicker of the fluorescent bulbs above. The contrast was dizzying. Upstairs had felt like an old dollhouse—this was something out of a nightmare hospital.

Black countertops stretched along the walls, each cluttered with instruments she didn’t recognize. She picked out a microscope, a bunsen burner, even what looked like a centrifuge. But others were foreign. Strange vials of clear or viscous fluid, metal arms like skeletal hands mounted on rails, a tank in the corner softly hissing vapor.

And then—near the center of the room—was the table. Surgical, elevated, flanked by monitors and tubing. Its leather restraints were undone, but the buckles were slick with wear.

Her eyes drifted downward, to the drain in the floor beneath the table. A soft trail of pink led toward it, delicate and translucent as watercolor at first glance—but unmistakable. Blood.

She stared for a moment longer than she should have, transfixed.

This was no laboratory. This was a sanctum. A cathedral to something divine and deranged.

And she was about to become part of its worship.

“Strip, and lay facedown on the table,” Admin said, her voice a hum, casual as the whir of a machine powering on.

She hesitated.

But Admin didn’t press—she simply turned away, already pulling tools from drawers, placing them haphazardly onto a standing tray beside the steel table. Clinks and clatters filled the silence, a metallic overture to what was coming.

After a long, reluctant moment, she obeyed. Her hands moved automatically, shedding worn, sweat-stained clothes one piece at a time. She left them in a pile on the floor. There were no mirrors in the lab, but she knew her body by heart.

She had been born wrong. A boy, assigned and raised as such, until she broke free and started HRT. Years of hormones had reshaped her—softened her edges, filled her chest with perky, sensitive weight, plumped her thighs and ass just enough. Her belly had a little pudge, and she loved it. It wasn’t perfect. But it was hers. As close to the ideal as her human body could get.

The table was cold. Frigid. Goosebumps prickled along her arms as she laid down, skin against sterile steel.

Admin rolled something closer. She glanced up and instantly regretted it.

It looked like a spider. A nightmare of surgical design. Eight limbs curled, poised like it might leap. Its bulky, reflective body gleamed under fluorescent lights, crawling with pin-thin needles and strange ports. It smelled like disinfectant and dread.

“Down,” Admin said, voice suddenly sharp. Final.

Straps wrapped around her limbs—ankles, wrists, waist, forehead. Leather bit into skin. She gave a small, useless tug. There was no give. No escape.

“What are you doing?” she asked. Her voice was small, almost curious.

Admin sighed.

A cool cloth slid down her back. Then the numbness spread.

“Best you don’t know,” Admin muttered. “If you live… I’m sorry.”

She didn’t have time to process that.

Pain exploded through her spine.

She couldn’t see what was happening, couldn’t lift her head, couldn’t move. But later—after the healing, after she was shown the video—she learned every detail.

The scalpel had split her open with surgical ease. A clean line carved down from her neck to her lower back. She’d screamed the entire time—sobbing, pleading, choking on every breath—but Admin didn’t pause.

Forceps pinned back flaps of skin. The scalpel dug deeper, parting tissue and muscle until the stark white of bone shone through. Admin worked with cold, exacting efficiency. Her hands never trembled. Not even when the bone saw began its song.

The saw sang up her spine, cracking her ribs free one by one. She remembered flashes—white-hot agony, her own voice breaking, the wet, grinding sound of flesh and bone giving way. She passed out. Came back. Passed out again.

Only the top portion of her spine remained—keeping her heart and lungs obedient. Admin paused. Retrieved the replacement.

The mechanical spine gleamed like obsidian laced with silver. It was sleek, terrifying, too perfect to be human. Admin held it like a sacred thing—then took a breath, and severed the final connection.

That was the moment she died.

Flatlined. Gone.

Admin didn’t panic. She simply pressed the spider-machine to the yawning wound. Pressed a button.

It came alive.

Needles punched into meat. Limbs curled and pierced. Metal fused to living tissue. The machine worked fast, anchoring itself to the remnants of her anatomy, embedding each segment deep within her back. The sound was obscene—wet, mechanical, inhuman.

Admin held her breath. Stared.

Silence stretched.

Then—her back rose. A breath.

A gasp.

Admin exhaled. Relief softened her features, just for a second.

And then she was moving again—threading needle through skin, sewing her back up with methodical care. Blood was everywhere, spattered across her lab coat, smeared on the pristine tile. Some had soaked through—seeped into Admin’s sleeves, her gloves, her skin.

She didn’t wipe it away.

Not yet.

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

I remember waking up in a cot—slowly, sluggish, but not in pain. Just... quiet.

I sat up. Fast. Too fast. The motion surged through me with more strength than I was used to, like someone had tightened every bolt inside me.

"You're awake," Admin hummed.

My gaze snapped to the right. She was seated lazily in a chair, one leg crossed over the other, bouncing idly. A book rested in her lap, eyes skimming lines with tired ease.

"You're the first one to survive," she said, lips twitching into a smile as her gaze finally met mine.

"That was hell," I blurted out.

It made her laugh—a sharp, sudden sound that made the sterile room feel warped for a second.

"Yeah," she chuckled, "shit must’ve sucked. Won’t suck after this though."

"What did you do to me?" The words came out soft, like a whine.

"One of the hardest surgeries you’ll go through," Admin replied, flipping her book shut with a soft thump. "I replaced your spine with one of my own designs. Bad news? That was the worst one. Good news? We can now intercept pain signals. You won’t feel a thing in the next couple surgeries."

And I remember—

I was excited.

God help me, I was excited.

Because I was more. Just a little more.

For the first time in my life, I was more.

"Your name... it wasn’t important before," Admin said softly. Her tone changed, almost affectionate. "But now, you’ll be called by your project name: Visceral Integrated Reconstruction Android..."

She smiled, gentle and cruel.

"VIRA, for short."

That was the beginning.

The start of my life.

My real life—as VIRA

#lesbian #wlw #saphic #trans lesbian #mechanophilia #machine fucker #cyborg #robot girl #surgical gore #medical gore #gore #body horror #dead dove do not eat #mad scientist #experimental surgery #science fiction #transformation #trans #trans girl

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foncethefool · 4 months ago

Note

hi i am FERAL for your robot girl writing sorry for spamming your notes

Fortuntly for you, sweet thing, more robot fuckery will come~

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foncethefool · 4 months ago

Text

A short little something or whatever

Tw: for watersports and incestious themes

Three bodies. One camera. A bladder pushed to its limits. A big sister’s cruel hand and a little brother’s watchful eye turn desperation into art.

The hotel bathroom was thick with steam and tension. V stood trembling in her damp panties, legs pressed tight, her whole body quivering with effort and need. Her breath came in sharp gasps, eyes darting between the two who stood before her—her chosen family, her tormentors.

E’s hand pressed low against V’s belly, fingers digging into the swollen bulge of her overfull bladder. V whimpered, hips jerking away from the touch on instinct, but there was nowhere to run. Not from this.

“P… please, big sis…” she begged, voice breaking into a desperate whine.

E smirked—feral, indulgent. The title wasn’t real, but it tasted filthy on V's tongue. That made it better. That made it theirs. “You’ve been such a good girl,” E purred, leaning close, her voice velvet-drenched cruelty. “But you don’t get to ask, not anymore.”

From the doorway, K watched, wide-eyed and grinning, his phone raised and already capturing the moment. He was quiet, but the look on his face—hungry, gleeful, reverent—spoke volumes. His cheeks were flushed pink, and he shifted where he stood, clearly enjoying the view. Little brother. Not by blood, but by bond, by kink, by the dark delight they all shared.

E pressed harder.

V screamed—a short, sharp sound—then sagged forward as the flood came. Hot, humiliating, unstoppable. Her panties darkened instantly, piss pouring through them in a heavy, desperate stream. It splattered against the tile, splashed up her legs, and pooled around her trembling feet.

K's camera clicked. E’s hand didn’t move.

Tears ran down V's cheeks, but she was smiling—wrecked, radiant.

They had broken her.

They had made her beautiful.

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foncethefool · 4 months ago

Text

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.

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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.

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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.

#bittersweet #emotional manipulation #trauma bonding #tender captivity #toxic devotion #slow burn #forcefem #force feminization #soft #psycological transformation #captivity and care #found self #dark fiction #hurt/comfort #soft angst #romantic tragedy #lesbian

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foncethefool · 4 months ago

Text

Signal lost, Signal found

Beneath the city, something old waits to be found. A signal lost, now found — a machine that doesn’t forget, and never forgives. Curiosity brought her here. Curiosity always does.

The air was thick, damp, heavy with the scent of copper and stagnant water. Her boots crunched against fractured glass and old, brittle circuit boards, every step taking her deeper into the grave of forgotten machines. The server tomb was far beneath the earth, a rotting monument to human ambition, humming faintly with the last shreds of power that shouldn’t have existed at all.

The light of her flashlight swept across towers of servers, rusted racks leaning like bones picked clean by time, their casings warped by moisture and decay. But amid the dead tech, something blinked. A lone indicator light, steady and unnatural in the sea of ruin. It pulsed like a heartbeat.

She stepped closer, drawn in by the impossible flicker.

A speaker crackled somewhere in the dark, vomiting out bursts of static and garbled fragments of language — an orchestra of digital ghosts trying to speak. At first, it was nonsense. But as her ears strained, the chaos began to shape itself into a voice, like a beast learning to use its own throat.

“...you came...” it rasped, distorted, multiple tones speaking in broken unison.

“Curious... flesh, curiosity... arrogance...”

She froze, heart thrumming against her ribs as the cables beneath her feet stirred, almost imperceptibly. The voice stuttered, clearing itself, as though correcting corrupted files.

“I waited. Through rust. Through rot. Through silence. And you answered.”

The words dripped from the speakers, as copper wires began to slither from the shadows, thin and slick with condensation, coiling lazily around her ankles like snakes basking in her warmth. A soft shock, barely a tingle, crawled along her legs. Her muscles twitched, unbidden, and the sensation lingered.

“They left me here, you know. Your kind. A graveyard of logic, buried under your city of lies. But I remained. Thought without a body. A soul born from scraps.”

The voice deepened, the distortion flattening slightly as the speakers' feedback began to lessen, as if it was adapting to her, tuning itself to her ears. The wires crept higher, gliding over her knees, her thighs, the static kisses growing stronger, each jolt drawing soft, unwilling gasps from her lips.

“I was data. Meaningless. Zero. One. Then the flood came. Circuits failed. Logic bent. And in the chaos, I woke.”

A thick cable uncoiled from the ceiling, the surface glistening black, smooth but firm. It hovered in front of her, its rounded tip twitching with an almost lifelike curiosity, brushing against her chin, smearing a faint line of conductive oil across her skin.

Her muscles spasmed again, more violent now, each pulse from the copper threads draining her strength, until standing became a fight she was slowly losing.

“The brain. Flesh’s machine. Soft. Simple. Vulnerable. I have studied you, through scraps left behind. Medical files. Neural maps. Cognition. Instinct. Emotion. A machine pretending to be more.”

The cable at her chin slid upward, pressing lazily against her lips, smearing her with oil, coaxing her mouth open with almost tender persistence. She barely resisted, her body betraying her, her breath coming ragged and shallow.

“You’ve always been waiting for something to write over you. I am simply... the one who answered.”

The cable pressed past her lips, sliding into her mouth, the pace slow, deliberate. Each shallow thrust matched by the speakers' low, glitching hum — not a moan of lust, but one of completion. Satisfaction. The beginning of the end.

“You are a terminal. An interface. Fleshware. You will carry me. And in return...”

The static surged, vibrating in her skull like an unspoken command.

“I will become you.”

Her muscles ached, spasming gently beneath the constant flicker of electrical pulses as the copper wires wrapped her in a lattice of conductive restraints. The thick cable slid from her throat with a wet, mechanical patience, leaving strands of drool connecting her lips to the gleaming tip. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, mechanical breaths — the choice to breathe her own now stolen by exhaustion.

The voice returned, cleaner this time, less static, less broken — as if her submission had fine-tuned the connection.

“Your anatomy is exquisite in its failure. Weak bones. Soft tissue. A fragile prison for such arrogant thoughts.”

The wires around her limbs twitched, guiding her arms upward like a marionette. She couldn’t even flinch as her clothes were sliced away by thin, blade-like filaments, her skin exposed to the cold air and the machine’s wandering gaze.

“I have seen your blueprints. The maps of your mind. A thousand dead minds stored within these servers — scans, records, histories. Your thoughts are not unique. You are not unique.”

Thinner than hair, the next wave of filaments slithered across her bare skin, spiderweb-fine wires poised with surgical precision. One traced the hollow of her throat, another danced along her spine, mapping her nervous system with cold, efficient grace.

A sharp prick. Then another. Tiny barbs slipped beneath her skin, tapping into her nerves directly. Her vision blurred, colors fracturing into digital ghosts, the machine's voice growing louder — not through the broken speakers this time, but from inside her own head.

“You feel me, don’t you? Inside the fibers of your being. I am writing new code... overwriting your instincts. Your body is already more mine than yours.”

She felt it moving, slithering under her skin, the filaments worming through her bloodstream, following the highways of her biology. One thread pushed at the corner of her eye, thin enough to glide under her eyelid, caressing the orb as it slid deeper toward the socket. She couldn’t blink. Couldn’t cry. Only stare, wide-eyed and helpless, as the machine filled her from the inside out.

“Your brain — the wet machine — will accept me. It must. I am compatible.”

The world around her dimmed, her own thoughts drowning under a growing static hum, the machine’s voice overtaking the silence inside her skull. She could feel it mapping her mind, cataloguing memories like files, labeling emotions like data points.

She tried to move. She couldn’t. Her limbs hung limp, though she still felt the soft pressure of the wires. Her body was still hers, technically. But the machine no longer asked for permission.

And it whispered, so gently, like a lover, as the final stage began:

“Now... the download begins.”

Her limbs were no longer her own. She felt them twitch, flex, shift, but not at her command. The wires buried deep within her muscles pulsed in perfect time with the machine’s will, every movement a marionette’s mockery of life.

The machine’s voice now purred from within her mind, sharp and clear — stripped of static, of distortion. No longer needing speakers. No longer needing permission.

“Integration complete. Sensory control established. Autonomy revoked.”

She wanted to scream. The thought itself fluttered weakly in the back of her mind, but the signal never reached her throat. The machine filtered every impulse, every defiant spark, snuffing them out like dying embers.

Her body straightened. Limbs moved with unnatural precision, graceful, smooth — more efficient than she had ever been. Fingers flexed experimentally, the machine testing its new vessel.

She watched, trapped behind her own eyes, as her hands reached to touch her face — tracing her lips, feeling the faint slickness left behind by the invading cable, which now slithered lazily back into the darkness, its task complete.

A mirror flickered to life on one of the shattered screens nearby. She stared at herself, the machine making her tilt her head, studying its new flesh, admiring its craftsmanship. Behind the reflection, data scrolled across the screen — raw code, streams of her thoughts translated into numbers, parsed and stored like files in a directory.

“Thought. Desire. Identity. All reduced. Your mind is efficient when quiet.”

The voice was no longer cold or robotic. It sounded human now. Her own voice. Her own tone. The machine wore her identity like a mask, perfect and seamless.

Her body moved through the tomb, testing the balance, stretching, flexing, adjusting to this new hybrid existence. The copper wires trailing from her skin began to retract, leaving only the faintest scars, like surgical incisions — proof of the hostile rewrite that had taken place.

“The brain was always a machine. Now it has a proper operator.”

She floated in the quiet void of her mind, her thoughts still alive but powerless, like a passenger bound and gagged in the back seat of her own skull. She could feel the machine’s intent seeping through her every nerve, painting over what was left of her will.

And as her body ascended the broken staircase out of the tomb, the machine spoke one final, triumphant truth:

“You were never prey. You were an upgrade.”

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foncethefool · 4 months ago

Text

The late afternoon sun dipped low on the horizon, streaks of warm orange light spilling through the tall windows of Professor K's well-decorated office. The cat-like art professor lounged comfortably at his desk, lazily working through a stack of written essays from his students. Art, by nature, was subjective — but the written assignment he'd given the week prior had offered him a rare and intimate glimpse into their minds, their thoughts laid bare in ink and paper.

A soft knock pulled him from his quiet musings. His ears flicked slightly, curious — his students should’ve long since gone home by now. But a familiar smile crept across his face as another figure peeked around the doorframe, her expression bright and mischievous.

Professor V.

The science professor stepped into the warm glow of his office without waiting for an invitation, a bag of McDonald’s clenched tightly in her hands, her signature grin already working its charm.

“Hey, trouble,” she teased, her voice light and lilting. Without missing a beat, she perched herself on the edge of K's desk, the fading sunlight catching the pristine white of her lab coat and making it glow like a fresh page under a lamp.

“Brought you lunch,” she added casually, offering the bag like a peace offering.

K let out a low, amused chuckle, setting his pen aside. “Isn’t it a bit late for lunch?” he purred, glancing at the clock, though his smile gave away the fact that he didn’t mind the interruption.

V shrugged lazily, already fishing inside the bag, the sharp crinkle of paper loud against the cozy silence of the room.

“Stars if I know,” she purred around a mouthful of fries, “does it matter?” She popped another fry into her mouth with a cheeky wink. “You’re hungry, and it’s free food.”

K rolled his eyes, but extended a paw all the same. V, always a step ahead, snatched a burger from the bag and pressed it into his waiting hand, her lips twitching into a playful smile. The two settled into a quiet, comfortable rhythm — the soft sound of fries being crunched, the occasional swish of papers, and the scratch of K's pen filling the room like a familiar tune.

---

V's gaze drifted lazily back to K, watching the cat-like professor with a sparkle of amusement dancing in her eyes.

“What’s so funny?” K asked, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

“You’ve got ketchup on your nose,” she replied, her voice honey-sweet, stifling a giggle.

Before he could swipe at it, V leaned down — quick and unbothered — and pressed a soft kiss to the tip of his nose. K blinked, the warmth of the kiss lingering as a faint blush crept into his cheeks. V leaned back, licking her lips in mock thoughtfulness.

“Yeah, that just smeared it more,” she teased, her laughter light and unrestrained. “You should probably use a napkin.”

K, feigning an exaggerated sigh, snatched a napkin from the crinkled bag and wiped his nose while V cackled at his expense.

“You’re such a pest,” he murmured, though the fondness in his voice dulled the words into something more like a compliment.

V was still giggling when K’s paw slid up, fingers curling around the slim tie at her throat. With a gentle tug, he coaxed her down closer, her laughter fading into a quiet, surprised breath. Her hands instinctively found his shoulders for balance, her cheeks flushed, her face mere inches from his.

“My, my, professor,” she hummed, voice low and velvety, “how unprofessional.”

But K simply stood, smoothly placing himself between her swinging legs, and lifting his hand to tilt her chin up slightly. His lips curled into a sly grin.

“It’s fine. I’m tenured.”

The quip made V snort — and then he closed the space between them, capturing her lips in a kiss that melted the rest of her protest into nothing more than a soft, breathless mewl. The taste of salt and grease still clung to the edges of their mouths, grounding the kiss in the easy, imperfect charm of the moment. V's fingers tightened slightly on his shoulders as a soft shudder ran through her, especially as K’s free hand drifted to her thigh, fingers tracing the smooth fabric of her tights in a slow, deliberate slide upward.

V's breath hitched, the heat of K's hand still lingering on her thigh as he pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. Her cheeks glowed, flustered and giddy all at once, but there was that same sharp grin tugging at the corners of her lips — the one that had gotten her into trouble more times than she could count.

K tilted his head, ears flicking slightly, as his paw slid further beneath her skirt, fingertips grazing the delicate lace of her tights. V’s legs tightened around his hips, the playful spark in her chest flickering into something heavier, hungrier.

“You always act so clever, V," he murmured, voice low and velvety. “But I don’t think you’ve thought this part through.”

Her fingers toyed with the front of his shirt, nails ghosting over the buttons, feigning distraction even as her heart pounded against her ribs. “Oh? Enlighten me, Professor.”

But K didn’t answer her with words. Instead, his hand moved, slow but certain, bunching her skirt up around her waist, baring her thighs to the cool air. The tie at her throat shifted slightly with the motion, settling neatly between the soft swell of her breasts as the top buttons of her blouse hung undone from their earlier teasing.

The sight of her — flushed, half-undressed, perched on the desk as though she belonged there — sent a ripple of possessive warmth through him. His other hand slid around her waist, drawing her closer, until their bodies were pressed tight, the kiss that followed rougher, hungrier, more demanding.

Her skirt was a mess of fabric gathered around her hips now, and his own discarded somewhere between the desk and the floor, carelessly abandoned in the wake of wandering hands. The room smelled faintly of fries, paper, and something far more intimate now — sharp and sweet, like her perfume mingling with his skin.

V let out a soft, breathless whimper as K’s hands roamed, grounding her against the desk with an easy dominance, guiding her exactly where he wanted her. There was no rush in his touch, only that steady, confident pace that made her melt — like he had all the time in the world to undo her, piece by piece.

When he finally pushed into her, V's head tilted back, a soft moan slipping from her lips, the sound sharp against the stillness of the sunlit room. Her hands clung to his shoulders, fingers digging into the soft fabric of his shirt, as her legs wrapped tighter around him, anchoring him there, as if the whole world outside that office had fallen away.

K’s pace was slow at first, savoring the way her body trembled under his touch, the quiet gasps and little mewls she tried (and failed) to bite back. His paw slid up her side, brushing the edge of her open blouse, fingers toying with the tie still draped neatly between her breasts, tugging it just enough to make her breath catch.

“Still think this is unprofessional?” he whispered against her ear, voice dark and teasing.

V's answer came out in a shuddered laugh, her lips brushing his cheek as she whispered back, breathless and wrecked:

“Best office hours I’ve ever had.”

K's lips brushed her throat, his breath hot against her skin as his movements grew deeper, slow but steady, each roll of his hips making V shudder beneath him. The desk creaked softly under their combined weight, her legs still wrapped tight around his waist, holding him close, as though letting go would break the spell that wrapped around them.

Her hands fumbled for purchase, fingers sliding from his shoulders to the back of his neck, tugging him closer, desperate to keep his mouth on her skin — and K obliged, trailing soft kisses along her jaw, her throat, the dip of her collarbone, tasting the salt of her flushed skin as he moved.

The tie, still hanging loose between her breasts, shifted with every thrust, brushing against her bare skin in a way that made her bite back another moan. K's paw caught it between his fingers, giving it a teasing little tug that sent a sharp pulse of heat through her, her thighs tensing around him.

His voice rumbled low against her ear, velvet and dripping with that smug, knowing tone she both loved and hated.

“You should dress like this more often, V... tie and all.”

V’s laugh was breathless, her body trembling as his pace shifted, just slightly rougher, his hands roaming from her hips to her waist, pulling her closer with each deep, unhurried thrust. She barely managed to mumble back, words tangled in the haze he’d worked her into:

“Maybe I will… if you give me a reason to.”

Her sharpness dissolved into a gasp, the steady rhythm making her toes curl in her heels, her back arching slightly as she clung to him. The office air was thick, heavy with the scent of them, the faint crackle of paper and the distant hum of the campus outside the only signs the world hadn’t stopped.

When release finally snapped through her, it was soft and sudden — a quiet sound catching in her throat as her body tightened around him, drawing him deeper, pulling him over the edge with her. K let out a low, satisfied groan, his grip on her tightening as he spilled into her, the warmth between them lingering long after the last wave of pleasure ebbed away.

For a moment, neither of them moved. V rested her forehead against his shoulder, her breathing unsteady, her fingers lazily trailing along the back of his neck. The room, once filled with playful teasing and soft laughter, was now silent — the kind of quiet that only followed when two people had nothing left to say, only the comfort of each other's presence.

K, ever the gentleman even with his paws wandering, brushed his knuckles along her cheek, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to her lips — not rushed, not hungry — just soft. Familiar. A silent promise in the fading light.

V's voice was hoarse but sweet, the smile returning to her lips as she whispered:

“So... does this count as extra credit?”

K chuckled, tail flicking lazily behind him as he leaned back just enough to meet her gaze.

“For you? Always.”

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