The Djinn Curse

The silk was already warm when you touched it.
It breathed against your fingers like it recognized them.
You thought you were exploring — searching ruins, hunting myths.
But she knew.
She was always the one finding you.

Her voice didn’t echo.
It settled.
Low and soft, curling under your ribs like steam.

“Do you want to be me?”

You didn’t answer.
But your body leaned.
And in the space between breath and thought, the curse heard everything.

The floor softened.
Your jaw relaxed.
And somewhere behind your zipper, something helpless twisted sweet.

Now the bed won’t release you.
Now your thighs press closer.
Now her voice lives where yours used to be.

You’re not hers because you said yes.
You’re hers because you paused.

Come inside.
Let the silk hold you.
Let the curse unfold where you’re softest.

She still wants to be worn.

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Do You Want to Be Me?

You expected bones. Dust.
Maybe some crumbled idol half-swallowed by sand.

But instead, you find her.

A bed of silk — pink-threaded, too perfect for this world — sprawls like a mirage across the center of the ruined chamber. Its corners anchored to ancient stone. Its warmth out of place.

She’s kneeling there. Not waiting. Meditating.
Torch in one hand.
Lashes lowered.
Still as a statue with a heartbeat.

The fire in her palm doesn’t move like normal flame. It spirals. Like it's thinking.

You step forward.
The air gets hotter, but not from the torch.
From her.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” she says, opening one eye. Just one. Like she’s only half-interested in the present.

“I don’t get stuck. That’s not how I travel.”

She exhales through her nose — not annoyed, just... mildly amused by the glitch.

“Dropped in. Took whatever was closest. That’s the rhythm.”

“Didn’t realize it came with infrastructure.”

Her fingers trail across the silk beside her. It doesn’t just shift — it responds, like it recognizes her touch. A ripple, slow and warm, like breath under skin.

“Now the fabric builds itself. The room listens.”

“And I can’t tell if I’m meditating or mid-spell.”

She smiles faintly, still not looking at you.

“Should’ve asked what I was swallowing.”

She finally looks at you.

Not sudden. Not dramatic.
Just… deliberate. Like her gaze is stepping somewhere first.

“You’re still here.”

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing just slightly — reading something behind your stance, not your face.

“Usually they get restless around now. Start pacing. Start asking who I am.”

“You didn’t.”

She taps one finger to her thigh — rhythmic, like marking time in a song only she hears.

“That’s rare.”

Her smile is barely there, but it feels old. Practiced. Kind.

“So tell me.”

She leans forward just slightly — not seductive. Aligned.

“Do you want to be me?”

You should say no.
You should laugh. Step back. Ask what she means.

But you don’t.

And the pause — the silence — holds just a little too much want.

You don’t say yes.
You don’t have to.

Something in the air heard it anyway.

Not a word. Just a pulse.
A flicker of maybe. And that’s enough.

You shift your weight.

Your boots feel off. Lighter. The sole thinner than it was.
Or maybe your feet are softer. It’s hard to tell.

Your hand twitches — not pain, not panic.
Just a sensation of something adjusting itself to better reflect a question you never asked aloud.

Her smile deepens.

Not because you answered.
But because you felt the urge to.

TG transformation sequence of 39 pictures

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